"MR. SEPTIMUS TOFT,--Sir," the letter ran. "The 'tecs are on the scent.
If you want any further information meet me at the Blue Lion, Monument,
at nine-thirty to-morrow evening without fail.--Yours, etc., J. DRIVER."
Mr. Toft stared at the letter with much disgust and more alarm. It was
certainly a regrettable communication for a commercial magnate, a
magistrate, and a pillar of society to be obliged to attend to. It would
have troubled him had it come before Bowker had absconded, but now it
was much worse. Bowker would have shared the anxiety, and interviewed
"J. Driver." He could have guessed on what particular scent the
detectives were engaged, and his fertile ingenuity would have suggested
an obvious way of circumventing them, whereas Mr. Toft's unaided vision
saw none.
"Nine-thirty to-morrow evening." Mr. Toft smiled feebly at the humour of
the situation. To-morrow evening at eight o'clock he was advertised to
take the chair at a Young Men's Mutual Improvement meeting, and the
gentleman who was to deliver the evening's lecture occupied the post of
his Majesty's Solicitor-General. "He will probably have to prosecute me
on behalf of the Crown," thought Toft; so he determined to propitiate
him by special attention to his discourse and by frequent applause.
On the following evening Mr. Toft made his way to the Blue Lion. The
lecture had not been a success as far as he was concerned. Try as he
might, he could not concentrate his thoughts on the subject. He had
applauded at wrong places. Once a titter from the audience had resulted,
and the Solicitor-General had turned on him a look of pained surprise.
In the agony of the moment he had pulled the table-cloth, and the glass
of water thereon had upset, incidentally splashing the lecturer. The
titter developed into a laugh, through which a legal glare had petrified
him.
At nine o'clock the lecture was over. The Solicitor-General listened in
silence to Mr. Toft's apologies, and then bowed coldly. Mr. Toft felt
that he was lost indeed if it came to the Law Courts, and hurried away
to his appointment in a state of feverish anxiety. He had come to the
lecture in a soft wide-awake hat and the oldest top-coat in his
wardrobe. He now donned a woollen muffler, and put on a pair of smoked
glass spectacles. This was his idea of disguise. It was simple, but
ineffective; for the highly-respectable mutton-chop whiskers, the weak
mouth, and cut-away chin were as noticeable as ever. His most casual
acquaintance would have recognised him, and would merely have concluded
that he was engaged in something disreputable.
At the Monument he dismissed his cab, and made his way to the Blue Lion
Inn. It was a fifth-rate house in a fourth-rate street. Mr. Toft had
never been in such an unpleasant place in his life, and he groaned as he
thought that the exigences of commerce had driven him there in his old
age without even the excuse of foreign competition.
It was 9.45 when he entered the inn, and he hoped that the quarter-hour
he was late would impress J. Driver with the conviction that he, Toft,
was not at all particular about keeping the appointment. Apparently it
did strike Mr. Driver in this way, for as the be-muffled and
be-spectacled gentleman in the soft hat entered the tap-room a sarcastic
voice loudly expressed the hope that he hadn't permanently injured his
constitution by running. Mr. Toft was grieved at the publicity given to
this remark. He sat down by the speaker, and murmured excuses; but Mr.
Driver, if it were he, would have none of them. "When I says 9.30 I mean
9.30, and not 9.50, nor 9.60, nor yet 9.70. If my time won't suit you,
yours won't suit me. I'm off," he said.
Mr. Toft was alarmed. "Sit down, please," he said, clutching the rising
figure. "I'm sure I'm very sorry. I had made an engagement before your
letter came, and I couldn't very well put it off. What will you have to
drink?" he added adroitly.
"Gin and bitters," was the prompt response, and Mr. Driver sat down.
Mr. Toft now had leisure to take stock of his surroundings. J. Driver
was a dark-haired man with a bold, clean-shaven chin. His voice was deep
and emphatic, and his eye was piercing. He was broad and muscular, and
would probably be a good boxer, thought Mr. Toft. He glanced at the
drinkers at the other tables, but finding their eyes were fixed stolidly
on him he looked elsewhere. He had noticed eyes and noses--that was all.
"Now to business," said Mr. Driver. "You know my name, and I know yours.
That's where we're equal. You're in a beastly hole, and I aren't. That's
where the difference comes in."
"I don't understand," said Mr. Toft. "In fact, I haven't the faintest
idea what you are alluding to."
"Garn," said J. Driver, with a dig in the ribs that made him jump.
"Garn! you old dodger. What about Government contracts?"
"What about them?" asked Mr. Toft, shrinking from his familiarity.
"What about them?" echoed the other. "What about work you never did, for
which you've got false receipts? What about contracts executed with
inferior stuff? What about commissions to officials, tips to men, and
plunder all round?"
