Deacon half rose, then sat down again. “After you left me last night,” he said, after a pause, “I had a visit from Crabbe—the solicitor Digby-Coates got. We had a long talk, and he’s going to prime Marshall, who’s going to come and see me to-morrow himself. So all the legal business is fixed up.” “Good,” said Anthony. “What I came for this morning was to ask you two questions. Are you ready?” “Aye ready!” “Have you any money? Beside the salary you got from Hoode, I mean.” “About two hundred and fifty a year,” said Deacon. “When Cousin James dies of port it’ll be about three thousand.” “That’s good. You made that point with the solicitor, I hope. It tends to destroy that insane theft theory.” “I told the bloke all right. But it won’t count much, I’m afraid. You see, I’ve been awfully broke for quite a time now. One thing and another, you know. However!” He shrugged. Anthony said: “Now the second question. And it’s really important! Think carefully before you answer. When recently—say within the last week—have you had in your hands _any_ implement of any kind with a wooden handle four inches long and about three and a half round? Think, man, think!” 2 Ten minutes later, Anthony was running up the High Street towards his inn. Arrived there, he found a telegram. It read: “Authentic astounding revelations by Pellet what next Hastings.” Anthony wrote on a telegraph form: “Wait with you afternoon office keep Pellet Gethryn.” The form he gave to the barman with a ten-shilling note and instructions for immediate despatch, and then set off for Abbotshall at a fast walk. As he entered the gates, a car—an unfamiliar green Daimler, a woman seated primly beside the chauffeur—left them. In spite of the heat it was closed. Peering, Anthony saw the only occupant of the tonneau to be a woman. She was veiled. He deduced the flirtatious Mrs. Mainwaring and her Gallic maid. The sight appeared to amuse him. He walked on to the house humming beneath his breath. Sir Arthur, he was told by a rejuvenated Belford, was believed to be in his own sitting-room. Anthony mounted the stairs. He found Sir Arthur’s door ajar; on it was pinned a notice in red ink: “Please do not disturb.” From where he stood, all Anthony could see was the big armchair drawn up to the window, the top of an immaculate head above its back and some six inches of trouser and a boot-sole by each of its front legs. Anthony chuckled, knocked, and entered. Sir Arthur rose, turning a frowning face towards the intruder. As he saw who it was, a smile replaced the frown. “You looked,” said Anthony, “like some weird animal, sitting like that. Hope I haven’t disturbed you.”