“I’m sorry,” he said in conclusion, “to disturb a sick man, and I’ll get the business over as quickly as possible. But I’ve got to find out all I can, you see.” “Quite, quite.” Masterson’s voice was stronger now. Free of fever, shaven, clean, he was vastly different from Margaret’s bogey. “How can I help?” he asked after a silence. Anthony told him. Bored at first, Masterson woke to sudden interest at the mention of the newspaper-cuttings. “So he _did_ keep ’em!” He lifted himself in the bed to rest on one elbow. Anthony pushed the little bundle of slips into the thin hands. Eagerly, the sick man read each. “Some of these are new,” he said. “After my time with Hoode, I mean. But these three—and this one—I remember well. Dammit, I ought to! These are what we had that infernal row about.” “How?” “Well, you see, I’d been watching these three papers for a long time, and I’d come to a definite conclusion that there was one man behind all the attacks. I told Hoode so, and he laughed at the idea! That made me as mad as hell. I’ve always had a foul temper, but since the war, y’know, it’s really uncontrollable. I mean I actually can’t help it.” “I know,” Anthony nodded. “That’s all. I cursed him for a blind, pig-headed, big-headed fool, and he sacked me. He couldn’t very well do anything else. I still feel very bitter about it; though not quite so much now he’s dead. He was such a brilliant cove in some ways, but so blasted silly in others. Simply wouldn’t listen to what I had to say—and I was sweating to benefit him!” “‘Zeal, all zeal, Mr. Easy!’” said Anthony. “Exactly; but zeal’s a damn good thing at times, ’specially in private secretaries, and being turned down like that made me brood. I really couldn’t help it, you know. After I got the sack I brooded to such an extent that I simply went to pieces. Drank too much. Made an idiot of myself. I say, Lucia’s told me all about things, and I want to thank——” “You can do that best,” Anthony interrupted, “by keeping on about Hoode and these press-cuttings. I’ve made some conclusions about ’em myself, but you know more.” A slight flush rose to the sallow cheek of the man in bed. He turned restlessly. “When I come to think of it,” he said nervously, “I don’t _know_ a great deal. “Mostly surmise, and from what I’ve heard of you I should say you’re better at that game than I am.” Anthony grew grim. “Some one’s been exaggerating. You fire ahead. The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll be able to get away and leave you in peace.” Masterson said hesitantly: “All right. When I first saw the things coming out one by one I didn’t think anything about ’em. But after a week or so—it may have been a month—something queer struck me. At first I couldn’t place it. Then after collecting a few of the articles, I tumbled. It seemed to me that one man was behind ’em. More, that one man was writing ’em—and for three papers of widely different politics and apparently belonging to different people!”