Before another roar could break from outraged officialdom, the door of the room opened. A thick-set, middle-aged man of a grocerish air inquired briskly what was the trouble here. Sergeant Higgins became on the instant a meek subordinate. “I—I didn’t know you were—were about, sir.” He stood stiff at attention. “Just questioning of a few witnesses, I was, sir. This er—gentleman”—he nodded in the direction of Anthony—“just pushed his ’ead——” But Superintendent Boyd of the C.I.D. was shaking the interloper by the hand. He had recognised the head and shoulders as those of Colonel Gethryn. In 1917 he had been “lent” to Colonel Gethryn in connection with a great and secret “round-up” in and about London. For Colonel Gethryn Superintendent Boyd had liking and a deep respect. “Well, well, sir,” he said, beaming. “Fancy seeing you. They didn’t tell me you were staying here.” “I’m not,” Anthony said. Then added, seeing the look of bewilderment: “I don’t quite know what I am, Boyd. You may have to turn me away. I think I’d better see Miss Hoode before I commit myself any further.” He swung his long legs into the room, patted the doubtful Boyd on the shoulder, sauntered to the door, opened it and passed through. Turning to his right, he collided sharply with another man. A person this, of between forty and fifty, dressed tastefully in light gray; broad-shouldered, virile, with a kindly face marked with lines of fatigue and mental stress. Anthony recoiled from the shock of the collision. The other stared. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “You exaggerate, Sir Arthur,” said Anthony. Sir Arthur Digby-Coates recovered himself. “The most amazing coincidence that ever happened, Gethryn,” he said. “I was just thinking of you.” “Really?” Anthony was surprised. “Yes, yes. I suppose you’ve heard? You must have. Poor Hoode!” “Of course. That’s why I’m here.” “But I thought you’d left——” “Oh, yes,” said Anthony, “I’ve left the Service. Quite a time ago. I’m here because—look here, this’ll sound rot if I try to explain in a hurry. Can we go and sit somewhere where we can talk?” “Certainly, my boy, certainly. I’m very glad indeed to see you, Gethryn. Very glad. This is a terrible, an awful affair—and, well, I think we could do with your help. You see, I feel responsible for seeing that _everything’s_ done that can be. It may seem strange to you, Gethryn, the way I’m taking charge like this; but John and I were—well ever since we were children we’ve been more like brothers than most real ones. I don’t think a week’s passed, except once or twice, that we haven’t seen—— This way: we can talk better in my room. I’ve got a sitting-room of my own here, you know. Dear old John——” 3 It was three-quarters of an hour before Anthony descended the stairs; but in that time much had been decided and arranged. So much, in fact, that Anthony marvelled at his luck—a form of mental exercise unusual in him. He was always inclined to take the gifts of the gods as his due.