"That's rather mysterious." She looked at me shrewdly. "And there's another mysterious thing. Anthony's like a yapping sphinx over it. What were you two talking to Gedge about this morning?"
"Nothing particular."
"That's nonsense, Duncan. Gedge was making himself unpleasant. He never does anything else."
"If you want to know," said I, with a convulsive effort of invention, "we heard that he was preparing some sort of demonstration, going to bring down some of his precious anti-war-league people."
"He wouldn't have the pluck," she exclaimed.
"Anyhow," said I, "we thought we had better have him in and read him the Riot—or rather the Defence of the Realm—Act. That's all."
"Then why on earth couldn't Anthony tell me?"
"You ought to know the mixture of sugar and pepper in your husband's nature better than I do, my dear Edith," I replied.
Her laugh reassured me. I had turned a difficult corner. No doubt she would go to Sir Anthony with my explanation and either receive his acquiescence or learn the real truth.
She was bidding me farewell when Sir Anthony came along the platform to the chair. I glanced up, but I saw that he did not wish to speak to me. He was looking grim and tired. He called down to his wife: