brown leather pocket-book with its miraculous contents. For the
last time Laverick retraced his steps and bent over that huddled-up
shape. One by one he went through the other pockets. There was a
packet of Russian cigarettes; an empty card-case of chased silver,
and obviously of foreign workmanship; a cigarette holder stained
with much use, but of the finest amber, with rich gold mountings.
There was nothing else upon the dead man, no means of identification
of any sort. Laverick stood up, giddy, half terrified with the
thoughts that went tearing through his brain. The pocket-book began
to burn his hand; he felt the perspiration breaking out anew upon
his forehead. Yet he never hesitated. He walked like a man in a
dream, but his footsteps were steady and short. Deliberately, and
without any sign of hurry, he made his way towards his offices. If
a policeman had come in sight up or down the street, he had decided
to call him and to acquaint him with what had happened. It was the
one chance he held against himself, - the gambler's method of
decision, perhaps, unconsciously arrived at. As it turned out, there
was still not a soul in sight. Laverick opened the outer door with
his latchkey, let himself in and closed it. Then he groped his way
through the clerk's office into his own room, switched on the
electric light and once more sat down before his desk.

He drew his shaded writing lamp towards him and looked around with
a nervousness wholly unfamiliar. Then he opened the pocket-book,
drew out the roll of bank-notes and counted them. It was curious
that he felt no surprise at their value. Bank-notes for five
hundred pounds are not exactly common, and yet he proceeded with
his task without the slightest instinct of surprise. Then he leaned
back in his chair. Twenty thousand pounds in Bank of England notes!
There they lay on the table before him. A man had died for their