The Cheyne Mystery

by Freeman Wills Crofts



Contents

  1  The Episode in the Plymouth Hotel
  2  Burglary!
  3  The Launch “Enid”
  4  Concerning a Peerage
  5  An Amateur Sleuth
  6  The House in Hopefield Avenue
  7  Miss Joan Merrill
  8  A Council of War
  9  Mr. Speedwell Plays His Hand
 10  The New Firm Gets Busy
 11  Otto Schulz’s Secret
 12  In the Enemy’s Lair
 13  Inspector French Takes Charge
 14  The Clue of the Clay-marked Shoe
 15  The Torn Hotel Bill
 16  A Tale of Two Cities
 17  On the Flood Tide
 18  A Visitor from India
 19  The Message of the Tracing
 20  The Goal of the “L’Escaut”



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.

[Illustration: Two diagrams of a flask, divided down the middle and
containing liquids in both parts. In the second diagram, the flask is
tipped, and liquid pours from the right half only.]

“Look here,” he said, and seizing a scrap of paper, he drew the two
sketches which I reproduce. “The flask is divided down the middle by a
diaphragm _C_, so as to form two chambers, _A_ and _B_. In these
chambers are put two liquids, of which one is drugged and the other
isn’t. _E_ and _F_ are two half diaphragms, and _D_ is a very light
and delicately fitted flap valve which will close the passage to
either chamber. When you invert the flask, the liquid in the upper or
_B_ chamber runs out along diaphragm _C_, and its weight turns over
valve D so that the passage to _A_ chamber is closed. The liquid from
_B_ then pours out in the ordinary way. The liquid in _A_, however,
cannot escape, because it is caught by the diaphragm _F_. If you want
to pour out the liquid from _A_ you simply turn the flask upside down,
when the conditions as to the two liquids are reversed. You probably
didn’t notice that I used the flask in this way at our lunch. You may
remember that I poured out your liqueur first—it was drugged, of
course. Then I got a convenient fit of coughing. That gave me an
excuse to set down the flask and pick it up again, but when I picked
it up I was careful to do so by the other side, so that undrugged
liqueur poured into my own cup. I drank my coffee at once to reassure
you. Simple, wasn’t it?”

“More than simple,” Cheyne answered with unwilling admiration in his
tone. “A dangerous toy, but I admit, deuced ingenious. But I don’t
follow even yet. That would have left the drugged remains in the cup.”

“Quite so, but you have forgotten my other two bottles and my cloth. I
poured the dregs from your cup into the empty bottle, washed the cup
with water from the other, wiped it with my cloth, poured out another
cup of coffee and drank it, leaving harmless grounds for any
inquisitive analyst to experiment with.”

“By Jove!” said Cheyne, then adding regretfully: “If we had only tried
the handle of the cup for fingerprints!”

“I put gloves on after you went over.”

Cheyne smiled.

“You deserved to succeed,” he admitted ruefully.

“I succeeded in drugging you,” Blessington answered, “but I did not
succeed in getting what I wanted. Now, Mr. Cheyne, you would like to
see the tracing. Show it to him, Dangle, while I go back to the other
house for Miss Merrill.”

Dangle left the room, returning presently with the blue-gray sheet
which had been the pivot upon which all the strange adventures of the
little company had turned. Cheyne saw at a glance it was the tracing
which he had secured in the upper room in the house in Hopefield
Avenue. There in the corners were the holes made by the drawing-pins
which had fixed it to the door while it was being photographed. There
were the irregularly spaced circles, with their letters and numbers,
and there, written clockwise in a large circle, the words: “England
expects every man to do his duty.” Cheyne gazed at it with interest,
while Dangle and Sime sat watching him. What on earth could it mean?
He pondered awhile, then turned to his companions.

“Have you not been able to read any of it?” he queried.

Dangle shook his head.

“Not so much as a single word—not a letter even!” he declared. “I tell
you, Mr. Cheyne, it’s a regular sneezer! I wouldn’t like to say how
many hours we’ve spent—all of us—working at it. And I don’t think
there’s a book on ciphers in the whole of London that we haven’t read.
And not a glimmer of light from any of them! Blessington had a theory
that each of these circles was intended to represent one or more
atoms, according to the number it contained, and that certain circles
could be grouped to make molecules of the various substances that were
to be mixed with the copper. I never could quite understand his idea,
but in any case all our work hasn’t helped us to find them. The truth
is that we’re stale. We want a fresh brain on it, and particularly a
woman’s brain. Sometimes a woman’s intuition will lead her to a lucky
guess. We hope it may in this case.”

He paused, then went on again: “Another thing we tried was this.
Suppose that by some system of numerical substitution each of these
numbers represents a letter. Then groups of these letters together
with the letters already in the circles should represent words. Of
course it is difficult to group them, though we tried again and again.
At first the idea seemed promising, but we could make nothing of it.
We couldn’t find any system either of substitution or of grouping
which would give a glimmering of sense. No, we’re up against it and no
mistake, and when we think of the issues involved we go nearly mad
from exasperation. Take the thing, Mr. Cheyne, and see what you and
Miss Merrill can do. That is the original, but I have made a tracing
of it, so that we can continue our work simultaneously.”

Cheyne felt himself extraordinarily thrilled by this recital, and the
more he examined the mysterious markings on the sheet the more
interested he grew. He had always had a _penchant_ for puzzles, and
ciphers appealed to him as being perhaps the most alluring kind of
puzzles extant. Particularly did this cipher attract him because of
the circumstances under which it had been brought to his notice. He
longed to get to grips with it, and he looked forward with keen
delight to a long afternoon and evening over it with Joan Merrill,
whose interest in it would, he felt sure, be no whit less than his
own.

Certainly, he thought, his former enemies had made a good beginning.
So far they were playing the game, and he began to wonder if he had
not to some extent misjudged them, and if the evil characters given
them by the gloomy Speedwell were not tinged by that despondent
individual’s jaundiced outlook on life in general.

Dangle had left the room, and he now returned with a bottle of whisky
and a box of cigars.

“A drink and a cigar to cement our alliance, Mr. Cheyne,” he proposed,
“and then I think our business will be done.”

Cheyne hesitated, while a vision of the private room in the Edgecombe
Hotel rose in his memory. Dangle read his thoughts, for he smiled and
went on:

“I see you don’t quite trust us yet, and I don’t know that I can blame
you. But we really are all right this time. Examine these tumblers and
then pour out the stuff yourself, and we’ll drink ours first. We must
get you convinced of our goodwill.”

Cheyne hesitated, but Dangle insisting, he demonstrated to his
satisfaction that his companions drank the same mixture as himself.
Then Dangle opened the cigar box.

“These are specially good, though I say it myself. The box was given
to Blessington by a rich West Indian planter. We only smoke them on
state occasions, such as the present. Won’t you take one?”

Cheyne felt it would be churlish to refuse, and soon the three were
puffing such tobacco as Cheyne at all events had seldom before smoked.
Sime then excused himself, explaining that though business might be
neglected it could not be entirely ignored, and Cheyne, thereupon
taking the hint, said that he too must be off.

“Tomorrow we shall be kept late in town,” Dangle explained, as they
stood on the doorstep, “but the next evening we shall be here. Will
you and Miss Merrill come down and report progress, and let us have a
council of war?”

Cheyne agreed and was turning away, when Dangle made a sudden gesture.

“By George! I was forgetting,” he cried. “Wait a second, Mr. Cheyne.”

He disappeared back into the house, returning a moment later with a
small purse, which he handed to Cheyne.

“Do you happen to know if that is Miss Merrill’s?” he inquired. “It
was found beside the chair in which we placed her last night when we
carried her in.”

Cheyne recognized the article at once. He had frequently seen Joan use
it.

“Yes, it’s hers,” he answered, to which Dangle replied asking if he
would take it for her.

Cheyne slipped the purse into his pocket, and next moment he was
walking along Dalton Road towards the station, free, well, and with
the tracing in his pocket. Until that moment, in the inner recesses of
his consciousness doubt of the _bona fides_ of the trio had lingered.
Until then the fear that he was to be the victim of some plausible
trick had dwelt in his heart. But now at last he was convinced. Had
the men desired to harm him they had had a perfect opportunity. He had
been for the last hour entirely in their power. No one knew where he
had gone, and they could with the greatest ease have murdered him, and
either hidden his body about the house or garden or removed it in the
car during the night. Yes, this time he believed their story. It was
eminently reasonable, and as a matter of fact, it had been pretty well
proved by their actions, as well as by the facts that he had learned
at the Admiralty and elsewhere. They were at a standstill because they
couldn’t read the cipher, and they really did want, as they said, the
help of his and Joan’s fresh brains. From their point of view they had
done a wise thing in thus approaching him—indeed, a masterly thing.
Cheyne was not conceited and he did not consider his own mental powers
phenomenal, but he knew he was good at puzzles, and at the very least,
he and Joan were of average intelligence. Moreover, they were the only
other persons who knew of the cipher, and it was the soundest strategy
to turn their antagonism into cooperation.

He reached North Wembley to find a train about to start for Town, and
some half hour later he was walking up the platform at Euston. He
looked at his watch. It was barely eleven. An hour would elapse before
Joan would reach her rooms, and that meant that he had more than half
an hour to while away before going to meet her. It occurred to him
that in his excitement he had forgotten to breakfast, and though he
was not hungry, he thought another cup of coffee would not be
unacceptable. Moreover, he could at the same time have a look over the
cipher. He therefore went to the refreshment room, gave his order, and
sat down at a table in a secluded corner. Then drawing the mysterious
sheet from his pocket, he began to examine it.

As he leaned forward over his coffee he felt Joan’s purse in his
pocket, and suddenly fearful lest in his eagerness to tell her his
experiences he should forget to give it to her, he took it out and
laid it on the table, intending to carry it in his hand until he met
her. Then he returned to his study of the tracing.

There are those who tell us that in this world there are no trifles:
that every event, however unimportant it may appear, is preordained
and weighty as every other. On this bright spring morning in the first
class refreshment room at Euston, Cheyne was to meet with a
demonstration of the truth of this assertion which left him marveling
and humbly thankful. For there took place what seemed to be a trifling
thing, and yet that trifle proved to be the most important event that
had ever taken place, or was to take place, in his life.

When he took his first sip of coffee he found that he had forgotten to
put sugar in it, and when he looked at the sugar bowl he saw that by
the merest chance it was empty. An empty sugar bowl. A trifle that, if
ever there was one! And yet nothing of more supreme moment had ever
happened to Cheyne than the finding of that empty bowl on his table at
that moment.

The sugar bowl, then, being empty, he picked it up with his free hand
and carried it across to the counter to ask the barmaid to fill it.
Scarcely had he done so when there came from behind him an appalling
explosion. There was a reverberating crash mingled with the tinkle of
falling glass, while a sharp blast of air swept past him, laden with
the pungent smell of some burned chemical. He wheeled round, the
shrill screams of the barmaids in his ears, to see the corner of the
room where he had been sitting, in complete wreckage. Through a fog of
smoke and dust he saw that his table and chair were nonexistent,
neighboring tables and chairs were overturned, the window was gone,
hat-racks, pictures, wall advertisements were heaped in broken and
torn confusion, while over all was spread a coat of plaster which had
been torn from the wall. On the floor lay a man who had been seated at
an adjoining table, the only other occupant of that part of the room.

For a moment no one moved, and then there came a rush of feet from
without, and a number of persons burst into the room. Porters, ticket
collectors, a guard, and several members of the public came crowding
in, staring with round eyes and open mouths at the debris. Eager hands
helped to raise the prostrate man, who appeared to be more or less
seriously injured, while hurried questions were bandied from lip to
lip.

It did not need the barmaid’s half hysterical cry: “Why, it was your
purse; I saw it go,” to make clear to Cheyne what had happened, and as
he grasped the situation his heart melted within him and a great fear
took possession of his mind. Once again these dastardly scoundrels had
hoaxed him! Their oaths, their protestations of friendship, their talk
of an alliance—all were a sham! They were out to murder him. The purse
they had evidently stolen from Joan, filling it with explosives, with
some time agent—probably chemical—to make it go off at the proper
moment. They had given it to him under conditions which made it a
practical certainty that at that moment it would be in his pocket,
when he would be blown to pieces without leaving any clue as to the
agency which had wrought his destruction. He suddenly felt sick as he
thought of the whole hideous business.

But it was not contemplation of the fate he had so narrowly escaped
that sent his heart leaping into his throat in deadly panic. If these
unspeakable ruffians had tried to murder him with their hellish
explosives, what about Joan Merrill? All the talk about driving her
back to her rooms must have been mere eyewash. She must be in deadly
peril—if it was not too late: if she was not already—Merciful Heaven,
he could not frame the thought!—if she was not already _dead_! He
burst into a cold sweat, as the idea burned itself into his
consciousness. And then suddenly he knew the reason. He loved her! He
loved this girl who had saved his life and who had already proved
herself such a splendid comrade and helpmeet. His own life, the
wretched secret, the miserable pursuit of wealth, victory over the
gang—what were these worth? They were forgotten—they were nothing—they
were less than nothing! It was Joan and Joan’s safety that filled his
mind. “Oh, God,” he murmured in an agony, “save her, save her! No
matter about anything else, only save her!”

He stood, leaning against the counter, overcome with these thoughts.
Then the need for immediate action brought him to his senses. Perhaps
it was not too late. Perhaps something might yet be done. Scotland
Yard! That was his only hope. Instantly he must go to Scotland Yard
and implore the help of the authorities.

He glanced round. Persons in authority were entering and pushing to
the front of the now dense crowd. That surely was the stationmaster,
and there was a policeman. Cheyne did not want to be detained to
answer questions. He slipped rapidly into the throng, and by making
way for those behind to press forward, soon found himself on its
outskirts. In a few seconds he was on the platform and in a couple of
minutes he was in a taxi driving towards Westminster as fast as a
promise of double fare could take him.

He raced into the great building on the Embankment and rather
incoherently stated his business. He was asked to sit down, and after
waiting what seemed to him interminable ages, but what was really
something under five minutes, he was told that Inspector French would
see him. Would he please come this way.



Chapter XIII

Inspector French Takes Charge

Cheyne was ushered into a small, plainly furnished room, in which at a
table-desk was seated a rather stout, clean-shaven man with a
cheerful, good humored face and the suggestion of a twinkle about his
eye. He stood up as Cheyne entered, looked him over critically with a
pair of very keen dark blue eyes, and then smiled.

“Mr. Maxwell Cheyne?” he said genially. “I am Inspector French. You
wish to consult us? Now just sit down there and tell me your trouble,
and we’ll do what we can for you.”

His manner was kindly and pleasant and did much to set Cheyne at his
ease. The young man had been rather dreading his visit, expecting to
be met with the harsh, incredulous, unsympathetic attitude of
officialdom. But this inspector, with his easy manners, and his
apparently human outlook, was quite different from his anticipation.
He felt drawn to him and realized with relief that at least he would
get a sympathetic hearing.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to speak calmly. “It’s very good of you,
I’m sure. I’m in great trouble—not about myself, that is, but about
my—my friend, a lady, Miss Joan Merrill. I’m afraid she is in terrible
danger, if indeed it is not too late.”

“Tell me the details.” The man was all attention, and his quiet
decisive manner induced confidence.

Curbing his impatience, Cheyne related his adventures. In the briefest
outline he told of the drugging in the Plymouth hotel, of the burglary
at Warren Lodge, of his involuntary trip on the _Enid_, of his journey
to London and his adventure in the house in Hopefield Avenue. Then he
described Joan Merrill’s welcome intervention, his convalescence in
the hospital, the compact between himself and Joan, his visit to
Speedwell, and his burglary of Earlswood. He recounted Dangle’s
appearance as an envoy, the meeting with the gang, and the explosion
at Euston, and finally voiced the terrible suggestion which this
latter contained as to the possible fate of Joan.

Inspector French listened to his recital with an appearance of the
keenest interest.

“You have certainly had an unusual experience, Mr. Cheyne,” he
remarked. “I don’t know that I can recall a similar case. Now I think
we may take it that Miss Merrill’s safety is our first concern. We
shall go out to this house, Earlswood, and see if we can learn
anything about her there. The other activities of the gang must wait.
Excuse me a moment.” He gave some orders through his desk telephone,
resuming: “I should think the house has probably been vacated: these
people would cover their traces until they learned from the papers
that you had been killed. However, we’ll soon know that. Wait here
until I arrange about warrants, and then we’ll start.”

He disappeared for some minutes, while Cheyne fretted and chafed and
tried to control his impatience. Then he returned, and slipping an
automatic pistol into his pocket, invited Cheyne to follow him.

He led the way downstairs and out into a courtyard in the great
building. Two motorcars were just drawing up at the curb, while at the
same moment no less than eight plain clothes men appeared from another
door. The party having taken their places, the two vehicles slid out
through a covered way into the traffic of the town.

“We shall go round to Chelsea first,” French explained, “and make sure
there is no news of Miss Merrill.”

As they ran quickly through the busy streets, French asked a series of
questions on points of Cheyne’s statement upon which he desired
further information. “If this trip draws blank, as I fear it will,” he
observed, “I shall want you to tell me your story again, this time
with all the detail you can possibly put into it. For the moment
there’s not time for that.”

At Horne Terrace there was no trace or tidings of Joan. It was by this
time half past twelve, half an hour after the time at which
Blessington had promised she should be there, and Cheyne felt all his
forebodings confirmed. But he was not surprised, feeling but the more
eager to push on to Wembley.

On the way French made him draw a sketch map of the position of
Earlswood, and on nearing his goal he stopped the cars, and calling
his men together, explained exactly what was to be done. Then telling
Cheyne to sit with the driver and direct him to the front gate, they
again mounted and went forward. At a good rate they swung into Dalton
Road, and Cheyne pointing the way, his car stopped at the gate, while
the other ran on down the cross-road to the lane at the back. The men
sprang out, and in less time than it takes to tell, the house was
surrounded.

Cheyne followed French as he hurried up to the door and gave a
thundering knock. There was no answer, and walking round the house,
the two men examined the windows. These being all fastened, French
turned his attention to the back door, and after two or three minutes’
work with a bunch of skeleton keys the bolt shot back, and followed by
Cheyne and two of his men, he entered the house.

A short search revealed the fact that the birds had flown, hurriedly,
it seemed, as everything had been left exactly as during Cheyne’s
visit. On the table in the sitting room stood the glasses from which
they had drunk their whisky, the box of cigars lay open beside them
and the chairs were still drawn up to the table. But there was no sign
of Sime or Dangle, and a hurried look round revealed no clue to their
whereabouts.

“I feared as much,” French commented, as he sent a constable to call
in the men who were surrounding the house, “but we have still two
strings to our bow.” He turned to the others, and rapidly gave his
orders. “You, Hinckston and Tucker, remain here and arrest any one who
enters this house. Simmons, go to Locke Street, off Southampton Row,
and find Speedwell, of Horton & Lavender’s Detective Agency. You know
him, don’t you? Well, find him and tell him this affair has developed
into attempted murder and abduction, and ask him can he give any
information to the Yard. Tell him I’m in charge. The rest of you come
with me to—what did Speedwell give you as Sime’s address, Mr.
Cheyne? . . . All right, I have it here—to 12 Colton Street, Putney.
We shall carry out the same plan there, surround the house, and then
enter and search it. All got that? Come along, Mr. Cheyne.”

They hurried back to the cars and were soon running—somewhat over the
legal speed—back to town. French, though he had shown energy enough at
Earlswood, was willing to chat now in a pleasant, leisurely way,
though he continued to interlard his remarks with questions on the
details of Cheyne’s story. Then he took over the tracing, and examined
it curiously. “I’ll have a go at this later,” he said, as he put it in
his pocket, “but I can scarcely believe they would have given you the
genuine article.”

Cheyne would have questioned this opinion, reminding his companion he
had seen the tracing pinned up to be photographed in the house in
Hopefield Avenue, but just then they swung into Colton Street, and the
time for conversation had passed. Contrary to his expectation they ran
past No. 12 without slackening, turned down the first side street
beyond it, and there came to a stand.

“There’s the end of the passage behind the house,” French pointed when
his men had dismounted. “Carter and Jones and Marshall go down there
and watch the back. No doubt you counted and know it’s the eighth
house. You other two men and you, Mr. Cheyne, come with me.”

He turned back into Colton Street and with his three followers strode
rapidly up to No. 12. It was like its neighbors, a small two-storied
single terrace house of old-fashioned design. Indeed the narrow road,
with its two grimy rows of almost working-class dwellings, seemed more
like one of those terrible streets built in the last century in the
slum districts of provincial towns, than a bit of mid-London.

A peremptory knock from French producing no result, he had once more
recourse to his skeleton keys. This door was easier to negotiate than
the last, and in less than a minute it swung open and the four men
entered the house.

On the right of the hall was a tiny sitting room, and there they found
the remains of what appeared to have been a hastily prepared meal.
Four chairs were drawn up to the small central table, on which were
part of a loaf, butter, an empty sardine tin, egg shells, two cups
containing tea leaves and two glasses smelling of whisky. French put
his hand on the teapot. “Feel that, Mr. Cheyne,” he exclaimed. “They
can’t be far away.”

The teapot was warm, and when Cheyne looked into the kitchen
adjoining, he found that the kettle on the gas ring was also warm,
though the ring itself had grown cold. If the four lunchers were
Blessington and Co., as seemed indubitable, they must indeed be close
by, and Cheyne grew hot with eager excitement as he thought that
French and he might be within reasonable sight of their goal.

