“We all know that,” answered Harrison drily.
“A genius!” shouted Mr. Daniels, ordering a second round on the strength of it. “A genius! He comes into my room like a lamb and asks me to find out about himself!”
“Testing you, he was,” said the clerk Harrison with profound psychology.
“That’s it,” answered Mr. Daniels wisely, wagging his head from side to side. “Testing me! And didn’t find me wanting! Ah! He knows Jos. Daniels by now! He’ll know who he came to.” And the clerk ordered a third round on the strength of that little triumph, which both of them had won. The mighty man now knew the accuracy of Harrison’s choice in private detectives, and would trust him now for ever: there ought to be something in it. The mighty man knew the fidelity of Daniels: and surely something would come Daniels’ way also. He would know that his privacy was safe in such hands.
That same evening, innocent of so much power, the original author of these movements slept, and forgot his troubles till the morning light.
CHAPTER V
Deep in the heart of Surrey, on the edge of Walton Heath, and at the gate of that wild loneliness which is the joy of the millions who defile it, stands a house of no great age. It is called “Marengo.” Round about it lie grounds, some twenty acres in extent (of which two at least are gardens and shrubberies) wherein the speckled laurel luxuriantly grows, and from the depths of which the copper beech and other ornamental trees not infrequently protrude. To the doors of “Marengo” (which is set back some yards from the road, but not so far as to shut off the cheerful prospect of modern traffic and the enlivening sound of horns) sweeps an avenue or approach of gravel large enough to admit two motor-cars abreast; and there are two gates, but no lodges. The house itself, to be perfectly honest, is of red-brick tile-healed on the upper story; the roof, however, has been tamed and verges upon brown. Moreover, that roof has dormer windows—but the woodwork is of Norwegian pine.
Now this mansion was (and is) the residence of John Charlbury, Esquire, J.P., the partner of the Honorable Charles Terrard in the firm of Blake and Blake, Brokers, on the London Stock Exchange. He was unmarried, just on fifty years of age, and bald. He was short, he was square, he was stout; he was decided, and somewhat lethargic. He was not ill-natured; he had cunning little pig’s eyes, which would have warned off the most innocent of men at fifty yards, but which were evidence of a very useful talent when they could work behind the screen of correspondence, so that the victim could be caught unawares.
It is related by travelers that the great tawny lion of the Atlas, though the vainest and therefore the stupidest of beasts, has at least the sense to associate with creatures very different from himself. The jackal discovers his prey, and a small bird hunts the parasites on those parts of his integument which he cannot easily reach with his muzzle or paws; the sword-fish is accompanied by a very different friend, small and bearing a lamp wherewith to guide him through the dark depths of the sea; and the very rich, themselves innocent of letters, will furnish their households with poets, dramatists and even philosophers of whatever caliber they can retain in bondage.
Now so it is with the best of businesses, with the most successful houses of affairs.