I returned to London to pursue inquiries in this direction, and found the letter from Quarles asking me to go and see him as soon as possible.
I went to Chelsea that evening, and was shown into the dining-room. The professor looked a little old to-night, I thought.
"Very glad to see you, Wigan. I want your help."
"I shall be delighted to give it, you have helped me so often. Your granddaughter is well, I trust?"
"Yes, she is away. She has taken a situation."
"A situation!" I exclaimed.
"The world hasn't much use for a professor of philosophy in these days, and that leads to financial difficulty for the professor," Quarles answered. "You glance round at the luxury of this room, I notice, and I can guess your thoughts. Selfish old brute, you are saying to yourself. But it was the child's wish, and we bide our time. She is made much of where she is. I think it is my loneliness which deserves most pity. Besides, there is no disgrace in honest work, either for man or woman."
Something of challenge was in his tone, and I hastened to agree with him. In a sense, the information was not unpleasant to me. Life was not to be all luxury for Zena Quarles. The social standing of a detective, however successful he may be, is not very high, and the necessity for her to work seemed to bring us nearer together. The value of what I could offer her was increased, and a spirit of hopefulness took possession of me.
"But I didn't ask you here to pity either Zena or myself," Quarles went on, after a pause. "I daresay you have heard of Mrs. Barrymore?"
"I have."