"The key to this gentleman's room," was the demand.
"I--"
"The key, and be quick about it."
The key came forth. "You will say nothing, Herr; it would ruin
my business. It was a police affair."
"Has any one been in this room since?"
"No, Herr; the key has been in my pocket."
"Where is the porter who brought me here?"
"He was not a porter; he was with the police."
Maurice passed up the stairs. He found the room in disorder, but
a disorder rather familiar to his eyes. He had been the cause of
most of it. Here was where he broke the baron's arm and thumped
three others on the head. It had been a good fight. Here was a
hole in the wall where one of the empty revolvers had gone--
missing the Colonel's head by an inch.
There was a smudge on the carpet made by the falling candles. He
saw Fitzgerald's pipe and picked it up. No; the chamber maid had
not yet been there. He went over to the bed, stared at it and
shrugged. He raised the mattress. There was the gun case. He
drew it forth and took out the gun, not, however, without a
twist of his nerves.
Four millions of crowns, a woman's love, the fall of one dynasty
and the rise of another, all wadded in those innocent looking
gun barrels! He hesitated for a space, then unlocked the breech
and held the tubes toward the window.
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