Laverick, who had been standing with the instrument in his hand, sat down in his chair.
“Look here,” he said, “Didn’t you send me a note a few minutes ago, asking me to come out to lunch at a quarter to one and meet you at Lyons’?”
Henshaw’s laugh was sufficient response.
“Delighted to lunch with you there or anywhere, old chap,—you know that,” was the answer, “but some one’s been putting up a practical joke on you.”
“You did not send me a note round this morning, then?” Laverick insisted.
“I’ll swear I didn’t,” came the reply. “Do you seriously mean that you’ve had one purporting to come from me?”
Laverick pulled himself together.
“Well, the signature’s such a scrawl,” he said, “that no one could tell what the name really was. I guessed at you but I seem to have guessed wrong. Good-bye!”
He set down the receiver and rang off to escape further questioning. Now indeed the plot was commencing to thicken. This was a deliberate effort on the part of some one to secure his absence from his offices at a quarter to one.
With the document in his pocket and the safe securely locked, Laverick felt at ease as to the result of any attempted burglary of his premises. At the same time his curiosity was excited. Here, perhaps, was a chance of finding some clue to this impenetrable mystery.