Lew Litchfield was a bright young burglar of whom the colonel had heard, and he knew the kind of "job" on which Lew was engaged.
"You bought 'em?" he asked.
"I gave a tenner for them," said Selby. "I don't think they're much use."
The colonel shook his head.
"That's not the kind of letter that brings in money," he said. "You can't bleed a mother because her son got into trouble—at least, not for more than a hundred."
"Letters have been scarce lately," said his agent disconsolately; "I think people have either given up keeping or writing them."
"Maybe," said the colonel. "Anyway, I didn't bring you down to talk about letters. I've work for you."
Selby looked uneasy, and that in itself was a discouraging sign. Usually the little crook from the north hailed a job of any kind with enthusiasm.
It was an unmistakable proof to the colonel that he was losing grip, that the magic of his name and all that it implied in the way of protection from punishment, was less than it had been.
"You don't seem very pleased," he said.