Chapter VII.Miss Joan Merrill

Chapter VII.Miss Joan MerrillAfter what seemed ages of forgetfulness a confused sense of pain began to make itself felt in Maxwell Cheyne’s being, growing in force and definition as he gradually struggled back to consciousness. At first his whole body ached sickeningly, but as time passed the major suffering concentrated itself in his head. It throbbed as if it would burst, and he felt a terrible oppression, as if the weight of the universe rested upon it. So on the border line of consciousness he hovered for still further ages of time.Presently by gradual stages the memory of his recent adventure returned to him, and he began vaguely to realize that the murderous attempt which had been made on him had failed and that he still lived.Encouraged by this reassuring thought, he hesitatingly essayed the feat of opening his eyes. For a time he gazed, confused by the dim shapes about him, but at last he came more fully to himself and was able to register what he saw.It was almost dark, indeed most of the arc over which his eyes could travel was perfectly so. But here and there he noticed parallelograms of a less inky blackness, and after some time the significance of these penetrated his brain and he knew where he was.He was lying on his back on the ground in the half-built house from which he had taken the ladder, and the parallelograms were the openings in the walls into which doors and windows would afterwards be fitted. Against the faint light without, which he took to be that of the moonlit sky, he could see dimly the open joists of the floor above him, a piece of the herringbone strutting of which cut across the space for one of the upstairs windows.Feeling slightly better he tried his pocket, to find, as he expected, that the tracing was gone. Presently he attempted some more extensive movement. But at once an intolerable pang shot through him, and, sick and faint, he lay still. With a dawning horror he wondered whether his back might not be broken, or whether the blow on his head might not have produced paralysis. He groaned aloud and sank back once more into unconsciousness.After a time he became sentient again, sick and giddy, but more fully conscious. While he could not think collectedly, the idea became gradually fixed in his mind that he must somehow get away from his present position, partly lest his enemies might return to complete their work, and partly lest, if he stayed, he might die before the workmen came in the morning. Therefore, setting his teeth, he made a supreme effort and, in spite of the terrible pain in his head, succeeded in turning over on to his hands and knees.In this new position he remained motionless for some time, but presently he began to crawl slowly and painfully out towards the road. At intervals he had to stop to recover himself, but at length after superhuman efforts he succeeded in reaching the paling separating the lot from Hopefield Avenue. There he sank down exhausted and for some time lay motionless in a state of coma.Suddenly he became conscious of the sound of light but rapid footsteps approaching on the footpath at the other side of the paling, and once more summoning all his resolution he nerved himself to listen. The steps drew nearer until he judged their owner was just passing and then he cried as loudly as he could: “Help!”The footsteps stopped and Cheyne gasped out: “Help! I’ve hurt my head: an accident.”There was a moment’s silence and then a girl’s voice sounded.“Where are you?”“Here,” Cheyne answered, “at the back of the fence.” He felt dimly that he ought to give some explanation of his predicament, and went on in weak tones: “I was looking through the house and fell. Can you help me?”“Of course,” the girl answered. “I’ll go to the police station in Cleeve Road—it’s only five minutes—and they will look after you in no time.”This was not what Cheyne wanted. He had not yet decided whether he would call in the police and he was too much upset at the moment to consider the point. In the meantime, therefore, it would be better if nothing was said.“Please not,” he begged. “Just send a taxi to take me to a hospital.”The girl hesitated, then replied: “All right. Let me see first if I can make you a bit more comfortable.”The effort of speaking and thinking had so overcome Cheyne that he sank back once more into a state of coma, and it was only half consciously that he felt his head being lifted and some soft thing like a folded coat being placed beneath. Then the girl’s pleasant voice said: “Now just stay quiet and I shall have a taxi here in a moment.” A further period of waiting ensued and he felt himself being lifted and carried a few steps. A jolting then began which so hurt his head that he fainted again, and for still further interminable ages he remembered no more.When he finally regained his faculties he found himself in bed, physically more comfortable than he could have believed possible, but utterly exhausted. He was content to lie motionless, not troubling as to where he was or how he came there. Presently he fell asleep and when he woke he plucked up energy enough to open his eyes.It was light and he saw that he was in hospital. Several other beds were in the ward and a nurse was doing something at the end of the room. Presently she came over, saw that he was awake, and smiled at him.“Better?” she said cheerily.“I think so,” he answered weakly. “Where am I, nurse?”