“Obviously a length of silk cord,” Anthony said, “with, as you would probably say, knobs on.”
“I mean, where did you find it? What bearing’s it got?”
“I found it,” said Anthony slowly, “in your bedroom at Abbotshall.”
“What?”
“In your room. On a ledge inside that wonderful old chimney; about six inches higher than the mantelpiece. That accounts for the filth. You can see the rope was white once, and not so long ago.”
Deacon frowned at the floor. “Well, it’s either been there up the chimney since I went to the house—last May, that is—or else it’s been planted there. I never set eyes on it before.”
“Good!” Anthony coiled up the cord, wrapped it up in the paper, and returned the parcel to his pocket.
“But what’s the beastly bit of string mean? What’s it got to do with me or you or anything in this business? Tell me that!”
“Shan’t,” said Anthony. “I’m not sure yet myself. You’ll have to wait.”
Deacon shrugged his great shoulders. “Right-o. Next, please.”