Here every one of the business men at the long table was in complete agreement. They shared a common faith that a man who can make money by selling sugar, or can acquire a competence by trading in margins, must necessarily be the best type of mind to tackle every problem, however obscure. It was their wont to shake their heads sadly at every mistake the administration made, and hypothesize the same situation if business men had been in control. It was accepted without dispute, that no government or government department came up to the business man’s standard of requirements.
“They had their chance and they missed it,” said Mr. Stott, “when the Chinaman and the woman were in the house and I was holding them—well I was practically holding them—the police could have caught the whole gang if they had arrived in time. As it was, they allowed them to slip through their fingers. I hate to say so, though it has struck me since, that probably the police were in it!”
“In the house?” asked a foolish man.
“No,” snapped Mr. Stott, “in the plot, man! Anyway I’ve washed my hands of the whole affair.”
Mr. Stott was in the habit of washing his hands of the whole affair twice a day, once at lunch and once after dinner. He washed his hands that night to his placid wife, not only of the Trasmere case, but of Eline’s tooth, and he washed them with such effect on Eline herself, that she reluctantly agreed to have the offending ivory extracted on the following morning.
She did this after making the most searching enquiries as to whether people told their most intimate secrets when they were under the effects of anæsthesis.
Mr. Stott went up to bed at eleven o’clock, had a bath and got into his pyjamas. The night was warm—indeed it was oppressively hot, and bed was very uninviting. He opened the French window of his room and stepping out on to the small balcony, he seated himself in a cane chair which occupied exactly one half of the balcony space, and enjoyed what little breeze there was. His partner having gone to bed to sleep, was behaving according to plan. Mr. Stott remained contemplating the deserted street and then crept downstairs and brought back his cigar-case.
He smoked enjoyably for half-an-hour, watched the Manders return from the theatre and duly noted that Mr. Trammin, who lived three doors away from him, returned home in a state of intoxication and offered to fight the cabman for his fare. He saw old Pursuer’s car stop at “Flemington” and when these interests were exhausted, and his cigar was nearly through, he saw two men walking slowly toward him along the opposite side-walk. He failed to identify them and had ceased to be interested in their movements, when they turned into the gateway of Mayfield.
Instantly Mr. Stott was alert. They might be police officers, only—the sound of a large voice came to him.
“Let me tell you, my dear fellow, that Wellington Brown is a good friend and a bad enemy!”