“I’ve been looking through Fanshawe’s papers,” went on the inspector impassively. “He kept them in apple-pie order, as one might expect. I find that he drew a cheque to self for two thousand pounds on the 18th of this month on an account he kept at the Bank of England in the name of Shaw. It rather looks as though that was his present to you. No doubt we shall be able to prove it by the numbers of the notes.”

“Of course you will,” said Harper impatiently. “But what is the point of that?”

“Only that this passbook shows that the account had not been operated for five years. The money he stole from Ballantine went into a separate account altogether.”

“You mean——”

“I mean, young fellow, that the only matter between us now is the telephone call you made an hour or so ago. I needn’t tell you that you have committed a criminal offence.”

“No,” said Harper soberly, “you needn’t. But it’s an offence I shall be proud of having committed to my dying day.”

The lights of an ambulance appeared round the corner. While they approached, Mallett remained quite still, staring in front of him.

“What are you going to do with me?” asked the voice at his side.

The inspector turned his head abruptly towards him.

“I think I can make my report without mentioning your name,” he jerked out. “Good night, young fellow, and—good luck!”

He moved away to give instructions to the stretcher bearers.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.

Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.