“What I ask you therefore is this: Will you allow me to write a note to the Prime Minister in person? I will abide by the answer, which you can easily get from Downing Street within the space of half an hour.”
Mr. Rookley's face suddenly brightened, and there was a certain triumphant air in his manner, as much as to say that he had convicted Westerham of having blundered badly.
“The Prime Minister is away,” he snapped.
“I know that,” said Westerham, “but his private secretary, the Hon. Claude Hilden, is at No. 10. There is, moreover, a private telephone wire to Trant Hall. I know that because I was at the Hall yesterday.”
Mr. Rookley opened his eyes wide. His astonishment was intense and undisguised.
“I will write that note,” said Westerham—“and believe me that the writing of it will save a vast deal of trouble—on one condition. Will you pledge me your word that it shall not be tampered with and shall not be read by anyone until it is placed in the hands of Mr. Hilden himself?”
For a few moments the detective looked worried and doubtful.
“Very well,” he said finally; “but, of course, you must realise that if you are simply putting up a game on us the consequences will be all the worse for yourself.”
“I am perfectly aware,” said Westerham, coldly, “of precisely what I am doing.”
Thereupon he rose, and, going over to the writing-table, hastily wrote the following letter:—