For the moment he had left the main question of Sheila Delaney’s murder. As Bannister had implied the day before—he was taking a rest—partly. But he had a shrewd idea at the back of his clever brain that the half-holiday would not prove completely unprofitable. He turned down Crossley Road and was not long before he stood in front of Number 19. In response to his knock a rather slatternly woman appeared at the door. She eyed Mr. Bathurst with a disfavour that she took no pains to conceal. Which fact mattered but little to him. Mr. Bathurst always appeared to be supremely unconscious of little incidents of that kind. “Mr. Warburton?” she echoed his request. “Yes, he’s in. Would you be wantin’ him?” she added unnecessarily. “Naturally,” smiled Mr. Bathurst. “That was why I asked for him.” The lady scowled ungraciously, but Mr. Bathurst could be as charming to scowls as he could be to “wreathèd smiles.” “What name shall I say?” she demanded more churlishly than ever. “Say Mr. Bannister’s assistant.” The lady disappeared with the mendacious information and left Mr. Bathurst kicking his heels outside the front door. Within a few minutes she returned. “You’re to come upstairs,” she announced with the air of one bestowing the greatest of favours. “Mr. Warburton says as how he’ll see you.” Anthony ascended the unpretentious staircase and was shown into a sitting-room that had seen a good many better days. “Well, my inquisitive friend”—such was the manner of Mr. Warburton’s greeting—“to what particular strain of damned curiosity am I indebted for the honour of this visit?” Anthony waved a deprecating hand. “I beg of you, Mr. Warburton, I beg of you! Do not, please, mistake your man. It would grieve me enormously if you were to do that, and I fear that my recovery from that grief would be extremely tardy. Let me assure you that I have no official connection whatever with the Police. Rest easy on that point.” Warburton stared at him—incredulity and wonderment struggling to find expression. “What the hell do you mean?” “Precisely what I say. I do not come from the Police.” “What were you doing then with Bannister yesterday, eh?” Again Mr. Bathurst raised a mildly protesting hand. “Ah! There we do meet on more appropriate terms. I will tell you, Mr. Warburton. I am watching the case on behalf of His Royal Highness Alexis, Crown Prince of Clorania. Does that surprise you? My name is Anthony Bathurst.” Warburton sprang to his feet—furious with anger. “Then get out of here,” he cried. “As quickly as you know how or——” He stopped irresolutely. Mr. Bathurst, as has been observed more than once, was always very fit—thank you, and Mr. Warburton was intelligent enough to note the fact. One glance at the lithe and muscular six feet length of body was ample for him in which to arrive at his conclusions.