For a moment Killigrew sat stiffly upright in his chair; then gradually
his body grew limp, his chin sank, his shoulders drooped. "Webb?" he
said dully. "Are you sure, Haggerty?"

"No question about it. Y' see, this Jameson chap writes me a sassy
letter from Liverpool. Spite. Thomas Webb was th' name. What's th'
matter?"

"Haggerty, the very devil is the matter. Thomas Webb, recently a
steward on the Celtic, has been my wife's private secretary for
nearly two months."

"Say that again!" gasped Haggerty, bracing himself against the jamb of
the door.

"But I'll wager my right hand that there's some mistake."

"Of all th' gall I ever heard of! Private secretary, an' Miss
Killigrew's sapphires stowed away in his trunk, if he ain't sold 'em
outside th' pawnshops! Will y' gimme a free hand, Mr. Killigrew?"

"I suppose I'll have to."

"All right. On board you draw me a map o' th' rooms an' where Thomas
Webb holds out. I shan't come t' th' house an' meet anybody. While
you folks 'r at supper I'll sneak up t' his room an' see what's in his
trunk. If I don't find 'em, why, I'll come back t' town an' start a
news stand, Forty-second an' Broadway. I'll be on th' yacht at
half-past two. I'm on m' way."

The door behind him closed with a bang. It startled every clerk on the
huge floor. The door to the boss' office did not bang more than once a
year, and that was immediately after the annual meeting of the
directors of the Combined Brazilian Coffees. Who was this potentate
who dared desecrate the honored quiet of this loft?