“No.”
“Give me time,” said Randall, picking up his wineglass. “Stevenson?” he suggested.
“Nothing else, Mr Matthews?” Hannasyde asked, watching him closely.
Randall met the steady gaze with one of his blandest looks. “Well, not just at the moment,” he said. “Do you want to pursue the subject? Because if so I'm afraid you'll have to explain things to me. I don't seem to be very intelligent this morning.”
“You don't happen to recall having heard your uncle mention that name at any time?” Hannasyde persisted.
Randall continued to look at him over the rim of his wineglass. “No, I can't say that I do,” he replied. He strolled over to a chair, and sat down on the arm of it. “Will you have a cigarette, or a nice game of Blind Man's Bluff?” he inquired.
Hannasyde accepted the cigarette. “I'm disappointed, Mr Matthews. I hoped that you might be able to throw some light on this little problem. I have been going through your uncle's Bank books.” He struck a match, and held it to the end of his cigarette. “And I find that quite a substantial part of his income has apparently been derived from a person going by the name of John Hyde. Or, possibly, from some business of which Hyde is the representative.”
Randall sipped his sherry. Nothing but a faint interest could be read in his face. He said: “When you speak of a substantial part, what precisely do you mean, Superintendent?”
“I haven't added all the sums together, but at a guess I should say they must amount to something in the region of twelve or thirteen hundred pounds a year.”
Randall inclined his head with an expression of mild surprise. “Quite a respectable income,” he remarked. “May I ask how it was paid into my uncle's account?”