Jim took up the slip, examined it, and was about to speak when there came a tap at the door and a clerk slipped into the room.
“Will you see Mr. Digby Groat, sir?” he asked.
II
Mr. Salter glanced up with a humorous glint in his eye. “Yes,” he said with a nod, and then to Jim as he was about to make a hurried exit, “you can wait, Steele. Mr. Groat wrote in his letter that he wanted to see the deeds, and you may have to conduct him to the strongroom.”
Jim Steele said nothing.
Presently the clerk opened the door and a young man walked in.
Jim had seen him before and had liked him less every time he had met him. The oblong sallow face, with its short black moustache, the sleepy eyes, and rather large chin and prominent ears, he could have painted, if he were an artist, with his eyes shut. And yet Digby Groat was good-looking. Even Jim could not deny that. He was a credit to his valet. From the top of his pomaded head to his patent shoes he was an exquisite. His morning coat was of the most fashionable cut and fitted him perfectly. One could have used the silk hat he carried in his hand as a mirror, and as he came into the room exuding a delicate aroma of Quelques Fleurs, Jim’s nose curled. He hated men who scented themselves, however daintily the process was carried out.
Digby Groat looked from the lawyer to Steele with that languid, almost insolent look in his dark eyes, which the lawyer hated as much as his secretary.
“Good morning, Salter,” he said.
He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and, dusting a chair, sat down uninvited, resting his lemon-gloved hands upon a gold-headed ebony cane.
“You know Mr. Steele, my secretary,” said Salter.
The other nodded his glossy head.
“Oh, yes, he’s a Victoria Cross person, isn’t he?” he asked wearily. “I suppose you find it very dull here, Steele? A place like this would bore me to death.”
“I suppose it would,” said Jim, “but if you’d had four years’ excitement of war, you would welcome this place as a calm haven of rest.”
“I suppose so,” said the other shortly. He was not too well pleased by Jim’s reference to the fact that he had escaped the trials of war.
“Now, Dr. Groat—” but the other stopped him with a gesture.
“Please don’t call me ‘doctor,’ ” he said with a pained expression. “The fact that I have been through the medical schools and have gained my degrees in surgery is one which I wish you would forget. I qualified for my own amusement, and if people get into the habit of thinking of me as a doctor, I shall be called up all hours of the night by all sorts of wretched patients.”
It was news to Jim that this sallow dandy had graduated in medicines.
“I came to see those Lakeside leases, Salter,” Groat went on. “I have had an offer—I should say, my mother has had an offer—from a syndicate which is erecting an hotel upon her property. I understand there is some clause in the lease which prevents building operations of that character. If so, it was beastly thoughtless of old Danton to acquire such a property.”
“Mr. Danton did nothing either thoughtless or beastly thoughtless,” said Salter quietly, “and if you had mentioned it in your letter, I could have telephoned you the information and saved your calling. As it is, Steele will take you to the strongroom, and you can examine the leases at your leisure.”
Groat looked at Jim sceptically.
“Does he know anything about leases?” he asked. “And must I really descend into your infernal cellar and catch my death of cold? Can’t the leases be brought up for me?”
“If you will go into Mr. Steele’s room I dare say he will bring them to you,” said Salter, who did not like his client any more than Jim did. Moreover, he had a shrewd suspicion that the moment the Groats gained possession of the Danton fortune, they would find another lawyer to look after their affairs.
Jim took the keys and returned with an armful of deeds, to discover that Groat was no longer with his chief.
“I sent him into your room,” said Salter. “Take the leases in and explain them to him. If there’s anything you want to know I’ll come in.”
Jim found the young man in his room. He was examining a book he had taken from a shelf.
“What does ‘dactylology’ mean?” he asked, looking round as Jim came in. “I see you have a book on the subject.”
“Fingerprints,” said Jim Steele briefly. He hated the calm proprietorial attitude of the man, and, moreover, Mr. Groat was examining his own private library.
“Fingerprints, eh?” said Groat, replacing the book. “Are you interested in fingerprints?”
“A little,” said Jim. “Here are the Lakeside leases, Mr. Groat. I made a sketchy examination of them in the strongroom and there seems to be no clause preventing the erection of the building you mention.”
Groat took the document in his hand and turned it leaf by leaf.
“No,” he said at last, and then, putting down the document, “so you’re interested in fingerprints, eh? I didn’t know old Salter did a criminal business.”
“He has very little common law practice,” said Jim.
“What are these?” asked Groat.
By the side of Jim’s desk was a bookshelf filled with thick black exercise books.
“Those are my private notes,” said Jim, and the other looked round with a sneering smile.
“What the devil have you got to make notes about, I wonder?” he asked, and before Jim could stop him, he had taken one of the exercise books down.
“If you don’t mind,” said Jim firmly, “I would rather you left my private property alone.”
“Sorry, but I thought everything in old Salter’s office had to do with his clients.”
“You’re not the only client,” said Jim. He was not one
