"My dear man, I never made you swear before. My dear Bell! Sorry. Let's get on. Let's get on. I want to call on the elusive Rand."
There was nothing individual about the rooms of Mr. Rand. He had been content with the furniture supplied by the owners of the place, which was of the usual wholesale dullness. Reggie turned to the manager of the flats. "I suppose there's nothing in the place Mr. Rand owns? Not even the pictures?"
"The pictures were supplied by the contractors for the furniture, sir. So"
"The Lord have mercy on their souls," said Reggie.
"So there is nothing of the tenant's personal property except his clothes."
"He is elusive, our friend Rand," Reggie murmured, wandering about the room. "Smoked rather a showy cigar. Drank a fair whisky. Doesn't tell us much about him. Do the servants come here every day?"
The manager was embarrassed. "Well, sir, in point of fact, we're short-handed just now. Not unless they're rung for. Not unless we know the tenant's using the rooms."
"Don't apologize, don't apologize. In point of fact, they haven't been here since—" he looked critically at some dust upon a grim bronze—"since when?"
