Lord Peter settled down to a perusal of his Dante. It afforded him no solace. Lord Peter was hampered in his career as a private detective by a public-school education. Despite Parker's admonitions, he was not always able to discount it. His mind had been warped in its young growth by «Raffles» and «Sherlock Holmes,» or the sentiments for which they stand. He belonged to a family which had never shot a fox.
«I am an amateur,» said Lord Peter.
Nevertheless, while communing with Dante, he made up his mind.
In the afternoon he found himself in Harley Street. Sir Julian Freke might be consulted about one's nerves from two till four on Tuesdays and Fridays. Lord Peter rang the bell.
«Have you an appointment, sir?» enquired the man who opened the door.
«No,» said Lord Peter, «but will you give Sir Julian my card? I think it possible he may see me without one.»
He sat down in the beautiful room in which Sir Julian's patients awaited his healing counsel. It was full of people. Two or three fashionably dressed women were discussing shops and servants together, and teasing a toy griffon. A big, worried-looking man by himself in a corner looked at his watch twenty times a minute. Lord Peter knew him by sight. It was Wintrington, a millionaire, who had tried to kill himself a few months ago. He controlled the finances of five countries, but he could not control his nerves. The finances of five countries were in Sir Julian Freke's capable hands. By the fireplace sat a soldierly-looking young man, of about Lord Peter's own age. His face was prematurely lined and worn; he sat bolt upright, his restless eyes darting in the direction of every slightest sound. On the sofa was an elderly woman of modest appearance, with a young girl. The girl seemed listless and wretched; the woman's look showed deep affection, and anxiety tempered with a timid hope. Close beside Lord Peter was another, younger woman, with a little girl, and Lord Peter noticed in both of them the broad cheekbones and beautiful, grey, slanting eyes of the Slav. The child, moving restlessly about, trod on Lord Peter's patent-leather toe, and the mother admonished her in French before turning to apologize to Lord Peter.
«Mais je vous en prie, madame,» said the young man, «it is nothing.»
«She is nervous, pauvre petite,» said the young woman.
«You are seeking advice for her?»