“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.”
“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?”
“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.