After a brief interval, the night-prowling Jules reappeared, closed the door as softly as he had opened it, removed the ribbon, returned upon his steps, and vanished down the transverse corridor.
'This is quaint,' said Racksole; 'quaint to a degree!' It occurred to him to look at the number of the room, and he stole towards it.
'Well, I'm d--d!' he murmured wonderingly.
The number was 111, his daughter's room! He tried to open it, but the door was locked.

Rushing to his own room, No.

107, he seized one of a pair of revolvers (the kind that are made for millionaires) and followed after Jules down the transverse corridor.

At the end of this corridor was a window; the window was open; and Jules was innocently gazing out of the window.

Ten silent strides, and Theodore Racksole was upon him.
'One word, my friend,' the millionaire began, carelessly waving the revolver in the air.