Anthony shifted uneasily in his chair. There had been a note of hysteria in those last words.
Suddenly she was on her feet. “He did it! He did it!” she wailed, her hands flung above her head. “Oh, Christ! he’ll be—oh, Jimmy, Jimmy!” And then she began to laugh.
Anthony jumped at her, took her by the shoulders, and shook. The ivory-white flesh seemed at once to chill and burn his clutching fingers. With every movement of his arms her head lolled helplessly. Knowing himself right, he yet detested himself.
The dreadful laughter changed to sobbing; the sobbing to silence.
“I’m s-sorry, p-please,” she said.
Anthony’s hands fell to his sides. “I,” he said, “am a brute. Please sit down again.”
They sat. A silence fell.
At last he broke it. “Then you were so impressed by the sincerity of your brother’s letter that you determined you must try to stop him. Is that right?”
She nodded.
“But why, in God’s name, didn’t you walk or run, or do anything rather than swim?”
“There wasn’t time. You see, it—it was so late—as I explained—before I read the—the l-letter that I knew th-that Jimmy was probably almost there. There wasn’t time to—to—to—”
“I see. Judging that you’d save at least ten minutes by crossing the river here, you pretended you were going to bed, probably removed the more clinging of your garments—if you didn’t put on a bathing-dress—put on a pair of bathing-sandals to make running easy without hindering swimming, slipped out of the house quietly and beat all previous records to Abbotshall by at least ten minutes. That right?”
“Yes.” Besides other emotions there was wonder in her tones.
“Good. Now, when you were kneeling outside the window of Hoode’s study, what did you see? You’ll understand that if I am to be allowed to help you I must find out all I can and as quickly as I can.”
Their lids veiled the great eyes. A convulsive movement of the white throat told of the strain she was under. When she spoke it was without feeling, without emphasis, like a dull child repeating a lesson memorised but not understood.
“I saw a man lying face-downwards by the fireplace. There was blood on his head. It was a bald head. I saw a clock half-fallen over; and chairs too. And I came away. I ran to the river.”
“Do you know,” Anthony asked slowly, “what time it was when you got back here?”
“No,” said the lifeless ghost of the voice that had thrilled him.
He was disappointed, and fell silent. Nothing new here, except, of course, the brother. And of this business of Brother James he did not yet know what to think.
With this silence, Lucia’s cloak of impassivity left her. “What shall we do?” she whispered. “What shall we do? They’ll find out that Jimmy—they’ll find out. I know they will, I—”
“The police know nothing about your brother, Mrs. Lemesurier.” Anthony’s tone was soothing. “And if they did, they wouldn’t worry their heads about him. You see, they’ve found a man they’re sure is the murderer. There’s quite a good prima facie case against him, too.”
Relief flooded her face with colour. For a moment she lay relaxed in her chair; then suddenly sat bolt upright again, her hands clutching at its arms.
“But—but if they’re accusing someone else, they—we must tell them about—about—Jimmy.” Her face was white, dead white, again.
“You go too fast, you know,” said Anthony.
“Don’t you think we’d better find out a few people who didn’t do it before we unburden ourselves to the Law?”
She laid eager hands on his arm. “You mean—you think Jim didn’t—didn’t do it?”
Anthony nodded. “More prejudice, you see. And I know the man the bobbies have got hold of had nothing to do with it either. Again prejudice. Bias, lady, bias! There’s nothing like it to clear the head, nothing! Now, have you a telephone?”
“Yes, yes,” she said eagerly. Hope, trust and other emotions showed in the velvet darkness of her eyes.
“And your brother’s address?”
Unhesitatingly she gave it; then added: “The phone’s in here.” She pointed to a writing-table at the far end of the room.
As he turned to go to it, she clutched again at his arm. “Damn it!” thought Anthony. “I wish she wouldn’t keep doing that. So disturbing!” But he smiled down at her.
“Isn’t it dangerous to use the telephone?” she whispered. “Isn’t it? The girls at the exchange—if you use his name—”
“Credit me with guile,” smiled Anthony.
He crossed the room, sat by the table and pulled the instrument towards him. She stood beside him, her fingers gripping the back of his chair. He lifted the receiver and asked for a city number.
“Is it a trunk-call?” he added. “No? Good!”
To Lucia, her heart in her mouth, it seemed hours before he spoke again. Then—
“Hallo. That The Owl office?” he said. “It is? Well, put me on to Mr. Hastings, please. At once. You can’t? My child, if I’m not put through at once you’ll go tomorrow! Understand?” A pause. To Lucia it seemed that the heavy thudding of her heart must be filling the room with sound. She pressed a hand to her breast.
Then Anthony’s voice again. “Ah, that you, Spencer? Oh, it’s the unerring Miss Warren, is it? Yes, Gethryn speaking. He is, is he? When’ll he be back? Or won’t he? Oh, you’re all always there until after midnight, are you? Well, when he comes in, will you please tell him—this is important—that I’ve run across someone who knows where our old friend Masterson, Jimmy Masterson, is. Hastings will want to see him at once, I know. He and I have been trying to find Masterson for years. And say that I want to find out what Jimmy was doing last night. Tell Hastings to ask him or find out somehow where he was. It’s a great joke.
“The address is 84, Forest Road, N.W. 5. Now, Miss Warren,
