Meantime, for the second time, he had evidenced that the forged notes were being distributed pretty near at hand, and that in all probability Marguerite Laidlaw had a hand in their distribution.
On the following night he himself was given a proof.
It was at that small select meeting place mentioned by Inspector Marriot. There was dancing there, but the real attraction of the place lay behind a pair of imposing folding doors. There were two rooms there with green baize covered tables, where vast sums changed hands nightly.
Marguerite Laidlaw, rising at last to go, thrust a quantity of small notes into Tommy’s hands.
“They are so bulkee, Tommee—you will change them, yes? A beeg note. See my so sweet leetle bag, it bulges him to distraction.”
Tommy brought her the hundred pound note she asked for. Then in a quiet corner, he examined the notes she had given him. At least a quarter of them were counterfeit.
But where did she get her supplies from? To that he had as yet no answer. By means of Albert’s cooperation, he was almost sure that Laidlaw was not the man. His movements had been watched closely and had yielded no result.
Tommy suspected her father, the saturnine M. Heroulade. He went to and fro to France fairly often. What could be simpler than to bring the notes across with him? A false bottom to a trunk—something of that kind.
Tommy strolled slowly out of the Club, absorbed in these thoughts, but was suddenly recalled to immediate necessities. Outside in the street was Mr. Hank P. Ryder, and it was clear at once that Mr. Ryder was not strictly sober. At the moment he was trying to hang his hat on the radiator of a car, and missing it by some inches every time.
“This goddarned hatshtand, this goddarned hatshtand,” said Mr. Ryder tearfully. “Not like that in the Shtates. Man can hang up hishhat every night—every night, sir. You’re wearing two hatshs. Never sheen a man wearing two hatsh before. Mushtbe effectclimate.”
“Perhaps I’ve got two heads,” said Tommy gravely.
“Sho you have,” said Mr. Ryder. “Thatsh odd. Thatsh remarkable fac. Letsh have a cocktail. Prohibition—probishun—thatsh whatsh done me in. I guess I’m drunk—constootionally drunk. Cocktailsh—mixed ’em—Angel’s Kiss—that’s Marguerite—lovely creature, fon’ o’ me too. Horshes Neck, two Martinis—three Road to Ruinsh—no, roadshto roon—mixed ’em all—in a beer tankard. Bet me I wouldn’t—I shaid—to hell, I shayed—”
Tommy interrupted.
“That’s all right,” he said soothingly. “Now what about getting home?”
“No home to go to,” said Mr. Ryder sadly, and wept.
“What Hotel are you staying at?” asked Tommy.
“Can’t go home,” said Mr. Ryder. “Treasurehunt. Swell thing to do. She did it. Whitechapel—White heartsh, white headsh shorrow to the grave—”
“Never mind that,” said Tommy. “Where are you—”
But Mr. Ryder became suddenly dignified. He drew himself erect and attained a sudden miraculous command over his speech.
“Young man, I’m telling you. Margee took me. In her car. Treasure Hunting. Englisharishtocrashy all do it. Under the cobblestones. Five hundred poundsh. Solemn thought, ’tis solemn thought. I’m telling you, young man. You’ve been kind to me. I’ve got your welfare at heart, sir, at heart. We Americans—”
Tommy interrupted him this time with even less ceremony.
“What’s that you say? Mrs. Laidlaw took you in a car?”
The American nodded with a kind of owlish solemnity.
“To Whitechapel?” Again that owlish nod. “And you found five hundred pounds there?”
Mr. Ryder struggled for words.
“S‑she did,” he corrected his questioner. “Left me outside. Outside the door. Always left outside. It’s kinder sad. Outside—always outside.”
“Would you know your way there?”
“I guess so. Hank Ryder doesn’t lose his bearings—”
Tommy hauled him along unceremoniously. He found his own car where it was waiting, and presently they were bowling eastward. The cool air revived Mr. Ryder. After slumping against Tommy’s shoulder in a kind of stupor, he awoke clear headed and refreshed.
“Say, boy, where are we?” he demanded.
“Whitechapel,” said Tommy crisply. “Is this where you came with Mrs. Laidlaw tonight?”
“It looks kinder familiar,” admitted Mr. Ryder looking round. “Seems to me we turned off to the left somewhere down here. That’s it—that street there.”
Tommy turned off obediently. Mr. Ryder issued directions.
“That’s it. Sure. And round to the right. Say, aren’t the smells awful? Yes, past the pub at the corner—sharp round, and stop at the mouth of that little alley. But what’s the big idea? Hand it to me. Some of the oof left behind? Are we going to put one over on them?”
“That’s exactly it,” said Tommy. “We’re going to put one over on them. Rather a joke, isn’t it?”
“I’ll tell the world,” assented Mr. Ryder. “Though I’m just a mite hazed about it all,” he ended wistfully.
Tommy got out and assisted Mr. Ryder to alight also. They advanced into the alley way. On the left were the backs of a row of dilapidated houses, most of which had doors opening into the alley. Mr. Ryder came to a stop before one of these doors.
“In here she went,” he declared. “It was this door—I’m plumb certain of it.”
“They all look very alike,” said Tommy. “Reminds me of the story of the soldier and the Princess. You remember, they made a cross on the door to show which one it was. Shall we do the same?”
Laughing, he drew a piece of white chalk from his pocket and made a rough cross low down on the door. Then he looked up at various dim shapes that prowled high on the walls of the alley, one of which was uttering a blood curdling yawl.
“Lots of cats about,” he remarked cheerfully.
“What is the procedure?” asked Mr. Ryder. “Do we step inside?”
“Adopting due precautions we do,” said Tommy.
He glanced up and down the alley way, then softly tried the door. It yielded. He pushed it open, and peered into a dim yard.
Noiselessly he passed through, Mr. Ryder on his heels.
“Gee!”
