Without answering Battle took a folded sheet of cheap notepaper from his pocket, and handed it to Anthony. Scrawled on it in an illiterate handwriting were the words: “Look out for Mr. Cade. He isn’t wot he seems.” Anthony handed it back with a light laugh. “That’s all? Cheer up, Battle. I’m really a King in disguise, you know.” He went into the house, whistling lightly as he walked along. But as he entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him, his face changed. It grew set and stern. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared moodily at the floor. “Things are getting serious,” said Anthony to himself. “Something must be done about it. It’s all damned awkward....” He sat there for a minute or two, then strolled to the window. For a moment or two he stood looking out aimlessly, and then his eyes became suddenly focused on a certain spot, and his face lightened. “Of course,” he said. “The Rose Garden! That’s it! The Rose Garden.” He hurried downstairs again and out into the garden by a side door. He approached the Rose Garden by a circuitous route. It had a little gate at either end. He entered by the far one, and walked up to the sundial which was on a raised hillock in the exact centre of the garden. Just as Anthony reached it, he stopped dead and stared at another occupant of the Rose Garden who seemed equally surprised to see him. “I didn’t know that you were interested in roses, Mr. Fish,” said Anthony gently. “Sir,” said Mr. Fish, “I am considerably interested in roses.” They looked at each other warily, as antagonists seek to measure their opponents’ strength. “So am I,” said Anthony. “Is that so?” “In fact, I dote upon roses,” said Anthony airily. A very slight smile hovered upon Mr. Fish’s lips and at the same time Anthony also smiled. The tension seemed to relax. “Look at this beauty now,” said Mr. Fish, stooping to point out a particularly fine bloom. “Madame Abel Chatenay, I pressoom it to be. Yes, I am right. This white rose, before the war, was known as Frau Carl Drusky. They have, I believe, renamed it. Over sensitive, perhaps but truly patriotic. The La France is always popular. Do you care for red roses at all, Mr. Cade? A bright scarlet rose now——” Mr. Fish’s slow, drawling voice was interrupted. Bundle was leaning out of a first-floor window. “Care for a spin to town, Mr. Fish? I’m just off.” “Thank you, Lady Eileen, but I am vurry happy here.” “Sure you won’t change your mind, Mr. Cade?” Anthony laughed and shook his head. Bundle disappeared. “Sleep is more in my line,” said Anthony, with a wide yawn. “A good after luncheon nap!” He took out a cigarette. “You haven’t got a match, have you?” Mr. Fish handed him a match-box. Anthony helped himself, and handed back the box with a word of thanks. “Roses,” said Anthony, “are all very well. But I don’t feel particularly horticultural this afternoon.” With a disarming smile, he nodded cheerfully.