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.
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,
