had seen an advertisement of this Lucas Street safe-deposit and it seemed just the thing I wanted. Besides the gold, I had all the papers to do with the claims—plans, reports, receipts, licences and so on. Then when I cashed my letter of credit I had about one hundred and fifty pounds in notes. Of course I could have left everything at a bank but it was more convenient to have it, as it were, in my own safe, to get at any time, and to have a private room that I could take any gentlemen to. I hadn’t a suspicion that anything could be wrong. Negotiations hung on in several quarters—it’s a bad time to do business here, I find. Then, yesterday, I wanted something. I went to Lucas Street, as I had done half-a-dozen times before, opened my safe, and had the inner case carried to a room…. Mr Carrados, it was empty!”
“Quite empty?”
“No.” He laughed bitterly. “At the bottom was a sheet of wrapper paper. I recognized it as a piece I had left there in case I wanted to make up a parcel. But for that I should have been convinced that I had somehow opened the wrong safe. That was my first idea.”
“It cannot be done.”
“So I understand, sir. And, then, there was the paper with my name written on it in the empty tin. I was dazed; it seemed impossible. I think I stood there without moving for minutes—it was more like hours. Then I closed the tin box again, took it back, locked up the safe and came out.”
“Without notifying anything wrong?”
“Yes, Mr Carrados.” The steady blue eyes regarded him with pained thoughtfulness. “You see, I reckoned it out in that time that it must be someone about the place who had done it.”
“You were wrong,” said Carrados.
“So Mr Carlyle seemed to think. I only knew that the key had never been out of my possession and I had told no one of the password. Well, it did come over me rather like cold water down the neck, that there was I alone in the strongest dungeon in London and not a living soul knew where I was.”
“Possibly a sort of up-to-date Sweeney Todd’s?”
“I’d heard of such things in London,” admitted Draycott. “Anyway, I got out. It was a mistake; I see it now. Who is to believe me as it is—it sounds a sort of unlikely tale. And how do they come to pick on me? to know what I had? I don’t drink, or open my mouth, or hell round. It beats me.”
“They didn’t pick on you—you picked on them,” replied Carrados. “Never mind how; you’ll be believed all right. But as for getting anything back——” The unfinished sentence confirmed Mr Draycott in his gloomiest anticipations.
“I have the numbers of the notes,” he suggested, with an attempt at hopefulness. “They can be stopped, I take it?”
“Stopped? Yes,” admitted Carrados. “And what does that amount to? The banks and the police stations will be notified and every little public-house between here and Land’s End will change one for the scribbling of ‘John Jones’ across the back. No, Mr Draycott, it’s awkward, I dare say, but you must make up your mind to wait until you can get fresh supplies from home. Where are you staying?”
Draycott hesitated.
“I have been at the Abbotsford, in Bloomsbury, up to now,” he said, with some embarrassment. “The fact is, Mr Carrados, I think I ought to have told you how I was placed before consulting you, because I—I see no prospect of being able to pay my way. Knowing that I had plenty in the safe, I had run it rather close. I went chiefly yesterday to get some notes. I have a week’s hotel bill in my pocket, and”—he glanced down at his trousers—“I’ve ordered one or two other things unfortunately.”
“That will be a matter of time, doubtless,” suggested the other encouragingly.
Instead of replying Draycott suddenly dropped his arms on to the table and buried his face between them. A minute passed in silence.
“It’s no good, Mr Carrados,” he said, when he was able to speak; “I can’t meet it. Say what you like, I simply can’t tell those chaps that I’ve lost everything we had and ask them to send me more. They couldn’t do it if I did. Understand, sir. The mine is a valuable one; we have the greatest faith in it, but it has gone beyond our depth. The three of us have put everything we own into it. While I am here they are doing labourers’ work for a wage, just to keep going … waiting, oh, my God! waiting for good news from me!”
Carrados walked round the table to his desk and wrote. Then, without a word, he held out a paper to his visitor.
“What’s this?” demanded Draycott, in bewilderment. “It’s—it’s a cheque for a hundred pounds.”
“It will carry you on,” explained Carrados imperturbably. “A man like you isn’t going to throw up the sponge for this set-back. Cable to your partners that you require copies of all the papers at once. They’ll manage it, never fear. The gold … must go. Write fully by the next mail. Tell them everything and add that in spite of all you feel that you are nearer success than ever.”
Mr Draycott folded the cheque with thoughtful deliberation and put it carefully away in his pocket-book.
“I don’t know whether you’ve guessed as much, sir,” he said in a queer voice, “but I think that you’ve saved a man’s life to-day. It’s not the money, it’s the encouragement … and faith. If you could see you’d know better than I can say how I feel about it.”
Carrados laughed quietly. It always amused him to have people explain how much more he would learn if he had eyes.
“Then we’ll go on to Lucas Street and give the manager the shock of his life,” was all he said. “Come, Mr Draycott, I have already rung up the car.”
But, as it happened, another instrument had been destined to apply that stimulating experience to the manager. As they stepped out of the car opposite “The Safe” a taxicab drew up and Mr Carlyle’s alert and cheery voice hailed them.
“A moment, Max,” he called, turning to settle with his driver, a transaction that he invested with an air of dignified urbanity which almost made up for any small pecuniary disappointment that may have accompanied it. “This is indeed fortunate. Let us compare notes for a moment. I have just received an almost imploring message from the manager to come at once. I assumed that it was the affair of our colonial friend here, but he went on to mention Professor Holmfast Bulge. Can it really be possible that he also has made a similar discovery?”
“What did the manager say?” asked Carrados.
“He was practically incoherent, but I really think it must be so. What have you done?”
“Nothing,” replied Carrados. He turned his back on “The Safe” and appeared to be regarding the other side of the street. “There is a tobacconist’s shop directly opposite?”
“There is.”
“What do they sell on the first floor?”
“Possibly they sell ‘Rubbo.’ I hazard the suggestion from the legend ‘Rub in Rubbo for Everything’ which embellishes each window.”
“The windows are frosted?”
“They are, to half-way up, mysterious
