SIR JOHN CARDER, head of the well-known firm of Carder and Co.,
merchants, of Manchester, sat in his warehouse. It was one o'clock in
the morning. Since half-past eight he had been alone in the building;
and there in his snug private office, before a cheery fire and beneath
electric light, Sir John prepared to meet what he conceived to be his
fate.
He was insolvent. For some time past he had suspected that this was the
state of things. Now he was sure of it. The yearly balance sheet placed
in his hand the previous day by his cashier, together with sundry
figures from his own private ledger, placed the fact beyond the region
of dispute. Because he felt himself unequal to the situation, Sir John
had shut himself up in his office--and on the desk in front of him was a
loaded revolver.
Sir John had strong antiquarian tastes. His bachelor home in Withington
was a positive museum of curiosities, from Phoenician pottery down to
files of English newspapers when the Georges were kings. In his office
he kept more personal relics of bygone times, and he was now sorting out
the drawers of a big bureau, full of them.
He had been severely trained in method by the most orderly of fathers,
and had saved every written communication he had received since the age
of seventeen. It is therefore quite understandable why his accumulation
of letters was so large, and partially understandable how he came to
have before him four bulky parcels of them, respectively endorsed with
the names of Mary, Nell, Kitty, and Flip. The dates of these, be it at
once understood, were not contemporaneous, though a careful investigator
might have detected a little overlapping. The letters marked Flip, it
ought also to be stated, came first in point of time.
Sir John lingered long over these bundles, and read many of the letters.
They interested him greatly, and in their perusal he almost forgot the
evening's ultimate objective. Connected with these particular letters
was a batch of photographs, on which he gazed with tender reminiscence.
Then there were other matters of more public character--a missive, for
instance, from the Prime Minister, informing him that his Majesty
intended to confer upon him the honour of knighthood, his Commission in
the Volunteers, and some I.O.U.'s from a member of the House of Lords.
All these, and many others, Sir John threw on the desk in front, ready
for the final holocaust. With the feeling of a true collector he had not
the heart to destroy them singly.
Then, from another drawer, he drew forth his balance sheets for twenty
years, and glanced them through with almost as much interest as he had
felt for his letters. Once, it seemed, he had been worth close on a
hundred thousand pounds. An infatuated belief in a South American
concession, followed by a succession of lean years in trading, had
frittered all this, and more, away.
While he was gazing gloomily at these recording figures the door gently
opened, and a man stood on the threshold--a man with his coat buttoned
tightly up to the neck, with his cap brought down over his eyes, a man
with a lamp--in short, a burglar. Sir John stared at him dumbfounded.
Then he glanced at the revolver, but it was out of reach. The burglar
followed his look, and caught up the weapon.
Now thoroughly aroused, the knight indignantly exclaimed:
"You needn't add murder to your other crimes, my man."
"Sir," replied the burglar, "it would grieve me to have to anticipate
your own intentions."
Sir John was struck, as much by the melodious voice of the burglar as by
his answer. Nevertheless, in his most magisterial voice he demanded:
"What are you doing here?"
"Watching an elderly gentleman in an interesting situation."
"You are impertinent!" flared Sir John.
"A thousand pardons. A burglar should, I believe, be merely brutal."
"May I ask what you expect to find here?" continued the merchant. "We
rarely keep enough money on the premises to make it worth your while."
"Postage stamps?" insinuated the other.
Sir John ignored the suggestion. "Certainly not enough to make it worth
your while. It may be a matter of penal servitude for you."
"You open up a wide philosophic question," said the burglar suavely.
"What is worth your while in this world? 'Uneasy is the head that wears
a crown.' You seem worried yourself, Sir John--going through your papers
at this time o' night, with a loaded pistol by you."
The merchant was annoyed at the burglar's perspicacity, and he could not
think of an effective rejoinder. His visitor advanced to the bureau. The
photographs immediately engaged his attention. "Ha!" he exclaimed
approvingly. "But it really isn't fair. One, two, three, four. Greedy
man!"
"Will you kindly leave my private matters alone?" said the incensed
knight. Then, with a sudden inspiration, he made a reckless dash for
freedom by grabbing at the telephone handle, turning briskly, and
shouting down the receiver, "Help! Thieves! Help!" But before he had
called again the burglar had raised his revolver and had severed the
connecting wire with a shot. "What an absurd idea," he said. "Why, the
operator isn't awake yet."
Sir John sank back into his chair, feeling it was very likely that the
burglar would adopt some extremely unpleasant form of revenge for the
want of confidence he had just displayed. But his visitor did nothing of
the sort. He also seated himself, and addressed the knight in grave
reproof.
"If that's a sample of your best business method I'm surprised you've
done so well in things," he said. Then without waiting for a reply,
"Where do you keep your cigars?"
The merchant stretched out his hand and passed a box to him. The burglar
rolled one knowingly between his fingers, then replaced it, and gave the
box back.
"I don't care for tenpenny whiffs, Sir John. I want your real
cigars--such as you keep for your most eminent visitors--such as you
should have offered me, as a matter of course."
