The Cheyne Mystery

by

Freeman Wills Crofts

Contents

Chapter I.
The Episode in the Plymouth Hotel

When the White Rabbit in Alice asked where he should begin to read the verses at the Knave’s trial the King replied: “Begin at the beginning; go on till you come to the end; then stop.”

This would seem to be the last word on the subject of narration in general. For the novelist no dictum more entirely complete and satisfactory can be imagined—in theory. But in practice it is hard to live up to.

Where is the beginning of a story? Where is the beginning of anything? No one knows.

When I set myself to consider the actual beginning of Maxwell Cheyne’s adventure, I saw at once I should have to go back to Noah. Indeed I was not at all sure whether the thing could be adequately explained unless I carried back the narrative to Adam, or even further. For Cheyne’s adventure hinged not only on his own character and environment, brought about by goodness knows how many thousands of generations of ancestors, but also upon the contemporaneous history of the world, crystallized in the happening of the Great War and all that appertained thereto.

So then, in default of the true beginning, let us commence with the character and environment of Maxwell Cheyne, following on with the strange episode which took place in the Edgecombe Hotel in Plymouth, and from which started that extraordinary series of events which I have called The Cheyne Mystery.

Maxwell Cheyne was born in 1891, so that when his adventure began in the month of March, 1920, he was just twenty-nine. His father was a navy man, commander of one of His Majesty’s smaller cruisers, and from him the boy presumably inherited his intense love of the sea and of adventure. Captain Cheyne had Irish blood in his veins and exhibited some of the characteristics of that irritating though lovable race. He was a man of brilliant attainments, resourceful, dashing, spirited and, moreover, a fine seaman, but a certain impetuosity, amounting at times to recklessness, just prevented his attaining the highest rank in his profession. In character he was as straight as a die, and kindly, generous, and openhanded to a fault, but he was improvident and inclined to live too much in the present. And these characteristics were destined to affect his son’s life, not only directly through heredity, but indirectly through environment also.

When Maxwell was nine his father died suddenly, and then it was found that the commander had been living up to his income and had made but scant provision for his widow and son and daughter. Dreams of Harrow and Cambridge had to be abandoned and, instead, the boy was educated at the local grammar school, and then entered the office of a Fenchurch Street shipping firm as junior clerk.

In his twentieth year the family fortunes were again reversed. His mother came in for a legacy from an uncle, a sheep farmer in Australia. It was not a fortune, but it meant a fairly substantial competence. Mrs. Cheyne bought back Warren Lodge, their old home, a small Georgian house standing in pleasant grounds on the estuary of the Dart. Maxwell thereupon threw up his job at the shipping office, followed his mother to Devonshire, and settled down to the leisurely life of a country gentleman. Among other hobbies he dabbled spasmodically in literature, producing a couple of novels, one of which was published and sold with fair success.

But the sea was in his blood. He bought a yacht, and with the help of the gardener’s son, Dan, sailed her in fair weather and foul, thereby gaining skill and judgment in things nautical, as well as a first-hand knowledge of the shores and tides and currents of the western portion of the English Channel.

Thus it came to pass that when, three years after the return to Devon, the war broke out, he volunteered for the navy and was at once accepted. There he served with enthusiasm if not with distinction, gaining very much the reputation which his father had held before him. During the intensive submarine campaign he was wounded in an action with a U-boat, which resulted in his being invalided out of the service. On demobilization he returned home and took up his former pursuits of yachting, literature, and generally having as slack and easy a time as his energetic nature would allow. Some eighteen months passed, and then occurred the incident which might be said definitely to begin his Adventure.

One damp and bleak March day Cheyne set out for Plymouth from Warren Lodge, his home on the estuary of the Dart. He wished to make a number of small purchases, and his mother and sister had entrusted him with commissions. Also he desired to consult his banker as to some question of investments. With a full program before him he pulled on his oilskins, and having assured his mother he would be back in time for dinner, he mounted his motor bicycle and rode off.

In due course he reached Plymouth, left his machine at a garage, and set about his business. About one o’clock he gravitated towards the Edgecombe Hotel, where after a cocktail he sat down in the lounge to rest for a few minutes before lunch.

He was looking idly over The Times when the voice of a page broke in on his thoughts.

“Gentleman to see you, sir.”

The card which the boy held out bore in fine script the legend: “Mr. Hubert Parkes, Oakleigh, Cleeve Hill, Cheltenham.” Cheyne pondered, but he could not recall anyone of the name, and it passed through his mind that the page had probably made a mistake.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Here sir,” the boy answered, and a short, stoutly built man of middle age with fair hair and a toothbrush mustache stepped forward. A glance assured Cheyne that he was a stranger.

“Mr. Maxwell Cheyne?” the newcomer inquired politely.

“My name, sir. Won’t you sit down?” Cheyne pulled an easy chair over towards his own.

“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting you before, Mr. Cheyne,” the other went on as he seated himself, “though I knew your father fairly intimately. I lived for many years at Valetta, running the Maltese end of a produce company with which I was then connected, and I met him when his ship was stationed there. A great favorite, Captain Cheyne was! The dull old club used to brighten up when he came in, and it seemed a national loss when his ship was withdrawn to another station.”

“I remember his being in Malta,” Cheyne returned, “though I was quite a small boy at the time. My mother has a photograph of Valetta, showing his ship lying in the Grand Harbor.”

They chatted about Malta and produce company work therein for some minutes, and then Mr. Parkes said:

“Now, Mr. Cheyne, though it is a pleasure to make the acquaintance of the son of my old friend, it was not merely with that object that I introduced myself. I have, as a matter of fact, a definite piece of business which I should like to discuss with you. It takes the form of a certain proposition of which I would invite your acceptance, I hope, to our mutual advantage.”

Cheyne, somewhat surprised, murmured polite expressions of anxiety to hear details and the other went on:

“I think before I explain the thing fully another small matter wants to be attended to. What about a little lunch? I’m just going to have mine and I shall take it as a favor if you will join me. After that we could talk business.”

Cheyne readily agreed and the other called over a waiter and gave him an order. “Let us have a cocktail,” he went on, “and by that time lunch will be ready.”

They strolled to the bar and there partook of a wonderful American concoction recommended by the young lady in charge. Presently the waiter reappeared and led the way, somewhat to Cheyne’s surprise, to a private room. There an excellent repast was served, to which both men did full justice. Parkes proved an agreeable and well informed companion and Cheyne enjoyed his conversation. The newcomer had, it appeared, seen a good deal of war service, having held the rank of major in the department of supply, serving first at Gallipoli and then at Salonica. Cheyne knew the latter port, his ship having called there on three or four occasions, and the two men found they had various experiences in common. Time passed pleasantly until at last Parkes drew a couple of arm chairs up to the fire, ordered coffee, and held out his cigar case.

“With your permission I’ll put my little proposition now. It is in connection with your literary work and I’m afraid it’s bound to sound a trifle impertinent. But I can assure you it’s not meant to be so.”

Cheyne smiled.

“You needn’t be afraid of hurting my feelings,” he declared. “I have a notion of the real value of my work. Get along anyway and let’s hear.”

Parkes resumed with some hesitation.

“I have to say first that I have read everything that you have published and I am immensely impressed by your style. I think you do your descriptions extraordinarily well. Your scenes are vivid and one feels that one is living through them. There’s money in that, Mr. Cheyne, in that gift of vivid and interest-compelling presentation. You should make a good thing out of short stories. I’ve worked at them for years and I know.”

“Huh. I haven’t found much money in it.”

Parkes nodded.

“I know you haven’t, or rather I guessed so. And if you don’t mind, I’ll tell you why.” He sat up and a keener interest crept into his manner. “There’s a fault in those stories of yours, a bad fault, and it’s in the construction. But let’s leave that for the moment and you’ll see where all this is leading.”

He broke off as a waiter arrived with the coffee, resuming:

“Now I have a strong dramatic sense and a good working knowledge of literary construction. As I said I’ve also tried short stories, and though they’ve not been an absolute failure, I couldn’t say they’ve been really successful. On the whole, I should think, yours have done better. And I know why. It’s my style. I try to produce a tale, say, of a shipwreck. It is intended to be full of human feeling, to grip the reader’s emotion. But it doesn’t. It reads like a Board of Trade report. Dry, you understand; not interesting. Now, Mr. Cheyne,” he sat up in his chair once more, this time almost in excitement, “you see what I’m coming to. Why should we not collaborate? Let me do the plots and you clothe them. Between us we have all the essentials for success.”

He sat back and then saw the coffee.

“I say,” he exclaimed, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t notice this had come. I hope it’s not cold.” He felt the coffee pot. “What about a liquor? I’ll ring for one. Or rather,” he paused suddenly. “I think I’ve got something perhaps even better here.” He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small flask. “Old Cognac,” he said. “You’ll try a little?”

He poured some of the golden brown liquid into Cheyne’s cup and was about to do the same into his own when he was seized with a sudden fit of choking coughing. He had to put down the flask while he quivered and shook with the paroxysm. Presently he recovered, breathless.

“Since I was wounded,” he gasped apologetically, “I’ve been taken like that. The doctors say it’s purely nervous—that my throat and lungs and so on are perfectly sound. Strange the different ways this war leaves its mark!”

He picked up the flask, poured a liberal measure of its contents into his own cup, drank off the contents with evident relish and continued:

“What I had in my mind, if you’ll consider it, was a series of short stories—say a dozen—on the merchant marine in the war. This is the spring of 1920. Soon no one will read anything connected with the war, but I think that time has scarcely come yet. I have fair knowledge of the subject and yours of course is first hand. What do you say? I will supply twelve plots or incidents and you will clothe them with, say, five thousand words each. We shall sell them to The Strand or some of those monthlies, and afterwards publish them as a collection in book form.”

“By Jove!” Cheyne said as he slowly sipped his coffee. “The idea’s rather tempting. But I wish I could feel as sure as you seem to do about my own style. I’m afraid I don’t believe that it is as good as you pretend.”

“Mr. Cheyne,” Parkes answered deliberately, “you may take my word for it that I know what I am talking about. I shouldn’t have come to you if I weren’t sure. Very few people are satisfied with their own work. No matter how good it is it falls short of the standard they have set in their minds. It is another case in which the outsider sees most of the game.”

Cheyne felt attracted by the proposal. He had written in all seventeen short stories, and of these only three had been accepted, and those by inferior magazines. If it would lead to success he would be only too delighted to collaborate with this pleasant stranger. It wasn’t so much the money—though he was not such a fool as to make light of that part of it. It was success he wanted, acceptance of his stuff by good periodicals, a name and a standing among his fellow craftsmen.

“Let’s see what it would mean,” he heard Parkes’s voice, and it seemed strangely faint and distant. “I suppose, given the synopses, you could finish a couple of tales per week—say, six weeks for the lot. And with luck we should sell for £50 to £100 each—say £500 for your six week’s work, or nearly £100 per week. And there might be any amount more for the book rights, filming and so on. Does the idea appeal to you, Mr. Cheyne?”

Cheyne did not reply. He was feeling sleepy. Did the idea appeal to him? Yes. No. Did it? Did the idea . . . the idea . . . Drat this sleepiness! What was he thinking of? Did the idea . . . What idea? . . . He gave up the struggle and, leaning back in his chair, sank into a profound and dreamless slumber.

Ages of time passed and Cheyne slowly struggled back into consciousness. As soon as he was sufficiently awake to analyze his sensations he realized that his brain was dull and clouded and his limbs heavy as lead. He was, however, physically comfortable, and he was content to allow his body to remain relaxed and motionless and his mind to dream idly on without conscious thought. But his energy gradually returned and at last he opened his eyes.

He was lying, dressed, on a bed in a strange room. Apparently it was night, for the room was dark save for the light on the window blind which seemed to come from a street lamp without. Vaguely interested, he closed his eyes again, and when he reopened them the room was lighted up and a man was standing beside the bed.

“Ah,” the man said, “you’re awake. Better, I hope?”

“I don’t know,” Cheyne answered, and it seemed to him as if some one else was speaking. “Have I been ill?”

“No,” the man returned, “Not that I know of. But you’ve slept like a log for nearly six hours.”

This was confusing. Cheyne paused to take in the idea, but it eluded him, then giving up the effort, he asked another question.

“Where am I?”

“In the Edgecombe: the Edgecombe Hotel, you know, in Plymouth. I am the manager.”

Ah, yes! It was coming back to him. He had gone there for lunch—was it today or a century ago?—and he had met that literary man—what was his name? He couldn’t remember. And they had had lunch and the man had made some suggestion about his writing. Yes, of course! It was all coming back now. The man had wanted to collaborate with him. And during the conversation he had suddenly felt sleepy. He supposed he must have fallen asleep then, for he remembered nothing more. But why had he felt sleepy like that? Suddenly his brain cleared and he sat up sharply.

“What’s happened, Mr. Jesse? I never did anything like this before!”

“No?” the manager answered. “I dare say not. I’ll tell you what has happened to you, Mr. Cheyne, though I’m sorry to have to admit it could have taken place in my hotel. You’ve been drugged. That’s what has happened.”

Cheyne stared incredulously.

“Good Lord!” he ejaculated. “Drugged! By—not by that literary man, surely?” He paused in amazed consternation and then his hand flew to his pocket. “My money,” he gasped. “I had over £100 in my pocket. Just got it at the bank.” He drew out a pocket-book and examined it hurriedly. “No,” he went on more quietly. “It’s all right.” He took from it a bundle of notes and with care counted them. “A hundred and eight pounds. That’s quite correct. My watch? No, it’s here.” He got up unsteadily, and rapidly went through his pockets. “Nothing missing anyway. Are you sure I was drugged? I don’t understand the thing a little bit.”

“I am afraid there is no doubt about it. You seemed so ill that I sent for a doctor. He said you were suffering from the effects of a drug, but were in no danger and would be all right in a few hours. He advised that you be left quietly to sleep it off.”

Cheyne rubbed his hand over his eyes.

“I can’t understand it,” he repeated. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“About three o’clock or shortly before it, Mr. Parkes appeared at the office and asked for his bill. He paid it, complimented the clerk on the excellent lunch he had had, and left the hotel. He was perfectly calm and collected and quite unhurried. Shortly after the waiter went up to clear away the things and he found you lying back in your chair, apparently asleep, but breathing so heavily that he was uneasy and he came and told me. I went up at once and was also rather alarmed at your condition, so I sent at once for the doctor.”

“But,” Cheyne objected, “that’s all right, only I wasn’t drugged. I know exactly what I ate and drank, and Parkes had precisely the same. If I was drugged, he must have been also, and you say he wasn’t.”

“He certainly was not. But think again, Mr. Cheyne. Are you really quite certain that he had no opportunity of putting powder over your food or liquid into your drink? Did he divert your attention at any time from the table?”

Cheyne was silent. He had remembered the flask of old brandy.

“He put cognac in my coffee from his own flask,” he admitted at length, “but it couldn’t have been that.”

“Ah,” the manager answered in a satisfied tone, “it was that, I should swear. Why don’t you think so?”

“I’ll tell you why I don’t think so; why, in fact, I know it wasn’t. He put an even larger dose out of the same flask into his own cup and he drank his coffee before I drank mine. So that if there was anything in the flask he would have got knocked over first.”

The manager looked puzzled.

“Don’t think me discourteous, Mr. Cheyne, but I confess I have my doubts about that. That episode of the flask looks too suspicious. Are you sure it was the same flask in each case? Did he pour straight into one cup after the other or was there an interval in between? You realize of course that a clever conjurer could substitute a second flask for the first without attracting your notice?”

“I realize that right enough, but I am positive he didn’t do so in this case. Though,” he paused for a moment, “that reminds me that there was an interval between pouring into each cup. He got a fit of coughing after giving me mine and had to put down the flask. But when the paroxysm was over he lifted it again and helped himself.”

“There you are,” the manager declared. “During his fit of coughing he substituted a different flask.”

“I’ll swear he didn’t. But can’t we settle the thing beyond doubt? Have the cups been washed? If not, can’t we get the dregs analyzed?”

“I have already asked the doctor to have it done. He said he would get Mr. Pringle to do it at once: that’s the city analyst. They’re close friends, and Mr. Pringle would do it to oblige him. We should have his report quite soon. I am also having him analyze the remains on the plates which were used. Fortunately, owing to lunch being served in a private room, these had been stacked together and none had been washed. So we should be able to settle the matter quite definitely.”

Cheyne nodded as he glanced at his watch. “Good Lord!” he cried, “it’s eight o’clock and I said I should be home by seven! I must ring up my mother or she’ll think something is wrong.”

The Cheynes had not themselves a telephone, but their nearest neighbors, people called Hazelton, were good-natured about receiving an occasional message through theirs and transmitting it to Warren Lodge. Cheyne went down to the lounge and put through his call, explaining to Mrs. Hazelton that unforeseen circumstances had necessitated his remaining overnight in Plymouth. The lady promised to have the message conveyed to Mrs. Cheyne and Maxwell rang off. Then as he turned to the dining room, a page told him that the manager would like to see him in his office.

“I’ve just got a report from the doctor about that coffee, Mr. Cheyne,” the other greeted him, “and I must say it confirms what you say, though it by no means clears up the mystery. There was brandy in those cups, but no drug: no trace of a drug in either.”

“I knew that,” Cheyne rejoined. “Everything that I had for lunch Parkes had also. I was there and I ought to know. But it’s a bit unsettling, isn’t it? Looks as if my heart or something had gone wrong.”

The manager looked at him more seriously. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he dissented. “I don’t think you can assume that. The doctor seemed quite satisfied. But if it would ease your mind, why not slip across now and see him? He lives just round the corner.”

Cheyne reflected.

“I’ll do so,” he answered presently. “If there’s nothing wrong it will prevent me fancying things, and if there is I should know of it. I’ll have some dinner and then go across. By the way, have you said anything to the police?”

The manager hesitated.

“No, I have not. I don’t know that we’ve evidence enough. But in any case, Mr. Cheyne, I trust you do not wish to call in the police.” The manager seemed quite upset by the idea and spoke earnestly. “It would not do the hotel any good if it became known that a visitor had been drugged. I sincerely trust, sir, that you can see your way to keep the matter quiet.”

Cheyne stared.

“But you surely don’t suggest that I should take the thing lying down? If I have been drugged, as you say, I must know who has done it, and why. That would seem to me obvious.”

“I agree,” the manager admitted, “and I should feel precisely the same in your place. But it is not necessary to apply to the police. A private detective would get you the information quite as well. See here, Mr. Cheyne, I will make you an offer. If you will agree to the affair being hushed up, I will employ the detective on behalf of the hotel. He will work under your direction and keep you advised of every step he takes. Come now, sir, is it a bargain?”

Cheyne did not hesitate.

“Why, yes,” he said promptly, “that will suit me all right. I don’t specially want to advertise the fact that I have been made a fool of. But I’d like to know what has really happened.”

“You shall, Mr. Cheyne. No stone shall be left unturned to get at the truth. I’ll see about a detective at once. You’ll have some dinner, sir?”

Cheyne was not hungry, but he was very thirsty, and he had a light meal with a number of long drinks. Then he went round to see the doctor, to whom the manager had telephoned, making an appointment.

After a thorough examination he received the verdict. It was a relief to his mind, but it did not tend to clear up the mystery. He was physically perfectly sound, and his sleep of the afternoon was not the result of disease or weakness. He had been drugged. That was the beginning and the end of the affair. The doctor was quite emphatic and ridiculed the idea of any other explanation.

Cheyne returned to the Edgecombe, and sitting down in a deserted corner of the lounge, tried to puzzle the thing out. But the more he thought of it, the more mysterious it became. His mind up till then had been concentrated on the actual administration of the drug, and this point alone still seemed to constitute an insoluble problem. But now he saw that it was but a small part of the mystery. Why had he been drugged? It was not robbery. Though he had over £100 in his pocket, the money was intact. He had no other valuables about him, and in any case nothing had been removed from his pockets. It was not to prevent his going to any place. He had not intended to do anything that afternoon that could possibly interest a stranger. No, he could form no conception of the motive.

But even more puzzling than this was the question: How did Parkes, if that was really his name, know that he, Cheyne, was coming to Plymouth that day? It was true that he had mentioned it to his mother and sister a couple of days previously, but he had told no one else and he felt sure that neither had they. But the man had almost certainly been expecting him. At least it was hard to believe that the whole episode had been merely the fruits of a chance encounter. On the other hand there was the difficulty that any other suggestion seemed even more unlikely. Parkes simply couldn’t have known that he, Cheyne, was coming. It was just inconceivable.

He lay back in his deep armchair, the smoke of his pipe curling lazily up, as he racked his brains for some theory which would at least partially meet the facts. But without success. He could think of nothing which threw a gleam of light on the situation.

And then he made a discovery which still further befogged him and made him swear with exasperation. He had taken out his pocket-book and was once more going through its contents to make absolutely sure nothing was missing, when he came to a piece of folded paper bearing memoranda about the money matters which he had discussed with his banker. He had not opened this when he had looked through the book after regaining consciousness, but now half absent-mindedly he unfolded it. As he did so he stared. Near the crease was a slight tear, unquestionably made by some one unfolding it hurriedly or carelessly. But that tear had not been there when he had folded it up. He could swear to it. Someone therefore had been through his pockets while he was asleep.

Chapter II.
Burglary!

The discovery that his pockets had been gone through while he was under the influence of the drug reduced Cheyne to a state of even more complete mystification than ever. What had the unknown been looking for? He, Cheyne, had nothing with him that, so far as he could imagine, could possibly have interested any other person. Indeed, money being ruled out, he did not know that he possessed anywhere any paper or small object which it would be worth a stranger’s while to steal.

Novels he had read recurred to him in which desperate enterprises were undertaken to obtain some document of importance. Plans of naval or military inventions which would give world supremacy to the power possessing them were perhaps the favorite instruments in these romances, but treaties which would mean war if disclosed to the wrong power, maps of desert islands on which treasure was buried, wills of which the existence was generally unknown and letters compromising the good name of wealthy personages had all been used time and again. But Cheyne had no plans or treaties or compromising letters from which an astute thief might make capital. Think as he would, he could frame no theory to account for Parkes’s proceedings.

He yawned and, getting up, began to pace the deserted lounge. The effects of the drug had not entirely worn off, for though he had slept all the afternoon he still felt slack and drowsy. In spite of its being scarcely ten o’clock, he thought he would have a whisky and go up to bed, in the hope that a good night’s rest would drive the poison out of his system and restore his usual feeling of mental and physical well-being.

But Fate, once more in the guise of an approaching page, decreed otherwise. As he turned lazily towards the bar a voice sounded in his ear.

“Wanted on the telephone, sir.”

Cheyne crossed the hall and entered the booth.

“Well?” he said shortly. “Cheyne speaking.”

A woman’s voice replied, a voice he recognized. It belonged to Ethel Hazelton, the grown-up daughter of that Mrs. Hazelton whom he had asked to inform Mrs. Cheyne of his change of plans. She spoke hurriedly and he could sense perturbation in her tones.

“Oh, Mr. Cheyne, I’m afraid I have rather disturbing news for you. When you rang up we sent James over to Warren Lodge. He found Mrs. Cheyne and Agatha on the doorstep trying to get in. They had been ringing for some time, but could not attract attention. He rang also, and then eventually found a ladder and got in through one of the upper windows. He opened the door for Mrs. Cheyne and Agatha. Can you hear me all right?”

“Yes, clearly. Go on, please, Miss Hazelton.”

“They searched the house and they discovered cook and Susan in their bedrooms, both tied up and gagged, but otherwise none the worse. They released them, of course, and then found that the house had been burgled.”

“Burgled!” Cheyne ejaculated sharply. “Great Scott!” He was considerably startled and paused in some consternation, asking then if much stuff was missing.

“They don’t know,” the distant voice answered. “Your safe had been opened, but they hadn’t had time to make an examination when James left. The silver seems to be all there, so that’s something. James came back here with a message from Mrs. Cheyne asking us to let you know, and I have been ringing up hotels in Plymouth for the last half hour. You know, you only said you were staying the night in your message; you didn’t say where. Mrs. Cheyne would like you to come back if you can manage it.”

There was no hesitation about Cheyne’s reply.

“Of course I shall,” he said quickly. “I’ll start at once on my bicycle. What about telling the police?”

“I rang them up immediately. They said they would go out at once. James has gone back also. He will stay and lend a hand until you arrive.”

“Splendid! It’s more than good of you both, Miss Hazelton. I can’t thank you enough. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

He delayed only to tell the news to the manager.

“There’s the explanation of this afternoon’s affair at all events,” he declared. “I was evidently fixed up so that I couldn’t butt in and spoil sport. But it’s good-bye to your keeping it quiet. The police have been called in already and the whole thing is bound to come out.”

The manager made a gesture of concern.

“I’m sorry to hear your news,” he said gravely. “Are you properly insured?”

“Partially. I don’t know if it will cover the loss because I don’t know what’s gone. But I must be getting away.”

He was moving off, but the manager laid a detaining hand on his arm.

“Well, I’m extremely sorry about it. But see here, Mr. Cheyne, it may not prove to be necessary to bring in about the drugging. It would injure the hotel. I sincerely trust you’ll do what you can in the matter, and if you find the private detective sufficient, you’ll let our arrangement stand.”

“I’ll decide when I hear just what has happened. You’ll let me have a copy of the analyst’s report?”

“Of course. Directly I get it I shall send it on.”

Fifteen minutes later Cheyne was passing through the outskirts of Plymouth on his way east. The night was fine, the mists of the day having cleared away, and a three-quarter moon shone brilliantly out of a blue-black sky. Keenly anxious to reach home and learn the details of the burglary and the extent of his loss, Cheyne crammed on every ounce of power, and his machine snored along the deserted road at well over forty miles an hour. In spite of slacks for villages and curves he made a record run, turning into the gate of Warren Lodge at just ten minutes before eleven.

As he approached the house everything looked normal. But when he let himself in this impression was dispelled, for a constable stood in the hall, who, saluting, informed him that Sergeant Kirby was within and in charge.

But Cheyne’s first concern was with his mother and sister. An inquiry produced the information that the two ladies were waiting for him in the drawing room, and thither he at once betook himself.

Mrs. Cheyne was a frail little woman who looked ten years older than her age of something under sixty. She welcomed her son with a little cry of pleasure.

“Oh, I am relieved to see you, Maxwell,” she cried. “I’m so glad you were able to come. Isn’t this a terrible business?”

“I don’t know, mother,” Cheyne answered cheerily, “that depends. I hear no one is any the worse. Has much stuff been stolen?”

