“Where did he get his meals?”
“His meals?” The voice of the landlady grew a little vague. “Of late years he always took his meals out.”
“Can you tell me where?”
“At one of his smart clubs in the West End, I believe.”
“Which one in particular did he frequent? Can you tell me?”
Mrs. Toogood, unfortunately, could not. But she understood that he had been a member of several.
“Do I understand you to say, ma’am,” said the doctor, gently releasing the hand of the old man, “that Mr. Falkland Vavasour never took any food in this house?”
“When he came here first,” said the landlady, “he was usually in to all his meals. Then he gave up having dinner in the evening because of his digestion. After that he took to having his luncheon out. And for the last year, for some reason or other—he was always a bit faddy and peculiar in his ways—he used to go out for his breakfast. But as he had been here so long and he was a sort of connexion of my late husband’s—I don’t quite know what the relationship was but my husband was always proud of him—I allowed him to keep on his room.”
“It was duly paid for, I presume?”
“Always, punctually, until about three weeks ago. When he got behind it seemed to trouble him a good deal, but I told him not to worry.”