"You attended to the messenger?"
A mere grunt of assent.
"Under lock and key?"
A nod.
"Any papers?"
"Not a scrap."
"Money?"
"Never you mind about that. I done what ye wanted. He's safe enough. Come to business!"
For an instant Bullard looked like striking the fellow, but he laughed, saying: "Well, it wasn't my money. Now you can go ahead. That's your job on the table. Want a refreshment first?"
"No," growled Flitch, alias Dunning, with a suspicious look at Mrs. Lancaster. He slouched over to the table and seated himself. From a big pocket he brought a cloth bundle, unrolled it on the table, and disclosed an array of steel implements of curious and varied shapes. His fingers were coarse and filthy, but his touch was exquisite; it was something worth seeing, the way he manipulated his tools in the lock of the Green Box. In a little while he seemed to forget the existence of the spectators. He even smiled in the absorption of his work. There was no forcing or wrenching: all was done in coaxing, persuasive fashion. But it was no simple task, and thirty minutes went past.