“That which was sold to casual visitors was harmless, Inspector. But I strongly suspect that regular clients were supplied with something quite different. You see, I know no fewer than thirty unfortunate women in the West End of London alone who are simply helpless slaves to various drugs, and I think it more than a coincidence that upon their dressing-tables I have almost invariably found one or more of Kazmah’s peculiar antique flasks.” Chief Inspector Kerry’s jaw muscles protruded conspicuously. “You speak of patients?” he asked. Margaret nodded her head. “When a woman becomes addicted to the drug habit,” she explained, “she sometimes shuns her regular medical adviser. I have many patients who came to me originally simply because they dared not face their family doctor. In fact, since I gave up Army work, my little practice has threatened to develop into that of a drug-habit specialist.” “Have you taxed any of these people with obtaining drugs from Kazmah?” “Not directly. It would have been undiplomatic. But I have tried to surprise them into telling me. Unfortunately, these poor people are as cunning as any other kind of maniac, for, of course, it becomes a form of mania. They recognize that confession might lead to a stoppage of supplies—the eventuality they most dread.” “Did you examine the contents of any of these flasks found on dressing-tables?” “I rarely had an opportunity; but when I did they proved to contain perfume when they contained anything.” “H’m,” mused Kerry, and although in deference to Margaret, he had denied himself chewing-gum, his jaws worked automatically. “I gather that Mrs. Monte Irvin had expressed a wish to see you last night?” “Yes. Apparently she was threatened with a shortage of cocaine.” “Cocaine was her drug?” “One of them. She had tried them all, poor, silly girl! You must understand that for a habitual drug-taker suddenly to be deprived of drugs would lead to complete collapse, perhaps death. And during the last few days I had noticed a peculiar nervous symptom in Rita Irvin which had interested me. Finally, the day before yesterday, she confessed that her usual source of supply had been closed to her. Her words were very vague, but I gathered that some form of coercion was being employed.” “With what object?” “I have no idea. But she used the words, ‘They will drive me mad,’ and seemed to be in a dangerously nervous condition. She said that she was going to make a final attempt to obtain a supply of the poison which had become indispensable to her. ‘I cannot do without it!’ she said. ‘But if they refuse, will you give me some?’” “What did you say?” “I begged of her, as I had done on many previous occasions, to place herself in my hands. But she evaded a direct answer, as is the way of one addicted to this vice. ‘If I cannot get some by tomorrow,’ she said, ‘I shall go mad, or dead. Can I rely on you?’”