“Really, I assure you, no. We never sleep until a case is finished. Never. It’s rather sad in this one, because I can see it going on for ever.” He saw her mouth contract with the pain of fear, and went on: “I mean, I don’t believe we’re ever going to catch the Sparrow.”
“The Sparrow?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember ‘Who killed Cock Robin’? It must have been the first detective story you ever read. You know, it was the Sparrow who did the dirty work. ‘And here, in a manner of speaking, we all are.’ All at sixes and sevens, that is. Here am I, come to the decision that either A. R. Gethryn or the rest of the world is mad. There are the police with entirely the wrong bird.
“The only real bit of work I’ve done to-day,” he went on, “has led me to find, not an answer, but another problem. The question is: was a certain thing done genuinely or was it done to look as if it had been done genuinely, or was it done in the way it was on purpose to look ungenuine? The answer, at present, is a lemon.”
Again she smiled. “It sounds awful,” she said. Then, with a change of tone: “But—but my brother? You were saying——”
Piercing, blaring, came the angry ring of the telephone.
Lucia leapt to her feet with a cry. Before she could move again Anthony was at the instrument. As he lifted the receiver she reached his side, pleading with eyes and hands for permission to use the extra ear-piece.
“Carry on,” he said; and into the transmitter: “Hallo!”
She snatched at the black disc, to hear: “That you, Gethryn?”
“Yes. Hastings?”