"His monacker is Webb," said Haggerty; "Thomas Webb, Esquire; an' believe me, he's some smooth guy. Thomas Webb."
CHAPTER XXII
For a moment Killigrew sat stiffly upright in his chair; then gradually his body grew limp, his chin sank, his shoulders drooped. "Webb?" he said dully. "Are you sure, Haggerty?"
"No question about it. Y' see, this Jameson chap writes me a sassy letter from Liverpool. Spite. Thomas Webb was th' name. What's th' matter?"
"Haggerty, the very devil is the matter. Thomas Webb, recently a steward on the Celtic, has been my wife's private secretary for nearly two months."
"Say that again!" gasped Haggerty, bracing himself against the jamb of the door.
"But I'll wager my right hand that there's some mistake."
"Of all th' gall I ever heard of! Private secretary, an' Miss Killigrew's sapphires stowed away in his trunk, if he ain't sold 'em outside th' pawnshops! Will y' gimme a free hand, Mr. Killigrew?"
"I suppose I'll have to."