“I am inclined to fancy there is—man named Connor, who used to be a croupier or something to old Reale.”
He frowned at the paper, and picking up a pencil from the desk, made a rapid little calculation. “Seven stone thirteen,” he muttered.
The Commissioner tapped the table impatiently. He had sunk into a seat opposite Angel.
“My dear man, who is old Reale? You forget that you are our tame foreign specialist. Lord, Angel, if you heard half the horrid things that people say about your appointment you would die of shame!”
Angel pushed aside the papers with a little laugh.
“I’m beyond shame,” he said lightheartedly; “and, besides, I’ve heard. You were asking about Reale. Reale is a character. For twenty years proprietor of one of the most delightful gambling plants in Egypt, Rome—goodness knows where. Education—none. Hobbies—invention. That’s the ‘bee in his bonnet’—invention. If he’s got another, it is the common or garden puzzle. Pigs in clover, missing words, all the fake competitions that cheap little papers run—he goes in for them all. Lives at 43 Terrington Square.”
“Where?” The Commissioner’s eyebrows rose. “Reale? 43 Terrington Square? Why, of course.” He looked at Angel queerly. “You know all about Reale?”
Angel shrugged his shoulders.
“As much as anybody knows,” he said.
The Commissioner nodded.