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AFTER a further admonition from the sergeant to be careful of the company he kept in future they parted on excellent terms. The necessity for a long drink and a strong drink was urgent: unfortunately a misguided legislation decreed that such a thing could not be at that hour. So sending Brooke on in the taxi he went for the most important thing—a shave.

The effects of the drug had very nearly worn off, and the need for formulating some plan of campaign was evident. And the first thing to do was to put himself in the enemy's position. Their assumption, it seemed to him, would be that he would most certainly tell the police. It would be the obvious thing that ninety-nine men out of a hundred would do in similar circumstances. In fact he would have done it himself but for the extraordinary coincidence of his previous conversation with the girl—a conversation about which they could know nothing. Taking that as a basis—what next? They would anticipate a visit of inspection from the police very shortly after he recovered consciousness. They could not know that he was blissfully ignorant even of the name of the road.

The strong probability therefore was that by now all traces of their occupation of the house would have disappeared. They had no time to lose: even the roulette and baccarat tables would involve them in unpleasant notoriety if discovered by the authorities. The point would have to be confirmed, of course, but it seemed to him that that was the obvious starting-point from which to begin. And if so, the problem became a simple one to propound, but a difficult one to solve. How was he to get in touch with them again?

The crude and stupid threat had presumably been written on the assumption that he would not receive it until after he had communicated with the police, and led them, apparently, to a mare's nest. They hoped that it would catch him in a mood of irritation and annoyance at having not only been made a fool of himself, but also for having made a fool of the police. And it was not hard to imagine what the police would have said if he had taken them to an empty and harmless house, on the plea that it was a gambling den where a man had been murdered. In fact with some men the threat might have fulfilled its object, and made them drop the whole thing. That he was not in that category was neither here nor there. Was it a sound move to let them think that he was?

He told the barber to give him a couple of hot towels, and under their soothing influence he followed up that line of thought. They would soon find out that he had not told the police: what would they deduce from that? Surely it would be confirmatory evidence that he was only too anxious to let the matter drop altogether. They might think he was a business man unwilling to be mixed up in any scandal. And the more he sized up the situation, the better it seemed to him to give them that impression.

The only point against it was that if he left them alone, they would certainly do the same to him. The last thing they wanted was to be interfered with. Between them they would have to account for a murder, and even if they succeeded in bringing home the actual deed to the man called Ernesto, they would all be guilty of complicity. So what chance was there of getting any further with it, unless he carried the war into the enemy's country?

A big point, certainly—almost a vital one. To let the matter really drop was unthinkable, but what was he to do? At the moment he was at a hopeless disadvantage. If only, while apparently letting things go by the board, he could get hold of some pieces of evidence which would give him a clue as to their whereabouts. If only, unknown to them, he could start all square knowing them even as they knew him. He was under no delusions: it would be sheer luck if he did it. But Jim Maitland was a believer in luck, and it was a hopeful portent that as he entered his club the clock showed half-past five. No longer did the law interfere with the consumption of alcohol.

The first person he ran into was Percy, who looked at him in some surprise.

"By Jove! dear old lad," he burbled, "you look a bit under the weather—what! The right eye resembles a poached egg: the general bearing hardly of that martial order which is the hall-mark of our family."

"Dry up," said Jim. "It's the result of that devastating performance of yours. Look here, young Percy, what is the name of the road in which that house is? Where you drove me last night."

"Haven't an earthly, old fruit. I mean, who could be expected to know the name of a road in Hampstead?"

"But you've often been there, you blithering ass."

"I absolutely agree, dear heart. Absolutely. Times and again, and then some. I could find my way there in the dark with my eyes shut, but I couldn't tell you the name of the bally road to save my life."

Jim regarded him dispassionately.

"Your claim to continual existence grows more microscopic daily," he remarked at length. "However, it is you who will suffer. At eleven o'clock to-night you will call for me here in your car. You will then drive me to the scene of your ridiculous entertainment last night. After that you can go and play by yourself."

"But, my dear man," spluttered Percy, "what the deuce do you want me to do that for? None of the birds will be there this evening."

"A fact for which one can but give pious thanks to high heaven," said Jim, lighting a cigarette.

"Then why do you want me to drive you there?" persisted his cousin.