Meanwhile French and his men had carried out a rapid search of the
house, without result except to prove that once more the birds had
flown. But as to the direction which their flight had taken there was
no clue.

“I don’t expect we’ll see them back,” French said to Cheyne, “but we
must take no chances.” He turned to his men. “Jones and Marshall, stay
here in the house and arrest any one who enters. You, Carter, make
inquiries in these houses to the right, and you, Hobbs, do the same to
the left. Come, Mr. Cheyne, you and I will try the other side of the
street.”

They crossed to the house opposite, and French knocked. The door was
opened by a young woman who seemed thrilled by French’s statement that
he was a police officer making inquiries about the occupiers of No.
12, but who was unable to give him any useful information about them.
A man lived there—she believed his name was Sime—but she did not know
either himself or anything about him. No, she hadn’t seen any recent
arrivals or departures. She had been engaged at the back of the house
during the whole morning and had not looked out across the street.
Yes, she believed Sime lived alone except for an elderly housekeeper.
As far as she knew he was quite respectable, at least she had never
heard anything against him.

Politely thanking her, French tried the next house. Here he found a
small girl who said she had looked out some half an hour previously
and had seen a yellow motor standing before No. 12. But she had not
seen it arrive or depart, nor anyone get in or out.

French tried five houses without result, but at the sixth he had a
stroke of luck.

In this house it appeared that there was a chronic invalid, a sister
of the woman who opened the door. This poor creature was confined
permanently to bed, and in the hope of relieving the tedium of the
days, she had had the bed drawn close to her window, so as to extract
what amusement she could from the life of the street. If there had
been any unusual happenings in front of No. 12, she would certainly
have witnessed them. Yes, the woman was sure her sister would see the
visitors.

“Lucky chance, that,” French said, as they waited to know if they
might go up. “If this woman’s eyes and brain are unaffected she’ll
have become an accurate observer, and we’ll probably learn all there
is to know.”

In a moment the sister appeared beckoning, and going upstairs they
found in a small front room a bed drawn up to the window, in which lay
a superior looking elderly woman with a pale patient face, lined by
suffering, in which shone a pair of large dark intelligent eyes. She
was propped up the better to see out, and her face lighted up with
interest at her unexpected callers, as she laid down among the books
on the coverlet an intricate looking piece of fancy sewing.

Inspector French bowed to her.

“I’d like to say how much I appreciate your kindness in letting us
come up, madam,” he said with his pleasant kindly smile, “but when you
hear that we are trying to find a young lady who we fear has been
kidnaped, I am sure you will be glad to help us. The matter is
connected with No. 12 opposite. Can you tell me if any persons arrived
or left it this morning?”

“Oh, yes, I can,” the invalid replied in cultivated tones—a lady born,
though fallen on evil days, thought Cheyne—“I like to watch the people
passing and I did notice arrivals and departures at No. 12. About, let
me see—half past eleven, or perhaps a minute or two later a motor
drove up to No. 12, a yellow car, fair size and covered in. Three men
got out and went into the house. One was Mr. Sime, who lives there,
the others I didn’t know. Mr. Sime opened the door with his latch-key.
In a couple of minutes one of the strangers came out again, got into
the car, and drove off.”

“That the car you saw outside Earlswood, Mr. Cheyne?” asked French.

“Certain to be,” Cheyne nodded. “It was a yellow covered-in car of
medium size, No. XL7305.”

“I didn’t observe the number,” the lady remarked. “The bonnet was
facing towards me.”

“What was the driver like, madam?” queried Cheyne.

“One of Mr. Sime’s companions drove. He was short and rather stout,
with a round face, and what, I believe, is called a toothbrush
mustache.”

“That’s Blessington all right. And was the third man of medium height
and build, with a clean-shaven, somewhat rugged face?”

“Yes, that exactly describes him.”

“And that’s Dangle. There’s no question about the party, Inspector.”

“None. Then, madam, you saw—?”

“That, as I said, was about half-past eleven. About half-past one the
man you have called Blessington came back with the car. He got out,
left it, and went into the house. In about a quarter of an hour he
came out again and started his engine. Then the other two men
followed, assisting a young lady who appeared to be very weak and ill.
She seemed scarcely able to walk, and they almost carried her. Another
girl followed, who drew the door of the house after her.”

Cheyne started on hearing these words, and looked with an agonized
expression at the Inspector. “What were they like, these women?” he
breathed through his dry lips.

But both men knew the answer. The girl assisted out by Sime and Dangle
was undoubtedly Joan Merrill, and the other equally certainly was
Susan Dangle.

“She was lame—the one you thought ill?” Cheyne persisted. “She had
twisted her ankle.”

“Perhaps so,” the lady returned, “but I do not think so. She seemed to
me to step equally well on each foot. It was more as if she was half
asleep or very weak. Her head hung forward and she did not seem to
notice where she was going.”

Cheyne made a gesture of despair.

“Heavens above!” he cried hoarsely. “What have they done to her?”

“Drugged her,” French answered succinctly. “But you should take
courage from that, Mr. Cheyne. It looks as if they didn’t mean to do
her a personal injury. Yes, madam?”

Before the invalid could speak Cheyne went on, a puzzled note in his
voice.

“But look here,” he said slowly, “I don’t understand this. You say
that the sick lady was wearing a fur coat?”

“Yes, a musquash fur.”

“But—” He looked at French in perplexity. “Miss Merrill has a fur coat
like that—I’ve seen it. But she wasn’t wearing it last night. Can it
be someone else after all?” His voice took on a dawning eagerness.

French shook his head.

“Don’t build too much on that, Mr. Cheyne. They may have lent her a
coat.”

“Yes, but why should they? She had a coat last night, a perfectly warm
coat of brown cloth. She wouldn’t want another.”

“Perhaps her own got muddy when she fell. We’ll have to leave it at
that for the moment. We’ll consider it later. Let’s get on now and
hear what this lady can tell us. Yes, madam, if you please?”

“I am afraid there is not much more to be told. All five got into the
car and drove off.”

“In which direction?”

“Eastwards.”

“That is to say, they have just left about half an hour. We were only
fifteen minutes behind them, Mr. Cheyne.”

He got up to go, but the lady motioned him back to his seat.

“There is one other thing I have just remembered,” she said. “It may
or may not have something to do with the affair. Last night—it must
have been about half-past eleven—I heard a motor in the street. It
stopped for about ten minutes, though the engine ran all the time,
then went off again. I didn’t look out, but now that I come to think
about it it sounded as if it might be standing at No. 12. Of course
you understand that is only a guess, but motorcars are somewhat rare
visitors to this street, and there may have been some connection.”

“Extremely probable, I should think, madam,” French commented. He
rose. “Now we must be off to act on what you have told us. I needn’t
say that you have placed us very greatly in your debt.”

“It was but little I could do,” the lady returned. “I do hope you may
be able to help that poor girl. I should be so glad to hear that she
is all right.”

Cheyne was touched by this unexpected sympathy.

“You may count on my letting you know, madam,” he said, and then
thinking of the terribly monotonous existence led by the poor soul, he
went on warmly: “I should like, if I might, to call and tell you all
about it, but if I am prevented I shall certainly write. May I know
what name to address to?”

“Mrs. Sproule, 17 Colton Street. I should be glad to see you if you
are in this district, but I couldn’t think of taking you out of your
way.”

A few moments later French had collected his three remaining men, and
was being driven rapidly to the nearest telephone call office. There
he rang up the Yard, repeated the descriptions of the car and of each
of its occupants, and asked for the police force generally to be
advised that they were wanted, particularly the men on duty at railway
stations and wharves, not only in London, but in the surrounding
country.

“Now we’ll have a shot at picking up the trail ourselves,” he went on
to Cheyne when he had sent his message. He re-entered the car, calling
to the driver: “Get back and find the men on point duty round about
Colton Street.”

Of the four men they interviewed, three had not noticed the yellow
car. The fourth, on a beat in the thoroughfare at the eastern end of
Colton Street, had seen a car of the size and color in question going
eastwards at about the hour the party had left No. 12. There seeming
nothing abnormal about the vehicle, he had not specially observed it
or noted the number, but he had looked at the driver, and the man he
described resembled Blessington.

“That’s probably it all right,” French commented, “but it doesn’t help
us a great deal. If they were going to any of the stations or
steamers, or to practically anywhere in town, this is the way they
would pass. Let us try a step further.”

Keeping in the same general direction they searched for other men on
point duty, but though after a great deal of running backwards and
forwards, they found all in the immediate neighborhood that the car
would have been likely to pass, none of them had noticed it.

“We’ve lost them, I’m afraid,” French said at last. “We had better go
back to the Yard. As soon as that description gets out we may have
news at any minute.”

A quarter of an hour later they passed once more through the corridors
of the great building which houses the C.I.D., and reached French’s
room. There sitting waiting for them was the melancholy private
detective, Speedwell. He rose as they entered.

“Afternoon, Mr. French. Afternoon, Mr. Cheyne,” he said
ingratiatingly, rubbing his hands together. “I got your message, Mr.
French, and I thought I’d better call round. Of course I’ll tell you
anything I can to help.”

French beamed on him.

“Now that was good of you, Speedwell; very good. I’ll not forget it.
Did Simmons tell you what had happened?”

“Not in detail—only that Blessington, Sime, and the Dangles were
wanted.”

“Well, Mr. Cheyne here and Miss Merrill were out there last night,” he
shook his head reproachfully at Cheyne while a twinkle showed in his
eyes, “and your friends got hold of Miss Merrill and we can’t find
her. Mr. Cheyne they enticed into the house with a fair story. They
led him to believe that Miss Merrill would be in her studio when he
got back to town and gave him her purse, which they said she had
dropped. It contained a time bomb, and only the merest chance saved
Mr. Cheyne from being blown to bits. There are charges against the
quartet of attempted murder of Mr. Cheyne, and of abduction of Miss
Merrill. Can you help us at all?”

Speedwell shook his head.

“I doubt it, Mr. French, I doubt it, sir. I found out a little, not
very much. But all the information I have is at your disposal.”

Cheyne stared at him.

“But how can that be?” he exclaimed. “You were in their confidence—to
some extent at all events. Surely you got some hint of what they were
after?”

Speedwell made a deferential movement, and his smile became still more
oily and ingratiating.

“Now, Mr. Cheyne, sir, you mustn’t think too much of that. That was
what we might call in the way of business.” He glanced sideways at
Cheyne from his little foxy close-set eyes. “You can’t complain, sir,
but what I answered your questions, and you’ll admit you got value for
your money.”

“I don’t understand you,” Cheyne returned sharply. “Do you mean that
that tale you told me was a lie, and that you weren’t employed by
these people to find the man who burgled their house?”

Speedwell rubbed his hands together more vigorously.

“A little business expedient, sir, merely an ordinary little business
expedient. It would be a foolish man who would not display his wares
to the best advantage. I’m sure, sir, you’ll agree with that.”

Cheyne looked at him fiercely for a moment.

“You infernal rogue!” he burst out hotly. “Then your tale to me was a
tissue of lies, and on the strength of it you cheated me out of my
money! Now you’ll hand that £150 back! Do you hear that?”

Speedwell’s smile became the essence of craftiness.

“Not so fast, sir, not so fast,” he purred. “There’s no need to use
unpleasant language. You asked for a thing and agreed to pay a certain
price. You got what you asked for, and you paid the price you agreed.
There was no cheating there.”

Cheyne was about to retort, but French, suave and courteous, broke in:

“Well, we can talk of that afterwards. I think, Mr. Cheyne, that Mr.
Speedwell has made us a satisfactory offer. He says he will tell us
everything he knows. For my part I am obliged to him for that, as he
is not bound to say anything at all. I think you will agree that we
ought to thank him for the position he is taking up, and to hear what
he has to say. Now, Speedwell, if you are ready. Take a cigar first,
and make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you, Mr. French. I am always glad, as you know, sir, to assist
the Yard or the police. I haven’t much to tell you, but here is the
whole of it.”

He lit his cigar, settled himself in his chair, and began to speak.



Chapter XIV

The Clue of the Clay-marked Shoe

“You know, Mr. French,” said Speedwell, “about my being called in by
the manager of the Edgecombe in Plymouth when Mr. Cheyne was drugged?
Mr. Cheyne has told you about that, sir?” French nodded and the other
went on: “Then I need only tell you what Mr. Cheyne presumably does
not know. I may just explain before beginning that I came into contact
with Mr. Jesse, the manager, over some diamonds which were lost by a
visitor to the hotel and which I had the good fortune to recover.

“The first point that struck me about Mr. Cheyne’s little affair was,
How did the unknown man know Mr. Cheyne was going to lunch at that
hotel on that day? I found out from Mr. Cheyne that he hadn’t
mentioned his visit to Plymouth to anyone outside of his own
household, and I found out from Mrs. and Miss Cheyne that they hadn’t
either. But Miss Cheyne said it had been discussed at lunch, and that
gave me the tip. If these statements were all O.K. it followed that
the leakage must have been through the servants and I had a chat with
both, just to see what they were like. The two were quite different.
The cook was good-humored and stupid and easy going, and wouldn’t have
the sense to run a conspiracy with anyone, but the parlormaid was an
able young woman as well up as any I’ve met. So it looked as if it
must be her.

“Then I thought over the burglary, and it seemed to me that the
burglars must have got inside help, and if so, there again Susan was
the girl. Of course there was the tying up, but that would be the
natural way to work a blind. I noticed that the cook’s wrists were
swollen, but Susan’s weren’t marked at all, so I questioned the cook,
and I got a bit of information out of her that pretty well proved the
thing. She said she heard the burglars ring and heard Susan go to the
door. But she said it was three or four minutes before Susan screamed.
Now if Susan’s story was true she would have screamed far sooner than
that, for, according to her, the men had only asked could they write a
letter when they seized her. So that again looked like Susan. You
follow me, sir?”

Again French nodded, while Cheyne broke in: “You never told me
anything of that.”

Speedwell smiled once more his crafty smile.

“Well, no, Mr. Cheyne, I didn’t mention it certainly. It was only a
theory, you understand. I thought I’d wait till I was sure.

“Well, gentlemen, there it was. Someone wanted some paper that Mr.
Cheyne had—it was almost certainly a paper, as they searched his
pocketbook—and Susan was involved. I hung about Warren Lodge, and all
the time I was watching Susan. I found she wrote frequent letters and
always posted them herself: so that was suspicious too. Then one day
when she was out I slipped up to her room and searched around. I found
a writing case in her box of much too good a kind for a servant, and a
blotting-paper pad with a lot of ink marks. When I put the pad before
a mirror I made out an address written several times: ‘Mr. J. Dangle,
Laurel Lodge, Hopefield Avenue, Hendon.’ So that was that.”

Speedwell paused and glanced at his auditors in turn, but neither
replying, he resumed:

“I generally try to make a friend when I’m on a case: they’re useful
if you want some special information. So I chummed up with the
housemaid at Mrs. Hazelton’s—friends of Mr. Cheyne’s—live quite close
by. I told this girl I was on the burglary job, and that there would
be big money in it if the thieves were caught, and that if she helped
me she should get her share. I told her I had my suspicions of Susan,
said I was going to London, and asked her would she watch Susan and
keep me advised of how things went on. She said yes, and I gave her a
couple of pounds on account, just to keep her eager, while I came back
to town to look after Dangle.”

In spite of the keen interest with which he was listening to these
revelations, Cheyne felt himself seething with indignant anger. How he
had been hoodwinked by this sneaking scoundrel, with his mean
ingratiating smile and his assumption of melancholy! He could have
kicked himself as he remembered how he had tried to cheer and
encourage the mock pessimist. He wondered which was the more hateful,
the man’s deceit or the cynical way he was now telling of it. But,
apparently unconscious of the antagonism which he had aroused,
Speedwell calmly and, Cheyne thought disgustedly, a trifle proudly,
continued his narrative.

“I soon found that James Dangle lived at Laurel Lodge. He was alone
except for a daily char, but up till a short while earlier his sister
had kept house for him. When I learned that his sister had left Laurel
Lodge on the same day that Susan took up her place at Warren Lodge, I
soon guessed who Susan really was.

“I thought that when these two would go to so much trouble, the thing
they were after must be pretty well worth while, and I thought it
might pay me if I could find out what it was. So I shadowed Dangle,
and learned a good deal about him. I learned that he was constantly
meeting two other men, so I shadowed them and learned they were
Blessington and Sime. Blessington I guessed first time I saw him was
the man who had drugged you, Mr. Cheyne, for he exactly covered your
and the manager’s descriptions. It seemed clear then that these three
and Susan Dangle—if her real name was Susan—were in the conspiracy to
get whatever you had.”

“But what I would like to have explained,” Cheyne burst in, “was why
you didn’t tell me what you had discovered. You were paid to do it.
What did you think you were taking that hotel manager’s money for?”

Speedwell made a gesture of deferential disagreement.

“I scarcely think that you can find fault with me there, Mr. Cheyne,”
he answered with his ingratiating smile. “I was investigating: I had
not reached the end of my investigation. As you will see, sir, my
investigation took a somewhat unexpected turn—a very unexpected turn,
I might almost say, which left me in a bit of doubt as to how to act.
But you’ll hear.”

Inspector French had been sitting quite still at his desk, but now he
stretched out his hand, took a cigar from the box, and as he lit it,
murmured: “Go on, Speedwell. Sounds like a novel. I’m enjoying it.
Aren’t you, Mr. Cheyne?”

Cheyne made noncommital noises, and Speedwell, looking pleased,
continued:

“One evening, nearly two months ago, I got back late from another job
and I found a wire waiting for me. It was from Mrs. Hazelton’s
housemaid and it said: ‘Maxwell Cheyne disappeared and Susan left
Warren Lodge for London.’ I thought to myself: ‘Bully for you, Jane,’
and then I thought: ‘Susan will be turning to Brother James. I’ll go
out to Hopefield Avenue and see if I can pick anything up.’ So I went
out. It was about half-past ten when I arrived. I found the front of
the house in darkness, but an upper window at the back was lighted up.
There was a lane along behind the houses, you understand, Mr. French,
and a bit of garden between them and the lane. The gate into the
garden was open, and I slipped in and began to tiptoe towards the
house. Then I heard soft steps coming in after me, and I turned aside
and hid behind a large shrub to see what would happen. And then I saw
something that interested me very much. A man came in very quietly and
I saw in the faint moonlight that he was carrying a ladder.” There was
an exclamation from Cheyne. “He put the ladder to the lighted window
and climbed up, and then I saw who it was. I needn’t tell you, Mr.
Cheyne, I was surprised to see you, and I waited behind the bush for
what would happen. I saw and heard the whole thing: the party coming
down to supper, your getting in, Sime coming out and seeing the
ladder, the alarm, your coming out, and them getting you on the head
in the garden. You’ll perhaps think, Mr. Cheyne, that I should have
come out and lent you a hand, but after all, sir, I don’t know that
you could claim that you had the right of it altogether, and besides,
it all happened so quickly I had no chance to interfere. Well, anyhow
they knocked you out and then they searched you and took a folded
paper from your pocket. ‘Thank goodness, we’ve got the tracing at all
events,’ Dangle said, speaking very softly, ‘but now we’re in the soup
and no mistake. What are we going to do with the confounded fool’s
body?’ They examined the ladder and saw from the contractor’s name
that it had been brought from the new house, then they whispered
together and I couldn’t hear what was said, but at last Sime said:
‘Right, we’ll fix it so that it will look as if he fell off the
ladder.’ Then the three men picked you up, Mr. Cheyne, and carried you
out down the lane. Susan stood in the garden waiting, and I had to sit
tight behind the bush. In about ten minutes the men came back and then
Sime took the ladder and carried it away down the lane. The others
whispered together and then Dangle said something to Susan, ending up:
‘It’s in the second left hand drawer.’ She went indoors, but came out
again in a moment with a powerful electric torch. Blessington and
Dangle then searched for traces of your little affair, Mr. Cheyne.
They found the marks of the ladder butts in the soft grass and
smoothed them out, and they looked everywhere, I suppose, for
footprints or something that you might have dropped when you fell.
Then Sime came back and they all went in and shut the door.”

Cheyne snorted angrily.

“It didn’t occur to you, I suppose, to make any effort to help me or
even find out if I was alive or dead? You weren’t going to have any
trouble, even if you did become an accessory after the fact?”

“I’m coming to that, Mr. Cheyne. All in good time, sir.” Speedwell
rubbed his hands unctuously. “You will understand that as long as the
garden was occupied I couldn’t come out from behind the bush. But
directly the coast was clear I got out of the garden and turned along
the lane where they had carried you. I wondered where they could have
hidden you, and I started searching. I remembered what Sime had said
about the ladder, so I went to the half-built house and had a look
around, but I couldn’t find you in it. Then I saw you lying back of
the road fence, but just at that minute I heard footsteps, and I
stopped behind a pile of bricks till the party would pass. But you
called out and the lady stopped, and once again I couldn’t interfere.
I heard the arrangements about the taxi, and when the lady went away
to get it I slipped out and hid where I could see it. In that way I
got its number. Next day I saw the driver and got out of him where he
had taken you, and I kept my eye on you and when you got better
trailed you to Miss Merrill’s. From other people living in the flats I
found out about her.” After a pause he concluded: “And I think,
gentlemen, that’s about all I have to tell you.”

Inspector French slowly expelled a cloud of gray cigar smoke from his
mouth.

