Down in the street, Anthony jumped into his car; then for a moment sat staring before him. Like many lesser men, he had, being angry, said more than he had meant. And now he was frightened. They had, it must be admitted, behaved like silly children. Very silly children. But then the best people so often do. Chapter XIV. Hay-fever 1 After that one moment of introspection, Anthony headed his car for Fleet Street. At twenty-five minutes past eleven he burst into the room of _The Owl’s_ editor. The editor and his secretary were rather close together. The shining golden hair of the secretary was noticeably disordered. “Er—hallo!” said Hastings. Anthony said: “Get hold of private ’tec called Pellet; 4, Grogan’s Court. Find out what he knows about the ownership of _The Searchlight_, _The St. Stephen’s Gazette_, and _Vox Populi_. He was commissioned for same thing some time ago by J. Masterson. Never mind how much he costs. I’ll pay. If Pellet doesn’t know anything, find out yourself. In any case give me the answer as soon as is damn’ well possible. Got that? Right. ’Night. ’Night, Miss Warren.” The door banged behind him. Margaret Warren snatched some papers from her table and followed. She caught him in the entrance hall. “Mr. Gethryn!” she said, breathless. “Here’s the report—asked—for—inquest.—Just finished—typed. You may—want it.” Anthony raised his hat. “Miss Warren, you’re wonderful.” He took the papers from her hand. “Many thanks. Hope I don’t seem rude. Very busy. Good-night—and good luck.” He shook her hand and was gone. Slowly, Margaret went back to her editor. He was found pacing the room, scratching his head in bewilderment. “Yes, darling, he was a bit strange, wasn’t he?” Margaret said. “He was.” Hastings spoke with conviction. “I’ve known that man for fifteen years and I’ve never seen him all hot and bothered like that before. He’s usually calmest when he’s got most to do.” Margaret patted his cheek. “But, you silly baby, he wasn’t like that because of the work he was doing. It was something much, much more important than that—or I’m a Dutchman!” Hastings was alarmed. “Not that! Anything but that! What was it, then?” “A woman, of course. _The_ woman! Heaven, am I tied to an idiot?” “Just you wait, wench, until I’ve seen Mr. Pellet!” said Hastings. 2 From Fleet Street, Anthony drove straight to the Regency, over whose great frontage flaring placards and violently winking electric signs announced that the great, the incomparable Vanda was gracing with her art this mecca of vaudeville. As he reached it the audience were streaming out from its great glass doors.