Anthony returned smile for smile. “Frankly, sir,” he said, “Chief-Inspector Bannister has given you more information than I could possibly have done. I was with him at Westhampton when the first news of the stolen notes came through to us and I left him to follow that particular trail on his lonesome. I haven’t investigated it at all. So he’s got ahead of me—you see. I can only cry ‘_Peccavi_’—perhaps I should have attached more importance to it.” Sir Austin Kemble looked at him long and hard. “Perhaps?” he queried. “Perhaps!” insisted Anthony. “You mean——” Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I shouldn’t arrest either Branston or Mrs. Bertenshaw on the evidence submitted if I were the Inspector—still—don’t mind me, I’m only an amateur.” Bannister frowned into space. But Sir Austin Kemble stuck to his guns. “You have something in your mind, Mr. Bathurst,” he said very deliberately; “I am sure of it. I should be pleased to hear what you have to say—that was my purpose in asking you to be present at this interview. Three heads are better than two. I am all attention.” Anthony bowed. “I’m complimented, sir—many thanks. At the moment though, I’m afraid you’ll find me something of a disappointment. I am like the Chief-Inspector here. I feel that I am still confronted with very grave difficulties. Until those difficulties are removed—my hands are of necessity tied. It would be worse than useless for me to bring a charge against any person unless I were fully prepared to prove that charge to the hilt. That is my position now—in a nutshell. I have formed certain ideas. I am willing to admit that much. Beyond that—however, I cannot go. All I can do is to wait—very patiently and very hopefully. Perhaps one day—my chance to prove the truth of my theory will come.” He spoke very quietly, but both Sir Austin and Bannister were able to detect the wealth of infinite purpose in his voice-tone. “I don’t know that I altogether follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” said Sir Austin. “What do you mean exactly when you say that you must wait? For what must you wait?” Anthony’s eyes regarded him with unswerving steadiness. “For the murderer to make a mistake, Sir Austin—when that happens I hope to be aware of it. _When_ I’m aware of it—I shall draw the net round—_tight_. I shall want your help, sir, of course, and Bannister’s, too. I don’t mean for a moment that I’m big enough to carry it through single-handed. But that’s my intention—to bide my time.” There was no element of braggadocio in what he said—merely the coldness of quiet determination. Sir Austin started his finger-drumming again. He was dissatisfied. “Permit me to remark, Mr. Bathurst, that the time for you to move may _never_ come. The murderer—or murderers possibly—may never make the mistake for which you are suggesting that we should wait. How do we go on then?” Anthony was unmoved by the Commissioner’s suggestion.