Cheyne noted the replies, marveling how the detective had come to learn so much. Then he asked his seventh question.
“Where is the paper?”
“That, sir, I can only answer partially. It is, or was up till quite lately, in Blessington’s possession. Whether he carries it about with him or keeps it in his house or in his bank I don’t know. He may even have lent it to one of the others, but he is the chief of the enterprise and it appears to belong to him.”
“That’s all right,” Cheyne admitted. “Now what were you going to tell me apart from these questions—the information you wrote about?”
“Simply, sir, that the man who drugged you in the Edgecombe Hotel in Plymouth was named Stewart Blessington, that he lived at Wembley, and that he drugged you in order to ascertain if you carried on your person a certain paper of which he was in search.”
“You can’t tell me how he did it?”
“No, sir. Some simple trick of course, but I had no chance to find it out. I might perhaps suggest that he had two similar flasks, one innocent and the other drugged, and that he changed them by sleight of hand while attracting your attention elsewhere.”
Cheyne shook his head. He had thought of this explanation before, but it was not satisfactory. He had been watching the man and he was satisfied he had not played any such trick. Besides, this would not explain why no trace of a drug was found in the food. Speedwell, however, could make no further suggestion.
Cheyne put away his notebook.
“There’s another thing I should like to know,” he said, “and that is how you have learned all this. I suppose you won’t tell me?”
Speedwell smiled as he shook his head.
“Some day, sir, when the case is over. You see, if I were to show you my channels of information you would naturally use them yourself, and then where should I come in? A man in my job soon learns where to pick up a bit of knowledge. It’s partly practice and partly knowing the ropes.”
“And there’s another thing I wish,” Cheyne went on as if he had not heard the other, “and that is that you had gone a bit further in your researches and learned what that paper was and what game that gang is up to.”
The detective’s manner became more eager.
“That’s what I was coming to myself, Mr. Cheyne. If you want that information I can get it for you. But it may cost you a bit of money. It would depend on the time I should have to spend on it and the risks I should have to run. If you would like me to take it on for you I could do so. But of course it’s a matter for yourself altogether.”
Cheyne reflected. This Speedwell had certainly done an amazing amount of work already on the case, and his success so far showed that he was a shrewd and capable man. To engage him to complete the work would probably be the quickest way of bringing the matter to a head, and the easiest, so far as he himself was concerned. But then he would lose all the excitement and the fun. He had pitted his wits against these men, and to hand the affair over to Speedwell would be to confess himself beaten. Moreover, he would have to admit his failure to Miss Merrill and to forego any more alarms and excursions in her company. No, he would keep the thing in his own hands for the present at all events.
He therefore said that he was obliged for the other’s offer, which later on he might be glad to accept, but that for the moment he would not make any further move.
“Right, sir. Whatever you say,” Speedwell agreed amicably. “I might add what indeed you’ll be able to guess for yourself from what I’ve told you, that this crowd is a pretty shrewd crowd, and they’ll not, so to speak, be beating the air in this job of yours. They’re going for something, and you may take it from me that something will be worth their going for. At least, if not, I’ll eat my hat.”
“I quite agree with you,” Cheyne returned, fumbling in his pocket. “It now remains for me to write my check and then we shall be square.”
Cheyne counted the hours until , and as soon as he dared he set off for No. 17 Horne Terrace. Indeed, he timed his visit so well that as he reached the top of the tenth flight of steps, the door of room No. 12 opened and the model emerged. She held the door open for him, and ten minutes later he was seated in the big armchair drinking the usual cup of fragrant China tea.
Miss Merrill listened with close attention to his story, but she was not so enthusiastic at his success as he could have wished. She made no comment until he had finished and then her remark was, if anything, disparaging.
“I don’t quite like it, you know,” she said slowly. “From your description of him it certainly looks as if that detective was playing a game of his own. It doesn’t sound straight. Do you think you can trust him?”
“Not as far as I can see him, but how can I help myself? I expect the addresses he gave are all correct, but I’m not at all satisfied that he won’t go straight to the gang and tell them he has found me and get their money for that.”
“And you think you wouldn’t be wiser to back out yourself and instruct him to carry on for you?”
Cheyne sat up and took his pipe out of his mouth.
“I’m damned if I will,” he declared hotly. “It
