"Lord Bacon's letter--er--must be pretty rare, Mister," he drawled
thickly. "But a letter--er--from Lord Bacon--er--about
Shakespeare--that ought to be worth a lot of money."
Average Jones had taken his opening with his customary incisive
shrewdness. The mention of Bacon had settled it, to his mind. Only
one imaginable character of manuscript from the philosopher
scholar-politician could have value enough to tempt a thief of
Enderby's calibre. Enderby's expression told that the shot was a
true one. As for Bertram, he had dropped his shoemaker's knife and
his shoemaker's role.
"Bacon on Shakespeare! Shades of the departed glory of Ignatius
Donnelly!"
The visitor drew back. Warren's gaunt frame appeared in the
doorway. Jones' head lifted.
"It ought to be as--er--unique," he drawled, "as an--er--Ancient
Roman speaking perfect English."
Like a flash, the false Livius caught up the knife from the bench
where the false cobbler had dropped it and swung toward Average
Jones. At the moment the ample hand of Professor Warren, bunched
into a highly competent fist, flicked across and caught the
assailant under the ear.
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