“May succeed, sir! They must succeed.” Again there was the British tax-payer note.
The Consul smiled. “We will say we hope they succeed. Still, after your other experiences——”
“They’ve had the old boy this time, Blackiston,” the Consul said to the Vice-Consul, when the visitor had departed. “Proper murder trick. Seems to have shaken his nerves badly. It would have shaken mine, too. Head-hunters—ugh!”
The Vice-Consul closed the letter-book wearily. “Serve him right. He shouldn’t be so cock-sure and pompous.”
One of the senior clerks from the bank took the receipt of Commissioner Gumpertz to the Palace, presently returning with a grave face. “They know nothing about any such sum, sir; and it is neither a regular official receipt, nor is it the Commissioner’s signature.”
Mr Gobbitt gasped. “Why, he gave it to me himself! There must be some mistake.”
The clerk shook his head. “They are positive, sir.”
“Did you see him sign it?” the manager asked, a little coldly.
The merchant mopped the perspiration off his forehead. “No, I cannot say I did. He went into another room. But your cashier can identify the messenger—one of those belonging to the Palace.”
When the cashier came, he remembered the incident perfectly. “It was a large sum, and I should not have handed it to a strange native; but I knew the porter at the hotel was reliable.”