It was the surgeon speaking. He looked at his brother; his brother looked at him. Each look was full of eloquence.

Then they picked up the dead man's coat, felt every inch of the lining thereof, thinking to find a secret pocket, or notes sewn in it. Nothing.

The two cloak room tickets for portmanteaus inspired the dentist to remark:

"Must be in one of the portmanteaus."

The surgeon shook his head.

"No man," he said, "would be fool enough to intrust such a sum to a cloak room's tender mercies."

"Then at the hotel?"

The surgeon did not think so—said as much as he bent over the body and unbuttoned the waistcoat, to make a closer search.

He felt something hard round the waist, investigated further, unbuckled what he found, and brought a money belt to the table and loosed the catch.[Pg 20]

[Pg 20]

Notes! He pulled them out, and, as he fingered them, the rustle was as sweet music.

There were nineteen of them! Each for a thousand pounds.

They might have dreamed of such things, but they had never expected to actually handle such a sum.

For some while silence reigned. In incidents of this kind silence plays a big part.

There was no need of conversation—the brothers seemed to read each other's thoughts.

"It is a small fortune," presently whispered the dentist.

"And must be ours."

"Will the notes be traced?"

"We must guard against that."

"How?"

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