“Nothing!” Mrs. Cheyne’s tone conveyed the wonder she evidently felt. “Nothing whatever! Or at least we can’t find that anything is missing.”

“Unless something may have been taken from your safe,” Agatha interposed. “Was there much in it?”

“No, only a few pounds and some papers, none valuable to an outsider.” He glanced at his sister. She was a pretty girl, tall and dark and in features not unlike himself. Both the young people had favored the late commander’s side of the house. He turned towards the door, continuing: “I’ll go and have a look, and then you can tell me what has happened.”

The safe was built into the wall in his own sanctum, “the study,” as his mother persisted in calling it. It had been taken over with the house when Mrs. Cheyne bought the little estate. As Cheyne now entered he saw that its doors were standing open. A tall man in the uniform of a sergeant of police was stooping over it. He turned as he heard the newcomer’s step.

“Good-evening sir,” he said in an impressive tone. “This is a bad business.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know, sergeant,” Cheyne answered easily. “If no one has been hurt and nothing has been stolen it might have been worse.”

The sergeant stared at him with some disfavor.

“There’s not much but what might have been worse,” he observed oracularly. “But we’re not sure yet that nothing’s been stolen. Nobody knows what was in this here safe, except maybe yourself. I’d be glad if you’d have a look and see if anything is gone.”

There was very little in the safe and it did not take Cheyne many seconds to go through it. The papers were tossed about—he could swear someone had turned them over—but none seemed to have been removed. The small packet of Treasury notes was intact and a number of gold and silver medals, won in athletic contests, were all in evidence.

“Nothing missing there, sergeant,” he declared when he had finished.

His eye wandered round the room. There was not much of value in it; one or two silver bowls—athletic trophies also, a small gold clock of Indian workmanship, a pair of high-power prism binoculars and a few ornaments were about all that could be turned into money. But all these were there, undisturbed. It was true that the glass door of a locked bookcase had been broken to enable the bolt to be unfastened and the doors opened, but none of the books seemed to have been touched.

“What do you think they were after, sir?” the sergeant queried. “Was there any jewelry in the house that they might have heard of?”

“My mother has a few trinkets, but I scarcely think you could dignify them by the name of jewelry. I suppose these precious burglars have left no kind of clue?”

“No, sir, nothing. Except maybe the girls’ description. I’ve telephoned that into headquarters and the men will be on the lookout.”

“Good. Well, if you can wait here a few minutes I’ll go and send my mother to bed and then I’ll come back and we can settle what’s to be done.”

Cheyne returned to the drawing room and told his news. “Nothing’s been taken,” he declared. “I’ve been through the safe and everything’s there. And nothing seems to be missing from the room either. The sergeant was asking about your jewels, mother. Have you looked to see if they’re all right?”

“It was the first thing I thought of, but they are all in their places. The cabinet I keep them in was certainly examined, for everything was left topsy-turvy, but nothing is missing.”

“Very extraordinary,” Cheyne commented. It seemed to him more than ever clear that these mysterious thieves were after some document which they believed he had, though why they should have supposed he held a valuable document he could not imagine. But the searching first of his pockets and then of his safe and house unmistakably suggested such a conclusion. He wondered if he should advance this theory, then decided he would first hear what the others had to say.

“Now, mother,” he went on, “it’s past your bedtime, but before you go I wish you would tell me what happened to you. Remember I have heard no details other than what Miss Hazelton mentioned on the telephone.”

Mrs. Cheyne answered with some eagerness, evidently anxious to relieve her mind by relating her experiences.

“The first thing was the telegram,” she began. “Agatha and I were sitting here this afternoon. I was sewing and Agatha was reading the paper—or was it the Spectator, Agatha?”

“The paper, mother, though that does not really matter.”

“No, of course it doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Cheyne repeated. It was evident the old lady had had a shock and found it difficult to concentrate her attention. “Well, at all events we were sitting here as I have said, sewing and reading, when your telegram was brought in.”

“My telegram?” Cheyne queried sharply. “What telegram do you mean?”

“Why, your telegram about Mr. Ackfield, of course,” his mother answered with some petulance. “What other telegram could it be? It did not give us much time, but—”

“But, mother dear, I don’t know what you are talking about. I sent no telegram.”

Agatha made a sudden gesture.

“There!” she exclaimed eagerly. “What did I say? When we came home and learned what had happened and thought of your not turning up,” she glanced at her brother, “I said it was only a blind. It was sent to get us away from the house!”

Cheyne shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly. What he had half expected had evidently taken place.

“Dear people,” he protested, “this is worse than getting blood from a stone. Do tell me what has happened. You were sitting here this afternoon when you received a telegram. Very well now, what time was that?”

“What time? Oh, about—what time did the telegram come, Agatha?”

“Just as the clock was striking four. I heard it strike immediately after the ring.”

“Good,” said Cheyne in what he imagined was the manner of a cross-examining K.C. “And what was in the telegram?”

The girl was evidently too much upset by her experience to resent his superior tone. She crossed the room, and taking a flimsy pink form from a table, handed it over to him.

The telegram had been sent out from the General Post Office in Plymouth at 3:17 that afternoon, and read:

You and Agatha please come without fail to Newton Abbot by 5:15 train to meet self and Ackfield about unexpected financial development. Urgent that you sign papers today. Ackfield will return Plymouth after meeting. You and I will catch 7:10 home from Newton Abbot — Maxwell.

Three-seventeen; and Parkes left the Edgecombe about three! It seemed pretty certain that he had sent the telegram. But if so, what an amazing amount the man knew about them all! Not only had he known of Cheyne’s war experiences and literary efforts and of his visit that day to the Edgecombe, but now it seemed that he had also known his address, of his mother and sister, and, most amazing thing of all, of the fact that Mr. Ackfield of Plymouth was their lawyer and confidential adviser! Moreover, he had evidently known that the ladies were at home as well as that they alone comprised the family. Surely, Cheyne thought, comparatively few people possessed all this knowledge, and the finding of Parkes should therefore be a correspondingly easy task.

“Extraordinary!” he said aloud. “And what did you do?”

“We got a taxi,” Mrs. Cheyne answered. “Agatha arranged it by telephone from Mrs. Hazelton’s. You tell him, Agatha. I’m rather tired.”

The old lady indeed looked worn out and Cheyne interposed a suggestion that she should go at once to bed, leaving Agatha to finish the story. But she refused and her daughter took up the tale.

“We caught the 5:15 ferry and went on to Newton Abbot. But when the Plymouth train came in there was no sign of you or Mr. Ackfield, so we sat in the waiting-room until the 7:10. I telephoned for a taxi to meet the ferry. It brought us to the door about half-past eight, but unfortunately it went away before we found we couldn’t get in.”

“You rang?”

“We rang, and knocked, but could get no answer. The house was in darkness and we began to fear something was wrong. Then just as I was about to leave mother in the summer-house and run up to the Hazeltons’ to see if James was there, he appeared to say that you were staying in Plymouth overnight. He rang and knocked again. But still no one came. Then he tried the windows on the ground floor, but they were all fastened, and at last he got the ladder from the yard and managed to get in through the window of your dressing room. He came down and opened the door and we got in.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing at first. We wondered where the maids could possibly have got to, or what could have happened. I found your electric torch and we began to search the rooms. Then we saw that your safe had been broken open and we knew it was burglary. That terrified us on account of the maids and we wondered if they had been decoyed away also. I don’t mind admitting now that I was just shaking with fear lest we should find that they had been injured or even murdered. But it wasn’t so bad as that.”

“They were tied up?”

“Yes, we found them in cook’s bedroom, lying on the floor with their hands and feet tied, and gagged. They were both very weak and could scarcely stand when we released them. They told us—but you’d better see them and hear what they have to say. They’re not gone to bed yet.”

“Yes, I’ll see them directly. What did you do then?”

“As soon as we were satisfied the burglars had gone James went home to call up the police. Then he came back and we began a second search to see what had been stolen. But the more we looked, the more surprised we became. We couldn’t find that anything had been taken.”

“Extraordinary!” Cheyne commented again. “And then?”

“After a time the police came out, and then James went home again to see whether they had been able to get in touch with you. He came back and told us you would be here by eleven. He had only just gone when you arrived. I really can’t say how kind and helpful he has been.”

“Yes, James is a good fellow. Now you and mother get to bed and I’ll fix things up with the police.”

He turned his steps to the kitchen, where he found the two maids shivering over a roaring fire and drinking tea. They stood up as he entered, but he told them to sit down again, asked for a cup for himself, and seating himself on the table chatted pleasantly before obtaining their statements. They had evidently had a bad fright and cook still seemed hysterical. As he sat he looked at them curiously.

Cook was an elderly woman, small and plain and stout. She had been with them since they had bought the house, and though he had not seen much of her, she had always seemed good-tempered and obliging. He had heard his mother speak well of her and he was sorry she should have had so distressing an experience. But he didn’t fancy she would be one to give burglars much trouble.

Susan, the parlormaid, was of a different quality. She was tall with rather heavy features, and good looking after a somewhat coarse type. If a trifle sullen in manner, she was competent and by no means a fool, and he felt that nefarious marauders would find her a force to be reckoned with.

By dint of patient questioning he presently knew all they had to tell. It appeared that shortly after the ladies had left a ring had come at the door. Susan had opened it to find two men standing outside. One was tall and powerfully built, with dark hair and clean shaven, the other small and pale—pale face, pale hair, and tiny pale mustache. They had inquired for Mr. Maxwell Cheyne, and when she had said he was out the small man had asked if he could write a note. She had brought them into the hall and was turning to go for some paper when the big man had sprung on her and before she could cry out had pressed a handkerchief over her mouth. The small man had shut the door and begun to tie her wrists and ankles. Susan had struggled and in spite of them had succeeded in getting her mouth free and shouting a warning to cook, but she had been immediately overpowered and securely gagged. The men had laid her on the floor of the hall and had seemed about to go upstairs when cook, attracted by Susan’s cry, had appeared at the door leading to the back premises. The two men had instantly rushed over, and in a few seconds cook also lay bound and gagged on the floor. They had then disappeared, apparently to search the house, for in a few minutes they had come back and carried first Susan and then cook to the latter’s room at the far end of the back part of the house. The intruders had then withdrawn, closing the door, and the two women had neither heard nor seen anything further of them.

The whole episode had a curious effect on Cheyne. It seemed, as he considered it, to lose its character of an ordinary breach of the law, punishable by the authorized forces of the Crown, and to take on instead that of a personal struggle between himself and these unknown men. The more he thought of it the more inclined he became to accept the challenge and to pit his own brain and powers against theirs. The mysterious nature of the affair appealed to his sporting instincts, and by the time he rejoined the sergeant in the study, he had made up his mind to keep his own counsel as to the Plymouth incident. He would call up the manager of the Edgecombe, tell him to carry on with his private detective, and have the latter down to Warren Lodge to go into the matter of the burglary.

He found the sergeant attempting ineffectively to discover finger-prints on the smooth walls of the safe, sympathized with him in the difficulty of his task, and asked a number of deliberately futile questions. On the ground that nothing had been stolen he minimized the gravity of the affair, questioned his power to prosecute should the offenders be forthcoming, and instilled doubts into the other’s mind as to the need for special efforts to run them to earth. Finally, the man explaining that he had finished for the time being, he bade him good night, locked up the house and went to bed. There he lay for several hours tossing and turning as he puzzled over the affair, before sleep descended to blot out his worries and soothe his eager desire to be on the track of his enemies.

Chapter III.
The Launch “Enid”

For several days after the attempted burglary events in the Cheyne household pursued the even tenor of their way. Cheyne went back to Plymouth on the following morning and interviewed the manager of the Edgecombe, and the day after a quiet, despondent-looking man with the air of a small shopkeeper arrived at Warren Lodge and was closeted with Cheyne for a couple of hours. Mr. Speedwell, of Horton and Lavender’s Private Detective Agency, listened with attention to the tales of the drugging and the burglary, thenceforward appearing at intervals and making mysterious inquiries on his own account.

On one of these visits he brought with him the report of the analyst relative to the dishes of which Cheyne had partaken at lunch, but this document only increased the mystification the affair had caused. No trace of drugs was discernible in any of the food or drink in question, and as the soiled plates or glasses or cups of all the courses were available for examination, the question of how the drug had been administered—or alternatively whether it really had been administered—began to seem almost insoluble. The cocktail taken with Parkes before lunch was the only item of which a portion could not be analyzed, but the evidence of the barmaid proved conclusively that Parkes could not have tampered with it.

But in spite of the analysis, the coffee still seemed the doubtful item. Cheyne’s sleepy feeling had come on very rapidly immediately after drinking the coffee, before which he had not felt the slightest abnormal symptoms. Mr. Speedwell laid stress on this point, though he was pessimistic about the whole affair.

“They know what they’re about, does this gang,” he admitted ruefully as he and Cheyne were discussing matters. “That man in the hotel that called himself Parkes—if we found him tomorrow we should have precious little against him. However he managed it, we can’t prove he drugged you. In fact it’s the other way round. He can prove on our evidence that he didn’t.”

“It looks like it. You haven’t been able to find out anything about him?”

“Not a thing, sir; that is, not what would be any use. I can prove that he sent your telegram all right; the girl in the Post Office recognized his description. But I couldn’t get on to his trail after that. I’ve tried the stations and the docks and the posting establishments and the hotels and I can’t get a trace. But of course I’ll maybe get it yet.”

“What about the address given on his card?”

“Tried that first thing. No good. No one of the name known in the district.”

“When did the man arrive at the hotel?”

“Just after you did, Mr. Cheyne. He probably picked you up somewhere else and was following you to see where you’d get lunch.”

“Oh, well, that explains something. I was wondering how he knew I was going to the Edgecombe.”

“It doesn’t explain so very much, sir. Question still is, how did he get all that other information about you; the name of your lawyer and so on?”

Cheyne had to admit that the prospects of clearing up the affair were not rosy. “But what about the burglary?” he went on more hopefully. “That should be an easier nut to crack.”

Speedwell was still pessimistic.

“I don’t know about that, sir,” he answered gloomily. “There’s not much to go on there either. The only chance is to trace the men’s arrival or departure. Now individually the private detective is every bit as good as the police; better, in fact, because he’s not so tied up with red tape. But he hasn’t their organization. In a case like this, when the police with their enormous organization have failed, the private detective hasn’t a big chance. However, of course I’ve not given up.”

He paused, and then drawing a little closer to Cheyne and lowering his voice, he went on impressively: “You know, sir, I hope you’ll not consider me out of place in saying it, but I had hoped to get my best clue from yourself. There can be no doubt that these men are after some paper that you have, or that they think you have. If you could tell me what it was, it might make all the difference.”

Cheyne made a gesture of impatience.

“Don’t I know that,” he cried. “Haven’t I been racking my brains over that question ever since the thing happened! I can’t think of anything. In fact, I can tell you there was nothing—nothing that I know of anyway,” he added helplessly.

Speedwell nodded and a sly look came into his eyes.

“Well, sir, if you can’t tell, you can’t, and that’s all there is to it.” He paused as if to refer to some other matter, then apparently thinking better of it, concluded: “You have my address, and if anything should occur to you I hope you’ll let me know without delay.”

When Speedwell had taken his departure Cheyne sat on in the study, thinking over the problem the other had presented, but as he did so he had no idea that before that very day was out he should himself have received information which would clear up the point at issue, as well as a good many of the other puzzling features of the strange events in which he had become involved.

Shortly after lunch, then, on this day, the eighth after the burglary and drugging, Cheyne, on re-entering the house after a stroll round the garden, was handed a card and told that the owner was waiting to see him in his study. Mr. Arthur Lamson, of 17 Acacia Terrace, Bland Road, Devonport, proved to be a youngish man of middle height and build, with the ruggedly chiselled features usually termed hard-bitten, a thick black toothbrush mustache, and glasses. Cheyne was not particularly prepossessed by his appearance, but he spoke in an educated way and had the easy polish of a man of the world.

“I have to apologize for this intrusion, Mr. Cheyne,” he began in a pleasant tone, “but the fact is I wondered whether I could interest you in a small invention of mine. I got your name from Messrs. Holt & Stavenage, the Plymouth ship chandlers. They told me you dealt with them and how keen you were on yachting, and as my invention relates to the navigation of coasting craft, I hoped you might allow me to show it to you.”

Cheyne, who had had some experience of inventors during six weeks’ special naval war service after his convalescence, made a noncommittal reply.

“I may tell you at once, sir,” Mr. Lamson went on, “that I am looking for a keen amateur who would be willing to allow me to fit the device to his boat, and who would be sufficiently interested to test it under all kinds of varying conditions. You see, though the thing works all right on a motor launch I have borrowed, I have exhausted my leave from my business, and am therefore unable to give it a sufficiently lengthy and varying test to find out whether it will work continuously under ordinary everyday sea-going conditions. If it proves satisfactory I believe it would sell, and if so I should of course be willing to take into partnership to a certain extent anyone who had helped me to develop it.”

In spite of himself Cheyne was impressed. This man was different from those with whom he had hitherto come in contact. He was not asking for money, or at least he hadn’t so far.

“Have you patented the device?” he asked, reckoning willingness to spend money on patent fees a test of good faith.

“No, not yet,” the visitor answered. “I have taken out provisional protection, which will cover the thing for four months more. If it promises well after a couple of months’ test it will be time enough to apply for the full patent.”

Cheyne nodded. This was a reasonable and proper course.

“What is the nature of the device?” he asked.

The young man’s manner grew more alert. He leaned forward in his chair and spoke eagerly. Cheyne frowned involuntarily as he recognized the symptoms.

“It’s a position indicator. It would, I think, be useful at all times, but during fog it would be simply invaluable: that is, for coasting work, you know. It would be no good for protection against collision with another ship. But for clearing a headland or making a harbor in a fog it would be worth its weight in gold. The principle is, I believe, old, but I have been lucky enough to hit on improvements in detail which get over the defects of previous instruments. Speaking broadly, a fixed pointer, which may if desired carry a pen, rests on a moving chart. The chart is connected to a compass and to rollers operated by devices for recording the various components of motion: one is driven off the propeller, others are set, automatically mostly, for such things as wind, run of tide, wave motion and so on. The pointer always indicates the position of the ship, and as the ship moves, the chart moves to correspond. Steering then resolves itself into keeping the pointer on the correct line on the chart, and this can be done by night without guide lamps, or in a fog, as well as in daytime. The apparatus would also assist navigation through unbuoyed channels over covered mud flats, or in time of war through charted mine fields. I don’t want to be a nuisance to you, Mr. Cheyne, but I do wish you would at least let me show you the device. You could then decide whether you would allow me to fix it to your yacht for experimental purposes.”

“I should like to see it,” Cheyne admitted. “If you can do all you claim, I certainly think you have a good thing. Where is it to be seen?”

“On my launch, or rather, the launch I have borrowed.” The young man’s eagerness now almost approached excitement. His eyes sparkled and he fidgeted in his chair. “She is lying off Johnson’s boat slip at Dartmouth. I left the dinghy there.”

“And you want me to go now?”

“If you really will be so kind. I should propose a short run down the estuary and along the coast towards Exmouth, say for two or three hours. Could you spare so much time?”

“Why, yes, I should enjoy it. I shall be back, say, between six and seven.”

“I’ll have you back at Johnson’s slip at six o’clock. I have a taxi waiting now, and I’ll arrange with Johnson to call another for you as soon as he sees us coming up the estuary.”

“I’ll go,” said Cheyne. “Just a moment until I tell my people and get a coat.”

The day was ideal for the run. Spring was in the air. The brilliant April sun poured down from an almost cloudless sky, against which the sea horizon showed a hard, sharp line of intensest blue. Within the estuary it was calm, but multitudinous white flecks in the distance showed a stiff breeze was blowing out at sea. Cheyne’s spirits rose. It was a glorious sport, this of battling with the foaming, tumbling waves in the open. How he loved their blue-black depth with its suggestion of utter and absolute cleanness, the creamy purity of their seething crests, their steady, irresistible onward movement, the restless dancing and swirling of the wavelets on their flanks! To him it was life to feel the buoyant spring of the craft beneath him, to hear the crash of the bows into the troughs and the smack of the spindrift striking aft. He was glad this Lamson had called. Even if the matter of the invention was a washout, as he more than half expected, he felt he was going to enjoy his afternoon.

Three or four minutes brought them to Johnson’s boat slip on the outskirts of Dartmouth. There Lamson drew the proprietor aside.

“See here,” he directed, “we’re going out for a run. I want you to keep a lookout for us coming back. We shall be in about six. As soon as you see us send for a taxi and have it here when we get ashore. Now, Mr. Cheyne, if you’re ready.”

They climbed down into a small dinghy and Lamson, taking the oars, pulled out towards a fair-sized motor launch which lay at anchor some couple of hundred yards from the shore. She was not a graceful boat, but looked strongly built, showing a high bluff bow, a square stern and lines suggestive of speed.

“A sea boat,” said Cheyne approvingly. “You surely don’t run her by yourself?”

“No, a motoring friend has been giving me a hand. I am skipper and he engineer. We hug the coast, you know, and don’t go out if it is blowing.”

As he spoke he pulled round the stern of the launch upon which Cheyne observed the words “Enid, Devonport.” At the same time a tall, well-built figure appeared and waved his hand. Lamson brought the dinghy up to the tiny steps and a moment later they were on deck.

“Mr. Cheyne has come out to see the great invention, Tom. I almost hope that he is interested. My friend, Tom Lewisham, Mr. Cheyne.”

The two men shook hands.

“Lamson thinks he is going to make his fortune with this thing, Mr. Cheyne,” the big man remarked, smiling. “We must see that there is no mistake about our percentages.”

“If you want a percentage you must work for it, my son,” Lamson declared. “Mr. Cheyne must be back by six, so get your old rattletrap going and we’ll run down to the sea. If you don’t mind, Mr. Cheyne, we’ll get under way before I show you the machine, as it takes both of us to get started.”

“Right-o,” said Cheyne. “I’ll bear a hand if there’s anything I can do.”

“Well, that’s good of you. It would be a help if you would take the tiller while I’m making all snug. There’s a bit of a tumble on outside.”

The boat was certainly a flier. The charmingly situated old town dropped rapidly astern while Lamson “made snug.” Then he came aft, shouted down through the engine room skylight for his friend, and when the latter appeared told him to take the tiller.

“Now, Mr. Cheyne,” he went on, “now comes the great moment! I have not fixed the apparatus up here in front of the tiller, partly to keep it secret and partly to save the trouble of making it weatherproof. It’s down in the cabin. But you understand it should be up here. Will you come down?”

He led the way down a companion to a diminutive saloon. “It’s in the sleeping part, still forward,” he pointed, and the two men squeezed through a door in the bulkhead into a tiny cabin, lit by electric light and with a table in the center and two berths on either side. On the table was a frame on the top of which was stretched a chart, and a light rod ran out from one side to a pointer fixed over the middle of the chart.

“You can see that it’s very roughly made,” Lamson went on, “but if you look closely I think you’ll find that it works all right.”

Cheyne bent forward and examined the machine, and as he did so mystification grew in his mind. The chart was not of the estuary of the Dart, nor, stranger still, was it connected to rollers. It was simply tacked on what he now saw was merely the lid of a box. How it was moved he couldn’t see.

“I don’t follow this,” he said. “How do you get your chart to move if it’s nailed down?”

There was no answer, but as he swung round with a sudden misgiving there was a sharp click. Lamson had disappeared and the door was shut!

Cheyne seized the handle and turned it violently, only to find that the bolt of the lock had been shot, but before he could attempt further researches the light went off, leaving him in almost pitch darkness. At the same moment a significant lurch showed that they were passing from the shelter of the estuary into the open sea.

He twisted and tugged at the handle. “Here you, Lamson!” he shouted angrily. “What do you mean by this? Open the door at once. Confound you! Will you open the door!” He began to kick savagely at the woodwork.

A small panel in the partition between the cabins shot aside and a beam of light flowed into Cheyne’s. Lamson’s face appeared at the opening. He spoke in an old-fashioned, stilted way, aping extreme politeness, but his mocking smile gave the lie to his protestations.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cheyne, for this incivility,” he declared, “and hope that when you have heard my explanation you will pardon me. I must admit I have played a trick on you for which I offer the fullest apologies. The story of my invention was a fabrication. So far as I am aware no apparatus such as I have described exists: certainly I have not made one. The truth is that you can do me a service, and I took the liberty of inveigling you here in the hope of securing your good offices in the matter.”

“You’ve taken a bad way of getting my help,” Cheyne shouted wrathfully. “Open the door at once, damn you, or I’ll smash it to splinters!”

The other made a deprecatory gesture.

“Really I beg of you, Mr. Cheyne,” he said in mock horror at the other’s violence. “Not so fast, if you please, sir. I have an answer to both your observations. With regard to the door you will—”

Cheyne interrupted him with a savage oath and a fierce onslaught of kicks on the lower panels of the door. But he could make no impression on them, and when in a few moments he paused breathless, Lamson went on quietly.

“With regard to the door, as I was about to observe, it would be a waste of energy to attempt to smash it to splinters, because I have taken the precaution to have it covered with steel plates. They are bolted through and the nuts are on the outside. I mention this to save you—”

Cheyne was by this time almost beside himself with rage. He expressed his convictions and desires as to Lamson and his future in terms which from the point of view of force left little to be desired, and persistently reiterated his demand that the door be opened as a prelude to further negotiation. In reply Lamson shook his head, and remarking that as the present seemed an inopportune moment for discussing the situation, he could postpone the conversation, he closed the panel and left the inner cabin once more in darkness.

For an hour Cheyne stormed and fumed, and with pieces which he managed to knock off the table tried to break through the door, the bulkheads, and the deadlighted porthole, all with such a complete absence of success that when at last Lamson appeared once more at the panel he was constrained to listen, though with suppressed fury, to what he had to say.

“You see, it’s this way, Mr. Cheyne,” the erstwhile inventor began. “You are completely in our power, and the sooner you realize it and let us come to business, the sooner you’ll be at liberty again. We don’t wish you any harm; please accept my assurances on that. All we want is a slight service at your hands, and when you perform it you will be free to return home; in fact we shall take you back as I said, with profuse apologies for your inconvenience and loss of time. But it is only fair to point out that we are determined to get what we want, and if you are not prepared to come to terms now we can wait until you are.”

