“Nothing of interest,” Giles said.
They went through the rest of the desk together, and turned next to the safe. Very little of importance was discovered there, but Hannasyde commandeered a Bank book, and a big ledger, and retired with them to the desk, and studied both for some time in silence.
Giles began to fill a pipe, and presently remarked: “I call this boring.” Hannasyde grunted. “Anything in the Bank book?” inquired Giles.
“Not at first glance. Seems to have kept his records a bit casually. Doesn't always show what he sold in order to buy some of these blocks of shares.” He sighed, and closed the book. “I shall have to go into it more thoroughly. Let's take a look at his filing cabinet.”
This revealed nothing of any interest. They went quickly through the little that was contained in it, and Giles, yawning, remarked that he was glad he was not a member of the C.I.D.
“A lot of people would be surprised if they knew how dull most of our work is,” replied Hannasyde. “I want to take charge of the Bank book, and the ledger, and that diary, Mr Carrington. I don't think there's anything else here. We'll hope for better luck at his house. Could you meet me at the Poplars at ten o'clock tomorrow morning?”
“I'll motor you down there,” said Giles. “I suppose you're now going to call on Gladys Smith?”
“Gladys Smith wants explaining,” answered Hannasyde imperturbably. “Who is she, and why does she figure all amongst Stock Exchange quotations, and appointments?”
“I don't know, but I'm sure you'll find out,” said Giles cordially. “You'll probably find she's a typist who applied for a job with Matthews, but I admire your zeal.”
“No sign that he ever employed a typist.”