The lady scowled ungraciously, but Mr. Bathurst could be as charming to scowls as he could be to “wreathèd smiles.”
“What name shall I say?” she demanded more churlishly than ever.
“Say Mr. Bannister’s assistant.”
The lady disappeared with the mendacious information and left Mr. Bathurst kicking his heels outside the front door. Within a few minutes she returned.
“You’re to come upstairs,” she announced with the air of one bestowing the greatest of favours. “Mr. Warburton says as how he’ll see you.”
Anthony ascended the unpretentious staircase and was shown into a sitting-room that had seen a good many better days.
“Well, my inquisitive friend”—such was the manner of Mr. Warburton’s greeting—“to what particular strain of damned curiosity am I indebted for the honour of this visit?”
Anthony waved a deprecating hand. “I beg of you, Mr. Warburton, I beg of you! Do not, please, mistake your man. It would grieve me enormously if you were to do that, and I fear that my recovery from that grief would be extremely tardy. Let me assure you that I have no official connection whatever with the Police. Rest easy on that point.”
Warburton stared at him—incredulity and wonderment struggling to find expression. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Precisely what I say. I do not come from the Police.”