s 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. Jules was indubitably startled, but by an admirable
exercise of self-control he recovered possession of his faculties in a
second.

'Sir?' said Jules.

'I just want to be informed, what the deuce you were doing in No. 111 a
moment ago.'

'I had been requested to go there,' was the calm response.

'You are a liar, and not a very clever one. That is my daughter's room.
Now--out with it, before I decide whether to shoot you or throw you into
the street.'

'Excuse me, sir, No. 111 is occupied by a gentleman.'

'I advise you that it is a serious error of judgement to contradict me,
my friend. Don't do it again. We will go to the room together, and you
shall prove that the occupant is a gentleman, and not my daughter.'

'Impossible, sir,' said Jules.

'Scarcely that,' said Racksole, and he took Jules by the sleeve. The
millionaire knew for a certainty that Nella occupied No. 111, for he had
examined the room her, and himself seen that her trunks and her maid
and herself had arrived there in safety. 'Now open the door,' whispered
Racksole, when they reached No.111.

'I must knock.'

'That is just what you mustn't do. Open it. 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 t