Whyman turned the envelope in his hand, after having cast a glance at the cipher. The candid blue eyes regarded the detective steadily as he spoke.
“Yes, that die was cut by my instructions, certainly. Now, in what way can I assist you, Mr Smeaton, beyond confirming that fact?”
Smeaton passed him the threatening letter. “There is no question the envelope came out of your office. Now, do you recognise this handwriting?”
The other man read it carefully, and then passed it back, without a trace of confusion.
“I am certain that I have never seen that handwriting before. How the envelope was obtained I cannot pretend to guess. Hundreds of people, of course, were in and out of my office during the time I was with the company.”
“I presume you had several clerks in your employ?”
Mr Whyman smiled. “Quite the opposite. It was a small and struggling concern, unprosperous from the start. I only had three assistants at the London branch: an elderly man, and two juniors. I should recognise the writing of any one of those if it were put before me.”
Was he speaking the truth or not? Was he honestly puzzled as he appeared, or shielding the writer of that threatening epistle with his assumption of ignorance? Smeaton could not be sure. The only evidence he possessed as to character was that furnished by the deathbed revelations of Roselli, and that was unfavourable.
He resolved to try a random shot. “I think at one time you were acquainted with a man of the name of Giovanni Roselli, an Italian.”
The shot went home. There was a flicker in the steady blue eyes, the voice had lost its bluff and genial ring. He spoke hesitatingly, picking his words.