“I would never have suspected the bill,” he said, handing it back. “It looks absolutely genuine.”
Anthony nodded. “It’s the work of a genius,” he admitted. “Who gave you the bill, Mr. Wyndham?”
“Let me see.” Wyndham half closed his eyes in thought, and under lowered lids observed the Secret Service agent. Anthony cloaked his ability under a sleepy manner and sleek appearance, and with him patience was more than a virtue; it was a profession. Dogged perseverance had won hard-earned promotion for him. He waited in silence for Wyndham to continue his remarks. “Why do you ask where I got the note?” the latter demanded, and his tone was crisp.
“Because we must trace it; and it will help materially if you can tell me where you procured the bill.”
“In that case”—Wyndham returned to his chair, but remained standing, one hand on the back of it—“the bank note was given me by Miss Dorothy Deane.”
“The trained nurse?”
“No, her sister.” Wyndham looked closely at Anthony. “You know the Misses Deane?”
“Never had the pleasure of meeting them.” Anthony sank down in his seat. “Are they both here?”
“Yes.”
“Then can I see Miss Dorothy Deane?”