“Really, Speedwell, you have surpassed yourself,” he murmured. “Your
story, as I told you, sounds like a novel. A pity though, that having
gone so far you did not go a little farther. You did not find out, for
example, what business this mysterious quartet were plotting?”

“I did not, Mr. French,” the man returned earnestly. “I gathered that
it was connected with ‘the tracing’ that Dangle spoke of, and I
imagined the tracing was what they had been wanting from Mr. Cheyne,
and evidently had got, but I didn’t get a sight of it, and I have no
idea of their game.”

“And did you find out nothing that might be a help? Where did those
three men spend their time? What did they do in the daytime?”

“Just what I told Mr. Cheyne, sir. I gave him perfectly correct
information in everything. Dangle is a town sharp and helps run a
gambling room in Knightsbridge. Sime is another of the same—collects
pigeons in the night clubs for the others to pluck. Blessington, I got
the hint, lived by blackmail, but I’ve no proof of this.”

“Anything else?”

“No, Mr. French, not that I know. Unless”—he hesitated—“unless one
thing. It may or may not be important; I don’t know. It’s this:
Dangle, during these last three or four weeks, he’s been away nearly
half the time from London—on the Continent. I don’t know to what
country, but it must be France or Belgium or Holland, I should
think—or maybe Ireland—because he has crossed over one night and
crossed back the next. I know that because of a remark I overheard him
make to Sime in a tube lift where I was standing just behind him. It
was a Wednesday and he said: ‘I’m crossing tonight, but I’ll be back
on Friday morning.’”

This seemed to be the sum total of Speedwell’s knowledge, or at least
all he would divulge, and he presently departed, apparently cheered by
French’s somewhat cryptic declaration that he would not forget the
part the other had played in the affair. He perhaps would not have
been so pleased had he heard French’s subsequent comments to Cheyne.
“A dangerous man, Mr. Cheyne, for an amateur to deal with, though he’s
too much afraid of the Yard to try any monkeying with me. I may tell
you in confidence that he was dismissed from the force on suspicion of
taking bribes to let a burglar get away—I needn’t say the thing
couldn’t be proved, or he would have seen the inside of a convict
prison, but there was no doubt at all that he was guilty. Since that
he has been caught sailing rather close to the wind, but again he just
managed to keep himself safe. But the result is, he would do anything
to curry favor here, and indeed once or twice he has been quite
useful. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he had been blackmailing
Blessington & Co. in connection with your attempted murder.”

“Ugh!” Cheyne made a gesture of disgust. “The very sight of the man
makes me sick.” Then, his look of anxious eagerness returning, he went
on: “But, Inspector, his story is all very well and interesting and
all that, but I don’t see that it helps us to find Miss Merrill, and
that is the only thing that matters.”

“The only thing to you, perhaps,” French returned, “but not the only
thing to me. This whole business looks uncommonly like conspiracy for
criminal purposes, and if so, it automatically concerns the Yard.” He
glanced at the clock on the wall before his desk. “Let’s see now, it’s
just five o’clock. Before giving up for the day I should like to have
a look over Miss Merrill’s room to settle that little question of the
fur coat, and I should like you to come with me. Shall we go now?”

Cheyne sprang to his feet eagerly. Action was what he wanted, and his
heart beat more rapidly at the prospect of visiting a place where
every object would remind him of the girl he loved, and whom, in spite
of himself, he feared he had lost. Impatiently he waited while French
put on his hat and left word where he could be found in case of need.

Some fifteen minutes later the two men were ascending the stairs of
the house in Horne Terrace. The door of No. 12 was shut, and to
Cheyne’s knock there was no response.

“I’m afraid you needn’t expect Miss Merrill to have got back,” French
commented. “I had better open the door.”

He worked at it for a few moments, first with his bunch of skeleton
keys, then with a bent wire, until the bolt shot back, and pushing
open the door, they entered the room.

It was just as Cheyne had last seen it except that the kettle and tea
equipage had been tidied away. French stood in the middle of the
floor, glancing keenly round on the contents. Then he moved to the
other door.

“This her bedroom?” he inquired, as he pushed it open and looked in.

As Cheyne followed him into the tiny apartment, he felt as a devout
Mohammedan might, who through stress of circumstances entered fully
shod into one of the holy places of his religion. It seemed nothing
short of profanation for himself and this commonplace inspector of
police to intrude into a place so hallowed by association with Her. In
a kind of reverent awe he looked about him. There was the bed in which
She slept, the table at which She dressed, the wardrobe in which Her
dresses hung, and there—what were those? He stood, stricken motionless
by surprise, staring at a tiny pair of rather high-heeled brown shoes
which were lying on their sides on the floor in front of a chair.

French noted his expression.

“What is it?” he queried, following the direction of the other’s eyes.

“Her shoes!” Cheyne said in a tone of wonder, as he might have said:
“Her diamond coronet.”

French frowned.

“Well, what’s wonderful about that?” he asked with the nearest
approach to sharpness in his tone that Cheyne had yet heard.

“Her shoes,” Cheyne repeated. “Her shoes that she wore last night.”

It was now French’s turn to look interested.

“Sure of that?” he asked, picking up the shoes.

“Certain. I saw them on her in the train to Wembley. Unless she has
two absolutely identical pairs, she was wearing those.”

French had been turning the shoes over in his hand.

“You said you saw a mark of where someone had slipped on the bank
behind the wall you threw the tracing over,” he went on. “You might
describe that mark.”

“It was just a kind of scrape on the sloping ground, with the
footprint below it. Her foot had evidently slipped down till it came
to a firmer place.”

“Right foot or left?”

“Right.”

“And which way was the toe pointing: towards the bank or parallel with
it?”

“Parallel. She had evidently climbed up diagonally.”

“Quite so. Now another question. If you were standing in the field
looking towards the bank, did she climb towards the right hand or the
left?”

“The left.”

“And the soil where the mark was; you might describe that.”

“It was rather light in color, a yellowish brown. It was clayey, and
the print showed clearly, as it would in stiff putty.”

French nodded.

“Then, Mr. Cheyne, if all your data are right, and if the footprint
was made by Miss Merrill when she was wearing these shoes, I should
expect to find a mark of yellowish clay on the outside of the right
shoe. Isn’t that correct?”

Cheyne thought for a moment, then signified his assent.

“I turn up this shoe,” French continued, suiting the action to the
word, “and I find here the very mark I was expecting. See for
yourself. I think we may take it then, not only that Miss Merrill made
the mark on the bank, and of course made it last night, but also that
she was wearing these shoes when she made it. And that would coincide
with your observation.”

“But,” cried Cheyne, “I don’t understand. How did the shoes get here?
Miss Merrill wasn’t here since we left to go to Wembley.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, there’s what Dangle said. I don’t mean of course that I believe
Dangle. Everything else he’s said to me has turned out to be a lie.
But in this case the circumstances seem to prove this story. If he
didn’t see Miss Merrill how did he know of her getting over the wall
for the tracing? And if he didn’t capture her then why did she not
return here? Or rather, suppose she did return, why should she go away
again without leaving a note or sending me a message?”

French shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I merely asked the question and your
answer certainly seems sound. But now let us look about the coat.” He
opened the wardrobe door. “Is the cloth coat she was wearing last
night here?”

A glance showed Cheyne the brown cloth, fur-trimmed coat Joan had worn
on the previous evening.

“And you will see further,” went on French when he had been satisfied
on this point, “that there is no coat here of musquash fur. You say
she had one?”

“Yes. I have seen her wearing it several times.”

“Then I think Mrs. Sproule saw her wearing it today. We may take it, I
think, either that she returned here last night and changed her
clothes, or else that someone brought in her coat and shoes, left them
here and took out her others.”

“The latter, I should think,” Cheyne declared.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think she would come here of her own free will and
leave again without sending me some message.”

French did not reply. He had rather taken the view that if the girl
was the prisoner of the gang the garments would not have been changed,
and the more he thought over it the more probable this seemed. Rather
he was inclined to believe that she had reached her rooms after the
episode at Earlswood, possibly even with the tracing; that she had
been followed there and by some trick induced to leave again, when in
all probability she had been kidnaped and the tracing recovered by the
gang. But he felt there was no use in discussing this theory with
Cheyne, whose anxiety as to the girl’s welfare had rendered his
critical faculty almost useless. He turned back to the young man.

“I have no doubt that that shoe of Miss Merrill’s made the mark you
saw,” he observed. “At the same time I want definite evidence. It
won’t take very long to run out to Wembley and try. Let us go now, and
that will finish us for tonight.”

They took a taxi and were soon at the place in question. The print was
not so clear as when Cheyne had seen it first, but in spite of this
French had no difficulty in satisfying himself. The shoe fitted it
exactly.

That night after supper, as French stretched himself in his
easy-chair, he decided he would have a preliminary look at the
tracing. He recognized that the mere fact that it had been handed to
Cheyne by Dangle involved the probability that it was not the genuine
document but a faked copy. At the same time he was bound to make what
he could of it, and it was with very keen interest he unfolded and
began to study it.

It was neatly drawn, though evidently not by a professional
draughtsman. The lettering of the words, “England expects every man to
do his duty” was amateurish. He wondered what the phrase could mean.
It did not seem to ring quite true. In his mind the words ran “England
expects that every man this day will do his duty,” but he rather
thought this was the version in the song, and if so, the wording might
have been altered from the original for metrical reasons. He
determined to look up the quotation on the first opportunity. On the
other hand it might have been condensed into eight words in order to
fit round the sheet. It was spaced in a large circle among the smaller
circles like the figures of a clock. It conveyed to him no idea
whatever, except the obvious suggestion of Nelson. Could Nelson, he
wondered, or Trafalgar, be the key word in some form of cipher?

As he studied the sheet he noted some points which Cheyne appeared to
have missed, or which at all events he had not mentioned. While the
circles were spaced without any apparent plan—absolutely irregularly,
it seemed to French—there was some evidence of arrangement in their
contents. Those nearer the edges of the tracing contained letters,
while those more centrally situated bore numbers. There was no hard
and fast line between the two, as letters and numbers appeared, so to
speak, to overlap each other’s territory, but broadly speaking the
arrangement held. He noticed also a few circles which contained
neither numbers nor letters, but instead tiny irregular lines. There
were only some half dozen of these, but all of them so far as he could
see occurred on the neutral territory between the number zone and the
letter zone. These irregular lines represented nothing that he could
imagine, and no two appeared of the same shape.

That the document was a cipher he could not but conclude, and in vain
he puzzled over it until long past his usual bedtime. Finally, locking
it away in his desk, he decided that when he had completed the obvious
investigations which still remained, he would have another go at it,
working through all the possibilities that occurred to him
systematically and thoroughly.

But before French had another opportunity to examine it, further news
had come in which had led him a dance of several hundred miles, and
left him hot on the track of the conspirators.



Chapter XV

The Torn Hotel Bill

On reaching the Yard next morning Inspector French began his day by
compiling a list of the various points on which obvious investigations
still remained to be made. He had already determined that these should
be carried through with the greatest possible dispatch, leaving a
general consideration of the case over until their results should be
available.

The immediate questions were, of course: Was Joan Merrill alive? And
if so, where was she? These must be solved as soon as possible. The
further matters relating to the hiding-place and aims of the gang
could wait. It was, however, likely enough that if French could find
Joan, he would have at least gone a long way towards solving her
captors’ secret.

Perhaps the most promising of all the lines of inquiry open to him
were the detailed searches of Blessington’s and Sime’s houses, and he
decided he would begin with these. Accordingly, having called Sergeant
Carter and a couple more men, he went out to Earlswood and set to
work.

French was extraordinarily thorough. Nothing in that house, from the
water cistern space in the roof to the floors of the pantries and the
tool shed in the yard—nothing escaped observation. The furniture was
examined, particularly the writing desk and the old escritoire, the
carpets were lifted and the floors tested, the walls were minutely
inspected for secret receptacles, the pages of the books were turned
over, the clothes—of which a respectable wardrobe remained—were gone
through, with special attention to the pockets. Nothing was taken for
granted: everything was examined. Even the outside of the house and
the soil of the garden were looked at, and at the end, some four hours
after they had begun, French had to admit that his gains were
practically nil.

The reservation was in respect of four objects, from one or more of
which he might conceivably extract some information, though he was far
from hopeful. The first was the top sheet of Blessington’s writing
pad. French, following his usual custom, had examined it through a
mirror, but so completely covered was it with inkstains that he was
unable to decipher even a single word. However, on chance he tore it
off and put it in his pocket, in the hope that a future more detailed
examination might reveal something of interest.

The second object was a scrap of crumpled paper which he found in the
right-hand upper pocket of one of Dangle’s waistcoats. It looked as if
it had been crushed to the bottom of the pocket by some other
article—such as an engagement book—being thrust down on the top of it.
When the pockets had been cleared—as all had been—this small piece of
paper had evidently been overlooked.

French straightened it out. It was the bottom portion of what was
clearly a bill, apparently a French hotel bill. On the back was a note
written in pencil, and as French read it, the thought passed through
his mind that he could not have imagined any more unexpected or
puzzling contents. It was in the form of a memorandum and read:

    . . . . . . ins.
    . . . . ators.
    Peaches—3 doz. tins.
    Safety Matches—6 doz. boxes.
    Galsworthy—The Forsyte Saga.
    Pencils and Fountain Pen Ink.
    Sou’wester.

The paper was torn across the first two items, so that only part of
the words were legible. What so heterogeneous a collection could
possibly refer to French could not imagine, but he put the fragment in
his pocket with the blotting paper for future study.

The other two objects were photographs, and from the descriptions he
had received from Cheyne he felt satisfied that one was of Blessington
and the other of Dangle. These were of no help in themselves, but
might later prove useful for identification purposes.

The search of Earlswood complete, French gave his men an hour for
lunch, and then started a similar investigation of Sime’s house. He
was just as painstaking and thorough here, but this time he had no
luck at all. Though Sime had not so carefully destroyed papers and
correspondence, he could not find a single thing which seemed to offer
help.

Sime’s house being so much smaller than Blessington’s, the search was
finished in little over an hour. On its completion French sent two of
his men back to the Yard, while with Sergeant Carter he drove to Horne
Terrace. There he examined Joan Merrill’s rooms, again without result.

The work ended about four, and then he and Carter began another job,
quite as detailed and a good deal more wearisome than the others. He
had determined to question individually every other person living in
the house—that is, the inhabitants of no less than nine flats—in the
hope that some one of them might have seen or heard Joan returning to
her rooms on the night of her disappearance. In a way the point was
not of supreme importance, but experience had taught French the danger
of neglecting _any_ clue, no matter how unpromising, and he had long
since made it a principle to follow up every opening which offered.

For over two hours he worked, and at last, as he was beginning to
accept defeat, he obtained just the information he required.

It appeared that about a quarter past eleven on the night in question,
the fifteen-year-old daughter of a widow living on the third floor was
returning home from some small jollification when she saw, just as she
approached the door, three persons come out. Two were men, one tall,
well built and clean-shaven, the other short and stout, with a fair
toothbrush mustache. The third person was Miss Merrill. A street lamp
had shone directly on their faces as they emerged, and the girl had
noticed that the men wore serious expressions and that Miss Merrill
looked pale and anxious, as if all three were sharers in some bad
news. They crossed the sidewalk to a waiting motor. Miss Merrill and
the taller man got inside, the second man driving. During the time the
girl saw them, none of them spoke. She remembered the car. It was a
yellow one with a coach body, and looked a private vehicle. Yes, she
recognized the photograph the Inspector showed her—Blessington’s. It
was that of the driver of the car.

It did not seem worth while to French to try to trace the car, as he
fancied he knew where it had gone. From Horne Terrace to Sime’s house
in Colton Street was about a ten minute run. Therefore if it left the
former about 11:15, it should reach the latter a minute or two before
the half-hour. This worked in with the time at which the invalid lady,
Mrs. Sproule, had heard the motor stop in the street, and to French it
seemed clear that Miss Merrill had been taken direct to Sime’s, and
kept there until 1:45 P.M. on the following day. What arguments or
threats the pair had used to get her to accompany them French could
not tell, but he shrewdly suspected that they had played the same
trick on her as on Cheyne. In all probability they had told her that
Cheyne had met with an accident and was conscious and asking for her.
Once in the cab it would have been child’s play for a powerful man
like Sime to have chloroformed her, and having got her to the house,
they could easily have kept her helpless and semi-conscious by means
of drugs.

French returned on foot to the Yard, thinking over the affair as he
walked. It certainly had a sinister look. These men were very much in
earnest. They had not hesitated to resort to murder in the case of
Cheyne—it was through, to them, an absolutely unforeseen accident that
he escaped—and French felt he would not give much for Joan Merrill’s
chances.

When he reached his office he found that a piece of news had just come
in. A constable who had been on point duty at the intersection of
South and Mitchem Streets, near Waterloo Station, had noticed about 2
P.M. on the day of the disappearance of the gang, a yellow motorcar
pass close beside him and turn into Hackworth’s garage, a small
establishment in the latter street. Though he had not observed the
vehicle with more than the ordinary attention such a man will give to
the passing traffic, his recollection both of the car and driver led
him to the belief that they were those referred to in the Yard
circular. The constable was waiting to see French, and made his report
with diffidence, saying that though he thought he was right, he might
easily be mistaken.

“Quite right to let me know anyhow, Wilson,” French said heartily. “If
you’ve seen Blessington’s car it may give us a valuable clue, and if
you’re mistaken, there’s no harm done. We’ve nothing to lose by
following it up.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s past my dinner hour,
but I’ll take a taxi and go round to this garage on my way home. You’d
better come along.”

Ten minutes later the two men reached Hackworth’s establishment, and
pushing open the door of the tiny office, asked if the manager was
about.

“I’m John Hackworth. Yes, sir?” said a stout man in shabby gray
tweeds. “Want a car?”

“I want a word with you, Mr. Hackworth,” said French pleasantly. “Just
a small matter of private business.”

Hackworth nodded, and indicated a farther door.

“In here,” he invited, and when French and the constable had taken the
two chairs the room contained, he briskly repeated: “Yes, sir?”

At this hint not to waste valuable time, French promptly introduced
himself and propounded his question. Mr. Hackworth looked impressed.

“You don’t tell me that gent was a wrong ’un?” he said anxiously, then
another idea seeming to strike him, he continued: “Of course it don’t
matter to me in a way, for I’ve got the car. I’ll tell you about it.”

French produced his photograph of Blessington.

“Tell me first if that’s the man,” he suggested.

Mr. Hackworth pushed the card up to the electric bulb. “It’s him,” he
declared. “It’s him and no mistake. He walked in here yesterday—no,
the day before—about eleven and asked to see the boss. ‘I’ve got a
car,’ he said when I went forward, ‘and there’s something wrong with
the engine. Sometimes it goes all right and sometimes it doesn’t.
Maybe,’ he said, ‘you’ll start it up and it’ll run a mile or two well
enough, then it begins to miss, and the speed drops perhaps to eight
or ten miles. I don’t know what’s wrong.’

“‘What about your petrol feed?’ I said. ‘Sounds like your carburetor,
or maybe your strainer or one of your pipes choked.’

“‘I thought it might be that,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t find anything
wrong. However, I want you to look over it, that is, if you can lend
me a car while you’re doing it.’

“Well, sir, I needn’t go into all the details, and to make a long
story short, I agreed to overhaul the car and to lend him an old
Napier while I was at it. He went away, and same day about two or
before it he came back with his car, a yellow Armstrong Siddeley. It
seemed to be all right then, but he said that that was just the
trouble—it might be all right now and it would be all wrong within a
minute’s time. So I gave him the Napier—it was a done machine, worth
very little, but would go all right, you understand. He asked me how
long I would take, and I said I’d have it for him next day, that was
yesterday. He had three or four suitcases with him and he transferred
these across. Then he got into the Napier and drove away, and that was
the last I saw of him.”

“And what was wrong with his own car?”

“There, sir, you have me beat. Nothing! Or nothing anyhow that I could
find.”

“Was the Napier a four-seater?”

“Five. Three behind and two in front.”

“A coach body?”

“No, but with a good canvas cover, and he put it up, too, before
starting.”

“Raining?”

“Neither raining nor like rain: nor no wind neither.”

“How long was he here altogether?”

“Not more than five or six minutes. He left just as soon as he could
change the cars.”

French, having put a few more questions, got the proprietor to write
out a detailed description of the Napier. Next, he begged the use of
the garage telephone and repeated the description to the Yard, asking
that it should be circulated among the force without delay. Finally he
thanked the stout Mr. Hackworth for his help, and with Constable
Wilson left the establishment.

“Now, Wilson,” he said, “you’ve done a good day’s work. I’m pleased
with you. You may get along home, and if I want anything more I’ll let
you know in the morning.”

But though it was so late, French did not follow his subordinate’s
example. Instead he stood on the sidewalk outside the garage, thinking
hard.

As to the nature of the defect in the engine of the yellow car he had
no doubt. What was wrong with it was just what Hackworth had said was
wrong with it—nothing whatever. French could see that the whole
episode was simply a plan on Blessington’s part to change the car and
thus cover up his traces. The yellow Armstrong-Siddeley was known to
be his by many persons, and Blessington wanted one which, as he would
believe, could not be traced. He would have seen from the papers that
Cheyne had escaped the fate prepared for him, and he would certainly
suspect that the outraged young man would put his knowledge at the
disposal of the police. Therefore the yellow car was a danger and
another must be procured in its place. The trick was obvious, and
French had heard of something like it before.

