There was nobody to turn to, nobody to advise her now, but Balmayne. He had done pretty well on the whole; he had contrived to keep himself out of danger, and at the first sign of the collapse he would fly.
But anybody was better than the sapping away of mind and body brooding alone. Balmayne listened to everything with a grave face.
"I quite agree with you over those notes," he said. "They must be recovered at any cost from Isidore."
"Think," Leona whispered, "set your wits to work. Meanwhile I have asked him to come here tonight to dine. Between now and then we shall surely find some way. At present I can only think of drugging and stealing his keys. But with our experience we can surely find better methods than that."
"Isidore won't come," Balmayne said, curtly.
The prophecy proved to be correct. Isidore regretted that he had another engagement to dine out this evening. Perhaps it was only a pleasure deferred to the end of the week. Leona tore the paper up passionately.
[CHAPTER XLIII.]
A SLICE OF LUCK.
Lytton Avenue was quiet for once, and Leona Lalage was glad of it. She said truthfully that she had a splitting headache, so that she was thankful to be alone and lie down on a couch in the drawing-room with the lights lowered and eau de Cologne on her temples. Hetty sat a little way off engaged on some fancywork. It seemed hard to imagine that all this refinement and enviable luxury covered crime and mystery.