"So that I may mark it in my mind as a spot to avoid in the future," said Jim.

"Cut it out, old lad," cried Percy. "Joking apart, what is the blinking game?"

Jim Maitland stared at him thoughtfully. And after a while an idea, engendered perhaps by his conversation with Judy Draycott, began to take root in his mind. Here in the shape of his cousin was a test case. What lay behind that vacuous exterior? Supposing things did begin to move, how would Percy behave in a tight corner? And moved by a sudden impulse he signed to him to come closer.

"I am about to order you a drink, young feller," he said, "and while you put your nose in it I am going to tell you a little story. But before I begin I want your word of honour that what I say to you goes no further without my permission."

"You have it," said Percy quietly.

"After I left you last night, whilst strolling along to get the foul smell of those kippers out of my nostrils, I heard a revolver shot. It came from a house I was passing. Impelled by my usual curiosity I broke into the house, which I found to be a gambling den. Amongst other odds and ends I found a murdered man lying about: he'd been shot through the heart. Shortly afterwards I was doped, and I've spent to-day in Streatham police station."

"Go to blazes," laughed his cousin. "If that's your idea of a leg pull it is pretty poor, laddie."

"It happens to be the truth, Percy," said Jim gravely. "Now listen to me."

Without embroidery he told his cousin the whole story, omitting only one point—his strong suspicion that the murdered man was Judy Draycott's brother. That and all the implications that might follow with it, was not at the moment a thing he wanted to pass on to anyone. And by the time he had finished Percy's eyes were nearly goggling out of his head.

"But how perfectly priceless," he spluttered ecstatically. "Of course, old lad, you can count me in. Your idea is to go and have another look at the house to-night. Do a bit of amateur detective work. And, by Jove! that reminds me. There is a gambling place up in those parts: I've heard of it myself. Bloke in the club here told me about it—Teddy d'Acres."

He hailed a passing waiter.

"Is Lord d'Acres in the club?" he demanded.

"His lordship is playing cards, sir," said the man.

"I'll get hold of him, Jim," cried Percy, getting up.

"Not a word, don't forget," said the older man. "Just get the details of the place: nothing more."

"You leave it to me, laddie."

He rushed off to return in a couple of minutes with the information that Teddy was just finishing a rubber and would join them at once.

"Tell him," said Jim, "that I'm on the look out for a gamble, and want a straight place."

"It's a pity," opined his lordship, a few moments later, "that I didn't meet you last night. I was playing myself and I could have taken you along. And to-night I'm afraid I'm booked up three deep."

"What's the name of the house?" demanded Percy.

"Damned if I know, old boy," said the other. "It's a number, I think. But the road is Oakleigh Avenue."

"That's it," cried Percy, turning to Jim, "I remember now. That's where we met last night."

"As a matter of fact," went on d'Acres, "it's perhaps as well you weren't there. A poor evening. We generally carry on till three or four, but this morning we broke up about one."

Jim looked at him thoughtfully.

"Any particular reason?" he asked.

"Bloke there half screwed, who was asking for trouble. Began swearing he'd been cheated, which was all tripe. I've been to the damned place for months, and it's run absolutely square. Then he swore he'd get the police, which seemed to little Willie the moment to quit."

"Did he get the police?" asked Jim casually.

"Ask me another," said d'Acres. "I got to bed at a respectable hour for once."

"I wonder if he was the fellow I met at dinner," continued Jim, catching Percy's eye for a second. "Distinctly elevated even then, and asking everyone if they could tell him where to get a game. Big fellow and fat, with fair hair."

d'Acres shook his head.

"Not guilty. This was a slight, dark bird. Haven't an earthly what his name was, but he'd just come from South America, where according to him gambling was gambling, and not messing about with chicken food."

Not too good, reflected Jim. The evidence as far as it went at present seemed to point to nothing bigger than an ordinary gambling row as the cause of the shooting. And if so it would have been far better if he had telephoned the police from the house, for all interest would have left the situation as far as he was concerned.

"Who runs the place?" he asked.

"A syndicate, I believe. Cagnotte of five per cent—drinks and sandwiches chucked in."

He rose.

