“The light was very dim?”

“Very dim indeed, and Kazmah never once raised his head.  Indeed, except for a dignified gesture of greeting and one of dismissal, he never moved.  His immobility was rather uncanny.”

Kerry began to pace up and down the narrow room, and: 

“He bore no resemblance to the late Sir Lucien Pyne, for instance?” he rapped.

Margaret laughed outright and her laughter was so inoffensive and so musical that the Chief Inspector laughed also.

“That’s more hopeless than ever!” she said.  “Poor Sir Lucien had strong, harsh features and rather small eyes.  He wore a moustache, too.  But Sir Lucien, I feel sure, was one of Kazmah’s clients.”

“Ah!” said Kerry.  “And what leads you to suppose Miss Halley, that this Kazmah dealt in drugs?”

“Well, you see, Rita Irvin was always going there to buy perfumes, and she frequently sent her maid as well.”

“But”—­Kerry stared—­“you say that the perfume was harmless.”

“That which was sold to casual visitors was harmless, Inspector.  But I strongly suspect that regular clients were supplied with something quite different.  You see, I know no fewer than thirty unfortunate women in the West End of London alone who are simply helpless slaves to various drugs, and I think it more than a coincidence that upon their dressing-tables I have almost invariably found one or more of Kazmah’s peculiar antique flasks.”

Chief Inspector Kerry’s jaw muscles protruded conspicuously.

“You speak of patients?” he asked.

Margaret nodded her head.

“When a woman becomes addicted to the drug habit,” she explained, “she sometimes shuns her regular medical adviser.  I have many patients who came to me originally simply because they dared not face their family doctor.  In fact, since I gave up Army work, my little practice has threatened to develop into that of a drug-habit specialist.”

“Have you taxed any of these people with obtaining drugs from Kazmah?”

“Not directly.  It would have been undiplomatic.  But I have tried to surprise them into telling me.  Unfortunately, these poor people are as cunning as any other kind of maniac, for, of course, it becomes a form of mania.  They recognize that confession might lead to a stoppage of supplies—­the eventuality they most dread.”

“Did you examine the contents of any of these flasks found on dressing-tables?”

“I rarely had an opportunity; but when I did they proved to contain perfume when they contained anything.”

“H’m,” mused Kerry, and although in deference to Margaret, he had denied himself chewing-gum, his jaws worked automatically.  “I gather that Mrs. Monte Irvin had expressed a wish to see you last night?”

“Yes.  Apparently she was threatened with a shortage of cocaine.”

“Cocaine was her drug?”