Room 13 by Edgar Wallace Page A

alpaca coat, a nervous little trick which first amused and then irritated the caller.
    “He has never been in trouble, Mr Legge? Ah, that’s a blessing,” he sighed. “So many young people get into trouble nowadays.”
    If there was one person whom Legge did not want to discuss it was his son. He got off the subject as well as he could.
    “I understand, Mr Reeder, that you’re doing special work for the Government – in the police department?”
    “Not in the police department,” murmured the other. “No, no, certainly not – not in the police department. I scarcely know a policeman. I see them often in the streets, and very picturesque figures they are. Mostly young men in the vigour and prime of youth. What a wonderful thing is youth, Mr Legge! I suppose you’re very proud of your son?”
    “He’s a good boy,” said Emanuel shortly, and Mr Reeder sighed again.
    “Children are a great expense,” he said. “I often wonder whether I ought to be glad that I never married. What is your son by occupation, Mr Legge?”
    “An export agent,” said Emanuel promptly.
    “Dear, dear!” said the other, and shook his head.
    Emanuel did not know whether he was impressed or only sympathising.
    “Being in Dartmoor, naturally I met a number of bad characters,” said the virtuous Emanuel; “men who did not appeal to me, since I was perfectly innocent and only got my stretch-lagging-imprisonment through a conspiracy on the part of a man I’ve done many a good turn to–”
    “Ingratitude,” interrupted Mr Reeder, drawing in his breath. “What a terrible thing is ingratitude! How grateful your son must be that he has a father who looks after him, who has properly educated him and brought him up in the straight way, in spite of his own deplorable lapses!”
    “Now, look here, Mr Reeder.” Emanuel thought it was time to get more definitely to business. “I’m a very plain man, and I’m going to speak plainly to you. It has come to my knowledge that the gentlemen you are acting for are under the impression that my boy’s got to do with the printing of ‘slush’ – counterfeit notes. I was never more hurt in my life than when I heard this rumour. I said to myself: ‘I’ll go straight away to Mr Reeder and discuss the matter with him. I know he’s a man of the world, and he will understand my feelings as a father.’ Some people, Mr Reeder” – his elbows were on the table and he leant over and adopted a more confidential tone – “some people get wrong impressions. Only the other day somebody was saying to me: ‘That Mr Reeder is broke. He’s got three county court summonses for money owed–’”
    “A temporary embarrassment,” murmured Mr Reeder. “One has those periods of financial – er – depression.”
    He was polishing the stem of the telephone more vigorously.
    “I don’t suppose you’re very well paid? I’m taking a liberty in making that personal statement, but as a man of the world you’ll understand. I know what it is to be poor. I’ve had some of the best society people in my office” – Emanuel invented the office on the spur of the moment – “the highest people in the land, and if they’ve said: ‘Mr Legge, can you oblige me with a thousand or a couple of thousand?’ why, I’ve pulled it out, as it were, like this.”
    He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew it, holding a large roll of money fastened with a rubber band.
    For a second Mr J G Reeder allowed his attention to be distracted, and surveyed the pile of wealth with the same detached interest which he had given to Emanuel. Then, reaching out his hand cautiously, he took the note from the top, felt it, fingered it, rustled it, and looked quickly at the watermark.
    “Genuine money,” he said in a hushed voice, and handed the note back with apparent reluctance.
    “If a man is broke,” said Legge emphatically, “I don’t care who he is or what he is, I say: ‘Is a thousand or two thousand any good to