“Before I state my case, Mr. Bathurst,” he remarked with an air that may be best described as one of dignified arrogance—“I should like to preface it with the information that it is my intention to conceal from you my real identity—it will make no appreciable difference as far as I can see, to your handling of the case—and it will be a precaution that will serve to protect many highly-influential interests. To you, I should prefer to be known as Mr. Lucius,” he paused as he uttered the name, as though to divine if possible the effect of his announcement upon the man who listened. Save for a slight suspicion of the guttural, his English was as faultless as his dress. The lounge-suit he wore, unmistakably betokened the craft of Savile Row—whilst his shoes, socks, tie and collar were in complete harmony and equally irreproachable taste. Mr. Bathurst smiled.
“In that case then,” he said softly, walking again to the window, “I shall be in a position to continue—almost immediately—a most interesting little brochure that I have here, upon the habits of that particular Nematoid worm believed to be the cause of Trichiniasis.”
A bright colour flooded the cheeks of the visitor and the strong line of his jaw set even more strongly and rigidly. He half-rose to his feet from the luxurious depths of Mr. Bathurst’s arm-chair, and a wave of anger took possession of his features. Only momentarily—however. He sat down again; then with a strong effort succeeded in controlling himself. “I am to understand, then,” he declared with considerable hauteur, “that you decline to accept my case?”
“Under those conditions,” replied Mr. Bathurst in honeyed tones, “most certainly!”
“Nothing, I presume, that I could offer you in the shape of an inducement would persuade you to take a different view of the matter?” The suggestion came with an undoubted amount of eagerness.
“I am quite unable to contradict you,” responded Mr. Bathurst.
His visitor allowed an exclamation of impatience to escape his lips—then rose again from his chair and paced the room nervously. For a brief period there was silence.
“You will see, I am sure,” continued Anthony, “that it would be worse than useless for me to undertake a case—with any hope of bringing it to a successful conclusion—if the identity of my principal were to be a secret from me. It is tantamount to asking me to fight somebody with one hand tied behind my back.”
His visitor paused in his pacing—abruptly; then wheeled round upon Anthony with a vehement gesture.
“You are right,” he declared impulsively, “I ask your pardon, it was wrong of me to consider even, such a possibility. Wrong—and equally foolish! I quite understand that in dealing with a case of this kind—complete confidence must exist between principal and agent.” He thought for a moment—then went on. “After all, I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed.” Anthony waved him to the arm-chair again and pulled up the chair opposite for himself.