“Come, Mr Matthews!” said Hannasyde persuasively. “Why can't you be frank with me? Whether there was sympathy between you or not, I think you know more of him than you have told me. On the question of these cheques from John Hyde, for instance: do you ask me to believe that you, the heir to your uncle's property, are ignorant of the source of part of his income?”
“No,” said Randall, “but it is nevertheless true.” He rose and strolled over to the table, and refilled his glass. “The varying amounts, coupled with the regular appearance of the cheques, would lead one to suppose that my uncle was amusing himself with some business venture which he preferred to keep his name out of. It will probably come to light in due course.”
“In fact, you don't set much store by it, Mr Matthews?”
Randall shrugged. “No, I can't say that I do. To tell you the truth, I think you are wasting your time in looking for John Hyde. His significance in the case seems to me to be somewhat obscure.”
“Quite so,” replied Hannasyde. “But when I come across something that calls for an explanation I find it pays to follow it up, however trivial it may appear. I have already made some inquiries into Hyde's identity, both at his Bank and at his only known address.”
“I hope such painstaking industry was suitably rewarded?”
“I think it was,” said Hannasyde imperturbably. “I find that John Hyde describes himself as an agent, and owns a squalid little house in Gadsby Row, in the City, with a newsagent's shop attached. The property is apparently let to a man called Brown, who owns the shop, but one room has been retained by Hyde for his own use.”
“Indeed?” said Randall.
“The fact that a man who is in a position to make large monetary payments each month should have as his only address an office in a shabby back-street strikes me as being sufficiently unusual to call for further investigation. What do you think, Mr Matthews?”
“That you are wasting your time, my dear Superintendent.”