Thoms turned towards Alleyn. “He’s in—that’ll be all right, I expect. Hullo, is that you, Roberts? It’s Thoms here. Inspector Alleyn has just been over the O’Callaghan business with me. They’ve found hyoscine—quarter of a grain. That makes you sit up. What? I don’t know. Yes, of course it is. Well, don’t get all agitated. They’re not going to arrest you. Ha ha ha! What! All right—in about twenty minutes, I should think. Look out, my boy—don’t give yourself away—what!”

He hung up, and taking Alleyn by the elbow, walked with him to the front door.

“Poor old Roberts is in an awful hum about it, spluttering away down the telephone like I don’t know what. Well, let me know if there’s anything more I can do.”

“I will indeed. Thank you so much. Good night.”

“Good night. Got a pair of handcuffs for Roberts? Ha ha ha!”

“Ha ha ha!” said Alleyn. “Good night.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Anæsthetist

Tuesday, the sixteenth. Afternoon and evening.

DR. ROBERTS LIVED in a nice little house in Wigmore Street. It was a narrow house with two windows on the first floor, and on the street level was a large vermilion front door that occupied a fair proportion of the wall.

A man-servant, small and cheerful to suit the house, showed Alleyn into a pleasant drawing-room-study with apple-green walls and bookshelves, glazed chintz curtains, and comfortable chairs. Above the fireplace hung an excellent painting of lots of little people skating on a lake surrounded by Christmas trees. A wood fire crackled on the hearth. On a table near the bookcase was a sheaf of manuscript weighted down by the old wooden stethoscope that Mr. Thoms had found so funny.

After an appreciative glance at the picture, Alleyn walked over to the bookcase, where he found a beguiling collection of modern novels, a Variorum Shakespeare that aroused his envy, and a number of works on heredity, eugenics and psycho-analysis. Among these was a respectable-looking volume entitled Debased Currency, by Theodore Roberts. Alleyn took it out and looked at the contents. They proved to be a series of papers on hereditary taints. Roberts evidently had read them at meetings of the International Congress on Eugenics and Sex Reform.

Alleyn was still absorbed in this evidence of Roberts’s industry when the author himself came in.

“Inspector Alleyn, I believe,” said Roberts.

With a slight effort Alleyn refrained from answering “Dr. Roberts, I presume.” He closed the book over his thumb and came forward to meet the anæsthetist. Roberts blinked apprehensively and then glanced at the volume in the inspector’s hand.

“Yes, Dr. Roberts,” said Alleyn, “you’ve caught me red-handed. I never can resist plucking from bookshelves and I was so interested to see that you yourself wrote.”

“Oh,” answered Roberts vaguely, “the subject interests me. Will you sit down, inspector?”