Cheyne, faced by the disquieting fact that Joan Merrill had failed to reach home in spite of her expressed intention to return there immediately, stood motionless outside her door, aghast and irresolute. With a growing anxiety he asked himself what could have occurred to delay her. He knew her well enough to be satisfied that she would not change her mind through sudden caprice. Something had happened to her, and as he considered the possibilities, he grew more and more uneasy. The contingency was one which neither of them had foreseen, and for the moment he was at a loss as to how to cope with it. First, in his hot-blooded way he thought of buying a real pistol, returning to Earlswood, and shooting Blessington and Dangle unless they revealed her whereabouts. Then reason told him that they really might not know, that Joan might have met with an accident or for some reason have gone to friends for the night, and he thought of putting the matter in Speedwell’s hands. But he soon saw that Speedwell had not the means or the organization to deal adequately with the affair and his thoughts turned to Scotland Yard. He was loath to confess his own essays in illegality in such an unsympathetic _milieu_, but of course no hesitation was possible if Joan’s safety was at stake. Still pondering the problem, he turned and slowly descended the stairs. He would wait, he thought, for an hour or perhaps two—say until nine. If by nine o’clock she had neither turned up nor sent a message he would go to Scotland Yard, no matter what the consequences to himself might be. Thinking that he should go back to his hotel in case she telephoned, he strode off along the pavement. But he had scarcely left the doorway when he heard his name called from behind, and swinging round, he gazed in speechless amazement at the figure confronting him. It was James Dangle! For a moment they stared at one another, and then Cheyne saw red. “You infernal scoundrel!” he yelled, and sprang at the other’s throat. Dangle, stepping back, threw up his hands to parry the onslaught, while he cried earnestly: “Steady, Mr. Cheyne; for heaven’s sake, steady! I have a message for you from Miss Merrill.” Cheyne glared wrathfully, but he pulled himself together and released his hold. “Don’t speak her name, you blackguard!” he said thickly. “What’s your message?” “She is all right,” Dangle answered quickly, “but the rest of it will take time to tell. Let us get out of this.” Some passers-by, hearing the raised voices, had stopped, and a small crowd, eager for a row, had collected about the two men. Dangle seized Cheyne’s wrist and hurried him down the street and round the corner. “Let’s go to your hotel, Mr. Cheyne, or anywhere else we can talk,” he begged. “What I have to say will take a little time.” Cheyne snatched his wrist away. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself,” he snarled. “Where is Miss Merrill?”