“By cheque,” replied Hannasyde. “And at regular monthly intervals, though not in regular amounts.” He thrust his hand into his inner coat-pocket, and pulled out Gregory Matthews' Pass-book. “Perhaps you'd like to see for yourself.”
“I think I should,” said Randall, setting down his wineglass and taking the book.
Silence reigned while Randall went unhurriedly through the book. Then he gave it back to Hannasyde, and said: “I feel quite unable to throw any of the expected light, Superintendent. What are your views on the matter?”
“I don't know that I have any,” answered Hannasyde. “You must remember that I was not acquainted with your uncle. That is why I come to you. I suppose you knew him as well as anybody, Mr Matthews?”
“I haven't considered the question,” said Randall. “Moreover, I believe I told you at the outset of our agreeable dealings with each other that I was not in my uncle's confidence.”
“You did,” agreed Hannasyde. “But I can't help suspecting that you were over-modest. You were the only member of his family, I believe, to whom he imparted his discovery of Mr Lupton's double life.”
“Do you call that a confidence?” inquired Randall. “I thought it was a smutty story.”
“Well, let us waive the question of confidences, Mr Matthews, and say that there was a bond of sympathy between you,” suggested Hannasyde.
As he spoke he caught a glimpse of Randall's eyes, and experienced a sensation of shock. What the expression in them meant he had no time to decide: it was gone in a flash, but it left him feeling oddly shaken, and with an impression forcibly stamped on his mind that something very unpleasant had suddenly sprung up and as suddenly vanished again.
Then Randall said in his composed drawl: “No, I don't think there was any bond of sympathy between us. You have possibly been misled by the fact that alone of my family I didn't quarrel with him.”