“I don’t think we can do better. We’ll go up by car at once. Get one sent up here, will you?”
As they rounded the corner to Coolwater Avenue half an hour later, Bannister touched the Sergeant on the arm. “Something I’ve had on the tip of my tongue to ask you all day, Godfrey. Finger-prints! What results are there? I hear the report’s through—I’m told it came through this morning.”
“Scarcely any help at all. The brass bolt on the door of the room where Branston was imprisoned, gave us Mrs. Bertenshaw and Branston himself. The glass gave us Branston and Miss Delaney. Nothing there, you see—that you wouldn’t naturally expect.” For the second time in a few days Bannister was admitted by Mrs. Bertenshaw and on this occasion he subjected her to a more careful scrutiny than on the occasion before. She piloted them into what was evidently Branston’s library. The Inspector seized the occasion to have a good look round. Like the other parts of the establishment that he had previously seen, it was handsomely furnished. Moreover, the books on the shelves displayed the discriminating taste of the cultured reader. A cough heralded Ronald Branston’s entry.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen—what can I do for you—or is there news of importance?” His dark, good-looking face broke into a slight smile.
Bannister suddenly found himself unable to believe that Mr. Branston had managed to steer entirely clear of the feminine society of Seabourne. That story was a strain upon ordinary belief. At the same time he came to the point of his visit. “There is news, Mr. Branston,” he said curtly, “you may as well know it at once—Miss Delaney was undoubtedly robbed as well as murdered.”
“Robbed?” echoed Branston. “Robbed of what?”
“Something like a hundred pounds in notes—the numbers of which notes are known.”
Godfrey could have sworn that Branston whitened a trifle as he heard this piece of news.
“Not only are they known, Mr. Branston—but what is more important still, some of them have already been traced. And traced to you!” A pause. “I shall be happy to hear your explanation, Mr. Branston.” Bannister’s voice held a relentless note.
The young dental surgeon winced. “Before I can do that,” he said, “I must ask you to tell me more. I don’t understand. How have the notes been traced to me?”