“The black pearl stick pin that Mr. Graham values so much has been stolen from his room.”
“What have I to do with that?” Drummond shouted.
“Simply this,” the other returned, “that you introduced this criminal to my house and I shall expect you to make good what your friend took.”
“Friend!” repeated the outraged Drummond. “My friend!”
“It is a matter for the police,” Bulstrode yawned.
Drummond watched his tall, thin figure ascending the stairs. Plainly there was nothing left but to go. Never in his full life had things broken so badly for William Drummond. He could feel the butler’s baleful stare as he slowly crossed the great hall. He felt he hated the man who had witnessed his defeat and laughed at his humiliation. And Drummond was not used to the contempt of underlings.
Yet the butler had the last word. As he closed the door he flung a contemptuous good-night after the banker.
“Good-night,” he said, “Old Man Afraid of the Police.”
A broken and dispirited man William Drummond, banker, came to his own house. The pockets in which he had placed his keys were empty. There was no hole by which they might have been lost and he had not removed the long duster. Only one man could have taken them. He called to mind how the staggering creature who claimed to be Graham Bulstrode had again and again clutched at him for support. And if he had taken them, to what use had they been put?
It seemed he must have waited half an hour before a sleepy servant let him in. Drummond pushed by him with an oath and went hastily to the black walnut desk. There, seemingly unmoved, was the paper that he had pulled over the notes when the unknown came into the room. It was when he raised it to see what lay beneath that he understood to the full what a costly night it had been for him. Across one of his own envelopes was scrawled the single word—Shylock.