Cheyne, still at a white heat, cursed the other savagely. Lamson waited until he had finished, then went on in a smooth, almost coaxing tone:

“Now do be reasonable, Mr. Cheyne. You must see that your present attitude is only wasting time for us both. Not to put too fine a point on it, the situation is this: You are there, and you can’t get out, and you can’t attract attention to your predicament—that is why the deadlights are shipped. It grieves me to say it,” Lamson smiled sardonically, “but I must tell you that you will stay there until you do what we want. In order to prevent Mrs. Cheyne becoming uneasy we shall wire her in your name that you have left for an extended trip and won’t be back for some days. ‘To Cheyne, Warren Lodge, Dartmouth. Gone for yachting cruise down French coast. Address Poste Restante, St. Nazaire. All well. Maxwell.’ You see, we know exactly how to word it. All suspicion would be lulled for some days and then,” he paused and something sinister and revolting came into his face, “then it wouldn’t matter, for it would be too late. For you see there is neither food nor drink in the cabin and we don’t propose to pass any in. You won’t get any, Mr. Cheyne, no matter how many days you remain aboard: that is,” his manner changed, “unless you are reasonable, which of course you will be. In that case no harm is done. Now won’t you hear our little proposition?”

“I’ll see you in hell first,” Cheyne shouted, his rage once again overwhelming him. “You’ll pay for this, I can tell you. It’ll be the dearest trip you ever had in your life,” and he proceeded with threats and curses to demand the immediate opening of the door. Lamson, a whimsical smile curling his lips, shrugged his shoulders at the outburst, and replied by withdrawing his head from the opening and sliding the panel to.

Cheyne, left once more in almost complete darkness, sat silent, his mind full of wrath against his captors. But as time passed and they made no sign, his fury somewhat evaporated and he began to wonder what it was they wanted with him. His rage had made him thirsty, and the mere fact that Lamson had stated that nothing would be given him to drink, made his thirst more insistent. It was impossible, he said to himself, that the scoundrels could carry out so diabolical a threat, but in spite of his assurance, little misgivings began to creep into his mind. At all events the vision of his usual cup of afternoon tea grew increasingly alluring. When therefore after what seemed to him several hours, but what was in reality about forty minutes only, the panel suddenly opened, he admitted sullenly that he was prepared to listen to what Lamson had to say.

“That’s good,” the young man answered heartily. “If you could just see your way to humor us in this little matter there is no reason why we should not part friends.”

“There’s no question of friends about it,” Cheyne declared sharply. “Cut your chatter and get on to business. What do you want?”

A smile suffused Mr. Lamson’s roughhewn countenance.

“Now that’s talking,” he cried. “That’s what I’ve been hoping to hear. I’ll tell you the whole thing and you’ll see it’s only a mere trifle that we’re asking. I can put it in five words: We want Arnold Price’s letter.”

Cheyne stared.

“Arnold Price’s letter?” he repeated in amazement. “What on earth do you know about Arnold Price’s letter?”

“We know all about it, Mr. Cheyne—a jolly sight more than you do. We know about his giving it to you and the conditions under which he asked you to keep it. But you don’t know why he did so or what is in it. We do, and we can justify our request for it.”

The demand was so unexpected that Cheyne sat for a moment in silence, thinking how the letter in question had come into his possession. Arnold Price was a junior officer in one of the ships belonging to the Fenchurch Street firm in whose office Cheyne had spent five years as clerk. Business had brought the two young men in contact during the visits of Price’s ship, and they had become rather friendly. On Cheyne’s leaving for Devonshire they had drifted apart, indeed they had only met on one occasion since. That was in 1917, shortly before Cheyne received the wound which invalided him out of the service. Then he found that his former companion had volunteered for the navy on the outbreak of hostilities. He had done well, and after a varied service he had been appointed third officer of the Maurania, an eight-thousand-ton liner carrying passengers, as well as stores from overseas to the troops in France. The two had spent an evening together in Dunkirk renewing their friendship and talking over old times. Then, two months later, had come the letter. In it Price asked his friend to do him a favor. Some private papers, of interest only to himself, had come into his possession and he wished these to be safely preserved until after the war. Knowing that Cheyne was permanently invalided out, he was venturing to send these papers, sealed in the enclosed envelope, with the request that Cheyne would keep them for him until he reclaimed them or until news of his death was received. In the latter case Cheyne was to open the envelope and act as he thought fit on the information therein contained.

The sealed envelope was of a size which would hold a foolscap sheet folded in four, and was fairly bulky. It was inscribed: “To Maxwell Cheyne, of Warren Lodge, Dartmouth, Devonshire, from Arnold Price, third officer, S.S. Maurania,” and on the top was written: “Please retain this envelope unopened until I claim it or until you have received authentic news of my death. Arnold Price.” Cheyne had acknowledged it, promising to carry out the instructions, and had then sent the envelope to his bank, where it had since remained.

The insinuating voice of Lamson broke through his thoughts.

“I think, Mr. Cheyne, when you hear the reasons for our request, you will give it all due consideration. For one—”

What? Break faith with Price? Go back on his friend? Rage again choked Cheyne’s utterance. Stutteringly he cursed the other, once again demanding under blood-curdling threats of future vengeance his immediate liberty. Through his passion he heard the voice of the other saying he was sorry but he really could not help it, the panel slid shut, and darkness and silence, save for the sounds of the sea, reigned in the Enid’s cabin.

Chapter IV.
Concerning a Peerage

When Maxwell Cheyne’s paroxysm of fury diminished and he began once more to think collectedly about the unpleasant situation in which he found himself, a startling idea occurred to him. Here at last, surely, was the explanation of his previous adventures! The drugging in the hotel in Plymouth, the burglary at Warren Lodge, and now his kidnaping on the Enid were all part and parcel of the same scheme. It was for Price’s letter that his pocketbook was investigated while he lay asleep in the private room at the Edgecombe; it was for Price’s letter that his safe was broken open and his house searched by other members of the conspiracy, and it was for Price’s letter that he now lay, a prisoner aboard this infernal launch.

A valuable document, this of Price’s must surely be, if it was worth such pains to acquire! Cheyne wondered how it had never occurred to him that it might represent the motive of the earlier crimes, but he soon realized that he had never thought of it as being of interest to anyone other than Price. Indeed, Price himself referred to his enclosure as “some private papers, of interest to myself only.” In that last phrase Price had evidently been wrong, and Cheyne wondered whether he had been genuinely mistaken, or whether he had from distrust of himself deliberately misstated the case in order to minimize the value of the document. Price had certainly not shown himself anxious to regain it at the earliest possible moment. On the conclusion of peace he had not accepted demobilization. He had applied for and obtained a transfer to the Middle East, where he had commanded one of the transports plying between Basrah and Bombay in connection with the Mesopotamian campaign. So far as Cheyne knew, he was still there. He hadn’t heard of him for many months, not, indeed, since he went out.

While Cheyne had been turning over these matters in his mind the launch had evidently been approaching land, as its rather wild rolling and pitching had gradually ceased and it was now floating on an even keel. Cheyne had been conscious of the fact despite his preoccupation, but now his musings were interrupted by the stopping of the motor and a few seconds later by the plunge of the anchor and the rattle of the running chain. In the comparative silence he shouted himself hoarse, but no one paid him the least attention. He heard, however, the dinghy being drawn up to the side and presently the sound of oars retreating, but whether one or both of his captors had left he could not tell. In an hour or two the boat returned, but though he again shouted and beat the door of his cabin, no notice was taken of his calls.

Then began for Cheyne a period which he could never afterwards look back on without a shudder. Never could he have believed that a night could be so long, that time could drag so slowly. He made himself as comfortable as he could in one of the bunks, but as the clothes and the mattress had been removed, his efforts were not crowned with much success. In spite of his weariness and of the growing exhaustion due to hunger, he could not sleep. He wanted something to drink. He was surprised to find that thirst was not localized in a parched throat or dry mouth. His whole being cried out for water. He could not have described the sensation, but it was very intense, and with every hour that passed it grew stronger. He turned and tossed in the narrow bunk, his restlessness and discomfort continually increasing. At last he dozed, but only to fall into horrible dreams from which he awoke unrefreshed and thirstier than ever.

Cheyne had plenty of spirit and dash, but he lacked in staying power, and when the inevitable period of reaction to his excitement and rage came he became plunged in a deep depression. These fellows had him in their power. If this went on and they really carried out their threat he would have to give way sooner or later. He hated to think he might betray a trust; he hated still more to be coerced into doing anything against his own will, but when, as it seemed to him, weeks later, the panel shot back and Lamson’s face appeared, his first decision was shaken and he waited sullenly to hear what the other had to say.

The man was polite and deprecating rather than blustering, and seemed anxious to make it as easy as possible for Cheyne to capitulate.

“I hope, Mr. Cheyne,” he began, “you will allow me to explain this matter more fully, as I cannot but think you have at least to some extent misunderstood our proposal. I did not tell you the whole of the facts, but I should like to do so now if you will listen.”

He paused expectantly. Cheyne glowered at him, but did not reply, and Lamson resumed:

“The matter is somewhat complicated, but I will do my best to explain it as briefly as I can. In a word, then, it relates to a claim for a peerage. I must admit to you that Lamson is not my name—it is Price, and the Arnold Price whom you knew during the war is my second cousin. Arnold’s uncle and my father’s cousin, St. John Price, is, or rather was, in the diplomatic service, and it is through his discoveries that the present situation has arisen.

“It happened that this St. John Price had occasion to visit South Africa on diplomatic business during the war, and as luck would have it he took his return passage on the Maurania, the ship on which his nephew Arnold was third officer. But he never reached England. He met his death on the journey under circumstances which involved a coincidence too remarkable to have happened otherwise than in real life.”

In spite of himself Cheyne was interested. Price glanced at him and went on:

“One night at the end of the voyage when they were running without lights up the Channel, a large steamer going in the same direction as themselves suddenly loomed up out of the darkness and struck them heavily on the starboard quarter. My cousin was on deck, though not in charge. He saw the outlines of the vessel as she was closing in, and he also saw that a passenger was standing at the rail just where the contact was about to take place. At the risk of his own life he sprang forward and dragged the man back. Unfortunately he was not in time to save him, for a falling spar broke his back and only just missed killing Arnold. Then, as you may have guessed from what I said, it turned out that the passenger was none other than St. John Price. My cousin had tried to save his own uncle.”

Once more Price paused, but Cheyne still remaining silent, he continued:

“St. John lingered for some hours, during most of which time he was conscious, and it was then that he told Arnold about his belief, that he, Arnold, was heir to the barony of Hull. I don’t know, Mr. Cheyne, if you are aware that the present Lord Hull is a man well on to eighty and is in failing health. He has no known heir, and unless some claimant comes forward speedily, the title will in the course of nature become extinct. As you probably know also, Lord Hull is a man of enormous wealth. St. John Price believed that he, Arnold, and myself were all descended from the eldest son of Francis, the fifth Baron Hull. This man had lived an evil, dissolute life, and England having become too hot to hold him, he had sailed for South Africa in the early part of the last century. On his father’s death search was made for him, but without result, and the second son, Alwyn, inherited. St. John had after many years’ labor traced what he believed was a lineal descent from the scapegrace, and he had utilized his visit to South Africa to make further inquiries. There he had unearthed the record of a marriage, which, he believed, completed the proofs he sought. As he knew he was dying, he handed over the attested copy of the marriage certificate to Arnold, at the same time making a new will leaving all the other documents in the case to Arnold also.

“When Arnold received his next leave he went fully into the matter with his solicitor, only to find that one document, the register of a birth, was missing. Without this he could scarcely hope to win his case. The evidence of the other papers tended to show that the birth had taken place in India, probably at Bombay, and Arnold therefore applied for a transfer into a service which brought him to that country, in the hope that he would have an opportunity to pursue his researches at first hand. It was there that I met him—I am junior partner in Swanson, Reid & Price’s of that city—and he told me all that I have told you.

“Before going to the East he sealed up the papers referring to the matter and sent them to you. If you will pardon my saying so, I think that there he made a mistake. But he explained that he knew too much about lawyers to leave anything in their hands, that they would fight the case for their own fees whether there was any chance of winning it or not, and that he wanted the papers to be in the hands of an honest man in case of his death.

“I pointed out that I was interested in the matter also, but he said No, that he was the heir and that during his life the affair concerned him alone. Needless to say, we parted on bad terms.

“Now, Mr. Cheyne, you can see why I want those papers. Though Arnold is my cousin I doubt his honesty. I want to see exactly how we both stand. I want nothing but what is fair—as a matter of fact I can get nothing but what is fair—the law wouldn’t allow it. But I don’t want to be done. If I had the papers I would show them to a first-rate lawyer. If Arnold is entitled to succeed he will do so, if I am the heir I shall, if neither of us no harm is done. We can only get what the law allows us. But in any case I give my word of honor that, if I succeed, Arnold shall never want for anything in reason.”

Price was speaking earnestly and his manner carried conviction to Cheyne. Without waiting for a reply he proceeded.

“You, Mr. Cheyne, if you will excuse my saying it, are an outsider in the matter. Whether Arnold or I or neither of us succeeds is nothing to you. You want to do only what is fair to Arnold, and you have my most solemn promise that that is all I propose. If you enable me to test our respective positions by handing over the papers to me you will not be letting Arnold down.”

When Price ceased speaking there was silence between the two men as Cheyne thought over what he had heard. Price’s manner was convincing, and as far as Cheyne could form an opinion, the story might be true. It certainly explained the facts adequately, and Cheyne believed that the statements about Lord Hull were correct. All the same he did not believe this man was out for a square deal. If he could only get what the law allowed, would not the same apply whether he or Arnold conducted the affair? Cheyne, moreover, was still sore from his treatment, and he determined he would not discuss the matter until he had received satisfactory replies to one or two personal questions.

“Did you drug me in the Edgecombe Hotel in Plymouth a week ago and then go through my pockets, and did you the same evening burgle my house, break open my safe, and mishandle my servants?”

It was not exactly a tactful question, but Price answered it cheerfully and without hesitation.

“Not in person, but I admit my agents did these things. For these also I am anxious to apologize.”

“Your apologies won’t prevent your having a lengthened acquaintance with the inside of a prison,” Cheyne snarled, his rage flickering up at the recollection of his injuries. “How do your confederates come to be interested?”

“Bought,” the other admitted sweetly. “I had no other way of getting help. I have paid them twenty pounds on account and they will get a thousand guineas each if my claim is upheld.”

“A self-confessed thief and crook as well as a liar! And you expect me to believe in your good intentions towards Arnold Price!”

An unpleasant look passed across the other’s face, but he spoke calmly.

“That may be all very well and very true if you like, but it doesn’t advance the situation. The question now is: Are you prepared to hand over the letter? Nothing else seems to me to matter.”

“Why did you not come to me like an ordinary honest man and tell me your story? What induced you to launch out into all this complicated network of crime?”

Price smiled whimsically.

“Well, you might surely guess that,” he answered. “Suppose you had refused to give me the letter, how was I to know that you would not have put it beyond my reach? I couldn’t take the risk.”

“Suppose I refuse to give it to you now?”

“You won’t, Mr. Cheyne. No one in your position could. Circumstances are too strong for you, and you can hand it over and retain your honor absolutely untarnished. I do not wish to urge you to a decision. If you would prefer to take today to think it over, by all means do so. I sent the wire to Mrs. Cheyne shortly before six last night, so she will not be uneasy about you.”

Though the words were politely spoken, the threat behind them was unmistakable and fell with sinister intent on the listener’s ears. Rapidly Cheyne considered the situation. This ruffian was right. No one in such a situation could resist indefinitely. It was true he could refuse his consent at the moment, but the question would come up again and again until at last he would have to give way. He knew it, and he felt that unless there was a strong chance of victory, he could not stand the hours of suffering which a further refusal would entail. No, bitter as the conclusion was, he felt he must for the moment admit defeat, trusting later to getting his own back. He turned back to Price.

“I haven’t got the letter here. I can only get it for you if you put me ashore.”

That this was a victory for Price was evident, but the young man showed no elation. He carefully avoided anything in the nature of a taunt, and spoke in a quiet, businesslike way.

“We might be able to arrange that. Where is the letter?”

“At my bank in Dartmouth.”

“Then the matter is quite simple. All you have to do is to write to the manager to send the letter to an address I shall give you. Directly you do so you shall have the best food and drink on the launch, and directly the letter is in our hands you will be put ashore close to your home.”

Cheyne still hesitated.

“I’ll do it provided you can prove to me your statements. How am I to know that you will keep your word? How am I to know that you won’t get the letter and then murder me?”

“I’m afraid you can’t know that. I would gladly prove it to you, but you must see that it’s just not possible. I give you my solemn word of honor and you’ll have to accept it because there is nothing else you can do.”

Cheyne demurred further, but as Price showed signs of retreating and leaving him to think it over until the evening, he hastily agreed to write the letter. Immediately the electric light came on in his cabin and Price passed in a couple of sheets of notepaper and envelopes. Cheyne gazed at them in surprise. They were of a familiar silurian gray and the sheets bore in tiny blue embossed letters the words “Warren Lodge, Dartmouth, S. Devon.”

“Why, it’s my own paper,” he exclaimed, and Price with a smile admitted that in view of some development like the present, his agents had taken the precaution to annex a few sheets when paying their call to Cheyne’s home.

“If you will ask your manager to send the letter to Herbert Taverner, Esq., Royal Hotel, Weymouth, it will meet the case. Taverner is my agent, and as soon as it is in his hands I will set you ashore at Johnson’s wharf.”

Seeing there was no help for it, Cheyne wrote the letter. Price read it carefully, then sealed it in its envelope. Immediately after he handed through the panel a tumbler of whisky and water, then hurried off, saying he was going to dispatch the letter and bring Cheyne his breakfast.

Oh, the unspeakable delight of that drink! Cheyne thought he had never before experienced any sensation approaching it in satisfaction. He swallowed it in great gulps, and when in a few moments Price returned, he demanded more, and again more.

His thirst assuaged, hunger asserted itself, and for the next half-hour Cheyne had the time of his life as Price handed in through the panel a plate of smoking ham and eggs, fragrant coffee, toast, butter, marmalade and the like. At last with a sigh of relief Cheyne lit his pipe, while Price passed in blankets and rugs to make up a bed in one of the bunks. Some books and magazines followed and a handbell, which Price told him to ring if he wanted anything.

Comfortable in body and fairly easy in mind, Cheyne made up his bed and promptly fell asleep. It was afternoon when he awoke, and on ringing the bell, Price appeared with a well-cooked lunch. The evening passed comfortably if tediously and that night Cheyne slept well.

Next day and next night dragged slowly away. Cheyne was well looked after and supplied with everything he required, but the confinement grew more and more irksome. However, he could not help himself and he had to admit he might have fared worse, as he lay smoking in his bunk and brooding over schemes to get even with the men who had tricked him.

About half-past ten on the second morning he suddenly heard oars approaching, followed by the sounds of a boat coming alongside and some one climbing on board. A few moments later Price appeared at the panel.

“You will be pleased to hear, Mr. Cheyne, that we have received the letter safely. We are getting under way at once and you will be home in less than three hours.”

Presently the motor started, and soon the slow, easy roll showed they were out in the open breasting the Channel ground swell. After a couple of hours, Price appeared with his customary tray.

“We are just coming into the estuary of the Dart,” he said. “I thought perhaps you would have a bit of lunch before going ashore.”

The meal, like its fellows, was surprisingly well cooked and served, and Cheyne did full justice to it. By the time he had finished the motion of the boat had subsided and it was evident they were in sheltered waters. Some minutes later the motor stopped, the anchor was dropped, and someone got into a boat and rowed off. A quarter of an hour passed and then the boat returned, and to Cheyne’s misgivings and growing concern, the motor started again. But after a very few minutes it once more stopped and Price appeared at the panel.

“Now, Mr. Cheyne, the time has come for us to say good-bye. For obvious reasons I am afraid we shall have to ask you to row yourself ashore, but the tide is flowing and you will have no difficulty in that. But before parting I wish to warn you very earnestly for your own sake and your own safety not to attempt to follow us or to set the police on our track. Believe me, I am not speaking idly when I assure you that we cannot brook interference with our plans. We wish to avoid ‘removals’,” he lingered over the word and a sinister gleam came into his eyes, “but please understand we shall not hesitate if there is no other way. And if you try to give trouble there will be in your case no other way. Take my advice and be wise enough to forget this little episode.” He took a small automatic pistol from his pocket and balanced it before the panel. “I warn you most earnestly that if you attempt to make trouble it will mean your death. And with regard to trying to follow us, please remember that this launch has the heels of any craft in the district and that we have a safe hiding-place not far away.”

As Price finished speaking he unlocked and threw open the cabin door, motioning his prisoner to follow him on deck. There Cheyne saw that they were far down the estuary, in fact, nearly opposite Warren Lodge and a mile or more from the town.

“I thought you were going to take me to Johnson’s jetty,” he remarked.

“An obvious precaution,” the other returned smoothly. “I trust you won’t mind.”

The freshness and the freedom of the deck were inexpressibly delightful to Cheyne after his long confinement in the stuffy cabin. He stood drawing deep draughts of the keen invigorating air into his lungs, as he gazed at the familiar shores of the estuary, lighted up in the brilliant April sunlight. Nature seemed in an optimistic mood and Cheyne, in spite of his experiences and Price’s gruesome remarks, felt optimistic also. He still felt he would devote all his energies to getting even with the scoundrels who had robbed him, but he no longer regarded them with a sullen hatred. Rather the view of the affair as a game in which he was pitting his wits against theirs gained force in his mind, and he looked forward with zest to turning the tables upon them in the not too distant future.

In the launch’s dinghy, which was made fast astern, was Lewisham, engaged in untying the painter of a second dinghy which bore on its stern board the words “S. Johnson, Dartmouth.” The explanation of the starting and stopping of the motor now became clear. The conspirators had evidently gone in to pick up this boat and had towed it down the estuary so as to insure their escape before Cheyne could reach the shore to lodge any information against them.

The painter untied, Lewisham passed it aboard the launch and Price, drawing the boat up to the gunwale, motioned Cheyne into it.

“As I said, I’m sorry we shall have to ask you to row yourself ashore, but the run of the tide will help you. Good-bye, Mr. Cheyne. I deeply regret all the inconvenience you have suffered, and most earnestly I urge you to regard the warning which I have given you.”

As he spoke he threw the end of the painter into the dinghy and, the launch’s motor starting, she drew quickly ahead, leaving Cheyne seated in the small boat.

Full of an idea which had just flashed into his mind, the latter seized the oars and began pulling with all his might not for Johnson’s jetty, but for the shore immediately opposite. But try as he would, he did not reach it before the launch Enid had become a mere dot on the seaward horizon.

Chapter V.
An Amateur Sleuth

Cheyne’s great idea was that instead of proceeding directly to the police station and lodging an information against his captors, as he had at first intended, he should himself attempt to follow them to their lair. To enter upon a battle of wits with such men would be a sport more thrilling than big game hunting, more exciting than war, and if by his own unaided efforts he could bring about their undoing he would not only restore his self-respect, which had suffered a nasty jar, but might even recover for Arnold Price the documents which he required for his claim to the barony of Hull.

Whether he was wise in this decision was another matter, but with Maxwell Cheyne impulse ruled rather than colder reason, the desire of the moment rather than adherence to calculated plan. Therefore directly a way in which he could begin the struggle occurred to him, he was all eagerness to set about carrying it out.

The essence of his plan was haste, and he therefore bent lustily to his oars, sending the tiny craft bounding over the wavelets of the estuary and leaving a wake of bubbles from its foaming stem. In a few minutes he had reached the shore immediately beneath Warren Lodge, tied the painter round a convenient boulder, and racing over the rocky beach, had set off running towards the house.

It was a short though stiff climb, but he did not spare himself, and he reached the garden wall within three minutes of leaving the boat. As he turned in through the gate he looked back over the panorama of sea, the whole expanse of which was visible from this point, measuring with his eye the distance to Inner Froward Point, the headland at the opposite side of the bay, around which the Enid had just disappeared. She was going east, up channel, but he did not think she was traveling fast enough to defeat his plans.

Another minute brought him to the house, and there, in less time than it takes to tell, he had seen his sister, explained that he might not be back that night, obtained some money, donned his leggings and waterproof, and starting up his motor bike, had set off to ride into Dartmouth.

Pausing for a moment at the boat slip to tell Johnson of the whereabouts of his dinghy, he reached the ferry and got across the river to Kingswear with the minimum of delay possible. Then once more mounting his machine, he rode rapidly off towards the east.

The land lying eastward of Dartmouth forms a peninsula shaped roughly like an inverted cone, truncated, and connected to the mainland by a broad isthmus at the northwest corner. The west side is bounded by the river Dart, with Dartmouth and Kingswear to the southwest, while on the other three sides is the sea. Brixham is a small town at the northeast corner, while further north beyond the isthmus are the larger towns of Paignton and, across Tor Bay, Torquay.

Most of the ground on the peninsula is high, and the road from Kingswear in the southwest corner to Brixham in the northeast crosses a range of hills from which a good view of Tor Bay and the sea to the north and east is obtainable. Should the Enid have been bound for Torquay, Teignmouth, Exmouth, or any of the seaports close by, she would pass within view of this road, whereas if she was going right up Channel past Portland Bill she would go nearly due east from the Froward Points. Cheyne’s hope was that he should reach this viewpoint before she would have had time to get out of sight had she been on the former course, so that her presence or absence would indicate the route she was pursuing.

But when, having reached the place, he found that no trace of the Enid was to be seen, he realized that he had made a mistake. From Inner Froward Point to Brixham was only about seven miles, to Paignton about ten, and to Torquay eleven or twelve. The longest of these distances the launch should do in about twenty-five minutes, and as in spite of all his haste no less than forty-seven minutes had elapsed since he stepped into the dinghy, the test was evidently useless.

But having come so far, he was not going to turn back without making some further effort. The afternoon was still young, the day was fine, he had had his lunch and cycling was pleasant. He would ride along the coast and make some inquiries.

He dropped down the hill into Brixham, and turning to the left, pulled up at the little harbor. A glance showed him that the Enid was not there. He therefore turned his machine, and starting once more, ran the five miles odd to Paignton at something well above the legal limit.

Inquiries at the pier produced no result, but as he turned away he had a stroke of unexpected luck. Meeting a coastguard, he stopped and questioned him, and was overjoyed when the man told him that though no launch had come into Paignton that morning, he had about three-quarters of an hour earlier seen one crossing the bay from the south and evidently making for Torquay.

Quivering with eagerness, Cheyne once more started up his bicycle. He took the three miles to Torquay at a reckless speed and there received his reward. Lying at moorings in the inner harbor was the Enid.

