“I suppose,” growled Mackeller to himself, “he thinks that’s funny, but it will cost him a pretty penny if he keeps it up every day.”
“Any answer?” said the telegraph boy.
“Yes,” answered Mackeller, and being made reckless by example, he wrote a more lengthy message than was customary with him:
“Everything going on well here. The cooking I am doing consists in the production of hardbake cake, and the receipt is as follows: Take ore from Africa, salt and pepper to suit the taste, mix it with hard coal from the north, quick fire and a hot oven. When completely baked run into molds of sand, and place in a deep cellar to cool. Save the money you are wasting on the postoffice department by sending me, through parcel post, the cook book from which you are stealing those items, and use a telegram to let me know what has happened to the Rajah and Captain Wilkie.”
In the evening an answer came.
“That’s not a bad receipt of yours, Mackeller. I didn’t think so serious a man as you was capable of such frivolity. The Rajah is in Chancery, in litigation, in irons, in Plymouth harbor, in-junctioned. I expect it will be a long time before the Rajah gets out of court. Captain Wilkie is all right, and back on my yacht. The Wychwood, with Simmons in command, is off to Paramakaboo. I expect to be with you after you have had time to study the volume which at your suggestion I send to-day by parcel post; ‘Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management’; bulky but useful.”
Lord Stranleigh did not return, however, as promised, to the Cornish mine. Although apparently leading an aimless life at home, or in one or other of his clubs, or at an interesting race meeting, he was keeping his eye on Schwartzbrod by means of an efficient secret agent. He wondered how soon so shrewd a man as the financier would come to the knowledge that the Rajah was tied up with the red tape of the law, as immovable in her berth as if she had been chained to the breakwater by cables of steel. He was determined that Schwartzbrod should not further complicate the situation by sending out another steamer on an ore-stealing expedition to West Africa; and when at last he received a report from his agent that Schwartzbrod’s men were in negotiation once more with Sparling & Bilge of Southampton, the indolent young man thought it time to strike, so he telephoned to Schwartz-brod, asking him to call at his town house next morning at half past ten, bringing his check book with him.
Schwartzbrod, spluttering at his end of the telephone, wished further explanation about the request for the check book. The charter money, he said, was not due. Nothing had been said in the document signed about payment in advance, but Stranleigh rang off, and left the financier guessing. When, some minutes later, Schwartzbrod got once more into communication with the house, the quiet-voiced Ponderby told him that his lordship had left for his club, but would expect to see him promptly at half past ten next day.
When Schwartzbrod arrived, he was shown this time into Lord Stranleigh’s scantily furnished business office on the ground floor. He had been so anxious to know what the cause of the summons was that he found himself ten minutes before the half hour, and that ten minutes he spent alone in the little room. As the clock in the hall chimed the half hour, the door opened, and Lord Stranleigh entered.