“Very,” Anthony agreed. Silence fell. Openly they studied each other. Deacon spoke first. “Boyd,” he said, settling a cushion behind his great shoulders, “is quite wrong.” “Eh?” Anthony was startled. “I remarked, brother, that your Wesleyan-lookin’ detective friend was shinning up the wrong shrub.” “Indeed,” said Anthony. “How?” “Your caution, brother, is commendable; but I think you know what I mean. Chief Detective-Inspector, or whatever he is, W. B. Boyd of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Department—bless his fluffy little bed-socks—is labourin’ under the delusion that I, to wit Archibald Etcetera Deacon, am the man who killed John Hoode. You apprehend me, Stephen?” Anthony raised his eyebrows. “How much do you know, I wonder?” “All depends on your meanin’, If you’re asking whether I know anything about how the chief was done in, the answer’s ‘nothing.’ But if you mean how much do I know of Scotland Yard’s suspicion of me, that’s a different story.” “Number two’s right,” said Anthony. “Fire ahead.” “Comrade Boyd,” said the secretary, “is a tenacious, an indefatigable old bird, and he’s found out some funny things. But what he doesn’t see is that they’re only funny and no more. First, I didn’t contradict him—very foolish of me, that—when it was obvious that he thought I’d been in my room last night from ten until after they found the chief done in in his study. I didn’t contradict him because the mistake seemed as if it would get me out of a very compromising position. You see, at about a quarter-past ten I left my room, went downstairs, out of the front door, and enjoyed a cheery stroll on my lonesome. When I came back I found the whole damn’ place in an uproar, the murder having been already discovered. There was such a general shemozzle that nobody noticed me come in until I got there, what! My—what’s the officialese for it?—‘suppression of the truth’ gave Boyd clue number one.