He looked swiftly to right and left of him. Lord Caterham was at the farther end of the terrace with Captain Andrassy. Their backs were towards him. Anthony bent down and wriggled his way through the massive yew.
He had been quite right in his supposition. The yew hedge was really not one, but two, a narrow passage divided them. The entrance to this was about halfway up, on the side of the house. There was no mystery about it, but no one seeing the yew hedge from the front would have guessed at the probability.
Anthony looked down the narrow vista. About halfway down, a man was reclining in a basket chair. A half-smoked cigar rested on the arm of the chair, and the gentleman himself appeared to be asleep.
“H’m!” said Anthony to himself. “Evidently Mr. Hiram Fish prefers sitting in the shade.”
XVI
Tea in the Schoolroom
Anthony regained the terrace with the feeling uppermost in his mind that the only safe place for private conversations was the middle of the lake.
The resonant boom of a gong sounded from the house, and Tredwell appeared in a stately fashion from a side door.
“Luncheon is served, my lord.”
“Ah!” said Lord Caterham, brisking up a little. “Lunch.”
At that moment two children burst out of the house. They were high-spirited young women of twelve and ten, and though their names might be Dulcie and Daisy, as Bundle had affirmed, they appeared to be more generally known as Guggle and Winkle. They executed a kind of war dance, interspersed with shrill whoops till Bundle emerged and quelled them.
“Where’s Mademoiselle?” she demanded.
“She’s got the migraine, the migraine, the migraine!” chanted Winkle.
“Hurrah!” said Guggle, joining in.
Lord Caterham had succeeded in shepherding most of his guests into the house. Now he laid a restraining hand on Anthony’s arm.
“Come to my study,” he breathed. “I’ve got something rather special there.”
Slinking down the hall, far more like a thief than like the master of the house, Lord Caterham gained the shelter of his sanctum. Here he unlocked a cupboard and produced various bottles.
“Talking to foreigners always makes me so thirsty,” he explained apologetically. “I don’t know why it is.”
There was a knock on the door, and Virginia popped her head round the corner of it.
“Got a special cocktail for me?” she demanded.
“Of course,” said Lord Caterham hospitably. “Come in.”
The next few minutes were taken up with serious rites.
“I needed that,” said Lord Caterham with a sigh, as he replaced his glass on the table. “As I said just now, I find talking to foreigners particularly fatiguing. I think it’s because they’re so polite. Come along. Let’s have some lunch.”
He led the way to the dining-room. Virginia put her hand on Anthony’s arm, and drew him back a little.
“I’ve done my good deed for the day,” she whispered. “I got Lord Caterham to take me to see the body.”
“Well?” demanded Anthony eagerly.
One theory of his was to be proved or disproved.
Virginia was shaking her head.
“You were wrong,” she whispered. “It’s Prince Michael all right.”
“Oh!” Anthony was deeply chagrined.
“And Mademoiselle has the migraine,” he added aloud, in a dissatisfied tone.
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Probably nothing, but I wanted to see her. You see, I’ve found out that Mademoiselle has the second room from the end—the one where I saw the light last night.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Probably there’s nothing in it. All the same, I mean to see Mademoiselle before the day is out.”
Lunch was somewhat of an ordeal. Even the cheerful impartiality of Bundle failed to reconcile the heterogeneous assembly. The Baron and Andrassy were correct, formal, full of etiquette, and had the air of attending a meal in a mausoleum. Lord Caterham was lethargic and depressed. Bill Eversleigh stared longingly at Virginia. George, very mindful of the trying position in which he found himself, conversed weightily with the Baron and Mr. Isaacstein. Guggle and Winkle, completely beside themselves with joy of having a murder in the house, had to be continually checked and kept under, whilst Mr. Hiram Fish slowly masticated his food, and drawled out dry remarks in his own peculiar idiom. Superintendent Battle had considerately vanished, and nobody knew what had become of him.
“Thank God that’s over,” murmured Bundle to Anthony, as they left the table. “And George is taking the foreign contingent over to the Abbey this afternoon to discuss State secrets.”
“That will possibly relieve the atmosphere,” agreed Anthony.
“I don’t mind the American so much,” continued Bundle. “He and Father can talk first editions together quite happily in some secluded spot. Mr. Fish”—as the object of their conversation drew near—“I’m planning a peaceful afternoon for you.”
The American bowed.
“That’s too kind of you, Lady Eileen.”
“Mr. Fish,” said Anthony, “had quite a peaceful morning.”
Mr. Fish shot a quick glance at him.
“Ah, sir, you observed me, then, in my seclooded retreat? There are moments, sir, when far from the madding crowd is the only motto for a man of quiet tastes.”
Bundle had drifted on, and the American and Anthony were left together. The former dropped his voice a little.
“I opine,” he said, “that there is considerable mystery about this little dust up?”
“Any amount of it,” said Anthony.
“That guy with the bald head was perhaps a family connection?”
“Something of the kind.”
“These Central European nations beat the band,” declared Mr. Fish. “It’s kind of being rumoured around that the deceased gentleman was a Royal Highness. Is that so, do you know?”
“He was staying here as Count Stanislaus,” replied Anthony evasively.
To this Mr. Fish offered no further rejoinder than the somewhat cryptic:
“Oh! boy.”
After which he relapsed into silence for some moments.
“This police captain of yours,” he observed at last, “Battle, or whatever his name is, is he the goods all right?”
“Scotland Yard thinks so,” replied Anthony dryly.
“He seems kind of hidebound to me,” remarked Mr. Fish. “No hustle to him. This big idea of his, letting no one leave the house, what is there to it?”
He darted a very sharp look