Leaving the bicycle in charge of a boy, Cheyne stepped up to a group of longshoremen and made his inquiries. Yes, the launch there had just come in, half an hour or more back. Two men had come off her and had handed her over to Hugh Leigh, the boatman. Leigh was a tall stout man with a black beard: in fact, there he was himself behind that yellow and white boat.

Impetuous though he was, Cheyne’s knowledge of human nature told him that in dealing with his fellows the more haste frequently meant the less speed. He therefore curbed his impatience and took a leisurely tone with the boatman.

“Good-day to you,” he began. “I see you have the Enid there. Is she long in?”

“’Bout ’arf an hour, sir,” the man returned.

“I was to have met her,” Cheyne went on, “but I’m afraid I have missed my friends. You don’t happen to know which direction they went in?”

“Took a keb, sir: taxi. Went towards the station.”

The station! That was an idea at least worth investigating. He slipped the man a couple of shillings lest his good offices should be required in the future, and hurrying back to his bicycle was soon at the place in question. Here, though he could find no trace of his quarry, he learned that a train had left for Newton Abbot at 3:33—five minutes earlier. It looked very much as if his friends had traveled by it.

For those who are not clear as to the geography of South Devon, it may be explained that Newton Abbot lies on the main line of the Great Western Railway between Paddington and Cornwall, with Exeter twenty miles to the northeast and Plymouth some thirty odd to the southwest. At Newton Abbot the line throws off a spur, which, passing through Torquay and Paignton, has its terminus at Kingswear, from which there is a ferry connection to Dartmouth on the opposite side of the river. From Torquay to Newton Abbot is only about six miles, and there is a good road between the two. Cheyne, therefore, hearing that the train had left only five minutes earlier and knowing that there would be a delay at the junction waiting for the main line train, at once saw that he had a good chance of overtaking it.

He did not stop to ask questions, but leaping once more on his machine, did the six miles at the highest speed he dared. At precisely 4:00 p.m. he pushed the bicycle into Newton Abbot station, and handing half a crown to a porter, told him to look after it until his return.

Hasty inquiries informed him that the train with which that from Torquay connected was a slow local from Plymouth to Exeter. It had not yet arrived, but was due directly. It stopped for seven minutes, being scheduled out at 4:10 p.m. On chance Cheyne bought a third single to Exeter, and putting up his collar, pulling down his hat over his eyes and affecting a stoop, he passed on to the platform. A few people were waiting, but a glance told him that neither Price nor Lewisham was among them.

As, however, they might be watching from the shelter of one of the waiting rooms, he strolled away towards the Exeter end of the platform. As he did so the train came in from Plymouth, the engine stopping just opposite where he was standing. He began to move back, so as to keep a sharp eye on those getting in. But at once a familiar figure caught his eye and he stood for a moment motionless.

The coach next the engine was a third, and in the corner of its fourth compartment sat Lewisham!

Fortunately he was sitting with his back to the engine and he did not see Cheyne approaching from behind. Fortunately, also, the opposite corner was occupied by a lady, as, had Price been there, Cheyne would unquestionably have been discovered.

Retreating quickly, but with triumph in his heart, Cheyne got into the end compartment of the coach. It was already occupied by three other men, two sitting in the corner seats next the platform, the third with his back to the engine at the opposite end. Cheyne dropped into the remaining corner seat—facing the engine and next the corridor. He did not then realize the important issues that hung on his having taken up this position, but later he marveled at the lucky chance which had placed him there.

As the train proceeded he had an opportunity, for the first time since embarking on this wild chase, of calmly considering the position, and he at once saw that the fugitives’ moves up to the present had been dictated by their circumstances and were almost obligatory.

First, he now understood that they must have landed at Brixham, Paignton, or Torquay, and of these Torquay was obviously most suitable to their purpose, being larger than the others and their arrival therefore attracting correspondingly less attention. But they must have landed at one of the three places, as they were the only ports which they could reach before he, Cheyne, would have had time to give the alarm. Suppose he had lodged information with the police immediately on getting ashore, it would have been simply impossible for the others to have entered any other port without fear of arrest. But at Paignton or Torquay they were safe. By no possible chance could the machinery of the law have been set in motion in time to apprehend them.

He saw also how the men came to be seated in the train from Plymouth when it reached Newton Abbot, and here again he was lost in admiration at the way in which the pair had laid their plans. The first station on the Plymouth side of Newton Abbot was Totnes, and from Torquay to Totnes by road was a matter of only some ten miles. They would just have had time to do the distance, and there was no doubt that Totnes was the place to which their taxi had taken them. In the event, therefore, of an immediate chase, there was every chance of the scent being temporarily lost at Torquay.

These thoughts had scarcely passed through Cheyne’s mind when the event happened which caused him to congratulate himself on the seat he was occupying. At the extreme end of the coach, immediately in advance of his compartment, was the lavatory, and at this moment, just as they were stopping at Teignmouth, a man carrying a small kitbag passed along the corridor and entered. Approaching from behind Cheyne, he did not see the latter’s face, but Cheyne saw him. It was Price!

Cheyne took an engagement book from his pocket and bent low over it, lest the other should recognize him on his return. But Price remained in the lavatory until they reached Dawlish, and here another stroke of luck was in store for Cheyne. At Dawlish, at which they stopped a few moments later, his vis-à-vis alighted, and Cheyne immediately changed his seat. When, therefore, just before the train started, Price left the lavatory, he again approached Cheyne from behind and again failed to see his face.

As he passed down the corridor Cheyne stared at him. While in the lavatory he had effected a wondrous change in his appearance. Gone now was the small dark mustache and the glasses, his hat was of a different type and his overcoat of a different color. Cheyne watched him pause hesitatingly at the door of the next compartment and finally enter.

For some moments as the train rattled along towards Exeter, Cheyne failed to grasp the significance of this last move. Then he saw that it was, as usual, part of a well-thought-out scheme. Approaching Teignmouth, Price had evidently left his compartment—almost certainly the fourth, where Lewisham sat—as if he were about to alight at the station. Instead of doing so, he had entered the lavatory. Disguised, or, more probably, with a previous disguise removed, he had left it before the train started from Dawlish, and appearing at the door of the second compartment, had attempted to convey the idea, almost certainly with success, that he had just joined the train.

A further thought made Cheyne swing across again to the seat facing the engine. They were approaching Starcross. Would Lewisham adopt the same subterfuge at this station? But he did not, and they reached Exeter without further adventure.

The train going no further, all passengers had to alight. Cheyne was in no hurry to move, and by the time he left the carriage Price and Lewisham were already far down the platform. He wished that he in his turn could find a false mustache and glasses, but he realized that if he kept his face hidden, his clothes were already a satisfactory disguise. He watched the two men begin to pace the platform, and soon felt satisfied that they were proceeding by a later train.

They had reached Exeter at 5:02 p.m. Two expresses left the station shortly after, the 5:25 for Liverpool, Manchester and the north, and the 5:42 for London. Cheyne sat down on a deserted seat near the end of the platform and bent his head over his notebook while he watched the others.

The 5:25 for the north arrived and left, and still the two men continued pacing up and down. “For London,” thought Cheyne, and slipping off to the booking hall he bought a first single for Paddington. If the men were traveling third, he would be better in a different class.

When the London express rolled majestically in, Price and Lewisham entered a third near the front of the train. Satisfied that he was still unobserved, Cheyne got into the first class diner farther back. He had not been very close to the men, but he noticed that Lewisham had also made some alteration in his appearance, which explained his not having changed in the lavatory on the local train.

The express was very fast, stopping only once—at Taunton. Here Cheyne, having satisfied himself that his quarry had not alighted, settled himself with an easy mind to await the arrival at Paddington. He dined luxuriously, and when at nine precisely they drew up in the terminus, he felt extremely fit and ready for any adventure that might offer itself.

From the pages of the many works of detective fiction which he had at one time or another digested, he knew exactly what to do. Jumping out as the train came to rest, he hurried along the platform until he had a view of the carriage in which the others had traveled. Then, keeping carefully in the background, he awaited developments.

Soon he saw the men alight, cross the platform and engage a taxi. This move also he was prepared for. Taking a taxi in his turn, he bent forward and said to the driver what the sleuths of his novels had so often said to their drivers in similar circumstances: “Follow that taxi. Ten bob extra if you keep it in sight.”

The driver looked at him curiously, but all he said was: “Right y’are, guv’nor,” and they slipped out at the heels of the other vehicle into the crowded streets.

Cheyne’s driver was a skillful man and they kept steadily behind the quarry, not close enough to excite suspicion, but too near to run any risk of being shaken off. Cheyne was chuckling excitedly and hugging himself at the success of his efforts thus far when, with the extraordinary capriciousness that Fate so often shows, his luck turned.

They had passed down Praed Street and turned up Edgware Road, and it was just where the latter merges into Maida Vale that the blow fell. Here the street was up and the traffic was congested. Both vehicles slackened down, but whereas the leader got through without a stop, Cheyne’s was held up to give the road to cross traffic. In vain Cheyne chafed and fretted; the raised arm of the law could not be disregarded, and when at last they were free to go forward, all trace of the other taxi had vanished.

In vain the driver put on a spurt. There were scores of vehicles ahead and a thousand and one turnings off the straight road. In a few minutes Cheyne had to recognize that the game was up and that he had lost his chance.

He stopped and took counsel with his driver, with the result that he decided to go back to Paddington in the hope that when the other taxi had completed its run it would return to the station rank. He had been near enough to take its number, and his man was able to give him the other driver’s address, in case the latter went home instead of to the station.

Having reserved a room at the Station Hotel and written a brief note to his sister saying that his business had brought him to London and that he would let her know when he was returning, he lit his pipe, and turning up the collar of his coat, fell to pacing up and down the platform alongside the cab rank. He was relieved to find that vehicles were still turning up and taking their places at the end of the line, and he eagerly scanned the number plate of each arrival. For endless aeons of time he seemed to wait, and then at last, a few minutes before ten, his patience was rewarded. Taxi Z1729 suddenly appeared and drew into position.

In a moment Cheyne was beside its driver.

“Ten bob over the fare if you’ll take me quickly to where you set down those two men you got off the Cornish express,” he said in a low eager voice.

This man also looked at him curiously and answered, “Right y’are, guv’nor,” then having paused to say something to the driver of the leading car on the rank, they turned out into Praed Street.

The man drove rapidly along Edgware Road, through Maida Vale and on into a part of the town unfamiliar to Cheyne. As they rattled through the endless streets Cheyne instructed him not to stop at the exact place, but slightly short of it, as he wished to complete the journey on foot. It seemed a very long distance, but still the man kept steadily on. The town was now taking on a suburban appearance and here and there vacant building lots were to be seen.

Presently they passed an ornate building which Cheyne recongized as the tube station at Hendon, and shortly afterwards the vehicle stopped. Cheyne got out and looked about him, while the driver explained the lie of the land.

They had turned at right angles off the main thoroughfare leading from town into a road which bore the imposing title of “Hopefield Avenue.” This penetrated into what seemed to be an estate recently handed over to the jerry-builder, for all around were small detached and semi-detached houses in various stages of construction. Many were complete and occupied, but in scores of other cases the vacant lots still remained, untouched save for their “To let for building” signboards.

Leaving the taxi in a deserted crossroad, the driver signified to Cheyne that they should go forward on foot. A hundred yards farther on they reached another cross-road—the place was laid out in squares like an American city—and there the driver pointed to a house in the opposite angle, intimating that this was their goal.

It was a small detached villa surrounded by a privet hedge and a few small trees and shrubs, evidently not long planted. The two adjoining lots, both along Hopefield Avenue and down the crossroad—Alwyn Road, Cheyne saw its name was—were vacant. Facing it on both streets were finished and occupied houses, but in the angle diagonally opposite was a new building whose walls were only half up.

Thrilled with eager anticipation and excitement, Cheyne dismissed the driver with his ten-shilling tip and then turned to examine his surroundings more carefully, and to devise a plan of campaign for his attack on the enemy’s stronghold.

He began by crossing Alwyn Road and walking along Hopefield Avenue past the house, while he examined it as well as he could by the light of the street lamps. It was a two-story building of rather pleasing design, apparently quite new, and conforming to the type of small suburban villas springing up by thousands all around London. As far as he could make out it had the usual rectangular plan, a red-tiled roof with deep overhanging eaves and a large porch with above it a balcony, roofed over but open in front. A narrow walk edged with flower beds led across the forty or fifty feet of lawn between the road and the hall door. On the green gate Cheyne could just make out the words “Laurel Lodge” in white letters. So far as he could see the house appeared to be deserted, the windows and fanlight being in darkness. After the two vacant lots was a half-finished house.

Returning presently, he passed the house again, this time rounding its corner and walking down Alwyn Road. Between the first vacant lot and Laurel Lodge ran a narrow lane, evidently intended to be the approach to the back premises of the future houses.

Glancing round and seeing that no one was in sight, Cheyne slipped into this lane, and crouching behind a shrub, examined the back of Laurel Lodge.

It was very dark in the lane. Presently it would be lighter, as a quadrant moon was rising, but for the moment everything outside the radius of the street lamps was hidden in a black pall. The outline of the house was just discernible against the sky, though Cheyne could not from here make out the details of its construction. But, standing out sharply against its black background, was one brightly illuminated rectangle—a window on the first floor.

The window was open at the top, and the light colored blind was pulled down, though even from where he stood Cheyne could see that it did not entirely reach the bottom of the opening. Even as he watched a shadow appeared on the blind. It was a man’s head and shoulders and it remained steady for a moment, then moved slowly out of sight.

Stealthily Cheyne edged his way forward. The back premises of Laurel Lodge were separated from the lane by a gate, and this Cheyne opened silently, passing within. Gradually he worked his way round a tiny greenhouse and between a few flower beds until he reached the wall of the house. There he listened intently, but no sound came from above.

“If only I could get up to the window,” he thought, “I could see in under the blind.”

But there was no roof or tree upon which he might have climbed, and he stood motionless, undecided what to do next.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him, and full once more of eager excitement, he carefully retraced his steps until he reached the lane. It ran on between rough wire palings, past the two vacant lots and behind the adjoining half-finished house. Cheyne followed it until he reached the half-completed building, and then entering, he began to search for a short ladder.

Every moment the light of the rising moon was increasing, and after stumbling about and making noises which sent him into a cold sweat of apprehension, he succeeded, partly by sight and partly by feeling, in finding what he wanted. Then with great care he lifted it into the lane and bore it back to Laurel Lodge.

With infinite pains he carried it through the gate, round the greenhouse, and past the flower beds to the house. Then fixing the bottom on the grass plot which surrounded the building, he lowered it gently against the wall at the side of the window.

A moment later he reached the slot of clear glass showing beneath the blind and peered into the room. There he saw a sight so unexpected that in spite of his precarious position a cry of surprise all but escaped him.

Chapter VI.
The House in Hopefield Avenue

The room was of medium size and plainly though comfortably furnished as a man’s study or smoking room. In one corner was a small roll-top desk, in another a table bearing books and papers and a tantalus. Two large leather-covered armchairs stood one at each side of the grate, in which burned a cheerful fire. In the corner opposite the window was a press or cupboard built into the wall, and in front of this all furniture had been cleared away, leaving a wide unoccupied space on the floor. Beside the wall near this space was a large camera, already set up, and on a table beside it lay a flashlight apparatus and two dark slides, apparently of full plate size.

In the room were four persons, and it was the identity of the last of these that had so amazed Cheyne. Standing beside the camera were Price and Lewisham, while no less a personage than Mr. Hubert Parkes of Edgecombe Hotel notoriety stood looking on with his back to the fire. But it was not on these that Cheyne’s eyes were glued. Reclining in one of the armchairs with her feet on the fender was Susan, the house and parlormaid at Warren Lodge!

Cheyne gasped. Here was the explanation of one mystery at all events. He saw now where the gang’s knowledge of himself and his surroundings had been obtained. He remembered that he had discussed his visit to Plymouth during dinner, a day or two before the event. Susan had been waiting at table, and Susan had been the channel through which the information had been passed on. And the burglary! He could see Susan’s hand in this also. In all probability she had taken full advantage of her opportunities to make a thorough search of the house for Price’s letter, and it was doubtless only when it became necessary to deal with the safe that her friends had been called in. Probably also she had been waiting for them, and had admitted them and shown them over the house before submitting to be tied up as a blind to mislead the detectives who would presumably be called in. Cheyne suspected also that Price’s visit was timed at a propitious moment, when he himself was available and with a free afternoon to be filled up. No doubt Susan’s part in the affair had been vital to its success.

But her participation also showed the extraordinary importance which the conspirators attached to the letter. Susan’s makeup for the part she was to play, the forging of her references, her installation in the Cheyne household and her undertaking nearly two months of domestic service in order to gain the document, showed a tenacity of purpose which could only have been evoked to attain some urgent end. Evidently the gang believed that Price’s claim on the barony was good, and evidently the others intended to share the spoils.

Cheyne watched breathlessly what was going on in the room, and to his delight he presently found that through the open upper sash he could also hear a good deal of what was said.

The camera had been set up to face the cupboard, and Cheyne now saw that a document of some kind was fastened with drawing pins to its door. Price put his head under the cloth and moved the camera back and forwards, evidently focusing it on the document. Lewisham lifted and examined the flashlight apparatus, then stood waiting. Parkes stooped and said something in a low tone to Susan, at which she laughed sarcastically.

“Do you think two will be enough or should we take four?” said Price when he had arranged the camera to his satisfaction.

“Two, I should say,” Parkes answered. “Even if we lost the tracing, two negatives should be an ample record.”

“I should take four,” Lewisham declared. “After all we’ve done what is the extra trouble of developing a couple of negatives? One or two might be failures.”

“Sime is right,” Price decided. “I shall take four.”

Sime? Cheyne thought perplexedly that the man who had run the motor on the Enid had been introduced to him as Lewisham. Sime, was it? Then it occurred to him that probably each one of the four had met him under an assumed name, and he listened even more intently in the hope of finding this out.

“I wonder if that ass Cheyne put the cops on to us,” went on Sime to the company generally. “James talked to him like a father and he seemed to swallow it all down as sweet as milk. Lordy! But you should have heard old James spouting. He rattled off his patter like a good ’un. Fresh absurdities each time and all that. Didn’t you, James?”

“He didn’t give much trouble,” Price replied. “I shouldn’t have believed anyone would have given in as soft as he did. I pitched him a yarn about yours truly being heir to the barony of Hull that wouldn’t have deceived an oyster, and he sucked it in like a sponge. But it wasn’t that that worked. It was keeping him without water that did the trick. When I offered him another day to think it over he collapsed like a pricked bubble.”

“So would you if you had been in his shoes,” Susan declared. “I’d like to see you standing out for anything against your own comfort.”

“You wouldn’t have seen me get into his shoes,” Price retorted, fitting a dark slide into the camera. “Now, Sime, if you’re ready.”

Price pressed the bulb uncovering the lens and at the same time Sime burned a length of magnesium wire before the document on the door, while Cheyne writhed with impotent rage at the discovery that he had been duped in still another particular.

“We’ve done uncommonly well,” Parkes remarked when the photograph had been taken, “but we’re not by any means out of the wood yet. In fact, the real work is only beginning. We don’t even yet know the size of the problem we’re up against. We’ve got to find that out and then we’ve got to make a plan and put it through, and all the time we’ve got to lie low in case that infernal ass has reported us to the police.”

“We’ve got to get these photographs taken and then we’ve got to get our supper,” retorted Price. “For goodness sake let’s have one thing at a time, Blessington. If you’d lend a hand instead of standing there preaching, it would be more to the point.”

Here was another alias. Parkes’s real name was Blessington. Cheyne was beginning to wonder what Price and Susan were really called, when the next remark satisfied his curiosity.

Parkes—or Blessington—took Price’s remark easily.

“Now that’s where you make the mistake, Mr. James Dangle,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Miss Dangle and I do the real work in this joint: don’t we, Miss Dangle? We supply the brains, you and Sime only rise to the muscles. Eh, Miss Dangle?”

But Miss Dangle was not in a mood for pleasantries.

“We shall want all the brains that you can supply and more,” she answered irritably, and then turning lazily to the others demanded if they weren’t ever going to be done messing with the darned camera.

At last Cheyne thought he had got the four fixed in his mind. The man on the rug—the man who had drugged him in the Plymouth hotel—was Blessington. The man who had introduced himself as Lamson and afterwards said his name was Price bore neither of these appellations: his name was Dangle. Susan was “Miss Dangle” and almost certainly sister to James. Lewisham, the motorman of the Enid, was Sime.

Dangle, Sime, and Blessington! Why, there was something sinister in the very names, and as Cheyne peeped guardedly in beneath the blind, he felt there was something even more sinister in their owners. Dangle, with his hard-bitten features and without his veneer of polish, looked a crafty scoundrel. There was a nasty gleam in his foxy eyes. He looked a man who would sell his best friend for a shilling. Perhaps Cheyne’s imagination had by this time run away with him, but Sime now struck him as a murderous-looking ruffian, and Blessington’s smug features seemed but to cloak an evil and cruel nature. He was smiling, but there was nothing mirthful about his smile. Rather was it the expression that a wolf might be supposed to wear when he sees a sheep helpless before his attack. Cheyne did not know if Susan was dangerous, but he had always suspected she could be vindictive and bad-tempered. A nice crew, he thought, and he shivered in spite of himself as he pictured his fate were some accident to lead to his discovery.

And what inventive genius they had shown! They had now told him three yarns, all convincing, well-thought-out statements, and all entirely false. There was first of all Blessington’s dissertation of his, Cheyne’s, literary efforts, told to get him off his guard so that a drug might be administered to him and his pockets be searched. Then there was the account of the position indicator for ships, detailed and plausible, a bait to lure him voluntarily aboard the Enid. Lastly there was the story of the Hull succession, including the interesting episode of the attempted rescue of the uncle St. John Price, undoubtedly related with the object of reducing Cheyne’s scruples in handing over the letter. These people were certainly past masters in the art of decorative lying, and once again he marveled at the trouble which had been taken in making each story watertight so as to assure its success. It was for no small reward that this had been done.

Cheyne was getting stiff with cold on the ladder. Though keenly interested in what he saw, he wished his enemies would make some move so that he might advance or, if necessary, retreat. But they appeared in no special hurry, proceeding with the photographs in the most careful and deliberate way.

A desultory conversation was kept up, only part of which he heard, but nothing further was said which threw any light on the identity of the conspirators or on the objects for which they were assembled. The work with the camera progressed, however, and presently three photographs had been taken.

“Once more,” he heard Dangle remark, and having pulled out the shutter, the whilom skipper of the Enid pressed the bulb and another photograph was taken.

“That’s four altogether,” Dangle went on in satisfied tones. “I guess we’re well provided for against accidents. What about that bit of supper, old lady?”

“Aren’t we waiting for you?” Susan demanded as she slowly pulled herself up out of the chair. “Gosh!” she went on, lazily stretching herself and yawning, “but it’s good to be done with Devonshire! I was fed up, I can tell you! Susan this and Susan that! ‘Susan, we’ll have tea now,’ ‘Susan, you might bring a tray and take up the mistress’s breakfast,’ ‘Susan, you might light the fire in the study; Mr. Cheyne wants to work.’ Yah! I guess I’ve about done my share.”

The men exchanged glances, but only Dangle spoke.

“I guess you have, old girl,” he conceded. “But finish out this job and you’ll live like a lady for the rest of your life.”

“It’ll be a poor look out for you if I don’t,” she grumbled, and Sime having opened the door, she passed out, followed by the others. Cheyne, watching breathlessly, saw a light spring up in a ground floor window, fortunately not below him, but at the far end of the house.

His heart beat quickly. Was it possible that his great chance had come already and that the gang had delivered themselves into his hands? A little coolness, a little daring, a little nerve, and he believed he could carry off a coup that would entirely reverse the situation. The document on the wall must surely be that which these criminals had stolen from him. Could he not regain it while they were downstairs at their supper? He decided with fierce delight that he would try. It was an adventure after his own heart.

Carefully he grasped the lower sash and pressed gently upwards. To his delight it moved. With infinite care he pushed it higher and higher until at last he was able to work his way into the room. Evidently he had not been heard, as the muffled sounds of conversation continued to rise unbrokenly from the supper room. He tiptoed lightly across the room and gazed in surprise at the document fixed to the wall.

It was certainly not the copy of a birth or marriage certificate nor anything connected with a claim to a barony! It was a sheet of tracing linen some fifteen inches high by twelve wide, covered with little circles spaced irregularly and without any apparent plan, like the keys of a typewriter gone mad. Some of these circles contained numbers and others letters, also arranged without apparent plan. The only thing he could read about the whole document was a phrase, written in a circle from the center like the figures on a clock dial: “England expects every man to do his duty.”

Cheyne stared in amazement, but soon realizing that his time might be short, he silently removed the drawing pins, folded the tracing and thrust it into his pocket. Then turning to the camera, he withdrew the dark slide, opened first one and then the other of its shutters, closed them again and replaced it in the camera. A few seconds sufficed to open and close the shutters of the other slide lying on the table. With a hurried glance round to make sure that no other paper was lying about which might also have formed part of the contents of Price’s envelope, he tiptoed back to the window and prepared to make his escape.

But as he laid his hand on the blind he was halted by a sound from below. Someone had opened what was evidently the back door of the house and had stepped out on the ground below the window. Then Sime’s voice came, grumbling and muffled: “Where the blazes do you keep the darned stuff? How can I find it in the dark?” There was a moment’s pause, then in a changed voice a sudden sharp call of “Here, James! Look here quickly! What’s this?”

He had seen the ladder! Cheyne realized that his retreat was cut off!

A sudden tumult arose downstairs. Hasty feet ran towards the garden and voices spoke low and hurriedly beneath the window. Cheyne saw that his only hope lay in instant action. He silently hurried across the room, tore the door open and ran to the head of the stairs. His hope was that he might slip down and out of the door while the others were still at the back of the house.

But he was just too late. As he reached the stairs he heard steps approaching the hall below. His retreat was cut off in this direction also.

There remained only one thing to do and he did it almost without thought. Opening the next door to that of the sitting room, he stepped noiselessly inside, closing the door save for a narrow chink through which he could hear and see what was happening.

Two of the men had raced up to the sitting room, and peeping out, Cheyne saw that they were Blessington and Sime. In a moment they were out again and running down, shouting: “It’s gone, James! The tracing’s gone!” Sounds indicative of surprise and consternation arose from below, but Cheyne could no longer hear the words. Then through the window, which also looked out over the garden, he heard Dangle’s voice: “Keep guard of the house, Susan and Blessington. Come with me, Sime,” and the sound of two pairs of feet rushing away towards the lane.

