“Wot do you tyke me for, mister? Do you think the shop would run itself while I was away? You don’t need to worry. You pay your bob and you’ll get your message all right.” “Not good enough for me. I want to know what kind of messenger you’d send before I trust my business to you.” “See ’ere,” the man declared, “I’ve been doing this business for long enough to know all about ’ow it’s done. I’ve a good boy, if you must know. You give ’im a penny or two a time if you’re nervous, and you needn’t be afryde but you’ll get all there’s for you.” French laid five shillings on the counter. “Right,” he said. “There’s for the first five messages. Send to Mr. James Hurley, care of Mr. William Wright, tobacconist, corner of Bedford Place and Ivy Street.” “I know it,” declared Ganope, pocketing the money. Mr. William Wright was a distant connection of Mrs. French’s and French knew that he would help him in the matter. He nodded to Ganope and walked across to Ivy Street. “Hullo, Joe! Some time since we’ve seen you here,” was Mr. Wright’s greeting. “Come in behind and let’s hear the news.” “I want you to do me a good turn, William,” French answered. “There’s a boy I want to get hold of and I’ve fixed it that he’ll come here asking for Mr. Hurley. Will you put him on to me when he turns up? That’s all.” “Surely, Joe,” and Mr. Wright turned the conversation to more intimate matters. “Just let me use your phone,” French asked, presently. “Something I forgot.” “Surely, Joe.” Going into the little office at the back of the shop, French rang up Ganope. “Message for Hurley,” he explained in falsetto tones. “Mr. James Hurley.” “Right,” came from the other end. “‘Cargo will be in at ten-fifteen to-morrow.’ That’s all. Repeat, please.” Mr. Ganope repeated slowly, evidently as he wrote, and French settled down with his pipe to await the advent of the messenger. In less than half an hour a sharp, foxy-looking boy turned up and Mr. Wright sent him into the sitting-room to French. “Hullo, sonny! You from Ganope’s?” “Huh-huh,” said the boy. “Name of Hurley?” “That’s right. You have a message for me?” “Huh-huh.” He slowly produced an envelope, watching French expectantly. French produced sixpence. “There you are, sonny. Wait half a sec till I read this. There may be an answer.” He tore open the envelope and glanced at its contents. “No, there’s nothing,” he went on. “You’re kept busy, I’m sure?” “Huh-huh.” “And maybe you don’t get too much money for it, either?” The boy indicated that this was a true summary of his case. “Well, how would half a crown for a little job for me suit you?” The gleam in the boy’s eyes was sufficient answer. “It’s just a little bit of information between you and me. No one else would know anything about it. It wouldn’t take you two minutes to give it to me. Are you on?” “Ain’t I, gov’nor? You just try me.”