"That the cheque must have been taken by one of the clerks attached to my son's room, I think there can be little doubt of. The difficulty is----"
"Mr. Bede thinks so himself," interrupted Butterby. "He charged me specially to look after them; after one of 'em in particular."
"Which was it?"
"Hurst."
"Hurst!" repeated Mr. Greatorex in surprise.
"But Mr. Bede is mistaken, sir. It was no more Hurst than it was me."
Instincts are subtle. And one came unbidden into the mind of the detective officer as he spoke--that he had made a mistake in repeating this to Mr. Greatorex. The truth was--carrying within him his private instructions, and the consciousness that they must be kept private--he found these interviews with the head of the firm slightly embarrassing.
"Why should he suspect Hurst if he----"
The door opened, and the person in question appeared at it--Bede Greatorex. Catching a glimpse of the detective's head, he was going out of it a vast deal quicker than he had entered; but his father stopped him.
"Bede! Bede! Come in. Come in and shut the door. Here's a fine thing I have just heard--that you are suspecting one person in particular of having taken the cheque. Over and over again, you have told me there was nobody in particular to be suspected."