CHAPTER

THERE ARRIVE MOMENTS when a Criminal Investigation Department man has to take chances; if possible, however, he prefers as a general rule to act on certainties. Cello Street, Bloomsbury—that is not its real name—was a short street containing at the most, fifty or sixty houses of which No. 15, the house which Knuckleduster had entered, was roughly the center.

      Once those two men had strolled by No. 15, Garfield took no further chances of alarming his quarry till he was good and ready. A couple of men picketed one end of the street. At the other end a taxi-driver was tinkering away with some machinery in the bonnet of his car. In the car, idly enjoying a cigarette sat Jimmie Silverdale. Garfield had disappeared in search of a telephone and presently returned, humming a comic song.

      "If I'm right in the guess I'm making, Jimmie, this may be an amusing night."

      Silverdale lifted his shoulders. "Always a chance of its being a wild-goose chase. This pigeon of yours—Knuckleduster Jim—may not be with Eston at all. He may be putting up at an ordinary boarding-bouse."

      "That's conceivable, Jimmie, but"—Garfield carefully tapped out his pipe on the heel of his shoe—"but not very likely. You see I know Cello Street—and I know Knuckleduster. I wouldn't be at all surprised at anything Eston did but Knuckleduster has his limitations. That's probably why Eston is using him. And if I'm not away off my guess, I'll tell you another thing. Three or perhaps four of these austere old-fashioned houses are fitted up as gambling hells—perhaps something worse. Eston's adroit—I'll give him his due. At certain times there is probably a very keen lookout about here for any persons who look as if they were contemplating a police raid. I'm prepared to bet there's a bolt hole round one of these back streets and I want to stop it before we get busy. I've phoned through to Wade to bring half a dozen men."

      With the arrival of his re-enforcements, Garfield was able to direct a quiet investigation of the neighboring streets. The bolt hole he suspected he found in a narrow alley, giving access to the back entrances of Cello Street. There he posted three men. Having thus inspected the enemies' quarters, he held a little council of war with Silverdale and Wade, well out of sight of the place that was being kept, as the technical phrase goes, "under observation." Indeed to the casual passer-by there was no indication that anything unusual was stirring, or about to stir, the neighborhood.

      An hour passed. Now and again a man or woman would enter the. watched house. Two people had come from it, and once out of sight of the place, they had been stopped and questioned. Both adopted the same attitude of haughty resentment that collapsed like a pile of bricks when they realized that bluffing was no good.

      "Look here," saidGarfield. "You have been frequenting a gaming-house. That is illegal and, as a police officer, one should have a perfect right to arrest you. That is a course I am not anxious to take if you are reasonable. I'm not going to run any risks of a hint getting back that we are on the job. If you're willing to go to the nearest police station with one of my men and wait there for an hour, you'll hear no more of this. I take it you are anxious to avoid publicity. Now what do you say!"

      In each case, they said "yes." More, a little adroit questioning revealed several things that it was good to know. As a result, Jimmie found himself deputed to make a reconnaissance of the house itself.

      "I'd go myself," said Garfield, "but it's too much of a chance that someone will know me. And we mustn't let Knuckleduster catch sight of Wade. Here—" he drew a police whistle frora his trousers pocket, "take this and you can bet we'll come a-running if we're needed. But we want to do the business quietly and neatly, if we can. I hate to make a fuss. You'll have to take your chance of Eston. Here's a card if you need one. It's always useful to have a spare card."

      There was no immediate answer to Jimmie's ring at the door of No. 15. He stepped inside as the door, actuated by some unseen mechanism, glided open and immediately shut again as be crossed the threshold. He was in a dimly lighted hall, shoddily furnished-just such a hall as one might have expected from the exterior aspect of the house, save that three or four yards along, the passage was blocked by another door. He had an uncanny sense that, although he saw no one, he was being scrutinized and in a little the other door opened. A middle-aged man in well-fitting evening dress appeared.

      "Did you want anyone, sir?" he demanded.

