“He says he would cash a cheque on the signature without a moment’s hesitation; you know, in a forgery, it is the slavish imitation and consequent cramping that marks the thing; no man’s handwriting is exactly alike twice. Well, this thing is no slavish imitation of Gyde’s handwriting; it is his, flowing and easy, and written under the eye of a clerk. All the same, there is something about it strange. Gyde, it would appear, must have been in a totally different frame of mind to what he has ever been before in his life when he wrote that signature. I can understand the cashier’s meaning, I think, for these men’s eyes and brains are so wonderfully trained that they can tell from a signature almost the emotions of the person to whom it belongs. Gyde may have been under the influence of some extraordinary emotion, never felt by him before, when he signed that receipt—as undoubtedly he was.” Freyberger listened attentively, and then proceeded to give the results of his investigations, speaking clearly and to the point. He told how Gyde had hired the cab and driven to Howland Street, presented a letter from Kolbecker and occupied his room; how Kolbecker had lived in Cumberland for the last six weeks and had been paying for his room in London, sending several postal orders to his landlady. “I have secured the envelope of the last of these letters,” he said, taking the envelope from his pocket. “Give it to me,” said the chief. He glanced at it, and a change came over his face. “The Chief Constable of Cumberland has sent me, with splendid promptitude, the blackmailing letters of Klein,” he said. “They arrived only half an hour ago by special messenger. Here they are, and the handwriting of Kolbecker is the handwriting of Klein.” There could be no doubt; all three documents were in the same weird, extraordinary hand. “Gyde,” said Inspector Frost, “before he murdered his man must have got him to write that letter. One can understand him, having the murder in his mind, being wishful to have some hole or corner to hide in during the night. He could not stay the night at Piccadilly, knowing that at any moment he might be arrested.” “Yet,” said Freyberger, “he went next morning to his bankers—an equally dangerous proceeding.” “The thing that strikes me,” said Inspector Dewhurst, “is, why did he go to the Piccadilly house at all? We know he took his jewels with him, but the jewels came up with him from the north. He could have easily taken possession of his jewel case, sent his man on home with the rest of the luggage, telling him that he would not be back till the morning, and then have disappeared.” “If he had done that,” said Freyberger, “the valet, Leloir, would now be alive, and not dead of terror.” There was a moment’s silence.