"What's all this?" demanded Sir Cresswell. "You've got—that gold?"
"Less than an hour ago," replied the bank manager, dropping into a chair and slapping his hand on his knees in his excitement, "a man who turned out to be a greengrocer came with his cart to the bank and said he'd been sent with nine boxes for delivery to us. Asked who had sent him he replied that early this morning a lady whom he didn't know had asked him to put the boxes in his shed until she called for them—she brought them in a motor-car. This afternoon she called again at two o'clock, paid him for the storage and for what he was to do, and instructed him to put the boxes on his cart and bring them to us. Which," continued Mr. Elkin, gleefully rubbing his hands together, "he did! With—this! And that, my dear ladies and good gentlemen, is the most extraordinary document which, in all my forty years' experience of banking matters, I have ever seen!"
He laid a dirty, crumpled half-sheet of cheap note-paper on the table at which they were all sitting, and Copplestone, bending over it, read aloud what was there written.
"MR. ELKIN—Please place the contents of the nine cases sent herewith to the credit of the Greyle Estate.
"PETER CHATFIELD, Agent."
Amidst a chorus of exclamations Sir Cresswell asked a sharp question.
"Is that really Chatfield's signature?"
"Oh, undoubtedly!" replied Mr. Elkin. "Not a doubt of it. Of course, as soon as I saw it, I closely questioned the greengrocer. But he knew nothing. He said the lady was what he called wrapped up about her face—veiled, of course—on both her visits, and that as soon as she'd seen him set off with his load of boxes she disappeared. He lives, this greengrocer, on the edge of the town—I've got his address. But I'm sure he knows no more."
"And the cases have been examined?" asked Copplestone.
"Every one, my dear sir," answered the bank manager with a satisfied smirk. "Every penny is there! Glorious!"