“We have only the bare word of Mr. Gray that he didn’t go in again, Mary; but I believe him. He’s a hot-headed fool, but square.”
“Then ’twas yon Kazmah,” announced Mrs. Kerry. “Who is Kazmah?”
Her husband laughed shortly.
“That’s the point at which I got stumped,” he replied. “We’ve heard of him at the Yard, of course, and we know that under the cloak of a dealer in Eastern perfumes he carried on a fortune-telling business. He managed to avoid prosecution, though. It took me over an hour tonight to explore the thought-reading mechanism; it’s a sort of Maskelyne’s Mysteries worked from the inside room. But who Kazmah is or what’s his nationality I know no more than the man in the moon.”
“Pairfume?” queried the far-away voice.
“Yes, Mary. The first room is a sort of miniature scent bazaar. There are funny little imitation antique flasks of Kazmah preparations, creams, perfumes and incense, also small square wooden boxes of a kind of Turkish delight, and a stock of Egyptian mummy-beads, statuettes, and the like, which may be genuine for all I know.”
“Nae books or letters?”
“Not a thing, except his own advertisements, a telephone directory, and so on.”
“The inside office bureau?”
“Empty as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard!”