The Seven Dials Mystery by Agatha Christie Page B

anything.”
    â€œI’ve got nothing to conceal. It’s only—”
    â€œWell?”
    â€œIt’s a long story—You see, I took Babe St. Maur there one night—”
    â€œOh! Babe St. Maur again.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI didn’t know it was about her—” said Bundle, stifling a yawn.
    â€œAs I say, I took Babe there. She rather fancied a lobster. I had a lobster under my arm—”
    The story went on—When the lobster had been finally dismembered in a struggle between Bill and a fellow who was a rank outsider, Bundle brought her attention back to him.
    â€œI see,” she said. “And there was a row?”
    â€œYes, but it was my lobster. I’d bought it and paid for it. I had a perfect right—”
    â€œOh, you had, you had,” said Bundle hastily. “But I’m sure that’s all forgotten now. And I don’t care for lobsters anyway. So let’s go.”
    â€œWe may be raided by the police. There’s a room upstairs where they play baccarat.”
    â€œFather will have to come and bail me out, that’s all. Come on, Bill.”
    Bill still seemed rather reluctant, but Bundle was adamant and they were soon speeding to their destination in a taxi.
    The place, when they got to it, was much as she imagined it would be. It was a tall house in a narrow street, 14 Hunstanton Street; she noted the number.
    A man whose face was strangely familiar opened the door. She thought he started slightly when he saw her, but he greeted Bill with respectful recognition. He was a tall man, with fair hair, a rather weak, anaemic face and slightly shifty eyes. Bundle puzzled to herself where she could have seen him before.
    Bill had recovered his equilibrium now and quite enjoyed doing showman. They danced in the cellar, which was very full of smoke—so much so that you saw everyone through a blue haze. The smell of fried fish was almost overpowering.
    On the wall were rough charcoal sketches, some of them executed with real talent. The company was extremely mixed. There were portly foreigners, opulent Jewesses, a sprinkling of the really smart, and several ladies belonging to the oldest profession in the world.
    Soon Bill led Bundle upstairs. There the weak-faced man was on guard, watching all those admitted to the gambling room with a lynx eye. Suddenly recognition came to Bundle.
    â€œOf course,” she said. “How stupid of me. It’s Alfred who used to be second footman at Chimneys. How are you, Alfred?”
    â€œNicely, thank you, your Ladyship.”
    â€œWhen did you leave Chimneys, Alfred? Was it long before we got back?”
    â€œIt was about a month ago, m’lady. I got a chance of bettering myself, and it seemed a pity not to take it.”
    â€œI suppose they pay you very well here,” remarked Bundle.
    â€œVery fair, m’lady.”
    Bundle passed in. It seemed to her that in this room the real life of the club was exposed. The stakes were high, she saw that at once, and the people gathered round the two tables were of the true type. Hawkeyed, haggard, with the gambling fever in their blood.
    She and Bill stayed here for about half an hour. Then Bill grew restive.
    â€œLet’s get out of this place, Bundle, and go on dancing.”
    Bundle agreed. There was nothing to be seen here. They went down again. They danced for another half hour, had fish and chips, and then Bundle declared herself ready to go home.
    â€œBut it’s so early,” Bill protested.
    â€œNo, it isn’t. Not really. And, anyway, I’ve got a long day in front of me tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do?”
    â€œThat depends,” said Bundle mysteriously. “But I can tell you this, Bill, the grass is not going to grow under my feet.”
    â€œIt never does,” said Mr. Eversleigh.

Twelve
    I NQUIRIES AT C HIMNEYS
    B undle’s temperament was certainly not inherited from