"And which?" he asked tersely.
"There'll be an inquiry, of course,"
"And what will that find out? We know the Angels had a lot of money, and I know the Saint still has. Suppose they've bought someone actually in the Yard, why should it be one man more than another?" Teal reached out a slothful arm and picked up one of the blank sheets. It was creased down the centre, as were the other sheets. Teal shuffled the pile together and folded them over the crease. "They'd go into a man's breast pocket," he said. "It's cheap and ordinary paper — the kind they use in a few hundred offices. We shan't find any clue there."
He picked up the note.
"What do you make of that?" asked Cullis.
"It's almost the same handwriting as the note they left on Essenden in Paris, isn't it?"
"Not exactly the same, though. But the writing was disguised, anyway. A man can't write a disguised hand as consistently as he writes his own natural fist."
"Man?" queried Cullis sharply.
"Simon Templar," said Teal sleepily. "I'll swear he wrote that note to Essenden in Paris, anyway."
"And this one?"