“In the Albert Edward Hospital. You’ve had a nasty knock on your head, but you’re going to be all right. Now you’re to keep quiet and not talk.”Cheyne didn’t want to talk and he lay motionless, luxuriating in the complete cessation of effort. After a time a doctor came and looked at him, but it was too much trouble to be interested about the doctor, and in any case he soon disappeared. Sometimes when he opened his eyes the nurse was there and sometimes she wasn’t, and other people seemed to drift about for no very special reason. Then it was dark in the ward, evidently night again. The next day the same thing happened, and so for many days.He had been troubled with the vague thoughts of his mother and sister, and on one occasion when he was feeling a little less tired than usual he had called the nurse and asked her to write to his sister, saying that he had met with a slight accident and was staying on in town for a few days. Miss Cheyne telegraphed to know if she could help, but the nurse, without troubling her patient, had replied: “Not at present.”At last there came a time when Cheyne began to feel more his own man and able, without bringing on an intolerable headache, to think collectedly about his situation. And at once two points arose in his mind upon which he felt an immediate decision must be made.The first was: What answer should he return to the inevitable questions he would be asked as to how he met with his injury? Should he lodge an information against Messrs. Dangle, Sime and Co., accuse them of attempted murder and put the machinery of the law in motion against them? Or should he stick to his tale that an accident had happened, and keep the affair of Hopefield Avenue to himself?After anxious consideration he decided on the latter alternative. If he were to tell the police now he would find it hard to explain why he had not done so earlier. Moreover, with returning strength came back the desire which he had previously experienced, to meet these men on their own ground and himself defeat them. He remembered how exceedingly nearly he had done so on this occasion. Had it not been for the accident of something being required from the garden or outhouse he would have got clear away, and he hoped for better luck next time.A third consideration also weighed with him. He was not sure how far he himself had broken the law. Housebreaking and burglary were serious crimes, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that others might not consider his excuse for these actions as valid as he did himself. In fact he was not sure how he stood legally. Under the circumstances would his proper course not have been to lodge an information against Dangle and Sime immediately on getting ashore from theEnid, and let the police with a search warrant recover Price’s letter? But he saw at once that that would have been useless. The men would have denied the theft, and he could not have proved it. His letter to his bank manager would have been evidence that he had handed it over to them of his own free will. No, to go to the police would not have got him anywhere. In his own eyes he had been right to act as he had, and his only course now was to pursue the same policy and keep the police out of it.When, therefore, a couple of days later the doctor, who had been puzzled by the affair, questioned him on it, he made up a tale. He replied that he had for some time been looking for a house in the suburbs, that the outline of that in question had appealed to him, and that he had climbed in to see the internal accommodation. In the semidarkness he had fallen, striking his head on a heap of bricks. He had been unconscious for some time, but had then been able to crawl to the street, where the lady had been kind enough to have him taken to the hospital.This brought him back to the second point which had been occupying his mind since he had regained the power of consecutive thought: the lady. What exactly had she done for him? How had she got him to the hospital and secured his admission? Had she taken a taxi, and if so, had she herself paid for it? Cheyne felt that he must see her to learn these particulars and to thank her for her kindness and help.He broached the subject to the nurse, who laughed and said she had been expecting the question. Miss Merrill had brought him herself to the hospital and had since called up a couple of times to inquire for him. The nurse presumed the young lady had herself paid for the taxi, as no question about the matter had been raised.This information seemed to Cheyne to involve communication with Miss Merrill at the earliest possible moment. The nurse would not let him write himself, but at his dictation she sent a line expressing his gratitude for the lady’s action and begging leave to call on his leaving the hospital.In answer to this there was a short note signed “Joan Merrill,” which stated that the writer was pleased to hear that Mr. Cheyne was recovering and that she would see him if he called. The note was headed 17 Horne Terrace, Burton Street, Chelsea. Cheyne admired the hand and passed a good deal of his superabundant time speculating as to the personality of the writer and wondering what a Chelsea lady could have been doing in the Hendon suburbs after midnight on the date of his adventure. When, therefore, a few days later he was discharged from the hospital, he betook himself to Chelsea with more than a little eagerness.Horne Terrace proved to be a block of workers’ flats, and inquiries at No. 17 produced the information that Miss Merrill occupied Flat No. 12—the top floor on the left-hand side. Speculating still further as to the personality of a lady who would choose such a dwelling, Cheyne essayed researches into the upper regions. A climb which left him weak and panting after his sojourn in bed brought him to the tenth floor, on which one of the doors bore the number he sought. To recover himself before knocking he felt constrained to sit down for a few moments on the stairs, and as he was thus resting the door of No. 12 opened and a girl came out.She was of middle height, slender and willowy, though the lines of her figure were somewhat concealed by the painter’s