There was only one thing to do, although Fletcher knew he would not meet with a genial reception from Sefton.
He made his way to his bungalow, and asked for him. The tousled maid who did odd jobs, and did them mighty badly, informed him that the “Doctor,” as she called him, was in, but Miss Sefton was out, at which Fletcher was rather relieved.
Sefton came to the door and eyed his visitor with little favour.
“Well, what is it?” he asked.
“Mr. Sefton,” said the Detective formally “I would not come to you if it was not on a matter of great importance, but I believe you can give me some information.”
“What is it now?” said Sefton.
“On the night of the murder, I understand you bound up a man who was wounded or injured in some way, at the Club. Would you mind telling me who that was?”
“Really, Fletcher,” said Sefton “you have a lot to learn in your profession. Your questions are very crude. If I treat a man medically I no more disclose his name than a priest does one who comes to confession.”
His manner annoyed Fletcher.
“That’s all nonsense,” he said “you are not a real doctor and in any case in the interests of justice …”