Jean Stine - Legendary Women Detectives

“I know, and you’re surprised at finding me so young.” She leant forward suddenly in her chair. “Forgive me for saying so, but you’re a little behind the times. You are obviously in trouble or you wouldn’t be here. If you want my services they are at your disposal. But in that case it will be very much better, both for you and for me, if you will forget that I am a girl and not yet twenty-one. You will excuse my plain speaking, won’t you?”

A little smile curved her lips, but her eyes were steady on his.

“You’re not the first, you know, Sir John,” she went on. “It’s a bit of a handicap sometimes, being a girl!”

His resentment vanished from that moment. Her ingenuousness disarmed him.

“I’m sorry, Miss Wrayne,” he said. “I’m an old man – a bit old-fashioned, I’m afraid, too. You – this place–” he waved a hand “rather took me by surprise.”

“Of course–” sweetly. “Now, let’s get to business. You, I take it, are the head of the Universal Banking Corporation of Lombard Street?”

“I am. I have a client of the name of Richard Henry Gorleston.”

“The bookmaker?”

“I begin to see that what the Duchess told me about you was true,” he smiled. He was becoming more impressed now every minute.

“I have a good memory for names,” she replied.

“He has been a client of mine for nearly three years. His father, I may tell you, left him fifty thousand pounds. The son has banked with us ever since, and until this week has been a trusted client.

“I must tell you,” he went on, “that ever since he opened an account with us it has been his habit to draw out large sums of money in notes and to replace them within a few days. He told me from the start that he lived by gambling.

“On numerous occasions he has presented checks for five or ten thousand pounds, and drawn the money out in notes. Then a few days later he would come and pay it all back, perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less.

“Ten days ago he called at the bank and came into my private room – nothing unusual in that, though. He often does. Now, the moment he came in I noticed that he was wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, a thing which he has never done before. I commented on it and he said that he’d had trouble with his eyes, and had been to an oculist.”

“Mention his name?” casually.

“He did. James Adwinter, of Queen Anne Street.”

Daphne Wrayne made a note of it.

“Please go on, Sir John.”

“I asked him if he was drawing out any money and he said he was – would I tell him what his balance was. I sent out and found it was about thirty thousand pounds. In front of me he took his check-book and wrote a check for twenty-five thousand pounds. I sent for one of my cashiers and we paid it over to him in thousand pound notes. Now comes the amazing part of the story. Two days ago he came into the bank and presented a check for fifteen thousand pounds. The cashier told him he hadn’t got it, and reminded him of the twenty-five-thousand-pound one. He indignantly denied it – said he’d been out of town for nearly a fortnight, and he could prove it. Declared that some one must have impersonated him. This morning we received a letter from his solicitors threatening us with an action.”

“But the signature, Sir John? If it was Richard Henry Gorleston’s usual signature with no irregularity–”

“That’s the trouble, Miss Wrayne. This–” handing her a check “–is his usual signature. This–” handing her another–“is the disputed check.”

Daphne Wrayne’s eyebrows went up as she scanned it.

“How did you come to pass this check without comment?” she queried. “The difference is not very great, I admit, but still–”

“Miss Wrayne, I put it to you! You have an old client whom you know well. He comes in, sits down and talks to you, writes out a check. You send for your cashier who knows him equally well. You’ve seen him write the check. You’re satisfied. You cash it without question.”

“Oh, I know. But will the law exonerate you?”

“I’m afraid it won’t,” a little ruefully.

“Tell me, Sir John–” after a slight pause “–had you any shadow of doubt when this man presented that twenty-five-thousand-pound check but that he was Richard Gorleston?”

“Not the faintest, Miss Wrayne.”

“When he came in two days ago was he wearing spectacles?”

“He wasn’t. He said he’d never worn them in his life, and never heard of Adwinter.”

“What was his manner like?”

“Oh, he was naturally very upset, but he quite appreciated our position, though he said, of course, that we should have noticed the difference in the signature. He went on to say that he’d known for some time that he had a ”double,“ but he’d never been able to run him to earth.”

The girl wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully.

“He told you he’d been out of London all the time. Did he say where?”

“Yes. He gave me his address. ”The Golden Crown, Portworth, Tavistock“ – trout fishing. Incidentally I have verified this by one of our local branches. He was there the whole time.”

“Well, Sir John, in about a week’s time I’ll report to you. In the meanwhile say nothing to anybody.”

“What am I to tell my solicitors to do?” a little perplexedly.

She laughed merrily.

“Oh, come, Sir John, you don’t want to throw in your hand yet! Instruct ”em to say that you repudiate all liability. After all, if you have to climb down – still, let’s hope you won’t!“

In a comfortably furnished room in the Inner Temple four men sat round a table talking. Just an ordinary room, but certainly no ordinary men, these four. Actually, you could have found them all in Who’s Who.

The big, tanned, curly-haired, merry-eyed giant, who sat next to the empty chair at the head of the table, was none other than James Ffolliott Plantagenet Trevitter, only son of the Earl of Winstanworth – Eton and Oxford, with half a page of athletic records added. Next to him, lounging a little in his chair, thin, lean, bronzed, almost bored-looking, with his gold-rimmed monocle, sat Sir Hugh Williamson, most intrepid of explorers. Opposite to him, elderly, grey-haired, almost benevolent-looking, Allan Sylvester, the best-loved actor-manager in England. And lastly, leaning forward talking, a smile on his clean-cut handsome face, Martin Everest, K. C., the greatest criminal barrister in England.

And these were the four Adjusters…

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed out the hour, and as it did so the door opened and the four men rose to their feet, as Daphne Wrayne stood in the doorway.

“Well, Peter Pan!” exclaimed Sylvester.

“Well, you dear Knights!”

Very lovely she looked as she came forward, and her eyes were for all of them. But it was Lord Trevitter who, as if by tacit understanding, helped her off with her cloak and put her into her chair. Very naturally, yet quite openly too, she slipped her hand into his and let it stay there. But the other three only smiled indulgently though their smiles spoke volumes. You felt, somehow, that they had known her from childhood – looked on her now almost as a beloved child. That even if she had singled out Trevitter – as indeed she had – she loved none of them less dearly for that.

“Oh, it’s great to be here!” she exclaimed with shining eyes. “I can still hardly believe it’s true.”

“It’s a wonderful stunt,” murmured Everest thoughtfully.

“We’ve been lucky, Martin,” answered the girl. “If it hadn’t been for the Duchess’s pearls–”

“And then you giving an interview to the Monitor,” chimed in Lord Trevitter. “That was the master stroke, Daph.”