blue overall which she wore. She was not beautiful in the classic sense, yet but few would have failed to find pleasure in the sight of her pretty, pleasant, kindly face, with its straightforward expression, and the direct gaze of her hazel eyes. Her face was rather thin and her chin rather sharp for perfect symmetry, but her nose tilted adorably and the arch of her eyebrows was delicacy itself. Her complexion was pale, but with the pallor of perfect health. But her great glory was her hair. It covered her head with a crown of burnished gold, and though in Cheyne’s opinion it lost much of its beauty from being shingled, it gave her an aureole like that of a medieval saint in a stained glass window. Like a saint, indeed, she seemed to Cheyne; a very human and approachable saint, it is true, but a saint for all that. Seated on the top step of the stairs he was transfixed by the unexpected vision, and remained staring over his shoulder at her while he endeavored to collect his scattered wits.The sight of a strange young man seated on the steps outside her door seemed equally astonishing to the vision, and she promptly stopped and stood staring at Cheyne. So they remained for an appreciable time, until Cheyne, flushed and abashed, stumbled to his feet and plunged into apologies.As a result of his somewhat incoherent explanation a light dawned on her face and she smiled.“Oh, you’re Mr. Cheyne,” she exclaimed. She looked at him very searchingly, then invited: “But of course! Won’t you come in?”He followed her into No. 12. It proved to be a fair-sized room fitted up partly as a sitting room and partly as a studio. A dormer window close to the fireplace gave on an expanse of roofs and chimneys with, in a gap between two houses, a glimpse of the lead-colored waters of the river. In the partially covered ceiling was a large skylight which lit up a model’s throne, and an easel bearing a half-finished study of a woman’s head. Other canvases, mostly figures in various stages of completion, were ranged round the walls, and the usual artist’s paraphernalia of brushes and palettes and color tubes lay about. Drawn up to the fire were a couple of easy-chairs, books and ashtrays lay on an occasional table, while on another table was a tea equipage. A door beside the fireplace led to what was presumably the lady’s bedroom.“Can you find a seat?” she went on, indicating the larger of the two armchairs. “You have come at a propitious moment. I was just about to make tea.”“That sounds delightful,” Cheyne declared. “I came at the first moment that I thought I decently could. I was discharged from the hospital this morning and I thought I couldn’t let a day pass without coming to try at least to express my thanks for what you did for me.”Miss Merrill had filled an aluminum kettle from a tap at a small sink and now placed it on a gas stove.“We’ll suppose the thanks expressed, all due and right and proper,” she answered. “But I’ll tell you what you can do. Light the stove! It makes such a plop I hate to go near it.”Cheyne, having duly produced the expected plop, returned to his armchair and took up again the burden of his tale.“But that’s all very well, Miss Merrill; awfully good of you and all that,” he protested, “but it doesn’t really meet the case at all. If you hadn’t come along and played the good Samaritan I should have died. I was—”“If you don’t stop talking about it I shall begin to wish you had,” she smiled. “How did the accident happen? I should be interested to hear that, because I’ve thought about it and haven’t been able to imagine any way it could have come about.”“I want to tell you.” Cheyne looked into her clear eyes and suddenly said more than he had intended. “In fact, I should like to tell you the whole thing from the beginning. It’s rather a queer tale. You mayn’t believe it, but I think it would interest you. But first—please don’t be angry, but you must let me ask the question—did you pay for the taxi or whatever means you took to get me to the hospital?”She laughed.“Well, you are persistent. However, I suppose I may allow you to pay for that. It was five and six, if you must know, and a shilling to the man because he helped to carry you and took no end of trouble.” She blushed slightly as if recognizing the unconscious admission. “A whole six and six you owe me.”“Is that all, Miss Merrill? Do tell me if there was anything else.”“There was nothing else, Mr. Cheyne. That squares everything between us.”“By Jove! That’s the last thing it does! But if I mustn’t speak of that, I mustn’t. But please tell me this also. I understood from the nurse that you came with me to hospital. I am horrified every time I think of your having so much trouble, and I should like to understand how it all happened.”“There’s not much to tell,” Miss Merrill answered. “It was all very simple and straightforward. There happened to be a garage in the main street, quite close, and I went there and got a taxi. It was very dark, and when the driver and I looked over the fence we could not see you, but the driver fortunately had a flash lamp for examining his engine, and with its help we saw that you had fainted. We found you very awkward to get out.” She smiled and her face lighted up charmingly. “We had to drag you round to the side of the building where there was a wire paling instead of the close sheeted fence in front. I held up the wires and the cabby dragged you through. Then when we got you into the cab I had to go along too, because the cabby said he wouldn’t take what might easily be a dead body—a corp, he called it—without someone to account for its presence. He talked of you as if you were a sack of coal.”Cheyne was really upset by the recital.