“How curious! I don’t know who has that room, but I can find out by asking Bundle. Perhaps they heard the shot?”
“If so, they haven’t come forward to say so. I understood from Battle that nobody in the house heard the shot fired. It’s the only clue of any kind that I’ve got, and I dare say it’s a pretty rotten one, but I mean to follow it up for what it’s worth.”
“It’s curious, certainly,” said Virginia thoughtfully.
They had arrived at the boat-house by the lake, and had been leaning against it as they talked.
“And now for the whole story,” said Anthony. “We’ll paddle gently about on the lake, secure from the prying ears of Scotland Yard, American visitors, and curious house-maids.”
“I’ve heard something from Lord Caterham,” said Virginia. “But not nearly enough. To begin with, which are you really, Anthony Cade or Jimmy McGrath?”
For the second time that morning, Anthony unfolded the history of the last six weeks of his life—with this difference that the account given to Virginia needed no editing. He finished up with his own astonished recognition of “Mr. Holmes.”
“By the way, Mrs. Revel,” he ended, “I’ve never thanked you for imperilling your immortal soul by saying that I was an old friend of yours.”
“Of course you’re an old friend,” cried Virginia. “You don’t suppose I’d cumber you with a corpse, and then pretend you were a mere acquaintance next time I met you? No, indeed!”
She paused.