“Did they,” asked Anthony, after a pause, “exhibit the wood-rasp at the ’quest?”
Hastings nodded. “And a nasty weapon it must have made, too.”
“I must get a look at it somehow,” Anthony said. Then added, half-aloud: “Now, why does that mark worry me?”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Anthony stretched himself. “Enough for to-day, children. Hastings, there is a lovely lady who wishes to visit your flat, and this to-night. She is the sister of our old friend J. Masterson. I promised she could see him if she went up to town this evening.”
“Of course. J. Masterson, by the way, is all right. Temperature much lower; though he’s very weak still, of course. Does nothing but sleep. Doctor saw him again this morning, and says his trouble is really nothing worse than ’flu, aggravated by inattention and complicated nervous thingumitights due probably to shell-shock.”
“I see. It’ll be all right about his sister seeing him this evening?”
“Of course.” Hastings’s smile was replaced by a blank sort of look. “Er—by the way, if this lady lives down here, perhaps I had—could drive her up now, what?”
“I was going to ask whether you would,” Anthony said, after a pause, “but I’ve changed my mind. Don’t look too relieved.” His reasons for this sudden change of plan were mixed; it is certain they were not purely philanthropic.
“I gather, then,” said Hastings, “that having left a competent subordinate to take down the dregs of the inquest, the lady Margaret and I may now get back to town.”