“Good Lord!” he cried. “I can’t say how distressed I am to know what I let you in for. I can’t ever forget it. All right, I won’t,” he added as she held up her hand. “Go on, please. I want to hear it all.”Miss Merrill’s hazel eyes twinkled as she continued:“By the time we got to the hospital I was sure that nothing would save me from being hanged for murder. But there was no trouble. I simply told my story, left my name and address, and that was all. Now tell me what really happened to you; or rather wait until we’ve had tea.”Cheyne sat back in his chair admiring the easy grace with which she moved about as she prepared the meal. She was really an awfully nice looking girl, he thought; not perhaps exactly pretty, but jolly looking, the kind of girl it is a pleasure just to sit down and watch. And as they chatted over tea he discovered that she had a mind of her own. Indeed, she showed a nimble wit and a shrewd if rather quaint outlook on men and things.“You mentioned Dartmouth just now,” she remarked presently. “Do you know it well?”“Why, I live there.”“Do you really? Do you know people there called Beresford?”“Archie and Flo? Rather. They live on our road, but about half a mile nearer the town. Do you know them?”“Flo only. I’ve been going to stay with them two or three times, though for one reason or another it has always fallen through. I was at school with Flo—Flo Salter, she was then.”“By Jove! Archie is rather a pal of mine. Comes out yachting sometimes. A good sort.”“I’ve never met him, but I used to chum with Flo. Congratulations, Mr. Cheyne.”Cheyne stared at her and she smiled gaily across.“You haven’t said that the world is very small after all,” she explained.Cheyne laughed.“I didn’t think of it or I should,” he admitted. “But I hope you will come down to the Beresfords. I’d love to take you out in my yacht—that is, if you like yachting.”“That’s a promise,” the girl declared. “If I come I shall hold you to it.”When tea was removed and cigarettes were alight she returned to the subject of his adventure.“Yes,” Cheyne answered, “I should like to tell you the whole story if it really wouldn’t bore you. But,” he hesitated for a second, “you won’t mind my saying that it is simply desperately private. No hint of it must get out.”Her face clouded.“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I don’t want to hear it if it’s a secret. It doesn’t concern me anyway.”“Oh, but it does—now,” Cheyne protested. “If I don’t tell you now you will think that I am a criminal with something to hide, and I think I couldn’t bear that.”“No,” she contradicted, “you think that you are in my debt and bound to tell me.”He laughed.“Not at all,” he retorted, “since contradiction is the order of the day. If that was it I could easily have put you off with the yarn I told the doctor. I want to tell you because I think you’d be interested, and because it really would be such a relief to discuss the thing with some rational being.”She looked at him keenly as she demanded: “Honor bright?”“Honor bright,” he repeated, meeting her eyes.“Then you may,” she decided. “You may also smoke a pipe if you like.”“The story opens about six weeks ago with a visit to Plymouth,” he began, and he told her of his adventure in the Edgecombe Hotel, of the message about the burglary, of his ride home and what he found there, and of the despondent detective and his failure to discover the criminals. Then he described what took place on the launchEnid, his search of the coast towns and discovery of the trail of the men, his following them to London and to the Hopefield Avenue house, his adventure therein, the blow on his head, his coming to himself to find the tracing gone, his crawl to the fence and his relief at the sound of her footsteps approaching.She listened with an ever-increasing eagerness, which rose to positive excitement as he reached the climax of the story.“My word!” she cried with shining eyes when he had finished. “To think of such things happening here in sober old London in the twentieth century! Why, it’s like theArabian Nights! Who would believe such a story if they read it in a book?Whatfun! And you have no idea what the tracing was?”“No more than you have, Miss Merrill.”“It was a cipher,” she declared breathlessly. “A cipher telling where there was buried treasure! Isn’t that all that is wanted to make it complete?”“Now you’re laughing at me,” he complained. “Don’t you really believe my story?”“Believe it?” she retorted. “Of course I believe it. How can you suggest such a thing? I think it’s perfectly splendid! I can’t say how splendid I think it. Itwasbrave of you to go into that house in the way you did. I can’t think how you had the nerve. But now what are you going to do? What is the next step?”“I don’t know. I’ve thought and thought while I was in that blessed hospital and I don’t see the next move. What would you advise?”“I? Oh, Mr. Cheyne, I couldn’t advise you. I’m thrilled more than I can say, but I don’t know enough for that.”“Would you give up and go to the police?”“Never.” Her eyes flashed. “I’d go on and fight the gang. You’ll win yet, Mr. Cheyne. Something tells me.”A wild idea shot into Cheyne’s mind and he sat for a moment motionless. Then swayed by a sudden impulse, he turned to the girl and said excitedly:“Miss Merrill, let’s join forces. You help me.” He paused, then went on quickly: “Not in the actual thing, I mean, of course. I couldn’t allow you to get mixed up in what might turn out to be dangerous. But let me come and discuss the thing with you. It would be such a help.”“No!” she said, her eyes shining. “I’ll join in if you like—I’d love it! But only if I share the fun. I’m either in altogether or out altogether.”He stood up and faced her.“Do you mean it?” he asked seriously.“Of course I mean it,” she answered as she got up also.“Then shake hands on it!”Solemnly they shook hands, and so the firm of Cheyne and Merrill came into being.

