He panted up to the car. “Gethryn, Gethryn! Just the man I was wanting! Where’ve you been?” “London.” Anthony was almost surly. He had been dreaming a dream. “My God!” Sir Arthur pulled at his collar as if he were choking. “Look here! I must talk to you. But not here. Not here! Come in! Come in! My room’ll be best. Come on!” Anthony was dragged into the house and up the stairs and into Sir Arthur’s room. They sat, in chairs drawn up to the window. In his, Anthony lay back, but the elder man hunched himself like a nervous schoolboy, sitting on the edge of his chair with his feet thrust backwards and then outwards until they protruded behind and beside each of the front legs. It was an old trick of his when preoccupied, and never ceased to amuse Anthony. It was some time before Sir Arthur spoke. He seemed in his agitation to have difficulty in finding words. His hands twisted about each other. “God!” he burst out at last. “What _are_ we to do?” “About what?” “About this awful, this horrible mistake.” Suddenly he jumped to his feet and stood over Anthony. “Why—is it possible—haven’t you heard? About Deacon?” Anthony shook his head. “Why, man, they’ve arrested him! The coroner’s jury passed a verdict against him. And the police have arrested him. Arrested him!” “Quite natural, when you think of it,” said Anthony. Sir Arthur stared at him. “D’you mean you think he did it?” he roared. “That boy!” “No. I’m sure he didn’t.” Sir Arthur sighed loud relief. “Thank the Lord for that! But, Gethryn, how was it you hadn’t heard about this? And if you hadn’t, how was it you weren’t surprised? Weren’t you at the inquest?” “Only roughly speaking,” said Anthony. “And I wasn’t surprised because I knew on what evidence the police were working. Pardon me if I seem flippant—I’m not really—but what we’ve got to do is to find out who really did kill Cock Robin. That’s the only way of getting Deacon off. The police take Deacon to be the Sparrow. You and I believe that he isn’t; but we’ve got to admit that the case against him is good, extraordinarily good. His size and strength fit the part of the murderer. And above all his finger-marks were found on the Bow and Arrow. That last will want a deal of explaining, especially to an English jury, who don’t, as a rule, know that real life’s more like a fairy story than Hans Andersen.” “I know, I know,” Sir Arthur groaned. “Those finger-prints. He must have touched the—the—what do they call the thing?” “Wood-rasp. A file for wood.” “Ah, yes. He—I suppose he _must_ have touched it. Must have. But I’ll swear the boy had nothing to do with—with John’s death. And he said he’d never seen the thing. And I believe him!” “So he’d never even seen the thing,” Anthony said. “Now that’s interesting. Most interesting!” But Sir Arthur was not listening. “What I’m feeling so—so damnably,” he burst out, “is that my evidence helped to make things look worse for the boy.” “How?”