Mr. Jeekes affected to be engrossed in the manicuring of his nails. Very intently he rubbed the nails of one hand against the palm of the other.
“No mystery!” he said decisively with a shake of the head: “no mystery whatsoever about it, young Wright, except what the amateur detectives will try and make it out to be. Or has Mr. Greve discovered a mystery already?”
The question came out artfully. But in the quick glance which accompanied it, there was an intent watchfulness which startled Bruce accustomed as he was to the mild and unemotional ways of the little secretary.
“Not that I know of,” said Bruce. “Greve is only puzzled like all of us that H.P. should have done a thing like this!”
Mr. Jeekes was perfectly impassive again.
“The nerves, young Wright! The nerves!” he said impressively. “Harley Street, not Mr. Greve, will supply the motive to this sad affair, believe me!”
With that he accompanied the young man to the door of the club and from the vestibule watched him sally forth into the rain of Pall Mall.
Then Mr. Jeekes turned to the hall porter.
“Please get me Stevenish one-three-seven,” he said, “it’s a trunk call. Don’t let them put you off with ‘No reply.’ It’s Harkings, and they are expecting me to ring them. I shall be in the writing room.”
When, twenty minutes later, Mr. Jeekes emerged from the trunk call telephone box in the club vestibule, his mouth was drooping at the corners and his hands trembled curiously. He stood for an instant in thought tapping his foot on the marble floor of the deserted hall dimly lit by a single electric bulb burning over the hall porter’s box. Then he went back to the writing-room and returned with a yellow telegram form.