"MR. ELKIN--Please place the contents of the nine cases sent herewith to
the credit of the Greyle Estate.
"PETER CHATFIELD, Agent."
Amidst a chorus of exclamations Sir Cresswell asked a sharp question.
"Is that really Chatfield's signature?"
"Oh, undoubtedly!" replied Mr. Elkin. "Not a doubt of it. Of course, as
soon as I saw it, I closely questioned the greengrocer. But he knew
nothing. He said the lady was what he called wrapped up about her
face--veiled, of course--on both her visits, and that as soon as she'd
seen him set off with his load of boxes she disappeared. He lives, this
greengrocer, on the edge of the town--I've got his address. But I'm sure
he knows no more."
"And the cases have been examined?" asked Copplestone.
"Every one, my dear sir," answered the bank manager with a satisfied
smirk. "Every penny is there! Glorious!"
"This is most extraordinary!" said Sir Cresswell. "What on earth does it
all mean? If we could only trace that woman from the greengrocer's
place--"
But nothing came of an attempt to carry out this proposal, and no news
arrived from the police, and the evening had grown far advanced, and Mrs.
Greyle and Audrey, with Sir Cresswell, Mr. Petherton and Vickers,
Copplestone, and Gilling, were all in a private parlour together at a
late hour, when the door suddenly opened and a woman entered, who threw
back a heavy veil and revealed herself as Addie Chatfield.
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