“I see. I think Davis will be the best man for you to go to. Mention my name. Here’s his address.”
“But you said a woman?”
“Yes—Davis will get you one. I should not tell Davis anything more than that you want this woman watched and to learn exactly what she does, where she goes, whom she meets, and so on.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
Mortimer was surprised at the address: Henry William Davis—Pall Mall East; still more surprised when he was asked to wait in a cozily furnished sitting room, which had every appearance of being occupied by an ordinary man about town; still more surprised by the entrance of a slim man of middle height, quietly but fashionably dressed, fair-haired and blue-eyed.
“You asked to see me? I’m Mr. Davis. The servant gave me your name as Mortimer. You discreetly did not trust me with your card.”
“My name is Mortimer. Mr. John Battersea—my solicitor—advised me to obtain your—help—but—” Mortimer looked doubtfully at Davis, and then round the room, with its elaborate grate and overmantel, the white wood dado, the monochrome olive-green walls, the heavy green plush curtains, the admirable etchings and engravings, the few pieces of choice silver and china.
“Not exactly the kind of man or room you expected to see, Mr. Mortimer? Well, please sit down; you may be sure Battersea would not have sent you to the wrong place. Won’t you have a cigarette? There are matches beside you. Now—to business. You needn’t tell me who you are, I know you well by sight and reputation. Well?”
He spoke in a slow, soft voice, which was not in any way weak, but on the contrary impressed the hearer with the conviction that he was a man of quiet, firm determination.
“My business is very simple, and I was told you could get it carried out for me. I want a woman watched; I want to know what she does, where she goes and with whom—in fact all you can find out about her.”