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.