No doubt you have your pass-key.' Confronted by the revolver, Jules readily obeyed, yet with a deprecatory gesture, as though he would not be responsible for this outrage against the decorum of hotel life.

Racksole entered.

The room was brilliantly lighted.
'A visitor, who insists on seeing you, sir,' said Jules, and fled.
Mr Reginald Dimmock, still in evening dress, and smoking a cigarette, rose hurriedly from a table.
'Hello, my dear Mr Racksole, this is an unexpected--ah--pleasure.' 'Where is my daughter?
This is her room.' 'Did I catch what you said, Mr Racksole ?' 'I venture to remark that this is Miss Racksole's room.' 'My good sir,' answered Dimmock, 'you must be mad to dream of such a thing.
Only my respect for your daughter prevents me from expelling you forcibly, for such an extraordinary suggestion.' A small spot half-way down the bridge of the millionaire's nose turned suddenly white.
'With your permission,' he said in a low calm voice, 'I will examine the dressing-room and the bath-room.' 'Just listen to me a moment,' Dimmock urged, in a milder tone.
'I'll listen to you afterwards, my young friend,' said Racksole, and he proceeded to search the bath-room, and the dressing-room, without any result whatever.

'Lest my attitude might be open to misconstruction, Mr Dimmock, I may as well tell you that I have the most perfect confidence in my daughter, who is as well able to take care of herself as any woman I ever met, but since you entered it there have been one or two rather mysterious occurrences in this hotel.

That is all.' Feeling a draught of air on his shoulder, Racksole turned to the window.