LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER ONE

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      MR. SCHOFILD frowned as the door opened. He was busy sorting papers. His confidential clerk murmured apologetically:

      "Mr. Farrant to see you, sir, Very urgent. Mr. William Farrant."

      The private inquiry agent smoothed his forehead and nodded as he glanced at a calendar of social events which his clerk prepared for him daily. A moment later a young man was shown in. He was of big build, but moved with a step so noiseless that even now, when he came forward and shook Schofild's outstretched hand, no footfall could be heard, and the room had parquet flooring.

      Schofild waved his guest to a chair, and pushed forward a box of cigars—his best ones. Mr. Farrant, as one of the private secretaries of Boyd Armstrong, the Australian mining magnate, was to be treated en prince. But Farrant declined both the chair and the cigar. He had a plain but very intelligent face, and curiously veiled light eyes.

      "I'm late for an engagement with a lady as it is," he explained hurriedly in a low voice, naturally low—that mark of a subtle character—"but I quite forgot to give you a very urgent message yesterday. Mr. Armstrong wants you to meet him without fail at his house in Charles Street at five today. There's a function of some sort on—"

      "Chinese tea party," murmured Schofild a little blankly, looking again at the social calendar.

      "Tea not to be taken literally," said Farrant, with a fugitive smile, a smile that struck the private investigator as curiously false. "Any amount of men will be there."

      "Naturally, hoping for some hint about the expected Westralian Exploration cable," murmured Schofild, who made a point of a certain show of bluntness, and almost of indiscretion, at times.

      Farrant nodded.

      "Just so. Well, the point is, can Mr. Armstrong count on your being there at five or a little before?"

      This time it was at the clock that Schofild looked. The hour was almost precisely three.

      "He wants you to go up to the Chinese suite," Farrant went on, "where he will meet you beside the Wedding-Chest, a gift of Major Hardy to the Armstrongs for the occasion. You can't possibly miss it. It's pretty nearly the size of this room. Mr. Armstrong may be delayed, but if so, he asks you to wait for him. You will manage to be there? Good. I can't think how it slipped my mind yesterday. Goodby for the present, then. No, I'm off duty for the afternoon. Going to spend it on the links." And with another flash of his white even teeth, that again suggested no merriment, Farrant was out of the room.

      Mr. Schofild stood a moment wondering what had happened to Farrant's tie. It was virtually under one ear, and looked as though it had been tugged or caught in something. Then the investigator turned back to his papers. He had just finished his last case. He was free. Armstrong might have something big to offer him. Mr. Schofild expected big things. In person he was stout and middle-aged, with quite a bald spot, but also with young, alert eyes. Physically he was lazy. The only exercise he took was getting into and out of armchairs. The only walk, one to his car. But mentally, he would wrestle all night long with a knotty problem. He was very intelligent, absolutely reliable, and immensely conceited.

      Yes, he decided again, reaching for some pink tape, to be asked to give up everything he might have on hand, and meet Mr. Boyd Armstrong at five o'clock sounded promising—very. He had worked on a case for Armstrong, or rather for the powerful syndicate of which he was the leading spirit, only some months before, and had scored a great triumph. One thing he knew, if it was anything like that problem, an intricate question of embezzlement, he would insist on Scotland Yard being called in. Schofild liked Scotland Yard. They were there to do the spade work, letting him save himself for the mental work, which was, naturally, just a little beyond their powers.

      His papers finished, he clasped his hands across a middle whose girth would have pained an enthusiast for physical fitness, but the acquiring of, which had given Mr. Schofild much pleasure, and that, he claimed, was more than could be said for the slim outline. His mind passed from speculations on the coming interview, to running over the one with Farrant just now.

      Odd that one of the secretaries of a great financier should have forgotten to arrange for an interview which apparently was so important—or rather since it was an interview with himself, Schofild, which evidently was so important. But then, Farrant was odd, in some way that Schofild felt rather than saw. Schofild did not care for the young man, whose laugh was as quiet as his voice, who talked freely to no one, not even to Armstrong, as far as Schofild had seen when he had stayed with the two at one of Armstrong's country houses while working on his previous case. Schofild thought Farrant deep. And there was a glint occasionally in his light eyes that made the inquiry agent think of a fox. But what Farrant was really like, no one seemed able to say. Unassuming in manner, Schofild had often heard him referred to as shy. The idea amused the astute Schofild. If Farrant talked little to people, it was because they interested him very little. Armstrong believed that Farrant was devoted to him. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he wasn't. Farrant went by the name of confidential secretary, but interpreter would be the better label, for he was a really remarkable linguist. For which reason alone Armstrong said that he considered him invaluable. He had seemed to have a very pleasant position in the household, Schofild recollected.

      So Armstrong was going to meet him, Schofild, apparently in full view of every one, as an ordinary, guest. That, too, was odd, for Mr. Schofild's occupation was well known, though perhaps, not so well known as he fancied.

      He had once been an all but starving barrister, when some articles of his on how to size up potential criminals had caught on, and he had found himself listened to for a while with great attention. Then other names eclipsed his, and he turned his attention to the solving of unusual cases.

      He was a bachelor—almost a necessity, he maintained, for

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