“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” said the manager, and the cashier withdrew.
Freeman gave a self-satisfied and contemptuous sniff.
There is more, sometimes, in a sniff than can be conveyed by any number or combination of words, and this sniff of Freeman’s went to the detective’s marrow; it contained quite a lot of things, self-commendation and contempt for the intelligence of Freyberger included.
“Considering,” said Freeman, “that I have the pen in my pocket with which I saw Sir Anthony write the cheque, I would have been justified in presenting the thing for payment, notwithstanding the doubt cast upon it by this man,” indicating Freyberger; “but he was so sure, that I accompanied him here, losing precious time in the transaction. I shall take care that the matter is represented to his superiors at New Scotland Yard.”
“Oh,” said Freyberger, who had been plunged for a moment in thought, and who seemed quite oblivious to the insulting remark just uttered. “You have the pen in your pocket, have you, with which Sir Anthony wrote this cheque? Please produce it.”
Freeman produced it with a compassionate smile. He was beginning to feel almost sorry for the man he had brought to confusion.
Freyberger’s steel grey eyes sparkled for a second when he saw the pen. It was a stylograph, not a fountain.
He wrote a few words on a piece of paper with the pen and then handed it, with Sir Anthony’s cheque, to the manager.
“Could those two writings have come from the point of the same pen?” he asked.