Instinctively Cheyne realized that his chance had come. It was now or never. If he could not escape while two of the conspirators were away, he would have no chance when all four were present.

He came out of his hiding-place and peeped through the well down into the hall. The electric light had been turned on and the hall was brilliantly illuminated. In it stood Blessington, glancing alternately up the stairs and out through a door to the back. In his hand he held an automatic pistol, and from the look of fury and desperation on his face Cheyne had no doubt that he would not hesitate to use it if he saw him.

“They must have only just gone!” Blessington cried through the door with a lurid oath, and Susan’s voice answered with another equally vivid string of blasphemy.

Cheyne stood tense, scarcely daring to breathe and on the qui vive to take advantage of any chance that might offer. But Blessington wasn’t going to give chances. He stood there with his pistol raised, and unarmed as Cheyne was, he recognized the hopelessness of trying to rush him.

He thought there might be a chance of escape from some of the other rooms, and silently crept about in the hope of finding a window or skylight from which he might perhaps obtain access to a downspout. But so far as he could ascertain in the dark there was nothing of the kind, and after a few minutes had passed he retraced his steps and set himself to watch Blessington.

He wondered whether he could make some noise with the ladder which would attract the two watchers to the garden and thus enable him to make a bolt for the front door, but while he was considering this he heard other voices which revealed the fact that Dangle and Sime had returned. Then Dangle’s voice sounded in the hall: “’Fraid they’ve got away, but we’d better search the house again to make sure. You stick at the stairs, Susan, while we do the lower rooms.”

Steps sounded below as the men moved from room to room. Cheyne’s heart was pounding as it had done on different occasions before his ship had gone into action during the war, but he was calm and collected and determined to take the least chance that offered.

Presently he heard the men joining Susan in the hall. Now was the only chance he was likely to get and at all costs he must make the most of it. He hurried back to the sitting room window, and setting his teeth, lifted the blind and silently crawled out.

So far he had not been seen, and as rapidly as he dared he climbed down the ladder. Another five seconds and he would have got clear away, but at that moment the alarm was given. One of the men, looking out of a window, saw him in the now fairly clear light of the moon. Hurried steps sounded and Blessington appeared at the open door.

Fearful of his pistol, Cheyne leaped for his life. He landed on his feet, staggered, recovered himself and darted like a hare across the flower beds. With any ordinary luck he should have got clear away, but Blessington had picked up a broom as he ran, and this he threw with fatal aim. It caught Cheyne between the legs and he fell headlong. Other steps came hurrying up. By the light streaming from the back door he saw an arm raised. It fell and something crashed with a sickening thud on his head.

He saw a vivid shower of sparks, there was a roaring in his ears, great dark waves seemed to rise up and encompass him, and he remembered no more.

Chapter VII.
Miss Joan Merrill

After what seemed ages of forgetfulness a confused sense of pain began to make itself felt in Maxwell Cheyne’s being, growing in force and definition as he gradually struggled back to consciousness. At first his whole body ached sickeningly, but as time passed the major suffering concentrated itself in his head. It throbbed as if it would burst, and he felt a terrible oppression, as if the weight of the universe rested upon it. So on the border line of consciousness he hovered for still further ages of time.

Presently by gradual stages the memory of his recent adventure returned to him, and he began vaguely to realize that the murderous attempt which had been made on him had failed and that he still lived.

Encouraged by this reassuring thought, he hesitatingly essayed the feat of opening his eyes. For a time he gazed, confused by the dim shapes about him, but at last he came more fully to himself and was able to register what he saw.

It was almost dark, indeed most of the arc over which his eyes could travel was perfectly so. But here and there he noticed parallelograms of a less inky blackness, and after some time the significance of these penetrated his brain and he knew where he was.

He was lying on his back on the ground in the half-built house from which he had taken the ladder, and the parallelograms were the openings in the walls into which doors and windows would afterwards be fitted. Against the faint light without, which he took to be that of the moonlit sky, he could see dimly the open joists of the floor above him, a piece of the herringbone strutting of which cut across the space for one of the upstairs windows.

Feeling slightly better he tried his pocket, to find, as he expected, that the tracing was gone. Presently he attempted some more extensive movement. But at once an intolerable pang shot through him, and, sick and faint, he lay still. With a dawning horror he wondered whether his back might not be broken, or whether the blow on his head might not have produced paralysis. He groaned aloud and sank back once more into unconsciousness.

After a time he became sentient again, sick and giddy, but more fully conscious. While he could not think collectedly, the idea became gradually fixed in his mind that he must somehow get away from his present position, partly lest his enemies might return to complete their work, and partly lest, if he stayed, he might die before the workmen came in the morning. Therefore, setting his teeth, he made a supreme effort and, in spite of the terrible pain in his head, succeeded in turning over on to his hands and knees.

In this new position he remained motionless for some time, but presently he began to crawl slowly and painfully out towards the road. At intervals he had to stop to recover himself, but at length after superhuman efforts he succeeded in reaching the paling separating the lot from Hopefield Avenue. There he sank down exhausted and for some time lay motionless in a state of coma.

Suddenly he became conscious of the sound of light but rapid footsteps approaching on the footpath at the other side of the paling, and once more summoning all his resolution he nerved himself to listen. The steps drew nearer until he judged their owner was just passing and then he cried as loudly as he could: “Help!”

The footsteps stopped and Cheyne gasped out: “Help! I’ve hurt my head: an accident.”

There was a moment’s silence and then a girl’s voice sounded.

“Where are you?”

“Here,” Cheyne answered, “at the back of the fence.” He felt dimly that he ought to give some explanation of his predicament, and went on in weak tones: “I was looking through the house and fell. Can you help me?”

“Of course,” the girl answered. “I’ll go to the police station in Cleeve Road—it’s only five minutes—and they will look after you in no time.”

This was not what Cheyne wanted. He had not yet decided whether he would call in the police and he was too much upset at the moment to consider the point. In the meantime, therefore, it would be better if nothing was said.

“Please not,” he begged. “Just send a taxi to take me to a hospital.”

The girl hesitated, then replied: “All right. Let me see first if I can make you a bit more comfortable.”

The effort of speaking and thinking had so overcome Cheyne that he sank back once more into a state of coma, and it was only half consciously that he felt his head being lifted and some soft thing like a folded coat being placed beneath. Then the girl’s pleasant voice said: “Now just stay quiet and I shall have a taxi here in a moment.” A further period of waiting ensued and he felt himself being lifted and carried a few steps. A jolting then began which so hurt his head that he fainted again, and for still further interminable ages he remembered no more.

When he finally regained his faculties he found himself in bed, physically more comfortable than he could have believed possible, but utterly exhausted. He was content to lie motionless, not troubling as to where he was or how he came there. Presently he fell asleep and when he woke he plucked up energy enough to open his eyes.

It was light and he saw that he was in hospital. Several other beds were in the ward and a nurse was doing something at the end of the room. Presently she came over, saw that he was awake, and smiled at him.

“Better?” she said cheerily.

“I think so,” he answered weakly. “Where am I, nurse?”

“In the Albert Edward Hospital. You’ve had a nasty knock on your head, but you’re going to be all right. Now you’re to keep quiet and not talk.”

Cheyne didn’t want to talk and he lay motionless, luxuriating in the complete cessation of effort. After a time a doctor came and looked at him, but it was too much trouble to be interested about the doctor, and in any case he soon disappeared. Sometimes when he opened his eyes the nurse was there and sometimes she wasn’t, and other people seemed to drift about for no very special reason. Then it was dark in the ward, evidently night again. The next day the same thing happened, and so for many days.

He had been troubled with the vague thoughts of his mother and sister, and on one occasion when he was feeling a little less tired than usual he had called the nurse and asked her to write to his sister, saying that he had met with a slight accident and was staying on in town for a few days. Miss Cheyne telegraphed to know if she could help, but the nurse, without troubling her patient, had replied: “Not at present.”

At last there came a time when Cheyne began to feel more his own man and able, without bringing on an intolerable headache, to think collectedly about his situation. And at once two points arose in his mind upon which he felt an immediate decision must be made.

The first was: What answer should he return to the inevitable questions he would be asked as to how he met with his injury? Should he lodge an information against Messrs. Dangle, Sime and Co., accuse them of attempted murder and put the machinery of the law in motion against them? Or should he stick to his tale that an accident had happened, and keep the affair of Hopefield Avenue to himself?

After anxious consideration he decided on the latter alternative. If he were to tell the police now he would find it hard to explain why he had not done so earlier. Moreover, with returning strength came back the desire which he had previously experienced, to meet these men on their own ground and himself defeat them. He remembered how exceedingly nearly he had done so on this occasion. Had it not been for the accident of something being required from the garden or outhouse he would have got clear away, and he hoped for better luck next time.

A third consideration also weighed with him. He was not sure how far he himself had broken the law. Housebreaking and burglary were serious crimes, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that others might not consider his excuse for these actions as valid as he did himself. In fact he was not sure how he stood legally. Under the circumstances would his proper course not have been to lodge an information against Dangle and Sime immediately on getting ashore from the Enid, and let the police with a search warrant recover Price’s letter? But he saw at once that that would have been useless. The men would have denied the theft, and he could not have proved it. His letter to his bank manager would have been evidence that he had handed it over to them of his own free will. No, to go to the police would not have got him anywhere. In his own eyes he had been right to act as he had, and his only course now was to pursue the same policy and keep the police out of it.

When, therefore, a couple of days later the doctor, who had been puzzled by the affair, questioned him on it, he made up a tale. He replied that he had for some time been looking for a house in the suburbs, that the outline of that in question had appealed to him, and that he had climbed in to see the internal accommodation. In the semidarkness he had fallen, striking his head on a heap of bricks. He had been unconscious for some time, but had then been able to crawl to the street, where the lady had been kind enough to have him taken to the hospital.

This brought him back to the second point which had been occupying his mind since he had regained the power of consecutive thought: the lady. What exactly had she done for him? How had she got him to the hospital and secured his admission? Had she taken a taxi, and if so, had she herself paid for it? Cheyne felt that he must see her to learn these particulars and to thank her for her kindness and help.

He broached the subject to the nurse, who laughed and said she had been expecting the question. Miss Merrill had brought him herself to the hospital and had since called up a couple of times to inquire for him. The nurse presumed the young lady had herself paid for the taxi, as no question about the matter had been raised.

This information seemed to Cheyne to involve communication with Miss Merrill at the earliest possible moment. The nurse would not let him write himself, but at his dictation she sent a line expressing his gratitude for the lady’s action and begging leave to call on his leaving the hospital.

In answer to this there was a short note signed “Joan Merrill,” which stated that the writer was pleased to hear that Mr. Cheyne was recovering and that she would see him if he called. The note was headed 17 Horne Terrace, Burton Street, Chelsea. Cheyne admired the hand and passed a good deal of his superabundant time speculating as to the personality of the writer and wondering what a Chelsea lady could have been doing in the Hendon suburbs after midnight on the date of his adventure. When, therefore, a few days later he was discharged from the hospital, he betook himself to Chelsea with more than a little eagerness.

Horne Terrace proved to be a block of workers’ flats, and inquiries at No. 17 produced the information that Miss Merrill occupied Flat No. 12—the top floor on the left-hand side. Speculating still further as to the personality of a lady who would choose such a dwelling, Cheyne essayed researches into the upper regions. A climb which left him weak and panting after his sojourn in bed brought him to the tenth floor, on which one of the doors bore the number he sought. To recover himself before knocking he felt constrained to sit down for a few moments on the stairs, and as he was thus resting the door of No. 12 opened and a girl came out.

She was of middle height, slender and willowy, though the lines of her figure were somewhat concealed by the painter’s blue overall which she wore. She was not beautiful in the classic sense, yet but few would have failed to find pleasure in the sight of her pretty, pleasant, kindly face, with its straightforward expression, and the direct gaze of her hazel eyes. Her face was rather thin and her chin rather sharp for perfect symmetry, but her nose tilted adorably and the arch of her eyebrows was delicacy itself. Her complexion was pale, but with the pallor of perfect health. But her great glory was her hair. It covered her head with a crown of burnished gold, and though in Cheyne’s opinion it lost much of its beauty from being shingled, it gave her an aureole like that of a medieval saint in a stained glass window. Like a saint, indeed, she seemed to Cheyne; a very human and approachable saint, it is true, but a saint for all that. Seated on the top step of the stairs he was transfixed by the unexpected vision, and remained staring over his shoulder at her while he endeavored to collect his scattered wits.

The sight of a strange young man seated on the steps outside her door seemed equally astonishing to the vision, and she promptly stopped and stood staring at Cheyne. So they remained for an appreciable time, until Cheyne, flushed and abashed, stumbled to his feet and plunged into apologies.

As a result of his somewhat incoherent explanation a light dawned on her face and she smiled.

“Oh, you’re Mr. Cheyne,” she exclaimed. She looked at him very searchingly, then invited: “But of course! Won’t you come in?”

He followed her into No. 12. It proved to be a fair-sized room fitted up partly as a sitting room and partly as a studio. A dormer window close to the fireplace gave on an expanse of roofs and chimneys with, in a gap between two houses, a glimpse of the lead-colored waters of the river. In the partially covered ceiling was a large skylight which lit up a model’s throne, and an easel bearing a half-finished study of a woman’s head. Other canvases, mostly figures in various stages of completion, were ranged round the walls, and the usual artist’s paraphernalia of brushes and palettes and color tubes lay about. Drawn up to the fire were a couple of easy-chairs, books and ashtrays lay on an occasional table, while on another table was a tea equipage. A door beside the fireplace led to what was presumably the lady’s bedroom.

“Can you find a seat?” she went on, indicating the larger of the two armchairs. “You have come at a propitious moment. I was just about to make tea.”

“That sounds delightful,” Cheyne declared. “I came at the first moment that I thought I decently could. I was discharged from the hospital this morning and I thought I couldn’t let a day pass without coming to try at least to express my thanks for what you did for me.”

Miss Merrill had filled an aluminum kettle from a tap at a small sink and now placed it on a gas stove.

“We’ll suppose the thanks expressed, all due and right and proper,” she answered. “But I’ll tell you what you can do. Light the stove! It makes such a plop I hate to go near it.”

Cheyne, having duly produced the expected plop, returned to his armchair and took up again the burden of his tale.

“But that’s all very well, Miss Merrill; awfully good of you and all that,” he protested, “but it doesn’t really meet the case at all. If you hadn’t come along and played the good Samaritan I should have died. I was—”

“If you don’t stop talking about it I shall begin to wish you had,” she smiled. “How did the accident happen? I should be interested to hear that, because I’ve thought about it and haven’t been able to imagine any way it could have come about.”

“I want to tell you.” Cheyne looked into her clear eyes and suddenly said more than he had intended. “In fact, I should like to tell you the whole thing from the beginning. It’s rather a queer tale. You mayn’t believe it, but I think it would interest you. But first—please don’t be angry, but you must let me ask the question—did you pay for the taxi or whatever means you took to get me to the hospital?”

She laughed.

“Well, you are persistent. However, I suppose I may allow you to pay for that. It was five and six, if you must know, and a shilling to the man because he helped to carry you and took no end of trouble.” She blushed slightly as if recognizing the unconscious admission. “A whole six and six you owe me.”

“Is that all, Miss Merrill? Do tell me if there was anything else.”

“There was nothing else, Mr. Cheyne. That squares everything between us.”

“By Jove! That’s the last thing it does! But if I mustn’t speak of that, I mustn’t. But please tell me this also. I understood from the nurse that you came with me to hospital. I am horrified every time I think of your having so much trouble, and I should like to understand how it all happened.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Miss Merrill answered. “It was all very simple and straightforward. There happened to be a garage in the main street, quite close, and I went there and got a taxi. It was very dark, and when the driver and I looked over the fence we could not see you, but the driver fortunately had a flash lamp for examining his engine, and with its help we saw that you had fainted. We found you very awkward to get out.” She smiled and her face lighted up charmingly. “We had to drag you round to the side of the building where there was a wire paling instead of the close sheeted fence in front. I held up the wires and the cabby dragged you through. Then when we got you into the cab I had to go along too, because the cabby said he wouldn’t take what might easily be a dead body—a corp, he called it—without someone to account for its presence. He talked of you as if you were a sack of coal.”

Cheyne was really upset by the recital.

“Good Lord!” he cried. “I can’t say how distressed I am to know what I let you in for. I can’t ever forget it. All right, I won’t,” he added as she held up her hand. “Go on, please. I want to hear it all.”

Miss Merrill’s hazel eyes twinkled as she continued:

“By the time we got to the hospital I was sure that nothing would save me from being hanged for murder. But there was no trouble. I simply told my story, left my name and address, and that was all. Now tell me what really happened to you; or rather wait until we’ve had tea.”

Cheyne sat back in his chair admiring the easy grace with which she moved about as she prepared the meal. She was really an awfully nice looking girl, he thought; not perhaps exactly pretty, but jolly looking, the kind of girl it is a pleasure just to sit down and watch. And as they chatted over tea he discovered that she had a mind of her own. Indeed, she showed a nimble wit and a shrewd if rather quaint outlook on men and things.

“You mentioned Dartmouth just now,” she remarked presently. “Do you know it well?”

“Why, I live there.”

“Do you really? Do you know people there called Beresford?”

“Archie and Flo? Rather. They live on our road, but about half a mile nearer the town. Do you know them?”

“Flo only. I’ve been going to stay with them two or three times, though for one reason or another it has always fallen through. I was at school with Flo—Flo Salter, she was then.”

“By Jove! Archie is rather a pal of mine. Comes out yachting sometimes. A good sort.”

“I’ve never met him, but I used to chum with Flo. Congratulations, Mr. Cheyne.”

Cheyne stared at her and she smiled gaily across.

“You haven’t said that the world is very small after all,” she explained.

Cheyne laughed.

“I didn’t think of it or I should,” he admitted. “But I hope you will come down to the Beresfords. I’d love to take you out in my yacht—that is, if you like yachting.”

“That’s a promise,” the girl declared. “If I come I shall hold you to it.”

When tea was removed and cigarettes were alight she returned to the subject of his adventure.

“Yes,” Cheyne answered, “I should like to tell you the whole story if it really wouldn’t bore you. But,” he hesitated for a second, “you won’t mind my saying that it is simply desperately private. No hint of it must get out.”

Her face clouded.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I don’t want to hear it if it’s a secret. It doesn’t concern me anyway.”

“Oh, but it does—now,” Cheyne protested. “If I don’t tell you now you will think that I am a criminal with something to hide, and I think I couldn’t bear that.”

“No,” she contradicted, “you think that you are in my debt and bound to tell me.”

He laughed.

“Not at all,” he retorted, “since contradiction is the order of the day. If that was it I could easily have put you off with the yarn I told the doctor. I want to tell you because I think you’d be interested, and because it really would be such a relief to discuss the thing with some rational being.”

She looked at him keenly as she demanded: “Honor bright?”

“Honor bright,” he repeated, meeting her eyes.

“Then you may,” she decided. “You may also smoke a pipe if you like.”

“The story opens about six weeks ago with a visit to Plymouth,” he began, and he told her of his adventure in the Edgecombe Hotel, of the message about the burglary, of his ride home and what he found there, and of the despondent detective and his failure to discover the criminals. Then he described what took place on the launch Enid, his search of the coast towns and discovery of the trail of the men, his following them to London and to the Hopefield Avenue house, his adventure therein, the blow on his head, his coming to himself to find the tracing gone, his crawl to the fence and his relief at the sound of her footsteps approaching.

She listened with an ever-increasing eagerness, which rose to positive excitement as he reached the climax of the story.

“My word!” she cried with shining eyes when he had finished. “To think of such things happening here in sober old London in the twentieth century! Why, it’s like the Arabian Nights! Who would believe such a story if they read it in a book? What fun! And you have no idea what the tracing was?”

“No more than you have, Miss Merrill.”

“It was a cipher,” she declared breathlessly. “A cipher telling where there was buried treasure! Isn’t that all that is wanted to make it complete?”

“Now you’re laughing at me,” he complained. “Don’t you really believe my story?”

“Believe it?” she retorted. “Of course I believe it. How can you suggest such a thing? I think it’s perfectly splendid! I can’t say how splendid I think it. It was brave of you to go into that house in the way you did. I can’t think how you had the nerve. But now what are you going to do? What is the next step?”

“I don’t know. I’ve thought and thought while I was in that blessed hospital and I don’t see the next move. What would you advise?”

“I? Oh, Mr. Cheyne, I couldn’t advise you. I’m thrilled more than I can say, but I don’t know enough for that.”

“Would you give up and go to the police?”

“Never.” Her eyes flashed. “I’d go on and fight the gang. You’ll win yet, Mr. Cheyne. Something tells me.”

A wild idea shot into Cheyne’s mind and he sat for a moment motionless. Then swayed by a sudden impulse, he turned to the girl and said excitedly:

“Miss Merrill, let’s join forces. You help me.” He paused, then went on quickly: “Not in the actual thing, I mean, of course. I couldn’t allow you to get mixed up in what might turn out to be dangerous. But let me come and discuss the thing with you. It would be such a help.”

“No!” she said, her eyes shining. “I’ll join in if you like—I’d love it! But only if I share the fun. I’m either in altogether or out altogether.”

He stood up and faced her.

“Do you mean it?” he asked seriously.

“Of course I mean it,” she answered as she got up also.

“Then shake hands on it!”

Solemnly they shook hands, and so the firm of Cheyne and Merrill came into being.

Chapter VIII.
A Council of War

Cheyne returned to his hotel that afternoon in a jubilant frame of mind. He had been depressed from his illness and his failure at the house in Hopefield Avenue and had come to believe he was wasting his time on a wild-goose chase. But now all his former enthusiasm had returned. Once again he was out to pit his wits against this mysterious gang of scoundrels, and he was all eagerness to be once more in the thick of the fray.

Miss Merrill had told him something about herself before he had left. It appeared that she was the daughter of a doctor in Gloucester who had died some years previously. Her mother had died while she was a small child, and she was now alone in the world save for a sister who was married and living in Edinburgh. Her father had left her enough to live on fairly comfortably, but by cutting down her expenditure on board and lodging to the minimum she had been able to find the wherewithal necessary to enable her to take up seriously her hobby of painting. She was getting on well with that. She had not yet sold any pictures, but her art masters and the dealers to whom she had shown her work were encouraging. She also made a study of architectural details—moldings, string courses, capitals, etc.—which, having photographed them with her half-plate camera and flashlight apparatus, she worked into decorative panels and head and tail pieces for magazine illustration and poster work. With these also she was having fair success.

Cheyne was enthused by the idea of this girl starting out thus boldly to carve, singlehanded, her career in the world, and he spent as much time that evening thinking of her pluck and of her chances of success as of the mysterious affair in which now they were both engaged.

His first visit next day was to a man called Hake, whom he had met during the war and who was now a clerk in one of the departments of the Admiralty. From him he received definite confirmation that the whole of the Hull barony story was a fabrication of James Dangle’s nimble brain. No such diplomat as St. John Price had ever existed, though it was true that Arnold Price had at the time in question been third officer of the Maurania. Hake added a further interesting fact, though whether it was connected with Cheyne’s affair there was nothing to indicate. Price, the real Arnold Price through whom the whole mystery had arisen, had recently disappeared. He had left his ship at Bombay on a few days’ leave and had not returned. At least he had not returned up to the latest date of which Hake had heard. Cheyne begged his friend to let him know immediately if anything was learned as to Price’s fate, which the other promised to do.

In the afternoon Cheyne once more climbed the ten flights of stairs in No. 17 Horne Terrace, but this time he took the ascent slowly enough to avoid having to sit down to recover at the top. Miss Merrill opened to his knock. She was painting and a girl sat on the throne, the original of the picture he had seen the day before. He was told that he might sit down and smoke so long as he kept perfectly quiet and did not interrupt, and for half an hour he lay in the big armchair watching the face on the canvas grow more and more like that of the model. Then a little clock struck four silvery chimes, Miss Merrill threw down her brushes and palette and said “Time!” and the model relaxed her position. Both girls disappeared into the bedroom and emerged presently, the model in outdoor garb and Miss Merrill without her overall. The model let herself out with a “Good-afternoon, Miss Merrill,” while the lady of the house took up the aluminum kettle and began to fill it.

“Gas stove,” she said tersely.

Cheyne produced the expected plop, then stood with his back to the fire, watching his hostess’s preparations for tea. The removal of the overall had revealed a light green knitted jumper of what he believed was artificial silk, with a skirt of a darker shade of the same color. A simple dress, he thought, but tremendously effective. How splendidly it set off the red gold of her hair, and how charmingly it revealed the graceful lines of her slender figure! With her comely, pleasant face and her clear, direct eyes she looked one who would make a good pal.

“Well now, and what’s the program?” she said briskly when tea had been disposed of.

Cheyne began to fill his pipe.

“I scarcely know,” he said slowly. “I’m afraid I’ve not any cut and dried scheme to put up except that I already mentioned: to get into that house somehow and have a look around.”

She moved nervously.

“I don’t like it,” she declared. “There are many objections to it.”

“I know there are, but what can you suggest?”

“First of all there’s the actual danger,” she went on, continuing her own train of thought and ignoring his question. “These people have tried to murder you once already, and if they find you in their house again they’ll not bungle it a second time.”

“I’ll take my chance of that.”

“But have you thought that they have an easier way out of it than that? All they have to do is to hand you over to the nearest policeman on a charge of burglary. You would get two or three years or maybe more.”

“They wouldn’t dare. Remember what I could tell about them.”

“Who would believe you? They, the picture of injured innocence, would deny the whole thing. You would say they attempted to murder you. They would ridicule the idea. And—there you are.”

“But I could prove it. There was my injured head, and you found me at that house.”

“And what did you yourself tell the doctor had happened to you? No, you wouldn’t have the ghost of a case.”

“But Susan Dangle was at our house for several weeks. She could be identified.”

“How would that help? She would of course admit being there, but would deny everything else. And you couldn’t prove anything. Why, the gang would point out that it was Susan’s presence at your house that had suggested the whole story to you.”

Cheyne shook his head.

“I’m not so sure of that,” he declared. “There would be a good deal of corroborative evidence on my side. And then there was Blessington at the hotel at Plymouth. He could be identified by the staff.”

“That’s true,” she admitted. “But even that wouldn’t help you much. He would deny having drugged you and you couldn’t prove he had. No, the more I think of it the better their position seems to be.”

