“Mornin’,” he remarked. “Mr. Johnson here yet?”
“What do you want to see him about?” demanded the assistant.
“To tell him that your hair wants cutting,” snapped the other. “Hop along, young fellah; as an ornament you’re a misfit. Tell Mr. Johnson that I’ve a message from Mr. Perrison.”
The youth faded away, to return in a minute or two with a request that the visitor would follow him.
“Message from Perrison? What’s up?” Mr. Johnson rose from his chair as the door closed behind the assistant.
The flashy individual laughed and pulled out his cigarette-case.
“He’s pulled it off,” he chuckled. “At the present moment our one and only Joe is clasping the beauteous girl to his bosom.”
“Strike me pink—he hasn’t, has he?” Mr. Johnson slapped his leg resoundingly and shook with merriment.
“That’s why I’ve come round,” continued the other. “From Smith, I am. Joe wants to give her a little present on account.” He grinned again, and felt in his pocket. “Here it is—and he wants a receipt signed by you—acknowledging the return of the necklace which was sent out—on approval.” He winked heavily. “He’s infernally deep, is Joe.” He watched the other man as he picked up the pearls, and for a moment his blue eyes seemed a little strained. “He wants to give that receipt to the girl—so as to clinch the bargain.”
“Why the dickens didn’t he ’phone me direct?” demanded Johnson, and once again the other grinned broadly.