“Good heavens, Maurice, what’s all this about?” he demanded. “We’ve been wondering why we didn’t hear from you; and now—why, man, you’re an utter wreck!”
“No, I’m not. I’m getting round all right now,” I assured him. “I got into a bit of a scrimmage, and then into prison. They very nearly did for me there; but I guess I’ve as many lives as a cat.”
“But this murder charge? It’s in the papers this morning; look here.”
He held out a copy of The Courier, pointing to a column headed:
“The Westminster Murder.
arrest of a well-known journalist,”
and further down I saw among the cross-headings:
“Romantic Circumstances.”
“Half a minute; let’s have a look,” I exclaimed, snatching the paper, fearing lest under that particular cross-heading there might be some allusion to Anne, or the portrait. But there was not; the “romantic circumstances” were merely those under which the arrest was effected. Whoever had written it,—Southbourne himself probably,—had laid it on pretty thick about the special correspondents of The Courier obtaining “at the risk of their lives the exclusive information on which the public had learned to rely,” and a lot more rot of that kind, together with a highly complimentary précis of my career, and a hint that before long a full account of my thrilling experiences would be published exclusively in The Courier. Southbourne never lost a chance of advertisement.
The article ended with the announcement: “Sir George Lucas has undertaken the defence, and Mr. Wynn is, of course, prepared with a full answer to the charge.”