“Well, then, what’s the alternative?”

She shook her head and for a moment silence reigned. Then she went on:

“I’ve been thinking about the gang since you told me the story—it’s another point, of course—but it occurs to me they must have had a fine old shock on the morning after your visit.”

Cheyne looked up sharply.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Why, they must have been worried to death to know what had happened to you. Your dead body wasn’t found—they’d soon have heard of it if it had been. And no information was given to the police about the affair—they’d soon have heard of that too. And you haven’t struck at them. Probably they’ve made inquiries at Dartmouth and found you haven’t gone home. They’ll absolutely be scared into fits to know whether you’re alive or dead, or what blow may not be being built up against them. Though they richly deserve it, I don’t envy them their position.”

This was a new idea to Cheyne.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he returned, then he laughed. “Yes, it didn’t work out quite as they wanted, did it? But I expect they know all about me. Don’t you think that under the circumstances they would have gone round making discreet inquiries at the hospitals?”

“Well, that is at least something to be done. First job: find out if possible if anyone asked about you at the Albert Edward. If that fails, same question elsewhere.”

“Right: that’s an idea. But it is not enough.” Cheyne shook his head to give emphasis to his remark. “We must do something more. And the only thing I can think of is to get into that house again and see what I can find. I’ll risk the police.”

Miss Merrill was evidently thrilled, but not converted.

“I shouldn’t be in too great a hurry,” she counseled. “How would it do if we went out there first and had a look around?”

“I don’t see that we should gain much by looking at the outside of the house.”

“You never know. Let’s go as soon as it gets dark tonight. If we see nothing no harm is done.”

Cheyne was not averse to the idea of an excursion in the company of his new friend, and he readily agreed, provided Miss Merrill gave her word not to run into any danger.

“I think you should put on a hat with a low brim and wear something with a high collar,” he suggested. “I’ll do the same, and in the dark we’re not likely to be noticed even if any of the gang are about.”

Miss Merrill pointed out that as she was unknown to the gang, it did not matter if her features were seen, but Cheyne was insistent.

“You don’t know,” he said. “We might both be seen, and then it would be as bad for you as for me. There’ll be unavoidable risks enough in this job without taking on any we needn’t.”

They discussed their plans in detail, then Cheyne remarked: “Now that’s settled, what’s wrong with your coming and having a bit of dinner with me as a prelude to adventure?”

“That sounds bookish. Are you keen on books? I’ll go and have dinner if I may pay my share, not otherwise.”

Cheyne protested, but she was adamant. It appeared further she was a great reader, and they discussed books until it was time to go out. Then after dinner at an Italian restaurant in Soho they took the tube to Hendon and began to walk towards Hopefield Avenue.

The night was chilly for mid-May, but calm and dry. It would soon be quite dark out of the radius of the street lamps, as the quarter moon had not yet risen and clouds obscured the light of the stars. In the main street there was plenty of traffic, but Hopefield Avenue was deserted and their footsteps rang out loudly on the pavements.

“Let’s walk past it,” Miss Merrill suggested, “and perhaps we can hide and watch what goes on.”

They did so. Laurel Lodge looked as before except that the lower front windows were lighted up. Building operations, however, had been much advanced in the six weeks since Cheyne’s last visit. The almost completed walls of a house stood on the next lot, and the house in which the supposed dead body of Cheyne had been abandoned was practically complete.

“Half-finished houses are the stunt in this game,” Cheyne observed. “Suppose we go back to that next door to our friends and see from there if anything happens.”

Five minutes later they had passed along the lane at the back of the houses and taken up their positions in what was evidently to be the hall of the new house. A small window looked out from its side, not forty feet from the hall door of Laurel Lodge. Cheyne made a seat of a plank laid across two little heaps of bricks and they sat down and waited.

They were so ignorant as to the steps usually taken by a detective in such a situation that their idea of watching the house was simply adopted in the Micawberish hope that somehow something might turn up to help them. What that something might be they had no idea. But with the extraordinary luck which so often seems reserved for those who blindly plunge, they had not waited ten minutes before they received some really important information.

The unconscious agent was a postman. They saw him first pass near a lamp farther down the street, and then watched him gradually approach, calling in one house after another. Presently he reached the gate of Laurel Lodge, and opening it, passed inside.

From where they sat, the watchers, being in line with the front of the house, were not actually in sight of the hall door. But there was a heap of building material in front of their hiding place and Cheyne, slipping hurriedly out, crouched behind the pile in such a position that he could see what might take place.

In due course the postman reached the door, but instead of delivering his letters and retreating, he knocked and stood waiting. The door was opened by a woman, and her silhouette against the lighted interior showed she was not Susan Dangle. The woman was short, stout and elderly.

“Evening, ma’am,” Cheyne heard the man say. “A parcel for you.”

The woman thanked him and closed the door, while the postman crossed to a house on the opposite side of the street. As soon as his back was turned Cheyne left his hiding-place, and was strolling along the road when the postman again stepped on to the footpath.

“Good-evening, postman,” said Cheyne. “I’m looking for people called Dangle somewhere about here. Could you tell me where they live?”

The postman stopped and answered civilly:

“They’ve left here, sir, or at least there were people of that name here till a few weeks ago. They lived over there.” He pointed to Laurel Lodge.

Cheyne made a gesture of annoyance.

“Moved; have they? Then I’ve missed them. I suppose you couldn’t tell me where they’ve gone?”

The postman shook his head.

“Sorry, sir, but I couldn’t. If you was to go to the post office in Hendon they might know. But I couldn’t say nothing about it.”

Nor could the postman remember the exact date of the Dangles’ departure. It was five or six weeks since or maybe more, but he couldn’t say for sure.

Cheyne returned to Miss Merrill with his news. A sudden flitting on the Dangles’ part seemed indicated, born doubtless of panic at the disappearance of the supposed corpse, and if this was the cause of their move, no applications at the post office or elsewhere would bear fruit.

“We should have foreseen this,” Cheyne declared gloomily. “If you think of it, to make themselves scarce was about the only thing they could do. If I was alive and conscious they couldn’t tell how soon they might have a visit from the police.”

“Well, we’ve got to find them,” his companion answered. “I’ll begin by making inquiries at the house. No,” as Cheyne demurred, “it’s my turn. You stay here and listen.”

She slipped out on to the road, and passing through the gate of Laurel Lodge, rang the bell. The same elderly woman came to the door and Miss Merrill asked if Miss Dangle was at home.

The woman was communicative if not illuminating. No one called Dangle lived in the house, though she understood her predecessors had borne that name. She and her son had moved in only three weeks before, and they had only taken the house a fortnight before that. She did not know anything of the Dangles. Oh, no, she had not taken the house furnished. She had brought her own furniture with her. Indeed yes, moving was a horrible business and so expensive.

“That’s something about the furniture,” Miss Merrill said, when breathless and triumphant she had rejoined Cheyne. “If they took their furniture we have only to find out who moved it for them. Then we can find where it was taken.”

“That’s the ticket,” Cheyne declared admiringly. “But how on earth are we going to find the removers? Have you any ideas?”

Miss Merrill looked at him quizzically.

“Just full of ’em,” she smiled, “and to prove it I’ll make you a bet. I’ll bet you the price of our next dinner that I have the information inside half an hour. What time is it? Half-past nine. Very well: before ten o’clock. But the information may cost you anything up to a pound. Are you on?”

“Of course I’m on,” Cheyne returned heartily, though in reality he was not too pleased by the trend of affairs. “Do you want the pound now?”

“No, I have it. But whatever the information costs me you may pay. Now au revoir until ten o’clock.”

She glided away before Cheyne could reply, and for some minutes he sat alone in the half-built porch wondering what she was doing and wishing he could smoke. It was cold sitting still in the current of chilly air which poured through the gaping brickwork. He felt tired and despondent, and realized against his will that he had been severely shaken by his experiences and was by no means as yet completely recovered. If it was not for this splendid girl he would have been strongly tempted to throw up the sponge, and he thought with longing of the deep armchairs in the smoking room at the hotel, or better still, in Miss Merrill’s studio.

Presently he saw her. She was crossing the street in front of Laurel Lodge. She was directly in the light of a lamp and he could not but admire her graceful carriage and the dainty way in which she tripped along.

She pushed open the gate of a house directly opposite and disappeared into the shadow behind its encircling hedge. In a moment she was out again and had entered the gate of the next house. There she remained for some time; indeed the hands on the luminous dial of Cheyne’s watch showed three minutes to the hour before she reappeared. She recrossed the road and presently Cheyne heard her whisper: “That was a near squeak for my dinner! It’s not after ten, is it?”

“Half a minute before,” breathed Cheyne, continuing eagerly: “Well, what luck?”

“Watterson & Swayne. Vans came the day after your adventure.”

Cheyne whistled below his breath.

“My word!” he whispered, “but you’re simply It! How in all this earthly world did you find that out?”

She chuckled delightedly.

“Easy as winking,” she declared. “Got it fifth shot. I called at five of the houses overlooking the Laurel gate, and pretended to be a woman detective after the Dangles. I was mysterious about the crimes they had committed and got the servants interested. There were servants at three of the houses—the others I let alone. I offered the servants five shillings for the name of the vans which had come to take the stuff, and the third girl remembered. I gave her the five shillings and told her I was good for another five if she could tell me the date of the moving, and after some time she was able to fix it. She remembered she had seen the vans on the day of a party at her sister’s, and she found the date of that from an old letter.”

“Good for you! I say, Miss Merrill, if you’re going to carry on like this we shall soon have all we want. What’s the next step now? Inquiries at Watterson & Swayne’s?”

“No,” she said decidedly, “the next step for you is bed. You’re not really well enough yet for this sort of thing. We’ve done enough for tonight. We’ll go home.”

Cheyne protested, but as, apart from his health, it was obvious that inquiries could not at that hour be instituted at the furniture removers, he had to agree.

“I shall go round and see them tomorrow morning,” he remarked as they walked back along Hopefield Avenue. “I suppose you couldn’t manage to come at that time? Or shall I wait until the afternoon?”

She shook her head.

“Neither,” she answered. “I shall be busy all day and you must just carry on.”

Cheyne felt a surprisingly keen disappointment.

“But mayn’t I come and report progress in the afternoon?” he begged.

“Not until after four. I shall be painting up till then.”

He wanted to see her home, but this she would not hear of, and soon he was occupying one of these deep chairs in the hotel smoking room whose allure had seemed so strong to him in the draughty porch of the half-built house. As he sat he thought over the turn which this evening’s inquiry had given to the affair in which he was engaged. It was clear enough now that Miss Merrill’s view had been correct and that the Dangles were scared stiff by the absence of information about the finding of his body. As he put himself in their place, he saw that flight was indeed their only course. What he marveled at was that they should have taken time to remove their furniture. From their point of view it must have been a horrible risk, and it undoubtedly left, through the carrying contractor, a certain clue to their whereabouts.

But when Cheyne began his inquiries on the following morning he rapidly became less impressed with the certainty of the clue. A direct request at the firm’s office for Dangle’s address was met by a polite non possumus, and when during the dinner hour Cheyne succeeded in bribing a junior clerk to let him have the information, at a further interview the lad declared he could not find it. It was not until after five hours’ inquiry among the drivers of the various vans which entered and left the yard that he learned anything, and even then he found himself no further on. The furniture, which had been collected from an unoccupied house, had been stored and still remained in Messrs. Watterson & Swayne’s warehouses.

It was a weary and disgruntled Cheyne who at six o’clock that evening dragged himself up the ten flights to Miss Merrill’s room. But when he was seated in her big armchair with his pipe going and had consumed a whisky and soda which she had poured out for him he began to feel that all was not necessarily lost and that life had compensations for failures in the role of amateur detective.

She listened carefully to his tale of woe, finally dropping a word of sympathy with his disappointment and of praise for his efforts which left him thinking she was certainly the good pal he expected her to be.

“But that’s not the worst,” he went on gloomily. “It’s bad enough that I have failed today, but it’s a great deal worse that I don’t know how I am going to do any better. Those Watterson & Swayne people simply won’t give away any information, and I don’t see how else it’s to be got.”

“There’s not much to go on certainly,” she admitted. “That’s where the police have the pull. They could go into that office and demand the Dangles’ address. You can’t. What about the others, that Sime and that Blessington? Could you trace them in any way?”

Cheyne moved lazily in his chair.

“I don’t see how,” he answered slowly. “We have little enough information about the Dangles, but there is less still about the others. We have practically nothing to go on. I wonder what a real detective would do in such a case. I feel perfectly certain he would find all four in a few hours.”

“Ha! That gives me an idea.” She sat up and looked at him eagerly, and then in answer to his question went on: “What about that detective who was already engaged on the case, the one the manager of the Plymouth hotel recommended? Why not get hold of him and see what he can do? He was a private detective, wasn’t he—not connected with the police?”

“He was, and I have his name and address. By Jove, Miss Merrill, it’s an idea! I’ll go round and see him in the morning. He’s a man I didn’t take to personally, but what does that matter if he’s good at his job?”

Though Cheyne thus enthusiastically received his companion’s suggestion, he was not greatly enamored of the idea. As he said, he had not liked the man personally, and he would have preferred to have kept the affair in his own hands. But he felt bankrupt of ideas for carrying on the inquiry, and if a professional was to be brought in, this man whom he knew and who was vouched for by the manager of the Edgecombe should be as good as another. He decided, however, that he would not employ the fellow on the case as a whole. His job should be to find the quartet, and if and when he did that he could be paid his money and sent about his business. Cheyne felt that at this stage at all events he was not going to share the secret of the linen tracing.

But Cheyne, like many another before him, was to learn the difficulties which beset the path of him who makes half confidences.

Chapter IX.
Mr. Speedwell Plays His Hand

Next morning Cheyne called at the offices of Messrs. Horton & Lavender’s Private Detective Agency and asked if their Mr. Speedwell was within. By good fortune Mr. Speedwell was, and a few seconds later Cheyne was ushered into the room of the quiet, despondent-looking man whom he had interviewed at Warren Lodge nearly two months earlier.

“Glad to see you’re better, sir,” the detective greeted him. “I was expecting you would look in one of these days. You had my letter?”

“No,” said Cheyne, considerably surprised, “and I should like to know why you were expecting me and how you know I was ill.”

The man smiled deprecatingly.

“If I was really up to my job I suppose I’d tell you that detectives knew everything, or at least that I did, but I never make any mystery between friends, leastwise when there isn’t any. I knew you were ill because I was down at Warren Lodge a month ago looking for you and Miss Cheyne told me, and I was expecting you to call because I wrote asking you to do so. However, if you didn’t get my letter, why then it seems to me I owe the pleasure of this visit to something else.”

“You’re quite right,” said Cheyne. “You do. But before we get on to that, tell me what you called and wrote about.”

“I’ll do so, sir. I called because I had got some information for you, and when I didn’t see you I wrote for the same reason asking you to look in here.”

The man spoke civilly and directly, but yet there was something about him which rubbed Cheyne up the wrong way—something furtive in his manner, by which instinctively the other was repelled. It was therefore with rather less than his usual good-natured courtesy that Cheyne returned: “Well, here I am then. What is your information?”

“I’ll tell you, sir. But first let me recall to your mind what I—acting for my firm—was asked to find out.” He stressed the words “acting for my firm,” and as he did so shot a keen questioning glance at Cheyne. The latter did not reply, and Speedwell, after pausing for a moment, went on:

“I was employed—or rather my firm was employed”—what his point was Cheyne could not see, but he was evidently making one—“my firm was employed by the manager of the Edgecombe Hotel to investigate a case of alleged drugging which had taken place in the hotel. That was all, wasn’t it?”

“That or matters arising therefrom,” Cheyne replied cautiously.

The detective smiled foxily.

“Ah, I see you have taken my meaning, Mr. Cheyne. That or matters arising directly therefrom. That, sir, is quite correct. Now, I have found out something about that. Not much, I admit, but still something. Though whether it is as much as you already are cognizant of is another matter.”

Cheyne felt his temper giving way.

“Look here,” he said sharply. “What are you getting at? I can’t spend the day here. If you’ve anything to say, for goodness’ sake get along and say it and have done with this beating about the bush.”

Speedwell made a deprecating gesture.

“Certainly, sir; as you will. But”—he gave a dry smile—“have you not overlooked the fact that you called in to consult me?”

“I shall not do it now,” Cheyne said angrily. “Give me the information that you’re being paid for and that will complete our business.”

“No, sir, but with the utmost respect that will only begin it. I’ll give you the information right away, but first I’d like to come to an understanding about this other business.”

“What under the sun are you talking about? What other business?”

“The breaking and entering.” Speedwell spoke now in a decisive, businesslike tone. “The breaking and entering of a house in Hopefield Avenue—Laurel Lodge, let us call it—on an evening just six weeks ago—on the fifth of April to be exact. I should really say the burglary, because there was also the theft of an important document. The owners of that document would be glad of information which would lead to the arrest of the thief.”

This astounding statement, made in the calm matter-of-fact way in which the man was now speaking, took Cheyne completely aback. For a moment he hesitated. His character was direct and straightforward, but for the space of two seconds he was tempted to prevaricate, to admit no knowledge of the incidents referred to. Then his hot temper swept away all considerations of what might or might not be prudent, and he burst out: “Well, Mr. Speedwell, what of it? If you are so well informed as you pretend, you’ll be aware that the parties lost no document on that night. I don’t know what you’re after, but it looks uncommonly like an attempt at blackmail.”

Mr. Speedwell seemed pained at the suggestion. He assured Cheyne that his remarks had been misinterpreted, and deprecated the fact that such an unpleasant word had been brought into the discussion. “All the same,” he concluded meaningly, “I am glad to have your assurance that the document in question was not stolen from the house.”

Cheyne was not only mystified, but a trifle uneasy. He saw now that he had been maneuvered into a practical admission that he had committed burglary, and there was something in the way the detective had made his last remark that seemed vaguely sinister.

“Well, what business of yours is it?” he said brusquely. “What do you hope to get out of it?”

Speedwell nodded as he looked at the other out of his close-set furtive eyes.

“Now, sir,” he answered approvingly, “that’s what I like. That’s coming to business, that is. I thought perhaps I could be of service to you, that’s all. Here are these parties looking for you to make a prosecution for burglary, and here you are looking for them for a paper they have. And here am I,” his face was inexpressibly sly, “in a position to help either party, as you might say. There’s an old saying, sir, that knowledge is power, and many a time I’ve thought it’s a true one.”

“And you want to sell your knowledge?”

“Isn’t it reasonable, and natural? It’s my business to get knowledge, and I have to work hard to get it too. You wouldn’t have me give away the fruits of my work? It’s all I have to live by.”

“Your knowledge belongs to your firm.”

“No, sir, not in this case it doesn’t. All this work was done in my own time; it was my hobby, so to speak. Besides, my firm didn’t ask for the information and doesn’t want it.”

“What do you want for it?”

A momentary gleam appeared in Mr. Speedwell’s eyes, but he replied quietly and without emotion: “Two hundred pounds. Two hundred pounds and you shall hear all I know, and have my best help in whatever you want to do into the bargain. And in that case I won’t be able to tell the other parties where you are to be found, so being as their question was addressed to me and not to my firm.”

“Two hundred pounds!” Cheyne cried. “I’ll see you far enough first. Confound your impertinence!” His anger rose and he almost choked. “Don’t you imagine you are going to blackmail me! But I’ll tell you what I am going to do. I’m going right in now to the head of your firm to let him know the way you conduct his business. Two hundred pounds. I don’t think!”

He flung himself out of the room and called the girl in the outer office.

“I want to see the principal of the firm,” he shouted. “It’s important. Either Mr. Horton or Mr. Lavender will do. As soon as possible, please.”

The girl seemed half startled and half amused. “Who did you want to see?” she asked.

“Mr. Horton or Mr. Lavender,” Cheyne repeated firmly, fixing her with a wrathful stare.

“I—I’m afraid I don’t know where they are,” she stammered, the corners of her mouth twitching. Yes, she was laughing at him. Confound her impertinence also!

“You don’t know?” he shouted furiously. “When will they be in?”

The girl looked scared, then her amusement evidently overcame her apprehension and she giggled.

“Not today, I’m afraid,” she answered. “You see Mr. Horton has been dead over ten years and Mr. Lavender at least five.”

Cheyne glared at her as he asked thickly:

“Then who is the present principal?”

“Mr. Speedwell.”

“Damn,” said Cheyne: then as he looked at the smiling face of the pretty clerk he suddenly felt ashamed of himself.

“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” he said, and as he saw how neatly he had got his desserts he laughed ruefully himself. This confounded temper of his, he thought, was always putting him into the wrong. He was just determining for the thousandth time that he would be more careful not to give way to it in future when Mr. Speedwell’s melancholy voice fell on his ears.

“Ah, that is better, sir. Won’t you come back and let us resume our discussion?”

Cheyne re-entered the private room.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he said, “but really your proposition was so very—I may say, amazing, that it upset me. Of course you were not serious in what you said?”

Mr. Speedwell leaned forward and became the personification of suave amiability.

“I sell my wares in the best market, Mr. Cheyne,” he declared. “You couldn’t blame me for that; it’s only business. But I don’t want to drive a hard bargain with you. I would rather have an amicable settlement. I’m always one for peace and goodwill. An amicable settlement, sir; that’s what I suggest.” He beamed on Cheyne and rubbed his hands genially together.

“If you have information which would be useful to me I am prepared to pay its full value. As a matter of fact I called for that purpose. But you couldn’t have any worth two hundred pounds or anything like it.”

“No? Well, just what do you want to know?”

“Dangle’s address.”

“I can give you that. Anything else?”

Cheyne hesitated. Should he ask for all the information he could get about the sinister quartet and their mysterious activities? He had practically admitted the burglary. Should he not make the most of his opportunity? In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Did you ever hear of a man called Sime?” he asked.

“Of course, sir. Number Three of the quartet.”

“I should like his address also.”

“I can give it to you. And Blessington’s?”

“Yes, Blessington’s too.”

Cheyne was amazed by the knowledge of this Speedwell. He would give a good deal to find out how he had obtained it.

“What are the businesses of these men?”

“That,” said Mr. Speedwell, “is three questions. First: What is Dangle’s business? Second: What is Sime’s business? Third: What is Blessington’s business? Yes, sir, I can answer these questions also.”

“How did you find all that out?”

Mr. Speedwell smiled and shook his head.

“There, sir, you have me. I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. You see, if we professional detectives were to give away our little methods to you amateur gentlemen we should soon be out of business. You, sir, will appreciate the position. It would be parting with our capital, and no business man can afford to do that. Anything else, Mr. Cheyne?”

“You mentioned a paper?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where is it?”

“That I can answer partially.”

“What is it about?”

“I do not know.”

“Ah, then there is something you do not know. What is the enterprise these men are going into in connection with the paper?”

“That, Mr. Cheyne, I do not know either. You see I am perfectly open with you. I have been conducting a sort of desultory inquiry into these men’s affairs, partly because I was interested, partly because I thought I could turn my information into money. I have reached the point indicated in my answers. I can proceed with the investigation and learn the rest of what you wish to know, assuming of course that we come to suitable terms. You can have the information I have already gained now, with of course the same proviso.”

“What are your terms?”

“Twenty pounds a question. You have asked six questions to which I can give complete answers and one which I can answer partially; say six twenties and one ten—total, one hundred and thirty pounds.”

“But it’s iniquitous, scandalous, extortionate! I shouldn’t think of paying such a sum.”

“No, sir? That’s a matter for yourself alone. It seems to me, then, that our business is completed.” The man paused, then as Cheyne made no move continued confidentially. “You see, sir, I needn’t tell a gentleman like yourself that value is relative and not absolute. If I hadn’t another party willing to pay for my information about you I couldn’t perhaps afford to refuse what you might be pleased to offer. But if I don’t get my hundred and thirty from you I’ll get it from the other party. It’s a matter of £. s. d. for me.”

“But how do I know you won’t get my hundred and thirty and then go to the other party for his?”

Mr. Speedwell smiled craftily.

“You don’t know, sir. In these matters one person has to take the other’s word. You pay your money and you get the information you ask for. You don’t pay and I keep it. It’s for you to say what you’ll do.”

Cheyne sat in thought. It was evident this man could give him valuable information, and he was well aware that if he had employed him to obtain it it might easily have cost him more than the sum asked. He did not doubt, either, that the quartet had asked for information about himself. When his dead body had not been found it would have been a likely move. But he was surprised that they should have asked under their own names. But then again, they mightn’t have. Speedwell might have found these out. It was certainly an extraordinary coincidence that himself and the gang should have consulted the same private detective, though of course there was nothing inherently impossible in it.

On the whole he felt disposed to pay the money. He was comfortably enough off and he would scarcely feel it. The payment would not commit him to anything or put him in any way in the power of this detective. Moreover, the man was evidently skillful at his job and it might be useful enough to have him on his side. And last, but not least, after his failure of the day before it would be a pleasure to go back to Miss Merrill and tell her how well he had succeeded on this occasion.

“Look here,” he said. “I don’t think you can expect me to believe that these people came and asked you to find the burglar who had made off with their confidential paper, so that they might prosecute. That’s rather tall, you know. Why didn’t they go direct to the police?”

“I’m only telling you what they said. I’m not saying I believed it was really what they wanted.” Speedwell paused. “As a matter of fact I don’t mind telling you what I think,” he went on presently. “I believe they are scared about you, and they want to find you to finish up the job they bungled. That’s what I think, but I may be wrong.”

“And if I pay you your hundred and thirty you’ll give me your pledge not to give them the information?”

Mr. Speedwell looked pained.

“I don’t think I said that, sir. It was two hundred that was mentioned. But see here. I don’t want to be grasping. If you make it the even hundred and fifty I’ll answer your questions and not theirs. Is it a bargain, sir?”

“Yes,” said Cheyne. “I have my check-book here and I’ll fill you in a check for the money as soon as I get your replies.”

Mr. Speedwell beamed.

“Excellent, sir. An amicable settlement. That’s what I like. Well, sir, I can trust you to keep your word. Here are the answers to your questions.” He took a bulky notebook from his pocket and continued:

“First question, Dangle’s present address: Earlswood, Dalton Avenue, Wembley.” He waited while Cheyne wrote the address, then went on: “Second question, Sime’s present address: 12 Colton Street, Putney.” Again a pause and then: “Third question, Blessington’s present address: Earlswood, Dalton Av—”

“The same as Dangle’s?”

“The same as Dangle’s, or rather, to be strictly accurate, Dangle’s is the same as Blessington’s. Blessington lives at this place and has for several years; Dangle joined him about six weeks ago, to be precise, on the day after the incident which I have just forgotten.”

