“I’m on a case that you people have had a finger in. I wish you’d tell me what you can about it. It’s that business of Mrs. Root of Pittsburg that Williams & Davies of Cockspur Street put you on to six weeks ago. They wanted you to find out what she was like, and if she crossed by the Olympic.”
“Huh,” said the fat man. “Well, we told ’em. I handled it myself.”
“Did they tell you why they wanted to know?”
“Nope. Only asked the question.”
“That’s where they made the mistake. A woman called on Williams, saying she was Mrs. Root and had crossed by the Olympic. She said she had lost her despatch case with her passport and tickets and money, and she wanted a loan of £3000 on the security of diamonds she had in her trunk.”
“Well? Was it not right?”
“It was perfectly right so far. Williams was satisfied from what you told him that she was the woman, and he lent the money.”
French paused, smiling, and his friend swore.
“Confound it, man! Can’t you get on? Were the stones paste?”
“Not at all. They took them to Stronge, of Hurst & Stronge’s, and he valued them. They were perfectly all right, worth £3300 odd, but”—French paused and became very impressive—“they were all stolen from Duke & Peabody the night before!”