“In view of what has happened,” admitted Jimmie Dale simply, “I should not be surprised.”

There was a sort of sardonic admiration in the other’s laugh.

“As for the other car,” he went on, “I can assure you that its ownership will never be known.  When the nearest patrolman rushed up, there were no survivors of the disaster, save those in the third car which he was powerless to stop—­which accounts for your presence here.  You will admit that I have been quite frank.”

“Oh, quite!” said Jimmie Dale, a little wearily.  “But would you mind telling me what all this is leading to?”

The man had been leaning forward in his chair, one hand, palm downward, resting lightly on the desk.  He shifted his hand now suddenly to the arm of his chair.

“This!” he said, and on the desk where his hand had been lay the Tocsin’s gold signet ring.

Jimmie Dale’s face expressed mild curiosity.  He could feel the other’s eyes boring into him.

“We were speaking of ownership,” said the man, in a low, menacing tone.  “I want to know where the woman who owns this ring can be found to-night.”

There was no play, no trifling here; the man was in deadly earnest.  But it seemed to Jimmie Dale, even with the sense of peril more imminent with every instant, that he could have laughed outright in savage mockery at the irony of the question.  Where was she?  Even who was she?  And this was the hour in which he was to have known!

“May I look at it?” he requested calmly.

The other nodded, but his eyes never left Jimmie Dale.

“It will give you an extra moment or so to frame your answer,” he said sarcastically.

Jimmie Dale ignored the thrust, picked up the ring, examined it deliberately, and set it back again on the table.

“Since I do not know who owns it,” he said, “I cannot answer your question.”

“No!  Well, then, there is still another matter—­a little package that was in the taxicab with you.  Where is that?”

“See here!” said Jimmie Dale irritably.  “This has gone far enough!  I have seen no package, large or small, or of any description whatever.  You are evidently mistaking me for some one else.  You have only to telephone to the St. James Club.”  He reached toward his pocket for his cardcase.  “My name is—­”

“Dale,” supplied the other curtly.  “Don’t bother about the card, Mr. Dale.  We have already taken the liberty of searching you.”  He rose abruptly from his chair.  “I am afraid you do not quite realise your position, Mr. Dale,” he said, with an ominous smile.  “Let me make it clear.  I do not wish to be theatrical about this, but we do not temporise here.  You will either answer both of those questions to my satisfaction, or you will never leave this place alive.”

Jimmie Dale’s face hardened.  His eyes met the other’s steadily.