Before he had reached his strange dwelling-place he had come to a resolution. Early next morning, stopping only to leave a note telling the girl where to find him when she arrived in London, he was off by the early train. By means of a little diplomacy he had succeeded in gaining a room within a few doors of the one in which Sinclair had been killed.

Only a few feet of wall separated him from the room in which, somewhere or other, was to be found the paper he coveted. Well, his first attempt had been a failure. He knew quite well that the place was paraded by night watchmen, and that any attempt to gain an entrance into the room by orthodox means would result in prompt discovery. There was nothing to be done until the morrow. He threw himself upon the bed and tried to sleep. Waking with the first gleam of daylight, he took off his clothes, bathed, and made a leisurely toilet. Then he rang for the _valet de chambre_. The man was a pleasant-faced, loquacious sort of fellow. Deane talked to him for a while, and then made his effort.

"Wasn't it upon this floor," he asked, "that a murder took place lately?"

The valet looked around him for a moment before answering. "Yes, sir!"

he replied. "In the very next room. We are not allowed to talk about it more than we can help."

Deane nodded. All the time he was watching the man, wondering how far he dared go. "Look here," he said "you seem an honest fellow. I suppose you'd have no objection to bettering yourself in life?"

"No objection in the slightest, sir," the man answered.

"I am on the staff of a newspaper," Deane said slowly, "and my people are particularly anxious that I should inspect the interior of the room in which that murder was committed. Your people downstairs have absolutely refused to allow me to do anything of the sort. I have taken this room in the hope of being able to get in there. Do you think there is any chance for me?"

"I should say not, sir," the man answered. "The door is locked, and Mr.

Hartshorn himself, the manager, has taken the key."

"There isn't such a thing as a duplicate, I suppose?" Deane asked.

"Not that I know of, sir," the man answered.

"You couldn't suggest any means by which I could enter that room, even if it were an affair of say fifty pounds to you?" Deane asked calmly.

The man started. Fifty pounds was a great deal of money. On the other hand, the fifty pounds would take some earning. "I am afraid I can't, sir," he said. "There is no duplicate key that I know of, and in any case I dare not run the risk."

"Fifty pounds is not enough, perhaps," Deane said. "Money is no particular object to me. If you said that you thought you could provide me with the key for a hundred pounds, I would willingly pay it."

"I am afraid not, sir," the man answered, turning as though to leave the room.

"Two hundred pounds!" Deane said.

"It isn't a matter of money, sir," the man declared. "I daren't do it. I should be certain to be found out, and I should be sent away without a character."

"I will take you into my service," Deane said.

The man shook his head. "Thank you, sir," he said. "My character is worth a good deal to me. I think I'll keep out of this, if you don't mind."

Deane called him back imperatively. "Let us understand one another," he said, drawing something from his pocket. "Are you going down to the manager to tell him what I have told you?"

The man hesitated. Deane held out a five-pound note. "There is no reason for you to do so, you know," Deane said, "just as there is no reason why you should not accept this tip."

The valet hesitated, and finally accepted the five-pound note which Deane was holding out.

"I am sure I don't know why I should take it, sir," he said, "but there is no reason, after all, why I should say anything of what you have been talking about, downstairs."

Deane sat in his chair, waiting. There was a knock at the door and a chambermaid entered, to retire at once in confusion. Deane looked at her curiously. Something in her figure and her start had seemed familiar to him. He got up and rang the bell. In a moment or two a waiter appeared.

He was obviously a German, dark and sallow. He spoke imperfect English, and there was a gleam of cupidity in his eyes which to Deane seemed hopeful.

"Bring me some tea at once," he ordered,--"nothing to eat."

The man departed, and reappeared in a few minutes.

"Anything else, sir?" he asked, after he had set down the tray.

Deane did not answer him directly. "By the way," he said finally, "wasn't there a murder committed in one of these rooms?"

"It was next door, sir," the man answered.

"The room is locked up?" Deane asked.

"Yes, sir!"

"That is a pity," Deane remarked. "Do you know who has the key? I should very much like just to have a look around."

The waiter shook his head. "The key is downstairs in Mr. Hartshorn's office, sir, and we have no duplicate here. The police who came, they desired that no one should enter the room until they had removed the effects to Scotland Yard."

"So I was told downstairs," Deane remarked. "Do you suppose," he continued, "that it would be possible to get hold of a duplicate key? I should like very much to see the interior of that room--if possible to take a photograph of it for my newspaper. I am willing to pay."

The waiter shook his head reluctantly. "I do not think that there is a duplicate key," he said, with his eyes fixed upon Deane's right hand.

"Perhaps you could make inquiries," Deane suggested smoothly. "I want to get a photograph of the inside of the room for my people, if possible.

It would be worth quite a great deal of money."

The man was impressed. "I will go away and see," he said slowly.

"Keep this to yourself," Deane ordered. "I don't want it all over the hotel."

The man made a sign of a.s.sent and withdrew. Deane rang for the chambermaid. Once, twice, three times he rang, without response. Then a middle-aged person came shuffling in, very much out of breath. Deane gave her some trivial order.

"By the way," he asked, "are you the chambermaid who waits on this room?"

"No!" she answered, with some hesitation. "The regular chambermaid is down at her breakfast."

Deane nodded. "Will you tell her," he asked, "that I should like to see her as soon as she is up? I want to see about some laundry," he added.

The woman disappeared. Deane was left alone once more. He unpacked some books, and made himself comfortable in an easy-chair. He was not able even to descend to the smoking-room. Mr. Stirling Deane, it was well known, had left town for Scotland. Mr. B. Stocks, who had arrived at the hotel the night before and taken this room, was a person who had particular reasons for not desiring to be seen even in the precincts of the hotel. Deane settled himself down to read--a somewhat difficult task. By the time he had smoked several cigarettes, there was a soft tap at the door and the waiter reappeared.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said.

"Go ahead," Deane answered.

"I have found a key in the service-room which I think would open Number 27."

Deane nodded. "Very well," he said, "let me have the use of it to-night, and I will give you twenty pounds."

The man moistened his lips with his tongue. Twenty pounds was a wonderful sum! But--!

"There is a good deal of risk about it, sir," the man said slowly, "and I have to divide with the night-porter, who told me where to find this key."