But when Cheyne began his inquiries on the following morning he rapidly became less impressed with the certainty of the clue. A direct request at the firm’s office for Dangle’s address was met by a polite _non possumus_, and when during the dinner hour Cheyne succeeded in bribing a junior clerk to let him have the information, at a further interview the lad declared he could not find it. It was not until after five hours’ inquiry among the drivers of the various vans which entered and left the yard that he learned anything, and even then he found himself no further on. The furniture, which had been collected from an unoccupied house, had been stored and still remained in Messrs. Watterson & Swayne’s warehouses. It was a weary and disgruntled Cheyne who at six o’clock that evening dragged himself up the ten flights to Miss Merrill’s room. But when he was seated in her big armchair with his pipe going and had consumed a whisky and soda which she had poured out for him he began to feel that all was not necessarily lost and that life had compensations for failures in the role of amateur detective. She listened carefully to his tale of woe, finally dropping a word of sympathy with his disappointment and of praise for his efforts which left him thinking she was certainly the good pal he expected her to be. “But that’s not the worst,” he went on gloomily. “It’s bad enough that I have failed today, but it’s a great deal worse that I don’t know how I am going to do any better. Those Watterson & Swayne people simply _won’t_ give away any information, and I don’t see how else it’s to be got.” “There’s not much to go on certainly,” she admitted. “That’s where the police have the pull. They could go into that office and demand the Dangles’ address. You can’t. What about the others, that Sime and that Blessington? Could you trace them in any way?” Cheyne moved lazily in his chair. “I don’t see how,” he answered slowly. “We have little enough information about the Dangles, but there is less still about the others. We have practically nothing to go on. I wonder what a real detective would do in such a case. I feel perfectly certain he would find all four in a few hours.” “Ha! That gives me an idea.” She sat up and looked at him eagerly, and then in answer to his question went on: “What about that detective who was already engaged on the case, the one the manager of the Plymouth hotel recommended? Why not get hold of him and see what he can do? He was a private detective, wasn’t he—not connected with the police?” “He was, and I have his name and address. By Jove, Miss Merrill, it’s an idea! I’ll go round and see him in the morning. He’s a man I didn’t take to personally, but what does that matter if he’s good at his job?”