Mr. Toft paled at this catalogue of his business achievements. "You are
misinformed," he said. "My firm does not do such things."
J. Driver thrust his tongue into his cheek. "Then how did you get your
contracts, Septimus?" he asked.
"By honest competition in the open market," replied Mr. Toft loftily.
Mr. Driver laughed derisively. "Lord!" he said at last, "I wish I had
your artless style. Stick to it, Mister, in the prisoner's dock. It may
pull you through."
"I presume you haven't asked me here simply for the purpose of insulting
me?" said Mr. Toft, with some dignity.
"What a man you are!" Mr. Driver replied, with unstinted admiration.
"You must be a thought-reader, Septimus--a bloomin' thought-reader.
You're quite right; I haven't. I've come for the loan of a key, and one
of your visitin' cards."
"A key?" said Mr. Toft, relieved, though much surprised.
"The key of the plate chest of the Fellmongers' Company."
Mr. Toft raised his eyebrows. "You're joking," he said.
"Do I look like a joker?" replied his companion fiercely. "Do I look
like a joker?" he repeated loudly, banging his fist on the table so that
all turned their eyes in the direction of the noise. Mr. Toft implored
him to restrain his feelings.
"Don't rouse 'em then!" said the man. "Have you got the key on you?"
"Er--yes," responded Mr. Toft.
"Then hand it over."
"My dear sir," began the unhappy Septimus.
"I'm not your dear anything," said the other; "so don't you pretend that
I am. I'm as meek and pleasant as a cow to those that treat me fair and
square, but when I'm irritated I'm a roarin' bull. Hand me the key."
"I can't."
"You can't. Right'o!" said Mr. Driver, rising. "At present the Admiralty
only suspect. To-morrow they'll know, and you'll know too, Septimus
Toft, when you get five years without the option of a fine."
"Please, please don't speak so loudly," begged Mr. Toft, beside himself
with fears and anxieties. Then, to put on time whilst he collected his
scattering thoughts, "What do you want to do with the key?"
"Wear it with my medals, of course," said the man sarcastically. "If you
want further pertic'lers you won't get 'em, but I promise to return the
key within forty-eight hours, and all your plate'll be there."
"It's a very extraordinary idea," said Mr. Toft incredulously.
"It is; and I'm a very extraordinary man, and you're a bloomin' ordinary
one. Will you let me have the key and a visitin' card, or not?"
"If anyone asks how you got them what will you say?"
"Say I took 'em from you while you were asleep in an opium den, or when
we met in a tunnel--any blessed thing you like."
Mr. Toft scarcely heard him. He was thinking over the pros and cons of
the situation as rapidly as his nervous system would allow. He was
Treasurer of the Fellmongers' Company, and he alone had the key of the
plate safe. In the ordinary course of events he would be elected Prime
Warden next year, but if there were any trouble about the plate he might
not be. Better that, though, than a public exposure of his business
methods. The key might have been stolen from him. Everyone lost keys now
and then. Of course no one could think that the theft was to his
advantage, and it would save him from all bother at the Admiralty--but
would it?
"If I let you have the key," he asked, "how do I know that you won't
come in a similar way again?"
"Give it up," said Mr. Driver. "Never was good at riddles, and I didn't
come here to be asked 'em neither. What the blazes do I care about what
you'll know or what you won't know? I know what I know, and that's
enough to account for your hair bein' so thin on top. If you don't hand
me that key without any more rottin' I'll just drop this in the first
pillar-box I come across." He pulled out a fat blue envelope and
flourished it in front of Mr. Toft's blinking eyes. It was addressed to
the Financial Secretary of the Admiralty, and was marked on one side
"Important," and on the other "Private and Urgent." There was an immense
seal with the impression of a five-shilling piece.
"Your death-knell's inside," said Mr. Driver. "Hear it rattle," and he
shook the envelope in Mr. Toft's ear. "But it wants a stamp, or the
Government might not take it in. On such trifles do our destinies
depend, Septimus. Have you got a stamp?" He put an anticipatory penny
on the table.
Mr. Toft hesitated no longer. From one end of his watch-chain he
detached a gold key, which he handed covertly to Driver.
"Now your visitin' card."
Mr. Toft produced one, and handed it over. "You'll give me that letter
now," he pleaded.
J. Driver shook his head, tore up the packet, and put it into the fire.
"Better there," he said oracularly. "Now, Toft, my boy, don't worry.
You'll have that key back by Friday, and all your spoons'll be in the
box. If you don't interfere you'll never hear of me again, and the
Admiralty won't either; but if you take one step behind my back I'll do
all I've threatened, and a lot more, and you'll be building Portland
Breakwater on Christmas Day. By-bye, Septimus."
