“That’s right. Dull little show, I call it. Can’t think why so many people go there,” replied the manager. “Still, it seems to do pretty good business, all right, and I know that Moss goes there nearly every day—certainly every day that he’s got a client on the string.”

“What time is he likely to be there?” asked Cunningham.

“Not till three o’clock, ’cos that’s when the club opens,” sniggered the manager. “And I haven’t the least idea where he’ll be between now and then, because, you see, we don’t keep very close tabs on our men. As long as they bring home the bacon, that’s all that really matters. They can do it as they damn’ well like.”

“Nuisance,” was Cunningham’s comment. “That means that I’ve got some hours to waste.”

“’Fraid it does. Only sorry that I can’t help you any more. Still, you see the way it is. I haven’t the least idea where the man is now.”

“Oh, that’s all right. Good morning,” said Cunningham.

“Cheerio,” returned the manager.

Cunningham spent a miserable morning, drinking coffee and wasting as much time over it as possible. Then, when the time for lunch arrived, he lingered over his frugal meal as long as he dared, glancing miserably at the clock at frequent intervals, and cursing the laggard minutes which dragged so heavily by. Eventually, however, the hour of three approached, and he thankfully paid his bill and wended his way towards St. Martin’s Lane.

Sally’s Club was not far from the London Coliseum, and was reached by some dark and winding stairs. The club was at the top of a high and ramshackle building, and when Cunningham tapped on the door a grille opened, and a female face peered out at him suspiciously.

“Yes?” snapped the owner of the face, frowning at the intruder portentously, as if trying to remember under what unpleasant conditions she had formerly seen him.

“I want to see Mr. Moss,” said Cunningham in as coaxing a tone as he could command.

“Well, he’s not here,” she snapped and banged the grille to with an emphatic gesture.

Cunningham tapped again and the grille opened.

“I’ll come in and wait,” he announced.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind. This is a private club, and only members and their friends are admitted.”

“Well, I’m Mr. Moss’s friend, and I’ll wait and see him.”

“Then you can wait on the stairs.”

“Wait a moment,” said Cunningham, and produced his warrant card. “How does that strike you?” he asked. “Now, perhaps you’ll let me in.”