And then he told the shallow-brained idiot that he thought he would write
a line to his brother; and on that pretence went into Philip's office.
Here, use his eyes as he might, he could discover nothing; he could glean
no stray scrap of information. The secrets that could be guarded by
concealed Bramah locks and iron safes, with mystic words to be learned by
the man who would open them, Philip Sheldon knew how to protect.
Unhappily for himself, he had been compelled to confide some of his
secrets to human receptacles not to be guarded by Bramah locks or mystic
words.
The lawyer did not waste much time in his brother's office. A very hasty
investigation showed him there was nothing to be learned from those bare
walls and that inviolable cylinder-topped desk. He scribbled a few lines
of commonplace at a table by the window, sealed and addressed his note,
and then departed to despatch his telegram, "Phoenicians are rising
rapidly," he wrote, and that was all. He signed the despatch Frederick
Orcott.
"Phil and Orcott may settle the business between them," he said to
himself, as he forged the Yorkshireman's name. "What I have to do is to
get Phil away, and give Hawkehurst a chance of saving Tom Halliday's
daughter; and I shan't stand upon trifles in the doing of it."
After having despatched this telegram, George Sheldon found himself much
too restless and excited for ordinary business.
Pages:
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413