Anthony shook himself, chided and took himself in hand. “Gethryn,” he murmured, “do something, man! Don’t stand here saying how difficult everything is. Well, what shall I do? Have a look at the study? All right.”
He still had the hall to himself. Quietly, he entered the study and closed the door behind him.
He surveyed the room. He strove for memory of the sounds he had heard just now when Laura Hoode had been there and he outside.
There had been a fumbling, a click, a pause and then the rustling of paper. The writing-table was the most likely place. The drawers, he knew, were all locked, but perhaps the gaunt sister had duplicate keys. The originals were in Boyd’s official possession.
But it was unlikely that sister would have keys. He looked thoughtfully at the table. Something of a connoisseur, he judged it as belonging to the adolescence of the last century.
A desk more than a hundred years old! A mysterious, sinister woman searching in it! “A hundred to one on. Secret Drawer!” thought Anthony, and probed among the pigeonholes. He met with no success, and felt cheated. His theory of the essential reality of storybooks had played him false, it seemed.
Loath to let it go, he tried again; this time pulling out from their sheaths the six small, shallow drawers which balanced the pigeonholes on the other side of the alcove containing the inkwell. The top drawer, he noticed with joy, was shorter by over an inch than its five companions. He felt in its recess with long, sensitive fingers. He felt a thin rim of wood. He pressed, and nothing happened. He pulled, and it came easily away. The Great Storybook Theory was vindicated.
He peered into the unveiled hollow. It was filled with papers, from their looks recently tossed and crumpled.
“Naughty, naughty Laura!” said Anthony happily, and pulled them out.
There were letters, a small leather-covered memorandum-book, a larger notebook and a bunch of newspaper-cuttings.
He pulled a chair up to the table and began to read. When he had finished, he replaced the two little books and the letters. They were, he judged, unimportant. The newspaper-cuttings he retained, slipping them into his wallet. The illegality of the proceeding did not apparently distress him.
He replaced the little drawers, careful to leave things as he had found them. On his way to the door, he paused to examine the little polished rosewood table which stood beside the grandfather clock and was the fellow of that which supported the two tall vases he had spoken of to Boyd. A blemish upon its glossy surface had caught his eye.
On close inspection he found a faint scar some twelve inches long and two wide. This scar was compounded of a series of tiny dents occurring at frequent and regular intervals along its length and breadth.
Anthony became displeased with himself. He ought to have noticed this on his first visit to the room. Not that it seemed important—the wood-rasp had obviously been laid there, probably by the murderer, possibly by someone else—but, he ought, he considered, to have noticed it.
He left the room, passed through the still empty hall and so into the garden. Here, pacing up and down the flagged walk outside the study, he became aware of fatigue. The lack of a night’s sleep and the energies of the day were having their effect.
To keep himself awake, he walked. He also thought. Presently he halted and stood glaring at the wall above the windows of the study. As he glared, he muttered to himself: “That bit of dead creeper, now. It’s untidy. Very untidy! And it doesn’t fit!”
Ten minutes later Sir Arthur found him, heavy-eyed, hands in pockets, still looking up at the wall, heavy-eyed, and swaying ever so little on his feet.
“Hallo, Gethryn, hallo!” Sir Arthur looked at him keenly. “You looked fagged out, my boy. This won’t do. I prescribe a whisky and soda.” He caught Anthony’s arm. “Come along.”
Anthony rubbed his eyes. “Well, I grow old, I grow old,” he said. “Did you say a drink? Forward!”
VII
The Prejudiced Detective
Thornton, Mrs. Lemesurier’s parlourmaid, was enjoying her evening out. To Mrs. Lemesurier and her sister, drinking their coffee after dinner, came Thornton’s second-in-command.
“Please, ma’am,” she said, “there is a gentleman.”
“What? Who?” Lucia pushed back her chair.
“There is a gentleman, ma’am. In the drawing-room. He says might he see you. Very important, he said it was. Please, ma’am, he wouldn’t give no name.” The girl twisted her apron-strings nervously.
“Shall I go, dear?” Dora asked placidly. Inwardly she was frightened. She had thought her sister recovered from her attack of the afternoon, but here she was getting ill again. White-faced! Nervy! Not at all like the usual Lucia.
Mrs. Lemesurier rose to her feet. “No, no. I’d better see him. Elsie, what name—oh, you said he wouldn’t give one. All right. The drawing-room, you said?” She walked slowly from the room.
Outside the drawing-room door she paused, fought for composure, gained it, and entered. Anthony came forward to meet her.
Her hand went to her naked throat. “You!” she whispered.
Anthony bowed. “You are right, madam.”
“What do you want? What have you come here for, again?” So low was her voice that he could barely catch the words.
“You know,” said Anthony, “we’re growing melodramatic. Please sit down.” He placed a chair.
Mechanically she sank into it, one hand still at the white throat. The great eyes, wide with fear, never left his face.
“Now,” said Anthony, “let us clear the atmosphere. First, please understand that I have no object here except to serve you. I wasn’t quite clear about that this morning, hence my clumsy methods. The next move’s up to you. Suppose you tell me all about it.”
Her eyes fell
