Anthony smiled—his slow, quiet smile. The smile that always seemed to contain the quality of assurance. “There’s one common factor though to both sides of that equation. Have you realised that?”
Bannister looked a trifle bewildered. “What’s that, Mr. Bathurst—I don’t quite——?”
“Major Desmond Carruthers—the gentleman that was killed in the Spring of last year. He was Daphne’s uncle and also I believe a close friend of Colonel Delaney—he fits into each part of your little problem, you see.”
“H’m,” muttered Bannister. “I see what you mean, but I don’t know that I can link them up. I’m working in the dark.” He went to Mr. E. Kingsley Stark and held out his hand. “I won’t detain you any longer, Mr. Stark,” he announced cordially. “You’ve helped us considerably. If I want to see you again concerning anything, I’ll let you know. Good morning!”
Stark rose and bowed his acknowledgment. “Good morning, Inspector. Good morning, Mr. Bathurst. I’m indeed happy to have been of service.”
Bannister conducted him to the door and watched him descend the substantial staircase. He then crossed the landing and telephoned to Ross certain instructions that were to be forwarded to Sergeant Godfrey immediately. When he got back to Mr. Bathurst, he found that gentleman ensconced in the most comfortable of all the chairs—his long legs outstretched to the limit. Mr. Bathurst was a firm believer in physical comfort as a stimulant to mental exercise. He turned his head towards the Inspector as the latter entered.
“Well?” he said, “what do you make of him?”
“Stark?—very useful evidence—without a doubt. Why?”
“I’m not gainsaying that, Bannister,” murmured Anthony gently, “that little story of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’ rather intrigued me, to tell the plain and unvarnished truth. By the way, though, Inspector, did you happen to notice his initials?”
Bannister raised his eyebrow—then pulled out the letter Mr. Stark had sent. “E.K.S.?” he queried.