“I certainly will, Miss Farncombe. Good-bye. You have all my sympathy, I assure you. But keep a stout heart, for I hope in the end all will be well,” he said reassuringly.
“But my secret!” she exclaimed.
“Leave that to me. Good-bye,” he repeated, and turning he left her.
A week later Geoffrey received a note from Paget asking him to dine with him at the Bath Club, an invitation which he accepted. Another and rather older man named Owen, to whom he had been introduced about a fortnight before, dined with them. Afterwards they went round to Paget’s rooms for an hour, and later Geoffrey left by ’bus to catch his train from Liverpool Street.
He was walking along the platform and about to enter the train when Owen, accompanied by a tall, clean-shaven man, came up breathlessly.
“This is the man!” Owen cried, pointing to Falconer. “I give him into custody for stealing my pocket-book! He must have stolen it while we were at the club!”
“What!—what do you mean?” gasped the young radio-engineer, turning upon him aghast.
“I mean that you have my pocket-book upon you—a brown suède one, with sixty pounds in Treasury notes.”
“It’s untrue!” declared Geoffrey. “I know nothing of your pocket-book. But look!” he exclaimed, utterly confounded. “A crowd is collecting. Let’s go somewhere and argue it out.”
“Yes,” Owen agreed, turning to the detective. “Let’s go back to Mr. Paget’s rooms, and then you can take him to the police-station afterwards.”