Anthony leaned across the table. “Not yet, Inspector! I told you the fourth act was still to come! I must ask you to give me another forty-eight hours say—then I hope to put the entire threads of the case in your hands. You will then proceed to make your arrests.” His grey eyes danced, and even his hard-bitten companion caught something of the domination of his personality. “The following day we shall read with our early morning cup of tea—‘Dramatic Double Arrest—Police Swoop in Hanover Galleries’ and ‘Assynton Lodge Murders—Triumph of Detective-Inspector Goodall.’” His mouth twisted into a smile. “Does the prospect please you, Inspector?” “That’s a hard question to answer,” grunted Goodall. “I feel that I’d rather see my way than have somebody hold my hand—with all due respect, Mr. Bathurst.” “Of course, Inspector—any man would! I promise you, you shall see every step of the way, before I ask you to take the _final_ steps—there’s my hand on it.” The Inspector grasped his hand warmly. “You’ve made me feel easier,” he conceded. “I’ve only known you a couple of days, and yet I seem to have known you all my life.” “One point I want to mention now, Inspector—before I forget it. I’ve left Mr. Daventry in charge down at Assynton. I’ve told him, if he wants me in a hurry—and it’s just possible, in the circumstances, that he may—to ring you up at ‘the Yard.’ I sha’n’t be wanted to-night—I’m certain of that. If he should ring you to-morrow or Sunday—that address will find me”—he scribbled an address on his visiting card and pushed it across to the Inspector. Goodall transferred it to his pocket-book. “All Sir Garnet, Mr. Bathurst. That shall be attended to, if required!” Anthony called their waiter and settled the bill. “Perhaps you’ll be good enough to return to Assynton with me when I go back—will you, Inspector? Don’t worry about this end of the tangle—it will solve itself with the other, take it from me. I’ve another difficulty, unfortunately, at the moment—I have to solve a third mystery.” He rose to go and Goodall followed his example. “I don’t quite understand, Mr. Bathurst.” Anthony’s eyes glinted. “I have to solve ‘the riddle of the screens,’ or in the picturesque language of M. Réné de St. Maure—the problem of the ‘Black Twenty-Two’—but that, Inspector, is another story.” He took the Inspector by the arm. “The British Museum is going to be my H.Q. for to-morrow, Inspector—if that interests you at all—don’t forget—if you should want me at the address I just gave you.” They passed out into the street. “There’s one thing I forgot to tell you,” remarked Anthony. “There’s a woman in the case, as I expect you know. But here’s something you may not know—she suffers a good deal from hay fever—and although I can’t tell you her name—I could tell you what it was before she married—good-night, Goodall.”