After what seemed ages of forgetfulness a confused sense of pain began to make itself felt in Maxwell Cheyne’s being, growing in force and definition as he gradually struggled back to consciousness. At first his whole body ached sickeningly, but as time passed the major suffering concentrated itself in his head. It throbbed as if it would burst, and he felt a terrible oppression, as if the weight of the universe rested upon it. So on the border line of consciousness he hovered for still further ages of time.

Presently by gradual stages the memory of his recent adventure returned to him, and he began vaguely to realize that the murderous attempt which had been made on him had failed and that he still lived.

Encouraged by this reassuring thought, he hesitatingly essayed the feat of opening his eyes. For a time he gazed, confused by the dim shapes about him, but at last he came more fully to himself and was able to register what he saw.

It was almost dark, indeed most of the arc over which his eyes could travel was perfectly so. But here and there he noticed parallelograms of a less inky blackness, and after some time the significance of these penetrated his brain and he knew where he was.

He was lying on his back on the ground in the half-built house from which he had taken the ladder, and the parallelograms were the openings in the walls into which doors and windows would afterwards be fitted. Against the faint light without, which he took to be that of the moonlit sky, he could see dimly the open joists of the floor above him, a piece of the herringbone strutting of which cut across the space for one of the upstairs windows.

Feeling slightly better he tried his pocket, to find, as he expected, that the tracing was gone. Presently he attempted some more extensive movement. But at once an intolerable pang shot through him, and, sick and faint, he lay still. With a dawning horror he wondered whether his back might not be broken, or whether the blow on his head might not have produced paralysis. He groaned aloud and sank back once more into unconsciousness.

After a time he became sentient again, sick and giddy, but more fully conscious. While he could not think collectedly, the idea became gradually fixed in his mind that he must somehow get away from his present position, partly lest his enemies might return to complete their work, and partly lest, if he stayed, he might die before the workmen came in the morning. Therefore, setting his teeth, he made a supreme effort and, in spite of the terrible pain in his head, succeeded in turning over on to his hands and knees.

In this new position he remained motionless for some time, but presently he began to crawl slowly and painfully out towards the road. At intervals he had to stop to recover himself, but at length after superhuman efforts he succeeded in reaching the paling separating the lot from Hopefield Avenue. There he sank down exhausted and for some time lay motionless in a state of coma.

Suddenly he became conscious of the sound of light but rapid footsteps approaching on the footpath at the other side of the paling, and once more summoning all his resolution he nerved himself to listen. The steps drew nearer until he judged their owner was just passing and then he cried as loudly as he could: “Help!”

The footsteps stopped and Cheyne gasped out: “Help! I’ve hurt my head: an accident.”

There was a moment’s silence and then a girl’s voice sounded.

“Where are you?”

“Here,” Cheyne answered, “at the back of the fence.” He felt dimly that he ought to give some explanation of his predicament, and went on in weak tones: “I was looking through the house and fell. Can you help me?”

“Of course,” the girl answered. “I’ll go to the police station in Cleeve Road—it’s only five minutes—and they will look after you in no time.”

This was not what Cheyne wanted. He had not yet decided whether he would call in the police and he was too much upset at the moment to consider the point. In the meantime, therefore, it would be better if nothing was said.

“Please not,” he begged. “Just send a taxi to take me to a hospital.”

The girl hesitated, then replied: “All right. Let me see first if I can make you a bit more comfortable.”

The effort of speaking and thinking had so overcome Cheyne that he sank back once more into a state of coma, and it was only half consciously that he felt his head being lifted and some soft thing like a folded coat being placed beneath. Then the girl’s pleasant voice said: “Now just stay quiet and I shall have a taxi here in a moment.” A further period of waiting ensued and he felt himself being lifted and carried a few steps. A jolting then began which so hurt his head that he fainted again, and for still further interminable ages he remembered no more.

When he finally regained his faculties he found himself in bed, physically more comfortable than he could have believed possible, but utterly exhausted. He was content to lie motionless, not troubling as to where he was or how he came there. Presently he fell asleep and when he woke he plucked up energy enough to open his eyes.

It was light and he saw that he was in hospital. Several other beds were in the ward and a nurse was doing something at the end of the room. Presently she came over, saw that he was awake, and smiled at him.

“Better?” she said cheerily.

“I think so,” he answered weakly. “Where am I, nurse?”

“In the Albert Edward Hospital. You’ve had a nasty knock on your head, but you’re going to be all right. Now you’re to keep quiet and not talk.”

Cheyne didn’t want to talk and he lay motionless, luxuriating in the complete cessation of effort. After a time a doctor came and looked at him, but it was too much trouble to be interested about the doctor, and in any case he soon disappeared. Sometimes when he opened his eyes the nurse was there and sometimes she wasn’t, and other people seemed to drift about for no very special reason. Then it was dark in the ward, evidently night again. The next day the same thing happened, and so for many days.

