"At the moment I don't give a hoot where his place is," remarked Jim. "What sort of a man is he to look at?"
"Great big fellow with a small, dark moustache. Rather red in the face."
Jim Maitland lit a cigarette with some deliberation.
"If that is so, Percy," he said quietly, "the betting is just about five to one on your umpteenth Bart being one of the birds I want. Your description fits, and we have it from your pal d'Acres that he uses the place considerably. It may, of course, be only a very strange coincidence, but as a basis to work on I propose to start with the assumption as correct."
"But what are you going to do?" demanded Percy. "You can't go and accuse the bloke of murder."
"There are moments, little man," said Jim kindly, "when the thought that the same blood runs in our veins drives me to thoughts of suicide. Run away now, and play, and return at eleven o'clock in a dark suiting bringing an electric torch in your pocket."
He glanced at his watch: it was just on six. With luck he would have time to catch the man he wanted before he left his office. The firm of Henley Bros.—fifty pounds to ten thousand advanced on note of hand alone—kept late hours.
"And don't forget," he gave a final warning, "not a word to a soul, or I'll break your darned neck."
He penetrated the holy of holies at Messrs. Henley Bros. without difficulty. An oleaginous clerk outside informed him that such a thing would be out of the question, but on being requested to guess again and guess quickly he consented to take his name to Mr. Henley, with a result that surprised him.
"My dear Misther Maitland, thith ith a pleasure indeed."
A small, obese Jew almost concealed behind a vast cigar rose at Jim's entrance. He indicated a chair which his visitor took: he proffered an equally vast cigar which his visitor refused. Then sitting back in his chair he contemplated Jim with a watchful look.
"And what can I have the pleasure of doing for you, Misther Maitland?"
"I do not want a thousand pounds, Isaac," said Jim shortly. "Not being a millionaire I couldn't repay you. What I do want is some information."
"What sort of information?"
"Information which even if you can't give me now, you can find out for me. I don't like your trade, Isaac, as you know very well: but you may remember that day in Marseilles when I saved your somewhat worthless life."
Isaac Goldstein remembered it only too well, as the sickly pallor which spread over his face at the mere recollection of the incident testified. It was in the days before he had become Henley Bros., though his method of earning his livelihood had been the same, if on a smaller scale. And some of the inhabitants of Marseilles had suddenly decided that a thousand per cent was too much of a good thing. They stand not on the order of their going, do the people of that district: their habits are crude and summary. In short, but for the timely intervention of Jim Maitland who happened to be passing, Isaac Goldstein would not have been sitting in his present position smoking his fat cigar. And being well aware of the fact he had a feeling of gratitude towards this large Englishman with an eyeglass. He would even have gone as far, he told himself, as to reduce his terms for him—than which no more can be said.
"I remember it well, Misther Maitland," he said humbly. "Those sonths of dogs."
"Cut it out, Isaac. You richly deserved all you got. However, you can now do something to repay what I did. Don't turn pale: as I said before it is information, not money, I want. Now in the first place—what do you know of Sir Montague Barnet?"
The Jew stared at him shrewdly.
"I suppoth you don't mean whath written in Whoth Who?" he remarked.
"Correct," said Jim.
"Well, I don't know anything perthonally, but..."
He waved his hands deprecatingly.
"Precisely," cried Jim. "But. Get on with it, Isaac: I want my dinner. No good pretending to me that you fellows are not all hand in glove with one another."
"Well, in the course of bithineth we do hear things," admitted the other. "And a friend of mine did tell me that he had accommodated Sir Montague two or three timeth."
"As man to man, Isaac, is he in Queer Street?"
And for once the Jew did not beat about the bush.
"Yeth, Misther Maitland: he ith."
"So far, so good. What you've said merely confirms what I've already heard. Now for the next item. Do you know anything about a private gambling den in Oakleigh Avenue up in Hampstead?"
And for the fraction of a second there appeared in the moneylender's eyes a look which Jim found difficult to interpret. Almost it seemed to him there was fear in them: certainly surprise. It went as instantaneously as it appeared, but it did not escape the notice of one of the finest poker players in the world.
"Never heard of it, Misther Maitland," said the Jew.
"You're lying, Isaac," said Jim quietly. "I should have thought a man in your profession would have more control over his face. Now I realise there is no reason why you should answer me: at the same time I did you a good turn once. So once again I ask you the question. What do you know of that gambling den?"
"Why do you ask, Misther Maitland?" said the other at length.
"Why does one generally ask a question?" remarked Jim. "Because, Isaac, I want to hear your answer."
And once again the other hesitated.
"Get on with it, man," said Jim impatiently. "You've admitted now that you know about it: you can either tell me or not as you like. But I don't want to sit here all night."
"There certainly ith a houth in Oakleigh Avenue where they play," said the Jew suddenly. "But I've never been there mythelf."
"Is this man Barnet mixed up with it in any way?"
"He may be, Misther Maitland: he may be."
"And where does a blind dwarf come into the affair?"
The question shot out like a bullet from a gun, and the effect on the moneylender was remarkable. He sat up as if he had been stung by a hornet, and the hand holding his cigar trembled visibly.
"A blind dwarth, Misther Maitland," he muttered. "I don't know what you are talking about."
"Assuredly," said Jim wearily, "you are the world's most indifferent liar. If you don't know what I'm talking about, why did my question bring on an attack of blind staggers? I'm interested in that man, Isaac," he continued gently, "and I would greatly appreciate any information you can give me about him. What, for instance, is his name?"
But the Jew shook his head.
"I know nothing about any blind dwarth, Misther Maitland," he said doggedly. "As I told you I've never been to the houth, and if there ith a blind man there I don't know who it ith. I'm thorry I can't help you."
"Won't, you mean—not can't," said Jim curtly.
He rose, and ignoring the other's proffered hand, went to the door.
"So long, Isaac. I'm not sure it wouldn't have been wiser to have let you fend for yourself in Marseilles that time."
He strolled back to his club, turning the conversation over in his mind. That Isaac Goldstein knew the blind man was obvious, and he regretted now that he had ever been to see him. He had done no good by the interview, and if, as seemed more than likely, the moneylender passed on the fact that he had been to see him it would be definitely disadvantageous. The others would know that he was not going to let the matter drop.
Still the mischief could not be undone. On the spur of the moment he had fired the question at the Jew, and he could only make the best of it. One thing, however, was clear. Not only did the moneylender know the dwarf, but he also stood in fear of him. Nothing else could account for Goldstein's whole manner when speaking. And he