“I remember that you mentioned that fact, Mr. Treblaw.”
The old man chuckled. He shook his shaggy head as if in disapproval of his own action.
“I might hold out for more,” he decided. “Signet is unquestionably a man of great wealth. But, after all, Wickroft, what right have I to make unfair demands? I purchased those manuscripts for a thousand dollars. Signet is offering me a tremendous profit. I was ready to deliver them for twenty-five thousand. He bids thirty thousand.”
A pause. Treblaw was reflective. Then he added:
“Of course, I took on the expense of an investigation. I paid Burson, Limited, of London, to find out if supposed art treasures had been purchased abroad. Their investigators discovered that certain objects had been purchased.”
“But they failed to learn the name of the purchaser,” reminded Wickroft.
“Of course,” acknowledged Treblaw. “But that is evidence that Signet was the purchaser. Signet: a man who seeks to hide his true identity.”
Another pause. Treblaw picked up the rest of the mail from the desk. Wickroft eyed the action.
“There’s another letter, Mr. Treblaw,” remarked the secretary. “One from England. From Burson, Limited, perhaps.”
Treblaw found the envelope. He opened it and read the letter within. Wickroft watched the old man’s gleaming eyes. Then came a shrug of stooped shoulders as Treblaw thrust the letter into his pocket.
“Nothing important,” said Treblaw. “Merely an acknowledgment of my last letter. A statement that Burson, Limited, will appreciate any further business that I give them.”
Rising from his desk, the old man handed the Signet letter to Wickroft. He drew a briefcase from beneath the table and placed it where Wickroft could reach it.
“Add this Signet letter to the others,” ordered Treblaw. “Put them all in my briefcase. The correspondence from the Burson file, also.”
As Wickroft started to his task, Stanton Treblaw pressed a button on the wall. Baxter arrived in response to the call.
“My grip, Baxter,” ordered Treblaw. “Pack it at once. Summon the cab from the depot. I am leaving in fifteen minutes. For New York, Baxter.”
The servant departed. Old Stanton Treblaw chuckled as he watched Wickroft pack papers into the briefcase.
“For New York,” repeated the old man. “There to comply with the instructions from Signet. A happy trip, Wickroft. One that will net me close to thirty thousand dollars.”
RUBBING his long, claw-like hands and cackling with unrepressed glee, Stanton Treblaw strolled from the room. Wickroft completed the packing of the briefcase and laid the bag in readiness.
Ten minutes later, Baxter entered. He picked up the briefcase and took it out into the hall. A toot of an automobile horn sounded from in front of the house. Wickroft listened; he heard the front door open and close.
Peering from between the dull crimson curtains, Wickroft watched Stanton Treblaw fare forth into the rain. The old man was carrying the briefcase; Baxter was accompanying him with the grip; and the servant was also holding an umbrella to shield his master from the downpour.
Stanton Treblaw entered the dilapidated taxi that had come from the Droverton depot. Baxter thrust the grip in with his employer. The old car pulled away; Baxter watched it, then turned about and came slowly back toward the house, bringing the umbrella.
Wickroft let the red curtains come together. He chuckled in an evil tone as he stepped away from his lookout post. The secretary’s face was not pleasant. His mild mask was gone; craftiness alone dominated his features.
For Wickroft had no further reason to veil his true expression. He had watched Stanton Treblaw start forth upon a trip that was to bring an evil climax.
CHAPTER II
WICKROFT TALKS
ONE hour had passed since Stanton Treblaw’s departure. Wickroft was still in the room with the crimson curtains. Seated at a table, the secretary was going over cards in little filing boxes.
This was Wickroft’s regular morning routine. After the mail had been read and answered, Treblaw invariably left the secretary alone. The old man had hired Wickroft for the job of classifying a huge collection of letters and manuscripts.
As a rule, Treblaw went for a walk in the morning. This procedure left the house in charge of Wickroft, Baxter and Anna, the cook. On days when it rained, Treblaw remained indoors, but usually stayed in an upstairs room. Hence Wickroft was never disturbed in his morning routine.
Something in the secretary’s sly attitude showed that he counted on the fact that he was left alone. He had peered from the curtains in a manner that indicated usual procedure.
Moreover, he betrayed a satisfied expression because of Treblaw’s absence. It was plain that Wickroft was waiting for something to occur; that he felt he ran no risk in stealthy practice while his employer was absent from the house.
But at the end of the full hour, anxiety began to register itself on Wickroft’s countenance. As he handled the filing cards, the secretary looked occasionally toward the telephone that rested on a corner table.
Fifteen minutes more ended Wickroft’s work with the files. Rising from the table, the young man began to pace the floor. His lips were twitching nervously. His eyes were more troubled than crafty as they turned to look at a big clock on the wall.
Then came an expected sound: the ringing of the telephone bell. Pounding to the corner table, Wickroft seized the instrument and raised the receiver to his ear. He waited for a dozen seconds. Then he spoke.
“HELLO…” Cautiousness filled Wickroft’s voice. “This is the residence of Mr. Stanton Treblaw…”
A pause. Then a low, steady voice responded. Its tone was obviously disguised.
“It’s all right, chief,” informed Wickroft. “The old boy’s gone out. No chance of him cutting in on the upstairs phone.”
“Gone out?” came a growl over the wire.
“Yes.” Wickroft’s tone was eager. “Not for a walk, though. It’s raining heavy out here. He’s gone to New York, chief.”
“Signet?”
“You guessed it, chief. Another letter this morning. Thirty grand is the offer. I’ll give you the details.”
“Go ahead.”
“The letter was like the others,” spoke Wickroft, in a low tone. “It told Treblaw to bring the Cellini manuscripts to New York. Goliath Hotel — an ad in the Classic — same details as before. But this time, the letter offered thirty thousand dollars.”
Wickroft paused. There was no response. Anxiously, Wickroft queried:
“Did you get that, chief?”
“Yes,” — a growl over the wire — “keep on. I’m listening.”
“Treblaw packed,” resumed Wickroft, “and he headed out for New York. He’s going through with the deal. That means he’ll be at the Hotel Goliath.”
Again, Wickroft paused. Hearing nothing, he was about to put another query; then, fearing that it would annoy his chief, he proceeded.
“I was right about those manuscripts not being here,” asserted Wickroft. “The old man didn’t take anything with him except the Signet letters and the Burson file. It’s a sure bet that he’s got the Cellini stuff buried somewhere in New York.
“There’s nothing out here that’s worth much. But he’s never said anything about a safe-deposit vault. Maybe one of his friends has the manuscripts. Tilton, maybe. But that’s only a guess.
“He’ll have to shoot straight with Signet, though. Because the letters told him to have the manuscripts ready. To put the ad in the Classic and to either expect Signet or wait for a reply. Like a return ad. You know the details.”
Again, Wickroft paused. This time he could think of nothing further to say. The growled voice came across the wire: