“Wait a sec’,” said the young man. “I’m not certain, but I believe Richard Jacques put out those plays you mentioned. If so, he could probably help you better than any one. He does business at that new place he has taken over, the Aladdin in Piccadilly. You should try him.” French thanked his new friend, and after again traversing the endless corridors of the huge building, found himself once more in the street. At 29 Babcock Street the door was opened to him by a respectable-looking woman, who said that her husband, Peter Dowds, was within. His health was poor, but if the gentleman would come in, he would make shift to come down to see him. French sat down to wait in the tiny parlour. Presently a shuffling became audible in the hall, and the door, opening slowly, revealed a short but immensely stout man, whose small eyes blinked inquisitively at his visitor as the latter rose and wished him good-day. “Good-day, good-day,” the man wheezed, as he steered himself across the room and sank into one of the chairs. “It’s the asthma,” he went on in a husky voice. “It’s always bad this time of year.” He stopped and sat panting, then went on, “You wanted to see me?” “Yes,” French admitted, “but I’m sorry to find your asthma so bad. What do you do for it?” The Inspector had found from long experience that the time spent in discussing his illness with an invalid was not wasted. The pleasure he gave had the effect of creating a sympathy and good feeling which assisted him when he came to the second part of the interview, the favour he wanted for himself. He was not altogether a hypocrite in this. It was part of the technique of his business, and besides, he was a good-natured man who really did like giving pleasure. He therefore talked asthma and asthma cures for some minutes before turning to the subject of Miss Cissie Winter.