But though the main part of the scheme was clear to French, the
details were not. From the statement of Mrs. Sproule, the invalid of
Colton Street, the yellow car had left Sime’s house at about 1:45.
According to this Hackworth it had reached the garage at a minute or
so before two. Now, from Colton Street to the garage was a ten or
twelve minutes’ drive, therefore Blessington must have gone
practically direct. Moreover, when he left Colton Street Joan Merrill
and the other members of the gang were in the car, but when he reached
the garage he was alone. Where had the others dismounted?

Another question suggested itself to French, and he thought that if he
could answer it he would probably be able to answer the first as well.
Why did Blessington select this particular garage? He did not know
this Hackworth—the man had said he had never seen Blessington before.
Why then this particular establishment rather than one of the scores
nearer Sime’s dwelling?

For some minutes French puzzled over this point, and then a probable
explanation struck him. There, just a hundred yards or more away, was
a place admirably suited for dropping his passengers and picking them
up again—Waterloo Station. What more natural for Blessington than to
pull up at the departure side with the yellow Armstrong-Siddeley and
set them down? What more commonplace for him than to pick them up at
the arrival side with the black Napier? While he was changing the
cars, they could enter, mingle with the crowds of passengers, work
their way across the station and be waiting for him as if they had
just arrived by train.

Late as it was, French returned to the Yard and put a good man on to
make inquiries at Waterloo in the hope of proving his theory. Then,
tired and very hungry, he went home.

But when he had finished supper and, ensconced in his armchair with a
cigar, had looked through the evening paper, interest in the case
reasserted itself, and he determined that he would have a look at the
scrap of paper which he had found in the pocket of one of Dangle’s
waistcoats.

As has been said, it was a list or memorandum of certain articles,
written on the back of part of an old hotel bill. French reread the
items with something as nearly approaching bewilderment as a staid
inspector of the Yard can properly admit. Peaches, safety matches, the
Forsyte Saga, pencil, fountain pen ink, and a sou’wester! What in the
name of goodness could anyone want with such a heterogeneous
collection? And the quantities! Three dozen tins of peaches, and six
dozen boxes of matches! Enough to do a small expeditionary force,
French thought whimsically, though he did not see an expeditionary
force requiring the works of John Galsworthy, ink, and pencils.

And yet was this idea so absurd? Did not these articles, in point of
fact, suggest an expedition? Peaches, matches, pencils, and ink—all
these articles were commonplace and universally obtainable. Did the
fact that a quantity were required not mean that Dangle or his friends
were to be cut off for some considerable time from the ordinary
sources of supply? It certainly looked like it. And as he thought over
the other articles, he saw that they too were not inconsistent with
the same idea. The Forsyte Saga was distinguished from most novels in
a peculiar and indeed a suggestive manner. It consisted of a number of
novels, each full length or more than full length, but the point of
interest was that the entire collection was published on thin paper in
this one volume. Where could one get a greater mass of reading matter
in a smaller bulk: in other words, where could one find a more
suitable work of fiction to carry with one on an expedition?

The sou’wester also fitted from this point of view into the scheme of
things, but it added a distinctive suggestion all its own: that of the
sea. French’s thoughts turned towards a voyage. But it could not be an
ordinary voyage in a well-appointed liner, where peaches and matches
and novels would be as plentiful as in the heart of London. Nor did it
seem likely that it could be a trip in the _Enid_. Such a craft could
not remain out of touch with land for so long a period as these stores
seemed to postulate. French could not think of anything that seemed
exactly to meet the case, though he registered the idea of an
expedition as one to be kept in view.

Leaving the point for the time being, he turned over the paper and
began to examine its other side.

It formed the middle portion of an old hotel bill, the top and bottom
having been torn off. The items indicated a stay of one night only
being merely for bed and breakfast. The name of the hotel had been
torn off with the bill head, and also all but a few letters of the
green rubber receipt stamp at the bottom. French felt that if he could
only ascertain the identity of the hotel it might afford him a
valuable clue, and he settled down to study it in as close detail as
possible.

[Illustration: A torn scrap of paper, showing part of a bill for
“1 chambre” and “1 petit déjeuner”, totaling to 28 50. The ends of a
few other words are visible at the edges of the paper.]

He recalled two statements that Speedwell had made about Dangle.
First, the melancholy detective had said that commencing about a
fortnight after the acquisition by the gang of Price’s letter and the
tracing, Dangle had begun paying frequent visits to the Continent or
Ireland, and secondly, that in a tube lift he had overheard Dangle say
that he was crossing on a given night, but would be back the next.
French thought he might take it for granted that this bill had been
incurred on one of these trips. He wondered if Dangle had always
visited the same place, as, if so, the bill would refer to an hotel
near enough to England to be visited in one day. Of none of this was
there any evidence, but French believed that it was sufficiently
probable to be taken as a working hypothesis. If it led nowhere, he
could try something else.

Assuming then that one could cross to the place in one night and
return the next, it was obvious that it must be comparatively close to
England, and, the language on the bill being French, it must be in
France or Belgium. He took an atlas and a Continental Bradshaw, and
began to look out the area over which this condition obtained. Soon he
saw that while the whole of Belgium and the northwest of France,
bounded by a rough line drawn through Chalons, Nancy, Dijon,
Angoulême, Chartres, and Brest, were within the _possible_ limit,
giving a reasonable time in which to transact business, it was more
than likely the place did not lie east of Brussels and Paris.

He turned back to the torn bill. Could he learn nothing from it?

First, as to the charges. With the franc standing at eighty, twenty
four francs seemed plenty for a single room, though it was by no means
exorbitant. It and the 4.50 fr. for _petit déjeuner_ suggested a
fairly good hotel—probably what might be termed good second-class—not
one of the great hotels de luxe like the Savoy in London or the
Crillon or Claridge’s in Paris, but one that ordinary people
patronized, and which would be well known in its own town.

Of all the information available, the most promising line of research
seemed that of the rubber stamp, and to that French now turned his
attention. The three lines read:

    . . . uit
    . . . lon,
    . . . S.

French thought he had something that might help here. He rose, crossed
the room, and after searching in his letter file, produced three or
four papers. These were hotel bills he had incurred in France and
Switzerland when he visited those countries in search of the murderer
of Charles Gething of the firm of Duke & Peabody, and he had brought
them home with him in the hope that some day he might return as a
holiday-maker to these same hotels. Now perhaps they would be of use
in another way.

He spread them out and examined their receipt stamps. From their
analogy the . . . uit on his fragment obviously stood for the words
“Pour acquit,” anglice: “paid.” The middle line ending in . . . lon
was unquestionably the name of the hotel, and the third, ending in S,
that of its town. And here again was a suggestion as to the size of
the establishment. A street was not included in the address. It must
therefore be well known in its town.

It seemed to him moreover that this fact also conveyed a suggestion as
to the size of the town. If the latter were Paris or Brussels—as he
had thought not unlikely as both these names ended in s—a street
address would almost certainly have been given. The names of the hotel
and town alone pointed to a town of the same standing as the hotel
itself—a large town to have so important an hotel, but not a capital
city. In other words, there was a certain probability the hotel was
situated in a large town comparatively near the English Channel, Paris
and Brussels being excepted.

As French sat pondering over the affair, he saw suddenly that further
information was obtainable from the fact that the lettering on a
rubber stamp is always done symmetrically. Once more rising, he found
a small piece of tracing paper, and placing this over the mutilated
receipt stamp, he began to print in the missing letters of the first
line. His printing was not very good, but he did not mind that. All he
wanted was to get the spacing of the letters correct, and to this end
he took a lot of trouble. He searched through the advertisements in
several papers until he found some type of the same kind as that of
the . . . uit, and by carefully measuring the other letters he at last
satisfied himself as to just where the P of Pour acquit would stand.
This, he hoped, would give him the number of letters in the names of
both the hotel and the town. Drawing a line down at right angles to
the t of acquit, he found that the n of . . . lon projected slightly
over a quarter inch farther along, while the S of the town was almost
directly beneath. By drawing another line down from the P of Pour, and
measuring these same distances from it, he found the lengths of the
names of hotel and town, and by further careful examination and
spacing of type, he reached definite conclusions. The name of the
hotel, including the word hotel, contained from eighteen to twenty
letters and that of the town six, more or less according to whether
letters like I or W predominated.

He was pleased with his progress. Starting from nothing he had evolved
the conception of an important hotel—the something-lon, in a large
town situated in France or Belgium, and comparatively near the English
Channel, the name of the town consisting of five, six, or seven
letters of which the last one was S. Surely, he thought, such an hotel
would not be hard to find.

If he was correct as to the size of the town, it was one which would
be marked on a fairly small scale map, and taking his atlas, he began
to make a list of all those which seemed to meet the case. He soon saw
there were a number—Calais, Amiens, Beauvais, Étaples, Arras,
Soissons, Troyes, Ypres, Bruges, Roulers, and Malines.

He had by this time become so excited over his quest that in spite of
the hour—it was long past his bedtime—he telephoned to the Yard to
send him Baedeker’s Guides to Northern France and Belgium, and when
these came he began eagerly looking up the hotels in each of the towns
on his list. For a considerable time he worked on without result, then
suddenly he laughed from sheer delight.

He had reached Bruges, and there, third on the list, was “Grand Hôtel
du Sablon!” Moreover, this name exactly filled the required space.

“Got it in one,” he chuckled, feeling immensely pleased with himself.

But French, if sometimes an enthusiastic optimist and again a down and
out pessimist, was at all times thorough. He did not stop at Bruges.
He worked all the way through the list, and it was not until he had
satisfied himself that no other hotel fulfilling the conditions
existed in any of the other towns, that he felt himself satisfied. It
was true there was an Hotel du Carillon in Malines, but this name was
obviously too short for the space.

As he went jubilantly to bed, the vision of a trip to the historic
city of Bruges bulked large in his imagination.



Chapter XVI

A Tale of Two Cities

Next morning French had an interview with his chief at the Yard at
which he produced the torn hotel bill, and having demonstrated the
methods by which he had come to identify it with the Grand Hôtel du
Sablon in Bruges, suggested that a visit there might be desirable. To
his secret relief Chief Inspector Mitchell took the same view, and it
was arranged that he should cross as soon as he could get away.

On his return to his room he found Cheyne waiting for him. The young
man seemed to have aged by years since his frenzied appeal to the
Yard, and his anxious face and distrait manner bore testimony to the
mental stress through which he was passing. Eagerly he inquired for
news.

“None so far, I’m sorry to say,” French answered, “except that we have
found that Miss Merrill did return to her rooms that night,” and he
told what he had learned of Joan’s movements, as well as of his visit
to Hackworth’s garage, and of Blessington’s exchange of cars. But of
Bruges and the hotel bill he said nothing. Cheyne, he felt sure, would
have begged to be allowed to accompany him to Belgium, and this he did
not want. But in his kindly way he talked sympathetically to the young
man reiterating his promise to let him know directly anything of
importance was learned.

Cheyne having reluctantly taken his leave, French turned to routine
business, which had got sadly behind during the last few days. At this
he worked all the morning, but on his return from lunch he found that
further news had come in.

Sergeant Burnett, the man he had put on the Waterloo Station job, was
waiting for him, and reported success in his mission. He had, he said,
spent the whole of the day from early morning at the station, and at
last he had obtained what he wanted. A taximan on a nearby stand had
been called to the footpath at the arrival side of the station at
about 2:00 P.M. He had drawn up behind an old black car, which he had
thought was a Napier. His own fare, a lady, kept him waiting for a few
seconds while she took a somewhat leisurely farewell of the gentleman
who was seeing her off, and during this time he had idly watched the
vehicle in front. He had seen an invalid lady in a sable colored fur
coat being helped in. There was a second lady with her, and a tall
man. The three got in, and the car moved off at the same time as his
own. Sergeant Burnett had questioned the man on the appearance of the
travelers, and was pretty certain that they were Joan, Susan, and
Sime. Dangle, so far as he could learn, was not with them.

French felt the sudden thrill of the artist who has just caught the
elusive effect of light which he wanted, as he reflected how sound had
been his deduction. He had considered it likely that these people
would use Waterloo Station to effect the change of cars, and now it
seemed that they had done so. Nothing like a bit of imagination, he
thought, as he good-naturedly complimented the sergeant on his powers,
and dismissed him.

Having too much to see to at the Yard to catch the 2:00 P.M. from
Victoria for Ostend, he rang up and engaged a berth on the
Harwich-Zeebrugge boat, and that night at 8:40 P.M. he left Liverpool
Street for Belgium.

Apart from his actual business, he was looking forward with
considerable keenness to the trip. Foreign travel had become perhaps
his greatest pleasure, and he had never yet been in Belgium. Moreover
he had always heard Bruges mentioned as the paradise of artists, and
in a rather shamefaced way he admitted an interest in and appreciation
of art. He had determined that if at all possible he would snatch
enough time to see at least the more interesting parts of the old
town.

They left the Parkeston Quay at 10:30, and by 6 next morning French
was on deck. He was anxious to miss no possible sight of the approach
of Zeebrugge. He had read with a thrilled and breathless interest the
story of what was perhaps the greatest naval exploit of all time—as,
indeed, who has not?—and as the long, low line of the famous mole
loomed up rather starboard of straight ahead, his heart beat faster
and a lump came in his throat. There, away to the right, round the
curve of the long pier, must have been where _Vindictive_ boarded,
where in an inferno of fire her crew reached with their scaling
ladders the top of the great sea wall, and climbing down on the
inside, joined a hand-to-hand fight with the German defenders. And
here, at the left hand end of the huge semicircle, was the lighthouse,
which he was now rounding as _Thetis_, _Intrepid_, and _Iphigenia_
rounded it on that historic night. He tried to picture the scene. The
screen of smoke to sea, which baffled the searchlights of the
defenders and from which mysterious and unexpected craft emerged at
intervals, the flashing lights as guns were fired and shells burst
over the mole, the sea, and the low-lying sand dunes of the coast
behind. The din of hell in the air, fire, smoke, explosion, and
death—and those three ships passing on; _Thetis_ a wreck, struck and
fiercely burning, forced aside by the destruction of her gear, but
lighting her fellows straight to their goal—the mouth of the canal
which led to the submarine base at Bruges. French crossed the deck and
gazed at the spot with its swing bridge and stone side walls, as he
thought how, had the desperate venture failed, history might have been
changed and at that touch and go period of the war the Central Powers
might have triumphed. It was with renewed pride and wonder in the men
who conceived and carried out the wonderful enterprise that he crossed
back over the deck and set himself to the business of landing.

A short run past the sandhills at the coast and across the flat
Belgian fields brought the spires of Bruges into view, and slowly
rounding a sharp curve through the gardens of the houses in the
suburbs, they joined the main line from Ostend, and a few minutes
later entered the station. Emerging on to the wide boulevard in front,
French’s eyes fell on a bus bearing the legend “Grand Hôtel du
Sablon,” and getting in, he was driven across the boulevard and a
short way up a long, rather narrow and winding street, between houses
some of which seemed to have stood unaltered—and doubtless had—for six
hundred years, when Bruges, three times its present size, was the
chief trading city of the Hanseatic League. As he turned into the
hotel, chimes rang out—from the famous belfry, the porter told
him—tinkling, high-pitched bells and silvery, if a trifle thin in the
clear morning air.

He called for some breakfast, and as he was consuming it the
anticipated delights of sight-seeing receded, and interest in the
movements of James Dangle became once more paramount. He was proud of
his solution of the problem of the torn hotel bill, and not for a
moment had a doubt of the correctness of that solution entered his
head.

It came upon him therefore as a devastating shock when the courteous
manager of the hotel, with whom he had asked an interview, assured him
not only that no such person as the original of the photograph he had
presented had ever visited his establishment, but that the fragment of
the bill was not his.

To French it seemed as if the bottom had fallen out of his world. He
had been so sure of his ground; all his reasoning about the stamp, the
size of the hotel and town and lengths of their names had seemed so
convincing and unassailable. And the names Grand Hôtel du Sablon and
Bruges had worked in so well! More important still, no other hotel
seemed to fill the bill. French felt cast down to the lowest depths of
despair, and for a time he could only stare speechlessly at the
manager.

At last he smiled rather ruefully.

“That’s rather a blow,” he confessed. “I was pretty sure of my ground.
Indeed, so sure was I, that if I might without offense, I should like
to ask you again if there is no possibility that the man might have
been here, say, during your absence.”

The manager was sympathetic. He brought French a sample of his bill,
stamped with his rubber receipt stamp, and French saw at once their
dissimilarity with those he had been studying. Moreover, the manager
assured him that neither had been altered for several years.

So he was no further on! French lit a cigar, and retiring to a
deserted corner of the salon, sat down to think the thing out.

What was he to do next? Was he to return to London by the next boat,
giving up the search and admitting defeat, or was there any possible
alternative? He set his teeth as he swore great oaths that nothing
short of the direct need would lead him to abandon his efforts until
he had found the hotel, and learned Dangle’s secret.

But heroics were all very well: what, in point of fact was he to do?
He sat considering the problem for an hour, and at the end of that
time he had decided to go to Brussels, borrow or buy a Belgian hotel
guide, and go through it page by page until he found what he wanted.
If none of the hotels given suited, he would go on to Paris and try a
similar experiment.

This decision he reached only after long consideration, not because it
was not obvious—it had instantly occurred to him—but because he was
convinced that the methods he had already tried had completely covered
the ground. He had proved that there was no hotel whose name ended in
. . . lon in a fair-sized town whose name ended in . . . s in all the
district in question, other than the Grand Hôtel du Sablon at Bruges.
There still remained, however, the chance that it might be a southern
French or Swiss hotel, and he saw that he would have to make sure of
this before returning to London.

Still buried in thought, he walked slowly back to the station to look
up trains to Brussels. The fact that he was in the most interesting
town in Belgium no longer stirred his pulse. His disappointment and
anxiety about his case drove all irrelevant matters from his mind, and
he felt that all he wanted now was to be at work again to retrieve his
error.

He reached the station, and began searching the huge timetable boards
for the train he wanted. He was interested to notice that the tables
were published in two languages, French and what he thought at first
was Dutch, but concluded later must be Flemish. Idly he compared the
different spelling of the names of the towns. Brugge and Bruges, Gent
and Gand, Brussel and Bruxelles, Oostende and Ostende, and then
suddenly he came up as it were all standing, and a sudden wave of
excitement passed over him as he stood regarding another pair of
names. Antwerpen and Anvers! Anvers! A six lettered town ending in s!
He cursed himself for his stupidity. He had always thought of the
place as Antwerp, but he ought to have known its French name. Anvers!
Once more he was alert and full of eager optimism. Had he got it at
last?

He passed through on to the platform, and making for a door headed
“Chef de Gare,” asked for the stationmaster. There, after a moment’s
delay, he was shown into the presence of an imposing individual in
gold lace, who, however, was not too important to listen to him
carefully and reply courteously in somewhat halting English. Monsieur
wished to know if there was an hotel whose name ended in . . . lon in
Antwerp? He could not recall one off hand, but he would look up the
advertisements in his guides and tourist programs. Ah, what was this?
The Grand Hôtel du Carillon. Was that what monsieur required?

A name of twenty letters—which would exactly fill the space on the
receipt stamp! It certainly was what monsieur required! The very idea
raised monsieur to an exalted pitch of delighted enthusiasm. The
stationmaster was gratified at the reception of his information.

“I haf been at the ’otel myself,” he volunteered. “It is small, but
vair’ goot. It is in the Place Verte, near to the Cathedral. Does
monsieur know Antwerp?”

Monsieur did not, but he expressed the pleasure it would give him to
make its acquaintance, and thanking the polite official he returned to
the timetables to look up the trains thither.

His most direct way, it appeared, was through Ghent and Termonde, but
on working out the services he found he could get quicker trains via
Brussels. He therefore booked by that route, and at 11:51 he climbed
into a great through express from Ostend to Brussels, Aix-la-Chapelle,
Strasbourg, and, it seemed to him, the whole of the rest of Europe. An
hour and a half’s run brought him into Brussels-Nord, and from there
he wandered out into the Place Rogier for lunch. Then returning to the
station he took an express for Antwerp, arriving in the central
terminus of that city a few minutes after three o’clock.

He had bought a map of Antwerp at a bookstall in Brussels, from which
he had learned that the Place Verte was nearly a mile away in the
direction of the river. His traveling impedimenta consisting of a
handbag only, he determined to walk, and emerging from the great
marble hall of the station, he passed down the busy Avenue de Keyser,
and along the Place de Meir into the older part of the town. As he
walked he was immensely impressed by the fine wide streets, the ornate
buildings, and the excellence of the shops. Everywhere were evidences
of wealth and prosperity, and as he turned into the Place Verte, and
looked across at the huge bulk of the Cathedral with its soaring
spire, he felt that here was an artistic treasure of which any city
might well be proud.

The Grand Hôtel du Carillon was an old, quaint looking building
looking out over the Place Verte. French, entering, called for a bock
in the restaurant, and after he had finished, asked to see the
manager. A moment later a small, stout man with a humorous eye
appeared, bowed low, and said that he was M. Marquet, the proprietor.

“A word with you in private, M. Marquet,” French requested, when they
had exchanged confidences on the weather. “Won’t you take something
with me?”

The proprietor signified his willingness in excellent English, and
when further drinks had been brought, and French had satisfied himself
that they were alone, he went on:

“I am a detective officer from the London police, and I am trying to
trace an Englishman called Dangle. I have reason to suppose he stayed
at this hotel recently. There is his photograph. Can you help me at
all?”

