“But—it all seemed in order!” exclaimed the concerned manager. “She was as plausible, and all that—and really, you know, Miss Wickham, we know her very well—and, in addition to that, you have a very large balance lying here. Mrs. Killenhall merely mentioned that you wanted this amount, in notes, and that she had called for it—and of course, I cashed the check—your check, remember!—at once.”
“I hadn’t filled in the amount,” remarked Miss Wickham.
“Mrs. Killenhall had often presented checks bearing your signature in which you hadn’t filled in the amount,” said the manager. “There was nothing unusual, I assure you, in any detail of the affair.”
“The most important detail, now,” observed Viner dryly, “is to find Mrs. Killenhall.”
The manager, who was obviously filled with amazement at Mrs. Killenhall’s audacity, looked from one to the other of his visitors, as if he could scarcely credit their suggestion.
“You really mean me to believe that Mrs. Killenhall has got ten thousand pounds out of Miss Wickham by a trick?” he asked, fixing his gaze at last on Viner.
“What I really mean you to believe,” said Viner, rising, “is that a rapid series of events this afternoon has proved to me that Mrs. Killenhall is one of a gang who are responsible for the murder of John Ashton, who stole his diamond and certain papers, and who have endeavoured, very cleverly, to foist one of their number, a scoundrelly clever actor, on the public, as a peer of the realm who had been missing. Mrs. Killenhall—who has another name—probably got wind of possible detection about noon today, and took advantage of Miss Wickham’s habit of giving her a weekly check, to provide herself with ample funds. That’s really about the truth—and I think Miss Wickham and I had better be seeing the police.”
“The very best thing you can do!” responded the manager with alacrity. “And take my advice and go straight to headquarters—go to New Scotland Yard. Just think what this woman—and her accomplices—could do! If she or they had one hour’s start of you, they can have already put a good distance between themselves and London; they can be halfway to Dover, or Harwich, or Southampton. And therefore—”
“And therefore all the more reason why we should set somebody on their trail,” interrupted Viner, and hurried Miss Wickham out of the manager’s room and away to the taxicab which he had purposely kept in waiting. “I don’t think Mrs. Killenhall, or Killerby, or whatever her name is, will have hurried away as quickly as all that,” he remarked as they sped along toward Whitehall. “My own idea is that, having got hold of your money, she’ll probably have made for the headquarters of this precious gang, she and they are sure to have one, for I should say the place in Whitechapel was only an outpost—and they’ll be better able to arrange an escape from there than she would to make an immediate flight. She—but what are you thinking?”
“That I seem to be involved, somehow, in a very strange and curious combination of things,” answered Miss Wickham.
“Just so!” agreed Viner. “So do I—and I was literally pitchforked into the very midst of it all by sheer accident. If I hadn’t happened to go out for a late stroll on the night on which it began, I should never have—but here we are!”
The official of the Criminal Investigation Department with whom they were shortly closeted, listened carefully and silently to Viner’s account of all that had happened. He was one of those never-to-be-sufficiently-praised individuals who never interrupt and always understand, and at the close of Viner’s story he said exactly what the narrator was thinking. “The real truth of all this, Mr. Viner,” he said, “is that this is probably one of the last chapters in the history of the Lonsdale Passage murder. For if you find this woman and the men who are undoubtedly her accomplices, you will most likely have found, in one or other of them, the murderer of John Ashton!”
“Precisely!” agreed Viner. “Precisely!”
The official rose from his seat and turned to the door.
“Drillford, of your nearest police-station, had this case in charge,” he remarked. “I’ll just call him on the telephone.”
He left the room and was away for several minutes; when he returned there was something like a smile on his face.
“If you and Miss Wickham will drive along and see Drillford, Mr. Viner,” he said. “I think you’ll find he’s some news for you.”
“Has he told it to you?” demanded Viner.
“Well—just a little,” answered the official with another smile. “But I won’t rob him of the pleasure of telling you himself. You ought to be disappointed. However, I’ll just tell you enough to whet your appetite for more—Drillford is confident that he’s just arrested the real man! No—no more!” he added, with a laugh. “You’ll run up there in twenty minutes.”
Drillford, cool and confident as ever, was alone in his office when Viner and his companion were shown in. He looked at Miss Wickham with considerable curiosity as he handed her a chair, and Viner noticed that the bow he made her was unusually respectful. But he immediately plunged into the pertinent subject, and turned to Viner with a laugh of self-deprecation.
“Well, Mr. Viner!” he said. “You were right, and I was wrong. It wasn’t that young fellow Hyde who killed Mr. Ashton. And now that I know who did, I don’t mind saying that I’m jolly glad that his innocence will be established.”
“But do you know who did?” asked Viner eagerly.
“I do!” answered Drillford.
“Who, then?” exclaimed Viner.
“He’s in the cells at the back, now,” said Drillford, “and I only hope he’s not one of those chaps who are so clever that they can secrete poison to the very last moment and then cheat the gallows, for now that I know as much as I do, I should say he’s as pretty a specimen of the accomplished scoundrel as ever
