“On the street just outside the church gate. I was leaving work for the night.”
“At what hour was that?”
“About half-past five.”
“And do you assure me that you had no other communication with any member of the Starvel household during the period in question?”
“None.”
“Nor received any message through any third party?”
“No.”
“Well, Mr. Whymper, it is only fair to tell you that the note in question was in Mr. Averill’s safe five days before the fire. You will have to explain how it came into your possession, if not to me, then later on in court. Now think,” French’s voice was suave and coaxing, “would you not rather tell me here in private than have it dragged out of you in the witness box?”
“I would tell you at once, Mr. French, if I had anything to tell, but I’ve nothing. There must be some mistake about the note. The one I gave to Messrs. Cook couldn’t possibly have been in Mr. Averill’s safe at any time.”
The words sounded reasonable, but Whymper’s manner discounted them. More than ever was French convinced that the man was lying. He pressed him as hard as he could, but Whymper stuck to his story and nothing that French could say shook him. French, of course, could only bluff. He was quite unable to prove that Whymper had really passed the stolen note, and though he believed he had done so, he fully realised that he might be mistaken.