any suspicion in me, but I was certainly interested in them."
"I should like to know," said Wedgwood. "It's what I came for."
"Well," continued the manager, "until quite recently Thomas Wraypoole's banking account was in a rather poor way. I should say his business just about kept going, and that was all. He was certainly a little pressed for money not so long ago: now and then he arranged temporary over-drafts. Then he suddenly be gan paying in considerable amounts, and he told me that by the death of his brother he had come in for a nice bit of property and was realizing it."
"Yes," observed Wedgwood. "John left him everything. About six hundred pounds, I believe."
"About that," assented the manager. "He gradually accumulated it here—in cash. I imagine he realized all the property. But only a few days ago an unusual incident occurred. He brought here a cheque on a certain private bank—Fentiman's, in Lombard Street—and asked us to have it specially cleared. It was for five thousand pounds, made payable to him. But the signature of the drawer was unusual. Instead of initials and a surname it appeared to be all one name, and whatever that name
