On leaving him I drove to Harley Street, where I found Sir Bernard busy with patients, and in rather an ill-temper, having been worried unusually by some smart woman who had been to consult him and had been pouring into his ear all her domestic woes.
“I do wish such women would go and consult somebody else,” he growled, after he had been explaining her case to me. “Same symptoms as all of them. Nerves—owing to indigestion, late hours, and an artificial life. Wants me to order her to Carlsbad or somewhere abroad—so that she can be rid of her husband for a month or so. I can see the reason plain enough. She’s got some little game to play. Faugh!” cried the old man, “such women only fill one with disgust.”
I went on to tell him of the verdict upon the death of Mrs. Courtenay, and his manner instantly changed to one of sympathy.
“Poor Henry!” he exclaimed. “Poor little woman! I wonder that nothing has transpired to give the police a clue. To my mind, Boyd, there was some mysterious element in Courtenay’s life that he entirely hid from his friends. In later years he lived in constant dread of assassination.”
“Yes, that has always struck me as strange,” I remarked.
“Has nothing yet been discovered?” asked my chief. “Didn’t the police follow that manservant Short?”
“Yes, but to no purpose. They proved to their own satisfaction that he was innocent.”
“And your friend Jevons—the tea-dealer who makes it a kind of hobby to assist the police. What of him? Has he continued his activity?”
“I believe so. He has, I understand, discovered a clue.”
“What has he found?” demanded the old man, bending forward in eagerness across the table. He had been devoted to his friend Courtenay, and was constantly inquiring of me whether the police had met with any success.