"This way. John Strasfield had all the cheques drawn last week sent to him for the usual purpose of verification—he has his own ways of doing his business, you know. In looking over them he was rather struck with this cheque, because it was drawn to self. Self, too; not selves. After regarding it for a minute or two, another thought struck him—that the signature was not quite like yours. So he brought the cheque to me. I don't think you signed it."
Mr. Grubb rose and closed the door, which he had left ajar after opening it for Lady Adela, the evening being very warm. John Strasfield was their confidential cashier in Leadenhall Street.
"If it is your signature, your hand must have been nervous when you wrote it," continued Mr. Howard, "rendering the letters less decided than usual."
That Mr. Grubb had been nervous on Saturday morning he was quite conscious of; though not, he believed, to the extent of making his hand unsteady. But he had not drawn any cheque.
"It was drawn in favour of self, you say. Was it signed with my private signature, Francis C. C. Grubb?"
"No; with the firm's signature, Grubb and Howard. Glyn's people suspected nothing wrong, and cashed it."
"Who presented the cheque?"
"Charles Cleveland. And he received the money."
"Charles Cleveland!" repeated Mr. Grubb, in surprise, his whole attention fully aroused now. "There is some mystery about this."
"So it seemed to me," answered the elder man. "Cleveland stayed out of town today—by your leave, I think you said."