“Your brother,” he said, “is asleep. By the look of him he’s in for a good twelve hours. He’s none the worse and I’m even more full of information than I’d hoped to be. So everything in the garden is lovely!”
But Lucia was angry. Lucia was not to be put off by this light-and-airyness. When she spoke her voice was cold; cold and cruel. She meant to hurt—and succeeded.
“Is there nothing,” she said, “that my brother and I can help you with further? Nothing that we can be made to do? A woman and a sick man! Oh, surely there is?”
For the second time that night Anthony lost his temper. One must, to a certain extent, forgive him. He was worried and tired and harassed and very much in love. He laughed, and peered down at her in the half-light. Lucia caught her breath. Like many lesser women she had, being angry, said far more than she had meant. And now she was sorry, and—well, yes, frightened.
“Before I go,” Anthony said, “I will tell you a story. Once on a time there was a woman who had a big brother and a little sister. One night, she heard that her big brother, who was living in the great city, was sick with a chill. Good friends had taken him to their house and were caring for him. But the woman posted to the great city to make sure that her brother was indeed being well tended.
“But,” he went on, “she left behind her in the country her little sister. Now, this maid was in great sorrow, for her lover had been seized by all the king’s horses and all the king’s men and thrust into a dungeon. Here he was to stay until the king’s judges had decided whether or no to hang him for a misdeed of which he had not been guilty. So, left alone, the little sister grew more and more lonely and frightened, and became in danger of falling ill, She had nobody to comfort her, you see. But that, of course, did not matter, because big brother had his mustard plaster in the right place at last.”
He walked to the front-door; opened it. “Good night,” he said, and shut it gently behind him.
Hands gleaming pale against her throat, Lucia leant against the wall of the passage.
Down in the street, Anthony jumped into his car; then for a moment sat staring before him. Like many lesser men, he had, being angry, said more than he had meant. And now he was frightened.
They had, it must be admitted, behaved like silly children. Very silly children. But then the best people so often do.
XIV
Hay-Fever
I
After that one moment of introspection, Anthony headed his car for Fleet Street. At twenty-five minutes past eleven he burst into the room of The Owl’s editor.
The editor and his secretary were rather close together. The shining golden hair of the secretary was noticeably disordered.
“Er—hallo!” said Hastings.
Anthony said: “Get hold of private ’tec called Pellet; 4, Grogan’s Court. Find out what he knows about the ownership of The Searchlight, The St. Stephen’s Gazette, and Vox Populi. He was commissioned for same thing some time ago by J. Masterson. Never mind how much he costs. I’ll pay. If Pellet doesn’t know anything, find out yourself. In any case give me the answer as soon as is damn well possible. Got that? Right. ’Night. ’Night, Miss Warren.” The door banged behind him.
Margaret Warren snatched some papers from her table and followed. She caught him in the entrance hall.
“Mr. Gethryn!” she said, breathless. “Here’s the report—asked—for—inquest.—Just finished—typed. You may—want it.”
Anthony raised his hat. “Miss Warren, you’re wonderful.” He took the papers from her hand. “Many thanks. Hope I don’t seem rude. Very busy. Good night—and good luck.” He shook her hand and was gone.
Slowly, Margaret went back to her editor. He was found pacing the room, scratching his head in bewilderment.
“Yes, darling, he was a bit strange, wasn’t he?” Margaret said.
“He was.” Hastings spoke with conviction. “I’ve known that man for fifteen years and I’ve never seen him all hot and bothered like that before. He’s usually calmest when he’s got most to do.”
Margaret patted his cheek. “But, you silly baby, he wasn’t like that because of the work he was doing. It was something much, much more important than that—or I’m a Dutchman!”
Hastings was alarmed. “Not that! Anything but that! What was it, then?”
“A woman, of course. The woman! Heaven, am I tied to an idiot?”
“Just you wait, wench, until I’ve seen Mr. Pellet!” said Hastings.
II
From Fleet Street, Anthony drove straight to the Regency, over whose great frontage flaring placards and violently winking electric signs announced that the great, the incomparable Vanda was gracing with her art this mecca of vaudeville. As he reached it the audience were streaming out from its great glass doors.
He anticipated difficulty, and approached the stage-door keeper with a five-pound note and broken English. He was, it seemed, Prince Nicolas Something-or-the-other-vitch. He was oh! so great a friend of the great, the incomparable Vanda—even a relation. He must, it was of an imperativeness, see her. Further, the good keeper of the door really must accept this so little piece of paper.
The good keeper did; then proceeded laboriously to explain that the Vanda was not in the theatre. Hadn’t been there at all that day. And there ’adn’t been half a row about it, neither! She had wired to say she couldn’t appear. Why? Gawd perhaps knew; certainly nobody else did. When would she reappear? The keeper of the door reely couldn’t say. P’r’aps to-morrer. P’r’aps never. Good night to you, sir.
Anthony went to his flat, surprised
