II
Ten minutes later, Anthony was running up the High Street towards his inn. Arrived there, he found a telegram. It read: “Authentic astounding revelations by Pellet what next Hastings.”
Anthony wrote on a telegraph form: “Wait with you afternoon office keep Pellet Gethryn.” The form he gave to the barman with a ten-shilling note and instructions for immediate despatch, and then set off for Abbotshall at a fast walk.
As he entered the gates, a car—an unfamiliar green Daimler, a woman seated primly beside the chauffeur—left them. In spite of the heat it was closed. Peering, Anthony saw the only occupant of the tonneau to be a woman. She was veiled. He deduced the flirtatious Mrs. Mainwaring and her Gallic maid. The sight appeared to amuse him. He walked on to the house humming beneath his breath.
Sir Arthur, he was told by a rejuvenated Belford, was believed to be in his own sitting-room.
Anthony mounted the stairs. He found Sir Arthur’s door ajar; on it was pinned a notice in red ink: “Please do not disturb.” From where he stood, all Anthony could see was the big armchair drawn up to the window, the top of an immaculate head above its back and some six inches of trouser and a boot-sole by each of its front legs.
Anthony chuckled, knocked, and entered. Sir Arthur rose, turning a frowning face towards the intruder. As he saw who it was, a smile replaced the frown.
“You looked,” said Anthony, “like some weird animal, sitting like that. Hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
“Not a bit, my boy, not a bit. Very glad to see you.” He picked up some sheets of paper from the chair. “As a matter of fact, I was just jotting down a few notes. I’d like you to read them—not now, but when they’re finished.” He hesitated; then added rather shyly: “They’re just some ideas I’ve had about this awful business. Somehow, I can put them more clearly in writing. I want to give them to Marshall before the boy’s tried, but I’d like you to see them first. There might possibly be some points which have escaped you, though I expect not.”
“I’d like to look at ’em very much,” Anthony said. “Get them done as quick as you can, won’t you? Now, what I interrupted you for: is there in the house a good collection of reference books?”
“There is. Right-hand bookcase in the study. You’ll find anything you want from sawdust to Seringapatam. John got together the most comprehensive reference library I’ve ever seen.”
“Good!” Anthony turned to the door. “No, don’t trouble to come, I’ll find ’em!”
It was, as Sir Arthur had said, a most comprehensive collection. Anthony locked the study door and sat at the big writing-table, now back in its old place, surrounded by the volumes of his choice. They were many and varied.
He worked for an hour, occasionally scribbling notes on a slip of paper. At last he rose, stretched himself, and returned the books to their shelves. Again sitting at the table, he studied his notes. They appeared to afford him satisfaction. He folded the paper and took out his notecase. As he opened it, the bunch of newspaper-cuttings fluttered down to rest upon the table.
He picked them up and slid them, with the notes he had scribbled, back into the case. As he did so a line of the topmost cutting caught his eye. It was the quotation from the Aeneid which Masterson had referred to and which then had titillated some elusive memory. Now where, recently, had he seen this unusual and meticulous dative case?
His mind wrestled with forgetfulness; then, suddenly tired, refused to work longer on so arduous a task. As minds will, it switched abruptly off to the matter with which it most wished to be occupied. Before Anthony’s eyes came a picture of a dark, proud face whose beauty was enhanced by its pallor. He thought of her as he had seen her that morning; as he had seen her that first time; as she had sat in her drawing-room that night—the night he had made her tell him all about it.
His mind, remorseful, perhaps, made a halfhearted attempt to get back to that tiresome business of the correct quotation from Virgil. Suddenly, it connected the work and the woman. The great light of recaptured memory burst upon him.
He jumped for the telephone; asked for Greyne 23; was put through at once; thought: “Wonder who’ll answer?” then heard the “Hallo” of a servant.
“Miss Masterson in?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. What name shall I say?”
He told her. Waiting, he grew excited. If by any chance he was right, here was yet more confirmation of his theory.
Dora Masterson’s voice came to his ears. “Hallo. Is that Mr. Gethryn? I—”
Anthony interrupted. “Yes. I wonder whether you can help me. The second time I was in your house I picked up a book. Little green book. Soft leather binding. Essays. Pleasantly written. One was called ‘Love at First Sight.’ Author’s name on titlepage was a woman’s. D’you know the book I mean?”
“Is it one called Here and There?”
“Yes, now who wrote it? Was it really a woman? And is that her real name? I meant to ask at the time, but forgot.”
III
At twenty minutes to two that afternoon, Anthony stopped his car outside The Owl’s office. He had broken no record this time; his mind had been much occupied on the journey. The interviews he had held with Belford, Mabel Smith, and Elsie Syme before leaving Abbotshall had given him food for thought.
He found Hastings in his room, with him a little, dapper, sly-eyed Jew. “Discreet Inquiries. Divorces, Watching, etc.,” thought Anthony.
“This,” murmured Hastings, “is Mr. Pellett.”
“Ah, yes.” Anthony sat down heavily. He was tired and very hungry. He had not eaten since breakfast. Mr. Pellett displeased him.
“Mr. Pellett,” said Hastings, “has some information which should interest you. I have paid him fifty pounds. He wants another two hundred.”
“He would,” Anthony
