We, Philip Edmond Wodehouse, Commander of the Most Noble Order of the Bath, Governor in the name of His Britannic Majesty of the Colony of British Guiana, by virtue of the powers conferred upon us by His Majesty's Privy Council, do hereby proclaim and declare to all whom it may concern that we have this day granted to Sidney Parlance, a subject of His Majesty the King, and to his heirs and assigns being determined by the possession of this authority, the sole right to prospect and mine for minerals of any kind whatsoever in the territory indicated and described in the sketch map at the foot of this authority, for the term of nine hundred and ninety-nine years from the date of these presents.
Given under our hand and seal this third day of January Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-Six.
At the bottom of the sheet below the map and description was scrawled in a different hand: 'This is all for you. S.F.'
Harry Westler stuffed the letters into his pocket and took out his wallet. His heart was beating in a delirious rhythm of ecstasy and sending the blood roaring through his ears like the crashing crescendo of a symphony. The Gates of Paradise seemed to have opened up and deluged him with all their reservoirs of bliss. The whole world was his sweetheart. If the elderly gent whose strange nasal garglings he had dismissed so discourteously a short time ago had' cannoned into him again at that moment, it is almost certain that Mr Westler would not have told him to go and climb a tree. He would probably have kissed him on both cheeks and given him a nickel.
For the first time in his life, Harry Westler counted out ten thousand-dollar bills as cheerfully as he would have counted them in.
'There you are, Jackie. And I'm not kidding--it takes a load off my mind. If you think of anything else I can do for you, just let me know.'
'I think you've done more than anyone could have asked,' she said generously. 'Won't you stay and have a drink?'
Mr Westler declined the offer firmly. He had no moral prejudice against drinking, and in fact he wanted a drink very badly, but more particularly he wanted to have it in a place where he would not have to place any more restraint on the shouting rhapsodies that were seething through his system like bubbles through champagne.
Some two hours later, when Simon Templar drifted into the house, he found Jacqueline still looking slightly dazed. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.
'Simon!' she gasped. 'You must be a mascot or something. You'll never guess what's happened.'
'I'll tell you exactly what's happened,' said the Saint calmly. 'Cousin Harry has been here, told you that he'd rather have dear old Granny's love letters than all the money in the world and paid you a hell of a good price for them. At least I hope he paid you a hell of a good price.'
Jacqueline gaped at him weakly.
'He paid me ten thousand dollars. But how on earth did you know? Why did he do it?'
'He did it because a lawyer called on him this morning and told him that Sidney Farlance had collared an absolutely priceless mining concession when he was in British Guiana, and that there was probably something about it in the letters which would be worth millions to whoever had them to prove his claim.'
She looked at him aghast.
'A mining concession? I don't remember anything about it----'
'You wouldn't,' said the Saint kindly. 'It wasn't there until I slipped it in when I got you to show me the letters at breakfast time this morning. I sat up for the other half of the night faking the best imitation I could of what I thought a concession ought to look like, and apparently it was good enough for Harry. Of course I was the lawyer who told him all about it, and I think I fed him the oil pretty smoothly, so perhaps there was some excuse for him. I take it that he was quite excited about it--I see he didn't even bother to take the envelopes.'
Jacqueline opened her mouth again, but what she was going to say with it remained a permanently unsolved question, for at that moment the unnecessarily vigorous ringing of a bell stopped her short. The Saint cocked his ears speculatively at the sound and a rather pleased and seraphic smile worked itself into his face.
'I expect this is Harry coming back,' he said. 'He wasn't supposed to see me again until tomorrow but I suppose he couldn't wait. He's probably tried to ring me up at the address I had printed on my card and discovered that there ain't no such lawyers as I was supposed to represent. It will be rather interesting to hear what he has to say.'
For once, however, Simon's guess was wrong. Instead of the indignant equine features of Harry Westler, he confronted the pink imploring features of the small and shapeless elderly gent with whom he had danced prettily around the gateposts the day before. The little man's face lighted up and he bounced over the doorstep and seized the Saint joyfully by both lapels of his coat.
'Mnynghlfwgl!' he crowed triumphantly. 'Ahkgmp glglgl hndiuphwmp!'
Simon recoiled slightly.
'Yes. I know,' he said soothingly. 'But it's five o'clock on Fridays. Two dollars every other yard.'
'Ogh hmbals!' said the little man.
He let go the Saint's coat, ducked under his arms and scuttled on into the living room.
'Oi!' said the Saint feebly.
'May I explain, sir?'
Another voice spoke from the doorway, and Simon perceived that the little man had not come alone. Someone else had taken his place on the threshold--a thin and mournful-looking individual whom the Saint somewhat pardonably took to be the little man's keeper.
'Are you looking after that?' he inquired resignedly. 'And why don't you keep it on a lead?'
The mournful-looking individual shook his head.
'That is Mr Horatio Ive, sir--he is a very rich man, but he suffers from an unfortunate impediment in his speech. Very few people can understand him. I go about with him as his interpreter, but I have been in bed for the last three days with a chill----'
A shrill war whoop from the other room interrupted the explanation.
'We'd better go and see how he's getting on,' said the Saint.
'Mr Ive is very impulsive, sir,' went on the sad-looking interpreter. 'He was most anxious to see somebody here, and even though I was unable to accompany him he has called here several times alone. I understand that he found it impossible to make himself understood. He practically dragged me out of bed to come with him now.'
'What's he so excited about?' asked the Saint, as they walked towards the living room.
'He's interested in some letters, sir, belonging to the late Mrs Laine. She happened to show them to him when they met once several years ago, and he wanted to buy them. She refused to sell them for sentimental reasons, but as soon as he read of her death he decided to approach her heirs.'
'Are you talking about her love letters from a bird called Sidney Farlance?' Simon asked hollowly.
'Yes sir. The gentleman who worked in British Guiana. Mr Ive is prepared to pay something like fifty thousand dollars----Is anything the matter, sir?'
Simon Templar swallowed.
'Oh, nothing,' he said faintly. 'Nothing at all.'
They entered the living room to interrupt a scene of considerable excitement. Backing towards the wall, with a blank expression of alarm widening her eyes, Jacqueline Laine was staring dumbly at the small elderly gent, who was capering about in front of her like a frenzied redskin, spluttering yard after yard of his incomprehensible adenoidal honks interspersed with wild piercing squeaks apparently expressive of intolerable joy. In each hand he held an envelope aloft like a banner.
As his interpreter came in, he turned and rushed towards him, loosing off a fresh stream of noises like those of a hysterical duck.
'Mr Ive is saying, sir,' explained the interpreter, raising his voice harmoniously above the din, 'that each of those envelopes bears a perfect example of the British Guiana one-cent magenta stamp of 1856, of which only one specimen was previously believed to exist. Mr Ive is an ardent philatelist, sir, and these envelopes----'
Simon Templar blinked hazily at the small crudely printed stamp in the corner of the envelope which the little man was waving under his nose.
'You mean,' he said cautiously, 'that Mr Ive is really only interested in the envelopes?'
'Yes sir.'
'Not the letters themselves?'
'Not the letters.'
