"Through the window," said Billy. "If it had only been a little wider open I'd have heard a lot more, but fresh air's death to a Dago." He lit his pipe and puffed away energetically for a moment. "I climbed up the drain-pipe," he added. "It was as easy as falling off a tree."
"You're a brick, Billy," I said warmly. "What did they actually say?"
"Well, you know the way Dagoes jabber—half-Spanish, half-English, and going nineteen to the dozen all the time. As far as I could hear—I was hanging on by my eyelids all the time, you must remember—someone had sent a message telling them that you and Mercia had been spending the afternoon together. They were devilish sick about it, and seemed to be discussing what to do with her. The gentleman who plugged you was very vicious. If he'd been running the show, I wouldn't have given twopence for Mercia's chances; but fortunately old Dot-and-carry-one's the top dog there. He stuck it out that there must be no violence at present, and the others finally agreed with him."
"He's lucky," I said grimly.
Billy nodded. "Damned lucky," he repeated. "If they'd come to any other conclusion, I should have plugged the bunch of them through the window. I had my gun on me. As things turned out, I thought it best to postpone the picnic."
"It won't be for long," I said. "We must have Mercia out of that to-night, whatever happens."
"Yes," agreed Billy gently. "I think it's time we led trumps. What's your news?"
Without waste of words, I told him about my conversation with Mercia and the arrival of the mysterious wire for Maurice.
"By Jove!" he said, staring at me thoughtfully, "that does open up matters a bit. Fancy Northcote being that damned villain Prado! I always heard he was an Englishman, but I didn't believe it. No wonder you're unpopular, my lad."
"I'd like to know how he escaped," I said, "and what this infernal League is that's on his track."