CHAPTER XI. THE NOTES ARE TRACED.

The best part of two days had passed, but there was no abatement in the sensation caused by the fresh tragedy of the corner house. An enterprising newspaper had made a determined effort to trace the whereabouts of the real owner of the premises and drag his pitiful story afresh into the daylight, but he was not to be found. No relative came forward with the hope of gain. And it looked as if the new tragedy was going to be as deep a mystery as the old one.

Of course the police knew nothing. Sarcastic remarks were made at their expense. Other papers hinted at startling disclosures to be made at the adjourned inquest. There were many startling rumours contradicted as soon as they were made.

"Even you are puzzled, uncle," Hetty said to Lawrence. She was off for the afternoon; she had called at the novelist's chambers to meet Bruce there with an eye to a little shopping and a visit to the new house in Green Street. "I know you are interested. Can't you make anything out of it?"

"Well, I can and I can't," Lawrence said thoughtfully. "I'm puzzled, of course, and I am very much interested in this kind of thing. But really I am puzzled over one of the most remarkable coincidences that ever happened in the experience of a man who has made a pretty penny out of coincidences. In this instance 'the long arm' has taken a form that is positively uncanny."

"Perhaps I can help you," Hetty suggested.

"So you shall later on," Lawrence replied. "For the present I have my hands full. I've had some hard problems to solve in the way of plots, but never one like this. Here's Bruce coming along the street. Run away and leave me to my puzzle."

Hetty determined to think no more about it for the present. It was a lovely afternoon, she was conscious of the fact that her dress suited her to perfection, and was she not going to spend a long afternoon with the man of her choice in the fascinating occupation of house furnishing?

It was the first half-day Bruce had taken off for a long time. All his patients this morning had behaved in a perfectly satisfactory manner. The sun was shining out of a cloudless sky, everything seemed fair and prosperous. It was one of the days when everything seems well--the kind of day that often precedes disaster.

Hetty chatted along by the side of her lover happy enough. She would have made light of the fears had they occurred to her now. After all, what could the Countess do? That love and revenge business was all very well in books. Gordon was a resolute man, perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and the Countess was not likely to do anything to prejudice her position in society.

Thus Hetty out of doors and in the sunshine. She and Bruce had a thousand plans to make, a score of shops to look into. Their tastes were the same, and principally lay in the direction of the old and antique.

"We won't bother about the drawing-room," Hetty said gaily. "That can take care of itself for the present. Two fans and a bulrush as somebody says. And the other rooms, so long as they are light, won't matter. But the dining-room must be quite the thing. Oh, if you could only afford to get the lovely oak we saw at Capper's! We must think of you alone, just at first, Gordon."

She looked up with such a sunny smile that Bruce regretted the presence of others. There was not a happier pair in London. They turned into Capper's presently, and for the first time that day Hetty was conscious of a little pang of envy.

"I am not going to look at another thing," she said. "But it does seem hard that we have not got another hundred pounds, Gordon."

Bruce kissed her behind the demure corner of a Japanese screen. His eyes were dancing with mischief and pleasure.

"You can spend the hundred pounds as you please, dearest," he said. "I am going to tell you a secret. I have had a lovely slice of luck. Forty five-pound banknotes that I never for one moment expected came my way."

"Then you can buy the old oak," Hetty said rapturously.

"Always thinking of others," Gordon smiled. "To tell you the truth I have bought and paid for the old oak. Consequently the money set aside for that goes to your side of the house. No, I have no choice in the matter. I am going to let you do exactly as you please."

The sedate head of the firm in personal attendance smiled. The lovers were not sorry to be rid of him when he was called away for a moment. An official-looking person was standing by the desk with a package in his hand.

"These banknotes were paid to your firm?" he asked.

Mr. Capper admitted the fact as he glanced at them. They had been paid to him two days ago and by him passed on to a wholesale firm of upholsterers.

"In fact," he said, "the customer who gave them me is now in the shop."

The official-looking man stepped forward. As he came into the light Bruce recognised him for Sergeant Prout. A sense of uneasiness came over him. Prout touched his cap and then indicated the notes.

"A word with you, Dr. Bruce," he said. "These notes, 190753 to 190792, were in the possession of the man found murdered at the corner house in Raven Street. We know they were stolen from him. The next day they were paid here in purchase of some furniture."

"Some mistake," said Bruce. "I certainly paid forty five-pound notes here the day after the murder, but they came into my possession the night before. If those are the notes you say they are I never touched them."

Prout turned the notes over and opened them out like a pack of cards.

"Is not that your signature endorsed on every one?" he asked.

"Good heavens," Bruce cried hoarsely, "it is. It would be futile to deny it."