He saw Guy Rathbone in a position of extreme peril and danger. The circumstances were not defined, what the actual peril might be was not revealed. But Megbie knew that Rathbone was communicating with his brain while he slept. Rathbone was living somewhere. He was captive in the hands of enemies, he was trying to "get through" to the brain of some one who could help him. The journalist only slept for a few short hours. He rose refreshed in body and with an unalterable conviction in his mind. The events of the last night were real. No chance or illusion had sent the vision and the dream, and the innocent-looking cigarette-case that lay upon the table, and which had come into his hands so strangely, was the pivot upon which strange events had turned. The little silver thing was surrounded by as black and impenetrable a mystery as ever a man had trodden into unawares. And in the broad daylight, when all that was fantastic and unreal was banished from thought, Megbie knew quite well towards whom his thoughts tended, on what remarkable and inscrutable personality his dreadful suspicions had begun to focus themselves. He sat down and wrote his article till lunch-time. It was the best thing he had ever done, he felt, as he gathered the loose sheets together, and thrust a paper-clip through the corners. He rose and was about to ring for his man--who had returned at breakfast-time--when the door opened and the man himself came in. "Miss Marjorie Poole would like to see you, sir, if you are disengaged," he said. Donald Megbie's face grew quite white with surprise. Once more he felt the mysterious quickenings of the night before. "Ask Miss Poole to come in," he said. CHAPTER XVII MARJORIE AND DONALD MEGBIE The valet showed Marjorie Poole into Donald Megbie's study. She wore a coat and skirt of dark green Harris Tweed with leather collar and cuffs, and a simple sailor hat. Megbie, who had never met Miss Poole in the country, but only knew her in London and during the season, had never seen her dressed like this before. He had always admired her beauty, the admirable poise of her manner, the evidences of intellectuality she gave. At the moment of her entry the journalist thought her more beautiful than ever, dressed as if for covert-side or purple-painted moor. And his quick brain realized in a moment that she was dressed thus in an unconscious attempt to escape observation, to be incognito, as it were. But why had she come to see him? She was in trouble, her face showed that--it was extraordinary, altogether unprecedented. Megbie showed nothing of the thoughts which were animating him, either in his face or manner. He shook hands as if he had just met Miss Poole in Bond Street. "Do sit down," he said, "I think you'll find that chair a comfortable one."