“Thanks.”
WILKINSON was seated at the desk, before the metal box. That one word suddenly aroused him. He was thoughtful as he dropped the note with Chatham’s signature into the box.
He seemed to recall the voice that had spoken that word. He remembered a night, nearly six months before, when he had given thirty thousand dollars to Doctor Albert Palermo.
“Thanks.”
The word reechoed in Wilkinson’s brain. It was not Horace Chatham who had spoken it. The word had come from Doctor Palermo!
Wilkinson turned his head, and gazed shrewdly at the man beside him.
Doctor Palermo had forgotten the part that he was playing — had forgotten it in his triumph. Now Wilkinson’s eyes confirmed the suspicion that had come to his ears.
On the face of Horace Chatham he saw an expression that did not belong there. It was the characteristic smile of Doctor Albert Palermo — that smile that became ugly at the corners of the man’s mouth.
Seth Wilkinson now recognized his companion. In a few short seconds, the masquerader had destroyed the illusion which he had so artfully created.
“Palermo!”