As we left the club Lewis stopped to telephone.
“I think, if you’ve the time, Braithwaite,” he said, “we might stop in on Hartwell Davidson and have a little chat with him.”
I glanced at him covertly, wondering if his little chat with Davidson would be as devastating as the one he had just had with me.
Davidson was stopping at a hotel in Knights-bridge. He received us coldly. He seemed to think I had directed the police to him, and I hadn’t a chance to explain.
“I’ve heard of you, Major Lewis,” he said curtly. He is a tall, good-looking chap, much like Boyd, in fact, with blond hair and blue eyes. They had a dangerous look in them just then. “May I ask what interest you have in me? I’ve just explained to that sickening Boyd that I hadn’t anything to do with the filthy swine’s death.”
