“I arranged matters for him,” he continued. “He took out a policy on his life with the Western Medical and Mercantile. I have the policy in my safe if you wish to see it.”
“Of course you allowed a reasonable margin for contingencies, I suppose?” Flamborough inquired sympathetically.
“Oh, naturally I expected him to go on borrowing, so I had to allow a fair margin for contingencies. The policy was for £5,000.”
“So you're about £4,000 in pocket, now that he's dead,” Flamborough commented enviously. “Some people are lucky.”
“Against that you've got to offset the bad debts I make,” Spratton pointed out.
Flamborough could not pretend to himself that he had managed to elicit much of importance during his call; but he had no excuse for prolonging the interview. He rose to his feet.
“I don't suppose we shall need any of these facts if it comes to trying anyone,” he said, as he prepared to leave. “If we do, you'll have plenty of warning, of course.”
The moneylender opened a door which allowed a direct exit into the corridor, and Flamborough went out. As he walked along the passage, he was still racking his memory to discover who Spratton resembled; and at last, as he reached the pavement outside, it flashed into his mind.
“Of course! It's the Chief! Put a moustache on to that fellow and dye his hair a bit and he might pass for Driffield in the dusk. He's not a twin-brother; but there's a resemblance of sorts, undoubtedly.”
He returned to headquarters feeling that he had wasted his time over the moneylender. Except that he had now seen the man in the flesh and had an opportunity of sizing him up, he was really no further forward than he had been before; for the few actual figures of transactions which he had obtained were obviously of little interest in themselves.