“Genuine money,” he said in a hushed voice, and handed the note back with apparent reluctance.
“If a man is broke,” said Legge emphatically, “I don’t care who he is or what he is, I say: ‘Is a thousand or two thousand any good to you?’ ”
“And is it?” asked Mr. Reeder.
“Is what?” said Emanuel, taken off his guard.
“Is it any good to him?”
“Well, of course it is,” said Legge. “My point is this; a gentleman may be very hard pressed, and yet be the most solvent person in the world. If he can only get a couple of thousand just when he wants it—why, there’s no scandal, no appearance in court which might injure him in his job—”
“How very true! How very, very true!” Mr. Reeder seemed profoundly touched. “I hope you pass on these wise and original statements to your dear son, Mr. Legge?” he said. “What a splendid thing it is that he has such a father!”
Emanuel cursed him under his breath.
“Two thousand pounds,” mused Mr. Reeder. “Now, if you had said five thousand pounds—”
“I do say five thousand,” said Emanuel eagerly. “I’m not going to spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar.”
“If you had said five thousand pounds,” Mr. Reeder went on, “I should have known that three thousand was ‘slush,’ or shall we say ‘phoney’—because you only drew two thousand from the City and Birmingham Bank this morning, all in hundred pound notes, series GI.19721 to 19740. Correct me if I’m wrong. Of course, you might have some other genuine money stowed away in your little hotel, Mr. Legge; or your dear boy may have given you another three thousand as a sort of wedding present—I forgot, though, a bridegroom doesn’t give wedding presents, does he? He receives them. How foolish of me! Put away your money, Mr. Legge. This room is very draughty, and it might catch cold. Do you ever go to the Hilly Fields? It is a delightful spot. You must come to tea with me one Sunday, and we will go up and hear the band. It is a very inexpensive but satisfactory method of spending two hours. As to those judgment summonses,”—he coughed, and rubbed his nose with his long forefinger—“those summonses were arranged in order to bring you here, I did so want to meet you, and I knew the bait of my impecuniosity would be almost irresistible.”
Emanuel Legge sat, dumbfounded.
“Do you know a man named ‘Golden’? Ah, he would be before your time. Have you ever heard of him? He was my predecessor. I don’t think you met him. He had a great saying—set a ‘brief’ to catch a thief. We called a note a ‘brief’ in those days. Good afternoon, Mr. Legge. You will find your way down.”
Legge rose, and with that the sad-faced man dropped his eyes and resumed the work he had been at when the visitor had interrupted him.
“I only want to say this, Mr. Reeder-—” began Legge.
“Tell my housekeeper,” pleaded Reeder weakly, and he did not look up. “She’s frightfully interested in fairy stories—I think she must be getting towards her second childhood. Good afternoon, Mr. Legge.”
XII
Emanuel Legge was halfway home before he could sort out his impressions. He went back to the Bloomsbury Hotel where he was staying. There was no message for him, and there had been no callers. It was now seven o’clock. He wondered whether Jeff had restrained his impatience. Jeff must be told and warned. Johnny Gray, dead or maimed in a hospital, had ceased to be a factor. Peter Kane, for all his cunning and his vengefulness, might be dismissed as a source of danger. It was Mr. J. G. Reeder who filled his thoughts, the bored Civil Servant with a weak voice, who had such a surprising knowledge of things, and whose continuous pointed references to Jeffrey filled him with unquiet. Jeffrey must clear out of the country, and must go while the going was good. If he hadn’t been such a fool, he would have moved that night. Now, that was impossible.
Peter had not arrived at the Charlton, or the men whom Legge had set to watch would have reported. If it had not been for the disturbing interview he had had with Reeder, he would have been more worried about Peter Kane; for when Peter delayed action, he was dangerous.
At eight o’clock that night, a small boy brought him a note to the hotel. It was addressed “E. Legge,” and the envelope was grimy with much handling. Emanuel took the letter to his room and locked the door before he opened it. It was from a man who was very much on the inside of things, one of Jeff’s shrewd but illiterate assistants, first lieutenant of the Big Printer, and a man to be implicitly trusted.
There were six closely written pages, ill-spelt and blotted. Emanuel read the letter a dozen times, and when he finished, there was panic in his heart.
“Johnny Gray got out of the tunnel all right, and he’s going to squeak to Reeder,” was the dramatic beginning, and there was a great deal more …
Emanuel knew a club in the West End of London, and his name was numbered amongst the members, even in the days when he had little opportunity of exercising his membership. It was a club rather unlike any other, and occupied the third and fourth floor of a building, the lower floors being in the possession of an Italian restaurateur. Normally, the proprietor of a fairly popular restaurant would not hire out his upper floors to so formidable a rival; but the proprietors of the club were
