Stark rose and bowed his acknowledgement. “Good morning, Inspector. Good morning, Mr. Bathurst. I’m indeed happy to have been of service.”
Bannister conducted him to the door and watched him descend the substantial staircase. He then crossed the landing and telephoned to Ross certain instructions that were to be forwarded to Sergeant Godfrey immediately. When he got back to Mr. Bathurst, he found that gentleman ensconced in the most comfortable of all the chairs—his long lets outstretched to the limit. Mr. Bathurst was a firm believer in physical comfort as a stimulant to mental exercise. He turned his head towards the Inspector as the latter entered.
“Well?” he said, “what do you make of him?”
“Stark?—very useful evidence—without a doubt. Why?”
“I’m not gainsaying that, Bannister,” murmured Anthony gently, “that little story of the ‘Peacock’s eye’ rather intrigued me, to tell the plain and unvarnished truth. By the way, though, Inspector, did you happen to notice his initials?”
Bannister raised his eyebrow—then pulled out the letter Mr. Stark had sent. “E.K.S?” he queried.
“Might conceivably be ‘X’ as pronounced,” suggested Anthony quietly, “it only just struck me—that was all.”
Bannister stared. He opened his mouth to answer when a tap at the door destroyed his intention. It was Falcon.
“There’s a gentleman wants to see you,” he declared. “He’s downstairs—shall I show him up?”
“Who is it?” demanded Bannister. Falcon smiled.
“Mr. Alan Warburton.”
Chapter XV
Alan Warburton leads trumps
“This is getting more interesting than ever,” exclaimed Bannister. “Lo and behold!—the man I was about to seek-seeks me. I wonder why. Send him up, Falcon.”
“Very good, Inspector.”
Both men were quick to see that Alan Warburton looked very much the worse for wear. He as unshaven, his hair anything but tidy, and his clothes unbrushed—so completely unbrushed and creased that they gave the impression of having been slept in. And very recently at that. His collar by no stretch of the imagination could be described as clean and his tie had been tied with glaring and almost exaggerated carelessness. He himself was in no different condition from the clothes in which he stood. His not too-clean hands were shaking, and in his eyes glittered something that looked exceedingly like a dangerous malevolence. Decidedly Mr. Warburton was looking anything but his best. Anthony had seen a suggestion of the same look before in the eyes of the mentally unbalanced and knew that it bordered upon a state of fanaticism. He was quite prepared therefore to hear startling news. He was not disappointed. He has been heard moreover, more than once afterwards to remark, when this astounding case has been the subject of discussion, that this coming of Warburton enabled him to disentangle the treads perhaps more than any other feature of the affair. Coincidental with Warburton’s voluntary entrance into the cast he avers that he began to see a glimmer of light stabbing through the darkness of doubt. He was able to reconcile certain suspicions with actual facts. Alan Warburton came to grips immediately. His self-control seemed to have entirely gone and he appeared mastered and dominated by a kind of raw desperation.
“Chief-Inspector Bannister?” he exclaimed abruptly.
“My name,” said Bannister laconically.
“I understand you’re in charge of the Seabourne murder case—my name is Alan Warburton.”
The Inspector watched him very carefully through his glasses. “Yes?” he murmured encouragingly. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got information for you,” went on Warburton, fiercely; “information that only I can give, information that lets daylight into the case. I know the murderer and I’ll give you his name and by Heaven may I be there when the swine swings.” He brought his fist down on to the centre of the table with a resounding crash.
“Steady, Mr. Warburton, steady. Collect yourself if you possibly can. Tell your story intelligently.”
Warburton turned and eye him with a dull smouldering glare. “What?” he demanded truculently; “what’s that you said? Intelligently? You’ll find my little recitation intelligent enough—too intelligent—God knows.” He buried his face in his hands to conceal the depth of his emotion. When he lifted it he was considerably calmer, but the dangerous light still remained fitfully flickering in his eyes. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I ask your indulgence. I’m on edge. My nerves are frayed to threads. I’ve been through red, blazing Hell these last few days. You see, I loved Sheila Delaney. I am the nephew of Sir Felix Warburton—another unlucky beggar”—he spoke with mordant bitterness—“and you can imagine I used to be in a good deal better circumstances than I am now. I’ve known Sheila since we were boy and girl together. We grew up side by side. Now she’s been murdered,” he burst out again. “And murdered by a lascivious blackguard”—he went on heedless of Bannister’s retraining hand—“and I’ll give the swine a name—Alexis—Crown Prince of Clorania—now you know,” he declared defiantly. Anthony saw Bannister start with astonishment.
“What?” he shouted. Then his professional training asserted itself and he began to reason calmly with the extraordinary situation. “Explain yourself, Mr. Warburton. It’s one thing to bring an accusation—it’s another thing justifying it.”
Warburton waved the challenge away almost imperiously—certainly disdainfully. He seemed very sure of himself and continued unperturbed and untroubled by Bannister’s curt demand. “I can justify myself all right—don’t you fret yourself. I shouldn’t be chatting here with you, Inspector Bannister, if I couldn’t do that. Ask Mr. Royal Highness Alexis what he was doing in Seabourne when Sheila went down there this last time. He’s been pestering her for months now—the skunk—ever since he met her in the February of last year. I know that and I can prove it.”
It was here that Mr. Bathurst took a hand. The date was his positive attraction. “The February of last year? Mr. Warburton—you aren’t quite so well placed for information as we are. I’ll explain what I mean a little later. But coming back to what you