At the name Dangle, M. Marquet had nodded, and when he saw the
photograph he beamed and his whole body became affirmation
personified. But certainly, he knew M. Dangle. For several weeks—he
could not say how many, but he could ascertain from his records—for
several weeks M. Dangle had been his guest at intervals. Sometimes he
had stayed one night, sometimes two, sometimes three. Yes, he was
usually alone, but not always. On three or four occasions he had been
accompanied by another gentleman—a tall, well-built, clean-shaven man,
and once a third man had come, a short man with a fair mustache. Yes,
that was the photograph of the short man, M.—? Yes; Blessington. The
other man’s name he could not remember, but it would appear in the
register: Sile, Site—something like that. Yes, Sime: that was it. No,
he was afraid he knew nothing about these gentlemen or their business,
but he would be glad to do everything in his power to assist monsieur.

French, his enthusiasm and delight remaining at fever heat, was
suitably grateful. He wished just to ask M. Marquet a few more
questions. He would like to know the last occasion on which M. Dangle
had stayed.

“Why,” M. Marquet exclaimed, “he just left yesterday. He came here,
let me see, on Tuesday night quite late, indeed it was nearly one on
Wednesday morning when he arrived. He came, he said, off the English
boat train which arrives here about midnight. He stayed here two
days—till yesterday, Thursday. He left yesterday shortly after
déjeuner.”

“He was alone?”

“Yes, monsieur. This time he was alone.”

French, metaphorically speaking, hugged himself on hearing this news.
Through his brilliant work with the torn bill, he had added one more
fine achievement to the long list of his successes. He could not but
believe that the most doubtful and difficult step of the investigation
had now been accomplished. With a trail only twenty four hours old, he
should surely be able to put his hands on Dangle with but little
delay. Moreover, from the fact that so many visits had been paid to
Antwerp it looked as if the secret of the gang was hidden in the city.
Greatly reassured, he proceeded to acquire details.

He began by obtaining from M. Marquet’s records lists of the visits of
the three men, and that gentleman’s identification of the torn bill.
Also he pressed him as to whether he could not remember any questions
or conversations of the trio which might give him a hint as to their
business, but without success. He saw and made a detailed search of
the room Dangle had occupied during his last visit, but here again
with no result. Dangle, M. Marquet said, had been out all day on the
Wednesday, the day after his arrival, but on Thursday he had remained
in the hotel until his departure about 2:00 P.M. M. Marquet had not
seen him leave, but he had sent the waiter for his bill after
déjeuner, and the proprietor believed he had gone a little later.
Possibly the porter could give more information on the point.

The porter was sent for and questioned. He knew M. Dangle well and
recognized his photograph. He had been present in the hall when the
gentleman left on the previous day, shortly before two o’clock. M.
Dangle had walked out of the hotel with his suitcase in his hand,
declining the porter’s offer to carry it for him or call a taxi. The
trams, however, passed the door, and the porter had assumed M. Dangle
intended to travel by that means. No, he had not noticed the direction
he took. There was a “stillstand” or tramway halt close by. Dangle had
not talked to the porter further than to wish him good-day when he met
him. He had not asked questions, or given any hint of his business in
the town.

Following his usual procedure under such circumstances, French next
asked for interviews with all those of the staff who had come in any
way in contract with his quarry, but in spite of his most persistent
efforts he could not extract a single item of information as to the
man’s business or movements.

Baffled and weary from his journey, French took his hat and went out
in the hope that a walk through the streets of the fine old city would
clear his brain and bring him the inspiration he needed. Crossing
beneath the trees of the Place Verte, he passed round the cathedral to
the small square from which he could look up at the huge bulk of the
west front, with its two unequal towers, one a climbing marvel of
decoration, “lace in stone,” the other unfinished, and topped with a
small and evidently temporary spire. Then, promising himself a look
round the interior before leaving the town, he regained the tramline
from the Place Verte, and following it westwards, in two or three
minutes came out on the great terraces lining the banks of the river.

The first sight of the Scheldt was one which French felt he would not
soon forget. Well on to half a mile wide, it bore away in both
directions like a great highway leading from this little Belgium to
the uttermost parts of the earth. Large ships lay at anchor in it, as
well as clustering along the wharves to the south. This river frontage
of wharves and sheds and cranes and great steamers extended as far as
the eye could reach; he had read that it was three and a half miles
long. And that excluded the huge docks for which the town was famous.
As he strolled along he became profoundly impressed, not only with the
size of the place, but more particularly with the attention which had
been given to its artistic side. In spite of all this commercial
activity the city did not look sordid. Thought had been given to its
design; one might almost say loving care. Why, these very terraces on
which he was walking, with their cafés and their splendid view of the
river, were formed on neither more nor less than the vast roofs of the
dock sheds. French, who knew most of the English ports, felt his
amazement grow at every step.

He followed the quays right across the town till he came to the Gare
du Sud, then turning away from the river, he found himself in the
Avenue du Sud. From this he worked back along the line of great
avenues which had replaced the earlier fortifications, until
eventually, nearly three hours after he had started, he once again
turned into the Place Verte, and reached the Carillon.

He ordered a room for the night, and some strong tea, after which he
sat on in his secluded corner of the comfortable restaurant, and
smoked a meditative cigar. His walk had done him good. His brain had
cleared, and the weariness of the journey, and the chagrin of his
deadlock had vanished. His thoughts returned to his problem, which he
began to attack in the new.

He puzzled over it for the best part of an hour, without making the
slightest progress, and then he began to consider how far the ideas he
had already arrived at fitted in with what he had since learned of
Dangle’s movements.

He had thought that the nature of the articles on Dangle’s list
suggested a sea expedition. He remembered the delight with which, many
years earlier, he had read _The Riddle of the Sands_, and he thought
that had Dangle contemplated just such another cruise as that of the
heroes of that fascinating book, he might well have got together the
articles in question. But since these ideas had passed through his
mind, French had learned the following fresh facts:

1. From a fortnight after obtaining the tracing, Dangle had been
paying frequent visits to Antwerp.

2. He had on these occasions put up at the Carillon.

3. His last visit had followed immediately on the failure to murder
Cheyne, with its almost certain result of the calling in of Scotland
Yard.

4. He had on this last visit remained at the Carillon for two days,
leaving about 2:00 P.M. on the Thursday, the previous day.

5. He had carried his hand-bag from the hotel, without calling for a
taxi.

At first French could not see that these additional facts had any
bearing on his theory, but as he continued turning them over in his
mind, he realized that all but one might be interpreted as tending in
the same direction.

1. Dangle’s visits to Antwerp. Supposing Dangle had been planning some
secret marine expedition, where, French asked himself, could he have
found a more suitable base from which to make his arrangements?
Antwerp was a seaport: moreover, it was a great seaport, large enough
for a secret expedition to set sail from without attracting notice. It
was a foreign port, away from the inquisitive notice of the British
police, but, on the other hand, it was the nearest great port to
London. If these considerations did not back up his theory, they at
least did not conflict with it.

2. Why had Dangle put up at the Carillon? The hotels near the station
were the obvious ones for English visitors. Could it be because the
Place Verte was close to the river and the shipping? This, French
admitted to himself, sounded farfetched, and yet it might be the
truth.

3. The dispersal and disappearance of the gang immediately on the
probability of its activities becoming known to the police looked
suspiciously like a flight.

4. Could it be that Dangle’s arrival in Antwerp was ahead of schedule,
that is, the flight brought him there two days before the expedition
was to start? Or could it be that on his arrival he immediately set to
work to organize the departure, but was unable to complete his
arrangements for two days? At least, it might be so.

Lastly, had he carried his bag from the hotel for the same reason as
he might have chosen the hotel: that he was going, not to the station,
but the few hundred yards to the quays, thence to start on this
maritime expedition? Again, it might be so.

French was fully aware that the whole of these elaborate
considerations had the actual stability of a house of cards. Each and
every one of his deductions might be erroneous and the facts might be
capable of an entirely different construction. Still, there was at
least a suggestion that Dangle might have left Antwerp by water
shortly after two o’clock on the previous day. It was the one
constructive idea French could evolve, and he decided that in the
absence of anything better he would try to follow it up.

It was too late to do anything that night. After dinner, therefore, he
had another walk, spent an hour in a cinema, and then went early to
bed, so as to be fresh for his labors of the following day.



Chapter XVII

On the Flood Tide

French was astir betimes next morning, and over his coffee and rolls
and honey he laid his plans for the day. As to the next step of his
investigation he had no doubt. He must begin by finding out what
vessels had left the city after 2:00 P.M. on the previous Thursday.
That done, he could go into the question of the passengers each
carried, in the hope of learning that Dangle was among them.

At the outset he was faced by the handicap of being a stranger in a
strange land. If Antwerp had been an English port he would have known
just where to get his information, but here he was unfamiliar with the
ropes. He did not know if all sailings were published in any paper or
available to the public at any office; moreover, his ignorance of both
French and Flemish precluded his mixing with clerks or dock loafers
from whom he might pick up information. Of course there were the
Belgian police, but he did not wish to apply to them if he could carry
out his job by himself.

However, this part of his problem proved easier of solution than he
had expected. Inquiries at the post office revealed the fact that
there was a shipping agency in the Rue des Tanneurs, and soon he had
reached the place, found a clerk who spoke English, and put his
question.

When French wished to be suave, as he usually did, he could, so to
speak, have wheedled his best bone from a bulldog. Now, explaining in
a friendly and confidential manner who he was and why he wanted the
information, he begged the other’s good offices. The clerk, flattered
at being thus courteously approached, showed a willingness to assist,
with the result that in ten minutes French had the particulars he
needed.

He turned into a café, and calling for a bock, sat down to consider
what he had learned. And of this the very first fact filled him with
delight, as it seemed to fit in with the theory he had evolved.

On Thursday it had been high water at 2:30 P.M. By 2:30 the dock gates
had been opened, and it appeared that, taking advantage of this,
several steamers had left shortly after that hour.

This was distinctly encouraging, and French turned to the list of
ships with a growing hope that the end of his investigation might be
coming into sight. In all, eleven steamers had left the port on the
day in question, between the hours of 2:00 and 6:00 P.M., the period
he had included in his inquiry.

There was first of all a Canadian Pacific liner, which had sailed from
the quays at 3:00 P.M., and at 3:30 a small passenger boat had left
for Oslo and Bergen. The remaining boats were tramps. There were four
coasters, two for Newcastle, one for Goole, and one for Belfast, a
6,000 tonner for Singapore and the Dutch Islands, another slightly
smaller ship for Genoa and Spezia, and another for Boston, U.S.A. Then
there was a big five-masted sailing ship, bound with a general cargo
for Buenos Aires and the River Platte, and finally there was a small
freighter in ballast for Casablanca.

Of these eleven ships, the windjammer at once attracted French’s
attention. Here was a vessel on which, if you took a passage, you
might easily require three dozen tins of peaches before you reached
your journey’s end. He determined to begin with this, taking the other
ships in order according to the position of their offices. Fortunately
in each case the clerk had given him the name of the owners or agents.

His first call, therefore, was at an old-fashioned office in a small
street close to the Steen Museum. There he saw M. Leblanc, the owner
of the windjammer, and explained his business. But M. Leblanc could
not help him. The old gentleman had never heard of Dangle nor had any
one resembling his visitor’s photograph called or done any business
with his firm. Moreover, no passengers had shipped on the windjammer,
and the crew that had sailed was unchanged since the previous voyage.

This was not encouraging, and French went on to the next item on his
program, the headquarters of the small freighter which had sailed in
ballast for Casablanca. She was owned by Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal,
whose office was farther down the Rue des Tanneurs, and five minutes
later he had pushed open the door and was inquiring for the principal.

This was a more modern establishment than that of M. Leblanc. Though
small, the office ran to plate glass windows, teak furniture, polished
brass fittings, and encaustic tiles, while the two typists he could
envisage through the small inquiry window seemed unduly gorgeous as to
raiment and pert as to demeanor.

He was kept waiting for some minutes, then told that M. Merkel, the
head of the business, was away, but that M. Lowenthal, the junior
partner, would see him.

His first glance told French that M. Lowenthal was a man to be
watched. Seldom had he seen so many of the tell-tale signs of roguery
concentrated in the features of one person. The junior partner had a
mean, sly look, close-set, shifty eyes which would not meet French’s,
and a large mouth with loose, fleshy lips. His manner was in accord
with his appearance, now blustering, now almost fulsomely
ingratiating. French took an instant dislike to him, and though he
remained courteous as ever, he determined not to lay his cards on the
table.

“My name,” he began, “as you will have seen from my card, is French,
and I carry out the business of a general agent in London. I am trying
to obtain an interview with a friend, who has been staying here, off
and on, for some time. I came on here from Brussels in the hope of
seeing him, but he had just left. I was told that he had sailed with
your ship, the _L’Escaut_, on Thursday afternoon, and if so I called
to ask at which port I should be likely to get in touch with him. His
name is Dangle.”

While French spoke he watched the other narrowly, on his favorite
theory that the involuntary replies to unexpected remarks—starts,
changes of expression, sudden pallors—were more valuable than spoken
answers.

But M. Lowenthal betrayed no emotion other than a mild surprise.

“That iss a very egstraordinary statement, sir,” he said in heavy
guttural tones. “I do not really know who could haf given you such
misleading information. Your friend’s name is quite unknown to me, and
in any case we do not take passengers on our ships.”

This seemed an entirely reasonable and proper reply, and yet to
French’s highly developed instincts it did not ring true. However, he
could do nothing more, and after a little further conversation
containing not a few veiled inquiries, all of which, he noted, were
skillfully parried by the other, he apologized for his mistake and
withdrew.

Though he was dissatisfied with the interview, he could only continue
his program. He recognized that the secret might be located in Canada
or the States, and that Dangle might have booked on the C.P.R. liner.
Or he might have gone to Norway—indeed, for the matter of that, he
might have signed on on any of the ships for any part of the world.

But after a tedious morning of calls and interviews, French had to
confess defeat. He could get no farther. At none of the offices at
which he applied had he obtained the slightest helpful hint. It began
to look as if he had been mistaken as to Dangle’s sea expedition, and
if so, as he reminded himself with exasperation, he had no alternative
theory to follow up.

He strolled slowly along the pleasant, sunlit streets, as he reviewed
his morning’s work. He was satisfied with all his interviews but the
one. Everywhere save in M. Lowenthal’s office he felt he had been told
the truth. But instinctively he distrusted the junior partner. That
the man had lied to him he had no reason to suspect, but he had no
doubt that he would do so if it suited his book.

French felt that it was unsatisfactory to leave the matter in this
state, and he presently thought of a simple subterfuge whereby it
might be cleared up. It was almost the lunch hour, a suitable time for
putting his project into operation. He hurried back to the Rue des
Tanneurs, and turning into a café nearly opposite Messrs. Merkel &
Lowenthal’s premises, ordered a bock and selected a seat from which he
could observe the office door.

He was only just in time. He had not taken his place five minutes when
he saw M. Lowenthal emerge and walk off towards the center of the
town. Three men clerks and the two rapid-looking typists followed, and
lastly there appeared the person for whom he was waiting—the
sharp-looking office boy who had attended to him earlier in the day.

The boy turned off in the opposite direction to his principal—towards
a quarter inhabited by laborers and artisans, and French, getting up
from his table, slipped quietly out of the café and followed him.

The chase continued for some ten minutes, when the quarry disappeared
into a small house in a back street. French strolled up and down until
some half an hour later the young fellow reappeared. As he approached
French allowed a look of recognition and slight surprise to appear on
his features.

“Ah,” he said, pausing with a friendly smile, “you are the clerk who
attended to me this morning in Messrs. Merkel & Lowenthal’s office,
are you not? A piece of luck meeting you! I wonder if you could give
me a piece of information? I forgot to ask it of M. Lowenthal this
morning, and as I am in a hurry, it would be worth five francs to me
not to have to go back to your office.”

The youth’s eyes had brightened at the suggestion of financial
dealings, and French felt he would learn all the other could tell him.
He therefore continued without waiting for a reply.

“The thing is this: I am joining my friend, M. Dangle, aboard the
_L’Escaut_ at the first opportunity. It was arranged between us that
one of us should take with him a couple of dozen of champagne. I want
to know whether he took the stuff, or whether I am to. Can you help me
at all?”

The clerk’s English, though fairly good, was not quite equal to such a
strain, and French had to repeat himself less idiomatically. But the
boy grasped his meaning at last, and then at once dashed his hopes by
saying he had never heard of any M. Dangle.

“There he is,” French went on, producing his photograph. “You must
have seen him scores of times.”

And then French got the reward of his pertinacity. A look of
recognition passed over the clerk’s features, and he made a gesture of
comprehension.

“_Mais oui, m’sieur_; yes, sir,” he answered quickly, “but that is not
M. Danggalle. I know him: it is M. Charles.”

“That’s right,” French returned, trying to keep the triumph out of his
voice. “His name is Dangle Charles. I know him as M. Dangle, because
he is one of four brothers at our works. But of course he would give
his name here as M. Charles. But now, can you tell me anything about
the champagne?”

The clerk shook his head. He had not known upon what business M.
Charles had called at the office.

“Oh, well, it can’t be helped,” French declared. “I thought that
perhaps when he was in with you last Wednesday you might have heard
something about it. You don’t know what luggage he took aboard the
_L’Escaut_?”

The clerk had not been aware that M. Charles had embarked on the
freighter, still less did he know of what his luggage had consisted.
But as French talked on in his pleasant way, the following facts
became apparent; first, that Dangle for some weeks past had been an
occasional visitor at the shipping office; second, that on the
previous Wednesday he had been closeted with the partners for the
greater part of the day; third, that the _L’Escaut_ had evidently
sailed on an expedition of considerable importance and length, for a
vast deal of stores had gone aboard her, about which both partners had
shown very keen anxiety; fourthly, that not only had M. Merkel, the
senior partner, himself sailed on her, but it was likely that he
intended to be away some time as M. Lowenthal had moved into his room,
and lastly, that the _L’Escaut_ had come up from the firm’s yard
during the Wednesday night and had anchored in the river off the Steen
until she left about 3:00 P.M. on the Thursday.

These admissions made it abundantly clear that French was once more on
the right track, and he handed over his five francs with the feeling
that he had made the cheapest bargain of his life.

He had no doubt that Dangle had sailed with the senior partner on the
tramp, but he felt he must make sure, and he walked slowly back
towards the quays, turning over in his mind possible methods for
settling the point. One inquiry seemed promising. If the ship had lain
at anchor out in the river, and if Dangle had gone aboard her, he must
have had a boat to do so. French wondered could he find that boat.

He felt himself held up by the language difficulty. Up to the present
he had had extraordinary luck in this respect, but then up to the
present he had been interviewing educated persons whose business
brought them in contact with foreigners. He doubted if he could make
boatmen and loafers about the quays understand what he wanted.

A trial convinced him that his fears were well founded, and he lost a
solid hour in finding the Berlitz School and engaging a young linguist
with a reputation for discretion. Then, accompanied by M. Jules
Renard, he returned to the quays and set systematically to work. He
began by inquiring where boats might be hired, and where there were
steps at which ships’ boats might come alongside. Taking these in turn
he asked had the boatmen taken a passenger out to the _L’Escaut_
between 2:00 and 3:00 P.M. on the previous Thursday? Or had the
loafer, stevedore, shunter, or constable, as the case might be,
noticed if a boat had come ashore from the same vessel on the same
date and at the same time?

Though the work was easy it bade fair to be tedious, and therefore for
more than one reason French felt a glow of satisfaction when at his
fourth inquiry his question received an affirmative answer. A wizened
old man, one of a small knot of longshoremen whom M. Renard addressed,
separated himself from his companions and came forward. He said that
he was a boatman, and that he had been hailed by a man—an Englishman,
he believed—at the time stated, and had rowed him out to the ship.

“Ask him if that’s the man,” French directed, producing Dangle’s
photograph, though he felt there could be no doubt as to the reply.

He was therefore immensely dashed when the boatman shook his head.
This was not the man at all. The traveler was a short, rather stout
man with a small fair mustache.

French gasped. The description sounded familiar. Taking out
Blessington’s photograph he passed it over.

This time the boatman nodded. Yes, that was the man he had rowed out.
He had no doubt of him whatever.

This was unexpected but most welcome news, though as French thought
over it, he saw that it was not so surprising after all. If Dangle was
in it, why not Blessington, and for the matter of that, why not Sime
also? In this case he wondered where Susan could be, and more acutely,
what had been the fate of Joan Merrill. Possibly, he thought, his
inquiries about Dangle would solve these questions also.

Half an hour later he struck oil for the second time. Another boatman,
a little further along the quays, had also rowed a passenger out to
the _L’Escaut_, and this one, it appeared, was Dangle. But though
French kept working steadily away, he could hear nothing of Sime.

In the end it was a suggestion of Renard’s that put him once more on
the trail. The interpreter proved an intelligent youth, and when he
had grasped the point at issue, he stopped and pointed to the river.

“You say, monsieur, that the sheep, she lie there, opposite the Musée
Steen, is it not so? _Bon!_ We haf walked along all the quays near to
that. Your friends would not haf hired boat from farther on—it is too
far. You say, too, they come from England secretly, is it not? _Bon!_
They would come to the other side.”

French did not understand.

“The other side?” he repeated questioningly.

“But yes, monsieur, the other side.” The young fellow’s eyes flashed
in his eagerness. “Over there, La Gare de Waes.” He pointed out across
the great stream to its west bank.

“I didn’t know there was a station across there,” French admitted.
“Where does the line go to?”