"Let me know any time you want to go," he remarked. "But give me a bit of warning, because I'm pretty full up. And if I can't manage it—you must be introduced the first time by someone who is known—I'll get old Monty to take you. He's always there: believe he's one of the syndicate, as a matter of fact. From all I hear, the old lad needs every penny of boodle he can lay his hands on."

Not a muscle of Jim's face twitched: his expression was one of polite interest.

"Monty," he murmured. "Monty who?"

"Monty Barnet," said the other. "Thought everyone knew old Monty. Well—so long: you just let me know when you feel like a flutter."

He lounged away, and Jim turned to his cousin.

"Who the devil is Monty Barnet when he's at home?"

"Good Lord! man—it can't be him your blind friend meant. He's Sir Montague Barnet, umpteenth Bart. Got a big place not far from Crowborough."

"At the moment I don't give a hoot where his place is," remarked Jim. "What sort of a man is he to look at?"

"Great big fellow with a small, dark moustache. Rather red in the face."

Jim Maitland lit a cigarette with some deliberation.

"If that is so, Percy," he said quietly, "the betting is just about five to one on your umpteenth Bart being one of the birds I want. Your description fits, and we have it from your pal d'Acres that he uses the place considerably. It may, of course, be only a very strange coincidence, but as a basis to work on I propose to start with the assumption as correct."

"But what are you going to do?" demanded Percy. "You can't go and accuse the bloke of murder."

"There are moments, little man," said Jim kindly, "when the thought that the same blood runs in our veins drives me to thoughts of suicide. Run away now, and play, and return at eleven o'clock in a dark suiting bringing an electric torch in your pocket."

He glanced at his watch: it was just on six. With luck he would have time to catch the man he wanted before he left his office. The firm of Henley Bros.—fifty pounds to ten thousand advanced on note of hand alone—kept late hours.

"And don't forget," he gave a final warning, "not a word to a soul, or I'll break your darned neck."

He penetrated the holy of holies at Messrs. Henley Bros. without difficulty. An oleaginous clerk outside informed him that such a thing would be out of the question, but on being requested to guess again and guess quickly he consented to take his name to Mr. Henley, with a result that surprised him.

"My dear Misther Maitland, thith ith a pleasure indeed."

A small, obese Jew almost concealed behind a vast cigar rose at Jim's entrance. He indicated a chair which his visitor took: he proffered an equally vast cigar which his visitor refused. Then sitting back in his chair he contemplated Jim with a watchful look.

"And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you, Misther Maitland?"

"I do not want a thousand pounds, Isaac," said Jim shortly. "Not being a millionaire I couldn't repay you. What I do want is some information."

"What sort of information?"

"Information which even if you can't give me now, you can find out for me. I don't like your trade, Isaac, as you know very well: but you may remember that day in Marseilles when I saved your somewhat worthless life."

Isaac Goldstein remembered it only too well, as the sickly pallor which spread over his face at the mere recollection of the incident testified. It was in the days before he had become Henley Bros., though his method of earning his livelihood had been the same, if on a smaller scale. And some of the inhabitants of Marseilles had suddenly decided that a thousand per cent was too much of a good thing. They stand not on the order of their going, do the people of that district: their habits are crude and summary. In short, but for the timely intervention of Jim Maitland who happened to be passing, Isaac Goldstein would not have been sitting in his present position smoking his fat cigar. And being well aware of the fact he had a feeling of gratitude towards this large Englishman with an eyeglass. He would even have gone as far, he told himself, as to reduce his terms for him—than which no more can be said.

"I remember it well, Misther Maitland," he said humbly. "Those sonths of dogs."

"Cut it out, Isaac. You richly deserved all you got. However, you can now do something to repay what I did. Don't turn pale: as I said before it is information, not money, I want. Now in the first place—what do you know of Sir Montague Barnet?"

The Jew stared at him shrewdly.

"I suppoth you don't mean whath written in Whoth Who?" he remarked.

"Correct," said Jim.

"Well, I don't know anything perthonally, but..."

He waved his hands deprecatingly.

"Precisely," cried Jim. "But. Get on with it, Isaac: I want my dinner. No good pretending to me that you fellows are not all hand in glove with one another."

"Well, in the course of bithineth we do hear things," admitted the other. "And a friend of mine did tell me that he had accommodated Sir Montague two or three timeth."

"As man to man, Isaac, is he in Queer Street?"

