Hastings came back to earth. “By God!” he said. “So that’s the murderer, is it? So it was that Gethryn was after. Well, he’s a very ill criminal. How d’you know he is one, by the way?”
“He confessed. He was sort of delirious. Kept saying he’d done it, but wasn’t going to tell any one. Horrid it was!”
Hastings rubbed his chin. “I wonder,” he said. “I wonder. Come on, we’re going to have a nice diplomatic talk with that porter I saw downstairs. And don’t forget we mustn’t let him get a line on what we’re after.”
4
The hands of the clock in Mrs. Lemesurier’s drawing-room stood at five minutes to midnight.
There came a lull in the conversation which Anthony had kept flowing since he had sent his message to Hastings. A wandering talk it had been, but he had achieved his object. Save for the harassed look about her eyes, there was now nothing to tell of the strain the woman had been under. She had even laughed, not once but many times. She was, in fact, almost normal. And Anthony rejoiced, for he had found her to possess humour, wit and wisdom to support her beauty. She was, he thought sleepily to himself, almost too good to be true.
For a moment his eyes closed. Behind the lids there rose a picture of her face—a picture strangely more clear than any given by actual sight.
“You,” said Lucia, “ought to be asleep. Yes, you ought! Not tiring yourself out to make conversation for an hysterical woman that can’t keep her emotions under control.”
“The closing of the eyes,” Anthony said, opening them, “merely indicates that the great detective is what we call thrashing out a knotty problem. He always closes his eyes, you know. He couldn’t do anything with ’em open.”
She smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t believe you, you know. I think you’ve done so much to-day that you’re simply tired out.”