Five
In the first heat of indignation, I found my next step unexpectedly easy totackle. I had had a half-formed plan in my head when I went to ScotlandYard. One to be carried out if my interview there was unsatisfactory (ithad been profoundly unsatisfactory). That is, if I had the nerve to gothrough with it.
Things that one would shrink from attempting normally are easilytackled in a flush of anger. Without giving myself time to reflect, I walkedstraight to the house of Lord Nasby.
Lord Nasby was the millionaire owner of the Daily Budget. He ownedother papers—several of them, but the Daily Budget was his special child.
It was as the owner of the Daily Budget that he was known to every house-holder in the United Kingdom. Owing to the fact that an itinerary¹ of thegreat man’s daily proceedings² had just been published, I knew exactlywhere to find him at this moment. It was his hour for dictating³ to his sec-retary in his own house.
I did not, of course, suppose that any young woman who chose to comeand ask for him would be at once admitted to the august presence. But Ihad attended to that side of the matter. In the card tray in the hall of theFlemmings’ house, I had observed the card of the Marquis of Loamsley,England’s most famous sporting peer. I had removed the card, cleaned itcarefully with bread crumbs⁴, and pencilled upon it the words: “Please giveMiss Beddingfeld a few moments of your time.” Adventuresses must notbe too scrupulous⁵ in their methods.
The thing worked. A powdered footman received the card and bore itaway. Presently a pale secretary appeared. I fenced with him successfully.
He retired⁶ in defeat. He again reappeared and begged me to follow him. Idid so. I entered a large room, a frightened-looking shorthand typist fledpast me like a visitant from the spirit world. Then the door shut and I wasface to face with Lord Nasby.
A big man. Big head. Big face. Big moustache. Big stomach. I pulled my-self together. I had not come here to comment on Lord Nasby’s stomach.
He was already roaring at me.

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