Read Ebook: The Burglars' Club: A Romance in Twelve Chronicles by Hering Henry Augustus Townsend F H Frederick Henry Illustrator

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Ebook has 1143 lines and 42150 words, and 23 pages

e comes in."

"I don't understand," said Mr. Toft. "In fact, I haven't the faintest idea what you are alluding to."

"Garn," said J. Driver, with a dig in the ribs that made him jump. "Garn! you old dodger. What about Government contracts?"

"What about them?" asked Mr. Toft, shrinking from his familiarity.

"What about them?" echoed the other. "What about work you never did, for which you've got false receipts? What about contracts executed with inferior stuff? What about commissions to officials, tips to men, and plunder all round?"

Mr. Toft paled at this catalogue of his business achievements. "You are misinformed," he said. "My firm does not do such things."

J. Driver thrust his tongue into his cheek. "Then how did you get your contracts, Septimus?" he asked.

Mr. Driver laughed derisively. "Lord!" he said at last, "I wish I had your artless style. Stick to it, Mister, in the prisoner's dock. It may pull you through."

"I presume you haven't asked me here simply for the purpose of insulting me?" said Mr. Toft, with some dignity.

"What a man you are!" Mr. Driver replied, with unstinted admiration. "You must be a thought-reader, Septimus--a bloomin' thought-reader. You're quite right; I haven't. I've come for the loan of a key, and one of your visitin' cards."

"A key?" said Mr. Toft, relieved, though much surprised.

"The key of the plate chest of the Fellmongers' Company."

Mr. Toft raised his eyebrows. "You're joking," he said.

"Do I look like a joker?" replied his companion fiercely. "Do I look like a joker?" he repeated loudly, banging his fist on the table so that all turned their eyes in the direction of the noise. Mr. Toft implored him to restrain his feelings.

"Don't rouse 'em then!" said the man. "Have you got the key on you?"

"Er--yes," responded Mr. Toft.

"Then hand it over."

"My dear sir," began the unhappy Septimus.

"I'm not your dear anything," said the other; "so don't you pretend that I am. I'm as meek and pleasant as a cow to those that treat me fair and square, but when I'm irritated I'm a roarin' bull. Hand me the key."

"I can't."

"You can't. Right'o!" said Mr. Driver, rising. "At present the Admiralty only suspect. To-morrow they'll know, and you'll know too, Septimus Toft, when you get five years without the option of a fine."

"Please, please don't speak so loudly," begged Mr. Toft, beside himself with fears and anxieties. Then, to put on time whilst he collected his scattering thoughts, "What do you want to do with the key?"

"Wear it with my medals, of course," said the man sarcastically. "If you want further pertic'lers you won't get 'em, but I promise to return the key within forty-eight hours, and all your plate'll be there."

"It's a very extraordinary idea," said Mr. Toft incredulously.

"It is; and I'm a very extraordinary man, and you're a bloomin' ordinary one. Will you let me have the key and a visitin' card, or not?"

"If anyone asks how you got them what will you say?"

"Say I took 'em from you while you were asleep in an opium den, or when we met in a tunnel--any blessed thing you like."

Mr. Toft scarcely heard him. He was thinking over the pros and cons of the situation as rapidly as his nervous system would allow. He was Treasurer of the Fellmongers' Company, and he alone had the key of the plate safe. In the ordinary course of events he would be elected Prime Warden next year, but if there were any trouble about the plate he might not be. Better that, though, than a public exposure of his business methods. The key might have been stolen from him. Everyone lost keys now and then. Of course no one could think that the theft was to his advantage, and it would save him from all bother at the Admiralty--but would it?

"If I let you have the key," he asked, "how do I know that you won't come in a similar way again?"

"Give it up," said Mr. Driver. "Never was good at riddles, and I didn't come here to be asked 'em neither. What the blazes do I care about what you'll know or what you won't know? I know what I know, and that's enough to account for your hair bein' so thin on top. If you don't hand me that key without any more rottin' I'll just drop this in the first pillar-box I come across." He pulled out a fat blue envelope and flourished it in front of Mr. Toft's blinking eyes. It was addressed to the Financial Secretary of the Admiralty, and was marked on one side "Important," and on the other "Private and Urgent." There was an immense seal with the impression of a five-shilling piece.

"Your death-knell's inside," said Mr. Driver. "Hear it rattle," and he shook the envelope in Mr. Toft's ear. "But it wants a stamp, or the Government might not take it in. On such trifles do our destinies depend, Septimus. Have you got a stamp?" He put an anticipatory penny on the table.

Mr. Toft hesitated no longer. From one end of his watch-chain he detached a gold key, which he handed covertly to Driver.

"Now your visitin' card."

Mr. Toft produced one, and handed it over. "You'll give me that letter now," he pleaded.

J. Driver shook his head, tore up the packet, and put it into the fire. "Better there," he said oracularly. "Now, Toft, my boy, don't worry. You'll have that key back by Friday, and all your spoons'll be in the box. If you don't interfere you'll never hear of me again, and the Admiralty won't either; but if you take one step behind my back I'll do all I've threatened, and a lot more, and you'll be building Portland Breakwater on Christmas Day. By-bye, Septimus."

With this Mr. Driver rose, and stalked out of the room. After a modest interval Mr. Toft followed.

At 9 a.m. on the following morning the bell of the Fellmongers' Company pealed vigorously. The porter hurried to answer it, and found a lady on the doorstep. She was neatly dressed, and was strikingly handsome. She might be twenty-five years old. A boy carrying a portfolio and a strapped-up easel stood behind.

"Is this the Fellmongers' Hall?" she asked.

"It is, Miss."

"I want to know if you will be good enough to allow me to copy a painting you have on your walls? I do not know if it is necessary to have any written permission, or where to apply for it."

"The 'All is open to the public under my supervision," said the porter pompously. "Come inside, please."

"Thank you," replied the lady. "Put those things down, Johnnie. That's right. I'll let you know when to come for them. Good-morning."

"We don't often 'ave hartists 'ere, miss," remarked the porter, "and I sometimes thinks as pictures is wasted on gentlemen dinin' with City Companies. They ain't runnin' pertic'ler strong on hart just then. Which one is it you want?"

"I don't know the title," replied the artist, "but I shall know the picture when I see it. It's a portrait."

"P'raps Nicholas Tiffany," the porter suggested, "the first warden of the company, painted by 'Olbein. Born 1455. Lived to the ripe age of ninety-four, and died regretted by his sovereign and his country. His estates were seized by his creditors. Here he is, miss."

The man opened the door of the Livery Room, the walls of which were hung with many pictures. "This is Tiffany," he said, pointing to a disreputable-looking portrait.

The lady looked at it doubtfully. "The painting I want is the one nearest to the door of the plate room," she said.

"Then it's a good bit away from it, miss. The plate room is off the Banqueting 'All, and they are all windows on that side. The pictures are opposite."

"Dear me," said the lady. "How very stupidly I have been informed. Please show me the room."

The porter led the way, and threw open the door with pardonable pride. "The Banqueting 'All of the Honourable Company of Fellmongers!" he exclaimed. It was the famous hall in which heads of City Companies and ruling sovereigns are intermittently entertained. Down one wall were ranged portraits of eminent fellmongers. The other three were pierced by doors and windows.

"Which is the plate room?" asked the lady.

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