The Charing Cross Mystery

by J. S. Fletcher

"That's how it stands," concluded Matherfield. "You've evidently got the explanation, Mr. Garrowell. Now——"

"But you surprise me!" broke in the solicitor. "I've acted for Madame Listorelle in two or three matters—I've got things from her safe for her before, once or twice. And I saw nothing unusual in the letter she sent me this morning. Here it is! You can see it. Her usual notepaper—certainly her handwriting—nobody, I think, could imitate that successfully. You see what she says—I was to give the enclosed authorisation to the Safe people, take out a small, square, brown-leather-covered box from the safe, pack it up, and send it off to Mr. C. Basing, Post Office, Southampton, at once, by express delivery. Nothing unusual in all that, I think. Of course, I carried out her wishes. But look at the letter."

All four men were looking at the letter. It was as Garrowell described, and whether it had been written under duress or not, the writing was bold and firm. But Matherfield seized on the envelope, and after a glance at it, pointed to the postmark.

"See that!" he exclaimed. "Posted in the S.W. district late last night. If madame had been at home in Paddington the postmark would have been different. Well—but the square box, Mr. Garrowell! You've got it, of course? Do you know that that box probably contains jewels worth——"

"The box?" ejaculated Garrowell. "Got it? Of course not! It's gone! The boy went off to the post office with it—oh, just before you came."

"Gad!" muttered Lord Morradale. "Well—the post office, at once, Matherfield!"

But Matherfield suddenly laughed, throwing up both hands as if with a sudden inspiration.

"No, my lord, no!" he said. "No! The box is safe enough in the post. It's off to Mr. C. Basing, Post Office, Southampton. And when Mr. Basing calls to collect it—he'll find me!"

There was triumphant conviction in Matherfield's tone: there was the impulse to immediate action in the way in which he pulled out a railway guide from his pocket, and rapidly turned its pages. But Hetherwick and Lord Morradale looked at each other. And each saw that the other was dubious.

"Yes," said Lord Morradale slowly. "Um—no doubt, Matherfield. But I say, you know—those jewels are worth no end! Safe enough, perhaps, in the hands of the postal authorities, now they are there, but—there's many a slip, you know, and——"