Then pulling himself together he gazed blankly round him. Save for that chest of drawers, which appeared half empty, he could see nothing wherein the Emperor’s candlesticks could have been hidden, and a cold perspiration stood on his forehead as he turned to Meyer and asked him what course he intended to pursue.
The sergeant once more shrugged his shoulders, then pointing to the bed he ordered his man to turn the paillasse over.
“Would you like to search that chest of drawers?” he smiled, sarcastically addressing Volenski. “My impression is that the bird has flown and taken her treasures with her.”
Iván waited not for a second offer, he was already emptying the drawers, throwing ribbons and rags in a confused heap on the floor. Hope was fast dwindling away; this golden opportunity, from which he had expected so much, was proving futile. The splendid chance he would have had in this dark room, if only the candlesticks were to fall in his hands, was not to be his after all. Half fainting with the closeness of the atmosphere, and the nerve-strain consequent on the bitter disappointment he was experiencing, Iván dared not let the sergeant see his face, frightened lest the astute detective should notice his strange agitation, and jump at conclusions, which he might afterwards communicate to his chief.
“It seems to me,” said Meyer at last, “that we are wasting our time here; the woman has evidently taken with her what valuables she had stolen, either because she is always prepared for a police raid during her absence, or she may actually have gone to dispose of them. Anyhow, monsieur,” he added, “with your permission, we will leave the matter for the present, and report proceedings to the chief.”
Iván had completely emptied the drawers, and was now impatiently turning over the letters and papers that were lying in a confused heap on the top of the chest. A half-torn, almost wholly faded photograph had riveted his attention. A somewhat coarse, large-featured woman’s face, with dark, provoking eyes, and a wide, laughing mouth. He wondered, as he looked at it, whether this was the woman who held his fate and that of his comrades in one of those clumsy, low-bred hands, and whether he would ask Sergeant Meyer if this was Grete Ottlinger.
“Is this the woman?” he asked at last with sudden determination, turning towards the police officer and holding out the photograph.
“Yes! it is,” replied Meyer, after a hasty glance. “No beauty, is she?” he added with a laugh.
Then the other man having opened the door, the sergeant stood evidently impatient to be gone, his lantern in his hand dimly lighting the dark passage beyond. Volenski with a sudden impulse slipped the photograph into his pocket, and throwing a last hopeless look at the squalid abode he had entered so full of hope, followed Meyer down the narrow stairs.
He was loth to give up all hope, his was a sanguine and buoyant disposition, that refused to give way to despair. A plan had already formed in his brain, a confused idea that would require the quietness of the deserted streets to order and to organise.