“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.