The evening and the night passed without any untoward incident, except as was revealed when Mr. Jope brought his master’s tea in the morning, and told, somewhat hoarsely, of a cold and unpleasant night.
“Get more bedclothes,” said Stedland curtly.
He went off to his city office after breakfast, and left Mr. Jope to superintend the operations of the charwoman and to impress upon her a number of facts, including the high rate at which she was paid, the glut of good charwomen on the market and the consequences which would overtake her if she left Mr. Stedland’s study undusted.
At eleven o’clock that morning came a respectable and somewhat elderly looking gentleman in a silk hat, and him Mr. Jope interviewed on the doormat.
“I’ve come from the Safe Deposit,” said the visitor.
“What Safe Deposit?” asked the suspicious Mr. Jope.
“The Fetter Lane Deposit,” replied the other. “We want to know if you left your keys behind the last time you came?”
Jope shook his head.
“We haven’t any Safe Deposit,” he said with assurance, “and the governor’s hardly likely to leave his keys behind.”
“Then evidently I’ve come to the wrong house,” smiled the gentleman. “This is Mr. Smithson’s?”
“No, it ain’t,” said the ungracious Jope, and shut the door in the caller’s face.
The visitor walked down the steps into the street and joined another man who was standing at a corner.
“They know nothing of Safe Deposits, Manfred,” he said.
“I hardly thought it would be at a Safe Deposit,” said the taller of the two. “In fact, I was pretty certain that he would keep all his papers at the bank. You saw the man Jope, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Gonsalez dreamily. “An interesting face. The chin weak, but the ears quite normal. The frontal bones slope irregularly backward, and the head, so far as I can see, is distinctly oxycephalic.”
“Poor Jope!” said Manfred without a smile. “And now, Leon, you and I will devote our attention to the weather. There is an anticyclone coming up from the Bay of Biscay, and its beneficent effects are already felt in Eastbourne. If it extends northwards to London in the next three days we shall have good news for Mrs. Storr.”
“I suppose,” said Gonsalez, as they were travelling back to their rooms in Jermyn Street, “I suppose there is no possibility of rushing this fellow.”
Manfred shook his head.
“I do not wish to die,” he said, “and die I certainly should, for Noah Stedland is unpleasantly quick to shoot.”
Manfred’s prophecy was fulfilled two days later, when the influence of the anticyclone spread to London and a thin yellow mist descended on the city. It lifted in the afternoon, Manfred saw to his satisfaction, but gave no evidence of dispersing before nightfall.
Mr. Stedland’s office in Regent Street was small but comfortably furnished. On the glass door beneath his name was inscribed the magic word: “Financier,” and it is true that Stedland was registered as a moneylender and found it a profitable business; for what Stedland the moneylender discovered, Stedland the blackmailer exploited, and it was not an unusual circumstance for Mr. Stedland to lend at heavy interest money which was destined for his own pocket. In this way he could obtain a double grip upon his victim.
At half past two that afternoon his clerk announced a caller.
“Man or woman?”
“A man, sir,” said the clerk, “I think he’s from Molbury’s Bank.”
“Do you know him?” asked Stedland.
“No, sir, but he came yesterday when you were out, and asked if you’d received the Bank’s balance sheet.”
Mr. Stedland took a cigar from a box on the table and lit it.
“Show him in,” he said, anticipating nothing more exciting than a dishonoured cheque from one of his clients.
The man who came in was obviously in a state of agitation. He closed the door behind him and stood nervously fingering his hat.
“Sit down,” said Stedland. “Have a cigar, Mr.—”
“Curtis, sir,” said the other huskily. “Thank you, sir, I don’t smoke.”
“Well, what do you want?” asked Stedland.
“I want a few minutes’ conversation with you, sir, of a private character.” He glanced apprehensively at the glass partition which separated Mr. Stedland’s office from the little den in which his clerks worked.
“Don’t worry,” said Stedland humorously. “I can guarantee that screen is soundproof. What’s your trouble?”
He scented a temporary embarrassment, and a bank clerk temporarily embarrassed might make a very useful tool for future use.
“I hardly know how to begin, Mr. Stedland,” said the man, seating himself on the edge of a chair, his face twitching nervously. “It’s terrible story, a terrible story.”
Stedland had heard about these terrible stories before, and sometimes they meant no more than that the visitor was threatened with bailiffs and was anxious to keep the news from the ears of his employers. Sometimes the confession was more serious—money lost in gambling, and a desperate eleventh-hour attempt to make good a financial deficiency.
“Go on,” he said. “You won’t shock me!”
The boast was a little premature, however.
“It’s not about myself, but about my brother, John Curtis, who’s been cashier for twenty years, sir,” said the man nervously. “I hadn’t the slightest idea that he was in difficulties, but he was gambling on the Stock Exchange, and only today he has told me the news. I am in terrible distress about him, sir. I fear suicide. He is a nervous wreck.”
“What has he done?” asked Stedland impatiently.
“He has robbed the Bank, sir,” said the man in a hushed voice. “It wouldn’t matter if it had happened two years ago, but now, when things have been going so badly and
