Dope | Page 4

with Margaret Halley. Humid
yellow mist floated past the street lamps, and seemed to have gathered in a moving reef
around the little runabout car which was standing outside the house, its motor chattering
tremulously.
"Phew! a beastly night!" he said. "foggy and wet."
"It's a brute isn't it?" said the girl laughingly, and turned on the steps so that the light
shining out of the hallway gleamed on her white teeth and upraised eyes. She was pulling
on big, ugly, furred gloves, and Monte Irvin mentally contrasted her fresh, athletic type of
beauty with the delicate, exotic charm of his wife.
She opened the door of the little car, got in and drove off, waving one hugely gloved
hand to Irvin as he stood in the porch looking after her. When the red tail-light had
vanished in the mist he returned to the house and re-entered the library. If only all his
wife's friends were like Margaret Halley, he mused, he might have been spared the
insupportable misgivings which were goading him to madness. His mind filled with
poisonous suspicions, he resumed his pacing of the library, awaiting and dreading that
which should confirm his blackest theories. He was unaware of the fact that throughout
the interview he had held the stump of cigar between his teeth. He held it there yet,
pacing, pacing up and down the long room.
Then came the expected summons. The telephone bell rang. Monte Irvin clenched his
hands and inhaled deeply. His color changed in a manner that would have aroused a
physician's interest. Regaining his self-possession by a visible effort, he crossed to a
small side-table upon which the instrument rested. Rolling the cigar stump into the left
corner of his mouth, he took up the receiver.
"Hallo!" he said.
"Someone named Brisley, sir, wishes--"
"Put him through to me here."
"Very good, sir."
A short interval, then:

"Yes?" said Monte Irvin.
"My name is Brisley. I have a message for Mr. Monte Irvin."
"Monte Irvin speaking. Anything to report, Brisley?"
Irvin's deep, rich voice was not entirely under control.
"Yes, sir. The lady drove by taxicab from Prince's Gate to Albemarle Street."
"Ah!"
"Went up to chambers of Sir Lucien Pyne and was admitted."
"Well?"
"Twenty minutes later came out. Lady was with Sir Lucien. Both walked around to old
Bond Street. The Honorable Quentin Gray--"
"Ah!" breathed Irvin.
"--Overtook them there. He got out of a cab. He joined them. All three up to apartments
of a professional crystal-gazer styling himself Kazmah 'the dream-reader.'"
A puzzled expression began to steal over the face of Monte Irvin. At the sound of the
telephone bell he had paled somewhat. Now he began to recover his habitual florid
coloring.
"Go on," he directed, for the speaker had paused.
"Seven to ten minutes later," resumed the nasal voice, "Mr. Gray came down. He hailed a
passing cab, but man refused to stop. Mr. Gray seemed to be very irritable."
The fact that the invisible speaker was reading from a notebook he betrayed by his
monotonous intonation and abbreviated sentences, which resembled those of a constable
giving evidence in a police court.
"He walked off rapidly in direction of Piccadilly. Colleague followed. Near the Ritz he
obtained a cab. He returned in same to old Bond Street. He ran upstairs and was gone
from four-and-a-half to five minutes. He then came down again. He was very pale and
agitated. He discharged cab and walked away. Colleague followed. He saw Mr. Gray
enter Prince's Restaurant. In the hall Mr. Gray met a gent unknown by sight to colleague.
Following some conversation both gents went in to dinner. They are there now. Speaking
from Dover Street Tube."
"Yes, yes. But the lady?"
"A native, possibly Egyptian, apparently servant of Kazmah, came out a few minutes
after Mr. Gray had gone for cab, and went away. Sir Lucien Pyne and lady are still in

Kazmah's rooms."
"What!" cried Irvin, pulling out his watch and glancing at the disk. "But it's after eight
o'clock!"
"Yes, sir. The place is all shut up, and other offices in block closed at six. Door of
Kazmah's is locked. I knocked and got no reply."
"Damn it! You're talking nonsense! There must be another exit."
"No, sir. Colleague has just relieved me. Left two gents over their wine at Prince's."
Monte Irvin's color began to fade slowly.
"Then it's Pyne!" he whispered. The hand which held the receiver shook. "Brisley--meet
me at the Piccadilly end of Bond Street. I am coming now."
He put down the telephone, crossed to the wall and pressed a button. The cigar stump
held firmly between his teeth, he stood on the rug before the hearth, facing the door.
Presently it opened and Hinkes came in.
"The car is ready,