“Sorry to keep you waiting. Have a cocktail. Here, boy, wait a minute. What’ll you have? Strongly recommend a ‘Pirate’s Breath.’” “No, thanks,” said Poole, omitting the “sir” in the presence of the boy. “I won’t keep you a minute.” “Quite sure? All right; hop it, Ferdinand.” When the door had closed behind the boy, Poole held out his official card. “I’m sorry to bother you in your club, sir,” he said. “I didn’t quite know where to find you.” Ryland Fratten looked with surprise at his visitor. His first impression of him had suggested anything but a policeman. “What’s the trouble?” he asked. “Not the usual car-obstruction rot?” Poole smiled. “No, sir. It’s rather a confidential matter. I wondered if I might have a talk with you somewhere where we shan’t be disturbed—your rooms, perhaps.” “I haven’t got much in the way of rooms,” said Fratten, “and they’re a long way off. No one’s in the least likely to barge into this coal-cellar. I wish you’d have a drink. Have a cigarette, anyway.” “No, thank you, sir. I’ve been instructed to ask you for certain information regarding the death of your father, Sir Garth Fratten.” Poole watched his companion closely as he said these words. He saw the light-hearted, careless expression on his face change to one of serious attention—Ryland Fratten was listening now, very carefully. “To be quite frank,” the detective continued, “we are not quite satisfied with the circumstances surrounding Sir Garth’s death; there really should, strictly speaking, have been an inquest, though Sir Horace Spavage informs us that he was perfectly satisfied that death was due to natural causes, arising out of his disease, and that he had no hesitation in giving a certificate. Can you by any chance throw any light on the matter?” “I don’t think so. What sort of light?” “You weren’t with your father, or near him, when the accident occurred?” “No, I wasn’t,” said Fratten. “I didn’t hear anything about it till my sister got on to me at Potiphar’s in the middle of supper. I’d been to a show—she didn’t know how to find me.” Poole noticed that he did not give any indication of his lack of touch with his father; still, he had not been definitely untruthful on the subject. “Were you surprised when you heard of your father’s death?” “It was a great shock, naturally, but I wasn’t really surprised; I knew that he was very ill—that he had something the matter with him that might cause his death at any time.” “Heart trouble, wasn’t it?” “Yes—no. That is to say, I used to think it was heart trouble, but actually it was a thing called an aneurism—something wrong with an artery.” Poole wondered whether the sudden correction was a slip or a lightning decision that deception was too dangerous. For all his careless manner, Fratten had intelligent eyes and Poole was not at all convinced that he was a fool. He decided to try fresh ground—and to take a risk over it.