“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Mr. Playbourne. “No trouble. I’ll—ah, here’s your information about the other cheque—the self cheque for five thousand.”
He took a slip of paper from the clerk who just then entered, and read it aloud.
“Here you are,” he said. “‘Mr. Herapath cashed cheque for £5,000 himself, at three o’clock; the money in fifty notes of £100 each, numbered as follows’—you can take this slip, if you like,” he continued, handing the paper to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, as the obviously most interested man of his party. “There are the numbers of the notes. Of course, I can’t see how all this throws any light on the mystery of Herapath’s murder, but perhaps you can. Sellers,” he continued, turning to the clerk, and beckoning him to look at the pass-book, “find me the cheque referred to there, and bring it here.”
The clerk returned in a few minutes with the cheque, which Mr. Playbourne at once exhibited to his visitors.
“There you are, gentlemen,” he said. “Quite a curiosity!—certainly the last cheque ever drawn by our poor friend. There, you see, is his well-known signature with his secret little mark which you wouldn’t detect—secret between him and us, eh!—big, bold handwriting, wasn’t it? Sad to think that that was—very likely—the last time he used a pen!”
Professor Cox-Raythwaite in his turn handled the cheque. Its face gave him small concern; what he was most interested in was the endorsement on the back. Without saying anything to his companions, he memorized that endorsement, and he was still murmuring it to himself when, a few minutes later, he walked out of the bank.
“Luigi Dimambro, Hotel Ravenna, Soho.”