Sir Arthur started to his feet. A crash of thunder drowned his words. Followed a zig-zag of lightning so vivid as to seem more a stage-effect than an outburst of nature. Outside, the rain fell heavily, solidly—a veil of water. The furious blast of wind which had come hard on the heels of the great peal died away in a plaintive moan.
Anthony opened his eyes. “What did you say? Before that barrage, I mean.”
Sir Arthur paced the room. “What did I say?” he exploded. “I said that if you hadn’t found out who did it, I couldn’t see the use of coming here and gabbling about mystery. Damn it, man, we’re not in a two-shilling novel! We’ve got to get Deacon off, that’s what we’ve got to do! And find the murderer! Not sit here and play at Holmes and Watson. It’s silly, what we’re doing! And I expected great things of you, Gethryn!”
“That,” Anthony said placidly, “was surely foolish.”
Sir Arthur made impatient sounds in his throat; but lessened the pace of his prowling. Under the graying hair his broad forehead was creased in a tremendous frown.
Anthony lit a cigarette. “But I may yet interest you,” he went on. “You said, I think, that you wished to lay your hands on the murderer.”
“I did. And by God I meant it!”
Anthony looked up at him. “Suppose you sit down and then I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Sit down!” Sir Arthur shouted. “Sit down! God above, you’ll be telling me to keep calm next!” He flung himself into his chair. “Here I am then. Now get on!” He buried his face in his hands; then looked up to say: “You must forgive me, Gethryn; I’m not myself. I’ve been more on edge the last few days—a lot more—than I’ve let any one see. And to-night, somehow, my nerves have gone. And when you came with news I thought it meant that you’d caught the real murderer and that the boy would get off—and—and everything!”
“I was going to tell you,” Anthony said, “that the murderer of John Hoode will never be caught. To get him is impossible. Please understand that when I say impossible I mean it.”