He spoke moodily, for he was feeling moody. There might be golden rewards at the end of this venture of his, but he perceived already that they would have to be earned. Last night Hash Todhunter had won six shilling from him at stud poker, and Chimp was a thrifty man. Moreover, Hash slept in the top back room, and when not in it, locked the door.
This latter fact may seem to offer little material for gloom on Chimp’s part, but it was, indeed, the root of all his troubles. In informing Mr. and Mrs. Molloy that the plunder of the late Edward Finglass was hidden in the cistern of Mon Repos, Chimp Twist had been guilty of subterfuge—pardonable, perhaps, for your man of affairs must take these little business precautions, but nevertheless subterfuge. In the letter which, after carefully memorising, he had just as carefully destroyed, Mr. Finglass had revealed that the proceeds of his flutter with the New Asiatic Bank might be found not in the cistern but rather by anyone who procured a chisel and raised the third board from the window in the top back room. Chimp had not foreseen that this top back room would be occupied by a short-tempered cook who, should he discover people prying up his floor with chisels, would scarcely fail to make himself unpleasant. That was why Mr. Twist spoke moodily to Claire, and who shall blame him?
Claire was not discouraged. She had cast Chimp for the rôle of stalking horse and he was going to be it.
“Is the doggie having his bath?” she asked archly.
“I think they’re splitting it about fifty-fifty,” said Sam, adding himself to the conversation.
Claire perceived that this was, indeed, so.
“Oh, you are wet,” she cried. “You’ll catch cold. Would you like a nice cup of hot tea?”
Something approaching gratitude appeared in Chimp’s mournful face.
“Thank you, miss,” he said. “I would.”
“We’re spoiling you,” said Sam.