Nor had his own financial situation begun as yet to trouble him.  Todd and Pawson, however, had long since become nervous.  More than once had they put their heads together for some plan by which sufficient money could be raised for current expenses.  In this praiseworthy effort, to Todd’s unbounded astonishment, Pawson had one night developed a plan in which the greatly feared and much-despised Gadgem was to hold first place.  Indeed on the very morning succeeding the receipt of Pawson’s letter and at an hour when St. George would be absent at the club, there had come a brisk rat-a-tat on the front door and Gadgem had sidled in.

Todd had not seen the collector since that eventful morning when he stood by ready to pick up the pieces of that gentleman’s dismembered body when his master was about to throw him into the street for doubting his word, and he now studied him with the greatest interest.  The first thing that struck him was the collector’s clothes.  As the summer was approaching he had changed his winter suit for a combination of brown linen bound with black—­(second hand, of course, its former owner having gone out of mourning) and at the moment sported a moth-eaten, crape-encircled white beaver with a floppy, two-inch brim, a rusty black stock that grabbed him close under the chin, completely submerging his collar, and a pair of congress gaiters very much run down at the heel.  He was evidently master of himself and the situation, for he stood looking from Todd to the young lawyer, a furtive, anxious expression on his face that betokened both a surprise at being sent for and a curiosity to learn the cause, although no word of inquiry passed his lips.

Pawson’s opening remark calmed the collector’s suspicions.

“EXactly,” he answered in a relieved tone, when the plot had been fully developed, dragging a mate of the red bandanna—­a blue one—­from his pocket and blowing his nose in an impressive manner.  “EXactly—­quite right—­quite right—­difficult perhaps—­ENORmously difficult but—­yes—­quite right.”

Then there had followed a hurried consultation, during which the bullet-headed darky absorbed every word, his eyes rolling about in his head, his breath ending somewhere near his jugular vein.

These details duly agreed upon, Gadgem bowed himself out of the dining-room, carrying with him a note-book filled with such data as: 

2 fowling pieces made by Purdey, 1838. 3 heavy duck guns. 2 English saddles. 1 silver loving cup. 2 silver coasters, etc, etc.,

a list which Todd the night before had prompted and which Pawson, in his clear, round hand, had transferred to a sheet of foolscap ready for Gadgem in the morning.

On reaching the front door the collector stopped and looked furtively up the stairs.  He was wondering with professional caution whether St. George had returned and was within hearing distance.  If so much as a hint should reach Temple’s ears the whole scheme would come to naught.  Still in doubt, he called out in his sharpest business voice, as if prolonging a conversation which had been carried on inside: