“It is only fair,” said Mr Barnacle. “This gentleman will search both, I dare say. Doubleday, show this gentleman both desks.”
It was a long, uncomfortable interval which ensued, Hawkesbury breaking out in periodical protests against his desk being examined, and I wondering where and how to look for help. The partners meanwhile stood and talked together in a whisper at the window.
At length the gentleman, who, it had dawned on me, was not a bank official, but a detective, returned with Doubleday, who carried in his hands a few books and papers.
The petty-cash book and box were first delivered over, and without examination consigned to the safe.
“These letters were in the same desk,” said the detective, laying down the papers on the table. They appeared to be letters, and in the address of the top one I instantly recognised the handwriting of the letter sent to Mary Smith, which I still had in my pocket.
Hawkesbury made an angry grasp at the papers. “They are private letters,” he exclaimed, “give them up! What right have you to touch them?”
“Hawkesbury,” said Mr Barnacle, “in a case like this it is better for you to submit quietly to what has been done. Nothing in these papers that does not concern the matter in hand is likely to tell against you. Is that all, officer?”
“That’s all in that desk,” said the detective. “In the other young gentleman’s desk the only thing besides business papers and litter was this key.”
A key? What key could it be? It was the first I had seen of it!
“Let me look at it,” said Mr Merrett, suddenly, as the detective laid it on the table.