He had been troubled with the vague thoughts of his mother and sister, and on one occasion when he was feeling a little less tired than usual he had called the nurse and asked her to write to his sister, saying that he had met with a slight accident and was staying on in town for a few days. Miss Cheyne telegraphed to know if she could help, but the nurse, without troubling her patient, had replied: “Not at present.”

At last there came a time when Cheyne began to feel more his own man and able, without bringing on an intolerable headache, to think collectedly about his situation. And at once two points arose in his mind upon which he felt an immediate decision must be made.

The first was: What answer should he return to the inevitable questions he would be asked as to how he met with his injury? Should he lodge an information against Messrs. Dangle, Sime and Co., accuse them of attempted murder and put the machinery of the law in motion against them? Or should he stick to his tale that an accident had happened, and keep the affair of Hopefield Avenue to himself?

After anxious consideration he decided on the latter alternative. If he were to tell the police now he would find it hard to explain why he had not done so earlier. Moreover, with returning strength came back the desire which he had previously experienced, to meet these men on their own ground and himself defeat them. He remembered how exceedingly nearly he had done so on this occasion. Had it not been for the accident of something being required from the garden or outhouse he would have got clear away, and he hoped for better luck next time.

A third consideration also weighed with him. He was not sure how far he himself had broken the law. Housebreaking and burglary were serious crimes, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that others might not consider his excuse for these actions as valid as he did himself. In fact he was not sure how he stood legally. Under the circumstances would his proper course not have been to lodge an information against Dangle and Sime immediately on getting ashore from theEnid, and let the police with a search warrant recover Price’s letter? But he saw at once that that would have been useless. The men would have denied the theft, and he could not have proved it. His letter to his bank manager would have been evidence that he had handed it over to them of his own free will. No, to go to the police would not have got him anywhere. In his own eyes he had been right to act as he had, and his only course now was to pursue the same policy and keep the police out of it.

When, therefore, a couple of days later the doctor, who had been puzzled by the affair, questioned him on it, he made up a tale. He replied that he had for some time been looking for a house in the suburbs, that the outline of that in question had appealed to him, and that he had climbed in to see the internal accommodation. In the semidarkness he had fallen, striking his head on a heap of bricks. He had been unconscious for some time, but had then been able to crawl to the street, where the lady had been kind enough to have him taken to the hospital.

This brought him back to the second point which had been occupying his mind since he had regained the power of consecutive thought: the lady. What exactly had she done for him? How had she got him to the hospital and secured his admission? Had she taken a taxi, and if so, had she herself paid for it? Cheyne felt that he must see her to learn these particulars and to thank her for her kindness and help.

He broached the subject to the nurse, who laughed and said she had been expecting the question. Miss Merrill had brought him herself to the hospital and had since called up a couple of times to inquire for him. The nurse presumed the young lady had herself paid for the taxi, as no question about the matter had been raised.

This information seemed to Cheyne to involve communication with Miss Merrill at the earliest possible moment. The nurse would not let him write himself, but at his dictation she sent a line expressing his gratitude for the lady’s action and begging leave to call on his leaving the hospital.

In answer to this there was a short note signed “Joan Merrill,” which stated that the writer was pleased to hear that Mr. Cheyne was recovering and that she would see him if he called. The note was headed 17 Horne Terrace, Burton Street, Chelsea. Cheyne admired the hand and passed a good deal of his superabundant time speculating as to the personality of the writer and wondering what a Chelsea lady could have been doing in the Hendon suburbs after midnight on the date of his adventure. When, therefore, a few days later he was discharged from the hospital, he betook himself to Chelsea with more than a little eagerness.

Horne Terrace proved to be a block of workers’ flats, and inquiries at No. 17 produced the information that Miss Merrill occupied Flat No. 12—the top floor on the left-hand side. Speculating still further as to the personality of a lady who would choose such a dwelling, Cheyne essayed researches into the upper regions. A climb which left him weak and panting after his sojourn in bed brought him to the tenth floor, on which one of the doors bore the number he sought. To recover himself before knocking he felt constrained to sit down for a few moments on the stairs, and as he was thus resting the door of No. 12 opened and a girl came out.

She was of middle height, slender and willowy, though the lines of her figure were somewhat concealed by the painter’s blue overall which she wore. She was not beautiful in the classic sense, yet but few would have failed to find pleasure in the sight of her pretty, pleasant, kindly face, with its straightforward expression, and the direct gaze of her hazel eyes. Her face was rather thin and her chin rather sharp for perfect symmetry, but her nose tilted adorably and the arch of her eyebrows was delicacy itself. Her complexion was pale, but with the pallor of perfect health. But her great glory was her hair. It covered her head with a crown of burnished gold, and though in Cheyne’s opinion it lost much of its beauty from being shingled, it gave her an aureole like that of a medieval saint in a stained glass window. Like a saint, indeed, she seemed to Cheyne; a very human and approachable saint, it is true, but a saint for all that. Seated on the top step of the stairs he was transfixed by the unexpected vision, and remained staring over his shoulder at her while he endeavored to collect his scattered wits.

