"Why, the cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds, which your agent
presented yesterday," he said. "It bore your signature and was dated the
previous day. You wrote it, I suppose?"
Babbacombe was still staring blankly, but at the sudden question he
pulled himself together.
"Oh, that! Yes, to be sure. Careless of me. I gave him a blank cheque
for the Millsand estate expenses some weeks ago. It must have been
that."
But though he spoke with a smiling face, his heart had gone suddenly
cold with doubt. He knew full well that the expenses of which he spoke
had been paid by West long before.
He refused to linger, and went out again after a few commonplaces,
feeling as if he had been struck a stunning blow between the eyes.
Driving swiftly back through the park, he recovered somewhat from the
shock. There must be--surely there would be!--some explanation.
Reaching West's abode he stopped the motor and descended. West was not
in and he decided to wait for him, chafing at the delay.
Standing at the window, he presently saw the man coming up the path. He
moved slowly, with a certain heaviness, as though weary.
As he opened the outer door, Babbacombe opened the inner and met him in
the hall.
"I dropped in to have a word with you," he said.
West paused momentarily before shutting the door. His face was in
shadow.
"I thought so," he said. "I saw the motor.
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