Jimmie Dale propped himself up a little wearily on the pillows, as Jason went out of the room.  After all, his condition was not entirely feigned.  He was, as a matter of fact, pretty well played out, both mentally and physically.  Certainly, that he should require a doctor and be confined to the house could not arouse suspicion even in the minds of those alert, aristocratic thugs of the Crime Club, prone as they would be to suspect anything—­a man who had been knocked unconscious in an automobile smash the night before, had been in a fight, had been subjected to a terrific mental shock, to say nothing of the infernal drug that had been administered to him, might well be expected to be indisposed the next morning, and for several mornings following that!  It might, indeed, even cause them to relax their vigilance for the time being—­though he dared build nothing on that.  Well, he had only to coach Benson and Jason in the parts they were to play, and the balance of the morning and all the afternoon was his in which to rest.

He reached over to the table, picked up a pencil and paper, and began to jot down memoranda.  He had just tossed the pencil back on the table as the two men entered.

Jason, at a sign, closed the door quietly.

Jimmie Dale looked at Benson half musingly, half whimsically, for a moment before he spoke.

“Benson,” he said, “the back seat of the large touring car is hinged and lifts up, once the cushion is removed, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Benson answered promptly.

“And there’s space enough for, say, a man inside, isn’t there?”

“Why, yes, sir; I suppose so—­at a squeeze”—­Benson stared blankly.

“Quite so!” said Jimmie Dale calmly.  “Now, another matter, Benson:  I believe some chauffeurs have a habit, when occasion lends itself, of taking, shall we say, their ‘best girl’ out riding in their masters’ machines?”

“Some might,” Benson replied, a little stiffly.  “I hope you don’t think, sir, that—­”

“One moment, Benson.  The point is, it’s done—­quite generally?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you have a ‘best girl,’ or at least could find one for such a purpose, if you were so inclined?”

“Yes, sir,” said Benson; “but—­”

“Very good!” Jimmie Dale interrupted.  “Then to-night, Benson, taking advantage of my illness, and to-morrow night, and the nights after that until further notice, you will acquire and put into practice that reprehensible habit.”

“I—­I don’t understand, Mr. Dale.”

“No; I dare say not,” said Jimmie Dale—­and then the whimsicality dropped from him.  “Benson,” he said slowly, “do you remember a night, nearly four years ago, the first night you ever saw me?  You had, indiscreetly, I think, displayed more money than was wise in that East Side neighbourhood.”

“I remember,” said Benson, with a sudden start; then simply:  “I wouldn’t be here now, sir, if it hadn’t been for you.”