With this Mr. Driver rose, and stalked out of the room. After a modest
interval Mr. Toft followed.
At 9 a.m. on the following morning the bell of the Fellmongers' Company
pealed vigorously. The porter hurried to answer it, and found a lady on
the doorstep. She was neatly dressed, and was strikingly handsome. She
might be twenty-five years old. A boy carrying a portfolio and a
strapped-up easel stood behind.
"Is this the Fellmongers' Hall?" she asked.
"It is, Miss."
"I want to know if you will be good enough to allow me to copy a
painting you have on your walls? I do not know if it is necessary to
have any written permission, or where to apply for it."
"The 'All is open to the public under my supervision," said the porter
pompously. "Come inside, please."
"Thank you," replied the lady. "Put those things down, Johnnie. That's
right. I'll let you know when to come for them. Good-morning."
"We don't often 'ave hartists 'ere, miss," remarked the porter, "and I
sometimes thinks as pictures is wasted on gentlemen dinin' with City
Companies. They ain't runnin' pertic'ler strong on hart just then. Which
one is it you want?"
"I don't know the title," replied the artist, "but I shall know the
picture when I see it. It's a portrait."
"P'raps Nicholas Tiffany," the porter suggested, "the first warden of
the company, painted by 'Olbein. Born 1455. Lived to the ripe age of
ninety-four, and died regretted by his sovereign and his country. His
estates were seized by his creditors. Here he is, miss."
The man opened the door of the Livery Room, the walls of which were hung
with many pictures. "This is Tiffany," he said, pointing to a
disreputable-looking portrait.
The lady looked at it doubtfully. "The painting I want is the one
nearest to the door of the plate room," she said.
"Then it's a good bit away from it, miss. The plate room is off the
Banqueting 'All, and they are all windows on that side. The pictures are
opposite."
"Dear me," said the lady. "How very stupidly I have been informed.
Please show me the room."
The porter led the way, and threw open the door with pardonable pride.
"The Banqueting 'All of the Honourable Company of Fellmongers!" he
exclaimed. It was the famous hall in which heads of City Companies and
ruling sovereigns are intermittently entertained. Down one wall were
ranged portraits of eminent fellmongers. The other three were pierced
by doors and windows.
"Which is the plate room?" asked the lady.
"This is the door of the plate room," the porter replied. "Anyone
enterin' without authority, day or night, sets in action two peals of
electric bells, and aut'matic'ly discharges a revolver shot through the
sky-light."
"How very interesting!" the lady remarked. "Now I must find my picture."
She looked round the room, and finally selected one.
"Jeremiah Crumpet," said the porter. "A haberdasher by birth, but
eventually Junior Warden of our Company. Painted by Merillo. Never
gettin' beyond pot'ooks 'imself, he founded the Company's Schools at
Ashby de la Zouch."
"I'm sure that's the man," said the artist. "I'll bring my things in if
I may. Is there a Mrs. ----? Jeckell, thank you. I should like to see
her about some water for my paints."
"I'll tell you what, Maria," said Mr. Jeckell some hours later. "If
she's a hartist I ought to be President of the Royal Academy. I never
saw such drawin' in my life. She can't get his face square nohow. He's
smilin' in the picture, but she's made him lockjawed an' moonstruck. She
says if she can't get him right she'll have to turn him into a
shipwreck. She must be what the papers call an himpressionist. She spoke
twice about the plate room, so I've wheeled my chair into the 'all to
keep my eye on her. I'll go back now and see what she's hup to."
Mr. Jeckell would have wondered less at her drawing if he could have
seen the note the lady had referred to in his absence:
"An attempt will be made during the next three days to steal a cup from
the plate chest at the Fellmongers' Hall. For certain reasons warning of
this must not come to the authorities from without. Apply for permission
to copy painting or to sketch interior, and watch. Should any other than
the Company's servant enter the plate room suggest doubt as to his
credentials, and do all you can to secure his arrest. Another agent will
watch the premises from 5 p.m. to 9 a.m."
While Mr. Jeckell was on his way to his chair there came another peal
from the front-entrance bell. A man in a bowler hat, and carrying a
handbag, was outside.
"Mr. Toft has sent me for the Nelson Goblet," he said.
The porter was surprised. "Got a note?" he asked.
"The guv'ner gave me this," said the man, handing a card, "and the key."
"What does he want it for?" Mr. Jeckell asked.
"Got a big guzzle on at 'ome. Wants to cut an extra dash in
centre-pieces."
Mr. Jeckell shook his head gravely, but made no remark. "Come along," he
said shortly.
