“That’s simple enough. What kind of woman? Respectable, or apparently so, or disreputable?”
“Disreputable, I believe. Her name’s Marian Squire; she’s living apart from her husband; there’s her address.”
“Very well. I’ll have her watched and report to you daily or weekly, as you prefer. That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“And as I said, very simple. Do you merely wish for information? Or for evidence as well? I mean, will the case be likely to appear in court?”
“No. I merely want trustworthy information for my own use,” Mortimer answered.
“Very well. I can promise to obtain it for you. You want me to tell you all I can find out about this woman. That’s the long and short of it. Nothing more? Then—good morning.”
For a few minutes after Mortimer had gone, Mr. Davis stood before the fire, quietly smoking his cigarette. Then he rang the bell and told the sedate manservant to ring for a special messenger. He sat down at a small writing table standing by the window and scribbled a note which he folded with deliberation and then put into a thick envelope which he carefully sealed and addressed to Mrs. Ethel Harding.
Maddison had persuaded Marian to breakfast with him at the studio on the morning of his departure. They had not heard or seen anything more of her husband, and Maddison had more than once hinted his doubts as to there being any need for the separation, suggesting that she should go with him to Rottingdean. The mere thought of this had irritated Marian beyond endurance, though she concealed her feeling from him, only urging that no real change had taken place in the circumstances which had caused them to decide upon their plan, and she felt grateful to Mortimer when she heard that his advice and opinion accorded with hers.