And for once the Jew did not beat about the bush.

"Yeth, Misther Maitland: he ith."

"So far, so good. What you've said merely confirms what I've already heard. Now for the next item. Do you know anything about a private gambling den in Oakleigh Avenue up in Hampstead?"

And for the fraction of a second there appeared in the moneylender's eyes a look which Jim found difficult to interpret. Almost it seemed to him there was fear in them: certainly surprise. It went as instantaneously as it appeared, but it did not escape the notice of one of the finest poker players in the world.

"Never heard of it, Misther Maitland," said the Jew.

"You're lying, Isaac," said Jim quietly. "I should have thought a man in your profession would have more control over his face. Now I realise there is no reason why you should answer me: at the same time I did you a good turn once. So once again I ask you the question. What do you know of that gambling den?"

"Why do you ask, Misther Maitland?" said the other at length.

"Why does one generally ask a question?" remarked Jim. "Because, Isaac, I want to hear your answer."

And once again the other hesitated.

"Get on with it, man," said Jim impatiently. "You've admitted now that you know about it: you can either tell me or not as you like. But I don't want to sit here all night."

"There certainly ith a houth in Oakleigh Avenue where they play," said the Jew suddenly. "But I've never been there mythelf."

"Is this man Barnet mixed up with it in any way?"

"He may be, Misther Maitland: he may be."

"And where does a blind dwarf come into the affair?"

The question shot out like a bullet from a gun, and the effect on the moneylender was remarkable. He sat up as if he had been stung by a hornet, and the hand holding his cigar trembled visibly.

"A blind dwarth, Misther Maitland," he muttered. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Assuredly," said Jim wearily, "you are the world's most indifferent liar. If you don't know what I'm talking about, why did my question bring on an attack of blind staggers? I'm interested in that man, Isaac," he continued gently, "and I would greatly appreciate any information you can give me about him. What, for instance, is his name?"

But the Jew shook his head.

"I know nothing about any blind dwarth, Misther Maitland," he said doggedly. "As I told you I've never been to the houth, and if there ith a blind man there I don't know who it ith. I'm thorry I can't help you."

"Won't, you mean—not can't," said Jim curtly.

He rose, and ignoring the other's proffered hand, went to the door.

"So long, Isaac. I'm not sure it wouldn't have been wiser to have let you fend for yourself in Marseilles that time."

He strolled back to his club, turning the conversation over in his mind. That Isaac Goldstein knew the blind man was obvious, and he regretted now that he had ever been to see him. He had done no good by the interview, and if, as seemed more than likely, the moneylender passed on the fact that he had been to see him it would be definitely disadvantageous. The others would know that he was not going to let the matter drop.

Still the mischief could not be undone. On the spur of the moment he had fired the question at the Jew, and he could only make the best of it. One thing, however, was clear. Not only did the moneylender know the dwarf, but he also stood in fear of him. Nothing else could account for Goldstein's whole manner when speaking. And he found his curiosity with regard to the blind man growing.

Common sense told him that the Isaac Goldsteins of this world are not generally afraid of men of unimpeachable morals. And the point that arose was what niche in the social scheme the dwarf adorned. Was he merely the owner or part owner of a gambling house, or was he something bigger? If the former there was no adequate reason for Goldstein's nervousness: if the latter it seemed possible he was getting into deeper waters than he had anticipated. In which case the sooner he got further information the better. And as he turned in to his club it suddenly struck him that there was another source of obtaining it available. Clement Hargreaves dined there most evenings, and though he was as secretive as an oyster it was possible he might be persuaded to open his mouth. There were few people connected even remotely with the underworld whom Clem did not know, and the dwarf would be an easily recognisable figure.

He found him, as luck would have it, sipping a glass of sherry in the smoking-room, and tackled him forthwith.

"Are you still in your hush-hush job, Clem?" he demanded.

"I still do my poor best to safeguard righteous citizens," answered the other with a grin. "Have a drink, Jim: it's about five years since we met."

"I want you to tell me something, old man, if you will."

"And if I can."

"Ça va sans dire."

He lit a cigarette: he had decided to adopt the same line as he had done with the sergeant at Streatham.

"Last night I went to a house up Hampstead way for a bit of a gamble. Organised place, you know."

"I don't," said the other. "They spring up like mushrooms, those spots. Go on."

