“Fourth question,” he proceeded methodically, “Dangle’s occupation. Dangle, Mr. Cheyne, is just an ordinary town sharp. He has a bit of money and adds to it in the usual ways. He’s in with a cardsharping gang and helps them in their stunts—for a consideration. He frequents a West End gaming room, and if there is any fat pigeon around he’ll lend a hand in the plucking. The sister helps as a decoy. They’re a warm pair and I should think are watched by the police. They’ll not want their dealings with you to come into the limelight anyway, so you’ve a pull over them there.” “Has Dangle no ostensible profession?” “Not that I know of, unless you call billiard playing a profession.” “You might give me the address of the gaming rooms.” “27 Greenway Lane, Knightsbridge.” “What about Sime?” “Sime is another of the same kidney. He does the night club end and brings likely mugs on to the gaming rooms. A plausible ruffian, Sime. A man without scruple and bad to be up against. He has no ostensible business, either.” “And Blessington?” “Blessington is, in my opinion, the worst of the three. He has ten times the brains of the other two put together and is an out and out scoundrel. He’s well enough off in a small way and is supposed to have made his money by systematic blackmail. He’s supplying the cash for this little do of yours, whatever it may be. He is believed at Wembley to be something in the city, but I don’t think he has any job. Lives on the interest of his money, I should think.” 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.