“This dates him a bit, doesn’t it?” Poole muttered to himself, as he glanced up at the name of the street.
Fortunately for him, Sir Horace’s house was at the Cavendish Square end, so that he was saved a possible ten minutes walk of infinite dreariness. Only one plate was on the massive door, he noticed as he rang the bell. Probably that meant that Sir Horace lived here, poor devil. The door was opened by a man-servant in a white jacket. Poole explained that he had no appointment but that, if Sir Horace had a quarter of an hour to spare in the near future, he would like to consult him upon a matter of some importance. The man-servant showed Poole into a waiting-room faintly redolent of mutton and retired, bearing with him Poole’s private card. After the customary twenty minutes wait, the man-servant returned to say that, owing to the failure of a patient, Sir Horace was fortunately able to see Mr. Poole at once—the usual formula of the unengaged.
Poole was shown into a large room, full—or so it seemed—of dark heavy furniture and a countless array of signed photographs; on the big writing-table, Their Gracious Majesties; on the mantelpiece, Their various Royal Highnesses—mostly ten or twenty years younger than life; on occasional tables and round the walls the lesser, but still noble fry: Caroline Kent, Minon Lancashire, Grace Wilbraham-Hamilton, George Gurgles—“truthfully yours,” leaders of fashion, men and women of the world, actors and actresses—of the type eligible for “birthday honours”—sportsmen, financiers—yes, prominently now, though probably retrieved by recent notoriety from comparative obscurity, an indifferent portrait of “Garth Fratten.”
Naturally, Inspector Poole did not take in all these photographic “warrants” at one glance, rather they impressed themselves upon his sub-conscious notice and gradually presented themselves one by one, during the course of the interview, to his observant eye. At the moment he was engaged in taking in the principal feature of the room, Sir Horace Spavage himself. Sir Horace was not a tall man, he was in fact, about five foot six, but he was, as he liked to put it, a man of good proportions and of a noticeable presence. His hair was now white and rather long, he had a curling white moustache, good teeth—too good to be true—and more than a suspicion of side-whiskers. He wore a frock-coat and a double cravat embellished by a fine pearl pin.
When Poole entered, Sir Horace was standing behind his desk, tapping the former’s card against his well-kept nails. After a quick glance at his visitor, to see perhaps if he looked sufficiently noble to be shaking hands with, Sir Horace abandoned any such intention that he may have fostered, and waved to a chair.
“Sit down, Mr.—er—Poole. What may I have the pleasure of doing for you?”
The detective remained standing. He handed across the table his official card.
“That will explain who I am, sir. I thought it better not to send it in by your servant; the matter is confidential.”
Sir Horace frowned. He also remained standing.
“What is it you want, Inspector? I have only a few minutes. My next patient . . .”