Anthony was dragged into the house and up the stairs and into Sir Arthur’s room. They sat, in chairs drawn up to the window. In his, Anthony lay back, but the elder man hunched himself like a nervous schoolboy, sitting on the edge of his chair with his feet thrust backwards and then outwards until they protruded behind and beside each of the front legs. It was an old trick of his when preoccupied, and never ceased to amuse Anthony.
It was some time before Sir Arthur spoke. He seemed in his agitation to have difficulty in finding words. His hands twisted about each other.
“God!” he burst out at last. “What are we to do?”
“About what?”
“About this awful, this horrible mistake.” Suddenly he jumped to his feet and stood over Anthony. “Why—is it possible—haven’t you heard? About Deacon?”
Anthony shook his head.
“Why, man, they’ve arrested him! The coroner’s jury passed a verdict against him. And the police have arrested him. Arrested him!”
“Quite natural, when you think of it,” said Anthony.
Sir Arthur stared at him. “D’you mean you think he did it?” he roared. “That boy!”
“No. I’m sure he didn’t.”
Sir Arthur sighed loud relief. “Thank the Lord for that! But, Gethryn, how was it you hadn’t heard about this? And if you hadn’t, how was it you weren’t surprised? Weren’t you at the inquest?”
“Only roughly speaking,” said Anthony. “And I wasn’t surprised because I knew on what evidence the police were working. Pardon me if I seem flippant—I’m not really—but what we’ve got to do is to find out who really did kill Cock Robin. That’s the only way of getting Deacon off. The police take Deacon to be the Sparrow. You and I believe that he isn’t; but we’ve got to admit that the case against him is good, extraordinarily good. His size and strength fit the part of the murderer. And above all his fingermarks were found on the Bow and Arrow. That last will want a deal of explaining, especially to an English jury, who don’t, as a rule, know that real life’s more like a fairy story than Hans Andersen.”
“I know, I know,” Sir Arthur groaned. “Those fingerprints. He must have touched the—the—what do they call the thing?”
“Wood-rasp. A file for wood.”
“Ah, yes. He—I suppose he must have touched it. Must have. But I’ll swear the boy had nothing to do with—with John’s death. And he said he’d never seen the thing. And I believe him!”
“So he’d never even seen the thing,” Anthony said. “Now that’s interesting. Most interesting!”
But Sir Arthur was not listening. “What I’m feeling so—so damnably,” he burst out, “is that my evidence helped to make things look worse for the boy.”
“How?”
“Because they took mine first; and in describing that awful night I mentioned, like the idiot I am, that Deacon had come into my room at a quarter to eleven. You see, he’d asked me the time, and I’d told him: that’s what made me remember. Then later it all came out about the clock in the study, and now everyone says the boy put the hands back because he knew he had an alibi. Oh! It’s all a ghastly, horrible mistake!”
“It is; and we shan’t mend it by sitting here and talking.” Anthony got to his feet. “By the way, before I go, tell me: what is Mrs. Mainwaring, who is she, that this poor swine don’t see her? If it comes to that, why is she here at all?”
Sir Arthur made a wry face. “Why you haven’t seen her I can’t tell. Why she’s staying here is, I’m sorry to say, for the notoriety. Any decent person would have left the house at once. I’m disgusted; I used almost to like the woman. I would have left, but Laura wished me to stay. And she’s so apathetic that she won’t get rid of the Mainwaring.”
“I must see the lady,” said Anthony.
Sir Arthur looked at him with curiosity, but found no enlightenment.
“In fact,” said Anthony, “I must see both ladies.”
Sir Arthur looked at him again, with no result.
“A last question,” Anthony said: “what—without prejudice—do you think of the manservant, Robert Belford of the ferret face?”
“I wondered whether you’d ask about him,” Sir Arthur said eagerly. “I didn’t like to say anything because I really know nothing against him at all. Never had anything to do with him, in fact. He used to valet John, and would have me, only I don’t use valets. It’s simply that I can’t bear the fellow; his looks are enough to make anyone suspicious. And he’s been more furtive than ever—since the—the murder.”
“H’m,” grunted Anthony.
“It’s really very ungrateful of me,” said Sir Arthur, “to say anything against the man. He was one—or really two—of the witnesses to the fact that I was sitting here in this chair from ten until after—until poor old John was found. But still, joking aside, I have a very real feeling that Mr. Belford at least knows more than he has told.”
“H’m. Yes,” Anthony said. “And now for Miss Hoode. Where can I find her?”
“I think she’s downstairs somewhere, but I’m not sure. I say, Gethryn, you’re not going to—to cross-examine her, are you? I mean I don’t think she’ll want a lot of talk about—”
“No,” Anthony said, crossing the room, “probably she won’t.”
Sir Arthur opened his mouth to speak; but was left staring at the closed door.
As he shut it behind him, Anthony caught sight of a black-clad figure disappearing round the corner by the stairhead. It was a back he had seen before. It wore an air of stealthy discomfort; and the speed with which it had vanished was in itself suspicious.
Anthony laughed. “Belford, my friend,” he thought, “if you have done anything naughty, you’re simply asking to be found out.” He went on and down the stairs.
II
This evening, thought Anthony, as he stood facing her by the open windows of the drawing-room, Laura Hoode was even
