‘Great Scott!’ he said, ‘I’ve got hold of something—No. 111 is exactly over the State apartments.’
He went to the bureau, and issued instructions that No. 111 was not to be re-let to anyone until further orders. At the bureau they gave him Nella’s note, which ran thus:
Dearest Papa,—I am going away for a day or two on the trail of a clue.
If I’m not back in three days, begin to inquire for me at Ostend. Till then leave me alone.—Your sagacious daughter, NELL.
These few words, in Nella’s large scrawling hand, filled one side of the paper. At the bottom was a P.T.O. He turned over, and read the sentence, underlined, ‘P.S.—Keep an eye on Rocco.’
‘I wonder what the little creature is up to?’ he murmured, as he tore the letter into small fragments, and threw them into the waste-paper basket.
Then, without any delay, he took the lift down to the basement, with the object of making a preliminary inspection of Rocco in his lair. He could scarcely bring himself to believe that this suave and stately gentleman, this enthusiast of gastronomy, was concerned in the machinations of Jules and other rascals unknown. Nevertheless, from habit, he obeyed his daughter, giving her credit for a certain amount of perspicuity and cleverness.
The kitchens of the Grand Babylon Hôtel are one of the wonders of Europe.
Only three years before the events now under narration Felix Babylon had had them newly installed with every device and patent that the ingenuity of two continents could supply. They covered nearly an acre of superficial space.
They were walled and floored from end to end with tiles and marble, which enabled them to be washed down every morning like the deck of a man-of-war.