Though at the bottom of his heart he had never cared for Lady Carew, though he had always been conscious of a certain latent antagonism towards her, the inspector's words came to him as a terrible shock. Anthony Carew was his dearest friend. To believe this horrible, this inconceivable thing, was to know that an abyss of horror and humiliation was opening before him. Peggy—ah! Crasster's heart failed him, he closed his eyes for a minute, as he thought of Peggy—how would she bear it, the shame and the terror and the sorrow? For that Peggy loved her sister-in-law very dearly, he knew well.
"It is impossible," he exclaimed at last, springing to his feet, and beginning to pace up and down the room. "Impossible, I tell you. Oh, Davis may be wrong, he may be lying; that Lady Carew should have had anything to do with that tragedy at Abbey Court is impossible, an absolute, physical impossibility."
The inspector did not move. His small blue eyes had a gleam of sympathy as he looked across.
"The fan—you may remember a fan was found in the room, Mr. Crasster."
"Well?" Stephen questioned hoarsely.
"It has been identified as Lady Carew's by her maid."
"My God!" Stephen sat down heavily.
The inspector went over to the sideboard and came back with a tiny glass of liqueur in his hand.
"Drink this, sir. It will pull you together. There is more for you to hear this morning and I want your help."
Crasster tossed off the absinth; it had the more effect upon him as he was habitually abstemious.
"You I want my help," he repeated. "But I—good Lord, Lennox, I cannot help you! Don't you know that the Carews are my dearest friends?"
"You haven't heard all yet, sir," the inspector said slowly. "And we shall need wise heads and clear brains before we see the end of the Abbey Court murder, it strikes me."
Stephen leaned forward, his head on his hands, his elbows on the table.
"Is it possible there is more to hear?" he said with a groan. "Well, let me know the worst, Lennox."
The inspector coughed. "You don't need to be told, sir, that we have had one or two little bits of evidence that, were not allowed to leak out at the inquest. They would not have enlightened the jury, and, through publicity being given to them, the murderer might have escaped."
Stephen nodded. "I know what you mean. Go on, inspector."
"Well, sir"—the detective hesitated, and seemed at a loss to choose his words—"the policeman on point duty at the end of Leinster Avenue that night saw a man loitering about for some time outside the Abbey Court flats—a man who was apparently waiting and watching for some one. Finally, he went inside and stayed some little time, then he came back again, and stood about a while. Of course, on the face of it, there is nothing to connect him with the murder in that. But, wait a minute, sir," as Stephen uttered a quick exclamation of surprise. "The pistol that was found in the room. You saw it, no doubt."
"Of course I did. The doctor's evidence proved that Warden was shot with it."
"Exactly," the inspector drew in his lips. "Well, the finding of the owner of that pistol has been no end of bother. In fact, I don't mind telling you, sir, that I look upon its accomplishment as a pretty considerable feather in my cap."
"You have discovered that?" Stephen exclaimed quickly. "Why then—"
The inspector looked at him. "You heard my summons on the telephone just now? Well, that was to tell me that the affair was finished. We have had some trouble first of all in finding the maker, secondly in tracing the shop at which it was bought, and lastly in identifying the purchaser, but to-day all three have been successfully accomplished. The revolver was one of a pair in a case which was supplied to Sir Anthony Carew in June of last year."
"To Sir Anthony Carew." Stephen's right hand clenched itself.
"To Sir Anthony Carew," the inspector repeated. "It was what I expected to hear, sir. I had the constable I was telling you of down here last week, and he identified Sir Anthony Carew as the man who stood about in the Leinster Avenue for so long, and, as I said before, entered the Abbey Court flats and stayed some little time."
If Crasster's face had been pale before it was absolutely ghastly now. Judith Carew had been up to Warden's room, Anthony had been loitering about outside, the dead man had been shot with Anthony's pistol. What did it mean? What could it mean, he asked himself? Not yet could he grasp the full significance of those damning facts.
"What are you going to do?" he asked with stiffening lips.
The inspector drew in his lips and, taking off his pince-nez, apparently studied it carefully for a minute.
"That is where I want your help, sir."
A hoarse sound broke from Stephen. "Man alive! How can I help you? Haven't I just told you that the Carews are my dearest friends?"
"That is why I asked you to help me," the inspector repeated. "Don't you see, sir, if it were merely a question of arresting Sir Anthony and Lady Carew, I should do that on my own responsibility? When I ask you to help me—"
Crasster lifted his head, a gleam of hope dawning in his eyes.
"You mean—"
The inspector scratched his head. "I don't exactly know what I do mean, sir, and that is the plain truth of it. I never believed in instinct before, and the facts seem plain enough on the face of them, but I can't bring myself to believe that either Sir Anthony or Lady Carew is guilty of the Abbey Court murder. I may tell you that those in authority above me don't share this view, and any day may bring orders for the arrest of one or both. I am holding back as long as I can, however, for I have the strongest feeling that some even darker mystery is behind the flat tragedy. Now, it came to me yesterday that I would ask your advice. You have helped me to solve many a knotty problem in the past; it seemed to me now that, if you were fighting to save your friends, you would be doubly keen."
Stephen's head dropped again on his hands. Despite his lifelong friendship for Sir Anthony Carew, his thought now would fly to Peggy, with her innocent pride in her engagement, in her handsome lover.
"If I could see a loophole," he groaned.
The detective stepped back, drew up a chair so closely that it touched the arm of Crasster's, and sat down.
"Suppose I tell you a suspicion—not that—a vague thought that I have had sometimes, I wonder whether you will think me mad, sir?" He bent his head down to Crasster's and murmured a few words in his ear.
Their effect upon Stephen was magical. He sprang backwards and looked at the inspector.
"Impossible! How could there be any connexion between the two?"
The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "I don't pretend to explain it, sir, yet. But that is the direction my suspicion takes."
"But it is madness—absolute madness!" Stephen reiterated, his face still oddly white.
The inspector spread out his hands. "Then, Sir Anthony Carew—"
Stephen dropped back in his chair. "Heaven help me, inspector, I don't know what to think."
Chapter XXI
"It is no use, I shall go up to town and have it out!" Lady Carew was standing in her dressing-room, her dark brows drawn together in an expression of pain, her handkerchief held to her face.
"O—h! But that would be a pity, when Miladi has such beautiful regular teeth." Célestine held up her hands. "If miladi would try a little