made no sound, and he wandered at ease to and fro,
rather amused, rather struck by the peculiar senses of night and mystery
which had suddenly come over him. He fancied he could hear a thousand
snores peacefully descending from the upper realms. At length he found a
staircase, a very dark and narrow one, and presently he was on the first
floor. He soon discovered that the numbers of the rooms on this floor
did not get beyond seventy. He encountered another staircase and
ascended to the second floor. By the decoration of the walls he
recognized this floor as his proper home, and as he strolled through the
long corridor he whistled a low, meditative whistle of satisfaction. He
thought he heard a step in the transverse corridor, and instinctively
he obliterated himself in a recess which held a service-cabinet and a
chair. He did hear a step. Peeping cautiously out, he perceived, what he
had not perceived previously, that a piece of white ribbon had been tied
round the handle of the door of one of the bedrooms. Then a man came
round the corner of the transverse corridor, and Racksole drew back. It
was Jules--Jules with his hands in his pockets and a slouch hat over his
eyes, but in other respects attired as usual.

Racksole, at that instant, remembered with a special vividness what
Felix Babylon had said to him at their first interview. He wished he had
brought his revolver. He didn't know why he should feel the desirability
of a revolver in a London hotel of the most unimpeachable fair fame,
but he did feel the desirability of such an instrument of attack and
defence. He privately decided that if Jules went past his recess he
would take him by the throat and in that attitude put a few plain
questions to this highly dubious waiter. But Jules had stopped. The
millionaire made another cautious observation. Jules, with infinite
gentleness, was turning the handle of the door to which the white ribbon
was attached. The door slowly yielded and Jules disappeared within
the room. 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 wa