"Covered all over with orange blotches, eh?" asked Prout.
"Quite so. The man was all twisted from his hip, and he had a crooked nose."
"You needn't say any more," Prout said crisply. "That's the man. You changed the gold for the victim of the Corner House tragedy. Got the numbers?"
The numbers were forthcoming, of course--190753 to 190832, the first half of which eighty £5 notes had been alluded to in the murdered man's letter.
"So far so good," Prout remarked. "It's not a very pleasant experience, but I am sorry I have not finished yet. I shall have to trouble you to come as far as Raven Street with me and identify the body."
It was well over at length, but the mild little cashier had nothing to say except that he really must go over to the Raven's Arms and have a little brandy. Abstemious man as he was, he felt it was necessary. Presently the blood came back to his face again, and his dilated pupils contracted.
"That's the man, sergeant," he said. "And I hope I have seen the last of him. Are you going to advertise those notes?"
Prout replied for the present he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. The thief knew nothing about the letter, or he assuredly would have destroyed it. He would imagine that he had got off scot free with his booty, and thus might walk into the trap prepared for him.
"We shall lie low for the present," Prout said. "And I will ask you to do the same. You may mention this matter to your manager, but not to another soul. I'll try and get down before five and see your manager myself."
It was not a bad day's work, and it spurred on Prout to fresh endeavours. He carefully examined the fireplace, he tested the windows, but nothing rewarded his endeavours beyond a blacklead-brush thrown into the corner of the scullery together with a cake of blacklead recently opened.