“I can’t think of anything in our transactions with the late Mr. Herapath that gives any clue, any idea, anything at all,” he said, somewhat querulously. “Mr. Herapath’s transactions with us, right up to the day of his death, were just what they had been for years. Of course, I’m willing to tell you anything, show you anything. You’re acting for Miss Wynne, aren’t you, Mr. Halfpenny?”
“I have a power of attorney from Miss Wynne, for that matter,” answered Mr. Halfpenny. “Everything of that sort’s in my hands.”
“I’ll tell you what, then,” said the bank manager, laying his hand on a bell at his side. “You’d better see Jacob Herapath’s pass-book. I recently had it posted up to the day of his death, and of course we’ve retained it until you demanded it. You can’t have a better index to his affairs with us than you’ll find in it. Sellars,” he went on, as a clerk appeared, “bring me the late Mr. Herapath’s pass-book—Mr. Ravensdale has it.”
The visitors presently gathered round the desk on which Mr. Playbourne laid the parchment-bound book—one of a corresponding thickness with the dead man’s transactions. The manager turned to the pages last filled in.
“You’re aware, of course, some of you at any rate,” he said, “you, Mr. Halfpenny, and you, Mr. Selwood, that the late Jacob Herapath dealt in big sums. He always had a very large balance at this branch of our bank; he was continually paying in and drawing out amounts which, to men of less means, must needs seem tremendous. Now, you can see for yourselves what his transactions with us were during the last few days of his life; I, as I have said, see nothing out of the way in them—you, of course,” he continued, with a sniff, “may see a good deal!”
Professor Cox-Raythwaite ran his eye over the neatly-written pages, passing rapidly on to the important date—November 12th. And he suddenly thrust out his arm and put the tip of a big yellow finger on one particular entry.
“There!” he exclaimed. “Look at that. ‘Self, £5,000.’ Paid out, you see, on November 12th. Do you see?”
Mr. Playbourne laughed cynically.
“My dear sir!” he said. “Do you mean to say that you attach any importance to an entry like that? Jacob Herapath constantly drew cheques to self for five, ten, twenty, thirty—aye, fifty thousand pounds! He dealt in tens of thousands—he was always buying or selling. Five thousand pounds!—a fleabite!”
“All the same, if you please,” said the Professor quietly, “I should like to know if Jacob Herapath presented that self cheque himself, and if so, how he took the money it represents.”