Anthony was elated. “He might indeed. Masterson, you’re a treasure! What’s the name?” “Pellet, he calls himself. Office is at 4, Grogan’s Court, off Fleet Street, just past Chancery Lane.” “Excellent! Now I’m going.” Anthony held out his hand. “And thank you. Hope I’ve done you no harm.” “Not a bit. Feel better already. Let me know how you get on. Going to sleep now,” said the invalid, and did, before Anthony had reached the door. In the passage, Anthony hesitated. Should he go straight from the flat or should he tell Her first that he was going? Then, as he reached it, the door of the drawing-room opened. The passage was dimly lit, and at first she did not see him. He moved towards her. There came a startled “Oh!” of surprise; then she straightened herself into a rigidity eloquent of protest. Anthony groaned. He had hoped the ruffled feathers smooth again. “Your brother,” he said, “is asleep. By the look of him he’s in for a good twelve hours. He’s none the worse and I’m even more full of information than I’d hoped to be. So everything in the garden is lovely!” But Lucia was angry. Lucia was not to be put off by this light-and-airyness. When she spoke her voice was cold; cold and cruel. She meant to hurt—and succeeded. “Is there nothing,” she said, “that my brother and I can help you with further? Nothing that we can be _made_ to do? A woman and a sick man! Oh, surely there is?” For the second time that night Anthony lost his temper. One must, to a certain extent, forgive him. He was worried and tired and harassed and very much in love. He laughed, and peered down at her in the half-light. Lucia caught her breath. Like many lesser women she had, being angry, said far more than she had meant. And now she was sorry, and—well, yes, frightened. “Before I go,” Anthony said, “I will tell you a story. Once on a time there was a woman who had a big brother and a little sister. One night, she heard that her big brother, who was living in the great city, was sick with a chill. Good friends had taken him to their house and were caring for him. But the woman posted to the great city to make sure that her brother was indeed being well tended. “But,” he went on, “she left behind her in the country her little sister. Now, this maid was in great sorrow, for her lover had been seized by all the king’s horses and all the king’s men and thrust into a dungeon. Here he was to stay until the king’s judges had decided whether or no to hang him for a misdeed of which he had not been guilty. So, left alone, the little sister grew more and more lonely and frightened, and became in danger of falling ill, She had nobody to comfort her, you see. But that, of course, did not matter, because big brother had his mustard plaster in the right place at last.” He walked to the front-door; opened it. “Good night,” he said, and shut it gently behind him. Hands gleaming pale against her throat, Lucia leant against the wall of the passage.