PROUT IS PUZZLED.
Hetty moved instinctively to her lover's side. His face was ghastly
pale, but he held his head high and looked Prout proudly in the eyes.
The latter waited. He had made no accusation; it was not his cue to
express an opinion one way or another. Hetty looked at him
approvingly.
"If there is anything wrong about the notes," Capper began, "I can
only----"
"From your point of view there is nothing wrong," said Prout. "A mere
coincidence, sir. If I could only, have a few minutes' private
conversation with you, doctor?"
Bruce led the way outside. He was utterly bewildered. Those notes had
passed into his possession quite honestly, they were for value
received, and they never left his possession until he parted with them
to Capper. Why, they were in his possession hours before he was called
into the corner house.
The strangely assorted trio turned into a tea room close by. They had
a table to themselves where they could talk freely.
"Now say it all over again," Bruce asked. "I am perfectly dazed. Let
me know what I am accused of doing."
Prout replied that for the present there was no accusation.
"It's like this," he said, laying the fateful notes on the table. "A
man who has got to be identified is found dead--murdered, beyond a
doubt, in an unoccupied house in Raven Street. All the circumstances
of the case point to robbery. On searching the body we find a letter
written by the deceased to a friend saying that he is forwarding
some banknotes. He gives the number of those banknotes amongst
others--numbers 190753 to 190793. All this is set out clearly in the
letter. Now, will you please to examine those notes, doctor, and tell
me the numbers?"
Bruce turned them over one by one. There was no mistake about the
matter at all. They were the same numbers as those given in the
handwriting of the dead man. The whole thing seemed impossible, but
there it was.
"One moment," Hetty asked eagerly. "How do you know that the letter in
your possession really was written by the murdered man?"
Prout glanced admiringly into the pretty flushed face.
"That's a clever question, miss," he said, "but I have a reply to it.
We have found a woman near the docks where the unknown stayed for a
day or two. As she cannot read or write she got him to write her a
line or two to her landlord's agent, sending some arrears of rent and
promising the balance shortly. That scrap of paper has come into my
possession."
"And of course it tallies," Bruce said moodily. "Those things always
do."
"It does, sir," Prout went on. "The question of handwriting is
established. How those notes came into your possession we have yet to
find out."
"They never came into my possession," Bruce cried. "There is some
mistake----"
Prout tapped the pile of papers significantly.
"Here they are, with your signature on the back of every one of them,"
he said. "There is nothing singular about that, seeing that so many
tradesmen insist upon having banknotes endorsed. Question is, What's
the explanation?"
For the life of him Bruce could not say. It was absurd to suppose that
by some mistake the Bank of England had issued two sets of notes of
the same series of numbers. There was no mistake about the murdered
man's letter either.
"Perhaps you'd like to tell your story, sir," Prout suggested.
"My story is quite simple," Bruce replied. "Some little time ago I
bought a picture by J. Halbin. I gave a few pounds for it. Early in
the evening of the day preceding the corner house murder I had a
visitor. He was an elderly Dutchman, who gave his name as Max Kronin.
He had heard of my purchase, and wanted the picture for family
reasons. He offered me £200 for it, and paid me in notes--the notes
that are on the table there."
"Which identical notes must have been in the possession of the
murdered man for many hours after you say they passed into your
possession."
"Take it or leave it," Bruce said desperately. "It's like some horrid
nightmare. From the time I received the notes from the elderly
Dutchman till I parted with them to Capper they were never out of my
possession."
"Of course, you know where the Dutchman is to be found?"
Bruce shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"He took the picture away," he said, "and I thought no more of the
matter, he said something about going to Antwerp. In the face of the
damning evidence you have piled up against me, my story sounds
hysterical and foolish."
Prout was not so sure of that. He had seen too many startling
developments in his time to be surprised at anything.
"Of course, it wants a bit of explaining away," he said. "Still,
supposing for argument sake you were the thief, how could we possibly
connect you with the corner house and the poor fellow who was murdered
there?"
It had come at last. Bruce braced himself for the ordeal. Just for the
moment there was a terrible temptation to hold his tongue. The story
of his visit to the corner house was known to those only who would not
dare to speak. Once he told the truth he realized that he was putting
a noose around his neck.
And yet as an honourable man he was bound to speak, indeed he had
already spoken, for Gilbert Lawrence had been made privy to part of
the story.
"You couldn't prove it," he said, moodily, "but I can, I must. Prout,
I am the sport of either a most amazing piece of misfortune or else
the victim of the most cunning and diabolical scheme that man ever
dreamed of. I was actually in the corner house within an hour or so of
the murder."
A queer little cry broke from Hetty. Her face was deadly pale, her
eyes dilated with horror. It was only for a moment, then she slipped
her hand into that of her lover and pressed it warmly. Even Prout
seemed uneasy.
"You are not bound to say anything further, sir," he muttered
meaningly.
"Ah, I know what you mean," Bruce went on recklessly. "Don't you see
that as an honest man I am bound to speak out? Just as I reached my
rooms that night a motor drove up to my house with a note for me----"
"Ah! I should like to have a look at that note," said Front.
"I destroyed it. There was no object in keeping it. I tore it up then
and there and pitched it on the pavement. The motor was driven by a
dumb man, who conveyed me to the corner house. It struck me as
strange, but then the owner might have returned. When I got there I
found the man subsequently murdered suffering from a combination of
alcoholic poisoning and laudanum. It was hard work, but I managed to
save him. A Spanish woman--the only creature besides my patient I
saw--paid me a fee of three guineas, and there ends the matter."
Prout's expression was that of a man who by no means shared this
opinion, but he said nothing on that head.
"Did you speak to the Spanish woman?" he asked.
"I couldn't, for the simple reason that she knew no English," said
Bruce. "I know I am putting a terrible weapon in your hands but I have
no alternative. If there is anything else that I can tell you----"
Prout rose and bowed to Hetty.
"It's not fair, sir," he said. "It's giving me too great an advantage.
If you take my advice, you'll go at once and explain the position to
some smart solicitor--Ely Place for choice."