“Direct to Ghent. Your friends change trains at Ghent. It is a quiet
railway. They come unseen.”

“Good man,” said French heartily. “We’ll go and find out. How do you
get to the blessed place?”

M. Renard smiled delightedly.

“Ah yes, monsieur. You weesh to cross? Is it not?” he cried. “This
way. We take ferry from the Quai Van Dyck. It is near.”

Half an hour later they had reached the Tête de Flandre—the low-lying
western bank of the Scheldt. It bore a small but not unpicturesque
cluster of old-fashioned houses, nestling about one of the historic
Antwerp forts. Renard, now apparently quite as interested in the chase
as French, led the way along the river bank from boatman to boatman,
with the result that before very many minutes had passed French had
obtained the information he wanted.

It appeared that about 1:00 P.M. on the day in question, a strapping
young boatman had noticed three strangers approaching from the
direction of the Waes Station, a hundred yards or more distant. They
consisted of a tall, clean-shaven man of something under middle age
and two women, both young. One was tall and strongly made and dark as
to hair and eyes, the other was slighter and with red gold hair. The
smaller one seemed to be ill, and was stumbling along between the
other two, each of whom supported her by an arm. None of the trio
could speak French or Flemish, but they managed by signs to convey the
information that they wanted to be put on board the _L’Escaut_, which
was lying out in midstream. The man had rowed them out, and they had
been received on board by an elderly gentleman with a dark beard.

Further questions produced the information that the fair lady appeared
to be seriously ill, though whether it was her mind or body that was
affected, the boatman couldn’t be sure. She was able to walk, but
would not do so unless urged on by the others. She had not spoken or
taken any interest in the journey. She had not appeared even to look
round her, but had sat gazing listlessly at nothing, with a vacant
expression in her eyes. Her companions had had real difficulty in
getting her up the short ladder on to the _L’Escaut’s_ deck.

The news was rather unexpected to French. About Joan Merrill it was
both disconcerting and reassuring; the former because he could not see
that the gang had anything but a sinister reason for inveigling the
young girl aboard the ship—probably she will fall overboard at night,
he thought; the latter because she was at least still alive, or had
been two days ago. It was quite evident that she was drugged, probably
with morphine or something similar. It might, however, mean that while
wishing Joan no harm, they were taking her with them on their
expedition to insure her silence as to their movements.

As French returned across the ferry, he kept on puzzling as to
Lowenthal’s position. Could Lowenthal be arrested? Was he in league
with the gang? If so, could he be held responsible for the abduction
of Joan Merrill? French didn’t think the evidence would justify
drastic measures. He had, as a matter of fact, no actual evidence
against Lowenthal. Of his complicity he was satisfied, but he doubted
if he could prove it.

He got rid of the young interpreter, and strolling slowly along the
quays, thought the matter out. No, he had not a enough case with which
to go to the Belgian police. But he could do the next best thing. He
could call on M. Lowenthal for the second time, and try to bluff an
admission out of him.

As he walked to the Rue des Tanneurs, he felt his prospects were not
rosy. But at least he had no difficulty in obtaining his interview. M.
Lowenthal seemed surprised to see him so soon again, but received him
politely, and asked what he could do for him.

“I want to ask you another question, M. Lowenthal, if you please,”
French answered in his pleasantest manner, “and first I must tell you
that the agency I hold is that of Detective Inspector at New Scotland
Yard in London. My question is this: When you and M. Merkel entered
into relations with Blessington, Sime, and the Dangles, did you know
that they were dangerous criminals wanted by the English police?”

In spite of the most evident efforts for self-control, Lowenthal was
so much taken aback that he could not for some moments speak. His
swarthy face turned a greenish hue and little drops of sweat showed on
his forehead. To the other pleasant characteristics with which French
had mentally endowed him, he now added that of coward, and his hopes
of his bluff succeeding grew brighter. He sat waiting in silence for
the other to recover himself, then said suavely:

“After that, M. Lowenthal, you will see for yourself that you cannot
plead ignorance of the affair. Let me advise you for your own sake to
be open with me.”

The man pulled himself together. He wiped his brow as he replied
earnestly, but in somewhat shaky accents:

“That I haf met Blessington, Sime, and Dangle I do not deny, though
they were Merkel’s friends—not mine. But I do not know that they are
criminal. Dangle, he called here and asked Merkel to take him on the
next”—he hesitated for a word—“next work, next sail of the sheep.
Merkel said that Dangle iss a writer—he writes books. He weeshed to
see the sail to Casablanca to deescribe it in hiss book. Merkel said
he would haf to pay fare, the firm could not afford it unless. Dangle
agreed. Merkel was going himself, and Dangle suggested Sime and
Blessington go also to make party—to play cards. Of a second Dangle I
know nothing. They went secretly—I admit it—because the law forbids to
take passengers for sail without a certificate. That is all of the
affair.”

Not a single word of this statement did French believe, but he saw
that unless he could get some further information, or surprise this
Lowenthal into some more damaging admission, he could not have him
arrested. After all, the story hung together. Merkel might conceivably
be playing his own game, and have pitched the yarn of the author out
for copy to his partner. The contravention of the shipping laws would
undoubtedly account for the secrecy with which the start was made.
Certainly there was no evidence to bring before a jury.

French proceeded to question the junior partner with considerable
thoroughness, but he could not shake his statement. The only
additional facts he learned were that the _L’Escaut_ was going to
Casablanca on the order of the Moroccan Government to load up a cargo
of agricultural samples for the Italian market, and that M. Merkel was
accompanying it simply as a holiday trip.

With this French had to be content, and he went to the post office,
and got through on the long distance telephone to his chief at the
Yard. To him he repeated the essentials of the tale, asking him to
inquire from the Moroccan authorities as to the truth of their portion
of it, as well as to endeavor to trace the _L’Escaut_.

On leaving the post office, it occurred to him that communication with
the _L’Escaut_ should be possible by wireless, and he returned to the
Rue des Tanneurs to ascertain this point. There he was told that just
after he had left M. Lowenthal had received a telephone call,
requiring his immediate presence in Holland, and he had with a great
rush caught the afternoon express for the Dutch capital.

“Skedaddled, by Jove!” said French to himself. “Guess that lets in the
Belgian police.”

He called at headquarters, and saw the officer in charge, and before
he left to catch the connection for London, it had been arranged that
the movements of the junior partner should be gone into, and a watch
kept for the return of that enterprising weaver of fairy tales.



Chapter XVIII

A Visitor from India

When French reached Victoria, the first person he saw on the platform
was Maxwell Cheyne.

“They told me at the Yard that you might be on this train,” the young
man said excitedly as he elbowed his way forward. “Any news? Anything
about Miss Merrill?”

He looked old and worn, and it was evident that his anxiety was
telling on him. In his eagerness he could scarcely wait for the
Inspector to dismount from his carriage, and his loud tones were
attracting curious looks from the bystanders.

“Get a taxi,” French answered quietly. “We can talk there.”

A few seconds later they found a vehicle, and Cheyne, gripping the
other by the arm, went on earnestly:

“Tell me. I can see you have learned something. Is she—all right?”

“I got news of her on Thursday last. She was all right then, though
still under the influence of a drug. The whole party has gone to sea.”

“To sea?”

“Yes, to sea in a small tramp. I don’t know what they are up to, but
there is no reason to suppose Miss Merrill is otherwise than well.
Probably they took her with them to prevent her giving them away. They
would drug her to get her to go along, but would cease it as soon as
she was on board. I wired for inquiries to be made at the different
signal stations, and news may be waiting for us at the Yard.”

A few seconds sufficed to put Cheyne in possession of the salient
facts which French had learned, and the latter in his turn asked for
news.

“By Jove, yes!” Cheyne cried, “there is news. You remember that Arnold
Price had disappeared? Well, yesterday I had a letter from him!”

“You don’t say so?” French rejoined in surprise. “Where did he write
from?”

“Bombay. He was shortly leaving for home. He expects to be here in
about a month.”

“And what about his disappearance?”

“He was ill in hospital. He had gone up to Agra on some private
business and met with an accident—was knocked down in the street and
was insensible for ages. He couldn’t say who he was, and the hospital
people in Agra couldn’t find out, and he hadn’t told the Bombay people
where he was going to spend his leave.”

“Did he mention the letter?”

“Yes, he thanked me for taking charge of it and said that when he
reached home he would relieve me of further trouble about it. He
little knows!”

“That’s so,” French assented.

Their taxi had been held up by a block at the end of Westminster
Bridge, but now the mass cleared and in a few seconds they reached the
Yard.

French’s first care was to get rid of Cheyne. He repeated what he had
learned about Joan Merrill, then, assuring him that the key of the
matter lay in the cipher, he advised him to go home and try it once
more. Directly any more news came in he would let him know.

Cheyne having reluctantly taken his departure, French made inquiries
as to what had been done in reference to his telephone from Antwerp.
It appeared that the Yard had not been idle. In the first place an
application had been made to the Moroccan Government, who had replied
that no ship had been chartered by them for freight at Casablanca, nor
was anything known of agricultural samples for the Italian market.
Lowenthal’s story must therefore have been an absolute fabrication. He
had, however, told it so readily that French suspected it had been
made up beforehand, so as to be ready to serve up to any inquisitive
policeman or detective who might come along.

Next Lloyd’s had been approached, as to the direction the _L’Escaut_
had taken, and a reply had shortly before come in from them. It stated
that up to noon on that day, the vessel had not been reported from any
of their stations. But this, French realized, might not mean so much.
If she had gone south down the English Channel it would have been well
on to dark before she reached the Straits of Dover. In any case, had
she wished to slip through unseen, she had only to keep out to the
middle of the passage, when in ordinary weather she would have been
invisible from either coast. On the other hand, had she gone north,
she would almost naturally have kept out of sight of land. It was true
that in either case she would have been likely to pass some other
vessel which would have spoken her, and the fact that no news of such
a recognition had come to hand seemed to indicate that she was taking
some unusual course out of the track of regular shipping.

French wired this information to the Antwerp police, and then, his
chief being disengaged, went in and gave him a detailed account of his
adventures in Belgium.

Chief Inspector Mitchell was impressed by the story. He sat back in
his chair and treated French to a prolonged stare as the latter
talked. At the end of the recital he remained sitting motionless for
some moments, whistling gently below his breath.

“Any theories?” he said at last.

French shook his head.

“Well, no, sir,” he answered slowly. “It’s not easy to see what
they’re after. And it’s not easy to see, either, why the whole gang
wanted to go. It looked at first as if they were just clearing out
because of Cheyne’s coming to the Yard, but it’s more than that. The
arrangements were made too long ago. They have been dealing with that
Antwerp firm for several weeks.”

“The hard copper was all a story?”

“Looks like it, sir. As a matter of fact every single statement those
men made that could be tested has been proved false. Even when there
didn’t seem any great object in a yarn they pitched it. Lies seemed to
come easier to them.”

“Well, I’ve known a good few cases of that, and so have you, French.
It’s a habit that grows. Now, what’s your next move?”

French hesitated.

“For the moment the outlook’s not very cheery,” he said at last. “All
the same I can’t believe that boat can go away out of the Scheldt and
disappear. In my judgment she’s bound to be reported before long, and
I’m looking forward to getting word of her within the next day or so.
Then I have no doubt that the tracing is some kind of cipher, and if
we could read it we should probably get light on the whole affair.”

“Why shouldn’t you read it? Try it again.”

“I intend to, sir. But I don’t hope for much result, because I don’t
believe we’ve got the genuine document. I don’t believe they would
have handed it, nor a copy of it either, to a man they intended to
murder, lest it should be found on his body. I’d state long odds they
gave him a fake.”

“I think you’re probably right,” the chief admitted. “Try at all
events. You never know your luck.”

He bent over his desk, and French, realizing that the interview had
come to an end, quietly left the room. Then, seeing there was nothing
requiring his attention urgently, and tired after his journey, he went
home.

But contrary to his expectations, the next day passed without any news
of the _L’Escaut_, and the next, and many days after that. Nor could
all his efforts with the tracing throw any light on that mysterious
document. As time passed he began to grow more and more despondent,
and the fear that he was going to make a mess of the case grew
steadily stronger. In vain he laid his difficulties before his wife.
For once that final source of inspiration failed him. Mrs. French did
not take even one illuminating notion. When the third week had gone
by, something akin to despair seized upon the Inspector. The only
possibility of hope now seemed to lie in the return of Arnold Price,
and French began counting the days until his arrival.

One night about three weeks after his return from Belgium he settled
down with a cigar after dinner, his thoughts running in their familiar
groove: What were these people engaged on? Was there any way in which
he could find out? Had he overlooked any evidence or any inquiries?
Had he neglected any possible line of research?

The more he considered the affair in all its bearings, the more
conscious he became of the soundness of the advice he had given to
Cheyne, and which in his turn he had received from his chief.
Unquestionably in the tracing lay the solution he required, and once
again he racked his brains to see if he could not by any means devise
a way to read its message.

On this point he concentrated, going over and over again everything he
had learned about it. For perhaps an hour he remained motionless in
his chair, while the smoke from his cigar curled up and slowly
dissolved into the blue haze with which the room was becoming
obscured. And then suddenly he sat up and with a dawning, tremulous
eagerness considered an idea which had just leaped into his mind.

He had suddenly remembered a statement made by Cheyne when he was
giving his first rather incoherent account of his adventures. The
young man said that it had been arranged between himself and Joan
Merrill that if either were lucky enough to get the tracing into his
or her possession, the first thing he or she would do would be to
photograph it. Now, in juxtaposition with that statement, French
recalled the facts, first, that Joan must have reached her flat on the
night of her abduction at least several minutes before Blessington and
Sime arrived with their car; and secondly, that during those minutes
she had the tracing with her—the genuine tracing, as there was every
reason to believe. _Had Joan photographed it?_

French was overwhelmed with amazement and chagrin at his failure to
think of this point before, nor could he acquit Cheyne of a like
astounding stupidity. For himself he felt there was no excuse
whatever. He had even specially noticed the girl’s camera and the
flashlight apparatus which she used for her architectural details when
he was searching her rooms, but he had then, and since then up till
this moment, entirely and completely forgotten the arrangement made
between the partners.

Late as it was, French decided to go then and there to ascertain the
point. The key of Joan’s flat was at the Yard, and twenty minutes
later he had obtained it and was in a taxi bowling towards Horne
Terrace.

He kept the vehicle while he ran up the ten flights to No. 12 and
secured the camera. Then hastening down, he was driven back to the
Yard.

By a piece of good luck he found a photographer who had been delayed
by other important work, and him he pressed into the service
forthwith. With some grumbling the man returned to his dark room.
French, too eager to await his report, accompanying him.

A few moments sufficed to settle the question. The camera contained a
roll of films of which the first seven had been exposed, and a short
immersion in the developer showed that numbers 5, 6, and 7 bore the
hoped for impress.

Gone was French’s despondency and the weariness caused by his heavy
day, and instead he was once more the embodiment of enthusiasm and
cheery optimism. He had it now! At last the secret was within his
grasp! Of his ability to read the message, now that he was sure he had
the genuine one, he had no doubt. He had always liked working out
ciphers, and since he had succeeded in extracting the hidden meaning
from the stock and share list which had been sent to the elusive Mrs.
X in the Gething murder case, his belief in his own powers had become
almost an obsession. He could hardly restrain his eagerness to get to
grips with this new problem until the negatives should be dry and
prints made.

The photographer was able to promise these for the following day, and
till then French had to possess his soul in patience. But on his
return from lunch he found on his desk three excellent prints of the
document.

They were only half-plate size, or about one-third that of the tracing
which had been given to Cheyne. He therefore instructed the
photographer to prepare enlargements which would bring the document up
to more nearly the size of the original. These were ready before it
was time for him to leave for home, and he sat down with
ill-controlled excitement to compare them with the document at which
he had already spent so much time.

And then he suddenly experienced one of the most bitter
disappointments of his life. To all intents and purposes the two were
the same! There were the same circles, the same numbers, letters, and
signs enclosed therein, the same phrase, “England expects every man to
do his duty,” spaced round in the same way! The tracing had not been
very accurately done, as some of the circles seemed slightly out of
place, but the discrepancies were trifling, and seemed obviously due
to careless copying. He gave vent to a single bitter oath, then sat
motionless, wrapped in the most profound gloom.

He took tracing and photographs home with him, and spent the greater
part of the evening making a minute comparison between the two. The
enlargement unfortunately was not exactly the same size as the
tracing, and he therefore began his work by covering the surfaces of
both with proportionate squares.

Taking the tracing first he drew parallel lines one inch apart both up
and down it and across, thus covering its whole surface with inch
squares. Then he divided the prints into the same number of equal
parts both vertically and horizontally and ruled them up in squares
also. These squares were slightly smaller than the others—about
seven-eighths of an inch only—but relatively the lines fell on each in
the same positions. A comparison according to the squares thus showed
at a glance similarity or otherwise between the two documents.

As he examined them in detail certain interesting facts began to
emerge. The general appearance, the words “England expects every man
to do his duty,” and the circles with their attendant letters and
numbers were identical on both sheets. But there were striking
variations. The position of certain of the circles was different.
Those containing numbers and crooked lines were all slightly out of
place, while those containing letters remained unmoved. Moreover, the
little crooked lines, while preserving a rough resemblance to the
originals, were altered in shape. The more he considered the matter
the more evident it became to French that these divergences were
intentional. The tracing which had been given to Cheyne was intended
to resemble the other superficially—and did so resemble it, but it had
clearly been faked to make it valueless.

[Illustration: A full-page image of dozens of circles. Their
arrangement appears to be random. Most circles contains either a
letter or a number, with the numbers ranging from 1 to 36. Eight or
nine circles instead contain a short, irregularly-shaped line. Words
are placed in between the circles, arranged in a loop through the
entire image, reading clockwise “England expects every man to do his
duty”.]

If French were right so far, and he had but little doubt of it, it
followed that the essential feature of the circles and crooked lines
was position. This, he felt, should be a useful hint, but as yet he
could not see where it led.

He pondered fruitlessly over the problem till the small hours, and
next morning he took the documents back to the Yard to continue his
studies. But he did not have an opportunity to do so. Other work was
waiting for him. To his delight he found that Arnold Price had reached
home, and that he and Cheyne were waiting to see him.

Price proved to be a lanky and rather despondent-looking individual
with a skin burned to the color of copper and a pair of exceedingly
shrewd blue eyes. He dropped into the chair French indicated, and
instantly pulled out and lit a well-blackened cutty pipe.

“Got in yesterday morning,” he announced laconically, “and wired
Torquay I was going down. By the merest luck I got a reply before I
started that Cheyne was in town. I looked him up and here I am.”

French smiled pleasantly. Though interested in the man, he could not
help noting with some amusement at once the restraint and the
completeness of his statement. How refreshing, he thought, and how
rare, to meet some one who will give you the pith of a story without
frills!

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Price,” he said cordially. “I suppose Mr.
Cheyne has told you the effect that your letter has had on us all?”

The other nodded.

“Not altogether surprising,” he declared. “There’s money in the
thing—or so I always believed, and this other crowd must believe it
too; though how they got on to the affair licks me.”

“We shall be very much interested to hear what you can tell us about
it,” French prompted. “Will you smoke, Mr. Cheyne?” He held out his
cigar case.

“I can’t tell you much,” Price returned, “and nothing that will clear
up this blessed mystery that seems to have started up. But this is my
story for what it’s worth. Before the war I was on one of the Hudson
and Spence boats and I had the luck to get into the R.N.R. when
hostilities broke out. I stayed on in my old ship till she was
torpedoed a couple of years later, then I was appointed third officer
on the _Maurania_. We were on a trip from South Africa to Brest with
army stores, when one day, just as we came into the English Channel,
we were attacked by a U-boat. We had an 18-pounder forward, and by a
stroke of luck we gave old Fritz one on the knob that did him in. The
boat went down and a dozen of the crew were left swimming. We put out
a boat and picked one or two of them up. The skipper was clinging on
to a lifebelt, but just as we came up he let go and began to sink. I
was in charge of the boat, and some fool notion came over me—I think
in the hurry I forgot he was a U-boat skipper—but anyhow like a fool I
got overboard and got hold of him. It was nothing like a dramatic
rescue—there was no danger to me—and we were back on board inside
fifteen minutes.”

French and Cheyne were listening intently to this familiar story. So
far it was almost word for word that told by Dangle. Apparently, then,
there was at least one point on which the latter had told the truth.

“We weren’t out of trouble,” Price resumed, “and next day we came up
against another submarine. We exchanged a few shots and then a British
destroyer came up and drove him off. But I had the luck to stop a
splinter of shell, and when we got to Brest I was sent to hospital.
The U-boat skipper had got a crack on the head when his boat went
down, and he was sent in too. By a chance we got side by side beds in
the same ward, and used to talk a bit, though he was a rotter, even
for a Boche.”

Price paused to draw on his cutty pipe, expelling great clouds of
smoke of a peculiarly acrid and penetrating quality. Then, the others
not speaking, he went on:

“It turned out that the wound on Schulz’s head—his name was Schulz—was
serious, and he grew steadily worse. Then one night when the ward was
quiet, he woke me and said he knew his number was up and that he had a
secret to tell me. We listened, but all the other fellows seemed
asleep, and then he told me he could put me in the way of a
fortune—that he had hoped to get it himself after the war, but now
that it would be a job for someone else. He said he would tell me the
whole thing, and that I might make what I could out of it, if only I
would pledge myself to give one-eighth of what I got to his wife. He
gave me the address—somewhere in Breslau. He asked me to swear this
and I did, and then he took a packet from under his pillow and handed
it to me. ‘There,’ he said, ‘the whole thing’s there. I put it in
cipher for safety, but I’ll tell you how to read it.’ Well, he began
to do so, but just then a sister came in, and he shut up till she
would leave. But the excitement of talking about the thing must have
been too much for him. He got a weak turn and never spoke again.”

