Gabb made an inarticulate grunt and scribbled upon a pad in front of him. With a quick glance at the attractive figure of the detective, the girl vanished.
“ ‘Talk of the devil,’ ” said Gabb; “that’s his girl—Mr. Fratten’s that is—Miss Vermont. At least she was, but it’s cooled off a bit lately, I think, diamond ring and all. Maybe something to do with his father’s death. Anyway he hasn’t been round lately and she’s been going out with this young Gossington—Porky Gossington’s boy in the Blues, he is. Here’s the interval now, sir.”
Poole drew back as a trickle of young men in evening clothes, mostly bareheaded, came round from the main entrance. Poole watched with sympathetic amusement the well-remembered and unchanging scene: the confident assurance of the accepted cavalier, chaffing Gabb and exchanging pleasantries with the little cluster of girls who occasionally poked their heads through the swing-door; the shy diffidence of the fledgling presenting his first note, his blush of delight when it returned to him with an evidently favourable answer, his crestfallen retreat at the verbal message: “Miss Flitterling is sorry she’s engaged,” or, worse still: “No answer, sir.” It was all very laughable, and very pathetic, thought the emancipated Poole.
Feeling that, for the moment, the stage-door keeper had yielded as much information as could be extracted without arousing suspicion, Poole said good-night and walked out into the Aldwych. He had not gone far when he felt a touch on his arm and, looking down, saw a small and shabby individual ambling along beside him.
“Beg pardon, guv’nor,” said his new acquaintance, “but if yer wants hinformation abaht the Honerable Fratten, I’m the chap with the goods.”
Wondering how this seedy creature could know of his question, the detective looked at him more closely and presently remembered that he had seen him come in with a note for Gabb when he and the latter had been talking together. Probably the man had picked up the name then; possibly he had hung about outside and caught a bit more—and was now out to take advantage of his eaves-dropping. Probably whatever information he proffered would be worthless, if not purely imaginary, but it was never safe to turn one’s back upon the most unlikely source of news.
“Well, what is it?” he asked carelessly.
The man smiled. “It’s sumfing worf ’aving, sir,” he said. “ ’Arf a Fisher’d do it.”
Poole, of course, in his official capacity, had no need to pay for information, but he did not wish yet to reveal himself as a police-officer. His informant probably took him for a jealous rival—if not an injured husband.
“How am I to know it’s worth paying for?” he asked.