“To see Jim? Oh, but you can’t,” Lucia said. Her tone was gentle and rather aloof and very firm.
“Oh, but I must,” Anthony said. His loss of temper is regrettable, and was inexplicable to himself even at the time.
The dark eyes blazed at him. “You can’t,” she said.
Anthony said with brutal clearness: “Mrs. Lemesurier, I am, as best I know how, trying to clear of the charge of murder a man I believe innocent. I’ve got to a point where a five minutes’ conversation with your brother will help me. Your brother—you have told me yourself—cannot be considered as seriously ill. I must see him.”
This time it was her eyes that fell. Anthony was angry—with himself. And a man angry with himself is invincible.
With a grace that burned a picture into his mind she crossed the room, to stand with her back to the door.
Anthony picked his hat from the table and walked slowly towards her, smiling as he walked. It was not a nice smile. It was a smile which crept up on one side of his face and stopped before it reached his eyes. A black smile. There are men in odd corners of the world who would counsel, out of personal experience, that when one sees that smile one had better get out.
He came close to her, still smiling. For a moment she faced him; then faltered; then stood to one side and let him pass.
He closed the door softly behind him and began his search for the sickroom. He found it at once. He entered, closing this door even more softly.
A shaded lamp arranged to leave the bed in shadow was the only light. In the bed lay a man. Peering at his face, Anthony could trace a certain faint resemblance. He sat on the chair by the bed and waited.
“What the devil are you?” said a weak voice.
Clearly, but with rapidity, Anthony explained his presence.
“I’m sorry,” he said in conclusion, “to disturb a sick man, and I’ll get the business over as quickly as possible. But I’ve got to find out all I can, you see.”
“Quite, quite.” Masterson’s voice was stronger now. Free of fever, shaven, clean, he was vastly different from Margaret’s bogey.
“How can I help?” he asked after a silence.
Anthony told him. Bored at first, Masterson woke to sudden interest at the mention of the newspaper-cuttings.
“So he did keep ’em!” He lifted himself in the bed to rest on one elbow.
Anthony pushed the little bundle of slips into the thin hands. Eagerly, the sick man read each.
“Some of these are new,” he said. “After my time with Hoode, I mean. But these three—and this one—I remember well. Dammit, I ought to! These are what we had that infernal row about.”
“How?”
“Well, you see, I’d been watching these three papers for a long time, and I’d come to a definite conclusion that there was one man behind all the attacks. I told Hoode so, and he laughed at the idea! That made me as mad as hell. I’ve always had a foul temper, but since the war, y’know, it’s really uncontrollable. I mean I actually can’t help it.”
“I know,” Anthony nodded.
“That’s all. I cursed him for a blind, pigheaded, big-headed fool, and he sacked me. He couldn’t very well do anything else. I still feel very bitter about it; though not quite so much now he’s dead. He was such a brilliant cove in some ways, but so blasted silly in others. Simply wouldn’t listen to what I had to say—and I was sweating to benefit him!”
“ ‘Zeal, all zeal, Mr. Easy!’ ” said Anthony.
“Exactly; but zeal’s a damn good thing at times, ’specially in private secretaries, and being turned down like that made me brood. I really couldn’t help it, you know. After I got the sack I brooded to such an extent that I simply went to pieces. Drank too much. Made an idiot of myself. I say, Lucia’s told me all about things, and I want to thank—”
“You can do that best,” Anthony interrupted, “by keeping on about Hoode and these press-cuttings. I’ve made some conclusions about ’em myself, but you know more.”
A slight flush rose to the sallow cheek of the man in bed. He turned restlessly.
“When I come to think of it,” he said nervously, “I don’t know a great deal. Mostly surmise, and from what I’ve heard of you I should say you’re better at that game than I am.”
Anthony grew grim. “Someone’s been exaggerating. You fire ahead. The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll be able to get away and leave you in peace.”
Masterson said hesitantly: “All right. When I first saw the things coming out one by one I didn’t think anything about ’em. But after a week or so—it may have been a month—something queer struck me. At first I couldn’t place it. Then after collecting a few of the articles, I tumbled. It seemed to me that one man was behind ’em. More, that one man was writing ’em—and for three papers of widely different politics and apparently belonging to different people!”
Anthony was pleased. “You support me. I thought the author seemed to be one man, though I’ve not had time to study the things carefully. I went so far as to think—the authorship being the same and the papers so different in views—that one man controlled all three.” He fell silent a moment, then added slowly: “One might consider, you know, whether the controller and the writer—”
But Masterson interrupted. “Look here,” he said, sitting up in obvious excitement, “how did you spot the unity of authorship business?”
“Similarity of style, I think.” Anthony was reflective. “I’ve got quite an eye for style. Two or three times the fellow tried to disguise it. By doing that he gave the game away completely.”
“Oh, but there was more than that!” cried the other, fumbling with shaking hands at the sheaf of cuttings. “Wait till I find—ah! Now, look at this. ‘The Minister of
