Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

These were the Adjusters, but so well did they guard their secret that not one single member of the public had the slightest inkling of it.

They sat round a table now listening to Daphne as she talked — four knights in the presence of their queen.

“It’s a simple little affair,” she said. “Blackmail again. The age-old story of the man who wrote foolish letters and never told his wife. And now he’s afraid to tell. Jimmy darling!” She slipped her hand into Lord Trevitter’s with a dazzling smile. “When we get married you’ll have to tell me all your murky past — and I’ll tell you mine! Then we’ll start level pegging!”

“He couldn’t remember it all, my dear,” smiled Williamson as he polished his gold-rimmed monocle. “It’s so long ago.”

The others chuckled. They knew well enough that ever since Daphne was sixteen Trevitter had never looked at another girl.

“You can’t say that, Hugh,” retorted Daphne with a merry little laugh.

“Don’t want to, my dear. But let’s hear your story.”

She became serious at once.

“His name’s George Pendlebury,” she began, “and he lives at Hammersmith. He’s a bank cashier with an excellent record, small income, happily married, one kiddie. But he tells me that he married his wife out of the schoolroom, and,” she gave a tiny sigh, “she’s just put him up on a pinnacle ever since they’ve been married.”

“The letters, of course, were to some other girl, Daph — pre-marriage?” put in. Everest.

“Quite so, Martin — and rather hectic ones, I gather.”

“Who holds them?”

“A man called Joshua Wollstein. He lives in a big house in Drayton Square, Kensington, and the Yard tells me he’s got rather a sticky reputation. They’ve never actually laid hands on him yet, but he’s figured in some funny cases.”

“D’you know how he got hold of the letters?” asked Sylvester.

“No — neither does Pendlebury. But he’s got ’em all right, and he wants five hundred for them. Alternatively he’ll try Mrs. Pendlebury. He appears to know quite a lot about his market.”

“We’d better get ’em from him then,” said Everest carelessly; “it won’t be difficult.”

“Ordinary methods are no good, Martin,” rejoined the girl quickly; “I’ve found out all about that. Wollstein’s one of these cautious birds who never sees strangers. And the check stunt we played on Phil Carrington over Esme Benningham’s letter is a washout now. It was all round London in twenty-four hours after the police court proceedings. We must try something entirely new this time.”

“What’s this man Pendlebury like, Daph?”

“About the same size and build as Hugh,” rejoined the girl. “I fancy Alan could make up Hugh to resemble him very easily. By the way, Pendlebury has an appointment with Wollstein to-morrow night at nine thirty. I told him not to keep it, of course, but—”

“No, no!” interrupted Everest. “We’ll keep it for him — that is, Hugh will, if he likes. In the meanwhile tell Pendlebury to do something at nine thirty to-morrow night whereby he can establish a perfect alibi. It might not be wanted, but on the other hand, it might. Now listen to me a minute!”

II

On the following evening Sir Hugh Williamson, at nine thirty, presented himself at a large, somber-looking house in Drayton Square, Kensington, and rang the bell. The butler who opened the door seemed to recognize him. If he knew Pendlebury — as apparently he did — he should certainly have recognized Williamson. His make-up was well-nigh perfect.

“I have an appointment with your master,” murmured the explorer.

“Certainly, sir. Come this way.”

Williamson found himself in a large handsomely furnished library. Rows of books were on the walls, a fire was burning in the grate, the windows were closely shuttered. Williamson noted all this with the quick eye of the big game hunter.

Wollstein looked up from the chair in which he was sitting. He was an undersized little man with an unhealthy complexion, heavy sensuous lips and shifty eyes.

“Evenin’, Pendlebury. Well?”

The pseudo bank cashier sighed.

“I... I want to buy those letters,” he stammered.

“Oh, you do, do you? Well, they’ll cost you six hundred to-night.”

Williamson moistened his lips admirably.

“I... I must have them!”

He pulled out a rather shabby note case. Wollstein’s beady eyes glistened.

“Come into money, eh?” with a sneer.

“I... I’ve managed to scrape it up. Where are the letters?”

He was fingering a bundle of notes now, and Wollstein, watching him, went to his writing table, unlocked a drawer and produced a small package.

“Now,” he said curtly, “count those notes out on the table and I’ll put down your letters when they’re all there.”

Ten minutes later Williamson, chuckling happily, let himself out into the street — the butler apparently disdaining to answer the bell. As he turned the corner of the square a policeman on point duty scrutinized him.

“Good night, sergeant,” said Williamson cheerily.

“Good night, sir.”

In that little office in the city the Adjusters sat once more. But the faces of them all were unusually grave. Before them lay a newspaper on which large headlines stood out: