“This, Bill.” His voice grew serious.
“The Prattler printed a photograph of the incident....”
“Yes ...” I remarked.
“And next to the photograph—in the adjoining space—they printed a photograph of Fraulein Marshall. Now what do you say? I can see it now.”
“In what relation? ...” I protested.
“Can’t recall, William. All I can see is Bardsley’s uplifted bat and adjoining it the face of Marshall. It’s five years ago, remember. But we’ll soon find out. It’s easy! Or it should be.” He sprang to his feet excitedly. “We will now proceed to investigate. I wonder what Sir Charles does with his old Prattlers?”
“Best way to find out will be to ask him!” I ventured.
“Excellent advice, William, that I am going to take. Allons!” Mary Considine met us as we went up to the house.
She looked deathly pale, I thought, and utterly discomfited by the events of the day. I would much rather have stopped in the garden with Mary than gone chasing old copies of The Prattler with Anthony. She stopped us.
“Bill—Mr. Bathurst! I have just been interviewed by Inspector Baddeley, and been asked if I can recognize some handwriting.” She flung us a glance under her long lashes. “Tell me,” she questioned us, “does he suspect anybody in the house of having done this awful thing? It’s unthinkable.”