Part 23 (2/2)

Mr. Stapleton was watching Duvall without particular interest. Suddenly the detective pointed the searchlight toward him and pressed the b.u.t.ton which threw on the current. Mr. Stapleton started back, as his face was flooded with a beam of brilliant blue light.

Duvall replaced the little basket in the same position in which he had found it, and laid the searchlight upon the dresser. ”Rather neat, isn't it?” he exclaimed.

”What do you make of it?” asked the banker.

”Your man Francois evidently is in the habit of making signals,” the detective replied, laughing. He was beginning to feel hopeful. The search of the two rooms was bearing fruit.

For the next half-hour, Duvall went over the contents of the chauffeur's room with the utmost care. He removed and replaced, just as he found them, the contents of the dresser drawers. He opened a small wooden trunk which stood at one side of the room, and examined its contents minutely. He explored the closet, looked behind the pictures, sounded the walls. Nothing further of an unusual nature rewarded his efforts.

Still he seemed unsatisfied.

”What more can you hope to find, Mr. Duvall?” inquired the banker, who had begun to find the proceedings tiresome.

The detective stood in the center of the room, and glanced about in some perplexity. ”I had hoped to find one thing more,” he said; ”but I am afraid it isn't here.”

Suddenly he strode over to the mantel, upon which stood a small nickel-plated alarm clock of American make.

”This clock doesn't seem to be going,” he remarked, then whipped out his magnifying gla.s.s and carefully studied the bra.s.s handle which projected from the back, by which it was wound up. ”It hasn't been wound for several days, either. The back is covered with dust.” He picked up the clock and tried to wind it; but the handle resisted his efforts.

In an instant he took out his knife, and a moment later was removing the screws which held the metal back of the clock in place.

Mr. Stapleton watched him curiously. Duvall's methods savored, to him, of the accepted sleuth of fiction. He took little stock in the tiny clues upon which the whole modern science of criminology is built.

In a few moments the detective had removed the screws and lifted out the rear plate of the clock. As he did so, he gave a grunt of satisfaction.

A small pasteboard box fell out upon the mantel.

”What is it?” asked Stapleton.

”The box of cigarettes,” remarked Duvall, as he opened it. ”There are three missing. I shall take a fourth.” He selected one of the paper-covered tubes, placed it within his pocketbook, then thrust the box back into the clock, and rapidly replaced the metal plate.

”I don't think there is anything further to be done here, Mr.

Stapleton,” he remarked. ”I think I'll be getting along to my room.

Tomorrow I shall be quite busy.”

He stopped for a moment, on his way out, to glance from the window which faced toward the north. Between the buildings and trees ran the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, its course illuminated by many street lamps, and the flas.h.i.+ng lights of pa.s.sing motor cars. Duvall gazed intently at the scene before him for a few moments, then turned to the door, and, accompanied by Mr. Stapleton, descended the stairs.

As he was about to leave the house, the banker, who evidently had something on his mind, stopped him.

”Mr. Duvall,” he said, earnestly, ”I would like very much to know what you intend to do.”

”I'm going to catch these fellows, if I possibly can,” the detective replied, earnestly.

”What steps do you propose to take?”

”I cannot exactly say--yet. Why do you ask?”

”I'll tell you. The fellow who was here tonight, the one with the black beard, is coming to see me tomorrow night, at eight o'clock. I cannot tell you more than that. I did not intend to tell you that much--but I am obliged to do so.”

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