He led the way across the vestibule into the Banqueting Hall, where,
behind her easel, a lady was evidently busy with her picture. He stopped
at a door, which he unlocked, and both men passed through. Barely had
they done so when the artist ran from behind her easel into the outer
hall. "Mrs. Jeckell! Mrs. Jeckell!" she called out.
The porter's wife appeared.
"A man has gone into the plate room with your husband. I'm sure he is a
thief. Warn Mr. Jeckell to get full authority before he does what this
man wants."
"Gracious me!" cried the alarmed Mrs. Jeckell. "A thief! He may be
murderin' Samuel!"
She rushed across to the plate room, and in a minute a storm of voices
proceeded therefrom. Finally the three emerged, two hot and flurried,
and the stranger, looking cool and determined, carrying a bag in one
hand and a gold cup in the other. The porter hung on to his arm.
The artist was in front of the door. When she saw the man with the bag
and cup she gave a little gasp of surprise, and a wave of colour
overspread her face.
The man seemed equally astonished. "You!" he said at last.
"They're both thieves," whispered Mrs. Jeckell to her husband. "They're
acting in collision. I'll shout for the perlice while you keep 'em." And
she ran from the room.
"You are in danger," said the artist rapidly in French. "Put the cup in
your pocket. Give me the bag, and knock the porter down."
The man obeyed with the promptitude of a soldier. Leaving Mr. Jeckell
prostrate on the floor, they hurried from the Hall. At the street door
was Mrs. Jeckell, wildly beckoning to a distant policeman.
"You take down there," said the artist. "Good-bye." She ran off in the
opposite direction, still holding the bag, and dived down a side street.
Mrs. Jeckell grew frantically insistent to the policeman, who now came
up. "Which one?" he puffed.
"The man. No, it's in the bag. Both of 'em," she cried.
At this moment her husband appeared at the door, with blood streaming
from his nose. "They've killed Samuel," cried his horrified wife,
running to him; but the policeman, though he wore the badge of St. John
of Jerusalem on his arm, dashed down the street after the lady.
By the time he returned, after a fruitless pursuit, Mr. Jeckell's nose
had stopped bleeding. "Did you hever?" said the porter. "What the blazes
did she mean by first givin' the alarm and then aidin' and abettin'? And
she looked so innercent-like, too. The first hartist as I've ever
encouraged, and the larst. Whatever will Mr. Toft say, Maria? It's as
much as my place is worth. After all these years of faithful service,
too!"
But Mr. Toft was less demonstrative than might have been expected.
The next gathering of the Burglars' Club proved the most important in
the history of the Club since its foundation. Every detail of it is
firmly impressed on the memory of each member present; yet they never by
any chance refer to that meeting. One and all would like to forget
it--if they could.
It was held at Marmaduke Percy's rooms, his Grace of Dorchester, the
President of the year, being in the chair.
The Secretary read the minutes, and concluded: "The business of the
evening is the payment of an entrance fee--the Nelson Goblet of the
Fellmongers' Company--by Martin Legendre Craven, fourth Baron Horton, a
cadet member of the Club."
Lord Horton entered, bowed, and amidst general applause, placed on the
table a richly-chased goblet of gold.
"Lord Horton's entrance fee being paid," said the President, "I now move
that he be enrolled as a full member." Carried unanimously.
"My lord, you are one of us."
Lord Horton advanced to the table and looked round with calm
deliberation. He was a notable man--the best amateur low comedian of
his day, a traveller who had pressed far into Thibet, a diplomatist at
the mention of whose name the Turk shifted uneasily in his seat and
fixed his eyes despondently on the floor. He had won his V.C. in China.
He had done many things.
"Your Grace, my lords and gentlemen," he said. "I thank you. In
accordance with the usual custom of your Club I will explain how I have
been able to fulfil my appointed duty. I received an intimation that the
Nelson Goblet of the Fellmongers' Company was my entrance fee, and at
once took steps to procure it. The matter was hardly difficult. A list
of the Company showed me that the treasurer and plate-keeper was a
certain Mr. Toft. The directory informed me that he was a steam-tug
owner and a contractor to the Admiralty. Inquiry there told me he was
under suspicion of bribery and corruption. I played on this little
weakness of his, and, if I am not mistaken, I frightened him into the
paths of virtue for the rest of his days. In return, he lent me the key
of the plate safe of his Company. In broad daylight I proceeded for my
booty. To my surprise, I found that I was expected. Someone had placed
an agent on the spot to warn the custodian of the building of my
intention. An alarm was raised. My lords and gentlemen, at whose
instigation was that alarm raised?"
Lord Horton paused. Members looked at each other in mystified amazement.
What on earth was he driving at? Was he waiting for a reply?
The silence grew painful. "Who instigated that alarm?" again the speaker
asked.