"And there I met a gentleman who interested me. He stood about five foot high: he possessed the chest and shoulders of a giant: he was blind. Do you know anything about him?"

Hargreaves finished his drink, and in his turn lit a cigarette.

"In what capacity did you meet him?" he enquired at length.

"I should imagine he had something to do with the place," said Jim.

"And is that the reason of your interest in him?"

"You cautious old devil," laughed Jim. "Are you asking for information, or am I?"

But there was no answering smile on the other's face.

"I know your record better than most men, Jim," he said quietly. "And I know there is no one of my acquaintance more capable of looking after himself than you are. Nevertheless, if you and the man you've described fell foul of one another last night in any way, I can only give you one piece of advice. Do not go near that house again."

"We progress," said Jim. "It is clear that you know the bird. Why this animosity against him?"

"There can't be two men answering to your description," continued Hargreaves. "And I have no hesitation in saying that he is one of the most dangerous swine out of prison at the moment. He passes under the name of Emil Dresler, and he possesses an American passport. His activities are many and varied. At one time he was mixed up in the white slave traffic, but as far as we know he has given that up now. He's a blackmailer, and a drug trafficker. He is a moneylender on a large scale. We are also practically certain that he is responsible for at least two murders."

"Splendid," said Jim mildly. "Would it be indiscreet to ask why this charming individual is out of prison?"

"The reason is simple: we can't get any proof. He's a damned sight too clever. He covers his tracks with such infernal skill that we can't bring anything home to him. He is the brain, and he leaves other people to do the job. And they in their turn pass it on to someone else, till in the end it is impossible to trace his hand in it at all. It's the old question—we know but we can't prove. If we had half a chance we'd deport him like a shot, but so far he hasn't given it to us."

"He seems a cheery lad," laughed Jim. "So you think I'd better cut him off my visiting-list?"

"I can't imagine how he ever got on it. He's a gentleman who keeps himself very much in the background. And if he is running a gambling den, you can bet your bottom dollar there's more behind it than what he makes out of the cagnotte. Was the place on the square?"

"Quite, as far as I could see," answered Jim. "But in view of your warning I shall not revisit it."

He turned the conversation: further questions with regard to the place might prove difficult to answer. The last hour had provided him with more information than he had dared hope for, and with a nod to Hargreaves he sauntered off towards the dining-room. On the way he picked up an evening paper. It was the latest edition, but even the Stop Press news contained no mention of the finding of any dead body.

In itself the fact proved nothing. He was more than ever convinced after Hargreaves's remarks that he would find the place closed down. The bigger the man behind it the less would he be disposed to run any risk of trouble with the police. And connection with a gambling den would be quite enough to give the authorities the chance they needed to deport Mr. Emil Dresler. So what really was the object in going there at all?

He pondered the point over the soup: he ruminated on it over the fish. And by the time the Scotch woodcock arrived he had decided—to go. Object or no object he knew that he would have no peace of mind until he had made sure for himself that the body was not there still. What he proposed to do about it he was not sure: sufficient unto the moment would be the decision thereof.

The hall-porter beckoned to him as he left the dining-room: a letter had just arrived for him. It was in a woman's handwriting—one that was unknown to him, and having ordered a brandy with his coffee in the smoking-room he opened it. And the first words that caught his eye were the signature—Judy Draycott. He opened out the sheet and began to read.

Wednesday afternoon

37a Langham Square

Telephone: Grosvenor A123

Dear Mr. Maitland,

You may remember that we met last night—or was it this morning?—at the beer and bones party. And I then inflicted on you a long and I'm afraid boring story about my brother and hidden treasure in South America. Well, this morning a development has taken place. I told you, didn't I, that Arthur had written to me to say that if anything should happen to him I would find a letter addressed to me at my bank. And though I suppose you think I'm foolish I've been down every morning to see if there was anything. This morning there was. The envelope was a mere scrawl, though I recognised his writing at once: the post mark was London. And inside was a half sheet of paper with a drawing on it and some words. The drawing looks to me like a map—there's a north point marked on it: but the extraordinary thing is that it's not all there. It's sort of like half a map. Some of the words are cut in two, or if not, they don't make sense.

