“No trouble at all—I’ve certainly got time enough on my hands for a visit. Won’t you come in?” He stepped aside, holding the door wide. He’d been more than a little surprised on Monday when Red had escorted Dot home, but he’d been happy enough to renew their acquaintance.

“Thank you.” Red swiped his cap off his head as he entered. He walked slowly, but the oddity in his gait from the prosthetic was barely noticeable at that pace.

Drake could still barely keep up. “Sit down, please. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?”

“No, no, don’t go to any trouble on my account.” He darted a glance at the kitchen, however, in a way that said he’d like a cup, just didn’t want to ask for one.

Drake turned into the room with its still-warm kettle. He put it back on the stove to heat and spoke across the half wall separating the kitchen and living area—an arrangement that had probably horrified Dot when she first saw it. No maid, no cook, and not even a decent wall to separate the kitchen from the more formal part of the flat. “No trouble at all. I insist.”

He kept his tone casual, but his intent wasn’t. He’d tried to sound Red out the other day on where he was living now, what he was doing, but the fellow had been vague in all his answers, and it would have been rude to press. He had a feeling the truth wasn’t very rosy. All the questions he’d asked himself about his old acquaintance kept delivering up the same answers: he was hungry and cold and in need, but too proud to admit it.

Well, a friend knew to give whether it was asked or not. He’d make sure to serve him a sandwich before he left too. “What a pleasant surprise it was for Dot to run into you the other day. I didn’t quite catch the story of how your paths crossed.”

“Oh.” Red chose the chair that would face both where he stood in the kitchen and the sofa. “Thanks to Miss De Wilde. She’d . . . hired me to do a bit of sleuthing for her.”

Drake measured a spoonful of tea into the teapot. “Are you an investigator now?”

“No. Not that I’d be opposed to such work. Or any work. I . . .” He broke off with a stumbling chuckle. “Sorry, old boy, this is blazing awkward. I was actually wondering—that is, I know the war hit your shipping company hard, but if you’ve any positions . . .”