Anthony opened his eyes. “I did. And thought how refreshing it was to see the quotation given right. They nearly all get it wrong, though you’d think anyone could see that Pope couldn’t have been such a fool as to say a little knowledge was dangerous. Knowledge is always useful; learning isn’t—until you’ve got plenty. But go on: what about it?”
Masterson was searching feverishly. “Tell you when I’ve found—here we are! Listen. Er-um Finance—policy—rumty-tumty—‘when Greek joins Greek, then comes the tug-of-war!’ There you are again. How many times d’you see that given right?”
“Never,” said Anthony. “They all say ‘meets.’ ”
“There you are, then. It all goes to prove what you felt and I’m certain about.” He tapped the bundle of cuttings with a lean finger. “All these were written by the same man; there’s not a doubt in my mind. Style—similarity in style, I mean—isn’t proof; but this orgy of correctitude plus that similarity is. At least it’s good enough for me. There are plenty more instances if you want them. There’s one I remember well—a leader in Vox Populi. It was a more vicious attack on Hoode even than the others, and it was so damn well done that it was almost convincing. It said, apropos of him: ‘facilis descensus averno.’ What about that?”
Anthony sat up. “ ‘Averno’ is very rare,” he said slowly. “But it’s a better reading. I saw it. I wondered. I wondered a lot.”
There was a silence. The two looked at each other.
“Masterson,” Anthony said at last, “you’re very useful, you know. Most useful. Wish you weren’t sick-abed. Now here’s another point. We’ve fixed the author of these articles as one man; but what about the motive force behind the author. I’m inclining to the view that as these papers differ so widely in everything else they are controlled by someone whose only interest in them was to do Hoode a bad turn. Agree?”
Masterson nodded emphatically.
“Right.” Anthony leaned forward, speaking softly. “But did this motive force hire someone to write for it, or was its distaste for the unfortunate Robin Hoode so great that it wrote itself, being unwilling to forgo the pleasure of, so to speak, giving birth to a new litter of scorpions three times a month or more? Briefly, are you with me in thinking that author and motive force are probably one and the same?”
“By God, I am!” Masterson said.
Anthony smiled. “Well, thank God I’ve found another lunatic! That’s what we are, you know. Think of our theory! It is that someone had such a hatred of Hoode that the secret purchase of three newspapers was needed to assuage it. That’s what we’ve said; we’re thinking more. But we’re frightened to say what it is because it’ll sound so silly.”
“I know. I know.” Masterson’s tone was almost fearful. “I say, we can’t be right! It isn’t sense! Now I come to think of it there are dozens of other theories that’d fit. There might be more than one person. The whole thing might be political. The—”
Anthony raised a hand for silence. “Fear not. Of course you can fit other theories. One always can; that’s the devil of this bloodhound business. The only way to work is to pick a likely-looking path and go down it. I’ve chosen one to get on with. As you say, it’s not sense; but then nothing else is. It’s sad and bad and very mad and very far from sweet. But there it is. So we’ll all go mad. I’m starting now.” He got to his feet.
“Here, wait a minute!” Masterson cried. “Don’t go. I—I might be able to help you.”
“My dear fellow, you have already—immeasurably! For one thing you’ve crystallised my determination to go mad and stay mad—”
“Oh, I know all about that!” Masterson exhibited some irritation. “But I mean really help. I was just going to tell you. When I was with Hoode, before I told him about this business, I went to one of those filthy private inquiry agents. I was so absolutely certain, you see. I told this chap to find out, if he could, who the enemy was. Or rather I told him to find out who really owned the three newspapers. He thought I was mad, said he could do it in a day—but he didn’t! I think he imagined he’d only got to look it up or get someone from Fleet Street to tell him. Of course, that didn’t work, he only gave me the three figureheads that’re shown to the trusting world. But when I laughed at him, and explained a little, I think he got his back up and really went for the job.”
“D’you mean to say—” began Anthony.
“No, I don’t! Before I heard any more I had the row with Hoode—I didn’t tell him about the ’tec, of course; I was too angry—and dropped the whole business and paid this chap off. He was very fed up—kept trying to see me, and writing. Of course—well in the state I was in, I refused to see him and chucked his letters into the fire. But he was so very eager! He might know something, I think!”
Anthony was elated. “He might indeed. Masterson, you’re a treasure! What’s the name?”
“Pellet, he calls himself. Office is at 4, Grogan’s Court, off Fleet Street, just past Chancery Lane.”
“Excellent! Now I’m going.” Anthony held out his hand. “And thank you. Hope I’ve done you no harm.”
“Not a bit. Feel better already. Let me know how you get on. Going to sleep now,” said the invalid, and did, before Anthony had reached the door.
In the passage, Anthony hesitated. Should he go straight from the flat or should he tell Her first that he was going? Then, as he reached it, the door of the drawing-room opened.
The passage was dimly lit, and
