"Morning, Mr. Garrowell," said the detective. "Nice morning, sir."
"Morning, Quigman," responded Mr. Garrowell. "A very nice morning!"
He nodded smilingly and went on his way, and round the corner into Parker Street. Quigman glanced at Hetherwick and shook his head.
"Not him!" he said. "Matherfield's not following. And, as I said, we may have to wait—hours!"
But at the end of another ten minutes Matherfield and Lord Morradale came together out of the entrance hall opposite. An official, smiling and talking, accompanied them to the threshold; when they left him they came straight across the road. And it was obvious to Hetherwick that each was in a state of surprise—possibly, of perplexity. Matherfield hailed them as soon as he was within speaking distance.
"Here's a queer business!" he said. "Did you see a professional-looking chap come away just now who carried a small leather box?"
"We saw Mr. Garrowell, solicitor, St. Martin's Lane," answered Quigman. "I know him. Gone down Parker Street."
"It was Garrowell," assented Matherfield. "I know him, too. Well," he turned to Hetherwick, "it's a queer business. They knew Garrowell across there—he's been to Madame Listorelle's safe for her before. He came there just now, with the usual authorisation, on her notepaper, went to the safe, got that small box, and went. Garrowell—a highly—respectable legal practitioner!"
"Why didn't you stop him and ask him questions?" inquired Hetherwick.
Matherfield exchanged a glance with Lord Morradale.