A quarter of an hour later they passed once more through the corridors of the great building which houses the C.I.D., and reached French’s room. There sitting waiting for them was the melancholy private detective, Speedwell. He rose as they entered.
“Afternoon, Mr. French. Afternoon, Mr. Cheyne,” he said ingratiatingly, rubbing his hands together. “I got your message, Mr. French, and I thought I’d better call round. Of course I’ll tell you anything I can to help.”
French beamed on him.
“Now that was good of you, Speedwell; very good. I’ll not forget it. Did Simmons tell you what had happened?”
“Not in detail—only that Blessington, Sime, and the Dangles were wanted.”
“Well, Mr. Cheyne here and Miss Merrill were out there last night,” he shook his head reproachfully at Cheyne while a twinkle showed in his eyes, “and your friends got hold of Miss Merrill and we can’t find her. Mr. Cheyne they enticed into the house with a fair story. They led him to believe that Miss Merrill would be in her studio when he got back to town and gave him her purse, which they said she had dropped. It contained a time bomb, and only the merest chance saved Mr. Cheyne from being blown to bits. There are charges against the quartet of attempted murder of Mr. Cheyne, and of abduction of Miss Merrill. Can you help us at all?”
Speedwell shook his head.
“I doubt it, Mr. French, I doubt it, sir. I found out a little, not very much. But all the information I have is at your disposal.”
Cheyne stared at him.
“But how can that be?” he exclaimed. “You were in their confidence—to some extent at all events. Surely you got some hint of what they were after?”