He looked up as Average Jones entered. The young man’s sleeves were rolled up, his face was generously smudged, and a strip of cobbler’s wax beneath the upper lip, puffed and distorted the firm line of his mouth. Further, his head was louting low on his neck, so that the visitor got no view sufficient for recognition.
“Lord Bacon’s letter—er—must be pretty rare, Mister,” he drawled thickly. “But a letter—er—from Lord Bacon—er—about Shakespeare—that ought to be worth a lot of money.”
Average Jones had taken his opening with his customary incisive shrewdness. The mention of Bacon had settled it, to his mind. Only one imaginable character of manuscript from the philosopher scholar-politician could have value enough to tempt a thief of Enderby’s calibre. Enderby’s expression told that the shot was a true one. As for Bertram, he had dropped his shoemaker’s knife and his shoemaker’s role.
“Bacon on Shakespeare! Shades of the departed glory of Ignatius Donnelly!”
The visitor drew back. Warren’s gaunt frame appeared in the doorway. Jones’ head lifted.
“It ought to be as—er—unique,” he drawled, “as an—er—Ancient Roman speaking perfect English.”
Like a flash, the false Livius caught up the knife from the bench where the false cobbler had dropped it and swung toward Average Jones. At the moment the ample hand of Professor Warren, bunched into a highly competent fist, flicked across and caught the assailant under the ear. Enderby, alias Livius, fell as if smitten by a cestus. As his arm touched the floor, Average Jones kicked unerringly at the wrist and the knife flew and tinkled in a far corner. Bertram, with a bound, landed on the fallen man’s chest and pinned him.
“Did he get you, Average?” he cried.
“Not—er—this time. Pretty good—er—team work,” drawled the Ad-Visor. “We’ve got our man for felonious assault, at least.”
Enderby, panting under Bertram’s solid knee, blinked and struggled.