“Oh, very well!” said the manager resignedly. He touched his bell again, and looked wearily at the clerk who answered it. “Find out if the late Mr. Herapath himself presented a cheque for five thousand on November 12th, and if so, how he took it,” he said. “Well,” he continued, turning to his visitors. “Do you see anything with any further possible mystery attached to it?”
“There’s an entry there—the last,” observed Mr. Halfpenny. “That. ‘Dimambro: three thousand guineas.’ That’s the same date.”
Mr. Playbourne suddenly showed some interest and animation. His eyes brightened; he sat up erect.
“Ah!” he said. “Well, now, that is somewhat remarkable, that entry!—though of course there’s nothing out of the common in it. But that cheque was most certainly the very last ever drawn by Jacob Herapath, and according to strict law, it never ought to have been paid out by us.”
“Why?” asked Professor Cox-Raythwaite.
“Because Jacob Herapath, the drawer, was dead before it was presented,” replied the manager. “But of course we didn’t know that. The cheque, you see, was drawn on November 12th, and it was presented here as soon as ever the doors were opened next morning and before any of us knew of what had happened during the night, and it was accordingly honoured in the usual way.”
“The payee, of course, was known?” observed Mr. Halfpenny.
“No, he was not known, but he endorsed the cheque with name and address, and there can be no reason whatever to doubt that it had come to him in the ordinary way of business,” replied the manager. “Quite a usual transaction, but, as I say, noteworthy, because, as you know, a cheque is no good after its drawer’s demise.”
Professor Cox-Raythwaite, who appeared to have fallen into a brown study for a moment, suddenly looked up.
“Now I wonder if we might be permitted to see that cheque—as a curiosity?” he said. “Can we be favoured so far?”