was still cock-a-hoop when he and Matsey rounded the corner into Byward Street. Everything had gone well. His plan of campaign was being carried out precisely as he had wished it to be. Nothing could have been more satisfactory, he thought; but in the midst of these triumphant reflections he came to a sudden halt.
One glance along the street showed him that something either had gone wrong, or was in process of going wrong. According to his plans, Mesham and Letwige ought by that time to have been in the sure and safe custody of the police.
He had already pictured them at the police station, bewildered, confounded, very angry, endeavouring, perhaps, to banter, trying, no doubt, to explain themselves to unsympathetic and incredulous ears.
But instead of that there they were, some thirty yards away along the pavement, talking in quite easy fashion to the two detectives and Gaffkin—they were even laughing. Brixey’s sharp eyes saw that the detectives appeared to be puzzled, that Gaffkin was looking doubtful.
Something unexpected was certainly in the air. And he was glad that all five men were so absorbed in their conversation that they saw neither himself nor Matsey.
To slip the dispatch-case behind his back and to draw his companion round the corner again was to Brixey the work of a second. He glanced about him, saw a disengaged taxicab, and signalled to its driver, who caught the beckoning movement, started his engine, and came quickly to the edge of the kerb.
"Matsey!" muttered Brixey. "You’re a dependable chap, and I'm going to entrust the swag to you! Take this dispatch-case straight to the Grosvenor Hotel. Ask for Mr. Semmerby and Mr. Linthwaite—give it into their hands, and to nobody else.
"If they haven’t arrived, wait for them! And tell them that I’ve sent you with this, that they’re to keep a tight hold on it till I come, and that I’m following you at once. Now be off!"
The taxicab sped away round the corner, westward, and when Brixey followed it at a leisurely pace, was already far past the group in which he was interested. Its members were strolling towards him, still talking, the detectives appearing puzzled, the two confederates nonchalant. As for Gaffkin, he walked alongside, apparently in moody thought.
Thereupon Brixey drew out his cigarette-case and ostentatiously proceeded to smoke. That gave him the opportunity to pause in the middle of the sidewalk, and to let the others approach more closely.
The elder detective was the first to see him. He immediately quickened his pace.
"There’s Mr. Brixey himself!" he exclaimed. "Mr. Brixey"
"What the devil have we to do with any Mr. Brixeys?" demanded Mesham. "We’ve told you what you wanted to know, and there’s an end of it! You go about your business, and leave us to ours!"
Brixey threw away his match and turned on the group.
"Businesses are apt to get a bit intermixed," he remarked. "What stage has this got to?"
The elder detective pointed at Letwige.
"He admits he’s John Letwige, Mr. Semmerby’s clerk from Selchester," he said. "He admits, too, that he’s in possession of Mrs. Byfield’s securities—certain of them, at any rate."
"He does, eh?" asked Brixey, eyeing Letwige closely. "Candid, to be sure!"
"Yes—but," continued the detective, "he also says he’s every right to be in possession of them. He's got a power of attorney from her! We've seen it, just now."
Mesham laughed sneeringly, and Letwige's lips curled a little at the corners. Both were watching Brixey, but they saw nothing on his face beyond an almost careless indifference.
"Ah!" he said. "Mr. Letwige has a power of attorney from Mrs. Byfield, has he? And he's shown it to you? Perhaps Mr. Letwige will show it to me?"
Letwige lifted a hand towards his breast pocket, but Mesham shook his head and growled.
"Don't do anything of the sort!" he said. "What's he got to do with it? What right has he to interfere? Come on!"
But Letwige glanced at the detectives, and, disregarding Mesham's advice, drew out a big envelope and took from it a formal-looking document which he held up in front of Brixey’s eyes.
"No objection to his seeing it," remarked Letwige. "It's all in order."
Brixey glanced at the signature and turned away.
"Much obliged to you," he said. "But there are two or three things I might say to that. However, I'm only going to say one of them. How do we know that signature isn't a forgery?"
Letwige put the document back in his pocket with a scornful laugh, but Brixey noticed that his hand was trembling.
