"Well, old man," said Barracombe, as Smith alighted; "they call me a hustler, but you've hustled me this time. What in the world are you after?"
"Have you got the stuff?" returned Smith with the curtness of an old friend.
"Yes; chocolate, bovril, the whole boiling; but—"
"And the maps?"
"And the maps. A nice job I had to get them. All the shops were shut, of course. I stole 'em."
"Played the burglar?"
"No. I went to the Royal Societies' Club, and pinched them out of the library. Posted a cheque to pay for 'em, but there was nobody about and I couldn't stop for red tape."
"Well, you're a big enough man to do such things with impunity. That's why I 'phoned you: knew you'd do it somehow."
Although Barracombe was a potentate in the city, who controlled immense organizations, and held the threads of multifarious interests, he was very human at bottom, and Smith liked him all the better for the glow of self-satisfaction that shone upon his face at this tribute to his omnipotence.
"But now, what's it all mean, you beggar? Are you off to reorganize the Turkish navy or something?"