“But,” Cheyne interposed, “what about the hard copper? Dangle told us
about Schulz’s discovery.”

Price gazed at him vacantly for some moments and then suddenly smote
the table.

“I’ve got it!” he cried with an oath. “Dangle! I remember that chap
now! He was in the next bed on the other side of Schulz. That’s right!
I couldn’t call him to mind when you mentioned him before. Of course!
He heard the whole tale, and that’s what started him on this do.”

“I know,” Cheyne returned. “He admitted that all right. But he told us
about the hard copper. You haven’t mentioned that.”

Price shook his head.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he declared. “What do you mean
by hard copper?”

“Dangle mentioned it. He was listening to the conversation. He told us
all that about Schulz’s story of the fortune, and about his wife and
all that, just as you have, but he said Schulz went on to explain what
the fortune was: that he had hit on a way of treating copper that made
it as hard as steel. The cipher contained the formula.”

Again Price shook his head.

“All spoof,” he observed. “Not a word of truth in it. Schulz never
mentioned copper or said anything more than I’ve told you.”

French spoke for the first time.

“We found this Dangle a man of imagination, all through, and it is
easy to see why he invented that particular yarn. By that time he had
undoubtedly read the cipher, and he wanted something to mislead Mr.
Cheyne as to its contents. The story of the hard copper would start a
bias in Mr. Cheyne’s mind which would tend to keep him off the real
scent.” He paused, but his companions not speaking, continued: “Now we
have that bias cleared away, at least one interesting fact emerges.
The whole business starts with the sea—the U-boat commander, Schulz,
and it looks as if it was going to end up with the sea, the tramp, the
_L’Escaut_.”

As French said these words an idea flashed into his mind, and he went
on deliberately, but with growing excitement:

“And when we connect the idea of a U-boat commander giving a message
which ends with a sea expedition, with the fact, which I have just
discovered, that the essence of his cipher is the _position_ of the
markings on it, we seem to be getting somewhere.”

Price smote his thigh.

“By Jemima!” he cried. “I’ve got you. That blessed tracing is a map!”

“A map, yes. That’s what I think,” French answered eagerly, and then
as suddenly he saw the possible significance of Nelson’s exhortation,
he went on dramatically: “A map of England!”

Cheyne swore softly.

“My word, if we aren’t a set of blithering idiots!” he exclaimed. “Of
course! ‘England’ is the title. That’s as clear as day! The other
words are added as a blind. Let’s have the thing out, Inspector, and
see if we can’t make something of it now.”

As French produced his enlarged photographs not one of the three men
doubted that they were at last well on the way towards wresting the
secret from the document which had so long baffled them.



Chapter XIX

The Message of the Tracing

Inspector French spread the photograph on his desk, and Cheyne and
Price having drawn up chairs, all three gazed at it as if expecting
that in the light of their great idea its message would have become
obvious.

But in this they were disappointed. The suggestion did not seem in any
way to help either French or Cheyne, and Price, who of course had not
seen the document before, was satisfactorily mystified. Granted that
the thing was a map, granted even that it was a map of England, its
meaning remained just as provokingly hidden as ever.

Presently Price gave vent to an exclamation. “Hang it all!” he cried
irritably, and then: “I suppose those numbers couldn’t be soundings?
Could they give depths at the circles?”

“That’s an idea,” Cheyne cried, but French shook his head.

“I think there’s more in it than that,” he observed. “If you examine
those numbers you’ll find that they’re consecutive, they run from one
to thirty-six. Soundings wouldn’t lend themselves to such an
arrangement. You may be right, Mr. Price, and we must keep your idea
in view, but I don’t see it working out for the moment.”

Silence reigned for a few moments, then Price sat back from the table
and spoke again.

“Look here, Inspector,” he said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe
and beginning to fill it with his strong, black mixture, “you said
something just now I didn’t quite follow. Let’s get your notion clear.
You talked of this thing beginning with the sea—at Schulz, and ending
with the sea—at _L’Escaut_, and Schulz’s message being a map. Just
what was in your mind?”

“Only the obvious suggestion that if you leave a message which
provokes an expedition, you must also convey in your message the
destination of that expedition, and a map seems the simplest way of
doing it. But on second thoughts I question my first conclusion. There
must be an explanation of the secret as well as a direction of how to
profit by it, and it would seem to me doubtful that such an
explanation could be covered by a map.”

“Sounds all right, that,” Price admitted. “Have you any idea what the
secret might be? Sounds like treasure or salvage or something of that
kind.”

“I scarcely think salvage,” French answered. “The _L’Escaut_ is not a
salvage boat, and a boat not specially fitted for the purpose would be
of little use. But I thought of treasure all right. This Schulz might
have robbed his ships—there would always be money aboard, and even
during the war many women traveled with jewelry. The man might easily
have made a cache of valuables somewhere round the coast.”

“Easily,” Cheyne intervened, “or he might have learned of some
valuable deposit in some out of the way cove round the coast, like
those chaps in that clinking tale of Maurice Drake’s, _WO₂_.”

“As at Terneuzen?” said French. “I read that book—one of the best I
ever came across. It’s a possibility, of course.”

The talk here became somewhat rambling, Price not having read _WO₂_
and wanting to know what it was about, but French soon reverted to his
photograph. He reminded his hearers that they were all interested in
its elucidation. Miss Merrill’s safety, his own professional credit,
Cheyne’s peace of mind, and Price’s fortune, all were at stake.

“We have,” he went on, “evolved the idea that perhaps this tracing may
be a map of England. On further thought that suggestion does not seem
promising, but as we have no other let us work on it. Assume it is a
map of England, and let us see if it leads us anywhere.” There were
murmurs of assent from his hearers, and he continued: “Now it seems to
me the first thing to do is to try if we can fit these circles and
lines into the map of England. Is there anything corresponding to them
in English geography?”

No one being able to answer this query, French went on:

“I think we must distinguish between the letter circles on the one
hand and those of the numbers and lines on the other. The position of
the former was not altered in the faked copy; that of the latter was.
From this may we not assume that the message lies in the numbers and
lines only? Possibly the letters were added as a blind, as we have
already assumed the words ‘expects every man to do his duty’ were
added as a blind to ‘England.’ Suppose at all events that we eliminate
the letter circles and concentrate on the others for our first
effort?”

“That sounds all right.”

“Good. Then let us go a step further. Have you noticed the
distribution of the numbers, letters and lines? The numbers are
bunched, roughly speaking, towards the center, the letters round the
edge, and the irregular lines between the two. Does this central mass
give us anything?”

“I get you,” Price replied. He had risen and begun to pace the room,
but now he returned to the table and stood looking down at the
photograph. “You know, as a matter of fact,” he went on slowly, “if,
as you say, you take that central part which contains numbers only,
the shape of the thing is not so very unlike England after all.
Suppose the numbers represent land and the letters sea. Then this
patch of letters in the top left-hand corner might be the Irish Sea,
and this larger patch to the right the North Sea. And look, the letter
circles form a band across the bottom. What price that for the English
Channel?”

French crossed the room, and taking a small atlas from a shelf, opened
it at the map of England and laid it down beside the photograph. With
a rising excitement all three compared them. Then Cheyne burst out
irritably:

“Confound the thing! It’s like it and it’s not like it. Let’s draw a
line round those number circles and see if it makes anything like the
shape.” He seized the photograph and took out a pencil.

But just as in the scientific and industrial worlds discoveries and
inventions seldom come singly, so among these three men the begetting
of ideas begot more ideas. Scarcely had Cheyne spoken when French made
a little gesture of comprehension.

“I believe I have it at last,” he said quietly but with ill-concealed
eagerness in his tones. “Those irregular lines in certain of the
circles are broken bits of the coast line. See here, those two between
8 and U are surely the Wash, and that below H is Flamborough Head.
Let’s see if we can locate correspondingly shaped outlines on the
atlas, and fill in between those on the photograph with pencil.”

A few seconds’ examination only were needed. Opposite, but slightly
above the projection which French suggested as Flamborough Head was an
angled line between GU and 31 which all three simultaneously
pronounced St. Bee’s Head. Short double lines on each side of 24
showed two parts of the estuary of the Severn, and projections along
the bottom near X and 27 were evidently St. Alban’s Head and Selsey
Bill.

That they were on the right track there could now no longer be any
doubt, and they set themselves with renewed energy to the problem
still remaining—the meaning of the circles and the numbers they
contained.

“We can’t locate the blessed things this way,” French pointed out.
“We’ll have to rule squares on the atlas to correspond. Then we can
pencil in the coast line accurately, and see just where the circles
lie.”

For a time measuring and the drawing of lines were the order of the
day. And then at last the positions of the circles were located. They
were all drawn round towns.

“Towns!” Price exclaimed. “Guess we’re getting on.”

“Towns!” Cheyne echoed in his turn. “Then you must have been right,
Inspector, about those letters being merely a blind.”

“I think so,” French admitted. “Look at it in this way. If only the
towns and coast were marked, the shape of England would show too
clearly. But adding those letter circles disguises the thing—prevents
the shape becoming apparent. Now, I may be wrong, but I am beginning
to question very much if this map has anything to do with indicating a
position—I mean directly. I am beginning to think it is merely a
cipher. Let us test this at all events. Let us write down the names of
the towns in the order of the numbers and see if that gives us
anything.”

He took a sheet of paper, while Price found No. 1 on the photograph
and Cheyne identified its position with that of a town on the atlas
map.

“No. 1,” said Cheyne, “is Salisbury.”

French wrote down: “1, Salisbury.”

“No. 2,” went on Cheyne, “is Immingham.”

“2, Immingham,” wrote French, as he remarked, “Salisbury—Immingham:
S—I. That goes all right so far.”

The next three towns were Liverpool, Uttoxeter, and Reading, and
though none of the men could see where SILUR was leading, it was at
least pronounceable.

But when the next three letters were added French gave a mighty shout
of victory. No. 6 was Ipswich, No. 7 Andover, and No. 8 Nottingham.
IAN added to SILUR made Silurian.

“_Silurian!_” French cried, striking the table a mighty blow with his
clenched fist. “_Silurian!_ That begins to show a light!”

The others stared.

“Don’t you recognize the name?” went on French. “The _Silurian_ was a
big Anchor liner, and she was torpedoed on her way to the States with
two and a half millions in gold bars aboard!”

The others held their breath and their eyes grew round.

“Any of it recovered?”

“None: it was in mid-Atlantic.”

“But,” stammered Cheyne at last, “I don’t follow—”

“I don’t follow myself,” French returned briskly, “but when the cipher
which leads to a maritime expedition begins with a wreck with two and
a half millions aboard, well then, I say it is suggestive. Come along,
let’s read the rest of the thing. We’ll know more then.”

With breathless eagerness the other towns were looked up, and at last
French’s list read as follows:

     1. Salisbury
     2. Immingham
     3. Liverpool
     4. Uttoxeter
     5. Reading
     6. Ipswich
     7. Andover
     8. Nottingham
     9. Oxford
    10. Northampton
    11. Evesham
    12. Doncaster
    13. Exeter
    14. Gloucester
    15. Ripon
    16. Ely
    17. Eastbourne
    18. Wigan
    19. Exmouth
    20. Swansea
    21. Tonbridge
    22. Nuneaton
    23. Ilfracombe
    24. Newport
    25. Eaglescliff
    26. Taunton
    27. Eastleigh
    28. Ebbw Vale
    29. Northallerton
    30. Folkestone
    31. Appleby
    32. Tamworth
    33. Huntingdon
    34. Oldham
    35. Middlesborough
    36. Southend

Taking the initials in order read: 
Silurianonedegreewestnineteenfathoms, or dividing it into its obvious
words—“_Silurian_ one degree west nineteen fathoms.”

The three men stared at one another.

“Nineteen fathoms!” Price gasped at last. “But if she’s in nineteen
fathoms that gold will be salvable!”

French nodded.

“And I guess Dangle and Company have gone to salve it. They wouldn’t
want a salvage boat for gold. They’d get it with a diver’s outfit.”

“But,” Cheyne went on in a puzzled tone, “I’ve not got this straight
yet. If she’s in nineteen fathoms, why has she not been salved by the
Admiralty? Look at the _Laurentic_. She was put down off the Swilly in
Ireland, and they salved her gold. Five million pounds’ worth. Salved
practically every penny, and in twenty fathoms too.”

Price was considering another problem.

“One degree west,” he murmured. “What under heaven does that mean? One
degree west of what? Surely not the meridian of Greenwich. If so, what
is the latitude: there’s no mention of it?”

French could not answer either of the questions, and he did not try.
Instead he picked up his telephone receiver and made a call.

“Hallo! Is that Lloyd’s? Put me through to the Record Department,
please . . . Is Mr. Sam Pullar there? Tell him Inspector French of
Scotland Yard wants to speak to him . . . Hallo, Sam! . . . Yes . . .
Haven’t seen you for ages . . . Look here, Sam, I want you to do me a
favor. It’s rather urgent, and I’d be grateful if you could look after
it just now. . . . Yes, I’ll hold on. I want to know anything you can
tell me about the sinking of the _Silurian_. You remember, she had two
and a half millions on her in gold, and the U-boats got her somewhere
between this country and the States, I think in ’17 . . . What’s that?
. . . Yes, all that and anything else you can tell me.” He took the
receiver from his ear. “Friend of mine in Lloyd’s,” he explained. “We
ought to get some light from his reply.”

Silence reigned for a couple of minutes, then French spoke again. “Let
me repeat that,” he said, seizing a pad and scribbling furiously.
“Latitude 41 degrees 36 minutes north, longitude 28 degrees 53 minutes
west. Right. How was that known? . . . But there was no direct
information? . . . Was the gold insured? . . . Well, it’s an involved
business, I could hardly tell you over the phone. I’ll explain it
first time we meet . . . Thank you, Sam. Much obliged.”

He rang off and then made a departmental call.

“Put me through to Inspector Barnes . . . That you, Barnes? I’m on to
something a bit in your line. Could you come down here for half an
hour?”

“Barnes is our authority on things nautical,” he told the others.
“Began life as a sailor and has studied all branches of sea lore. We
always give him shipping cases. We’ll wait till he comes and then I’ll
tell you what I learned from Lloyd’s.”

“Isn’t it a strange thing,” Cheyne remarked, “that Schulz should have
chosen England for his map and English for his cipher. Wouldn’t the
natural thing have been for him to have chosen Germany and German? He
could have headed it, for instance, ‘Deutschland über Alles,’ and used
the initials of German towns for his phrase.”

“I thought of that,” French returned, “but we have to remember he
prepared the cipher to mislead Germans, not English. In that case I
think he was right to use English. It made the thing more difficult.”

He had scarcely finished speaking when the door opened, and a tall,
alert-looking young man entered the room. French introduced him as
Inspector Barnes and pointed to a chair.

“Seat yourself, Barnes, and listen to my tale. These gentlemen are
concerned with a curious story,” and he gave a brief résumé of the
strange events which had led up to the existing situation. “Now,” he
went on, “when we found it was connected with the _Silurian_ I rang up
Sam Pullar at Lloyd’s, and this is what he told me. The _Silurian_
sailed from this country on the 16th of February, 1917. She was bound
for New York, and she had two and a half millions on her in bullion as
well as a fair number of passengers. She was a big boat—an Anchor
liner of some 15,000 tons. You remember about her?”

“Well, I should think so,” Barnes returned, as he lit a cigarette.
“Why, I was on that job—getting her away, I mean. All kinds of
precautions were taken. A tale was started that she would load up the
gold at Plymouth and would sail—I forget the exact date now, but it
was three days after she did sail. It was my job to see that the
German spies about Plymouth got hold of this tale, and we had evidence
that they did get it, and moreover sent it through to Germany, and
that the U-boats were instructed accordingly. As a matter of fact the
_Silurian_ came from Brest, where she had landed army stores from
South America, and the bullion went out in a tender from Folkestone,
and was transferred at night in the Channel in the middle of a ring of
destroyers. While preparations were being made at Plymouth for her
arrival she was away hundreds of miles towards the States.”

“But they got her all the same.”

“Oh yes, they got her, but not all the same. She escaped the boats
that were looking out for her. It was a chance boat that found her,
somewhere, if I remember rightly, near the Azores.”

“That’s right,” French answered. “Instead of going directly west, so
Sam Pullar told me, she went south to avoid those submarines you spoke
of and which were supposed to be operating off the Land’s End. Her
course was followed by wireless, down to near the Spanish coast, and
then across fairly due west. She was last seen by a Cape boat some
thirty miles west of Finisterre. Then a message was received from her
when she was some 250 miles north of the Azores, that a U-boat had
come along, and had ordered her to stop. The message gave her position
and went on to say that a boat was coming aboard from the submarine.
Then it stopped, and that was the last thing that was heard of her.
Not a body or a boat or a bit of wreckage was ever picked up, and it
was clear that every one on board was lost. Then after a time
confirmation was obtained. Our intelligence people in Germany
intercepted a report from the commander of the submarine who sank her,
giving details. She had been sunk in latitude 41° 36′ north, longitude
28° 53′ west, which confirmed the figures sent out in her last
wireless message. Four boats had got away, but the commander had fired
on them and had sunk them one after another, so that not a single
member of the passengers or crew should survive.”

“Dirty savages,” Barnes commented. “But people in open boats wouldn’t
have had much chance there anyway, particularly in February. If they
had been able to keep afloat at all, they would probably have missed
the Azores, and it’s very unlikely they would have made the Spanish or
Portuguese coast—it would have been too far.”

French pushed forward his atlas.

“Just whereabouts did she sink?” he inquired.

“About there.” Barnes indicated a point north of the Azores. “But this
atlas is too small to see it. Send someone to my room for my large
atlas. You’ll see better on that.”

French having telephoned his instructions Barnes went on.

“She’s evidently lying on what is called the Dolphin Rise. The Dolphin
Rise is part of a great ridge which passes down the middle of the
Atlantic from near Iceland to well down towards the Antarctic Ocean.
This ridge is covered by an average of some 1,700 fathoms of water,
with vastly greater depths on either side. It is volcanic and is
covered by great submarine mountain chains. Where the tops of these
mountains protrude above the surface we get, of course, islands, and
the Azores are such a group.”

A constable at that moment entered with the large atlas, and Barnes
continued:

“Now we’ll see in a moment.” He ran his finger down the index of maps,
then turned the pages. “Here we are. Here is a map of the North
Atlantic Ocean: here are the Azores and hereabouts is your point,
and—By Jove!” the young man looked actually excited, “here is what
your cipher means all right!”

The other three crowded round in almost breathless excitement. Barnes
pointed with a pencil slightly to the east of a white spot about a
quarter of an inch in diameter which bore the figure 18.

“Look here,” he went on, “there’s about the point she is supposed to
have sunk. You see it is colored light blue, which the reference tells
us means over 1,000 fathoms. But measure one degree to the west—it is
about fifty miles at that latitude—and it brings us into the middle of
that white patch marked 18. That white patch is another mountain
chain, just not high enough to become an island, and the 18 means that
the peaks come within 18 fathoms of the surface. So that your cipher
message is probably quite all right, and your Antwerp party are more
than likely working away at the gold at the present time.”

French swore comprehensively.

“You must be right,” he agreed. “One can see now what that blackguard
of a U-boat commander did. He evidently put some men aboard the
_Silurian_ to dismantle their wireless, then made them sail on
parallel to his own course until he had by the use of his lead
maneuvered them over the highest peak, and then put them down. The
whole thing must have been quite deliberate. He returned to his own
government a false statement of her position, which he knew would
correspond with the last message she sent out, intending it to be
believed that she was lost in over 1,000 fathoms. But he sank her
where he could himself afterwards recover her bullion, or sell his
secret to the highest bidder. The people on the _Silurian_ would know
all about that two or three hours’ steam west, so they must be got rid
of. Hence his destroying the boats one after another. No one must be
left alive to give the thing away. To his own crew he no doubt told
some tale to account for it, but he would be safe enough there, as no
one except himself would know the actual facts. Dirty savage indeed!”

With this speech of French’s a light seemed to Cheyne suddenly to
shine out over all that strange adventure in which for so many weeks
he had been involved. With it each puzzling fact seemed to become
comprehensible and to drop into its natural place in the story as the
pieces of a jigsaw puzzle eventually make a coherent whole. He
pictured the thing from the beginning, the submarine coming up with
the ship in deep water, but comparatively close to a shallow place
where its treasure could be salved: the desire of the U-boat
commander, Schulz, to save the gold, quite possibly in the first
instance for the benefit of his nation. Then the temptation to keep
what he had done secret so as, if possible later, to get the stuff for
himself. His fall before this temptation, with its contingent false
return to his government as to the position of the wreck. Then, Cheyne
saw, the problem of passing on the secret in the event of his own
death would arise, with the evolution and construction of the cipher
as an attempted solution. As a result of Schulz’s fatal wound the
cipher was handed to Price, and Schulz was doubtless about to explain
how it should be read, when he was interrupted by the nurse. Before
another chance offered he was dead.

