“No. Never to my knowledge, sir. He’s simply a gay, irresponsible sort of man. Dines out every night either with people in smart society or at one of the expensive restaurants. A bit of a mystery, I think.”
“Why a mystery? What do you suspect?” asked Geoffrey eagerly as they stood together conversing in low tones against the lift.
“Well, about a week ago a little old man—a foreigner with a grey beard—came here and questioned me closely. At first I refused to tell him anything. He went away. Later in the evening he called again, and together we went round into the Haymarket and we had a drink or two. I told him what I knew, and—well!—he seemed much interested—very much interested.”
“In what way?” asked Falconer.
“Well, I may as well be frank with you. He offered me twenty pounds if I would loan him the duplicate key of the flat which my wife has in order to go in and out to see to things for him. He has no meals here, but his bedroom has to be seen to each day.”
“Twenty pounds! Then the little old foreigner was very eager to see inside. I wonder why?”
“Yes. That’s in my mind. I haven’t accepted the money, and I don’t know that I shall. Mr. Mildmay treats me as a gentleman, and I don’t see why I should go behind his back—especially with a foreigner. He must be a gentleman, or Lord Bamford would never have let his rooms to him.”
“Does Mr. Mildmay have many visitors?”
“Only two or three men who are intimate friends. I think he may be an inventor—or an electrical engineer.”
“What makes you think so?”