“I don’t know where he is just now.  Do you?”

“Well,” said Foster, “I believe I could find him if I tried.”

The other was silent for the next few moments and Foster waited with some anxiety.  If he pretended to know too much, he might be found out, but if Graham imagined he knew nothing, he would hesitate about informing him.  The difficulty was that while he played the part of a simpleton who had been made use of by the rest of the gang, he must imply that they had to some extent taken him into their confidence.

“To tell the truth, I haven’t heard from Daly for a month,” Graham replied.  “This has disadvantages and I’ll own that I’d like to know what he is doing.”

“Then it looks as if I was better informed.  Mr. Daly’s engaged in some private business.”

“Private business?”

“Just so,” Foster answered, smiling.  “He imagines it will turn out profitable, but I expect it will take up much of his time.”

“But——­” said Graham, and stopped.

Foster made a sign of comprehension.  “You feel he oughtn’t to have any business that might interfere with his duty to the rest of you?”

“What do you know about his duty?” Graham asked.

“Well,” said Foster, “I frankly don’t know very much.  In fact, it looks as if your Canadian friends didn’t trust me very far, but just told me enough to make me understand my job.  No doubt, that was wisest, although it’s not flattering.  Anyhow, I brought you a packet with some valuable enclosures, which ought to justify your sending back any confidential message to the people it came from by me.”

He had made a bold venture, but saw that he was right, for Graham knitted his brows, as if he was thinking hard.  Then he said, “Very well.  As it happens, there are some papers I would like to send, and if you don’t mind taking them, I’ll give you a letter to Daly and another to Miss Austin.”

“Miss Austin, of course, will pass the letter on.”

“That’s understood,” Graham agreed.

Foster carelessly lighted a fresh cigarette, and Graham, leaning forward, opened a safe and took out one or two papers that Foster could not see well.  So far, the latter had done better than he had hoped, and in another few minutes would be in the possession of papers that might throw a useful light upon the plot.  Yet the strain was beginning to tell and his nerves tingled as he watched his companion write.

A lamp with a broken mantle flickered above Graham’s head and the stove crackled, but the outer office, the door of which was open, was dark, and the building was strangely quiet.  No sound rose from the narrow street below, which ran like a still backwater among the tall warehouses.  Foster, putting his hand in his pocket as if to feel for matches, touched the small Browning pistol he had brought.  He was not afraid of Graham, but somebody might come in.  At length the man sealed two envelopes and put them beside his writing-pad.