"Did Mr. Norton," asked the lawyer, "say specifically for what purpose he wanted those bills?"

"Not specifically," said Rayburn, with the secretive manner of one who is determined only to answer direct questions.

Mason took a deep breath.

"Did he ask you in advance," he said, "to get for him a certain number of thousand dollar bills bearing consecutive serial numbers?"

"He did," said the vice president of the bank.

"And did he further state to you that, through your banking affiliations, he would like very much to have you make note of the numbers of those bills and ascertain when the bills were presented for deposit at any bank in the city?"

"Not exactly in those words," said Rayburn cautiously.

"Did he state that he intended to use that money to make a payment to a blackmailer, and would like to find out the identity of the person who deposited the currency?"

"Not in exactly those words," said the banker again.

"I think," said Perry Mason, smiling, "that I have all of the information I can ask you to give me, and sufficient for my purpose. Thank you, Mr. Rayburn."

He turned and walked from the bank, leaving behind him a coldeyed individual who surveyed his back in a gaze of shrewd speculation.

Mason returned to his office and beckoned Della Street to his inner office.

"Get Drake's Detective Bureau for me," he said, "and say that I want Paul Drake, himself, to handle a matter of utmost importance. Say that I want Drake to come to my office posing as a client, and that I want him to wait in the reception room until I give him a line on what he's to do. During the time he's waiting, he is to appear merely as a client."

She looked at him with eyes that showed grave apprehension.

"Is that all?" she asked.

"That's all," he told her.

"And you don't want that Celane woman to know anything about who Paul Drake is?"

"Get this straight," Perry Mason told her. "I don't want anyone to know who Drake is. As far as anyone who comes into the office is concerned, Drake is a client who is waiting to see me."

"Okay," she said.

She paused for a few moments, watching him with eyes that made no effort to conceal their concern.

He grinned reassuringly.

"Don't worry," he said, "it's okay."

"You're not getting in trouble?" she asked.

"I don't think so."

"Is Miss Celane?"

"She's in already—up to her neck."

"Does she know it?"

"I think so."

"You won't let her drag you into it?"

He shook his head slowly.

"No," he said, "I don't think so. I can't tell just yet."

"When can you tell?" she asked.

"Not until Miss Celane tells me the truth."

"When will that be?"

"Not until she gets worse frightened than she is now."

Della Street frowned, then said, quickly: "Suppose we frighten her?"

Perry Mason shook his head and smiled.

"No," he said, slowly, "I don't think we'll have to."

Chapter 11

Perry Mason, thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, paced back and forth across the floor of his private office.

Frances Celane, perched in the big black leather chair which she had occupied on her first visit to the office, regarded him with eyes that moved steadily back and forth, following the pacing of the lawyer.

"Well," she said at length, "you haven't asked me anything about why I wanted to see you."

"I don't have to," he said, "I know what's happening better than you do. What I'm trying to do is to think far enough ahead so I can find the proper place to head them off."

"I'm in an awful mess," she said.

"Of course you are," he snapped, and resumed his steady pacing of the floor.

There was a period of silence, then he paused in his walk to plant his feet far apart and stare down at her.

"Where did you get that money you gave me?" he asked.

"Just as I told you before, I got the money from my uncle," she said, in a thin, weak voice.

"Before he was murdered or afterwards?" pressed Perry Mason.

"Before."

"How much before?"

"Not very much before. That is, just before Mr. Crinston came to the house."

"What happened?"

"There was fortyeight thousand dollars," she said. "He gave it to me, and told me he was sorry he'd been holding out my regular allowance. He said he'd decided to change his mind."

"Had he accused you of being blackmailed before that?"

"No."

"And he gave you this money in cash?"

"Yes."

"You came to him and told him that you needed cash?"

"I told him that I simply had to have some money and have it right away."

"And he didn't say anything about you being blackmailed?"

"No."

"Were you being blackmailed?"

She bit her lip and looked down at the floor.

"Is that any of your business?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Yes," she said, "I was being blackmailed."

"All right," he said. "Was it by the housekeeper?"

She started, and raised her eyes to his with a look of alarm.

"How did you know?"

"I suspected," he said. "How much did you give her?"

"I gave her all of it," she said. "All except the ten thousand dollars that I gave you."

"Does that mean," he said, "that you haven't any of those thousand dollar bills in your possession?"

"That's right."

"Now listen. Let's not have any misunderstanding about this, and let's get it straight. You're in a jam, and I'm going to get you out, but it's important I know exactly what happened with that money. You haven't any of it in your possession?"

"Not a bit," she said.

Perry Mason took the ten thousand dollars which she had given him from his wallet and fingered the bills.

"You knew," he asked, "that all of these bills were numbered consecutively, and that various banking institutions in this city had been given a list of those numbers?"

"No," she said in a wan, frightened voice.

"Well," he told her, "that's a fact. Thousand dollar bills aren't so numerous but what they attract attention when they're deposited, and it's almost necessary to take them to a bank to change them. Merchants don't ordinarily carry change for a thousand dollars in their tills."

Perry Mason went to the desk, picked up a long envelope of heavy manila paper, sealed the ten thousand dollars in currency in the envelope, unscrewed the cap from a fountain pen, and addressed the envelope to Carl S. Belknap, 3298 15th Street, Denver, Colorado, and jabbed his forefinger on the button on the side of his desk, which summoned his secretary.

When Della Street opened the door, Perry Mason tossed her the envelope with a careless gesture.

"Stamp and mail this," he said. "First Class."

She looked at the address.

"I didn't know we had any correspondence with a Mr. Belknap," she said.

"We have now," he told her. "Send it registered mail."

She nodded, flashed one swiftly appraising glance at Frances Celane, then slipped back through the door to the outer office.

Perry Mason turned to Frances Celane.

"All right," he said. "That envelope will be in the mail for the next few days. Eventually it will come back to me. In the meantime, nobody is going to find that money on me. Now why didn't you tell the police about that in the first place?"

Her eyes suddenly snapped black fire.

"That's my business!" she said. "I hired you as an attorney to represent my interests. Don't think that you can stand there and tell me what I'm going to do, and what I'm not going to do…"

He took a stride toward her and said: "You're either going to control that temper, or you're going to march up the gallows and have a black bag put around your neck. Did you ever think of how you would like to be hung?"

She got to her feet and drew back her hand as though she intended to slap him.