“But it’s absurd,” said the secretary. “Quite utterly imposs’, my dear feller!”
“Is it?” Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Ever read detective stories, Deacon? Good ones, I mean. Gaboriau, for instance. If you do, you’ll know that the ‘It’ is very often found among a bunch of ‘unlikely and impossibles.’ And one of my chief stays in life is my well-proved theory that Fiction is Truth. The trouble is that the stories are often more true than the real thing. And that’s just where one goes wrong, and sometimes gets left quite as badly off the mark as the others. I’m beginning to think I may be doing that here.”
Deacon scratched his head. “I think you’re ahead of me,” he said.
“Never mind, I’m ahead of myself. A long way ahead.”
“Well, says I, I hope you catches yourself up soon.”
“Thanks.” Anthony got to his feet. “Is it possible for me to see Miss Hoode this afternoon?”
“ ’Fraid not. Our Mr. Boyd saw her this morning, and she’s given orders that that was enough.”
“Well, I prowl,” said Anthony, and walked to the door. “By the way, on that walk of yours last night, that awkward walk, did you meet any one? or even see any one?”
“No. And that’s awkward, too, isn’t it? Nary human being did I pass.”
Anthony opened the door. “Any time you think I’d be useful, let me know,” he said, and passed into the passage.