“I don’t know about that, sir,” he answered gloomily. “There’s not much to go on there either. The only chance is to trace the men’s arrival or departure. Now individually the private detective is every bit as good as the police; better, in fact, because he’s not so tied up with red tape. But he hasn’t their organization. In a case like this, when the police with their enormous organization have failed, the private detective hasn’t a big chance. However, of course I’ve not given up.”
He paused, and then drawing a little closer to Cheyne and lowering his voice, he went on impressively: “You know, sir, I hope you’ll not consider me out of place in saying it, but I had hoped to get my best clue from yourself. There can be no doubt that these men are after some paper that you have, or that they think you have. If you could tell me what it was, it might make all the difference.”
Cheyne made a gesture of impatience.
“Don’t I know that,” he cried. “Haven’t I been racking my brains over that question ever since the thing happened! I can’t think of anything. In fact, I can tell you there was nothing—nothing that I know of anyway,” he added helplessly.
Speedwell nodded and a sly look came into his eyes.
“Well, sir, if you can’t tell, you can’t, and that’s all there is to it.” He paused as if to refer to some other matter, then apparently thinking better of it, concluded: “You have my address, and if anything should occur to you I hope you’ll let me know without delay.”
When Speedwell had taken his departure Cheyne sat on in the study, thinking over the problem the other had presented, but as he did so he had no idea that before that very day was out he should himself have received information which would clear up the point at issue, as well as a good many of the other puzzling features of the strange events in which he had become involved.
Shortly after lunch, then, on this day, the eighth after the burglary and drugging, Cheyne, on re-entering the house after a stroll round the garden, was handed a card and told that the owner was waiting to see him in his study. Mr. Arthur Lamson, of 17 Acacia Terrace, Bland Road, Devonport, proved to be a youngish man of middle height and build, with the ruggedly chiselled features usually termed hard-bitten, a thick black toothbrush mustache, and glasses. Cheyne was not particularly prepossessed by his appearance, but he spoke in an educated way and had the easy polish of a man of the world.
“I have to apologize for this intrusion, Mr. Cheyne,” he began in a pleasant tone, “but the fact is I wondered whether I could interest you in a small invention of mine. I got your name from Messrs. Holt & Stavenage, the Plymouth ship chandlers. They told me you dealt with them and how keen you were on yachting, and as my invention relates to the navigation of coasting craft, I hoped you might allow me to show it to you.”
Cheyne, who had had some experience of inventors during six weeks’ special naval war service after his convalescence, made a noncommittal reply.