Mr. Kingfether hung up the telephone and wiped his face with his handkerchief. It was a face that became moist on the least provocation. Presently he folded the newspaper and looked at his unfinished letter. He was on the eighth page and the last words he had written were: “… can hardly live the day through without seeing your darling face, my own…” It was obvious that he was not writing to his general manager, or to a client who had overdrawn his account. He added “beloved” mechanically, though he had used the word a dozen times before. Then he unfolded the paper and read of the murder again. A knock at the side door: he went out to admit Enward. The lawyer was more important than usual. Participation in public affairs has this effect. And a news agency had telephoned to ask whether they could send a photographer, and Mr. Enward, shivering at the telephone in his pyjamas, had said “Yes” and had been photographed at his breakfast table at 7.30 a.m., poising a cup of tea and looking excessively grave. He would presently appear in one hundred and fifty newspapers above the caption “Lawyer Who Discovered His Own Client Murdered.” “It is a terrible business,” said Mr. Enward, throwing off his coat. “He banked with you? I’m in charge of affairs, Kingfether, though heaven knows I am ignorant about ’em! I don’t know how he stands… what is his credit here?” Mr. Kingfether considered. “I’ll get the ledger from the safe,” he said. He locked the centre drawer of his desk, because his letter to Ena Burslem was there and other documents, but Mr. Enward saw nothing offensive in the act of caution; rather was it commendable. “Here is his account.” Kingfether laid the big ledger on the desk and opened it where his thumb marked a page. “Credit three thousand four hundred pounds.” Mr. Enward fixed his glasses and looked. “Has he anything on deposit? Securities--no? Did he come often to the bank?” “Never,” said Kingfether. “He used the account to pay bills. When he wanted ready money he posted a bearer cheque and I posted back the money. He has, of course, sent people here to cash cheques.” “That six hundred pounds withdrawn five days ago.” Mr. Enward pointed to the item. “It is strange that you should point that out--it was paid over the counter four days ago. I didn’t see the person who called for it--I was out. My clerk McKay cashed the cheque. Who is that?” There was a gentle tapping at the door. Mr. Kingfether went out of the room and came back with the caller. “How fortunate to find you here!” said J.G. Reeder. He was spruce and lively. A barber had shaved him, somebody had cleaned his boots. “The account of the late Mr. Wentford?” He nodded to the book. It was generally known that J.G. Reeder acted for the Great Central Bank, and the manager did not question his title to ask questions. Mr. Enward was not so sure.