Mr. Caister was unable to answer this: he had never seen any; nor could he oblige the Chief Inspector with the name of Seaton-Carew's solicitor. A search through the desk in the sitting-room yielded little result: Mr. Seaton-Carew had apparently made a habit of destroying his correspondence, nor did he keep an addressbook. A cheque-book, however, furnished Hemingway with the name and address of his Bank. Leaving Inspector Grant to visit the Manager of the Branch patronised by Seaton-Carew, Hemingway went off to ring up Mr. Timothy Harte, at his chambers in Dr Johnson's Buildings. Mr. Harte, not being engaged in Court that morning, most obligingly said that he would be happy to entertain an old acquaintance there and then, but suggested (since he shared a small room with another budding barrister) that the rendezvous should be at his home address, in Paper Buildings. Thither the Chief Inspector wended his way.
He was admitted to Timothy's chambers by a middle aged man, who had Old Soldier written clearly all over him, and ushered into a comfortable room overlooking the garden, which smelt of tobacco and leather, and was lined with bookshelves. Most of these carried ranks of depressing Law Reports, and other legal tomes, some of which, having been acquired at second or third hand, had a slightly mildewed appearance. An aged Persian rug covered most of the floor, and a large knee-hole desk stood in the window. Young Mr. Harte, in the black coat and striped trousers of his calling, was seated at this, smoking a pipe, and glancing through a set of papers, modestly priced on the covering sheet at 2 guar. He threw these aside when Hemingway came into the room, and got up. "Come in, Chief Inspector! Welcome to my humble abode!" he said. "Chuck those things off that chair, and sit down! Sorry about the general muddle: that's the way I like it!"
"Well, I'm bound to say I like it better than the last set of gentleman's apartments I was in, sir!" responded Hemingway, shaking hands.
"You do? Whose were they?"
"Mr. Seaton-Carew's."
"Fancy that now!" said Timothy. "I should have thought he would have done himself very artily."
"He did," said Hemingway, removing The Times, a paperbacked novel, a box of matches, two bundles of papers tied up with red tape, and a black cat from a deep chair, and seating himself in it. "Quite upset Inspector Grant. But then, he's a Scot! I'm more broadminded myself. No, thanks, sir, if it's all the same to you, I'll light my pipe. I thought I'd just look in to have a crack with you about old times."
"Having the morning on your hands," agreed Timothy. "Come off it! What am I? Chief Suspect, or Information Bureau?"
"Yes," said Hemingway, "you always were about as sharp as a bagful of monkeys, sir, weren't you? I daresay it'll get you into trouble one of these days. I do want some information, but I'd like to know what you've been up to since I saw you last."
"School - War - Cambridge - Bar," replied Timothy succinctly.