It was about ten o’clock on the morning of the next day but one that a
sharp-looking, flashily-dressed individual presented himself at the door
of Messrs. Gross and Sons. He was of the type that may be seen by the
score any day of the week propping up the West-end bars and discoursing
on racing form in a hoarse whisper.
“Mornin’,” he remarked. “Mr. Johnson here yet?”
“What do you want to see him about?” demanded the assistant.
“To tell him that your hair wants cutting,” snapped the other. “Hop
along, young fellah; as an ornament you’re a misfit. Tell Mr. Johnson
that I’ve a message from Mr. Perrison.”
The youth faded away, to return in a minute or two with a request that
the visitor would follow him.
“Message from Perrison? What’s up?” Mr. Johnson rose from his chair as
the door closed behind the assistant.
The flashy individual laughed and pulled out his cigarette-case.
“He’s pulled it off,” he chuckled. “At the present moment our one and
only Joe is clasping the beauteous girl to his bosom.”
“Strike me pink—he hasn’t, has he?” Mr. Johnson slapped his leg
resoundingly and shook with merriment.
“That’s why I’ve come round,” continued the other. “From Smith, I am.
Joe wants to give her a little present on account.” He grinned again,
and felt in his pocket. “Here it is—and he wants a receipt signed by
you—acknowledging the return of the necklace which was sent out—on
approval.” He winked heavily. “He’s infernally deep, is Joe.” He watched
the other man as he picked up the pearls, and for a moment his blue eyes
seemed a little strained. “He wants to give that receipt to the girl—so
as to clinch the bargain.”
“Why the dickens didn’t he ’phone me direct?” demanded Johnson, and once
again the other grinned broadly.
“Strewth!” he said, “I laughed fit to burst this morning. The ’phone at
his girl’s place is in the hall, as far as I could make out, and Joe was
whispering down it like an old woman with lumbago. ‘Take ’em round to
Johnson,’ he said. ‘Approval—approval—you fool.’ And then he turned
away and I heard him say—‘Good morning, Lady Jemima.’ Then back he
turns and starts whispering again. ‘Do you get me, Bob?’ ‘Yes,’ I says,
‘I get you. You want me to take round the pearls to Johnson and get a
receipt from him. And what about the other thing—you know, the money
the young boob borrowed?’ ‘Put it in an envelope and send it to me here,
with the receipt,’ he says. ‘I’m going out walking this morning.’ Then
he rings off, and that’s that. Lord! think of Joe walking.”
The grin developed into a cackling laugh, in which Mr. Johnson joined.
“He’s deep—you’re right,” he said, admiringly. “Uncommonly deep. I
never thought he’d pull it off. Though personally, mark you, I think
he’s a fool. They’ll fight like cat and dog.” He rang a bell on his desk
then opening a drawer he dropped the necklace inside.
“Bring me a formal receipt form,” he said to the assistant. “Have you
got the other paper?” he asked, as he affixed the firm’s signature to
the receipt, and the flashy individual produced it from his pocket.
“Here it is,” he announced. “Put ’em both in an envelope together and
address it to Joe. I’m going along; I’ll post it.”
“Will you have a small tiddley before you go?” Mr. Johnson opened a
formidable-looking safe, disclosing all the necessary-looking
ingredients for the manufacture of small tiddleys.
“I don’t mind if I do,” conceded the other. “Here’s the best—and to the
future Mrs. Joe.”
A moment or two later he passed through the outer office and was
swallowed up in the crowd. And it was not till after lunch that day that
Mr. Johnson got the shock of his life—when he opened one of the early
evening papers.
“DARING ROBBERY IN WELL-KNOWN CITY FIRM.
“_A most daring outrage was carried out last night at the office
of Messrs. Smith and Co., the well-known financial and insurance
brokers. At a late hour this morning, some time after work was
commenced, the night watchman was discovered bound and securely
gagged in a room at the top of the premises. Further
investigation revealed that the safe had been opened—evidently
by a master hand—and the contents rifled. The extent of the
loss is at present unknown, but the police are believed to
possess several clues._”
And at the same time that Mr. Johnson was staring with a glassy stare at
this astounding piece of news, a tall, spare man with lazy blue eyes,
stretched out comfortably in the corner of a first-class carriage, was
also perusing it.
“Several clues,” he murmured. “I wonder! But it was a very creditable
job, though I say it myself.”
Which seemed a strange soliloquy for a well-dressed man in a first-class
carriage. And what might have seemed almost stranger, had there been any
way of knowing such a recondite fact, was that in one of the mail bags
reposing in the back of the train, a mysterious transformation had taken
place. For a letter which had originally contained two documents and had
been addressed to J. Perrison, Esq., now contained three and was
consigned to Miss Sybil Daventry. Which merely goes to show how careful
one should be over posting letters.