He greeted the Chief Inspector with perfect sangfroid, apologising for having kept him waiting. He had been called away to a case, he said, and had only just returned to Harley Street. As Hemingway had expected, he told him nothing that he wanted to know. Lady Nest Poulton was a woman who, in lay parlance, lived on her nerves: he would not bemuse the Chief Inspector with technical terms, but he might rest assured that the condition was one well-known to every practitioner. He agreed that certain symptoms might be mistaken by the unlearned for the after-effects of drugs. In view of what the police had discovered in Seaton-Carew's flat, he could pardon the Chief Inspector for having fallen into error, but he felt obliged to point out that such an allegation against a lady of his patient's birth and breeding was a very, very serious matter. He quite appreciated the Chief Inspector's wish to interrogate Lady Nest, and he hoped that within a week or so it would be possible for him to see her. At present he could not sanction any visits whatsoever. Rest and quiet were essential to her.
The Chief Inspector returned in due course to his headquarters, and sent down a message to the Fingerprint Department. When Inspector Grant at last joined him, he found him studying photographs through a magnifying-glass, a fair young man at his elbow. He glanced up as the door opened, and said: "Come and take a look at this, Sandy, and see what you make of it!"
Grant trod over to the desk, nodding to the fair youth. "I am sorry to have been away for so long," he said. "The lassie was sleeping, but I said I would wait. She came down to the servants' hall for her tea. In the meantime I had some talk with Mrs. Haddington's personal maid - making myself agreeable. What have you there? Is it the prints on the telephone?"
"It is - by which I mean Yes! I knew I should go and catch it! Next thing I know I shall have people thinking I'm Scotch too!"
"You will not, then," said the Inspector dryly. He bent over the desk, keenly surveying the several photographs laid out on it. "I have looked at these before: there is no trace of Seaton-Carew's finger-prints upon the instrument."
"Never mind about that! Anything else strike you?"
A frown creased the Inspector's brow; he picked up one of the photographs, and scanned it more closely. The fair young man coughed behind a discreet hand. "It's very blurred," he said apologetically. "I wouldn't care to swear to it myself, sir."
"No one's asking you to swear to anything. Don't try to prejudice the Inspector!"
The fair youth blushed hotly. "I'm sorry, sir! I'm sure I didn't mean -"
"Whisht!" said Inspector Grant, casting an indulgent glance in his direction. He picked up two more photographs from the desk, and compared them with the one he still held in his right hand. "I see what I recall I saw before: there is a clear impression of Miss Birtley's thumb, and first two fingers. It may be that all five fingers were laid upon the instrument, but there is a blur over the prints on the third and fourth finger. I observe one distinct impression of the butler's index finger - but that, I am thinking, has no bearing on the case."