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 and .
He had some coffee at a stall and then returned to his hotel, but by 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.
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 . If by 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 passersby, 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
