The next day he spent in making an assortment of purchases. These were in all a powerful electric torch, guaranteed to burn brightly for a couple of hours, a short, slightly bent lever of steel with a chisel point at one end, a cap, a pair of thin gloves, a glazier’s diamond, some twenty feet of thin rope and a five-inch piece of bright steel tubing with a tiny handle at one side. These, when four o’clock came, he took with him to Horne Terrace and spread in triumph on Miss Merrill’s table. “Good gracious!” cried the young lady as she stared wonderingly at the collection. “Whatever are these? Another expedition to Mount Everest?” “Torch: takes the place of the old dark lantern,” Cheyne answered proudly, pointing to the article in question. “Jemmy for persuading intractable doors, boxes and drawers; cap that will not drop or blow off; gloves to keep one’s fingerprints off the furniture; diamond for making holes in panes of glass; penknife for shooting back snibs of windows; rope for escaping from upstairs windows, and this”—he picked up the bit of tube and levelled it at her—“what price this for bluffing out of a tight place? If the light’s not too good it’s a pretty fair imitation. Also”—he pointed to his feet—“rubber-soled shoes for silence.” She gave a delightful little ripple of laughter, then became serious. “Have you no anklets?” she asked anxiously. “Don’t say you have forgotten your anklets!” “Anklets?” he repeated. “What d’you mean? I don’t follow.” “To guard against the bites of sharks, of course,” she declared. “Don’t you remember the White Knight had them for his horse?” Cheyne was so serious and eager that he felt somewhat dashed, but he joined in the laugh, and when they had had tea they settled down to talk over their arrangements. Then it seemed that she really had a plan, and when Cheyne heard it he became immediately enthusiastic. Like all good plans it was simple, and soon they had the details cut and dry. “Let’s try tonight,” Cheyne cried in excitement. “Yes, I think we should. If these people have some scheme on hand every day’s delay is in their favor and against you.” “Against us, Joan, not against me,” he cried, then realizing what he had said, he looked at her anxiously. “I may call you Joan, mayn’t I?” he pleaded. “You see, we’re partners now.” She didn’t mind, it appeared, what he called her. Any old name would do. And she didn’t mind calling him Maxwell either. She hadn’t noticed that Maxwell was so frightfully long and clumsy, but she supposed Max _was_ shorter. So that was that. They returned to the Plan. Though they continued discussing it for nearly an hour neither was able to improve on it, except that they decided that the first thing to be done if they got hold of the tracing was to copy their adversaries and photograph it.