“To tell you the truth, Mr. Cox, or rather Mr. Lane, to give you your true name, I had a sort of suspicion all along that you were a ’tec and wanted something out of me. I’ve never seen you in this place before, and you’ve given me a lot of drinks and wouldn’t take one back. Now, sir, if I may speak without offence, a man who meets a stranger doesn’t do all the paying without a motive. Well, sir, let’s come to business. What can I do for you—of course, with safety to myself, and if I do it, what do I get out of it?”
A business-like fellow, a bit of a rogue, in a noncriminal way no doubt! But it was always easier to deal with a rogue than a fool in matters of this kind. There would be no beating about the bush.
Lane briefly explained what he wanted. He wished to examine Sir George’s pass-book; if that was not available, his paying-in slips. Did the valet know where he kept them?
Yes, Mr. Simmons did know. Sir George was in the habit of getting his book every month from the bank, and after examining it, returning it in about three weeks to be made up for the following month. He kept it with his cheque-book and the paying-in slips in one of the top drawers of his writing-table. Sometimes the drawer was locked, more frequently not, for in some matters where the vast majority of men were cautious, the mysterious baronet was singularly careless. At the present moment Mr. Simmons did not know whether it was locked or not, but it would probably be locked before he went away.
“That doesn’t present much difficulty,” said Lane with a calmness that took away his companion’s breath. “If it is not a very complicated lock, and it’s not likely to be if the writing-table is an ordinary sort of one; I can easily pick it.”
Mr. Simmons pursed his lips in perplexity. “But that’s burglary, isn’t it, and spells quod if were caught?”
The detective smiled. “’Pon my soul, I’m not very sure. We have to do this sort of thing sometimes, but we don’t run any very great risk, because the people we do it to have so much to conceal that they daren’t take action. I’m not proposing to take away anything, you know.”
But Mr. Simmons evidently did not like the prospect. He was perfectly unscrupulous in a small way, would not have objected to certain petty pilferings sanctioned by custom and tradition amongst certain members of his profession. One of his grievances against the baronet was that he counted his cigars and his bottles of wine; there was never a chance of getting a free smoke or drink.
But this looked a bigger thing than he expected. He thought very deeply for a few seconds, while Lane cursed him in his heart for a faint-hearted rogue, who let his inclination wait upon his fears.
“Look here,” he said at length. “We haven’t said anything yet about terms. If I do it—and mind you, I’m not very gone on it—what’s the price? It ought to be a good one.”