The mournful-looking individual shook his head.
"That is Mr. Horatio Ive, sir — he is a very rich man, but he suffers from an unfortunate impediment in his speech. Very few people can understand him. I go about with him as his interpreter, but I have been in bed for the last three days with a chill—"
A shrill war whoop from the other room interrupted the explanation.
"We'd better go and see how he's getting on," said the Saint.
"Mr. Ive is very impulsive, sir," went on the sad-looking interpreter. "He was most anxious to see somebody here, and even though I was unable to accompany him he has called here several times alone. I understand that he found it impossible to make himself understood. He practically dragged me out of bed to come with him now."
"What's he so excited about?" asked the Saint, as they walked towards the living room.
"He's interested in some letters, sir, belonging to the late Mrs. Laine. She happened to show them to him when they met once several years ago, and he wanted to buy them. She refused to sell them for sentimental reasons, but as soon as he read of her death he decided to approach her heirs."
"Are you talking about her love letters from a bird called Sidney Farlance?" Simon asked hollowly.
"Yes sir. The gentleman who worked in British Guiana. Mr. Ive is prepared to pay something like fifty thousand dollars — Is anything the matter, sir?"
Simon Templar swallowed.