In spite of the keen interest with which he was listening to these revelations, Cheyne felt himself seething with indignant anger. How he had been hoodwinked by this sneaking scoundrel, with his mean ingratiating smile and his assumption of melancholy! He could have kicked himself as he remembered how he had tried to cheer and encourage the mock pessimist. He wondered which was the more hateful, the man’s deceit or the cynical way he was now telling of it. But, apparently unconscious of the antagonism which he had aroused, Speedwell calmly and, Cheyne thought disgustedly, a trifle proudly, continued his narrative. “I soon found that James Dangle lived at Laurel Lodge. He was alone except for a daily char, but up till a short while earlier his sister had kept house for him. When I learned that his sister had left Laurel Lodge on the same day that Susan took up her place at Warren Lodge, I soon guessed who Susan really was. “I thought that when these two would go to so much trouble, the thing they were after must be pretty well worth while, and I thought it might pay me if I could find out what it was. So I shadowed Dangle, and learned a good deal about him. I learned that he was constantly meeting two other men, so I shadowed them and learned they were Blessington and Sime. Blessington I guessed first time I saw him was the man who had drugged you, Mr. Cheyne, for he exactly covered your and the manager’s descriptions. It seemed clear then that these three and Susan Dangle—if her real name was Susan—were in the conspiracy to get whatever you had.” “But what I would like to have explained,” Cheyne burst in, “was why you didn’t tell me what you had discovered. You were paid to do it. What did you think you were taking that hotel manager’s money for?” Speedwell made a gesture of deferential disagreement. “I scarcely think that you can find fault with me there, Mr. Cheyne,” he answered with his ingratiating smile. “I was investigating: I had not reached the end of my investigation. As you will see, sir, my investigation took a somewhat unexpected turn—a very unexpected turn, I might almost say, which left me in a bit of doubt as to how to act. But you’ll hear.” Inspector French had been sitting quite still at his desk, but now he stretched out his hand, took a cigar from the box, and as he lit it, murmured: “Go on, Speedwell. Sounds like a novel. I’m enjoying it. Aren’t you, Mr. Cheyne?” Cheyne made noncommital noises, and Speedwell, looking pleased, continued: