“My God!” Sir Arthur pulled at his collar as if he were choking. “Look here! I must talk to you. But not here. Not here! Come in! Come in! My room’ll be best. Come on!”
Anthony was dragged into the house and up the stairs and into Sir Arthur’s room. They sat, in chairs drawn up to the window. In his, Anthony lay back, but the elder man hunched himself like a nervous schoolboy, sitting on the edge of his chair with his feet thrust backwards and then outwards until they protruded behind and beside each of the front legs. It was an old trick of his when preoccupied, and never ceased to amuse Anthony.
It was some time before Sir Arthur spoke. He seemed in his agitation to have difficulty in finding words. His hands twisted about each other.
“God!” he burst out at last. “What are we to do?”
“About what?”
“About this awful, this horrible mistake.” Suddenly he jumped to his feet and stood over Anthony. “Why—is it possible—haven’t you heard? About Deacon?”
Anthony shook his head.
“Why, man, they’ve arrested him! The coroner’s jury passed a verdict against him. And the police have arrested him. Arrested him!”
“Quite natural, when you think of it,” said Anthony.
Sir Arthur stared at him. “D’you mean you think he did it?” he roared. “That boy!”