“I’ll tell him myself,” said the other. “You’re really rather a wonder, Gethryn! We ought to have you as a sort of super-superintendent. Or you might do well on the stage. At one time just now you almost took me in with that grisly tale and manner of yours. And what a yarn it was, too. Just enough to make that half-crazy devil think he’d killed the wrong man. Enough, I mean, to make him wonder whether you hadn’t got half the tale right and had only gone astray about who actually did the bashing.” Lucas chuckled reminiscently. “I say,” he added, “it was a good thing nobody heard us getting in here through the window. It would’ve spoilt the whole thing. The storm effect helped everything along nicely, though, didn’t it?”
“It did,” Anthony said. “I didn’t arrange that, you know.”
Mr. Lucas smiled. “No, I suppose not; though I’m so full at the moment of wonder and admiration for the great Colonel Gethryn that if anyone told me you had, I don’t know that I should disbelieve ’em.” He turned to look at the prisoner. “God!” he exclaimed. “Look at that!”
For Sir Arthur was sitting quietly at the feet of the plain-clothes man. And he was playing a little game with his manacled hands, tracing with both forefingers the intricate pattern of the carpet. Every now and again he would look up at his guard and laugh. It was not a pleasant sound, being childish and yet somehow evil.
Anthony looked, then turned away with a shiver. Lucas dropped a hand on his shoulder.
“Never mind, Gethryn,” he said, after a moment. “It isn’t your fault.”
Anthony shook off the hand. “Damn it, I know that! Only the whole thing is so filthy. It might be said, I know, that I sent That mad. But it wouldn’t be true. He did that himself. Hatred, ingrowing hatred of a better man: that’s the cause.”
Lucas was thoughtful. “It complicates things, this madness.”
“It does. What’ll happen?”
“Usual, I suppose. The case’ll be tried. He’ll be convicted—and sent to Broadmoor, where he’ll die, or recover in a year and be let out to kill someone else. We’re so humane, you know!” Lucas was bitter. “Anyhow, you won’t be bothered any more, except for the trial, at which you’ll figure prominently. Oh, yes! Great glory will be yours, Gethryn. Think what a press you’ll have!”
Anthony grunted his disgust.
Lucas went on: “Lord! What a stir this is going to make. Millionaire M.P. arrested for murder of Cabinet Minister! It won’t be nice for us at the Yard either. Not at all nice! Getting hold of an innocent man and all that. Police shown the way by amateur!” He groaned. “Never mind, The Owl shall be the first to publish anything. I arranged that before I came down. And then they’ll have that report of yours to get out, too. What envy will tear Fleet street! Of course, that report can’t come out yet, you know. At least, I don’t think so; not before the trial—”
Anthony started. “Lucas,” he said, “there’s something we’ve forgotten.” He put a hand up to his hair.
“Gad! So we have. Let’s see.”
Together they stooped over the prisoner. He looked up at them and cackled.
“Rotten business!” Anthony grunted. “Seems almost indecent when the man’s like this.” He put his hand on Sir Arthur’s head. His fingers groped for a moment; then came away. With them came that immaculate head of graying hair.
“Wonderful toupee!” Lucas stretched out his hands for it. “I’d never have noticed it. And I thought they were always obvious. Well, that’s the last confirmation of your theory, Gethryn.” He peered at Anthony. “Lord! You look worn out, man!”
Anthony said heavily: “I am. Think I’ll get back to bed at my pub.”
Lucas glanced at his watch. “Yes, do. Get off now: it’s only ten past eleven. Shall—”
“What time did you say it was?”
“Eleven-ten.”
“Gad! I thought I’d been here at least five hours. Only eleven-ten! And I’m sitting here!” Anthony made for the door.
Lucas grabbed at his arm. “Here, what’s to do?”
“Got to go and pay a call.” Anthony wrenched himself free and got to the door, paused to say over his shoulder: “Don’t tell Deacon to come to my pub. Just let him go. He’ll get where I want him,” and was gone.
Lucas stared after him. “Fool ought to be in bed,” he muttered. “Clever devil, though, but queer!” He turned to the business on hand.
Sir Arthur still sat on the floor, playing his game. His fingers wandered ceaselessly over the carpet. His head, bald save for a sand-coloured tonsure, was sunk between his square shoulders. Every now and then he laughed that high-pitched laugh.
XVII
By The Owl’s Commissioner
The letter which Anthony had written in the early hours of that morning and despatched by District Messenger, the letter which had brought so important a person as Mr. Egbert Lucas down to Abbotshall, had run as follows:—
“My Dear Lucas,—As you know, I have been playing at detectives down at Marling. I have finished my game; the rest is up to you.
“What I have found, how I have found it, and my opinion of the meaning of what I have found you will discover set out in the enclosed document, typed by my very own fingers. You may—I cannot tell—think my conclusions wrong, and say that in real life, even as in fairy tales, a set of circumstances, a collection of clues, may equally lead to the innocent as to the guilty. For me, however, I am convinced. To put it in my own diffident way: I know that I am right!
“So please read the enclosed. If you agree with me, as I think you will, you will yet find that the evidence is insufficient: and you will be right. I will, therefore, endeavour to arrange for a
