hetty moved instinctively to her lover's side. his face was ghastly pale, but he held his head high and looked prout proudly in the eyes. the latter waited. he had made no accusation; it was not his cue to express an opinion one way or another. hetty looked at him approvingly.

"if there is anything wrong about the notes," capper began, "i can only----"

"from your point of view there is nothing wrong," said prout. "a mere coincidence, sir. if i could only, have a few minutes' private conversation with you, doctor?"

bruce led the way outside. he was utterly bewildered. those notes had passed into his possession quite honestly, they were for value received, and they never left his possession until he parted with them to capper. why, they were in his possession hours before he was called into the corner house.

the strangely assorted trio turned into a tea room close by. they had a table to themselves where they could talk freely.

"now say it all over again," bruce asked. "i am perfectly dazed. let me know what i am accused of doing."

prout replied that for the present there was no accusation.

"it's like this," he said, laying the fateful notes on the table. "a man who has got to be identified is found dead--murdered, beyond a doubt, in an unoccupied house in raven street. all the circumstances of the case point to robbery. on searching the body we find a letter written by the deceased to a friend saying that he is forwarding some banknotes. he gives the number of those banknotes amongst others--numbers 190753 to 190793. all this is set out clearly in the letter. now, will you please to examine those notes, doctor, and tell me the numbers?"

bruce turned them over one by one. there was no mistake about the matter at all. they were the same numbers as those given in the handwriting of the dead man. the whole thing seemed impossible, but there it was.

"one moment," hetty asked eagerly. "how do you know that the letter in your possession really was written by the murdered man?"

prout glanced admiringly into the pretty flushed face.

"that's a clever question, miss," he said, "but i have a reply to it. we have found a woman near the docks where the unknown stayed for a day or two. as she cannot read or write she got him to write her a line or two to her landlord's agent, sending some arrears of rent and promising the balance shortly. that scrap of paper has come into my possession."

"and of course it tallies," bruce said moodily. "those things always do."

"it does, sir," prout went on. "the question of handwriting is established. how those notes came into your possession we have yet to find out."

"they never came into my possession," bruce cried. "there is some mistake----"

prout tapped the pile of papers significantly.

"here they are, with your signature on the back of every one of them," he said. "there is nothing singular about that, seeing that so many tradesmen insist upon having banknotes endorsed. question is, what's the explanation?"

for the life of him bruce could not say. it was absurd to suppose that by some mistake the bank of england had issued two sets of notes of the same series of numbers. there was no mistake about the murdered man's letter either.

"perhaps you'd like to tell your story, sir," prout suggested.

"my story is quite simple," bruce replied. "some little time ago i bought a picture by j. halbin. i gave a few pounds for it. early in the evening of the day preceding the corner house murder i had a visitor. he was an elderly dutchman, who gave his name as max kronin. he had heard of my purchase, and wanted the picture for family reasons. he offered me ￡200 for it, and paid me in notes--the notes that are on the table there."

"which identical notes must have been in the possession of the murdered man for many hours after you say they passed into your possession."

"take it or leave it," bruce said desperately. "it's like some horrid nightmare. from the time i received the notes from the elderly dutchman till i parted with them to capper they were never out of my possession."

"of course, you know where the dutchman is to be found?"

bruce shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"he took the picture away," he said, "and i thought no more of the matter, he said something about going to antwerp. in the face of the damning evidence you have piled up against me, my story sounds hysterical and foolish."

prout was not so sure of that. he had seen too many startling developments in his time to be surprised at anything.

"of course, it wants a bit of explaining away," he said. "still, supposing for argument sake you were the thief, how could we possibly connect you with the corner house and the poor fellow who was murdered there?"

it had come at last. bruce braced himself for the ordeal. just for the moment there was a terrible temptation to hold his tongue. the story of his visit to the corner house was known to those only who would not dare to speak. once he told the truth he realized that he was putting a noose around his neck.

and yet as an honourable man he was bound to speak, indeed he had already spoken, for gilbert lawrence had been made privy to part of the story.

"you couldn't prove it," he said, moodily, "but i can, i must. prout, i am the sport of either a most amazing piece of misfortune or else the victim of the most cunning and diabolical scheme that man ever dreamed of. i was actually in the corner house within an hour or so of the murder."

a queer little cry broke from hetty. her face was deadly pale, her eyes dilated with horror. it was only for a moment, then she slipped her hand into that of her lover and pressed it warmly. even prout seemed uneasy.

"you are not bound to say anything further, sir," he muttered meaningly.

"ah, i know what you mean," bruce went on recklessly. "don't you see that as an honest man i am bound to speak out? just as i reached my rooms that night a motor drove up to my house with a note for me----"

"ah! i should like to have a look at that note," said front.

"i destroyed it. there was no object in keeping it. i tore it up then and there and pitched it on the pavement. the motor was driven by a dumb man, who conveyed me to the corner house. it struck me as strange, but then the owner might have returned. when i got there i found the man subsequently murdered suffering from a combination of alcoholic poisoning and laudanum. it was hard work, but i managed to save him. a spanish woman--the only creature besides my patient i saw--paid me a fee of three guineas, and there ends the matter."

prout's expression was that of a man who by no means shared this opinion, but he said nothing on that head.

"did you speak to the spanish woman?" he asked.

"i couldn't, for the simple reason that she knew no english," said bruce. "i know i am putting a terrible weapon in your hands but i have no alternative. if there is anything else that i can tell you----"

prout rose and bowed to hetty.

"it's not fair, sir," he said. "it's giving me too great an advantage. if you take my advice, you'll go at once and explain the position to some smart solicitor--ely place for choice."