With a sigh Sir John rose, unlocked a cabinet, and produced a box marked
"TOPMANN. SUBLIMES. HABANA," which he handed to his visitor.
The burglar examined it carefully before he expressed his satisfaction.
Then he took a cigar therefrom, inspected it with marked approval, lit
it, and then dropped the box into a capacious pocket.
"Those are exceptionally fine cigars," the knight remarked, with a touch
of resentment in his voice.
"I know it. I've come all the way from town to fetch 'em," the burglar
answered.
Sir John was surprised. "It's a long way and a dangerous mission for
such an object."
"Isn't it?" said the burglar, with provoking complacency.
"And may I ask how you come to know of them?" asked Sir John, whose
curiosity was aroused.
"I don't mind telling you, since I've got them safe. You opened this box
for a particular guest at the Chamber of Commerce dinner a month ago."
"Lord Ribston?"
"Yes; he spoke about them at the Burglars' Club. It was my turn, and
here I am--don't you see?"
"The Burglars' Club!" exclaimed Sir John, in much surprise. "I've never
heard of such an institution. And pray what has Lord Ribston, an
ex-Cabinet Minister, to do with it?"
"He's one of us," the burglar explained. "You see, we are men who've
pretty well exhausted the pleasures of life. We've all been in the Army
or the Navy, all of us are sportsmen, and we are bachelors; so there
isn't much excitement left for us. We've started a Burglars' Club to
help things on a bit. The entrance fee is a town burglary, the subject
to be set by our President, and every other year each member has to keep
up his subscription by a provincial line. 'Sir John Carder's prime
cigars by Wednesday,' was the item fixed for me at our club meeting last
week, and I've got 'em easy," said the burglar, with much professional
complacency.
"You astonish me," Sir John said. "In fact, I've never heard a more
amazing thing in my life. But isn't it rather risky, telling me all
this?"
"Not a bit. No one would believe you if you split on us, and you
wouldn't find our club if you wanted to. But you wouldn't split. A man
who smokes Topmann's Sublimes couldn't do such a thing if he tried."
Sir John acknowledged this speech with a bow. "But I'm greatly surprised
Lord Ribston should belong to such a club," he said. "No offence to you
intended," he added hastily, feeling that his remark was hardly polite.
"And no offence taken," said the burglar magnanimously. "Do you know,
Sir John, there are a good many things going on in town that would be
likely to astonish you a great deal more than this little club of ours
if you only knew of 'em?" Then, after a moment's pause, "As you've
helped me so nicely in this cigar business I shall be delighted to do
you a good turn. Can I be of any use to you?"
In saying this the burglar's eyes travelled involuntarily to the pile of
papers on the desk. Sir John's did the same, and he sighed.
"Well," he replied in an outburst of confidence that astonished himself,
"I'm in a hole."
"I thought as much," said the other. "I've been in a good many myself in
my time, so perhaps I can help you to get out."
The knight shook his head gloomily. "I don't think so. There's nothing
for it but a bullet."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed the burglar. He plunged his hand into his
pocket, and produced the box of cigars. "Try one of these," he said,
offering them to Sir John. "I can recommend 'em for big occasions."
The merchant smiled sadly, but took the consolation offered. "You see,"
he explained, "it's my pay-day to-morrow. There's nine thousand pounds
in cash wanted, and I've nothing towards it."
"Beastly awkward," said the burglar sympathetically. "I know what it
feels like. Tell 'em to call again."
"I can't. If I don't pay I must file my petition."
"File your banker!" exclaimed the other. "Don't you do anything rash.
There's many a man lived to regret ever dreaming of insolvency. I
suppose you've realised all your assets?"
"Every one," said Sir John, "except things like these," and he pulled
out the I.O.U.'s from the pile of papers.
The burglar looked at them. "Well?" he said inquiringly. "You've had
these three years. Why the blazes haven't you got your money?"
"The Marquis of Chillingford hasn't got any money," replied the knight
sorrowfully.
"I know he hasn't to-day, but he had yesterday, and he may have
to-morrow. Why, man, he scooped in a cool ten thou' when Tadpole won the
Derby."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Sir John.
"But I do. If you will lend money to lords, why the blazes don't you
take in the sporting papers, and keep an eye on your friends? Tommy
Chillingford is far too busy a man to remember these bits of paper, but
I'm sure nothing would have pleased him more than to have paid you back
your money if you'd suggested it at the time. He's had a run of
confounded bad luck since then, but he'll bob up serenely one of these
days, and you take my tip and get in that time. What else have you in
this line?"
The knight opened a drawer, and therefrom produced a bundle of
promissory notes and dishonoured cheques.
"What a philanthropist you've been in your day!" said the burglar
admiringly, as he examined them. "I wish I'd known you earlier. Ah!"
and he pulled out a draft. "What's wrong with this?"
"That's another impecunious peer," said Sir John. "He proposed me for
the Carlton," he added apologetically.
"Then may I be impecunious," replied the burglar. "Dicky is a
millionaire in South America."
