The Story of the Jewel Thief.
On a certain afternoon in February, I was sitting in Mr. Brady’s private office, waiting to receive instructions, when the boy brought in two cards. They bore the names of Mr. Marcus Welton and Mr. J. Denby Opdyke.
“Two high-toned ducks.” I immediately thought.
“Skip into that closet, Kean,” old King Brady whispered to me. “I want you to have a good look at these fellows, and listen to what they say. You know where the peep-hole is, or you ought to, for I showed you the other day.”
I knew, and in a moment I had my eye glued against it.
I was not mistaken in my estimate of the visitors. They were a couple of dudes of the most pronounced sort.
Welton was short and sallow, with big bulging eyes, a drawling voice. He looked what he was—a society fool.
His companion, however, was quite different. He was a tall, handsome fellow, with brown hair, shrewd gray eyes, and a determined mouth; yet there was something about his face which repelled me at once.
Both men were dressed in the most pronounced fashion of the day, and bore every evidence of possessing abundant means.
“Aw, Mr. Bwady, you got my note left here yestawday, I dessay,” drawled Welton.