Anthony smiled. “I shouldn’t have believed you if you’d said yes. You can’t give me a line, I suppose? Any private suspicions of your own? I’ve a bag of data, but nothing to hang it on.” “The answer, old thing, is a lemon. Nary suspicion. But what’s all this about data? Found anythin’ fresh?” “Oh, well, you know”—Anthony waved vague hands. “Possibly yes, possibly no, if you follow me. I mean, you never can tell.” Deacon smiled. “Kamerad!” he said. “Served me right. But that’s me all over, I’m afraid. Damn nosey! But you must admit I’m an interested party.” “I do,” Anthony said; then suddenly leaned forward. “Have you told me _all_ you know?” he asked. “And are you going to tell me anything you don’t _know_, but merely feel?” Deacon was silent for perhaps a minute. “I can’t tell you anything more that I _know_,” he said at last and slowly. “And as to the other, what exactly are you driving at? D’you mean: do I definitely suspect any one as being the murderer?” Anthony nodded. “Just that.” “Then the answer’s no. But I’ll tell you what I do feel very strongly, and that’s that it isn’t any one belonging to the house.” “So you think that, do you?” said Anthony. “You know, I’ve heard that before about this affair.” Deacon sat up. “Oh! And what do _you_ think? The reverse?” Anthony shrugged non-committal shoulders. “But it’s absurd,” said the secretary. “Quite utterly imposs’, my dear feller!” “Is it?” Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Ever read detective stories, Deacon? Good ones, I mean. Gaboriau, for instance. If you do, you’ll know that the ‘It’ is very often found among a bunch of ‘unlikely and impossibles.’ And one of my chief stays in life is my well-proved theory that Fiction is Truth. The trouble is that the stories are often more true than the real thing. And that’s just where one goes wrong, and sometimes gets left quite as badly off the mark as the others. I’m beginning to think I may be doing that here.” Deacon scratched his head. “I think you’re ahead of me,” he said. “Never mind, I’m ahead of myself. A long way ahead.” “Well, says I, I hope you catches yourself up soon.” “Thanks.” Anthony got to his feet. “Is it possible for me to see Miss Hoode this afternoon?” “’Fraid not. Our Mr. Boyd saw her this morning, and she’s given orders that that was enough.” “Well, I prowl,” said Anthony, and walked to the door. “By the way, on that walk of yours last night, that awkward walk, did you meet any one? or even see any one?” “No. And that’s awkward, too, isn’t it? Nary human being did I pass.” Anthony opened the door. “Any time you think I’d be useful, let me know,” he said, and passed into the passage. Deacon’s voice followed him. “Thanks. When you’re wanted I’ll make a noise like a murderer. Stout fellah!”