“So he did,” snarled that gentleman. “That’s a forgery.”
“Is it?” said Longworth. “That strikes me as being Johnson’s signature. Firm’s official paper. And—er—he has the necklace, I—er—assume.”
“Yes—he has the necklace. Stolen last night by—by——” His eyes were fixed venomously on Longworth.
“Go on,” murmured the other. “You’re being most entertaining.”
But a sudden change had come over Perrison’s face—a dawning recognition. “By God!” he muttered, “you’re—you’re——”
“Yes. I’m—who? It’ll come in time, laddie—if you give it a chance. And in the meantime we might examine these other papers. Now, this appears to my inexperienced eye to be a transaction entered into on the one part by Messrs. Smith and Co. and on the other by William Daventry. And it concerns filthy lucre. Dear, dear. Twenty-five per cent. per month. Three hundred per cent. Positive usury, Mr. Perrison. Don’t you agree with me? A rapacious bloodsucker is Mr. Smith.”
But the other man was not listening: full recollection had come to him, and with a cold look of triumph he put his hands into his pockets and laughed.
“Very pretty,” he remarked. “Very pretty indeed. And how, in your vernacular, do you propose to get away with the swag, Mr. Flash Pete? I rather think the police—whom I propose to call up on the ’phone in one minute—will be delighted to see such an old and elusive friend.”
He glanced at the girl, and laughed again at the look on her face.
“What’s he mean, Archie?” she cried, wildly. “What’s he mean?”