Cheyne nodded with a rueful smile.

“Well, then, these men’s occupations?”

Mr. Speedwell was not to be hurried.

“Fourth question,” he proceeded methodically, “Dangle’s occupation. Dangle, Mr. Cheyne, is just an ordinary town sharp. He has a bit of money and adds to it in the usual ways. He’s in with a cardsharping gang and helps them in their stunts—for a consideration. He frequents a West End gaming room, and if there is any fat pigeon around he’ll lend a hand in the plucking. The sister helps as a decoy. They’re a warm pair and I should think are watched by the police. They’ll not want their dealings with you to come into the limelight anyway, so you’ve a pull over them there.”

“Has Dangle no ostensible profession?”

“Not that I know of, unless you call billiard playing a profession.”

“You might give me the address of the gaming rooms.”

“27 Greenway Lane, Knightsbridge.”

“What about Sime?”

“Sime is another of the same kidney. He does the night club end and brings likely mugs on to the gaming rooms. A plausible ruffian, Sime. A man without scruple and bad to be up against. He has no ostensible business, either.”

“And Blessington?”

“Blessington is, in my opinion, the worst of the three. He has ten times the brains of the other two put together and is an out and out scoundrel. He’s well enough off in a small way and is supposed to have made his money by systematic blackmail. He’s supplying the cash for this little do of yours, whatever it may be. He is believed at Wembley to be something in the city, but I don’t think he has any job. Lives on the interest of his money, I should think.”

Cheyne noted the replies, marveling how the detective had come to learn so much. Then he asked his seventh question.

“Where is the paper?”

“That, sir, I can only answer partially. It is, or was up till quite lately, in Blessington’s possession. Whether he carries it about with him or keeps it in his house or in his bank I don’t know. He may even have lent it to one of the others, but he is the chief of the enterprise and it appears to belong to him.”

“That’s all right,” Cheyne admitted. “Now what were you going to tell me apart from these questions—the information you wrote about?”

“Simply, sir, that the man who drugged you in the Edgecombe Hotel in Plymouth was named Stewart Blessington, that he lived at Wembley, and that he drugged you in order to ascertain if you carried on your person a certain paper of which he was in search.”

“You can’t tell me how he did it?”

“No, sir. Some simple trick of course, but I had no chance to find it out. I might perhaps suggest that he had two similar flasks, one innocent and the other drugged, and that he changed them by sleight of hand while attracting your attention elsewhere.”

Cheyne shook his head. He had thought of this explanation before, but it was not satisfactory. He had been watching the man and he was satisfied he had not played any such trick. Besides, this would not explain why no trace of a drug was found in the food. Speedwell, however, could make no further suggestion.

Cheyne put away his notebook.

“There’s another thing I should like to know,” he said, “and that is how you have learned all this. I suppose you won’t tell me?”

Speedwell smiled as he shook his head.

“Some day, sir, when the case is over. You see, if I were to show you my channels of information you would naturally use them yourself, and then where should I come in? A man in my job soon learns where to pick up a bit of knowledge. It’s partly practice and partly knowing the ropes.”

“And there’s another thing I wish,” Cheyne went on as if he had not heard the other, “and that is that you had gone a bit further in your researches and learned what that paper was and what game that gang is up to.”

The detective’s manner became more eager.

“That’s what I was coming to myself, Mr. Cheyne. If you want that information I can get it for you. But it may cost you a bit of money. It would depend on the time I should have to spend on it and the risks I should have to run. If you would like me to take it on for you I could do so. But of course it’s a matter for yourself altogether.”

Cheyne reflected. This Speedwell had certainly done an amazing amount of work already on the case, and his success so far showed that he was a shrewd and capable man. To engage him to complete the work would probably be the quickest way of bringing the matter to a head, and the easiest, so far as he himself was concerned. But then he would lose all the excitement and the fun. He had pitted his wits against these men, and to hand the affair over to Speedwell would be to confess himself beaten. Moreover, he would have to admit his failure to Miss Merrill and to forego any more alarms and excursions in her company. No, he would keep the thing in his own hands for the present at all events.

He therefore said that he was obliged for the other’s offer, which later on he might be glad to accept, but that for the moment he would not make any further move.

“Right, sir. Whatever you say,” Speedwell agreed amicably. “I might add what indeed you’ll be able to guess for yourself from what I’ve told you, that this crowd is a pretty shrewd crowd, and they’ll not, so to speak, be beating the air in this job of yours. They’re going for something, and you may take it from me that something will be worth their going for. At least, if not, I’ll eat my hat.”

“I quite agree with you,” Cheyne returned, fumbling in his pocket. “It now remains for me to write my check and then we shall be square.”

Cheyne counted the hours until four o’clock, and as soon as he dared he set off for No. 17 Horne Terrace. Indeed, he timed his visit so well that as he reached the top of the tenth flight of steps, the door of room No. 12 opened and the model emerged. She held the door open for him, and ten minutes later he was seated in the big armchair drinking the usual cup of fragrant China tea.

Miss Merrill listened with close attention to his story, but she was not so enthusiastic at his success as he could have wished. She made no comment until he had finished and then her remark was, if anything, disparaging.

“I don’t quite like it, you know,” she said slowly. “From your description of him it certainly looks as if that detective was playing a game of his own. It doesn’t sound straight. Do you think you can trust him?”

“Not as far as I can see him, but how can I help myself? I expect the addresses he gave are all correct, but I’m not at all satisfied that he won’t go straight to the gang and tell them he has found me and get their money for that.”

“And you think you wouldn’t be wiser to back out yourself and instruct him to carry on for you?”

Cheyne sat up and took his pipe out of his mouth.

“I’m damned if I will,” he declared hotly. “It might be a lot wiser and all that, but I’m just not going to.”

“You’re quite sure? I couldn’t persuade you?” she went on demurely, without looking at him.

“I can’t imagine you trying, Miss Merrill. But in any case I’m going on.”

“Good!” she cried, and her eyes lit up as she smiled at him. “You’re quite mad, but I sometimes like mad people. Then if, in spite of all I can say, you’re going on, what about a visit to Wembley tonight?”

“The very ticket!” Cheyne was swept by a wave of delight and enthusiasm. “It is jolly of you to suggest it. And you will come out to dinner and I may pay my bet!”

“As it’s a bet—all right. But you must go away now. I have some things to attend to. I’ll meet you when and where you say.”

“What about the Trocadero at seven? A leisurely dinner and then we for Wembley?”

“Right-o,” she laughed and vanished into the other room, while Cheyne, full of an eager excitement, went off to telephone orders to the restaurant as to the reservation of places.

Chapter X.
The New Firm Gets Busy

Cheyne and Joan Merrill took a Wembley Park train from Baker Street shortly before nine that evening, and a few minutes later alighted at the station whose name was afterwards to become a household word throughout the length and breadth of the British Empire. But at that time the Exhibition was not yet thought of, and the ground, which was later to hum with scores of thousands of visitors from all parts of the world, was now a dark and deserted plain.

When the young people left the station and began to look around them, they found that they had reached the actual fringe of the metropolis. Towards London were the last outlying rows of detached and semidetached houses of the standard suburban type. In the opposite direction, towards Harrow, was the darkness of open country. Judging by the number of lights that were visible, this country was extraordinarily sparsely inhabited.

Guarded inquiries from the railway officials had evoked the information that Dalton Road lay some ten minutes’ walk from the station in a northeasterly direction, and thither the two set off. They passed along with circumspection, keeping as far as possible from the street lamps and with their coat collars turned up and the brims of their hats pulled down over their eyes. But the place was deserted. During the whole of their walk they met only one person—a man going evidently to the station, and he strode past with barely a glance.

Dalton Road proved, save for its street lamps and footpath, to be little more than a lane. It led somewhat windingly in an easterly direction off the main road. The country at this point was more thickly populated and there was quite a number of houses in view. All were built in the style of forty years ago, and were nearly all detached, standing in small grounds or lots. Here and there were fine old trees which looked as if they must have been in existence long before the houses, and most of the lots were well supplied with shrubs and with high and thick partition hedges.

Nearly all the gates bore names, and as the two young people walked along, they had no difficulty in identifying Earlswood. There was a lamp at the other side of the road which enabled them to read the white letters on their green ground. Without pausing they glanced around, noting what they could of their surroundings.

A narrow lane running north and south intersected Dalton Road at this point, and in each of the four angles were houses. That in the southwest corner was undergoing extension, the side next the lane showing scaffolding and half-built brick walls. The two adjoining corners were occupied by houses which presented no interesting features, and in the fourth corner, diagonally opposite that of the building operations, stood Earlswood. All four houses were surrounded by unusually large lots containing plenty of trees. Earlswood was particularly secluded, the hall door being almost hidden from both road and lane by hedges and shrubs.

“Lucky it’s got all those trees about it,” Cheyne whispered as they passed on down Dalton Road. “If we have to burgle it we can do it without being overlooked by the neighbors.”

They continued on their way until they found that Dalton Road debouched on a wide thoroughfare which inquiries showed was Watling Street, the main road between London and St. Albans. Then retracing their steps to Earlswood, they followed the cross lane, first south, which brought them back to Wembley, and north, which after about a mile brought them out on the Harrow Road. Having thus learned the lie of the land so as to know where to head in case a sudden flight became necessary, they returned once more to Earlswood to attempt a closer examination of the house.

They had noticed when passing along the cross lane beside the house to which the extension was being made that a gap had been broken in the hedge for the purpose of getting in the building materials. This was closed only by a wooden slat. With one consent they made for the gap, slipped through, and crouching in the shadow of the shrubs within, set themselves to watch Earlswood.

No light showed in any of the front windows, and as soon as Miss Merrill was seated on a bundle of brushwood sheltered from the light but rather chilly wind, Cheyne crept out to reconnoiter more closely. Making sure that no one was approaching, he slipped through the hedge, and then crossing both road and lane diagonally, passed down the lane at the side of Earlswood.

There was no gap in the Earlswood hedge, but just as in the case of that other similarly situated house which he had investigated, a narrow lane ran along at the bottom of the tiny garden behind. Cheyne turned into this and stood looking at the back of the house. The whole proceeding seemed familiar, a repetition of his actions on the night he traced the gang to Hopefield Avenue.

But the back of this house was in darkness, and pushing open a gate, he passed from the lane to the garden and silently approached the building. A path led straight from gate to door, a side door evidently, as the walled-in yard was on his left hand. Another path to the right led round the house to the hall door in the front.

Cheyne walked slowly round, examining doors and windows. All of these were fastened and he did not see how without breaking the glass he could force an entrance. But he found a window at the back, the sash of which was loose and easy fitting, and decided that in case of need he would operate on this.

Having learned everything he could, he retraced his steps to his companion and they held a whispered consultation. Cheyne was for taking the opportunity of the house being empty to make an attempt then and there to get in. But Miss Merrill would not hear of it. Such a venture, she said, would require very careful thought as well as apparatus which they had not got. “Besides,” she added, “you’ve done enough for one night. Remember you’re not completely well yet.”

“Oh, blow my health; I’m perfectly all right,” he whispered back, but he had to admit her other arguments were sound and the two, cautiously emerging from their hiding-place, walked back to Wembley and took the next train to town.

She was silent during the journey, but as they reached Baker Street she turned to him and said: “Look here, I believe I’ve got an idea. Bring a long-burning electric torch with you tomorrow afternoon and whatever tools you want to open the window, and perhaps we’ll try our luck.” She would not explain her plan nor would she allow him to accompany her to the studio, so with rather a bad grace he said good night and returned to his hotel.

The next day he spent in making an assortment of purchases. These were in all a powerful electric torch, guaranteed to burn brightly for a couple of hours, a short, slightly bent lever of steel with a chisel point at one end, a cap, a pair of thin gloves, a glazier’s diamond, some twenty feet of thin rope and a five-inch piece of bright steel tubing with a tiny handle at one side. These, when four o’clock came, he took with him to Horne Terrace and spread in triumph on Miss Merrill’s table.

“Good gracious!” cried the young lady as she stared wonderingly at the collection. “Whatever are these? Another expedition to Mount Everest?”

“Torch: takes the place of the old dark lantern,” Cheyne answered proudly, pointing to the article in question. “Jemmy for persuading intractable doors, boxes and drawers; cap that will not drop or blow off; gloves to keep one’s fingerprints off the furniture; diamond for making holes in panes of glass; penknife for shooting back snibs of windows; rope for escaping from upstairs windows, and this”—he picked up the bit of tube and levelled it at her—“what price this for bluffing out of a tight place? If the light’s not too good it’s a pretty fair imitation. Also”—he pointed to his feet—“rubber-soled shoes for silence.”

She gave a delightful little ripple of laughter, then became serious.

“Have you no anklets?” she asked anxiously. “Don’t say you have forgotten your anklets!”

“Anklets?” he repeated. “What d’you mean? I don’t follow.”

“To guard against the bites of sharks, of course,” she declared. “Don’t you remember the White Knight had them for his horse?”

Cheyne was so serious and eager that he felt somewhat dashed, but he joined in the laugh, and when they had had tea they settled down to talk over their arrangements. Then it seemed that she really had a plan, and when Cheyne heard it he became immediately enthusiastic. Like all good plans it was simple, and soon they had the details cut and dry.

“Let’s try tonight,” Cheyne cried in excitement.

“Yes, I think we should. If these people have some scheme on hand every day’s delay is in their favor and against you.”

“Against us, Joan, not against me,” he cried, then realizing what he had said, he looked at her anxiously. “I may call you Joan, mayn’t I?” he pleaded. “You see, we’re partners now.”

She didn’t mind, it appeared, what he called her. Any old name would do. And she didn’t mind calling him Maxwell either. She hadn’t noticed that Maxwell was so frightfully long and clumsy, but she supposed Max was shorter. So that was that. They returned to the Plan. Though they continued discussing it for nearly an hour neither was able to improve on it, except that they decided that the first thing to be done if they got hold of the tracing was to copy their adversaries and photograph it.

“Drat this daylight saving,” Cheyne grumbled. “If it wasn’t for that we could start a whole hour earlier. As it is there is no use going out there before nine.” He paused and then went on: “Queer thing that these two houses should be so much alike—this Earlswood and the one in Hopefield Avenue. Both at cross roads, both with lanes behind them, and both surrounded by gardens and hedges and shrubs.”

“Very queer,” Joan admitted, “especially as there probably aren’t more than a hundred thousand houses of that type in London. But it’s all to the good. You’ll feel at home when you get in.”

They sparred pleasantly for some time, then after a leisurely dinner they tubed to Baker Street and took the train to Wembley Park. It was darker than on the previous evening, for the sky was thickly overcast. There had been some rain during the day, but this had now ceased, though the wind had turned east and it had become cold and raw.

Turning into Dalton Road, they reached the cross-lane at Earlswood, passed through the gap in the hedge and took up their old position among the shrubs. They had seen no one and they believed they were unobserved. From where they crouched they could see that Earlswood was again in darkness, and presently Cheyne slipped away to explore.

He was soon back again with the welcome news that the rear of the house was also unlighted and that the Plan might be put into operation forthwith. In spite of Joan’s ridicule he had insisted on bringing his complete outfit, and he now stood up and patted himself over to make sure that everything was in place. The cap, the gloves, and the shoes he was wearing, the rope was coiled round his waist beneath his coat, and the other articles were stowed in his various pockets. He turned and signified that he was ready.

Joan opened the proceedings by passing out through the gap in the hedge, walking openly across to the Earlswood hall door, and ringing. This was to make sure that the house really was untenanted. If any one came she would simply ask if Mrs. Bryce-Harris was at home and then apologize for having mistaken the address.

But no one answered, and the demonstration of this was Cheyne’s cue. When he had waited for five minutes after Joan’s departure and no sound came from across the road, he in his turn slipped out through the gap in the hedge, and after a glance round, crossed Dalton Road, and passing down by the side of Earlswood, turned into the lane at the back. On this occasion he could dimly see the gate into the garden, which was painted white, and he passed through, leaving it open behind him, and reached the house.

The point upon which Joan’s plan hinged was that, owing to the shrubs in front of the building, it was possible to remain concealed in the shadows beside the porch, invisible from the road. She proposed, therefore, to stay at the door while Cheyne was carrying on operations within, and to ring if any one approached the house, adding a double knock if there was urgent danger. She would hold the newcomer with inquiries as to the whereabouts of the mythical Mrs. Bryce-Harris, thus insuring time for her companion to beat a retreat. She herself also would have time in which to vanish before her victims realized what had happened.

Feeling, therefore, that he would have a margin in which to withdraw if flight became necessary, Cheyne set to work to force an entrance. He rapidly examined the doors and windows, but all were fastened as before. Choosing the window with the loose sash upon which he had already decided, he took his knife and tried to open the catch. The two sashes were “rabbitted” where they met, but he was able to push the blade up right through the overhanging wood of the upper sash and lever the catch round until it snapped clear. Then withdrawing the knife, he raised the bottom sash. A moment later he was standing on the scullery floor.

His first care was to unlock and throw open the back door, so as to provide an emergency exit in case of need. Then he closed and refastened the scullery window, darkening with a pencil the wood where the knife had broken a splinter. As he said to himself, there was no kind of sense in calling attention to his visit.

He crossed the hall and silently opened the front door to see that all was right with Joan. Then closing it again, he began a search of the house.

The building was of old-fashioned design, a narrow hall running through its center from back to front. Five doors opened off this hall, leading to the dining room and the kitchen at one side, a sitting room and a kind of library or study at the other, and the garden at the back. Upstairs were four bedrooms—one unoccupied—and a servant’s room.

Cheyne rapidly passed through the house searching for likely hiding places for the tracing. Soon he came to the conclusion that unless some freak place had been chosen, it would be in one of two places: either a big roll-top desk in the library or an old-fashioned escritoire in one of the bedrooms. Both of these were locked. Fortunately there was no safe.

He decided to try the desk first. A gentle application of the jemmy burst its lock and he threw up the cover and sat down to go through the contents.

Evidently it belonged to Blessington, and evidently also Blessington was a man of tidy and businesslike habits. There were but few papers on the desk and these from their date were clearly current and waiting to be dealt with. In the drawers were bundles of letters, accounts, receipts, and miscellaneous papers, all neatly tied together with tape and docketed. In one of the side drawers was a card index and in another a vertical numeralpha letter file. Through all of these Cheyne hurriedly looked, but nowhere was there any sign of the tracing.

A few measurements with a pocket rule showed that there were no spaces in the desk unaccounted for, and closing the top, Cheyne hurried upstairs to the escritoire. It was a fine old piece and it went to his heart to damage it with the jemmy. But he remembered his treatment aboard the Enid, and such a paroxysm of anger swept over him that he plunged in the point of his tool and ruthlessly splintered open the lid.

The drawers were fastened by separate locks, and each one Cheyne smashed with a savage satisfaction. Then he began to examine their contents.

This was principally bundles of old letters, tied up in the same methodical way as those downstairs. Cheyne did not read anything, but from the fragments of sentences which he could not help seeing there seemed ample corroboration of Speedwell’s statements that Blessington lived by professional blackmail. He felt a wave of disgust sweep over him as he went through drawer after drawer of the obscene collection.

But here also no luck met his efforts, and with a sinking heart he took out his rule to measure the escritoire. And then he became suddenly excited as he found that the thickness of the wood at the back of the drawers, which normally should have been about half an inch, measured no less than four inches. Here, surely, there must be a secret drawer.

He examined the woodwork, but nowhere could he see the slightest trace of an opening. He pressed and pulled and pushed, but still without result: no knob would slide, no panel depress. But of the existence of the space there was no doubt. There was room for a receptacle six inches by twelve by three, and, moreover, all six sides of it sounded hollow when tapped.

There was nothing for it but force. With a sharp stroke he rammed the point of the jemmy into the side. It penetrated, he levered it down, and with a grinding, cracking sound the wood split and part of it was prised off. Eagerly Cheyne put the torch to the opening, and he chuckled with satisfaction as he saw within the familiar lilac gray of the tracing.

Once again he inserted the point of the jemmy to prise off the remainder of the side, but the heavy wood at the top of the piece prevented his getting a leverage. He withdrew the tool to find a fresh purchase, but as he did so, the front door bell rang—several sharp, jerky peals. Frantically he jammed in the jemmy, intending by sheer force to smash out the wood, but his position was hampered, and it cracked, but did not give. As he tried desperately for a fresh hold an urgent double knock sounded from below. Sweating and tugging with the jemmy he heard voices outside the window. And then with a resounding crack the panel gave, he plunged in his hand, seized the tracing, thrust it and the jemmy into his pocket and rushed out of the room.

But as he did so he heard the front door open and Dangle’s voice from below: “It sounded in the house. Didn’t you think so?” and Susan’s: “Yes, upstairs, I thought.”

Cheyne looked desperately round for a weapon. Near the head of the stairs stood a light cane chair, and this he seized as he dashed down. As he turned the angle of the stairs Dangle switched on the light in the hall, and with a startled oath ran forward to intercept him. With all his might Cheyne hurled the chair at the other’s head. Dangle threw up his arms to protect his face, and by the time he recovered himself Cheyne was in the hall, doubling round the newel post. Both Dangle and Susan clutched at the flying figure. But Cheyne, twisting like an eel, tore himself free and made at top speed for the back door. This he slammed after him, rushing as fast as he could down the garden. He slackened only to pull the gate to as he passed through it, then sped along the lane, and turning at its end away from Dalton Road, tore off into the night.

These proceedings were not in accordance with the Plan. The intention had been that on either recovering the tracing or satisfying himself that it was not in the house, Cheyne would close the back door, and letting himself out by the front, would meet Joan, pull the door to after them, walk round the house and quietly disappear via the garden and lane. But the possibility of an unexpected flight had been recognized. It had been decided that in such a case the first thing would be to get rid of the tracing, so that in the event of capture, the fruits of the raid would at least be safe. Therefore, on all the routes away from Earlswood hiding places had been fixed on, from which Joan would afterwards recover it. Along the lane the hiding place was the back of a wall approaching a culvert, and over this wall Cheyne duly threw the booty as he rushed along.

By this time Dangle was out on the road and running for all he was worth. But Cheyne had the advantage of him. He was lighter and an experienced athlete, and, except for his illness, was in better training. Moreover, he was more lightly clad and wore rubber shoes. Dangle, though Cheyne did not know it, was hampered by an overcoat and patent leather boots. He could not gain on the fugitive, and Cheyne heard his footsteps dropping farther and farther behind, until at last they ceased altogether.

Cheyne slacked to a walk as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. So far as he was concerned he had now only to make his way back to town and meet Joan at her studio. He considered his position and concluded his best and safest plan would be to go on to Harrow and take an express for Marylebone—if he could get one.

He duly reached Harrow, but he found there that he would have nearly an hour to wait for a non-stop train for London. He decided, however, that this would be better than risking a halt at Wembley Park, and he hung about at the end of the platform until the train came along. On reaching town he took a taxi to Horne Terrace and hurried up to No. 12. Joan had not returned!

He waited outside her room for a considerable time, then coming down, began to pace the street in front of the house. Every moment he became more and more anxious. It was now half past twelve o’clock and she should have been back over an hour ago. What could be keeping her? Merciful Heavens! If anything could have happened to her.

He wrote a note on a leaf of his pocketbook saying he would return in the morning, and going once more up to her flat, pushed it under the door. Then hailing a belated taxi, he offered the man a fancy price to drive him to Wembley Park.

Some half-hour later he climbed over the wall across which he had thrown the tracing. A careful search showed that it was no longer there; moreover it revealed the print of a dainty shoe with a rather high heel, such as he had noticed Joan wearing earlier in the evening. He returned to the shrubs at the gap where they had waited, but there he could find no trace of her at all. Then he walked all round Earlswood, but it was shrouded in darkness. Finally, his taximan having refused to wait for him and all traffic being over for the day, he set out to walk to London, which he reached between three and four o’clock.

He had some coffee at a stall and then returned to his hotel, but by seven he was once more at Horne Terrace. Eagerly he raced up the steps and knocked at No. 12. There was no answer.

Suddenly a white speck below the door caught his eye, and stooping, he saw the note he had pushed in on the previous evening. Joan evidently had not yet returned.

Chapter XI.
Otto Schulz’s Secret

Cheyne, faced by the disquieting fact that Joan Merrill had failed to reach home in spite of her expressed intention to return there immediately, stood motionless outside her door, aghast and irresolute. With a growing anxiety he asked himself what could have occurred to delay her. He knew her well enough to be satisfied that she would not change her mind through sudden caprice. Something had happened to her, and as he considered the possibilities, he grew more and more uneasy.

The contingency was one which neither of them had foreseen, and for the moment he was at a loss as to how to cope with it. First, in his hot-blooded way he thought of buying a real pistol, returning to Earlswood, and shooting Blessington and Dangle unless they revealed her whereabouts. Then reason told him that they really might not know, that Joan might have met with an accident or for some reason have gone to friends for the night, and he thought of putting the matter in Speedwell’s hands. But he soon saw that Speedwell had not the means or the organization to deal adequately with the affair and his thoughts turned to Scotland Yard. He was loath to confess his own essays in illegality in such an unsympathetic milieu, but of course no hesitation was possible if Joan’s safety was at stake.

Still pondering the problem, he turned and slowly descended the stairs. He would wait, he thought, for an hour or perhaps two—say until nine. If by nine o’clock she had neither turned up nor sent a message he would go to Scotland Yard, no matter what the consequences to himself might be.

Thinking that he should go back to his hotel in case she telephoned, he strode off along the pavement. But he had scarcely left the doorway when he heard his name called from behind, and swinging round, he gazed in speechless amazement at the figure confronting him. It was James Dangle!

For a moment they stared at one another, and then Cheyne saw red.

“You infernal scoundrel!” he yelled, and sprang at the other’s throat. Dangle, stepping back, threw up his hands to parry the onslaught, while he cried earnestly:

“Steady, Mr. Cheyne; for heaven’s sake, steady! I have a message for you from Miss Merrill.”

Cheyne glared wrathfully, but he pulled himself together and released his hold.

“Don’t speak her name, you blackguard!” he said thickly. “What’s your message?”

“She is all right,” Dangle answered quickly, “but the rest of it will take time to tell. Let us get out of this.”

Some passers-by, hearing the raised voices, had stopped, and a small crowd, eager for a row, had collected about the two men. Dangle seized Cheyne’s wrist and hurried him down the street and round the corner.

