Page:The Popular Magazine v72 n1 (1924-04-20).djvu/97

 man's high character furnished by Countess of Barford,” said Kotman. “Thee lady stated that she had found him person of high character. But police stated that he was waster, no good, a jollee bad hat. Veree humorous difference of opinion, you see!”

“He was Lady Barford's jockey, retained by her to ride the race horses she had in training, wasn't he?”

“Oah, yess. There was a report in scandalmongering paper that lady in question was in love with thee man Sover.”

“True, d'you think, Dass?”

“There was no real data upon which to base conclusion. Probablee it was untrue, though the man Ferank Sover was undoubtedlee handsome blackguard.”

“H'm, yes—so he was. Promising horseman once, too,” mused Mr. Chayne. “But he went to the bad altogether. Drinks like the intake end of a fire hose, I've heard.”

Salaman reflected.

“But if Frank Sover did not steal the rubies somebody did, or how has Dragour got hold of them?”

Kotman Dass smiled.

“It was not proved that Sover did not steal thee jewels—it was only proved thatt there was no evidence to show thatt he-did steal articles in question. Veree different matter, you see, do you not, dear Mister Chayne?”

“Humph! So you think he did steal 'em?”

Kotman Dass yawned a little and glanced at his book. Clearly he was getting bored with this elementary stuff.

“Oah, I am of opinion that Countess of Barford gave jewels to Sover to take to Dragour in return for drug or for other reason—blackmail perhaps—I do not know.”

He turned a ruby over between his huge fingers.

“Thee carving is rare old Chinese work but thee stones are veree abominably full of flaws, though carving is exquisite. They are not veree valuable except to collector of antiques and soa forth. Dragour evidently has weakness for collecting rare specimen objects.”

“How d'you know that, man?”

Kotman Dass indicated the miscellany of small objects mixed up with the bottles on the table by the rubies.

“Many off those things—cameos, seals, tiny ivories, scarabs and soa forth are of interest to collectors onlee. Some are good.”

Salaman Chayne stared at his partner with unwilling admiration in his hot eyes.

“Oh, are they? You've got a rare gift of quick observation, Dass. I hadn't noticed that these were specially rare things, but if you say so it's true, no doubt. You haven't got the pluck of a dead fowl, but I'll not deny that your brains are fair—very fair. I'll ask you to stretch 'em another trifle, in fact. How will this help me get on the track of Dragour?”

Without an instant's pause the mountainous Mr. Dass replied:

“Oah, see the Lady Barford, get Sover's address from her if possible, tell Sover you have proof of his passing rubies to Dragour, exhibit rubies to him, and make ugly threats till he betrays Dragour—if he can. Veree simple matter. Please excuse further just at present, dear Mister Chayne—my mind is occupied with little mathematical problem in this small work.”

And so saying Kotman relapsed ponderously into his book.

For a moment his partner surveyed him as he hunched, shapeless and huge over the “small work,” then muttering something to the effect that “if he had the pluck of a severed earthworm he would be a man in a million—but as it was he wasn't,” Salaman gathered together his spoil from the flat and left him to his little problem.

Fortune favors even the precipitate at times and it favored Mr. Salaman Chayne to-day.

At the steps of the Barford town house he met a lean little man, who would have been handsome had his face not been so deplorably engraved with the hall marks of unrestrained excess. This one was coming away scowling and angry, evidently having received the worst of a verbal conflict with a flushed butler who, from the door, was watching him go down the steps.

It was the ex-jockey Sover.

Salaman, who had often seen him riding in his palmy days, recognized him at once, and promptly stopped him.

“Just a moment, Sover, my man. I want a word with you,” he said peremptorily.

“Oh, you do—and who the devil might you be?” responded the man aggressively.

Salaman, instant, even anxious, as usual, to discover offense, thrust his fierce face close to that of Mr. Sover.