I + 

After that one moment of introspection, Anthony headed his car for Fleet Street. At twenty-five minutes past eleven he burst into the room of The Owl’s editor. + 

The editor and his secretary were rather close together. The shining golden hair of the secretary was noticeably disordered. + 

“Er⁠—hallo!” said Hastings. + 

Anthony said: “Get hold of private ’tec called Pellet; 4, Grogan’s Court. Find out what he knows about the ownership of The Searchlight, The St. Stephen’s Gazette, and Vox Populi. He was commissioned for same thing some time ago by J. Masterson. Never mind how much he costs. I’ll pay. If Pellet doesn’t know anything, find out yourself. In any case give me the answer as soon as is damn well possible. Got that? Right. ’Night. ’Night, Miss Warren.” The door banged behind him. + 

Margaret Warren snatched some papers from her table and followed. She caught him in the entrance hall. + 

“Mr. Gethryn!” she said, breathless. “Here’s the report⁠—asked⁠—for⁠—inquest.⁠—Just finished⁠—typed. You may⁠—want it.” + 

Anthony raised his hat. “Miss Warren, you’re wonderful.” He took the papers from her hand. “Many thanks. Hope I don’t seem rude. Very busy. Good night⁠—and good luck.” He shook her hand and was gone. + 

Slowly, Margaret went back to her editor. He was found pacing the room, scratching his head in bewilderment. + 

“Yes, darling, he was a bit strange, wasn’t he?” Margaret said. + 

“He was.” Hastings spoke with conviction. “I’ve known that man for fifteen years and I’ve never seen him all hot and bothered like that before. He’s usually calmest when he’s got most to do.” + 

Margaret patted his cheek. “But, you silly baby, he wasn’t like that because of the work he was doing. It was something much, much more important than that⁠—or I’m a Dutchman!” + 

Hastings was alarmed. “Not that! Anything but that! What was it, then?” + 

“A woman, of course. The woman! Heaven, am I tied to an idiot?” + 

“Just you wait, wench, until I’ve seen Mr. Pellet!” said Hastings. + 