"I don't understand it," said Marshall. "I never saw him like this before. Paris must surely be an awful place!"
The cabby chuckled, and together they got Dan out and into the elevator; but when the doorman had paid and dismissed the cabby, and tried to follow his advice, he met with unexpected resistance.
"Go away, Marshall, and leave me alone," said Dan. "I heard what that fellow said; but I'm not drunk—though no doubt I look it. Just go away and shut the door. I'll thank you another time. There's a good fellow!"
And in the end, Marshall went doubtfully away.
Dan went to work at himself immediately with mechanical thoroughness. He filled his tub with cold water, undressed and plunged into it, dipping his head under half a dozen times. Then he rubbed down with the roughest towel he could find, gave himself a vigorous massage from head to feet, took a sharp turn with a pair of dumb-bells, got into fresh clothes, and began to feel more like himself.
"There," he said; "that's better. Now let's see if this thing is real, or only a nightmare."
He went to his coat, got out the pasteboard box, placed it on a table, sat down before it, and carefully removed the lid.
No, it was not a nightmare. There was the cake of soap—pink, scented soap—weighted with the nickel coins. Poising the box in his hand, he understood why the coins had been added. Without them, the box would have been too light. He pulled one of the coins out and looked at it. It was a German piece of twenty pfennigs, such as any one on the ship might have used. He put it carefully back, and lay down on his bed to reason the thing out.
How had the substitution been made? How could it have been made? Every day the box had been in his pocket; every night it had been beneath his pillow. There was only one explanation—the change must have been made while he was asleep. Some one had entered the stateroom, slipped out the other box with a cautious hand and substituted this one. Whoever it was must have been familiar with the weight of the other box and with the way it was wrapped and sealed. But how was that possible? No one could have seen Miss Vard give it to him; no one could have known that he had it.
And then Dan sat suddenly erect. Chevrial might have known. Chevrial might have seen him slip it into his pocket as he dressed. Yes, Chevrial might have done it. Who was Chevrial? How should a wine-merchant know so much about spies and diplomacy and German princes? There had always been about him an air of power, of reserve force. Yes, and an air of mystery—the air of one who knows a great many things he does not choose to tell.