far as to threaten physical retribution for the slander of Lady Argrath upon the courageless and shrinking Mr. Dass—as a tiny hawk may menace a large and flustered barnyard hen.
But within twenty-four hours events had more than justified Kotman Dass. Sir James Argrath had shot himself, in the presence of his beautiful, soulless wife, of Salaman Chayne—and of one Mr. Gregory Kiss, a private detective, who, working silently on a drug case, had also come upon the trail of the secret drugmaster. And, more than that, Salaman had learned the name and seen the face of the secret pest of whose existence the elephantine Dass had spoken. He was called Dragour—by his slaves and victims—and he had snatched Lady Argrath into obscurity from under the very eyes of Salaman and the silent Mr. Kiss.
Both had disappeared.
Kotman Dass had been wholly right.
From the well-hidden flat in the London theater district, in which the tragedy had occurred, Salaman Chayne, once a devoted admirer of Lady Argrath, fiercely swearing to devote himself to the capture and destruction of that very real enemy of mankind, Dragour, had gone straight back to Green Square to fetch his partner Dass. But that one had gone to bed and, behind a locked door, refused to be awakened.
Now Salaman, fresh from feeding his birds, found him, while awaiting breakfast, lost in contemplation of a perfectly appalling chess problem in which white was inevitably to checkmate black with a knight and a rook in eighteen, or some equally complicated number of moves.
“You were right about that drug dealer Dragour, Dass,” he said abruptly, without preliminaries. “Argrath was ruined—he's shot himself—and his wife has disappeared with Dragour. I want you to come to the flat where it happened and take a look round. That weird brain of yours may notice something that will help me find Dragour. The brute held me up—me—with a pistol, Dass.”
The colossal, dark-skinned man sitting enormously in a big chair by the window, continued to pore over the chessboard.
“Oah, yess, yess,” he said vaguely. It was palpable that he had not heard a word.
The fiery Mr. Chayne stiffened, and his narrow, sharp-pointed, corn-colored hair and beard seemed to bristle.
“Damn you, Dass, do you mean to insult me?” he demanded, his voice booming. “Put away those toys and wake up before I kick them into the Square!”
Kotman Dass started violently—a weakness to which, like many seriously absent-minded men, he was prone.
“Oah, ten thousand apologies, my dear fellow, Mister Chayne,” he said, intensely agitated, and, in his agitation markedly using the queer, clipped pronunciation which, like his dark skin, more than hinted at a long line of native Indian ancestry. Mr. Dass called himself an Anglo-Indian but, pressed, would concede that he was Eurasian, and, threatened, would paint his ancestors at least as black as they probably were.
Salaman repeated his news—and instantly Kotman Dass was in a flurry of panic-stricken protest.
“Oah, noa—certainlee I can by no means screw myself to point of visiting room of tragedy. I am veree sorree, dear Mister Chayne, but personal investigation of scene of suicide is out of question for me. I should be so veree afraid that I should be off no service. My brain would refuse stubbornlee to function—owing to intense agitation of nerve centers—which are at all times intenselee responsive and highlee sensitive to immediate outside influence. Thatt is reason why at all times I am so veree disgusting coward—thee sensitive nerve centers, oah, yess. I beg off you—excuse me, if you please, my dear mister.”
Salaman stared, his hot yellowish-gray eyes glittering.
“Pah!” he said explosively. “You sicken me, Dass. You nauseate me. Suppose everybody shirked everything on account of 'sensitive nerve centers.' Why, damn you, I shall be there to hold your hand!”
“Noa, noa—if you please, excuse disgusting white-livered cowardice by me. I will veree gladlee consider thee matter here in my chair and evolve theories off possible value. Thee spirit is veree willing onlee flesh is deplorablee weak.”
The huge flabby body was quaking.
“Veree sensitive nerves—most highlee strung, yess,” mumbled Mr. Dass, looking as if he were on the verge of tears.
Salaman Chayne, grinning with sheer rage and mystification—for he was wholly incapable of understanding his vast partner's shortcomings—restrained himself with an
