Rogers shook his head. “Not well. We’ve only met him on the several occasions when we’ve stayed in Westhampton on business. But we run across him so regularly then that we’ve got into the habit of looking out for him every time we come. By the way, talking about Westhampton, that’s a terrible thing in this morning’s papers—that murder at Seabourne. I hear in the town to-day that the lady murdered—a Miss Daphne Carruthers—was the niece of Major Carruthers. I met Major Carruthers some years ago on my first visit to Westhampton. He was a splendid fellow—a ‘pukka’ gentleman.” “I understand then,” Anthony interjected quietly, “that you haven’t seen Mr. Warburton during your present visit?” Rogers and Davidson shook their heads energetically. “Devil a glimpse of him,” said Davidson. “We haven’t run him to earth anywhere—and we’ve called at more than one shrine where he’s wont to worship.” He grinned cheerfully at his friend and Rogers found the grin infectious. “And we haven’t confined ourselves to one call at some of the extra-special places, either,” he added in support of his statement. “Have we, Rodge?” “I should say not.” “Last time we were in Westhampton,” went on the irrepressible Davidson, “we had a proper old ‘binge’ with Warburton. We fairly hit the high spots that night.” He chuckled at the gratifying reminiscence with such profound amusement that Rogers took up the thread of the narrative with an exuberant gaiety. “You’re right! I remember. We had a hot time in the old town that night. Old Warburton was properly down in the mouth too when we blew in. I can remember that perfectly. In a regular Slough of Despond he was, poor old blighter. He seemed to have turned ‘Bolshie’ or something. Absolutely shouting Red Revolution. Goodness knows what had upset him—don’t know whether it was the sequel to his uncle’s trouble or what? Anyhow when we drifted in on that particular evening in question old Warburton was blowing off a lot of hot air about exterminating Royalty and a lot of proper silly ass tripe of that kind. Quite the soap-box thumper style. Can you remember him, Davey?” “You’ve said it,” said Davidson, “you’ve brought it all back to me. I can remember how he was going off the ‘deep end.’ He’d got a particular grouch against some Foreign Johnny—some Prince of God knows where—he wouldn’t let on why when we pulled his leg about it—in fact he was inclined to turn sulky—but from what I could gather he fairly ached to present this Prince-person with something lingering with bags of boiling oil in it.” Bannister sat transfixed in his chair as Davidson concluded his remarks and Anthony could almost see a question trembling on his tongue. Davidson, however, was sublimely oblivious of the fact. He rattled merrily on. “Can’t think of the particular merchant’s name,” he murmured with an air of attempted, but abortive reminiscence, “but it reminded me at the time of geraniums.”