“South America,” thought Anthony to himself, “simply isn’t in it with this!”
He had already decided upon his course of action. He was going to tell the truth—with one trifling alteration, and one grave suppression.
“The story begins,” said Anthony, “about three weeks ago—in Bulawayo. Mr. Lomax, of course, knows where that is—outpost of the Empire—‘What do we know of England who only England know?’ all that sort of thing. I was conversing with a friend of mine, a Mr. James McGrath—”
He brought out the name slowly, with a thoughtful eye on George. George bounded in his seat and repressed an exclamation with difficulty.
“The upshot of our conversation was that I came to England to carry out a little commission for Mr. McGrath, who was unable to go himself. Since the passage was booked in his name, I travelled as James McGrath. I don’t know what particular kind of offence that was—the superintendent can tell me, I dare say, and run me in for so many months’ hard if necessary.”
“We’ll get on with the story, if you please, sir,” said Battle, but his eyes twinkled a little.
“On arrival in London I went to the Blitz Hotel, still as James McGrath. My business in London was to deliver a certain manuscript to a firm of publishers, but almost immediately I received deputations from the representatives of two political parties of a foreign kingdom. The methods of one were strictly constitutional, the methods of the other were not. I dealt with them both accordingly. But my troubles were not over. That night my room was broken into, and an attempt at burglary was made by one of the waiters at the hotel.”
“That was not reported to the police, I think?” said Superintendent Battle.
“You are right. It was not. Nothing was taken, you see. But I did report the occurrence to the manager of the hotel, and he will confirm my story, and tell you that the waiter in question decamped rather abruptly in the middle of the night. The next day, the publishers rang me up, and suggested that one of their representatives would call upon me and receive the manuscript. I agreed to this, and the arrangement was duly carried out on the following morning. Since I have heard nothing further, I presume the manuscript reached them safely. Yesterday, still as James McGrath, I received a letter from Mr. Lomax—”
Anthony paused. He was by now beginning to enjoy himself. George shifted uneasily.
“I remember,” he murmured. “Such a large correspondence. The name, of course, being different, I could not be expected to know. And I may say,” George’s voice rose a little, firm in the assurance of moral stability, “that I consider this—this—masquerading as another man in the highest degree improper. I have no doubt, no doubt whatever, that you have incurred a severe legal penalty.”
“In this letter,” continued Anthony, unmoved, “Mr. Lomax made various suggestions concerning the manuscript in my charge. He also extended an invitation to me from Lord Caterham to join the house party here.”
“Delighted to see you, my dear fellow,” said that nobleman. “Better late than never—eh?”
George frowned at him.
Superintendent Battle bent an unmoved eye upon Anthony.
“And is that your explanation of your presence here last night, sir?” he asked.
“Certainly not,” said Anthony warmly. “When I am asked to stay at a country-house, I don’t scale the wall late at night, tramp across the park, and try the downstairs windows. I drive up to the front door, ring the bell and wipe my feet on the mat. I will proceed. I replied to Mr. Lomax’s letter, explaining that the manuscript had passed out of my keeping, and therefore regretfully declining Lord Caterham’s kind invitation. But after I had done so, I remembered something which had up till then escaped my memory.” He paused. The moment had come for skating over thin ice. “I must tell you that in my struggle with the waiter Giuseppe, I had wrested from him a small bit of paper with some words scribbled on it. They had conveyed nothing to me at the time, but I still had them, and the mention of Chimneys recalled them to me. I got the torn scrap out and looked at it. It was as I had thought. Here is the piece of paper, gentlemen, you can see for yourselves. The words on it are ‘Chimneys 11:45 Thursday.’ ”
Battle examined the paper attentively.
“Of course,” continued Anthony, “the word ‘Chimneys’ might have nothing whatever to do with this house. On the other hand, it might. And undoubtedly this Giuseppe was a thieving rascal. I made up my mind to motor down here last night, satisfy myself that all was as it should be, put up at the inn, and call upon Lord Caterham in the morning and put him on his guard in case some mischief should be intended during the weekend.”
“Quite so,” said Lord Caterham encouragingly. “Quite so.”
“I was late in getting here—had not allowed enough time. Consequently I stopped the car, climbed over the wall and ran across the park. When I arrived on the terrace, the whole house was dark and silent. I was just turning away when I heard a shot. I fancied that it came from inside the house, and I ran back, crossed the terrace, and tried the windows. But they were fastened, and there was no sound of any kind from inside the house. I waited a while, but the whole place was still as the grave, so I made up my mind that I had made a mistake, and that what I had heard was a stray poacher—quite a natural conclusion to come to under the circumstances, I think.”
“Quite natural,” said Superintendent Battle expressionlessly.
“I went on to the inn, put up as I said—and heard the news this morning. I realized,
