Then a keen, vivid recollection flashed up in him, and he turned sharply, glancing at the rigid figure in the background.
"What is it?" asked Robmore curiously. "Something strikes you?"
Hetherwick pointed to the dead man's attitude.
"That's—that's just how Hannaford looked when he died in the railway carriage!" he whispered. "After the first signs—you know—he laid back and—died. Just like that—as if he'd dropped quietly asleep. Can—can it be that——"
"I know what you're thinking," muttered Robmore. "Poisoned! Well—what about—eh—the other man?"
"Baseverie!" exclaimed Hetherwick.
"Why not?—to rid himself of an accomplice! But—this pocket-book," said Robmore. "Let's see what's in it. Doesn't seem to be anything very much, by the thinness."
From one flap of the pocket-book he drew out a wad of carefully-folded bank notes, and rapidly turned them over.
"Hundred and fifty pounds there," he remarked. "And what's this paper—a draft on a New York bank for two hundred. New York, eh? So that's where he was bound? And this," he went on, turning out the other flap. "Ah! see this, Mr. Hetherwick? He'd got his passage booked by the Maratic, sailing to-night. Um! And Matherfield's gone to Southampton, after Baseverie. I'm beginning to see a bit into this, I think."
"What do you see?" asked Hetherwick.