“Never mind”—impatiently—“Prescott playing?”
“Yes.”
Anthony became all interest. “I see your drift, Inspector.”
Baddeley grinned. “Qualifying for a mental hospital—I’ve been—haven’t I?
“Now, Mr. Cunningham,” he turned to me—“you say you saw Prescott playing—I’ll tell you something more—you saw him lose and lose, now didn’t you? He was cleaned out of all he had, wasn’t he?” he brought his fist down on the dressing-table triumphantly—“he lost the lot?”
Anthony’s eyes held me inquiringly.
“Yes, Bill?” he murmured. “What about it?”
For a brief moment I felt majestic. I had a curious sense of power. “This is my grand minute,” I whispered to myself.
Taking a cigarette from my case, I tapped it on the lid with a becoming delicacy.
“On the contrary, Baddeley,” I weighed my words with a meticulous distinctness. “On the contrary—Prescott won! Systematically, consistently, and heavily.”