Anthony made his way to the underground and booked to Cannon Street. Arrived there he made tracks for the Main station.
The next train to Blackheath was at 12.22.
“That will land me there just in time for lunch,” he thought to himself, and events proved him to be a sound prophet.
A smart-looking maid took the card he proffered her, and in a few seconds he found himself in what was evidently the drawing-room.
Mrs. Prescott followed him in. “I got your wire, Mr. Bathurst, and of course, I am very pleased to see you. I can hardly realize yet all that has happened. I’m trying to bear up—but frankly, I have little left in the world now to capture either my interest or my imagination. Now, what is it you wanted to see me about?”
Anthony was all sympathy. “I want to talk to you about your boy.”
“You asked me a good many questions at Considine Manor, Mr. Bathurst. You wish to ask me some more?”
“If you would be kind enough to answer them.”
Mrs. Prescott bowed her head in assent.
“First of all, let me assure you that I feel a very great sympathy with you in your sorrow.” He touched her arm for a brief moment, very gently. “And I have every hope that the crime which has hurt you so much will not go unpunished.” He spoke with a feeling that Mrs. Prescott was not slow to detect.