They sat, and Anthony produced cigars. When these were well alight,
“Queer show, this,” said Deacon.
“Very,” Anthony agreed.
Silence fell. Openly they studied each other. Deacon spoke first.
“Boyd,” he said, settling a cushion behind his great shoulders, “is quite wrong.”
“Eh?” Anthony was startled.
“I remarked, brother, that your Wesleyan-lookin’ detective friend was shinning up the wrong shrub.”
“Indeed,” said Anthony. “How?”
“Your caution, brother, is commendable; but I think you know what I mean. Chief Detective-Inspector, or whatever he is, W. B. Boyd of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Department—bless his fluffy little bed-socks—is labourin’ under the delusion that I, to wit Archibald Etcetera Deacon, am the man who killed John Hoode. You apprehend me, Stephen?”
Anthony raised his eyebrows. “How much do you know, I wonder?”