“A bob a message, if it’s near by.”
“That’s a lot. Do you never do it for less?”
Mr. Ganope seemed disgusted.
“If you can get anyone to do it for less you’d better go to them,” he advised, sourly.
“I might manage the money if I was sure the thing would be done right,” French went on. “How do you send out the messages? I mean is your arrangement reliable? Do you do it yourself or have you a messenger?”
“Wot do you tyke me for, mister? Do you think the shop would run itself while I was away? You don’t need to worry. You pay your bob and you’ll get your message all right.”
“Not good enough for me. I want to know what kind of messenger you’d send before I trust my business to you.”
“See ’ere,” the man declared, “I’ve been doing this business for long enough to know all about ’ow it’s done. I’ve a good boy, if you must know. You give ’im a penny or two a time if you’re nervous, and you needn’t be afryde but you’ll get all there’s for you.”
French laid five shillings on the counter.
“Right,” he said. “There’s for the first five messages. Send to Mr. James Hurley, care of Mr. William Wright, tobacconist, corner of Bedford Place and Ivy Street.”