“This, I promise you, shall be the last time,” the latter declared. “Lord Dalmorres’ request could not be refused, and it is an undoubted fact that the young man Roger Sloane has disappeared.”
Monsieur Viotti smiled wickedly.
“I do not think that Monsieur Sloane,” he said, “would pay us a visit here for any purpose. Very well, my friend Bérard, go where you will. We speak of luncheon afterwards.”
“If you will permit it,” was the apologetic reply.
They commenced a tour of inspection, accompanied by two of the gendarmes. They searched the lounge, the ladies’ salon and they were shown over the kitchens. The flaxen-haired young woman, who seemed to appear from nowhere, showed them over the bedrooms one by one. The latter were well furnished but presented no unusual features, except that Number Fourteen, which seemed to be a suite, had double guards to the windows and was furnished rather more luxuriously than the others. They inspected the garage and all the outbuildings, then, calling in the rest of the gendarmes, they made a circular sweep of the gardens, passing over every yard of the ground. They all met together outside the front of the bar. The gendarmes stood to attention. The commissaire was saddened but triumphant. Dalmorres was frankly puzzled. Jeannine’s white, drawn face alone was expressionless.
“I am inclined to believe,” Dalmorres announced, “that neither Roger nor Thornton ever meant to come here. They mentioned this place only as a bluff.”
“I have entered upon this task reluctantly,” Monsieur Bérard said, “but I will do my duty. I will now interrogate the staff.”
The commissaire, with the assistance of two of his gendarmes, held a little court in the bar. From the chef to the barman the reply was the same. No two people answering to the description of Major Thornton or Roger had been seen near the hotel. Monsieur Bérard brought the proceedings to an end.
“I have now, Lord Dalmorres,” he pointed out, “as I think you will admit, done everything you asked me to do. Every inch of these premises has been searched, every one of the servants questioned. I have even gone further than I intended. I have enquired amongst the guests. The result is as you see. I venture to say that it is impossible that Major Thornton or Mr. Roger Sloane should have visited this place last night.”
“I am afraid, my dear,” Dalmorres said, with a sigh, “that Roger has been trying to be a little too clever with us. He didn’t want any interference and he probably put us on a wrong scent. Very likely he has met with all the success he expected somewhere else and we shall hear all about it when we return.”
The door of the bar was pushed open and the old woman whom they had completely forgotten came shambling in.
“They have taken Antoine away,” she wailed, “and they will not tell me where. I think I know. Oh, I think I know.”
The barman came from behind the counter. His face was flushed and he seemed unreasonably perturbed.
“Outside, if you please, Madame,” he ordered brusquely. “You know what the boss said. You’re not allowed in here any more.”
“I know,” she moaned. “You need not worry. I shall come no more. Without Antoine to play I shall not sing. Young lady—”
“Yes,” Jeannine cried.
The barman was holding the door open.
“Outside, if you please, Madame,” he repeated, stretching out his hand toward the old woman.
“Leave her alone,” Jeannine ordered firmly. “What were you going to say, Madame?”
“Have you found the young gentleman?”
Jeannine shook her head. Sobs for a moment were stifling her speech. The barman leaned forward and gripped the old woman by the shoulders. Suddenly he received a surprise. Dalmorres took him by the arms and swung him away.
“We cannot find him anywhere,” Jeannine sobbed.
It was a terrible sound which escaped the old woman’s lips, but it was in effect a chuckle.
“You have not known where to look!” she said. “Come with me and I will show you! One cold night Antoine and I—we crept into the automobile of Monsieur le Patron. We slept there and—we saw! Follow me.”
CHAPTER XXIV
Roger’s return to consciousness was bewildering. He found himself lying fully undressed in a pair of strange pyjamas, in a narrow but exceedingly comfortable bunk-like bed, covered with the finest of linen and a silken coverlet. The room was in complete darkness save for a heavily shaded electric lamp burning by his side. He removed the shade and his perplexity increased. The apartment in which he found himself was no larger than a ship’s cabin, and the walls appeared to be of some sort of metal. The furniture was scanty—a wardrobe of gleaming mahogany let into the wall, a large toilet basin with oxidised silver fittings, and a single chair on which were stretched the clothes he had been wearing. The room was entirely windowless, but two electric fans were revolving noiselessly. He felt very sick and he had a bad headache, but both sensations almost disappeared as, with a sudden flood of memory, he remembered the events of the preceding night. He sprang out of bed, bathed his head and his body so far as possible in cold water, and rapidly dressed. The only thing missing from amongst his belongings seemed to be his revolver. He was just completing his toilet when the door of his room opened. He gave a little gasp. Thornton stood there, looking in at him!
“Say, did they get you too?” Roger exclaimed. “What became of the men you were to bring?”
Thornton did not reply for a moment. He knocked the ash deliberately off the cigarette he was smoking and leaned against the wall.
“Where are we, anyway?” Roger went on breathlessly. “What’s their game? What are they going to do with us?”
Thornton sighed.
“So far as you’re concerned, Roger Sloane,” he confided, “I am afraid that you are for it.”
“Do you mean that they’re going to kill me?”
“I am afraid so. I am, for one, in favour of it.”
Roger sat quite still for a moment, his eyes fixed upon the other’s face. It was hard to get this new idea into his mind.
“My God!” he cried at last. “You are one of them!”
His visitor nodded.
“It has taken you quite a long time to discover that,” he remarked.
“That story about the Indian princes and Marseilles—”
“Punk,” Thornton interrupted. “Good punk, but punk. There was a Major Thornton in Marseilles, but Staines my name is—Edward Staines. I came over from New York with the rest of them, except that I have been in London for a time and picked up a few things. Put on your coat and come along. The chief wants to talk to you.”
Roger felt his muscles swelling. He crouched forward for the spring. Thornton only laughed. His hand seemed to go almost lazily into his pocket, but the outstretched gun was there before Roger could move.
“If I have to shoot you,” Thornton confided, “it will only anticipate things by an hour or so. I shall certainly shoot if you move an inch from where you are.”
Roger fought against his consuming rage. If he could have killed this man first, it seemed to him that he would have been contented to die. Not a chance.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Put