The sight of a strange young man seated on the steps outside her door seemed equally astonishing to the vision, and she promptly stopped and stood staring at Cheyne. So they remained for an appreciable time, until Cheyne, flushed and abashed, stumbled to his feet and plunged into apologies.

As a result of his somewhat incoherent explanation a light dawned on her face and she smiled.

“Oh, you’re Mr. Cheyne,” she exclaimed. She looked at him very searchingly, then invited: “But of course! Won’t you come in?”

He followed her into No. 12. It proved to be a fair-sized room fitted up partly as a sitting room and partly as a studio. A dormer window close to the fireplace gave on an expanse of roofs and chimneys with, in a gap between two houses, a glimpse of the lead-colored waters of the river. In the partially covered ceiling was a large skylight which lit up a model’s throne, and an easel bearing a half-finished study of a woman’s head. Other canvases, mostly figures in various stages of completion, were ranged round the walls, and the usual artist’s paraphernalia of brushes and palettes and color tubes lay about. Drawn up to the fire were a couple of easy-chairs, books and ashtrays lay on an occasional table, while on another table was a tea equipage. A door beside the fireplace led to what was presumably the lady’s bedroom.

“Can you find a seat?” she went on, indicating the larger of the two armchairs. “You have come at a propitious moment. I was just about to make tea.”

“That sounds delightful,” Cheyne declared. “I came at the first moment that I thought I decently could. I was discharged from the hospital this morning and I thought I couldn’t let a day pass without coming to try at least to express my thanks for what you did for me.”

Miss Merrill had filled an aluminum kettle from a tap at a small sink and now placed it on a gas stove.

“We’ll suppose the thanks expressed, all due and right and proper,” she answered. “But I’ll tell you what you can do. Light the stove! It makes such a plop I hate to go near it.”

Cheyne, having duly produced the expected plop, returned to his armchair and took up again the burden of his tale.

“But that’s all very well, Miss Merrill; awfully good of you and all that,” he protested, “but it doesn’t really meet the case at all. If you hadn’t come along and played the good Samaritan I should have died. I was—”

“If you don’t stop talking about it I shall begin to wish you had,” she smiled. “How did the accident happen? I should be interested to hear that, because I’ve thought about it and haven’t been able to imagine any way it could have come about.”

“I want to tell you.” Cheyne looked into her clear eyes and suddenly said more than he had intended. “In fact, I should like to tell you the whole thing from the beginning. It’s rather a queer tale. You mayn’t believe it, but I think it would interest you. But first—please don’t be angry, but you must let me ask the question—did you pay for the taxi or whatever means you took to get me to the hospital?”

She laughed.

“Well, you are persistent. However, I suppose I may allow you to pay for that. It was five and six, if you must know, and a shilling to the man because he helped to carry you and took no end of trouble.” She blushed slightly as if recognizing the unconscious admission. “A whole six and six you owe me.”

“Is that all, Miss Merrill? Do tell me if there was anything else.”

“There was nothing else, Mr. Cheyne. That squares everything between us.”

“By Jove! That’s the last thing it does! But if I mustn’t speak of that, I mustn’t. But please tell me this also. I understood from the nurse that you came with me to hospital. I am horrified every time I think of your having so much trouble, and I should like to understand how it all happened.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Miss Merrill answered. “It was all very simple and straightforward. There happened to be a garage in the main street, quite close, and I went there and got a taxi. It was very dark, and when the driver and I looked over the fence we could not see you, but the driver fortunately had a flash lamp for examining his engine, and with its help we saw that you had fainted. We found you very awkward to get out.” She smiled and her face lighted up charmingly. “We had to drag you round to the side of the building where there was a wire paling instead of the close sheeted fence in front. I held up the wires and the cabby dragged you through. Then when we got you into the cab I had to go along too, because the cabby said he wouldn’t take what might easily be a dead body—a corp, he called it—without someone to account for its presence. He talked of you as if you were a sack of coal.”

Cheyne was really upset by the recital.

“Good Lord!” he cried. “I can’t say how distressed I am to know what I let you in for. I can’t ever forget it. All right, I won’t,” he added as she held up her hand. “Go on, please. I want to hear it all.”

Miss Merrill’s hazel eyes twinkled as she continued:

“By the time we got to the hospital I was sure that nothing would save me from being hanged for murder. But there was no trouble. I simply told my story, left my name and address, and that was all. Now tell me what really happened to you; or rather wait until we’ve had tea.”

