Mrs. Bunting walked forward. She gave a long, fluttering sigh of unutterable relief.
“There’s the chap!” said Joe Chandler triumphantly. “And now, Miss Daisy”—he turned to her jokingly, but there was a funny little tremor in his frank, cheerful-sounding voice—“if you knows of any nice, likely young fellow that answers to that description—well, you’ve only got to walk in and earn your reward of five hundred pounds.”
“Five hundred pounds!” cried Daisy and her father simultaneously.
“Yes. That’s what the Lord Mayor offered yesterday. Some private bloke—nothing official about it. But we of the Yard is barred from taking that reward, worse luck. And it’s too bad, for we has all the trouble, after all.”
“Just hand that bit of paper over, will you?” said Bunting. “I’d like to con it over to myself.”
Chandler threw over the bit of flimsy.
A moment later Bunting looked up and handed it back. “Well, it’s clear enough, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And there’s hundreds—nay, thousands—of young fellows that might be a description of,” said Chandler sarcastically. “As a pal of mine said this morning, ‘There isn’t a chap will like to carry a newspaper parcel after this.’ And it won’t do to have a respectable appearance—eh?”
Daisy’s voice rang out in merry, pealing laughter. She greatly appreciated Mr. Chandler’s witticism.
“Why on earth didn’t the people who saw him try and catch him?” asked Bunting suddenly.