He produced two sheets of paper from his pocket-book and handed them to the Chief Constable. Sir Clinton glanced over them.
“H'm! The first one—the letters—is built up as usual from telegram forms. The one with the numbers is fitted together from numbers printed in a newspaper; it might have been clipped from one of these lists of the results of drawings of bonds for redemption—Underground Electric Railways, and that kind of thing. These advertisements have columns and columns of figures out of which he'd be able to pick what he wanted easily enough. Now what about this address that he's put down—the usual guarantee of good faith at the bottom. It's fictitious, of course?”
“Yes, sir. There's no such place.”
“It's in writing. It looks like a girl's writing. This is a dangerous game for Mr. Justice; but I suppose if he'd put all the advertisement in clipped-out letters the newspaper people might have got suspicious and refused to print it. What about this handwriting, Inspector?”
Flamborough's expression showed that he felt he had done his work thoroughly.
“I managed to get hold of specimens of the writing of Miss Hailsham and Miss Deepcar. It isn't either of them. Then I tried to get it recognised—and I succeeded, sir. Miss Hailsham recognised it at once. It's Mrs. Silverdale's own writing!”
“A forgery, then? That's very neat of Mr. Justice. I feel inclined to take off my hat to that fellow. He thinks of everything.”
“Well, it's a blank end for us, so far as I can see, sir.”
Sir Clinton seemed to be so lost in admiration of Mr. Justice's ingenuity that he failed to notice Flamborough's dissatisfaction. When he spoke again, it was on a different topic.
“What about your friend, Mr. Whalley, Inspector? It seems to me we ought to have him up and put him through it as quick as possible. Quite obviously he knows something.”