As he stood calmly and leisurely wiping those long fingers of his, he was less than four feet from Racksole, and the cooped-up millionaire trembled, holding his breath, lest Rocco should detect his presence behind the woodwork.

But nothing happened, and Rocco returned unsuspectingly to the bedroom.
Racksole saw him place some sort of white flannel garment over the prone form on the table, and then lift it bodily on to the great bed, where it lay awfully still.

The hidden watcher was sure now that it was a corpse upon which Rocco had been exercising his mysterious and sinister functions.
But whose corpse?
And what functions?
Could this be a West End hotel, Racksole's own hotel, in the very heart of London, the best-policed city in the world?
It seemed incredible, impossible; yet so it was.

Once more he remembered what Felix Babylon had said to him and realized the truth of the saying anew.

The proprietor of a vast and complicated establishment like the Grand Babylon could never know a tithe of the extraordinary and queer occurrences which happened daily under his very nose; the atmosphere of such a caravanserai must necessarily be an atmosphere of mystery and problems apparently inexplicable.
Nevertheless, Racksole thought that Fate was carrying things with rather a high hand when she permitted his chef to spend the night hours over a man's corpse in his State bedroom, this sacred apartment which was supposed to be occupied only by individuals of Royal Blood.