Underneath was a P.S. “When you ’phone ask to speak to me personally. E.K.S.”
Mr. Bathurst tossed the sheet of notepaper back to the Inspector somewhat nonchalantly. “Mutual Bank, Bannister,” he said meaningly, “wasn’t that the Bank with which Sir Felix Warburton was implicated? The Bank where the frauds were?”
Bannister nodded in affirmation. “That is so!” Then he looked carefully at the signature at the foot of the letter. “E. Kingsley Stark,” he muttered, “I wonder if it’s really genuine information that’s going to prove of help to us or whether he’s the kind of man who always thinks he can assist the Police—very often the story that comes along is nothing less than nonsensical, and two-thirds imaginary. Still—I suppose I’d better ’phone him and see what he has to say.”
He descended the staircase that led from the coffee-room, found the telephone and confirmed the appointment. “I’ve heard from Godfrey,” he informed Anthony when he had found his way back, “I heard early this morning. He reports that they’re fairly up against it down there. No additional facts whatever have been brought to light at that end. So it’s up to us, Mr. Bathurst.” He smiled at Anthony in encouraging anticipation.
“Well, we haven’t done too badly, Inspector, considering all things. And we may progress a bit farther this morning after this chap Stark’s visit.”
“That may be,” rejoined Bannister, “all the same I’ve a feeling in my bones that the solution to the affair lies in Seabourne. After I’ve seen Alan Warburton—and I certainly mean to do that as soon as possible—I’m turning my attention again to the ‘scene of the crime.’ Of course,” he added reflectively, “there may be something in this fantastic story of the Indian calling upon Miss Delaney—my experience as an investigator of all classes of crime teaches me to ignore nothing—to disregard nothing—to consider carefully everything—no matter how absurd, grotesque, impossible it may appear at first blush to be. I’ve always worked on those lines.”
“With that, Inspector, I’m bound to say that I cordially agree,” responded Anthony. “The truth may shine suddenly from the most unexpected quarter. All the same—I’m rather inclined to disagree with your first opinion—that the eventual solution will be discovered at Seabourne. In my opinion—I speak with all deference, of course—the answer to the riddle will be found up here.”
Bannister shrugged his shoulders. “Time will tell, Mr. Bathurst. Meanwhile there is Mr. E. Kingsley Stark.”
That gentleman was punctual to the minute. Half-past eleven saw him ascending the main staircase of the “Grand Hotel.” When he reached the top, Bannister met him on the carpeted landing. “Mr. Stark? Come in here, will you? I have arranged that we shall be free from interruption. This gentleman is Mr. Anthony Bathurst—you can speak in front of him with perfect confidence and you can depend upon his discretion. I am Chief-Inspector Bannister of New Scotland Yard—you wished to see me, I believe?”
Stark entered the room that Bannister indicated fluttering with suppressed excitement and with a sense of tremendous impatience. He had heard of Bannister—who hadn’t come to that?—and immediately, for him, the case began to assume greater proportions than ever before. He plucked the lemon-coloured glove from his right-hand and bowed to his auditors, somewhat consequentially. “That is so,” he opened, “and I think it will not be very long before I am able to convince you, Inspector, that I have information for you of the most—er—paramount importance. For I am sure that I have.”