“I’m not going to spy,” said Jean, and she looked hurt.
“Well, well, my dear, forgive me for saying that! But you know what I mean? I don’t want you mixed up with any of Kentworthy’s dirty, if necessary, work——”
“Not if it helped Harry, Uncle Jock?”
“Not even if it helped Garlett, my dear.”
She turned away, and he knew that she would stick at nothing that would help the man she loved.
CHAPTER XVIII
Sir Harold Anstey came bustling into his pleasant chambers. He had only just come back from a long week-end, there was a bright fire burning in the attractive, wasteful, eighteenth-century grate, and the famous Old Bailey barrister felt not only fresh and keen, but on the happiest terms with himself and the world.
The great advocate was a big, florid, good-looking man, and so popular a bachelor that it was no wonder he had never made up his mind to become true to one lady.
Like most successful men, he attached great importance to the Press of his country, and he paid considerable court to those newspaper men with whom he came in contact. So of the pile of letters, opened and unopened, on his writing-table, Sir Harold first turned to a bulky envelope from his press-cutting agency.
The envelope contained a page cut from a popular picture paper, and across the top of the sheet ran: “The Terriford Mystery: Exclusive Photographs.”