“Why, this,” answered Barthorpe, rubbing his chin. “It was a brand-new note. That’s puzzled me—that it should be lying there amongst papers. You might go to Uncle Jacob’s bank and find out when he drew it—or rather, if he’d been drawing money that day. He used, as you and I know, to draw considerable amounts in notes. And—it’s only a notion—if he’d drawn anything big that day, and he had it on him that night, why, there’s a motive there. Somebody may have known he’d a considerable amount on him and have followed him in there. Don’t forget that I found both doors open when I went there! That’s a point that mustn’t be overlooked.”
“There’s absolutely nothing else you can think of?” asked Selwood.
Barthorpe shook his head. No—there was nothing—he was sure of that. And then he turned eagerly to the question of finding Burchill. Burchill, he was certain, knew more than he had given him credit for, knew something, perhaps, about the actual murder. He was a deep, crafty dog, Burchill—only let the police find him!——
Time was up, then, and Peggie and Selwood had to go—their last impression that of Barthorpe thrusting his hands in his pockets and lounging away to his enforced idleness. It made the girl sick at heart, and it showed Selwood what deprivation of liberty means to a man who has hitherto been active and vigorous.
“Have we done any good?” asked Peggie, drawing a deep breath of free air as soon as they were outside the gates. “Any bit of good?”
“There’s the affair of the bank-note,” answered Selwood. “That may be of some moment. I’ll go and report progress on that, anyway.”
He put Peggie into her car to go home, and himself hailed a taxi-cab and drove straight to Mr. Halfpenny’s office, where Professor Cox-Raythwaite and Mr. Tertius had arranged to meet him.