“And the document?” Bellamy asked. “The document?”
“It is in the hotel safe,” Laverick answered.
Bellamy drew a long sigh of relief. Then he emptied his tumbler and lit a cigarette.
“Laverick,” he declared, “I believe you.”
“Thank God!” Laverick muttered.
“I am no crime investigator,” Bellamy went on thoughtfully. “As to who killed Von Behrling, or why, I cannot now form the slightest idea. That twenty thousand pounds, Laverick, is Secret Service money, paid by me to Von Behrling only half-an-hour before he was murdered, in a small restaurant there, for what I supposed to be the document. He deceived me by making up a false packet. The real one he kept. He deserved to die, and I am glad he is dead.”
Laverick’s face was suddenly hopeful.
“Then you can take these notes!” he exclaimed.
Bellamy nodded.
“In a few days,” he said, “I shall take you with me to a friend of mine—a Cabinet Minister. You shall tell him the story exactly as you’ve told it to me, and restore the money.”