“Yes, sir; he was angry and wanted to get rid of me. I oughtn’t to have let him get angry. He wasn’t an easy subject though, sir.”
“I’ll bet he wasn’t; I know those knighted physicians—benighted, most of them.”
It took Poole the better part of the day to find Ryland Fratten. He had not the heart to go and ask Inez Fratten for her brother’s address; it was so like asking her to help in putting an halter round his neck. He did not care, either, to ask the butler at Queen Anne’s Gate; he did not want to start any gossip yet in that quarter. He ran him to earth at length, by dint of trying all the theatrical and semi-theatrical clubs in London in turn.
The “Doorstep” Club, in Burlington Gardens, caters for a mixed clientele—(it is a proprietary affair, and a very profitable one at that)—of young bucks interested in boxing, horse-racing, and the stage. Apart from the young bucks themselves, many of the leading jockeys, the more amusing actors, and the least unsuccessful boxers, were members of the club, though their subscriptions were in many cases “overlooked” by the intelligent proprietor. Poole was admitted, presumably on the strength of his good looks or his athletic figure, by a hall porter who ought to have known better. He was shown into the small and dark room on the ground-floor-back which was reserved for visitors, and his private card: “John Poole, 35 Vincent Gardens, S.W.”—a guileless looking affair—sent up by a “bell-hop” to Mr. Fratten.
Ryland Fratten appeared after about ten minutes, with a half-finished cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Have a cocktail. Here, boy, wait a minute. What’ll you have? Strongly recommend a ‘Pirate’s Breath.’ ”
“No, thanks,” said Poole, omitting the “sir” in the presence of the boy. “I won’t keep you a minute.”
“Quite sure? All right; hop it, Ferdinand.”
When the door had closed behind the boy, Poole held out his official card.
“I’m sorry to bother you in your club, sir,” he said. “I didn’t quite know where to find you.”