Cheyne sat back in his chair admiring the easy grace with which she moved about as she prepared the meal. She was really an awfully nice looking girl, he thought; not perhaps exactly pretty, but jolly looking, the kind of girl it is a pleasure just to sit down and watch. And as they chatted over tea he discovered that she had a mind of her own. Indeed, she showed a nimble wit and a shrewd if rather quaint outlook on men and things.

“You mentioned Dartmouth just now,” she remarked presently. “Do you know it well?”

“Why, I live there.”

“Do you really? Do you know people there called Beresford?”

“Archie and Flo? Rather. They live on our road, but about half a mile nearer the town. Do you know them?”

“Flo only. I’ve been going to stay with them two or three times, though for one reason or another it has always fallen through. I was at school with Flo—Flo Salter, she was then.”

“By Jove! Archie is rather a pal of mine. Comes out yachting sometimes. A good sort.”

“I’ve never met him, but I used to chum with Flo. Congratulations, Mr. Cheyne.”

Cheyne stared at her and she smiled gaily across.

“You haven’t said that the world is very small after all,” she explained.

Cheyne laughed.

“I didn’t think of it or I should,” he admitted. “But I hope you will come down to the Beresfords. I’d love to take you out in my yacht—that is, if you like yachting.”

“That’s a promise,” the girl declared. “If I come I shall hold you to it.”

When tea was removed and cigarettes were alight she returned to the subject of his adventure.

“Yes,” Cheyne answered, “I should like to tell you the whole story if it really wouldn’t bore you. But,” he hesitated for a second, “you won’t mind my saying that it is simply desperately private. No hint of it must get out.”

Her face clouded.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I don’t want to hear it if it’s a secret. It doesn’t concern me anyway.”

“Oh, but it does—now,” Cheyne protested. “If I don’t tell you now you will think that I am a criminal with something to hide, and I think I couldn’t bear that.”

“No,” she contradicted, “you think that you are in my debt and bound to tell me.”

He laughed.

“Not at all,” he retorted, “since contradiction is the order of the day. If that was it I could easily have put you off with the yarn I told the doctor. I want to tell you because I think you’d be interested, and because it really would be such a relief to discuss the thing with some rational being.”

She looked at him keenly as she demanded: “Honor bright?”

“Honor bright,” he repeated, meeting her eyes.

“Then you may,” she decided. “You may also smoke a pipe if you like.”

“The story opens about six weeks ago with a visit to Plymouth,” he began, and he told her of his adventure in the Edgecombe Hotel, of the message about the burglary, of his ride home and what he found there, and of the despondent detective and his failure to discover the criminals. Then he described what took place on the launchEnid, his search of the coast towns and discovery of the trail of the men, his following them to London and to the Hopefield Avenue house, his adventure therein, the blow on his head, his coming to himself to find the tracing gone, his crawl to the fence and his relief at the sound of her footsteps approaching.

She listened with an ever-increasing eagerness, which rose to positive excitement as he reached the climax of the story.

“My word!” she cried with shining eyes when he had finished. “To think of such things happening here in sober old London in the twentieth century! Why, it’s like theArabian Nights! Who would believe such a story if they read it in a book?Whatfun! And you have no idea what the tracing was?”

“No more than you have, Miss Merrill.”

“It was a cipher,” she declared breathlessly. “A cipher telling where there was buried treasure! Isn’t that all that is wanted to make it complete?”

“Now you’re laughing at me,” he complained. “Don’t you really believe my story?”

“Believe it?” she retorted. “Of course I believe it. How can you suggest such a thing? I think it’s perfectly splendid! I can’t say how splendid I think it. Itwasbrave of you to go into that house in the way you did. I can’t think how you had the nerve. But now what are you going to do? What is the next step?”

“I don’t know. I’ve thought and thought while I was in that blessed hospital and I don’t see the next move. What would you advise?”

“I? Oh, Mr. Cheyne, I couldn’t advise you. I’m thrilled more than I can say, but I don’t know enough for that.”

“Would you give up and go to the police?”

“Never.” Her eyes flashed. “I’d go on and fight the gang. You’ll win yet, Mr. Cheyne. Something tells me.”

A wild idea shot into Cheyne’s mind and he sat for a moment motionless. Then swayed by a sudden impulse, he turned to the girl and said excitedly:

“Miss Merrill, let’s join forces. You help me.” He paused, then went on quickly: “Not in the actual thing, I mean, of course. I couldn’t allow you to get mixed up in what might turn out to be dangerous. But let me come and discuss the thing with you. It would be such a help.”

“No!” she said, her eyes shining. “I’ll join in if you like—I’d love it! But only if I share the fun. I’m either in altogether or out altogether.”

He stood up and faced her.

“Do you mean it?” he asked seriously.

“Of course I mean it,” she answered as she got up also.

“Then shake hands on it!”

Solemnly they shook hands, and so the firm of Cheyne and Merrill came into being.

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