“But why, man? Why?” cried Sir Arthur.
“Because,” said Anthony slowly, “he doesn’t exist.”
“What?” Sir Arthur was on his feet again at a bound astonishing in its agility.
Anthony lay back in his chair. “I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it!” he said plaintively. “You know, you’re very violent to-night. I can’t talk if you will jump about so.”
The elder man groaned apology and sat again in his chair. His eyes, bewildered, sought Anthony’s.
Raising his voice to carry above the increasing roar of the storm, Anthony said: “Sorry if I seem too mysterious. But you must let me elucidate in my own way. Here goes: I have said that the murderer of John Hoode doesn’t exist. I don’t mean that the murderer’s dead or that Hoode committed suicide. I mean that John Hoode was never killed; is not, in fact, dead.”
Sir Arthur’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. His chair was outside the circle of light and it was by the vivid violet illumination of a quivering glare of lightning that Anthony saw the pallor the shock of his revelation had caused. Following that lightning came peal after peal of thunder.
As it died away, Anthony saw that the other was speaking. He had not moved in his chair, but his strong, square hands were twisting about each other to testify to the intensity of his emotion.
“What are you telling me?” he whispered. “Are you mad? John not dead! John not dead! Why, it’s idiocy—stark idiocy to say what you have said!”
Anthony shook his head. “It isn’t. Whatever it is, it isn’t that. Wait till I have told you more. It’s a long tale and strange.”