“The raid!” said Dunbar, turning from a point by the window, and looking back at the Frenchman. “Do you seriously tell me that we are going to raid Mr. King's on Tuesday night?”
“Most certainly,” was the confident reply. “I had hoped to form one of the raiding party; but nom d'un nom!”—he shrugged, in his graceful fashion—“I must be one of the rescued!”
“Of the rescued!”
“You see I visited that establishment as a smoker of opium”...
“You took that risk?”
“It was no greater risk than is run by quite a number of people socially well known in London, my dear Inspector Dunbar! I was introduced by an habitue and a member of the best society; and since nobody knows that Gaston Max is in London—that Gaston Max has any business in hand likely to bring him to London—pardieu, what danger did I incur? But, excepting the lobby—the cave of the dragon (a stranger apartment even than that in the Rue St. Claude) and the Chinese cubiculum where I spent the night—mon dieu! what a night!—I saw nothing of the establishment”...
“But you must know where it is!” cried Dunbar.
“I was driven there in a closed limousine, and driven away in the same vehicle”...
“You got the number?”
“It was impossible. These are clever people! But it must be a simple matter, Inspector, to trace a fine car like that which regularly appears in those east-end streets?”