“And what was intended?” asked Mr. Brown curiously.
“It was intended by you and carried out by you in order to convey to me the exact character of your business,” said Poltavo. “I judged that fact from the following evidence.” He ticked off the points one by one on his long white fingers. “The lady’s name was, according to the envelope, let us say, Lady Cruxbury; but the lady’s real name, according to some silver initials on her bag, began with ‘G.’ Those initials I also noted on the little handkerchief she took from her bag. Therefore she was not the person to whom the letter was addressed, or if she was, the letter was a blind. In such an important matter Lady Cruxbury would come herself. My own view is that there is no Lady Cruxbury, that the whole letter was concocted and was delivered to me whilst you were watching me from some hiding place in order to test my discretion, and, as I say, to make me wise in the ways of your admirable journal.”
Mr. Brown laughed long and softly.
“You are a clever fellow, Poltavo,” he said admiringly, “and you certainly deserve your rise of salary. Now I am going to be frank with you. I admit that the whole thing was a blind. You now know my business, and you now know my raison d’être, so to speak. Are you willing to continue?”
“At a price,” said the other.
“Name it,” said the veiled man quietly.
“I am a poor adventurer,” began Poltavo; “my life—”
“Cut all that stuff out,” said Mr. Brown roughly, “I am not going to give you a fortune. I am going to give you the necessities of life and a little comfort.”
Poltavo walked to the window and thrusting his hands deep into his trouser pockets stared out. Presently he turned. “The necessities of life to me,” he said, “are represented by a flat in St. James’s Street, a car, a box at the Opera—”
“You will get none of these,” interrupted Mr. Brown. “Be reasonable.”
Poltavo smiled.
“I am worth a fortune to you,” he said, “because I have imagination. Here, for example.” He picked out a letter from a heap on the desk and opened it. The caligraphy was typically Latin and the handwriting was vile. “Here is a letter from an Italian,” he said, “which to the gross mind may perhaps represent wearisome business details. To a mind of my calibre, it is clothed in rich possibilities.” He leaned across the table; his eyes lighted up with enthusiasm. “There may be an enormous fortune in this,” and he tapped the letter slowly. “Here is a man who desires the great English newspaper, of which he has heard (though Heaven only knows how he can have heard it), to discover the whereabouts and the identity of a certain M. Fallock.”
The veiled man started.
“Fallock,” he repeated.
Poltavo nodded.
“Our friend Fallock has built a house ‘of great wonder,’ to quote the letter of our correspondent. In this house are buried millions of lira—doesn’t that fire your imagination, dear colleague?”
“Built a house, did he?” repeated the other.
“Our friends tell me,” Poltavo went on—“did I tell you it was written on behalf of two men?—that they have a clue and in fact that they know Mr. Fallock’s address, and they are sure he is engaged in a nefarious business, but they require confirmation of their knowledge.”
The man at the table was silent.
His fingers drummed nervously on the blotting pad and his head was sunk forward as a man weighing a difficult problem.
“All child’s talk,” he said roughly, “these buried treasures!—I have heard of them before. They are just two imaginative foreigners. I suppose they want you to advance their fare?”
“That is exactly what they do ask,” said Poltavo.
The man at the desk laughed uneasily behind his veil and rose.
“It’s the Spanish prison trick,” he said; “surely you are not deceived by that sort of stuff?”
Poltavo shrugged his shoulders.
“Speaking as one who has also languished in a Spanish prison,” he smiled, “and who has also sent out invitations to the generous people of England to release him from his sad position—a release which could only be made by generous payments—I thoroughly understand the delicate workings of that particular fraud; but we robbers of Spain, dear colleague, do not write in our native language, we write in good, or bad, English. We write not in vilely spelt Italian because we know that the recipient of our letter will not take the trouble to get it translated. No, this is no Spanish prison trick. This is genuine.”
“May I see the letter?”
Poltavo handed it across the table, and the man turning his back for a moment upon his assistant lifted his veil and read. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.
“I will think about it,” he said gruffly.
“Another privilege I would crave from you in addition to the purely nominal privilege of receiving more salary,” said Poltavo.
“What is it?”
The Pole spread out his hands in a gesture of self-depreciation.
“It is weak of me, I admit,” he said, “but I am anxious—foolishly anxious—to return to the society of well-clothed men and pretty women. I pine for social life. It is a weakness of mine,” he added apologetically. “I want to meet stockbrokers, financiers, politicians and other chevaliers d’industrie on equal terms, to wear the grande habit, to listen to soft music, to drink good wine.”
“Well?” asked the other suspiciously. “What am I to do?”
“Introduce me to society,” said Poltavo sweetly—“most particularly do I desire to meet that merchant prince of whose operations I read in the newspapers, Mr. how-do-you-call-him?—Farrington.”
The veiled man sat in silence for a good minute, and then he rose, opened the cupboard and put in his hand. There was a click and the cupboard with