Given the fact that Dangle overheard the dying man’s story, and that
Dangle’s character was what it was, Cheyne now saw that the remainder
of his adventure could scarcely have happened otherwise than as it
had. To obtain the cipher was Dangle’s obvious course, and there was
no reason to doubt his own statement of how he set about it. A search
among Price’s papers showed the latter had sent the document to
Cheyne, and from Cheyne Dangle had evidently decided to obtain it. But
nothing could be done till after the war, nor, presumably, without
financial and other help. In this lay, doubtless, the reason for the
application to Blessington and Sime, and these two being roped in, the
unscrupulous trio set themselves to work. Susan Dangle assisted by
obtaining a post as servant at Warren Lodge, and thus gained detailed
information which enabled the others to lay their plans. And so in a
quite orderly sequence event had followed event, until now it looked
as if the climax had been reached.

Like a flash these thoughts passed through Cheyne’s mind, and like a
flash he saw what depended on them. Now they knew where Joan Merrill
had been taken. If she was still alive—and he simply could not bring
himself to admit any other possibility—she was on that boat of
Merkel’s some two hundred and fifty miles north of the Azores! From
that something surely followed. He turned to French and spoke in a
voice which was hoarse from anxiety.

“What about an expedition to the place?”

French nodded decisively.

“We must arrange one without delay,” he said. “I think the Admiralty
is our hope. That gold wasn’t insured—it was a government business.
I’ll go and tell the chief about it now, and get him to see the proper
authorities. Meanwhile,” he looked, for French, quite sharply at the
others, “not a word of this must be breathed.”

Intense interest was excited in the higher circles of the Admiralty by
the news which reached them from the Yard. Great personages bestirred
themselves to issue orders, with the result that with enormously more
promptitude than the man in the street can bring himself to associate
with a Government Department, a fast boat, well equipped with divers
and gear, was got ready for sea. French put in a word for both Cheyne
and Price, and when, some eight hours after their reading of the
cipher, the boat put out into the Thames from Chatham Dockyard, it
carried in addition to its regular crew not only Inspector French
himself, but also his two protégés.



Chapter XX

The Goal of the “L’Escaut”

Inspector French had gone to bed in the tiny but comfortable stateroom
which had been put at his disposal by the officers of the Admiralty
boat while that redoubtable vessel was slipping easily and on an even
keel through the calm waters of the Straits of Dover. He awoke next
morning to find her plunging and rolling and staggering through what,
in comparison with his previous experiences of the sea, appeared to be
a frightful storm. To his surprise, however, he did not feel any bad
effects from the motion, and presently he arose, and having with
extreme care performed the ticklish operation of shaving, dressed and
climbed with the aid of railings and handles to the companionway, and
so to the deck.

The sight which met his eyes on emerging made him hold his breath, as
he clung to the rail at the companion door. It was a wonderful
morning, clear and bright and fresh and invigorating. The sun shone
down from a cloudless sky on to a dark sapphire sea of incredible
purity, flecked over with foaming patches of dazzling white. As far as
the eye could reach in every direction out to the hard sharp line of
the horizon, great waves rolled relentlessly onward, wavelets dancing
and churning and foaming on their slow-moving flanks. The wind caught
French and, as if it were a solid, held him pinned against the
deckhouse. He stood watching the bluff bows of the boat rise in the
air, then crash back into the sea, throwing out a smother of water and
foam some of which would seep over the fo’c’sle, and after swirling
through the forward deck hamper, disappear through the scuppers
amidships.

For some moments he watched, then moving round the deckhouse, he
glanced up and saw Cheyne and Price beckoning to him from the bridge,
where they had joined the officer of the watch.

“Some morning this, Inspector,” Price cried, as he joined them in the
lee of the weather canvas. “This will blow the London cobwebs out of
our minds.”

He was evidently keenly enjoying himself, and even Cheyne’s anxious
face showed appreciation of his surroundings. And soon French himself,
having realized that they were not necessarily going to the bottom in
a hurricane, but merely running down Channel in a fresh southwesterly
breeze, began to feel the thrill of the sea, and to believe that the
end of his quest was going to develop into a novel and delightful
holiday trip.

The same weather held all that day and the next, but on the third the
wind fell, and the sea gradually calmed down to a slow, easy swell.
The sun grew hotter, and basking in it in the lee of the deckhouse
became a delight. Little was said about the object of the expedition.
French and Price were content to enjoy the present, and Cheyne managed
to keep his anxieties to himself. The ship’s officers were a jolly
crowd, immensely excited by their quest, and conducting themselves as
the kindly hosts of welcome guests.

On the fourth day it grew still warmer, indeed out of the breeze made
by the ship’s motion it was unpleasantly hot. French liked to get away
forward, where it was cooler, and leaned by the hour over the bows,
watching the sharp stem cut through the water and roll back in its
frothing wave on either side. Dolphins were now to be seen swimming in
the clear water, and two hung at the bows, one on each side,
apparently motionless for long periods, until suddenly they would dart
ahead, spiral round one another and then return to their places.

That fourth evening the captain joined his passengers as the trio were
smoking on deck.

“If we carry on like this,” he remarked, “we should reach the position
about four A.M. But those beggars may be taking a risk and not showing
a light, so I propose to slow down from now on, in order not to arrive
till daylight. Come on deck about six. If they’re here we should raise
them between then and seven.”

French, waking early next morning, could not control his excitement
and remain in his berth until the allotted time. He rose at five, and
went on deck with the somewhat shamefaced feeling that he was acting
as a small boy, who on Christmas morning must needs get up on waking
to investigate the possibilities of stockings. But he need not have
feared ridicule from his companions. Both Cheyne and Price were
already on the bridge, and the skipper stood with his telescope glued
to his eye as he searched the horizon ahead. All three were evidently
thrilled by the approaching finale, and a slight incoherence was
discernible in their somewhat scrappy conversation.

The morning was calm and very clear. Once again the sky was cloudless,
and the soft southwesterly wind barely ruffled the surface of the long
flat swells. It was a pleasure to be alive, and it seemed impossible
to associate crime and violence with the expedition. But beneath their
smiles all concerned felt it might easily develop into a grim enough
business. And that side of it became more apparent when at the
captain’s order the covers of the six-pounders mounted fore and aft
were removed, and the weapons were prepared for action by their crews.

The hands of French’s watch had just reached the quarter hour after
six, when Captain Amery, who had once again been sweeping the horizon
with his telescope, said quietly: “There she is.” He handed the glass
to French. “See there, about three points on the starboard bow.”

French, with some difficulty steadying the tube, saw very faint and
far off what looked like the upper part of a steamer’s deck, with a
funnel, and two masts like threads of the finest gossamer. “She’s
still hull down,” the captain explained. “You’ll see her better in a
few minutes. We should be up with her in three-quarters of an hour.”

In order to leave them free later on, it was decided to have breakfast
at once, and by the time the hasty meal had been disposed of the
stranger was clearly visible to the naked eye. She lay heading
westward, as though anchored in the swing of the tide, and her fires
appeared to be either out or banked, as no smoke was visible at her
funnel. The glass revealed a flag at her forepeak, but she was still
too far off to make out its coloring.

Now that the dramatic climax was approaching, the minds of the actors
in the play became charged with a very real anxiety. Captain Amery,
under almost any circumstances, would have to deal with a very
ticklish situation. He had to get the gold, if it was salvable, and
the fact that they were not in British waters would be a complication
if the Belgian had already recovered it. French had to ascertain if
his quarry were on board, and if so, see that they did not escape
him—also a difficult job outside the three-mile limit. For Price a
fortune hung in the balance—not of course all the gold that might be
found, but the proportion allowed him by law; while for Cheyne there
remained something a thousand times more important than the capture of
a criminal or the acquisition of a fortune—for Cheyne the question of
Joan Merrill’s life was at stake. Their several anxieties were
reflected on the faces of the men, as they stood in silence, watching
the rapidly growing vessel.

Presently an exclamation came from Captain Amery.

“By Jove!” he said, “this is a rum business. I can see that flag now,
and it’s our red ensign. What’s a Belgian boat doing with a British
flag? And what’s more, it’s jack down—a flag of distress. What do you
think of that?” He looked at the others with a puzzled expression,
then went on: “I suppose they’re not armed? You don’t know, Inspector,
do you? If they were armed it would be a likely enough ruse to get us
close by, so as to make sure of hitting us in a vital place.”

French shook his head. He had heard nothing about arms, though for all
he knew to the contrary the _L’Escaut_ might carry a gun.

“I don’t see one,” the captain continued, “but then if they have one
they’d keep it hidden. But I don’t like there being no signs of life
aboard her. There’s no smoke anywhere, either from her boilers or her
galley. There’s no one on the bridge, and I’ve not seen a movement on
deck. It doesn’t look well: in fact it looks as if they were lying low
and waiting for us.”

They were now within a mile of the stranger, and her details were
clear even to the naked eye.

“It’s the _L’Escaut_ anyway,” Captain Amery went on. “I can see the
name on her bows. But I confess I don’t like that flag and that
silence. I think I’ll see if I can wake her up.”

He put his hand on the foghorn halliard and blew a number of
resounding blasts. For a few seconds nothing happened, then suddenly
two figures appeared at the deckhouse door, and after a moment’s
pause, rushed up on the bridge and began waving furiously. As they
passed up the bridge ladder they came from behind the shelter of a
boat and their silhouettes became visible against the sky. They were
both women!

A strangled cry burst from Cheyne as he snatched the captain’s
telescope and gazed at them, then with a shout of “It’s she! It’s
she!” he leaped to the end of the bridge and began waving his hat
frantically.

At this moment two other figures appeared on the fo’c’sle and,
apparently moving to the vessel’s side, stood watching the newcomers.
Amery rang his engines down to half speed and, slightly porting his
helm, headed for some distance astern of the other. Then starboarding,
he swung round, and bringing up parallel to her and some couple of
hundred yards away, he dropped anchor.

Without loss of a moment a boat was lowered, and French, Cheyne,
Price, the first officer, and a half dozen men, all armed with service
revolvers, tumbled in. Giving way lustily, they pulled for the
Belgian.

It was by this time possible to distinguish the features of the women,
and French was not surprised to learn they were Joan Merrill and Susan
Dangle. Evidently they recognized Cheyne, who kept waving furiously as
if he found the movement necessary to relieve his overwrought
feelings. The two figures forward were those of men, and these stood
watching the boat, though without exhibiting any of the transports of
delight of their fellow shipmates on the bridge.

As they drew closer Joan made signs to them to go round to the other
side of the ship, and dropping round her stern they saw a ladder
rigged. In a few seconds they were alongside, and Cheyne, leaping out
before the others, rushed up the steps and reached the deck.

If there had been any doubts as to the real relations between himself
and Joan, these were set at rest at that moment. Instinctively he
opened his arms, and Joan, swept off her feet by her emotion, threw
herself into them and clung to him, while tears of joy and relief ran
down her cheeks. As far as Cheyne was concerned, Susan Dangle, the
figures on the fo’c’sle, French, and the men behind him might as well
not have existed. He crushed Joan violently to him, covering her face
and hair with burning kisses, as he murmured brokenly of his love and
of his thankfulness for her safety.

French, anxious to learn the state of affairs and seeing nothing was
to be got from Joan, turned expectantly to Susan Dangle. What could
these unexpected developments mean? Was Susan, the enemy, now a
friend? Where were the others? Were the ship’s company friends or
foes? Could he ask her questions which might incriminate her without
giving her a formal warning?

But his curiosity would brook no delay.

“I am Inspector French of Scotland Yard,” he announced, while Price
and the first officer stood round expectantly. “You are Miss Susan
Dangle. Where are the other members of this expedition?”

The girl wrung her hands, and he noticed how terribly pale and drawn
was her face and what horror shone in her eyes.

“Oh!” she cried, with a gesture as if to shut out the sight of some
hideous dream. “Oh, it’s been awful! I can’t speak of it. They’re
dead! My brother James, Charles Sime, Mr. Merkel, most of the crew,
dead—all dead! Mr. Blessington wounded—probably dying! They got
fighting over the gold!” She began suddenly to laugh, a terrible high
cackling laugh, that made her hearers shiver, and attracted the
attention even of Joan and Cheyne.

French stepped quickly forward and seized her arm.

“There now, Miss Dangle,” he said kindly but firmly. “Stop that and
pull yourself together. Your terrible experiences are over now and
you’re in the hands of friends. But you mustn’t give way like this.
Make an effort, and you’ll be better directly.” He led her to a
hatchway and made her sit down, while he continued soothing her as one
would a fractious child.

But so great was the agitation of both girls that it was quite a
considerable time before the tragic tale of the _L’Escaut’s_
expedition became fully unfolded. And when at last it was told it
proved still but one more illustration of the old truth that the
qualities of greed and envy and selfishness have that seed of decay
within themselves which leads their unhappy victims to overreach
themselves, and instead of gaining what they seek, to lose their all.
Shorn of incoherent phrases and irrelevant details the story was this.

On the 24th of May the _L’Escaut_ had left Antwerp with twenty-eight
souls aboard. Aft there were Joan, Susan, Blessington, Sime, Dangle,
and Merkel, with the captain, first officer, and engineer—nine
persons, while forward were three divers, six assistants, a cook, a
steward, four seamen, and four engine-room staff, or nineteen
altogether. Once clear of the Scheldt Joan’s treatment had changed.
Her food was no longer drugged, and when in a few days she got over
the effects of the doses she had received, she found her jailers
polite and friendly and anxious to minimize the inconvenience and
anxiety she was suffering. They told her they did not wish her evil,
and were taking her with them simply to prevent information as to
themselves or their affairs leaking out through her. This, of course,
she did not believe, since she did not possess sufficient information
about them to enable her to interfere with their plans. But later
their real motive dawned on her. Gradually she realized that
Blessington had fallen in love with her, and though he was circumspect
enough, her distrust of him was such that she felt sick with horror
and dread when she thought of him. Nothing, however, had occurred to
which she could take exception, and had it not been for her fears as
to her own fate and her anxieties as to Cheyne’s, the voyage would
have been pleasant enough.

The _L’Escaut_ was a fast boat, and four days had brought them to the
spot referred to in the cipher. After three days’ search they found
the wreck, and all three divers had at once gone down. A week was
spent in making an examination of the vessel, at the end of which time
they had located the gold. It was in her stern, low down and not far
from her port side. The divers recommended blowing her plates off at
this spot, and ten days more sufficed for this. Through the hole thus
made the divers were able to draw in tackle lowered from the
_L’Escaut_, and the ingots of gold were slung to cradles and drawn up
with really wonderful ease and speed. They had, moreover, been favored
with a peculiarly fine stretch of weather, work having to be suspended
on only eight days of the thirty-seven they were there.

On reaching the wreck in the first instance the captain had mustered
his crew aft and had informed them—what he could no longer keep
secret—that they were out for gold, and that if they found it in the
quantities they hoped, every man on board would receive at the end of
the trip a gift of £1,000 in addition to his pay. The men at first
seemed more than satisfied, but as ingot after ingot was recovered the
generosity of the offer shrank in their estimation. Four days before
the appearance of French’s party the divers had reported that another
day would complete the work, and then appeared the first hint that all
was not well. On that last evening before the completion of the diving
the men came forward in a body and asked to see the captain. They
explained that they had been reckoning up the value of the gold, and
they weren’t having £1,000 apiece: they wanted an even divide all
round. The captain argued with them civilly enough at first—told them
that they couldn’t get the metal ashore and turned into money in
secret, that the port officers or coastguards wherever it was unloaded
would be bound to learn what they were doing and that then the
government would claim an enormous percentage of the whole, so that
the £1,000 per man was an extremely liberal gift. The men declared
that they would look after the unloading, and that they were going to
have what they wanted. Hot words passed, and then the captain drew a
revolver and said that he was captain there, and that what he said
would go. Susan was watching the scene from the quarter-deck behind,
but she could not be quite sure of what followed. One of the crew
pressed forward and the captain raised his revolver. She did not think
he meant to fire, but another of the men either genuinely or purposely
misunderstood his action. He raised his hand, a shot rang out, and the
captain fell dead. The mutineers were evidently terribly upset by a
murder which they had apparently never intended, and had Blessington
and Sime acted intelligently, the trouble might have gone no further.
But at that moment these two worthies, who must have been in the
chart-house all the time, began firing through the windows at the men.
A regular pitched battle ensued, in which Sime and five of the crew
were hit, three of the latter being killed. It was then war to the
knife between those who berthed forward and those who berthed aft. All
that night sporadic shots rang out at intervals, but at daybreak on
the following day matters came to a head. The crew with considerable
generalship made a feint on the fo’c’sle with some of their number
while the remainder swarmed aft below decks. The defenders, taken in
the rear, were shot down, and the mutineers were masters of the ship.

All that next day Joan and Susan, terror-stricken, clung to each other
in the latter’s cabin. The men were reasonably civil: told them they
might get themselves food, and let them alone. But that night a
further terrible quarrel burst out between, as they learned
afterwards, those who wished to murder the girls and go off with the
treasure and those who feared murder more than the loss of the gold.
Once again there were the reports of shots and the groans of wounded
men. The fusillade went on at intervals all night, until next morning
one of the divers—a superior man with whom the girls had often
talked—had come in with his head covered with blood, and asked the
girls to bandage it. Susan had some slight surgical knowledge, and did
what she could for him. Then the man told them that of the entire
ship’s company only themselves and seven others were alive, and that
of these seven four were so badly wounded that they would probably not
recover. Among these was Blessington. Sime and James Dangle were dead.

The slightly injured men threw the dead overboard and cleaned up the
traces of the fighting, while the girls ministered to the seriously
wounded. Of course, in the three days up till the arrival of the
avengers—who had by a strange trick of fate become the rescuers—one
man had died. Of the eight-and-twenty who sailed from Antwerp there
were therefore left only nine: the two girls and four slightly and
three seriously wounded men. None of those able to move understood
either engineering or seamanship, so that they had luckily decided to
remain at anchor in the hope of some ship picking up their flag of
distress.

“There is just one thing I should like to understand,” said Cheyne to
Joan, when later on that day a prize crew had been put aboard the
_L’Escaut_ and steam was being raised for the return to England, “and
that is what happened to you on the night that we burgled Earlswood.
You got back to your rooms, then left again with Sime and
Blessington?”

“There’s not much to tell about that,” Joan answered, smiling happily
up into her lover’s eyes. “I was, as you know, standing like a
watchman before the door of Earlswood, when I saw Susan and her
brother coming up. I rang and knocked and kept them talking as long as
possible. Then when they opened the door I slipped away, but I heard
your footsteps and realized that you had got out by the back way. I
heard you run off down the lane with Dangle after you, then
remembering your arrangement about throwing away the tracing, I
climbed over the wall, picked it up and went back to my rooms. The
first thing I did was to photograph it, then I hid it in my color box.
I had scarcely done so when Sime called. He said you had met with an
accident—been caught between two motorcars and knocked down by one of
them—and that you were seriously injured. He said you were conscious
and had given him my address and were calling for me. I went down to
find Blessington driving a car, though I didn’t know then it was
Blessington. As soon as we started Sime held a chloroformed cloth over
my mouth, and I don’t remember much more till we were on the
_L’Escaut_.”

“But how did Sime find your rooms?”

“Through Susan. Susan told me all about it afterwards. She went out
after James and saw me climbing over the wall with the tracing. She
followed me to my rooms and immediately telephoned to Sime. When Sime
called she was with him, and while I changed my coat Sime let her into
the studio and she hid behind an easel until we were gone. She
searched till she found the tracing and then simply walked out. The
gang had intended to go to Antwerp the following week in any case, but
this business upset their plans and they decided to start immediately.
Dangle went on and arranged for the _L’Escaut_ to leave some days
earlier. The rest of us put up at Ghent till she was ready to sail.”
But little further remains to be told. The few bars of gold still left
on the _Silurian_ were soon raised and the two ships set sail,
reaching Chatham some five days later. All the bullion theoretically
belonged to the Crown, but under the special circumstances a generous
division was made whereby twenty-five per cent was returned to the
finders. As Price refused to accept the whole amount an amicable
agreement was come to, whereby Cheyne, Joan, and Price each received
almost one-third, or £200,000 apiece. Of the balance of over £20,000,
£10,000 was given to Susan Dangle by Joan’s imperative directions. She
said that Susan was not a bad girl and had turned up trumps during the
trouble on the _L’Escaut_. £1,000 went to Inspector French—also Joan’s
gift, and the remainder was divided among the officers and men of the
Admiralty salvage boat.

A few days after landing Maxwell Cheyne and Joan Merrill had occasion
to pay a short visit to the church of St. Margaret’s in the Fields,
after which Cheyne whirled his wife away to Devonshire, so that she
might make the acquaintance of his family and see the country where
began that strange series of events which in the beginning of the
story I alluded to as THE CHEYNE MYSTERY.



Transcriber’s Note

This transcription follows the text of the Penguin Books edition
published in 1978. The following alterations have been made to correct
what are believed to be unambiguous printer’s errors.

 * Five erroneous quotation marks have been repaired.
 * “desparate” has been changed to “desperate” (Ch. II).
 * “wondered it he” has been changed to “wondered if he” (Ch. II).
 * “Chayne” has been changed to “Cheyne” (Chs. IX and X).
 * “Walting Street” has been changed to “Watling Street” (Ch. X).
 * “noncommital” has been changed to “noncommittal” (Ch. XIV).
 * “pessmist” has been changed to “pessimist” (Ch. XV).
 * “Sargeant” has been changed to “Sergeant” (Ch. XVI).
 * “similiar” has been changed to “similar” (Ch. XVII).