“Aye, well, you never know!” remarked Quigman lugubriously. “But, as I say, I know him. Mr. Garrowell—Mr. Octavius Garrowell—solicitor, of St. Martin’s Lane, that is. Been in practice for himself about four years or so. Nice young feller!—quiet. And he is going in there—see?”
Hetherwick saw. There were several people, men and women, entering the Safe Deposit just then, but Mr. Garrowell’s silk hat and sloping shoulders made him easily identifiable.
“I dessay it’s him!” observed Quigman, with a sigh. “Just the sort to be took in, he is! Innocent, unsuspecting sort o’ gentleman. However—it mayn’t be. Deal o’ people use these Safe Deposits nowadays.”
Mr. Garrowell disappeared. The two watchers waited. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by; then Mr. Garrowell came out. He came out just as any man would come out after transacting his business, quietly. Nobody followed him: nobody seemed to be watching him—from the Safe Deposit. But Hetherwick noticed at once that whereas he had entered carrying nothing but an umbrella, he now carried a small, square, leather-covered box. With this in his left hand he crossed the roadway, and advanced straight towards Hetherwick and Quigman.
“No need to move, sir,” whispered the detective. “Take no notice—spot him, though.”
Mr. Garrowell, seen at close quarters, looked to be a somewhat absentminded gentleman. But, chancing to look up as he stepped on the pavement, his eyes encountered Quigman, who touched his hat.
“Morning, Mr. Garrowell,” said the detective. “Nice morning, sir.”
“Morning, Quigman,” responded Mr. Garrowell. “A very nice morning!”
He nodded smilingly and went on his way, and round the corner into Parker Street. Quigman glanced at Hetherwick and shook his head.
“Not him!” he said. “Matherfield’s not following. And, as I said, we may have to wait—hours!”
But at the end of another ten minutes Matherfield and Lord Morradale came together out of the entrance hall opposite. An official, smiling and talking, accompanied them to the threshold; when they left him they came straight across the road. And it was obvious to Hetherwick that each was in a state of surprise—possibly, of perplexity. Matherfield hailed them as soon as he was within speaking distance.
“Here’s a queer business!” he said. “Did you see a professional-looking chap come away just now who carried a small leather box?”
“We saw Mr. Garrowell, solicitor, St. Martin’s Lane,” answered Quigman. “I know him. Gone down Parker Street.”
“It was Garrowell,” assented Matherfield. “I know him, too. Well,” he turned to Hetherwick, “it’s a queer business. They knew Garrowell across there—he’s been to Madame Listorelle’s safe for her before. He came there just now, with the usual authorisation, on her notepaper, went to the safe, got that small box, and went. Garrowell—a highly—respectable legal practitioner!”
“Why didn’t you stop him and ask him questions?” inquired Hetherwick.
Matherfield exchanged a glance with Lord Morradale.
“Not there!” he said. “It—well, it looks as if Madame really had sent him! Her business.”
“Of course she’d sent him!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “Sent him under compulsion! The whole thing’s a clever plant! These fellows probably know that she’s employed Garrowell now and then, and they forced her to write a letter to him, authorising him to come here again, and enclosing an order on the Safe Deposit people! Don’t you see?”
“By Gad, there’s something in that, Matherfield!” said Lord Morradale. “Didn’t strike me, though! ’Pon my honour, I really thought he had come direct from her. Couldn’t think why, exactly, but then, as Matherfield says, a highly-respectable solicitor—eh?”
“We’ll soon settle it!” exclaimed Matherfield suddenly. “We’ll go to Garrowell’s office. Better discuss it there than have tackled him here. Anyway, he’ll have the square box. Quigman, call a taxi!”
“There’s a man here waiting for me,” said Hetherwick. He signalled to his former driver who quickly came alongside. “For anything we know,” he continued, as all four took their seats, and were driven off, “Garrowell may have gone straight away somewhere to hand that box over! We ought to have followed.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Matherfield. “The whole thing’s queer, and not at all what I expected. Lord Morradale says that he never heard of madame employing Garrowell, and yet the Safe people say he’s been here two or three times on her business. But we’ll soon have it out of him.”
XXIII
The Landlady of Little Smith Street
Garrowell’s office proved to be up two flights of stairs in St. Martin’s Lane. They were dark and dingy stairs, and none of the four men clambering up them noticed that an office-boy, rushing unceremoniously downward carried a small parcel with which he fled out of the door and away down the street. They were, indeed, thinking of Garrowell—and within five minutes they were all in his private room. For another five minutes Matherfield was explaining matters—explaining to an obviously startled and much astonished listener.
“That’s how it stands,” concluded Matherfield. “You’ve evidently got the explanation, Mr. Garrowell. Now—”
“But you surprise me!” broke in the solicitor. “I’ve acted for Madame Listorelle in two or three matters—I’ve got things from her safe for her before, once or twice. And I saw nothing unusual in the letter she sent me this morning. Here it is! You can see it. Her usual notepaper—certainly her handwriting—nobody, I think, could imitate that successfully. You see what she says—I was to give the enclosed authorisation to the Safe people, take out a small, square, brown-leather-covered box from the safe, pack it up, and send it off to Mr. C. Basing, Post Office, Southampton, at once, by express delivery. Nothing unusual in all that, I think. Of course, I carried out her wishes. But look at the letter.”
All four men were looking at the letter. It was as Garrowell described, and whether it had been written under duress or not, the writing was bold and firm. But Matherfield seized on the envelope, and after a glance at it, pointed to
