“H’m,” said Kerry, “and I take it your investigations have also led you to the conclusion that our hands are clean?” Seton Pasha fixed his cool regard upon the speaker. “Personally, I never doubted this, Chief Inspector,” he declared. “I believed, and I still believe, that the people who traffic in drugs are clever enough to keep in the good books of the local police. It is a case of clever _camouflage_, rather than corruption.” “Ah,” snapped Kerry. “I was waiting to hear you mention it. So long as we know. I’m not a man that stands for being pointed at. I’ve got a boy at a good public school, but if ever he said he was ashamed of his father, the day he said it would be a day he’d never forget!” Seton Pasha smiled grimly and changed the topic. “Let us see,” he said, “if we are any nearer to the heart of the mystery of Kazmah. You were at the Regent Street bank today, I understand, at which the late Sir Lucien Pyne had an account?” “I was,” replied Kerry. “Next to his theatrical enterprises his chief source of income seems to have been a certain Jose Santos Company, of Buenos Ayres. We’ve traced Kazmah’s account, too. But no one at the bank has ever seen him. The missing Rashîd always paid in. Checks were signed ‘Mohammed el-Kazmah,’ in which name the account had been opened. From the amount standing to his credit there it’s evident that the proceeds of the dope business went elsewhere.” “Where do you think they went?” asked Seton quietly, watching Kerry. “Well,” rapped Kerry, “I think the same as you. I’ve got two eyes and I can see out of both of them.” “And you think?” “I think they went to the Jose Santos Company, of Buenos Ayres!” “Right!” cried Seton. “I feel sure of it. We may never know how it was all arranged or who was concerned, but I am convinced that Mr. Isaacs, lessee of the Cubanis Cigarette Company offices, Mr. Jacobs (my landlord!), Mohammed el-Kazmah—whoever he may be—the untraceable Mrs. Sin Sin Wa, and another, were all shareholders of the Jose Santos company.” “I’m with you. By ‘another’ you mean?” “Sir Lucien! It’s horrible, but I’m afraid it’s true.” They became silent for a while. Kerry chewed and Seton smoked. Then: “The significance of the fact that Sir Lucien’s study window was no more than forty paces across the leads from a well-oiled window of the Cubanis Company will not have escaped you,” said Seton. “I performed the journey just ahead of you, I believe. Then Sir Lucien had lived in Buenos Ayres; that was before he came into the title, and at a time, I am told, when he was not overburdened with wealth. His man, Mareno, is indisputably some kind of a South American, and he can give no satisfactory account of his movements on the night of the murder. “That we have to deal with a powerful drug syndicate there can be no doubt. The late Sir Lucien may not have been a director, but I feel sure he was financially interested. Kazmah’s was the distributing office, and the importer—”