"Glad you're back," he said briefly. "Don't go to my place. Drive on over to Antrim's. They're all there."
"All?"
"All," said Charters. "Dr. and Mrs. Antrim. Even Bowers. They've also brought Serpos back from Moreton Abbot — the blasted young pup. They're holding high inquisition; or, rather, Merrivale is. He's taken over Antrim's consulting-room, as coolly as though he owned it."
"How long have they been there?" I asked quickly. That telephone-call from `L.' had come through, we had ascertained, at just one-thirty.
"How long? Why? — some time, anyhow; ever since about midnight, when Mrs. Antrim got back from Moreton Abbot. She's a pretty strong-headed girl, but for once I thought we should have a case of hysterics on our hands." Charters paused. Peering in the darkness, he had caught sight of Stone, and he instantly assumed his stiff official manner. "Mr. Stone? I hardly thought "
"All the same, colonel," Stone told him without abashment, "I think you'll be glad to see me. Even if I did get thrown out on the seat of the pants"
"Sorry," said Charters perfunctorily. "We seem to have made a number of mistakes to-night. But I do not think it will be long before they are rectified. Shall we move on?"
He stood on the running-board of the car while we moved on. Antrim's house was a neat little box with a red-tiled hall, in which another of the ubiquitous police-officers stood stolidly: this time a sergeant whom Charters addressed as Davis. There was nobody else in sight, although you sensed movement in the house. Stone wished to be taken immediately to H.M.; but foreseeing the explosive possibilities of this, I whispered discreet words to Charters. Stone was shut up squawking in a front room, where, as the door opened, I saw the startled face of Bowers. Then Charters led us to the rear of the hall.
Antrim's consulting-room was a small, neat, shiny room, with a couple of framed diplomas on the wall, a bookcase, and (at the rear, overlooking the sea) two French windows screened outside by laurels. The only untidy object in it was the object that sat at the desk under a green-shaded lamp. This was H.M. He sat piled out of a tolerably large chair, and he still obstinately wore his hat with the brim turned down. His feet were on the desk, displaying the inevitable white socks, and entangled with the telephone in so natural a fashion that it was as though he were back in his lair in Whitehall. The glasses were pulled down on his broad nose, and with a sour expression he was examining a skull — evidently a medical exhibit-which he turned over in his fingers.
He spoke hopefully.