'There's a friend of mine,
Captain--Captain' (I couldn't remember the name) 'dossing down
in there. Get breakfast for two and then come and speak to me.'
I told Paddock a fine story about how my friend was a great
swell, with his nerves pretty bad from overwork, who wanted
absolute rest and stillness. Nobody had got to know he was here,
or he would be besieged by communications from the India Office
and the Prime Minister and his cure would be ruined. I am bound
to say Scudder played up splendidly when he came to breakfast. He
fixed Paddock with his eyeglass, just like a British officer, asked
him about the Boer War, and slung out at me a lot of stuff about
imaginary pals. Paddock couldn't learn to call me 'Sir', but he
'sirred' Scudder as if his life depended on it.
I left him with the newspaper and a box of cigars, and went
down to the City till luncheon. When I got back the lift-man had an
important face.
'Nawsty business 'ere this morning, Sir. Gent in No. 15 been and
shot 'isself. They've just took 'im to the mortiary. The police are
up there now.'
I ascended to No. 15, and found a couple of bobbies and an
inspector busy making an examination. I asked a few idiotic questions,
and they soon kicked me out. Then I found the man that had
valeted Scudder, and pumped him, but I could see he suspected
nothing.
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