“Good Lord, yes,” he said. “I’d forgotten all about your quaint career. So you’re a detective, are you? And an Inspector at that? Jolly good work. I . . .”
Poole made a gesture to stop him. The butler was coming downstairs.
“Miss Fratten will be down in a few minutes, sir. Will you step this way, sir, please?”
He led the way into the morning-room; Poole followed and Mangane brought up the rear. When the door had closed behind the butler, Mangane took the detective’s arm and gave it a friendly shake.
“Now, Puddles,” he said, “tell me all about it, and drop this ‘sir’ nonsense.”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” replied Poole. “If I don’t sink myself completely in my identity as a policeman it may make my position impossibly difficult if I run across any of my old friends in an official capacity. I thought at one time of changing my name when I joined the Force but that seemed making rather a mystery of the business. It’s possible, for instance, that I may have to question you, among other people. That’s absolutely confidential at the moment, please. But if I do, you can see for yourself that I can only do it as an unidentified policeman. You understand that, don’t you—sir?”
Mangane slowly nodded his head.
“Yes, I see,” he said. “You’re probably right, though I don’t like it. If at any time you do relax your . . .”
He was interrupted by the opening of the door into the hall. Inez Fratten walked in, Poole’s note in her hand. Her eyebrows lifted slightly as she saw the two men talking together. Mangane evidently divined at once what was passing in her mind—the suspicion that he might be trying to “pump” the detective as to his business there.
“Inspector Poole and I are old friends, Miss Fratten,” he said. “I haven’t seen him for a great many years, though.”