The Sergeant passed the list over to his superior. Bannister held it judicially. “Those three notes I may tell you to which I have just made reference, the two ‘fives’ and the ‘ten,’ were handed to Sheila Delaney at the ‘Mutual Bank,’ Westhampton, by the cashier there on the morning that she was murdered. To the best of our knowledge, they were stolen from her in Branston’s operating-room. That was why I put the question to you. Certainly we have no reason to suspect that they were taken from her before.” He handed the list back to Sergeant Godfrey. “Perhaps you are now more likely—shall we say—to give me the information I am requesting? I think so—eh?” His tone was cold and hard. Willoughby’s face as the Inspector spoke became more and more an open register of astonishment and bewilderment. If he were not the victim of genuine surprise, concluded Bannister, then he was a most accomplished actor, for astonishment was written palpably upon every line of his face. “What?” he exclaimed, “you’re joking, surely.” “Don’t be absurd. This is no time to quibble. And please come to the point.” Willoughby went white to the lips. He seemed about to make an angry retort when suddenly a definite sense of his own awkward position came home to him. The angry astonishment on his face gave place to a look of sullen determination. “Well,” he said, “since you must know—those notes were paid to me by a well-known Seabourne gentleman. So you can rule me out of any connection with Miss Delaney.” “Name—if you please?” said Bannister curtly. He was eminently business-like now. “Oh—I hate all this information-giving business—it seems to me always to border on the unspeakable—no decent man can ever——” Bannister broke in again—even more curtly perhaps than on the previous occasion. “Cut out the sentiment—can’t you see it’s to your own advantage to supply me with the information I want?”