The doctor crouched before the fire in his study, his mind working in all directions. It was a curious fact that, until Dorn’s jesting remark, he had not thought of drugs. He heard Michael whistling softly to himself, and, rising noiselessly, crossed to his desk and searched among the bottles that were arrayed on various shelves and in divers pigeonholes, and presently found what he sought. He slipped a grey pellet from the phial, dropping it into the palm of his hand, and, replacing the bottle, pulled down the desk cover. There might be no opportunity. Against that, every man as self-assured as Dorn was left himself open at one point. Wedging the pellet between the second and third fingers of his left hand, he came back to the fire, and was there when Michael Dorn came in later with coffee, cups, and saucers on a tray, the biscuits under his arm. “I’ve been thinking that perhaps, after reflection, you will tell me what time you expect our friends to return?” he asked. “Or, failing that, would you tell me what is the signal you are to give to signify that the coast is clear?” “You’re mad to make such suggestions,” said Tappatt gruffly. “I thought you weren’t going to talk about the women. They are not here.” “Somebody has got to talk about them,” murmured Michael apologetically. “Have some coffee? It is infinitely better than that yellow stuff you’ve got on the mantelpiece, and costs about one twentieth the price.” He poured out a cup and pushed it towards his companion, but the doctor did not so much as turn his head. Michael sipped luxuriously at the hot comforting fluid, his eyes fixed upon Tappatt’s moody face. Suddenly the doctor lifted his head as though he had heard something. “There is somebody coming now,” he said, and the detective walked to the door and listened. When he turned the doctor was in his old posture. “You’re getting jumpy--it is the whisky, my friend,” he said. He refilled his cup, stirred it vigorously, and dropped in a liberal supply of condensed milk. “What is this interesting thing you were going to tell me?” asked Tappatt, still staring into the fire. “It concerns you. There is a movement to get you brought before the General Medical Council for that Indian trouble, which means, I suppose, that you will be struck off the medical register.” This was news to the doctor, and he sprang to his feet. “That is a lie!” he said loudly. Suddenly Michael bent his head. “What was that?” he asked. Tappatt looked round. “I didn’t hear anything.” But the detective motioned him to silence. He rose, picked up his coffee, and walked to the door, listening. “Stay here,” he said and disappeared from view. He was back again in a minute, but remained standing by the door, sipping at his cup, and the doctor affected to be amused. “You’ve got nerves, man,” he said. “If you’d trusted me enough to leave your cup behind I’d have given you something to cure you!”