With the lightest heart I drove to Wellings Park.  Marigold, straight as a ramrod, sitting in front by the chauffeur.  As soon as Pardoe, the butler, had brought out my chair and Marigold had settled me in it, Sir Anthony, very red and flustered, appeared and, shaking me nervously by the hand, said without preliminary greeting: 

“Come into the library.”

He, I think, had come from the morning room on the right of the hall.  The library was on the left.  He flung open the door.  I steered myself into the room; and there, standing on the white bearskin hearthrug, his back to the fire, his hands in his pockets, his six inches of stiff white beard stuck aggressively outward, I saw Daniel Gedge.

While I gaped in astonishment, Sir Anthony shut the door behind him, drew a straight-backed chair from the wall, planted it roughly some distance away from the fire, and, pointing to it, bade Gedge sit down.  Gedge obeyed.  Sir Anthony took the hearthrug position, his hands behind his back, his legs apart.

“This man,” said he, “has come to me with a ridiculous, beastly story.  At first I was undecided whether I should listen to him or kick him out.  I thought it wiser to listen to him in the presence of a reputable witness.  That’s why I’ve sent for you, Duncan.  Now you just begin all over again, my man,” said he, turning to Gedge, “and remember that anything you say here will be used against you at your trial.”

Gedge laughed—­I must admit, with some justification.

“You forget, Sir Anthony, I’m not a criminal and you’re not a policeman.”

“I’m the Mayor to this town, sir,” cried Sir Anthony.  “I’m also a Justice of the Peace.”

“And I’m a law-abiding citizen,” retorted Gedge.

“You’re an infernal socialistic pro-German,” exclaimed Sir Anthony.

“Prove it.  I only ask you to prove it.  No matter what my private opinions may be, you just try to bring me up under the Defence of the Realm Act, and you’ll find you can’t touch me.”

I held out a hand.  “Forgive me for interrupting,” said I, “but what is all this discussion about?”

Gedge crossed one leg over the other and drew his beard through his fingers.  Sir Anthony was about to burst into speech, but I checked him with a gesture and turned to Gedge.

“It has nothing to do with political opinions,” said he.  “It has to do with the death, nearly two years ago, of Miss Althea Fenimore, Sir Anthony’s only daughter.”

Sir Anthony, his face congested, glared at him malevolently.  I started, with a gasp of surprise, and stared at the man who, caressing his beard, looked from one to the other of us with an air of satisfaction.

“Get on,” said Sir Anthony.

“You are going to give a civic reception to-day to Colonel Boyce, V.C., aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,” snapped Sir Anthony.

“Do you think you ought to do it when I tell you that Colonel Boyce, V.C., murdered Miss Althea Fenimore on the night of the 25th June, two years ago?”