"I've not come across his name in that light," said the merchant
dubiously.
"He's changed it. Calls himself Thompson now. This thing is worth its
face value, and that's two thousand pounds. Why, man, you must tender it
at once for payment."
For a moment the knight's face brightened.
"But wait a bit," continued the burglar. "There's a six-years' limit for
presentation, isn't there? This was due March 12th, 1897, and it's
now--oh, Great Scott!--it's now March 18th, 1903! Too late by a week!
Old man, you are unlucky! Two thousand solid sovereigns missed by a
week, and you wantin' 'em all the time. It's beastly hard lines. Do have
a light."
But Sir John was too limp to smoke. "A millionaire in South America!" he
gasped. "Why, he went out at my request to see if a concession I have
there was worth anything. He reported adversely, and I've heard nothing
about him since then."
"What is your concession?"
From the pile in front the knight found an imposing-looking parchment,
decorated with the signature of a President and the seal of a State. He
handed it to the burglar, who read it through carefully. Then he laid it
down.
"Sir John Carder," he said gravely, as a judge addressing a prisoner,
"you are an unmitigated donkey. You must forgive the insult, but really
the provocation is simply awful. I've lived in the Argentine, and if
this concession of yours isn't the very one Mr. Thompson is now working
for his own benefit I'm a double-dyed Dutchman."
Sir John gazed at him open-eyed. "I can't believe you," he said.
"Don't, if it hurts you," the burglar replied; "but I'll make a
proposal, to show you I have no doubts about it myself. If you'll have
me as equal partner with you in this concession matter, and leave me to
manage it my own way, I'll take over your pay-day to-morrow, and be
jolly well pleased with the bargain."
"You'll meet my payments to-morrow!" gasped Sir John, who for some
little time had been wondering whether he were awake or asleep, or in a
post-mortem delirium consequent on a revolver shot. "You'll meet my
payments!"
Once more the burglar pulled out the cigar box. "Do have another," he
said persuasively.
Sir John took one mechanically, but after trying in vain to light it he
put it down.
"Oh, Dicky Thompson," soliloquised the burglar, "this explains a good
deal. We all marvelled at your luck, for we knew you didn't deserve it.
You once sold me a spavined mare. If this isn't retribution I don't know
what is. Now, Carder, let's get to bed. You must give me a shakedown
somewhere. We've to be very spry and early to-morrow. There's our
partnership to fix up first thing, and I've to show these cigars at the
Burglars' Club in the evening, and on Saturday I sail for South America
with this precious document and a sharp legal practitioner. And I'll
take your revolver with me in case the lawyer gets hoarse. Oh, I was
forgetting. A telegram form, please. Where do you bank? County and
City. Right. It's nine thousand you want, isn't it? Right again." The
burglar filled up the form, counted his words, took the necessary stamps
from his pocket book, and affixed them. "Now, we'll just drop this in
the first pillar-box we meet, and by the time we've signed our
partnership there'll be enough at the County and City to meet your
payments."
Sir John looked at him admiringly. "Are there many as smart as you at
the Burglars' Club?" he asked.
"Smarter," said the burglar modestly. "I'm about the clumsiest of the
lot. Some day I'll tell you how Ribston stole the Bishop of Bister's
crozier, and then you'll know why he is generally all there in the
House. But come along now. All right; you close up and put the lights
out. I'll take a short cut, and be waiting outside."
It was fully five minutes before Sir John had locked up his papers and
had put on his coat. As he emerged from his warehouse door he was
promptly collared by a policeman, while another seized him firmly from
behind. A third was in possession of the handcuffed burglar, and an
inspector stood by with a box of cigars under his arm.
"Pore old pard!" said the burglar, with ostentatious sympathy. "They've
nabbed us both at larst."
"Now come along quietly, will you?" said the first policeman to the
struggling knight.
"Leave go!" shouted his indignant charge. "I'm Sir John Carder."
The policeman laughed derisively, but something in the voice made the
inspector flash his light on him.
"Sir John it is," he gasped.
The policemen released their hold, and gazed ruefully at their late
prisoner.
"What do you mean by this, Markham?" demanded Sir John.
"Very sorry, sir. Hope you'll overlook it. We caught this chap
red-handed, and he said he was working the job with a pal who was
tidying things up a bit."
"Well, he was quite right. He is a friend of mine."
The inspector was more astonished than ever. "He came through one of the
packing-room windows, Sir John," he expostulated, "and he had a boxful
of cigars in his pocket."
"Not full, inspector," said the burglar, sadly. "I told you my friend
would explain matters, but you wouldn't listen."
"Release him," said Sir John.
The inspector unlocked the handcuffs, saluted stiffly, turned his men
round, and was marching off with them, when the burglar called out, "My
cigars, please."
The inspector came back, handed the box over, saluted even more stiffly
than before, and retired.
Sir John and the burglar watched the retreating escort out of sight.
"It's been a narrow squeak for both of us to-night," said the burglar
reflectively.
"It has," replied Sir John.
Then they turned the corner together.