“Am I,” snapped the small seedy man, “talking to Mr. Chapel Matcherin, or am I not?”
“More or less,” Mr. Maturin could not but admit.
“Orl I knows is,” snapped the small seedy man, “that you was the gent pointed out to me as yer left that club in Belgrave Square. Gent told me to give yer this. ’Ere.”
Mr. Maturin quickly opened the envelope, which was addressed to his name, and drew from it a folded sheet of note-paper and a folded bank-note. The small seedy man looked bitterly surprised and hurt.
“Money!” he sighed. “Money! ’Ow I ’ate money! And me carrying it abaht! I like that! Me!”
“You’re still here?” said Mr. Maturin.
“Still ’ere!” said the small seedy man. “I like that! Still ’ere! Me!”
But Mr. Maturin was giving his full attention to the note-paper, the while the folded bank-note depended tantalisingly from between the knuckles of two fingers. The small seedy man stared at it fascinated.
“If I’d known!” he sighed bitterly.
The letter addressed to Mr. Maturin ran thus: