"That's right: Greystoke's daughter. Went the pace no little in the Gay Twenties. Sort of Pocket Venus. Still pretty easy on the eyes, though she must be quite as old as my Mamma. Restless, unsteady type, very Athenian - always seeking some new thing, I mean. Poulton is Big Business. I hardly know him. Seems a quiet, dull sort of a chap. Doesn't figure much at his wife's parties. I don't mean that there's anything wrong: merely that he's a man of affairs, and more often than not flying to the States, or the Continent, or somewhere on business."
"Was Seaton-Carew a friend of the Lady Nest?"
"Yes. Nothing in that: very good man at a party, much cultivated by hostesses."
"You wouldn't put it any higher than that, sir?"
"Lord, no! If someone's told you that she called him Dan-darling, or Dan-my-sweet, dismiss it from your mind! She calls me Timothy-my-lamb on no provocation whatsoever. It's her line. Anything more?"
"Dr Westruther?" said Hemingway.
"Pillar of Harley Street. Sort of bloke who calls female patients Dear lady, and recommends them to take a glass of champagne and a caviare sandwich at eleven every morning."
"Now, how can you possibly know that?" expostulated Hemingway. "Don't tell me Lady Harte told you so, because I remember her very well, and if she's taken to going to fashionable doctors all I can say is that she's changed a lot in thirteen years!"
"Oh lord, no! I had that from quite another source: one of the Old Guard - not at Mrs. Haddington's party! Are you fancying Westruther in the role of Chief Suspect? What a singularly fragrant thought!"
"I'm not, but, according to the evidence, it was he who went up to the drawing-room from the library to explain how it was that the game was being held up."