“Yes, he is superintending the sending off of them too.”
“How crowded Weaver’s Hotel must be, with so many bulky articles!” said the curate.
“Oh, you know, I don’t suppose Mr Smith keeps them there; but he lives there while he’s in town, that’s all. Our directors generally put up at Weaver’s Hotel.”
“I should greatly like to see a list of the directors, if I may,” said the clergyman. “There’s nothing gives one so much confidence as to see honoured names on the directorate of a company like yours.”
“I can give you a list if you like,” said Reginald.
“I daresay you know by name the Bishop of S—, our chairman?”
“To be sure, and—dear me, what a very good list of names! Thank you, if I may take one of these, I should like to show it to my friends. Well, then, I will call on Mr Smith in London, and meanwhile I am very much obliged to you, Mr Reginald, for your courtesy. Very glad to have made your acquaintance. Good afternoon.”
And he shook hands cordially with the secretary, and departed, leaving Reginald considerably soothed in spirit, as he reflected that he had really done a stroke of work for the Corporation that day on his own account.
It was well for his peace of mind that he did not know that the clergyman, on turning the corner of Shy Street, rubbed his hands merrily together, and said to himself, in tones of self-satisfaction,—
“Well, if that wasn’t the neatest bit of work I’ve done since I came on the beat. The innocent! He’d sit up, I guess, if he knew the nice pleasant-spoken parson he’s been blabbing to was Sniff of the detective office. My eye—it’s all so easy, there’s not much credit about the business after all. But it’s pounds, shillings and pence to Sniff, and that’s better!”