I do not quite like the name, Jake, so he must be content to be called plain Mr. Peter.
————
About the very time that Jake Solomons was reading this letter, there sat close to the sky-light of an outward-bound steamer at Liverpool, two men holding low but earnest conversation. Their faces were partly obscured, for it was night, and the only light a glimmer from the ship's lamp.
Steam was up and roaring through the pipes.
A casual observer might have noted that one was a slim, swarthy, but wiry, smart-looking man of about thirty. His companion was a man considerably over forty.
"I shall go now," said the latter. "You have my instructions, and I believe I can trust you."
"Have I not already given you reason to?" was the rejoinder. "At the risk of penal servitude did I not steal my employer's keys, break into his room at night, and copy that will for you? It was but a copy of a copy, it is true, and I could not discover the original, else the quickest and simplest plan would have been--fire:"
"True, you did so, but"--the older man laughed lightly--"you were well paid for the duty you performed."
"Duty, eh?" sneered the other. "Well," he added, "thank God nothing has been discovered. My employer has bidden me an almost affectionate farewell, and given me excellent certificates."
The other started up as a loud voice hailed the deck: