Peter Ruff and the Double Four. E. Phillips Oppenheim

Dory.

      “I trust,” he said smoothly, “that our visit is not inopportune. Sir Richard Dyson, I believe?” he continued, bowing—“my friend, Mr. Masters here, has consulted me as to the loss of a betting book, and we ventured to call to ask you, sir, if by any chance on his recent visit to your house—”

      “God in Heaven, it’s Masters!” Dyson exclaimed. “It’s Job Masters!”

      “That’s me, sir,” Masters admitted. “Mr. Ruff thought you might be able to help me find that book.”

      Sir Richard swayed upon his feet. Then the blood rushed once more through his veins.

      “Your book’s here in my cabinet, safe enough,” he said. “You left it here after our luncheon that day. Where on earth have you been to, man?” he continued. “We want some money from you over Myopia.”

      “I’ll pay all right, sir,” Masters answered. “Fact is, after our luncheon party I’m afraid I got a bit fuddled. I don’t seem to remember much.”

      He sat down a little heavily. Peter Ruff hastened to the table and took up a glass.

      “You will excuse me if I give him a little brandy, won’t you, sir?” he said. “He’s really not quite fit for getting about yet, but he was worrying about his book.”

      “Give him all the brandy he can drink,” Sir Richard answered.

      The detective’s face had been a study. He knew Masters well enough by sight—there was no doubt about his identity! His teeth came together with an angry little click. He had made a mistake! It was a thing which would be remembered against him forever! It was as bad as his failure to arrest that young man at Daisy Villa.

      “Your visit, Masters,” Sir Richard said, with a curious smile at the corners of his lips, “is, in some respects, a little opportune. About that little matter we were speaking of,” he continued, turning towards the detective.

      “We have only to offer you our apologies, Sir Richard,” Dory answered.

      Then he crossed the room and confronted Peter Ruff.

      “Do I understand, sir, that your name is Ruff—Peter Ruff?” he asked.

      “That is my name, sir,” Peter Ruff admitted, pleasantly “Yours I believe, is Dory. We are likely to come across one another now and then, I suppose. Glad to know you.”

      The detective stood quite still, and there was no geniality in his face.

      “I wonder—have we ever met before?” he asked, without removing his eyes from the other’s face. Peter Ruff smiled.

      “Not professionally, at any rate,” he answered. “I know that Scotland Yard you don’t think much of us small fry, but we find out things sometimes!”

      “Why didn’t you contradict all those rumours as to his disappearance?” the detective asked, pointing to where Job Masters was contentedly sipping his brandy and water.

      “I was acting for my client, and in my own interests,” replied Peter. “It was surely no part of my duty to save you gentlemen at Scotland Yard from hunting up mare’s nests!”

      John Dory went out, followed by his men. Sir Richard took Peter Ruff by the arm, and, leading him to the sideboard, mixed him a drink.

      “Peter Ruff,” he said, “you’re a clever scoundrel, but you’ve earned your five hundred guineas. Hang it, you’re welcome to them! Is there anything else I can do for you?”

      Peter Ruff raised his glass and set it down again. Once more he eyed with admiration his client’s well-turned out figure.

      “You might give me a letter to your tailors, Sir Richard,” he begged.

      Sir Richard laughed outright—it was some time since he had laughed!

      “You shall have it, Peter Ruff,” he declared, raising his glass—“and here’s to you!”

CHAPTER III. VINCENT CAWDOR, COMMISSION AGENT

       Table of Contents

      For the second time since their new association, Peter Ruff had surprised that look upon his secretary’s face. This time he wheeled around in his chair and addressed her.

      “My dear Violet,” he said, “be frank with me. What is wrong?”

      Miss Brown turned to face her employer. Save for a greater demureness of expression and the extreme simplicity of her attire, she had changed very little since she had given up her life of comparative luxury to become Peter Ruff’s secretary. There was a sort of personal elegance which clung to her, notwithstanding her strenuous attempts to dress for her part, except for which she looked precisely as a private secretary and typist should look. She even wore a black bow at the back of her hair.

      “I have not complained, have I?” she asked.

      “Do not waste time,” Peter Ruff said, coldly. “Proceed.”

      “I have not enough to do,” she said. “I do not understand why you refuse so many cases.”

      Peter Ruff nodded.

      “I did not bring my talents into this business,” he said, “to watch flirting wives, to ascertain the haunts of gay husbands, or to detect the pilferings of servants.”

      “Anything is better than sitting still,” she protested.

      “I do not agree with you,” Peter Ruff said. “I like sitting still very much indeed—one has time to think. Is there anything else?”

      “Shall I really go on?” she asked.

      “By all means,” he answered.

      “I have idea,” she continued, “that you are subordinating your general interests to your secret enmity—to one man. You are waiting until you can find another case in which you are pitted against him.”

      “Sometimes,” Peter Ruff said, “your intelligence surprises me!”

      “I came to you,” she continued, looking at him earnestly, “for two reasons. The personal one I will not touch upon. The other was my love of excitement. I have tried many things in life, as you know, Peter, but I have seemed to carry always with me the heritage of weariness. I thought that my position here would help me to fight against it.”

      “You have seen me bring a corpse to life,” Peter Ruff reminded her, a little aggrieved.

      She smiled.

      “It was a month ago,” she reminded him.

      “I can’t do that sort of thing every day,” he declared.

      “Naturally,” she answered; “but you have refused four cases within the last five days.”

      Peter Ruff whistled softly to himself for several moments.

      “Seen anything of our new neighbour in the flat above?” he asked, with apparent irrelevance.

      Miss Brown looked across at him with upraised eyebrows.

      “I have been in the lift with him twice,” she answered.

      “Fancy his appearance?” Ruff asked, casually.

      “Not in the least!” Violet answered. “I thought him a vulgar, offensive person!”

      Peter Ruff chuckled. He seemed immensely delighted.

      “Mr. Vincent Cawdor he calls himself, I believe,” he remarked.

      “I have no idea,” Miss Brown declared. The subject did not appeal to her.