Anthony conceived a liking for this girl; a liking born not altogether of sympathy. But he wondered, with half-humorous desperation, how he was to provide the cleanser and yet not waste much time.
“Consoler-in-Chief to the Birds of the Air, I am,” he said to himself; then aloud: “You can help, Miss Masterson, by listening to me think. In this business, I’m like a mad poet without hands or tongue. I mean, I’ve found out more than the other fellows—the police—but it’s all odds and ends and tangles—little things, queer in themselves, that men would tell me might be found anywhere if one only troubled to look for ’em. But I say they’re not; that they fit!”
The girl was sitting upright now, alert, gazing at him intently. “Think, then,” she whispered.
“Now for it,” thought Anthony, “and God send it’ll take her in—and quickly.”
Aloud, he began: “Reconcile for me—put these things into order and make ’em mean something—if you can. Innocent fingerprints on a weapon which performed a murder. An innocent person—not the one of the fingerprints—stealing letters from the corpse to hide the fact that the corpse had a mistress. An attempt to make a clock give an alibi, the attempt being so clumsily carried out that it seems very ill in accord with other indications of the murderer’s ingenuity. Secret drawer in corpse’s desk full of newspaper-cuttings, all of ’em vicious attacks on corpse when alive. Fingerprints—”
“Mr. Gethryn!” the girl interrupted harshly; “you’re making fun of me! No, that’s not fair; you’re just playing with me to make me think I can help. No doubt you mean to be kind—but I hate it!”
Anthony for once was crestfallen. The truth of the accusation was so complete as to make an answer impossible. He found himself in the indefensible position of one “who means well.” He groped wildly for words, but was saved; for, suddenly, Dora sprang to her feet.
“Those cuttings!” she cried. “Did you mean—do you really want to know anything about them?”
Anthony was surprised. “Most certainly I do. I don’t know exactly what I want to know, but that means I want to know everything.”
“Well, go and see Jim—my brother—now, at once!” She stamped her foot at him in her excitement. “When he was secretary to Mr. Hoode he was full of those attacks in the press. I remember we thought he was rather silly about them. He used to say there was something more than mere—what did he call it?—policy behind them, and swore he’d make Mr. Hoode take notice of them. I think it was what they eventually quarreled about, but I’m not sure, because he’d never tell me. He wouldn’t even tell Loo—my sister. But if you want to know anything about those papers, Mr. Gethryn, Jimmie’s more likely to be able to tell you than anyone else!”
Anthony looked at her and said: “The best apology I can make to you is to go up to town now. Your brother ought to be well enough by this time. He’s got to be!” He paused; then added with a smile: “You know you wouldn’t have found me out if I’d been less preoccupied. I’m a bit tired, too.”
Dora, forgetting herself, looked at him closely. “Why—why, you look almost ill!” she cried, “p’r’aps you—oughtn’t to go tonight.”
“Oh, I’m going right enough,” Anthony said; “and now. And I’m not ill; that’s only my interesting pallor. You must go home—and don’t worry.”
She cried: “How can I help worrying? Worrying till I wish I’d never been born! Unless there’s a miracle—”
“Chesterton once wrote,” Anthony interrupted her, “that ‘the most wonderful thing about miracles is that they sometimes happen.’ And he’s a great and wise man.”
The girl flashed a tremulous smile at him and passed out of the door.
II
At ten minutes past ten the great red Mercedes drew up outside the block of flats where Spencer Hastings lived. Anthony had broken his own record of that afternoon for the Kensington-Marling journey.
Stiffly, he clambered to the pavement, noted with curiosity that his hands were shaking, and ran up the steps. As he went he wondered would he see Her. He arrived at the door of No. 15 more out of breath than the climb should have made him.
Wonderfully, it was She who opened it, and at her smile the shortness of his breath was foolishly increased. For the smile was one, it seemed, of open delight at seeing him.
Hastings, she told him, was out, being at his office. His housekeeper, too, was out, being on holiday. But wasn’t Mr. Hastings a dear? Wasn’t Mr. Hastings’s betrothed a charming betrothed? The invalid was ever so much better; temperature down; sleeping; in fact, almost all right. And she hadn’t forgotten how everything, everything was due to the sagacity, kindliness, and general wonderfulness of Mr. Gethryn!
They were by this time in the little drawing-room; and as yet Anthony had done nothing save stare with all his eyes. She finished speaking, and he realized that he must say something. But what? He wanted to shout to Heaven that he hadn’t seen her for hours longer than years. He wanted to catch her hands—those long, slim hands—and cover them with kisses. He wanted to tell her that she was most glorious of women and he the vainglorious fool who dared to love her. He wanted—oh, what did he not want?
He said: “Er—good evening. Hastings out?”
She opened her eyes at him. “But—but, Mr. Gethryn, I’ve just told you that Mr. Hastings is at his office!”
“Of course. Ah, yes,” said Anthony.
“Did you want to see him?”
Anthony recovered himself; remembered that he had work to do, and that by attending to it he could save himself from behaving foolishly.
“No,” he said shortly. “Mrs. Lemesurier, I must see your brother.” It was, he thinks now, the great fatigue which had accumulated during the past days and the strain of that flying drive
