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 nonstop 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 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
