Part 18 (1/2)

Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald, if still in England, is requested to communicate with ”M,” at Vagali's Library, Cook's Alley, Ledham Street, Soho.

Peter Ruff laid the paper down upon his desk and looked steadily at a box of India-rubber bands. Almost his fingers, as he parted with the newspaper, had seemed to be shaking. His eyes were certainly set in an unusually retrospective stare. Who was this who sought to probe his past, to renew an acquaintance with a dead personality? ”M” could be but one person! What did she want of him? Was it possible that, after all, a little flame of sentiment had been kept alight in her bosom, too--that in the quiet moments her thoughts had turned towards him as his had so often done to her? Then a sudden idea--an ugly thought--drove the tenderness from his face. She was no longer Maud Barnes--she was Mrs.

John Dory, and John Dory was his enemy! Could there be treachery lurking beneath those simple lines? Things had not gone well with John Dory lately. Somehow or other, his cases seemed to have crumpled into dust.

He was no longer held in the same esteem at headquarters. Yet could even John Dory stoop to such means as these?

He turned in his chair.

”Miss Brown,” he said, ”please take your pencil.”

”I am quite ready, sir,” she answered.

He marked the advertis.e.m.e.nt with a ring and pa.s.sed it to her.

”Reply to that as follows,” he said:

DEAR SIR:

I notice in the Daily Mail of this morning that you are enquiring through the ”personal” column for the whereabouts of Mr. Spencer Fitzgerald. That gentleman has been a client of mine, and I have been in occasional communication with him. If you will inform me of the nature of your business, I may, perhaps, be able to put you in touch with Mr.

Fitzgerald. You will understand, however, that, under the circ.u.mstances, I shall require proofs of your good faith.

Truly yours,

PETER RUFF.

Miss Brown glanced through the advertis.e.m.e.nt and closed her notebook with a little snap.

”Did you say--'Dear Sir'?” she asked.

”Certainly!” Peter Ruff answered.

”And you really mean,” she continued, with obvious disapproval, ”that I am to send this?”

”I do not usually waste my time,” Peter Ruff reminded her, mildly, ”by giving you down communications destined for the waste-paper basket.”

She turned unwillingly to her machine.

”Mr. Fitzgerald is very much better where he is,” she remarked.

”That depends,” he answered.

She adjusted a sheet of paper into her typewriter.

”Who do you suppose 'M' is?” she asked.

”With your a.s.sistance,” Peter Ruff remarked, a little sarcastically--”with your very kind a.s.sistance--I propose to find out!”

Miss Brown sniffed, and banged at the keys of her typewriter.