The results of Anthony’s visit were of much value. A grateful Government patted him on the back, decorated him, gave him two months’ leave, promoted him, and then worked him as few men were worked even during the war. It was queer work, funny work, work in the dark, work in strange places.
Anthony Ruthven Gethryn left the army at the end of 1919, at the age of thirty-three. To show for his service he had a limp (slight), the C.M.G., the D.S.O., a baker’s dozen of other orders (foreign: various) and those thick streaks of gray in his black hair. Few save his intimate friends knew either of that batch of medals or of his right to the title of Colonel.
Anthony stayed with his mother until she died, peacefully, and then, since his father—who had preceded his wife by some two years—had left him no more than a few hundreds a year, looked round for work.
He wrote another novel; the public were unmoved. He painted three pictures; they would not sell. He published another book of poems; they would not sell either. Then he turned back to his secretaryship, his M.P. being now a minor minister. The work was of a sort he did not care for, and save for meeting every now and then a man who interested him, he was bored to extinction.
Then, in July of 1921, Uncle Charles fell a victim to malignant influenza, became convalescent, developed pneumonia, and died. To Anthony he left a dreadful house in Knightsbridge and nine or ten thousand a year. Anthony sold the house, set up in a flat, and, removed from carking care, did as the fancy took him. When he wanted to write, he wrote. When he wished to paint, he painted. When pleasure called, he answered. He was very happy for a year.
But then came trouble. When he wrote, he found that, immediately, a picture would form in his head and cry aloud to be put on canvas. Did he paint, verse unprecedented, wonderful, clamoured to be written. Did he leave England, his soul yearned for London.
It was when this phase was at its worst that he renewed a friendship, begun at Trinity, with that eccentric but able young journalist, Spencer Hastings. To Anthony, Hastings unbosomed his great idea—the idea which could be made fact if there were exactly twice as much money as Hastings possessed. Anthony provided the capital, and The Owl was born.
Anthony designed the cover, wrote a verse for the paper now and then; sometimes a bravura essay.
Often he blessed Hastings for having given him one interest at least which, since the control of it was not in his own hands, could not be thrown aside altogether.
To conclude: Anthony was suffering from three disorders, lack of a definite task to perform, severe war-strain, and not having met the right woman. The first and the second, though he never spoke of them, he knew about; the third he did not even suspect.
III
Cock Robin’s House
I
The sudden telephone message from Hastings at two o’clock on that August morning and his own subsequent acceptance of the suggestion that he should be The Owl’s “Special Commissioner,” had at least, thought Anthony, as he drove his car through Kingston four hours later, remedied that lack of something definite to do.
He had driven at once to The Owl’s headquarters, had arranged matters with Hastings within ten minutes, and had then telephoned to a friend—an important official friend. To him Anthony had outlined, sketchily, the scheme, and had been given in reply a semiofficial, “Mind you, I know nothing about it if anything happens, but get ahead” blessing. He had then driven back to his flat, packed a bag, left a note for his man, and set out for Marling in Surrey.
From his official friend he had gathered that once on the right side of Miss Hoode and his way was clear. As he drove he pondered. How to approach the woman? At any mention of the Press she would be bound to shy. Finally, he put the problem to one side.
The news of John Hoode’s death had not moved him, save in the way of a passing amazement. Anthony had seen too much of death to shed tears over a man he had never known. And the Minister of Imperial Finance, brilliant though he had been, had never seized the affections of the people in the manner of a Joe Chamberlain.
Passing through Halsemere, Anthony, muttering happily to himself: “Now, who did kill Cock Robin?” was struck by a horrid thought. Suppose there should be no mystery! Suppose, as Hastings had suggested, that the murderer had already delivered himself.
Then he dismissed the idea. A Cabinet Minister murdered without a mystery? Impossible! All the canons were against it.
He took his car along at some speed. By ten minutes to eight he had reached the Bear and Key in Marling High Street, demanded a room and breakfast, and had been led upstairs by a garrulous landlord.
II
Bathed, shaved, freshly-clothed and full of breakfast, Anthony uncurled his thin length from the best chair in the inn’s parlour, lit his pipe, and sought the garden.
Outside the door he encountered the landlord, made inquiry as to the shortest way to Abbotshall, and, placidly puffing at his pipe, watched with enjoyment the effect of his question.
The eyes of Mr. Josiah Syme flashed with the fire of curiosity.
“ ’Scuse me, sir,” he wheezed, “but ’ave you come down along o’ this—along o’ these ’appenings up at the ’ouse?”
“Hardly,” said Anthony.
Mr. Syme tried again. “Be you a ’tective, sir?” he asked in a conspiratorial wheeze. “If so, Joe Syme might be able to
