elves now that we believe him to have told the
truth in that statement."

"But how exactly are we to bestir ourselves?" asked Mr. Halfpenny.

"I suggest a visit to Jacob Herapath's bankers, first of all," answered
the Professor. "I haven't heard that any particular inquiry has been
made. Did you make any, Halfpenny?"

"Jacob's bankers are Bittleston, Stocks and Bittleston," replied the old
lawyer. "I did make it in my way to drop in there and to see Mr.
Playbourne, the manager of their West End branch, in Piccadilly. He
assured me that there was nothing whatever out of the common in Jacob
Herapath's transactions with them just before his death, and nothing at
all in their particulars of his banking account which could throw any
possible light on his murder."

"In his opinion," said the Professor, caustically, "in his opinion,
Halfpenny! But--you don't know what our opinion might be. Now, I suggest
that we all go at once to see this Mr. Playbourne; there's ample time
before the bank closes for the day."

"Very well," assented Mr. Halfpenny. "All the same, I'm afraid
Playbourne will only say just what he said before."

Mr. Playbourne, a good typical specimen of the somewhat old-fashioned
bank manager, receiving this formidable deputation of four gentlemen in
his private room, said precisely what he had said before, and seemed
astonished to think that any light upon such an unpleasant thing as a
murder could possibly be derived from so highly respectable a quarter as
that in which he moved during the greater part of the day.

"I can't think of anything in our transactions with the late Mr.
Herapath that gives any clue, any idea, anything at all," he said,
somewhat querulously. "Mr. Herapath's transactions with us, right up to
the day of his death, were just what they had been for years. Of course,
I'm willing to tell you anything, show you anything. You're acting for
Miss Wynne, aren't you, Mr. Halfpenny?"

"I have a power of attorney from Miss Wynne, for that matter," answered
Mr. Halfpenny. "Everything of that sort's in my hands."

"I'll tell you what, then," said the bank manager, laying his hand on a
bell at his side. "You'd better see Jacob Herapath's pass-book. I
recently had it posted up to the day of his death, and of course we've
retained it until you demanded it. You can't have a better index to his
affairs with us than you'll find in it. Sellars," he went on, as a clerk
appeared, "bring me the late Mr.