“That is true. The few cases I have had to decline did not fill me with any regret.”
Our landlady stuck her head in at the door.
“There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see M. Poirot or you, Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do,—and with all that quite the gentleman,—I brought up ’is card.”
She handed me the bit of pasteboard. “‘Hon. Roger Havering,’” I read.
Poirot motioned with his head toward the bookcase, and I obediently pulled forth the “Who’s Who.” Poirot took it from me and scanned the pages rapidly.
“Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughter of William Crabb.”
“H’m,” I said. “I rather fancy that’s the girl who used to act at the Frivolity—only she called herself Zoe Carrisbrook. I remember she married some young man about town just before the war.”
“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”
Roger Havering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smart appearance.
His face, however, was haggard, and he was evidently laboring under great agitation.