“I am sorry to say she has met with a slight accident,” Dangle replied, speaking quickly and with placatory gestures; “not in any way serious, only a twisted ankle. I found her on the road on my way back from chasing you, leaning up against the stone wall which runs along the lane at the back of Blessington’s house. She had hurt herself in climbing down to get the tracing which you threw over. I called my sister and we helped her into the house, and Susan bathed and bound up her ankle and fixed her up comfortably on the sofa. It is not really a sprain, but it will be painful for a day or two.” Cheyne was taken aback not only by his enemy’s knowledge, but also by being talked to in so friendly a fashion, and in his relief at the news he felt his anger draining away. “You’ve got the tracing again, I suppose?” he said ruefully. Dangle smiled. “Well, yes, we have,” he agreed. “But I have to admit it was the result of two lucky chances; first, my sister’s and my return just when we did, and second, Miss Merrill’s unfortunate false step over the wall. But your scheme was a good one, and with ordinary luck you would have pulled it off.” Cheyne grunted, and Dangle, turning towards him, went on earnestly: “Look here, Mr. Cheyne, why should we be on opposite sides in this affair? I have spoken to my partners, and we are all agreed. You are the kind of man we want, and we believe we could be of benefit to one another. In fact, to make a long story short, I am authorized to lay before you a certain proposition. I believe it will appeal to you. It is for that purpose I should like to go somewhere where we could talk. If not to your hotel, I know a place a few hundred yards down this street where we could get a private room.” “I want to go out and see Miss Merrill.” “Of course you do. But Miss Merrill was asleep when I left and most probably will sleep for an hour or two yet, so there is time enough. I beg that you will first hear what I have to say. Then we can go out together.” “Well, come to my hotel,” Cheyne said ungraciously, and the two walked along, Dangle making tentative essays in conversation, all of which were brought to nought by the uncompromising brevity of his companion’s responses. “You’d better come up to my bedroom,” Cheyne growled when at last they reached their goal. “These dratted servants are cleaning the public rooms.” In silence they sought the lift and Cheyne led the way to his apartment. Bolting the door, he pointed to a chair, stood himself with his back to the empty fireplace and remarked impatiently: “Well?” Dangle laughed lightly.