"You see you'd better read it to us in self-defence," remarked the chief of staff. "Go ahead!"
"Promise, and I'll give it back," said Bob, from the door. "Refuse, and I send it to the 'American.'"
"It wasn't for publication, anyway," explained Dockbridge.
"Of course not," answered Bob. "We'll pass on it. Perhaps we'll send it in for that Five-Thousand-Dollar competition."
"Well, shut up, and I will. Give it here!" Dockbridge recovered the manuscript and returned to his armchair. The others disposed themselves upon the lounge.
"Oyez! Oyez!" cried Bob. "All persons desiring to hear the great American novel, draw near, give your attention and ye shall be heard."
"Keep still!" ordered the chief of staff. "Go ahead, Jack. I'll make him shut up."
"Mind you do," said Dockbridge. "It's about that big diamond, you know. The story begins in this room."
His companions pulled his head down on the chief's lap and smothered him with a handkerchief.
"Well," said Dockbridge rather sheepishly, "here goes."
A stout, jovial-looking person, with reddish hair, sandy complexion, and watery blue eyes, stood waiting in my office, his wrist attached by means of a nickel-plated handcuff to that of a keeper. My two visitors conducted themselves with remarkable unanimity, and with but a single motion sank into the chairs I offered.
"Well, what's the trouble?" I inquired genially.
The keeper jerked his thumb in the direction of the other, who grinned apologetically and hitched in my direction. Bending toward me, he whispered: "I am the victim of one of the most remarkable conspiracies in history. My story involves personages of the highest rank, and is stranger than one of Dumas' romances. I am a bill-poster."
Not knowing whether he intended to include himself among the illustrious persons alluded to, I nodded encouragingly and produced some cigars.
"My name is Riggs," continued the prisoner, as he bit off the end of his cigar and expelled it through the window. "Got a match?"
The keeper drew a handful from his pocket. I lit a cigar for myself and assumed an attitude of attention.
"My wife is little Flossie Riggs. Don't know her? Why, she dances at Proctor's, and all over. I was doing well at my trade, and would have been doing better, if it hadn't been for that confounded diamond. It was this way. There was a fellow named Tenney, who posted bills with me about five years back, and he finally got a job down in the City of Mexico with a railroad, and I used to correspond with him.