However, I could explain it so much more easily to you than write it. You see apart from whether it may mean anything or not I'm so terribly worried as to whether anything has happened to him. He must have been in London yesterday, so why hasn't he been to see me? Or rung up, or something? Do you think he has had an accident? I've rung up Scotland Yard, and looked in all the papers, but I can't find out anything.

I hate to bother you, but could you possibly come round and see me to-morrow morning some time? I'd suggest this evening, but you may not get this letter in time, and anyway we've got a ghastly dinner party on. I'll stay in until lunch in hopes of your being able to manage it.

I do hope you don't think I'm a terrible nuisance, but I really am most awfully worried.

Yours sincerely,

Judy Draycott.

With a faint smile Jim Maitland folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. Then the smile faded, and he sat staring in front of him. This was an unexpected development, and one that required thought. It confirmed—if confirmation was necessary—that the dead man was her brother, but it did not make things any easier with regard to telling her. And yet what was he to say when she asked him—as she undoubtedly would—if he thought any accident had happened? He must either tell her the whole thing, or keep it entirely dark.

For the moment he dismissed that side of the problem, and concentrated on the other. A kind of map. It was clear that there was something in this yarn about the treasure, or at any rate that her brother had thought there was. Had the boy then had some premonition of danger which had impelled him to send it to her bank? And why did she say like half a map?

There came back to him suddenly the big man's words the night before—"You damned fool—you've wrecked the whole thing." What whole thing? It was a queer remark to make over the murder of a man after a gambling quarrel. It might, of course, allude to the fact that it would be necessary to shut down the house: on the other hand it might not. And the more he thought of it, the more probably did it seem to him that there was something bigger in the whole affair than met the eye at first sight. Or, as he had qualified it before, that there was something which certain people thought was bigger. Which came to the same thing at the present moment.

He pressed out his cigarette and rose: there was one thing he could do at once which would not commit him to any particular course of action in the future. He went to the telephone and rang up Grosvenor A123. A man's voice answered and he asked to speak to Miss Draycott. She came almost at once, and her first words were—"Is that you, Arthur?"

"I'm afraid not, Miss Draycott," he said gently. "It's Maitland speaking."

He heard the little sigh of disappointment, and felt horribly guilty. Poor girl! if she only knew the truth.

"I got your note," he went on, "and I'll come round to-morrow about noon. And in the meantime I want you to be sure that that piece of paper is not lost. Is there a safe in the house?"

"No: there isn't," came her voice. "Mr. Maitland, it's most extraordinary that you should have rung up about that. Do you think it's really valuable?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm certain that while we were at dinner to-night somebody tried to burgle my room."

"Hold hard," said Jim. "Where are you speaking from? Where's the telephone? Wait a minute—don't answer. Only say yes or no to my questions. Is it in the hall?"

"Yes."

"Can you be overheard?"

"Yes."

"Then be careful. Now one more question—are you prepared to trust me implicitly?"

Came a soft laugh. "What can I say but—yes?"

"You haven't known me very long, have you?" he answered. "And what I'm going to ask you to do will entail a lot of faith in a comparative stranger. Now is there a letter-box anywhere near your house? Just say yes or no."

"Yes."

"Could you slip out and post a letter there now at once?"

"Yes: quite easily."

"Then would you put that paper in an envelope, address it to me here at the club, and post it?"

"Well, if you think..."

There was the faintest perceptible pause and her voice sounded a little doubtful.

"I do think," said Jim quietly. "His Majesty's post is the safest thing in the world, Miss Draycott. But put it in the box yourself. I will bring it round with me to-morrow, and we'll discuss the whole thing."

"All right," she said with sudden determination. "I'll do it now."

"Good!" he cried. "And one word more. Do not, if you'll take my advice, talk about it to anyone."

"I see that you do think there is something in it." There was a note of excitement in her voice.

"There may or may not be," he answered guardedly. "If there isn't it doesn't matter: if there is that paper is safer in the post than in your house. Good night, Miss Draycott: I'll be round about twelve to-morrow."

He rang off and left the box thoughtfully. So she seemed to think that someone had tried to burgle her room. Was that another coincidence? Surely it could not be. And as Jim Maitland reentered the smoking-room he proposed a silent but hearty vote of thanks to his cousin for having taken him to the Bright Young Thing's entertainment.