      "Well," drawled Jimmie with well-assumed nonchalance, carrying out the instructions he had received from the people bagged by Garfield, "they do tell me that Mr. Smith lives here—Mr. Jones sent me." He presented the card Garfield had given him and the other took it between the tips of his fingers.

      "Ah, yes. Captain Iles. Delighted to see you, captain. Won't you come in? It's a little early yet, and we haven't many people here but perhaps you'll take some refreshments." The interior apartment to which Silverdale was introduced was in great contrast to the hall. Two rooms had apparently been thrown into one and decorated and furnished with lavish disregard of cost. A heavy carpet on which every sound was deadened covered the floor and the walls were paneled in rich mahogany. Palms, big arm-chairs, and little occasional tables gave it something the appearance of a lounge, of an expensive club, and the center of the room was occupied by a, table, now surrounded by a group of people who were intently watching the spin of a roulette wheel.

      "Zero," announced the croupier and a hum of conversation broke out among the punters as the bank raked their money in. "Make your game, ladies and gentlemen."

      In a swift glance, Silverdale failed to recognize anyone. His new acquaintance led him towards a small service bar and ordered drinks. "Here's to our better acquaintance, captain. I haven't seen you here before but I trust you'll be along now and again. What are you going to play? There's roulette, you see, and we have baccarat upstairs. Or, letting you into a secret, a few of us have a little room of our own upstairs where we play poker—just a select game, you understand. Of course, we have to be very careful and our clients are always cautious in their introductions. By the way, you gave the formula but you didn't say who really sent you."

      Silverdale finished his drink. Here was a danger he had hoped to avoid. There was, however, no help for it. He must face the situation.

      "That's funny," he declared. "A chap at the club put me on to this. I know him as well as I know my own brother but for the life of me I can't remember his name."

      "What club?"

      Jimmie named one of the most exclusive clubs in London—a club that appeared on the card Garfield had lent him and the other nodded, apparently satisfied. "It would be Colonel Slaron, I expect—yes, that's probably who it is. He's a member of that show."

      "He was a colonel I believe," admitted Jimmie, dismissing the point. "If you don't mind, I'll just wander round for a little and watch things. I don't quite know what I'll fall for yet. I just slipped in on the spur of the moment. "

      "Make yourself at home," urged his new friend, and left him.

      Jimmie obeyed the injunction as literally as possible. In such a place as he judged this to be, a few pounds would not go far and he only had ten in his pocket. He staked two ten-shilling notes on roulette and lost. A gambler by instinct, he yet refrained from risking more at that moment. He could not tell how long it would be necessary to remain in the place and it was as well to have some money in reserve.

      He wandered around the place, keenly alert to every detail. If Garfield was right, Hilary Sloane was somewhere in the building and he wanted to see her if possible.

      For a little he sat in at baccarat. Playing as light as possible, be found luck with him. In the course of half an hour, his capital had turned into fifty pounds. Then the luck changed. He lost ten and rose.

      No one paid any attention to him, as, hands in pockets, he sauntered apparently intently interested in the pictures which were displayed on most of the walls. Whenever he came to a door, he tried it but invariably those leading to the private portion of the house were locked. He had made up his mind to return and let the detective ransack the place by force when a big white panel in the ante-room of the saloon where baccarat was being played swung outwards and a woman emerged. Silverdale shrank behind a statue of Mercury and held his breath. It was Nora Dring.

      She did not observe him and passed downstairs with quiet self-possession. The moment she was out of sight, Silverdale was at the panel, his fingers searching for the spring he knew must control it. He found it at last and slipped through, closing the panel behind him.

      A small flight of stairs led upwards and Jimmie followed them.

      A woman passing along the corridor caught a glimpse of him, gave a gasp and came to a halt.

      "Jimmie! Jimmie!" she whispered.

      Regardless of the need for caution, he sprang up the remaining stairs three at a time with outstretched arms. All he knew was that Hilary Sloane was waiting for him.

      Before he reached her, however, he recoiled. A blue-tinted barrel was behind the girl and behind that the lean, sardonic face of Eston.

      "Good-evening, Mr. Silverdale," he said. "I told you we should meet again."