The caretaker laid down his knife, and thrusting his hand in his breast-pocket, drew forth an envelope and silently handed it over. It was an azure-tinted envelope, of a very good quality of paper, such as is only sold in high-class stationery shops, and the sheet inside matched it in tint and quality. But Hetherwick at once noticed something about that sheet; so, too, did Mapperley, peering at it from behind his elbow. About an inch and a half had been rather roughly cut off at the top; obviously some address had been engraved, or embossed, or printed on the missing portion. As for what was written on the sheet, it was little—a simple order that the caretaker should allow bearer to go into Madame Listorelle's flat.
"You recognised that as Madame's handwriting?" suggested Hetherwick.
"Oh, that's her fist, right enough, that is!" replied the caretaker. "I knew it at once. And no wonder! I ain't no scholard, not me!—but I knows enough to know that it 'ud puzzle one o' them here forgers as ye reads about to imitate that there sort o' writing—more like as if it had been done with a wooden skewer than a Christian pen! Oh, that's hers."
Hetherwick handed the letter and envelope to Mapperley, who was holding out a hand.
"Well," he said. "I wish ye'd just let me have a look into Madame's flat. There's something seriously wrong, and——"
"Oh, you can do that—'long as I'm with you," said the caretaker readily. He rose and led the way to the left, and presently ushered them into a smart flat and turned on the electric light. "Don't see nothing wrong here," he observed. "The chap wasn't here ten minutes, and he carried nothing heavy away, whatever he had in his pockets."
Hetherwick and Mapperley looked round. Everything seemed correct and in order—the surroundings were those of a refined and artistic woman, obviously one who loved order and system. But on a desk that stood in the centre of the sitting-room a drawer had been pulled open, and in front of it lay scattered a few sheets of Madame Listorelle's private notepaper, with her engraved address and crest. Near by lay some envelopes, similarly marked. And with a sudden idea in his mind, Hetherwick picked up a sheet or two of the paper and a couple of envelopes and put them in his pocket.
A few minutes later, once more in the cab which they had kept waiting, and on the way to Hill Street, whither Hetherwick had bidden the driver go next, Mapperley turned to his employer with a sly laugh, and held up something in the light of a street lamp by which they were passing.
"What's that?" asked Hetherwick.
"The order written by Madame Listorelle," answered Mapperley, chuckling. "The caretaker didn't notice that I carried it off, envelope and all, under his very eyes! But I did—and here it is!"