“Let’s go to your hotel, Mr. Cheyne, or anywhere else we can talk,” he begged. “What I have to say will take a little time.”

Cheyne snatched his wrist away.

“Keep your filthy hands to yourself,” he snarled. “Where is Miss Merrill?”

“I am sorry to say she has met with a slight accident,” Dangle replied, speaking quickly and with placatory gestures; “not in any way serious, only a twisted ankle. I found her on the road on my way back from chasing you, leaning up against the stone wall which runs along the lane at the back of Blessington’s house. She had hurt herself in climbing down to get the tracing which you threw over. I called my sister and we helped her into the house, and Susan bathed and bound up her ankle and fixed her up comfortably on the sofa. It is not really a sprain, but it will be painful for a day or two.”

Cheyne was taken aback not only by his enemy’s knowledge, but also by being talked to in so friendly a fashion, and in his relief at the news he felt his anger draining away.

“You’ve got the tracing again, I suppose?” he said ruefully.

Dangle smiled.

“Well, yes, we have,” he agreed. “But I have to admit it was the result of two lucky chances; first, my sister’s and my return just when we did, and second, Miss Merrill’s unfortunate false step over the wall. But your scheme was a good one, and with ordinary luck you would have pulled it off.”

Cheyne grunted, and Dangle, turning towards him, went on earnestly: “Look here, Mr. Cheyne, why should we be on opposite sides in this affair? I have spoken to my partners, and we are all agreed. You are the kind of man we want, and we believe we could be of benefit to one another. In fact, to make a long story short, I am authorized to lay before you a certain proposition. I believe it will appeal to you. It is for that purpose I should like to go somewhere where we could talk. If not to your hotel, I know a place a few hundred yards down this street where we could get a private room.”

“I want to go out and see Miss Merrill.”

“Of course you do. But Miss Merrill was asleep when I left and most probably will sleep for an hour or two yet, so there is time enough. I beg that you will first hear what I have to say. Then we can go out together.”

“Well, come to my hotel,” Cheyne said ungraciously, and the two walked along, Dangle making tentative essays in conversation, all of which were brought to nought by the uncompromising brevity of his companion’s responses.

“You’d better come up to my bedroom,” Cheyne growled when at last they reached their goal. “These dratted servants are cleaning the public rooms.”

In silence they sought the lift and Cheyne led the way to his apartment. Bolting the door, he pointed to a chair, stood himself with his back to the empty fireplace and remarked impatiently: “Well?”

Dangle laughed lightly.

“I see you’re not going to help me out, Mr. Cheyne, and I suppose I can scarcely wonder at it. Well, I’ll get ahead without further delay. But, as I’ve a good deal to say, I should suggest you sit down, and if you don’t mind, I’ll smoke. Try one of these Coronas; they were given to me, so you needn’t mind taking one. No? I wonder would you mind if I rang and ordered some coffee and rolls? I’ve not breakfasted yet and I’m hungry.”

With a bad grace Cheyne rang the bell.

“Coffee and rolls for two,” Dangle ordered when an attendant came to the door. “You will join me, won’t you? Even if my mission comes to nothing and we remain enemies, there’s no reason why we should make our interview more unpleasant than is necessary.”

Cheyne strode up and down the room.

“But I don’t want the confounded interview,” he exclaimed angrily. “For goodness’ sake get along and say what you have to say and clear out. I haven’t forgotten the Enid.”

“No, that was illegal, wasn’t it? Almost as bad as breaking and entering, burglary and theft. But now, there’s no kind of sense in squabbling. Sit down and listen and I’ll tell you a story that will interest you in spite of yourself.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Cheyne said with sarcasm as he flung himself into a chair, “but if it’s going to be more lies about St. John Price and the Hull succession you may save your breath.”

Dangle smiled whimsically. “It was for your sake, Mr. Cheyne; perhaps not quite legitimate, but still done with the best intention. I told him that yarn—I admit, of course, it was a yarn—simply to make it easy for you to give up the letter. I knew that nothing would induce you to part with it if you thought it dishonorable; hence the story.”

Cheyne laughed harshly.

“And what will be the object of the new yarn?”

“This time it won’t be a yarn. I will tell you the truth.”

“And you expect me to believe it?”

Dangle leaned forward and spoke more earnestly.

“You will believe it, not, I’m afraid, because I tell it, but because it is capable of being checked. A great portion of it can be substantiated by inquiries at the Admiralty and elsewhere, and your reason will satisfy you as to the remainder.”

“Well, go on and get it over anyway.”

Dangle once more smilingly shrugged his shoulders, lit his cigar and began:

“My tale commences as before with our mutual friend, Arnold Price, and once again it goes back to the year 1917. In February of ’17 Arnold Price was, as you know, third mate of the Maurania, and I was on the same ship in command of her bow gun—she had guns mounted fore and aft. I hadn’t known Price before, but we became friends—not close friends, but as intimate as most men who are cooped up together for months on the same ship.

“In February ’17, as we were coming into the Bay on our way from South Africa, we sighted a submarine. I needn’t worry you with the details of what followed. It’s enough to say that we tried to escape, and failing, showed fight. As it chanced, by a stroke of the devil’s own luck we pumped a shell into her just abaft the conning tower after she rose and before she could get her gun trained on us. She heeled over and began to sink by the stern. I confess that I’d have watched those devils drown, as they had done many of our poor fellows, but the old man wasn’t that way inclined and he called for volunteers to get out one of the boats. Price was the first man to offer, and they got a boat lowered away and pulled for the submarine. She disappeared before they could get up to her, and we could see her crew clinging to wreckage. The men in the boat pulled all out to get there before they were washed away, for there was a bit of a sea running, the end of a southwester that had just blown itself out. Well, some of the crew held on and they got them into the boat; others couldn’t stick it and were lost. The captain was there clinging on to a lifebelt, but just as the boat came up he let go and was sinking, when Arnold Price jumped overboard and caught him and supported him until they got a rope round him and pulled him aboard. I didn’t see that myself, but I heard about it afterwards. The captain’s name was Otto Schulz, and when they got him aboard the Maurania and fixed up in bed they found that he had had a knock on the head that would probably do for him. But all the same Price had saved his life, and what was more, had saved it at the risk of his own. That is the first point in my story.”

Dangle paused and drew at his cigar. As he had foretold, Cheyne was already interested. The story appealed to him, for he knew that for once he was not being told a yarn. He had already heard of the rescue; in fact he had himself congratulated Price on his brave deed. He remembered a curious point about it. A day or two later Price had been hit in an encounter with another U-boat, and he and Schulz had been sent to the same hospital—somewhere on the French coast. There Schulz had died, and from there Price had sent the mysterious tracing which had been the cause of all these unwonted activities.

“We crossed the Bay without further adventures,” Dangle resumed, “but as we approached the Channel we sighted another U-boat. We exchanged a few shots without doing a great deal of harm on either side, and when a destroyer came on the scene Brother Fritz submerged and disappeared. But as luck would have it one of his shells burst over our fo’c’sle. Both Price and I were there, I at my gun and he on some job of his own, and both of us got knocked out. Price had a scalp wound and I a bit of shell in my thigh; neither very serious, but both stretcher cases.

“We called at Brest that night and next morning they sent us ashore to hospital. Schulz was sent with us. By what seems now a strange coincidence, but what was, I suppose, ordinary and natural enough, we were put into adjoining beds in the same ward. That is the second point of my story.”

Again Dangle paused and again Cheyne reflected that so far he was being told the truth. He wondered with a growing thrill if he was really going to learn the contents of Price’s letter to himself and the meaning of the mysterious tracing, as well as the circumstances under which it was sent. He nodded to show he had grasped the point and Dangle went on:

“Price and I soon began to improve, but the blow on Schulz’s head turned out pretty bad and he grew weaker and weaker. At last he got to know he was going to peg out, as you will see from what I overheard.

“I was lying that night in a sort of waking dream, half asleep and half conscious of my surroundings. The ward was very still. There were six of us there and I thought all the others were asleep. The night nurse had just had a look round and had gone out again. She had left the gas lit, but turned very low. Suddenly I heard Schulz, who was in the next bed, calling Price. He called him two or three times and then Price answered. ‘Look here, Price,’ Schulz said, ‘are those other blighters asleep?’ He talked as good English as you or me. Price said ‘Yes,’ and then Schulz went on to talk.

“Now, I don’t know if you’ll believe me, Mr. Cheyne, but though as a matter of fact, I overheard everything he said, I didn’t mean to listen. I was so tired and dreamy that I just didn’t think of telling him I was awake, and indeed if I had thought of it, I don’t believe I should have had the energy to move. You know how it is when you’re not well. Then when I did hear it was too late. I just couldn’t tell him that I had learned his secret.”

As Dangle spoke there was a knock at the door and a waiter arrived with coffee. Dangle paid him, and without further comment poured some out for Cheyne and handed it across. Cheyne was by this time so interested in the tale that his resentment was forgotten, and he took the cup with a word of thanks.

“Go on,” he added. “I’m interested in your story, as you said I should be.”

“I thought you would,” Dangle answered with his ready smile. “Well, Schulz began by telling Price that he knew he wasn’t going to live. Then he went on to say that he felt it cruelly hard luck, because he had accidentally come on a secret which would have brought him an immense fortune. Now he couldn’t use it. He had been going to let it die with him, but he remembered what he owed to Price and had decided to hand over the information to him. ‘But,’ he said, ‘there is one condition. You must first swear to me on your sacred honor that if you make anything out of it you will, after the war, try to find my wife and hand her one-eighth of what you get. I say one-eighth, because if you get any profits at all they will be so enormous that one-eighth will be riches to Magda.’

“I could see that Price thought he was delirious, but to quiet him he swore the oath and then Schulz told of his discovery. He said that before he had been given charge of the U-boat he had served for over six months in the Submarine Research Department, and that there, while carrying out certain experiments, he had had a lucky accident. Some substances which he had fused in an electric furnace had suddenly partially vaporized and, as it were, boiled over. The white-hot mass poured over the copper terminals of his furnace, with the result that the extremely high voltage current short-circuited with a corona of brilliant sparks. He described the affair in greater detail than this, but I am not an electrician and I didn’t follow the technicalities. But they don’t matter, it was the result that was important. When the current was cut off and the mass cooled he started in to clean up. He chipped the stuff off the terminals, and he found that the copper had fused and run. And then he made his great discovery: the copper had hardened. He tested it and found it was, roughly speaking, as hard as high carbon steel and with an even greater tensile strength! Unintentionally he had made a new and unknown alloy. Schulz knew that the ancients were able to harden copper and he supposed that he had found the lost art.

“At once he saw the extraordinary value of this discovery. If you could use copper instead of steel you would revolutionize the construction of electrical machinery; copper conduits could be lighter and be self-supporting—in scores of ways the new metal would be worth nearly its weight in gold. He could not work at the thing by himself, so he told his immediate superior, who happened also to be a close personal friend. The two tried some more experiments, and to make a long story short, they discovered that if certain percentages of certain minerals were added to the copper during smelting, it became hard. The minerals were cheap and plentiful, so that practically the new metal could be produced at the old price. This meant, for example, that they could make parts of machines of the new alloy, which would weigh—and therefore cost—only about one-quarter of those of ordinary copper. If they sold these at half or even three-quarters of the old price they would make an extremely handsome profit. But their idea was not to do this, but to sell their discovery to Krupps or some other great firm who, they believed, would pay a million sterling or more for it.

“But they knew that they could not do anything with it until after the war unless they were prepared to hand it over to the military authorities for whatever these chose to pay, which would probably be nothing. While they were still considering their course of action both were ordered back to sea. Schulz’s friend was killed almost immediately, Schulz being then the only living possessor of the secret. Panic-stricken lest he too should be killed, he prepared a cipher giving the whole process, and this he sealed in a watertight cover and wore it continuously beneath his clothes. He now proposed to give it to Price, partly in return for what Price had done, and partly in the hope of his wife eventually benefiting. I saw him hand over a small package, and then I got the disappointment of my life, and so, I’m sure, did Price. Schulz was obviously growing weaker and he now spoke with great difficulty. But he made a final effort to go on; ‘The key to the cipher—’ he began and just then the sister came back into the room. Schulz stopped, but before she left he got a weak turn and fell back unconscious. He never spoke again and next day he was dead.”

In his absorption Dangle had let his cigar go out, and now he paused to relight it. Cheyne sat, devouring the story with eager interest. He did not for a moment doubt it. It covered too accurately the facts which he already knew. He was keenly curious to hear its end: whether Dangle, having obtained the cipher, had read it, and what was the nature of the proposal the man was about to make.

“Next day I approached Price on the matter. I said I had involuntarily overheard what Schulz had told him, and as the affair was so huge, asked him to take me into it with him. As a matter of fact I thought then, and think now, that the job was too big for one person to handle. However, Price cut up rough about it: wouldn’t have me as a partner on any terms and accused me of eavesdropping. I told him to go to hell and we parted on bad terms. I found out—I may as well admit by looking through the letters in his cabin while he was on duty—that he had sent the packet to you, and when I had made inquiries about you I was able to guess his motive. You, humanly speaking, were a safe life; you were invalided out of the service. He would send the secret to you to keep for him till after the war or to use as you thought best if he were knocked out.

“You will understand, Mr. Cheyne, that though keenly interested in the whole affair, while I was in the service I couldn’t make any move in it. But directly I was demobbed I began to make inquiries. I found you were living at Dartmouth, and it was evident from your way of life that you hadn’t exploited the secret. Then I found out about Price, learned that he was on one of the Bombay-Basrah troopships and that though he had applied to be demobbed there were official delays. The next thing I heard about him was that he had disappeared. You knew that?” Dangle seemed to have been expecting the other to show surprise.

“Yes, I knew it. I learned it at the same time that I learned St. John Price was a myth.”

“Well, it’s quite true. He left his ship at Bombay on a few days’ leave to pay a visit up country and was never heard of again. Presumably he is dead. And now, Mr. Cheyne,” Dangle shifted uneasily in his seat and glanced deprecatingly at the other, “now I come to a part of my story which I should be glad to omit. But I must tell you everything so that you may be in a position to decide on the proposal I’m going to make. At the time I was financially in very low water. My job had not been kept for me and I couldn’t get another. I was pretty badly hit, and worse still, I had taken to gambling in the desperate hope of getting some ready money. One night I had been treated on an empty stomach, and being upset from the drink, I plunged more than all my remaining capital. I lost, and then I was down and out, owing fairly large sums to two men—Blessington and Sime. In despair I told them of Schulz’s discovery. They leaped at it and said that if my sister Susan and myself would join in an attempt to get hold of the secret they would not only cancel the debts, but would offer us a square deal and share and share alike. Well, I shouldn’t have agreed, of course, but—well, I did. It was naturally the pressure they brought to bear that made me do it, but it was also partly due to my resentment at the way Price had turned me down. We thought that as far as you were concerned, you were probably expecting nothing and would therefore suffer no disappointment, and we agreed unanimously to send both Frau Schulz and Mrs. Price equal shares with ourselves. I don’t pretend any of us were right, Mr. Cheyne, but that’s what happened.”

“I can understand it very well,” said Cheyne. He was always generous to a fault and this frank avowal had mollified his wrath. “But you haven’t told me if you read the cipher.”

“I’m coming to that,” Dangle returned. “We laid our plans for getting hold of the package and with some forged references Susan got a job as servant in your house. She told us that so far as she could see the package would either be about your person or in your safe, and as she couldn’t ascertain the point we laid our plans to find out. As you know, they drew blank, and then we devised the plant on the Enid. That worked, but you nearly turned the tables on us in Hopefield Avenue. How you traced us I can’t imagine, and I hope later on you’ll tell me. That night we didn’t know whether we had killed you or not. We didn’t want to and hadn’t meant to, but we might easily have done so. When your body was not found in the morning we became panicky and cleared out. Then there came your attempt of last night. But for an accident it would have succeeded. Now we have come to the conclusion that you are too clever and determined to have you for an enemy. We are accordingly faced with an alternative. Either we must murder you and Miss Merrill or we must get you on to our side. The first we all shrink from, though”—and here Dangle’s eye showed a nasty gleam—“if it was that or our failure we shouldn’t hesitate, but the second is what we should all prefer. In short, Mr. Cheyne, will you and Miss Merrill join us in trading Schulz’s secret: all, including Frau Schulz and Mrs. Price, to share equally? We think that’s a fair offer and we extremely hope you won’t turn us down.”

“You haven’t told me if you’ve read the cipher.”

“I forgot that. I’m sorry to say that we have not, and that’s another reason we want you and Miss Merrill. We want two fresh brains on it. But the covering letter shows that the secret is in the cipher and it must be possible to read it.”

Cheyne did not reply as he sat considering this unexpected move. If he were satisfied as to Arnold Price’s death and if the quartet had been trustworthy he would not have hesitated. Frau Schulz would get her eighth and Mrs. Price would get a quite unexpected windfall. Moreover, the people who worked the invention were entitled to some return for their trouble. No, the proposal was reasonable; in fact it was too reasonable. It was more reasonable than he would have expected from people who had already acted as these four had done. He found it impossible to trust in their bona fides. He would like to have Joan Merrill’s views before replying. He therefore temporized.

“Your proposal is certainly attractive,” he said, “but before coming to a conclusion Miss Merrill must be consulted. She would be a party to it, same as myself. Suppose we go out and see her now, and then I will give you my answer.”

Dangle’s face took on a graver expression.

“I’m afraid you can’t do that,” he answered slowly. “You see, there is more in it than I have told you, though I hoped to avoid this side of it. Please put yourself in our place. I come to you with this offer. I don’t know whether you will accept it or turn it down. If you turn it down there is nothing to prevent you, with the information I have just given you, going to the police and claiming the whole secret and prosecuting us. Whether you would be likely to win your case wouldn’t matter. You might, and that would be too big a risk for us. We have therefore in self-defense had to take precautions. And the precautions we have taken are these. Earlswood has been evacuated. Just as we left Hopefield Avenue so we have left Dalton Road. Our party—and Miss Merrill”—he slightly stressed the “and” and in his voice Cheyne sensed a veiled threat—“have taken up their quarters at another house some distance from town. In self-defense we must have your acceptance before further negotiations take place. You must see this for yourself.”

“And if I refuse?”

Dangle lowered his voice and spoke very earnestly.

“Mr. Cheyne, if you refuse you will never see Miss Merrill alive!”

Chapter XII.
In the Enemy’s Lair

With some difficulty Cheyne overcame a sudden urge to leap at his companion’s throat.

“You infernal scoundrel!” he cried thickly. “Injure a hair of Miss Merrill’s head and you and your confounded friends will hang! I’ll go to Scotland Yard. Do you think I mind about myself?”

Dangle gave a cheery smile.

“Right, Mr. Cheyne,” he answered Lid “by all means. Just do go to Scotland Yard and make your complaint. And what are you going to tell them? That Miss Merrill is in the hands of a dangerous gang of ruffians, and must be rescued immediately? And the present address of this gang is—?” He looked quizzically at the other. “I don’t think so. I’m afraid Scotland Yard would be too slow for you. You see, my friends are waiting for a telephone message from me. If that is not received or if it is unsatisfactory—well, don’t let us discuss unpleasant topics, but Miss Merrill will be very, very sorry.”

Cheyne choked with rage, but for the moment he found himself unable to reply. That he was being bluffed he had no doubt, and in any other circumstances he would have taken a stronger line. But where Joan Merrill was concerned he could run no risks. It was evident that she really was in the power of the gang. Dangle could not possibly have known about the throwing of the tracing over the wall unless he really had found her as he had described.

A very short cogitation convinced Cheyne that these people had him in their toils. Application to Scotland Yard would be useless. No doubt the police could find the conspirators, but they could not find them in time. So far as retaliation or a constructive policy was concerned, he saw that he was down and out.

His thoughts turned to the proposal Dangle had made him. It was certainly fair—too fair, he still thought—but if it was a genuine offer, he need have no qualms about accepting it. Frau Schulz, Mrs. Price, Joan and himself were all promised shares of the profits. A clause could be put in covering Price, if he afterwards turned out to be alive. The gang might be a crowd of sharpers and thieves—so at least the melancholy Speedwell had said—but, as Cheyne came to look at it, they had not really broken the law to a much greater extent than he had himself. His case to the authorities—suppose he were to lay it before them—would not be so overwhelmingly clear. Something could be said for—or rather against—both sides.

If he had to give way he might as well give way with a good grace. He therefore choked down his rage, and turning to Dangle, said quietly:

“I see you’ve won this trick. I’ll accept your offer and go with you.”

Dangle, evidently delighted, sprang to his feet.

“Splendid, Mr. Cheyne,” he cried warmly, holding out his hand. “Shake hands, won’t you? You’ll not repent your action, I promise you.”

But this was too much for Cheyne.

“No,” he declared. “Not yet. You haven’t satisfied me of your bona fides. I’m sorry, but you have only yourselves to thank. When I find Miss Merrill at liberty and see Schulz’s cipher, I’ll be satisfied, and then I will join with you and give you all the help I can.”

Dangle seemed rather dashed, but he laughed shortly as he answered: “I suppose we deserve that after all. But you will soon be convinced. There is just a formality to be gone through before we start. Though you may not believe my word, we believe yours, and we have agreed that all that we want before taking you further into our confidence, is that you swear an oath of loyalty to us. You won’t object to that, I presume?”

Cheyne hesitated, then he said:

“I swear on my sacred honor that I will loyally abide by the spirit of the agreement which you have outlined in so far as you and your friends act loyally to me and to Miss Merrill, and to that extent only.”

“That’s reasonable, and good enough,” Dangle commented. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and phone to the others. You will understand,” he explained on his return, “that my friends are some distance away from Wembley, and it will therefore take them a little time to get in. If they start now they will be there as soon as we are.”

It was getting towards ten o’clock when Cheyne and Dangle turned into the gateway of Earlswood. A yellow car stood at the footpath, at sight of which Dangle exclaimed: “See, they’ve arrived.” His ring brought Blessington to the door, and the latter greeted Cheyne apologetically, but with the same charm of manner that he had displayed in the Edgecombe Hotel at Plymouth.

“I do hope, Mr. Cheyne,” he declared, “that even after all that has passed, we may yet be friends. We admire the way you have fought your corner, and we feel that what we both up to the present have failed to do may well be accomplished if we unite our forces. Come in and see if you can make friends with Sime.”

“I came to see Miss Merrill,” Cheyne answered shortly. “If Miss Merrill is not produced and allowed to go without restraint our agreement is non est.”

“Naturally,” Blessington returned smoothly. “We understand that that is a sine qua non. And so Miss Merrill will be produced. She is not here; she is at our house in the country in charge of Miss Dangle, and that for two reasons. The first is this. She met with, as doubtless you know, a trifling accident last night, and her ankle being a little painful, she was kept awake for some time. This morning when we left she was still asleep. We did not therefore disturb her. That you will appreciate, Mr. Cheyne, and the other reason you will appreciate equally. We had to satisfy ourselves by a personal interview that you really meant to give us a square deal.” He raised his hand as Cheyne would have spoken. “There’s nothing in that to which you need take exception. It is an ordinary business precaution—nothing more or less.”

“And when will Miss Merrill be set at liberty?”

“While I don’t admit the justice of the phrase, I may say that as soon as we have all mutually pledged ourselves to play the game I will take the car back to the other house, and when Miss Merrill has taken the same oath will drive her to her studio. Perhaps you would write her a note that you have sworn it, as she mightn’t believe me. There are a few preliminaries to be arranged with Dangle and Sime can fix up with you. If you are at the studio at midday you will be in time to welcome Miss Merrill.”

This did not meet with Cheyne’s approval. He wished to go himself to the mysterious house with Blessington, but the latter politely but firmly conveyed to him that he had not yet irrevocably committed himself on their side, and until he had done so they could not give away their best chance of escape should the police become interested in their movements. Cheyne argued with some bitterness, but the other side held the trumps, and he was obliged to give way.

This point settled, nothing could have exceeded the easy friendliness of the trio. If Arnold Price were alive he would share equally with the rest. Would Mr. Cheyne come to the study while the formalities were got through? Did he consider this oath—typewritten—would meet the case? Well, they would take it first, binding themselves individually to each other and to him. Each of the three swore loyalty to the remaining quintet, the oaths of Joan Merrill and Susan being assumed for the moment. Then Cheyne swore and they all solemnly shook hands.

“Now that’s done, Mr. Cheyne, we’ll prove our confidence in you by showing you the cipher. But first perhaps you would write to Miss Merrill. Also if any point is not quite clear to you please do not hesitate to question us.”

Cheyne was by no means enamored of the way things had turned out. He had been forced into an association with men with whom he had little in common and whom he did not trust. Had it not been for the trump card they held in the person of Joan Merrill nothing would have induced him to throw in his lot with them. But now, contingent on their good faith to him, he had pledged his word, and though he was not sure how far an enforced pledge was binding, he felt that as long as they kept their part of the bargain, he must keep his. He therefore wrote his letter, and then turning to Blessington, answered him civilly:

“There is one thing I should like to know; I have thought about it many times. How did you drug me in that hotel in Plymouth without my knowledge and without leaving any traces in the food?”

Blessington smiled.

“I’ll tell you that with pleasure, Mr. Cheyne,” he answered readily, “but I confess I am surprised that a man of your acumen was puzzled by it. It depended upon prearrangement, and given that, was perfectly simple. I provided myself with the drug—if you don’t mind I won’t say how, as I might get someone else into trouble—but I got a small phial of it. I also took two other small bottles, one full of clean water, the other empty, together with a small cloth. Also I took my Extra Special Flask. Sime, like a good fellow, get my flask out of the drawer of my wrecked escritoire.” He smiled ruefully at Cheyne. “Then I prepared for our lunch: the private room, the menu and all complete. I told them at the hotel we had some business to arrange, and that we didn’t want to be disturbed after lunch. You know, of course, that I got all details of your movements from Miss Dangle?”

“Yes, I understand that.”

As Cheyne spoke Sime re-entered the room, putting down on the table the flask which had figured in the scene at the hotel. Blessington handed it to Cheyne.

“Examine that flask, Mr. Cheyne,” he invited. “Do you see anything remarkable about it?”

It seemed an ordinary silver pocket flask, square and flat, and with a screw-down silver stopper. It was chased on both sides with a plain but rather pleasing design, and the base was flat so that it would stand securely. But Cheyne could see nothing about it in any way unusual.

“Open it,” Blessington suggested.

Cheyne unscrewed the stopper and looked down the neck, but except that there was a curious projection at one side, which reduced the passage down to half the usual size, it seemed as other flasks. Blessington laughed.