"Does the janitor sleep in the building?" the Captain inquired after a moment; when the young man nodded affirmatively, he added: "Can you get the keys of this floor for me? It will save some time and trouble, and I want to finish before the reporters come."
"Certainly. His room is in the third story."
Converse watched him until he disappeared around the corner toward the stairway, and straightway did something very strange. With the silence and speed of a cat he made his way back to Fairchild's desk. Over this he bent and smelt the papers which lay there. But that would not do. Hastily he tried the top right-hand drawer. It was unlocked—as were all the other drawers—and opened easily. That for which he was searching was not there, either. He turned rapidly to another drawer, and another, and another, until every drawer in the desk had been opened and closed again, its contents having been hastily but thoroughly gone over; and still the object of this hurried search was not found. Quickly he glanced from side to side. To the left of the desk was a waste-paper basket, which had not been recently emptied, and over this he inhaled deeply, as one would drink in the fragrance of a rose. He thrust a hand among the debris of papers, and in a moment drew forth a dainty lace handkerchief, to which clung the unmistakable odor of stephanotis. Again the capacious pocket-book; and when Lynden returned with the keys the Captain was contemplating the door-knob of Suite 2 with unabated interest.
Lynden sniffed as the other ran over the key-tags in a search for No. 2.
"What is that perfume?" he demanded sharply.
"Ah, do you like that, now?" rejoined Converse, with the first display of enthusiasm he had yet shown. "That is an odor I am very partial to, and hope to have more of—if I can find where this came from."
The young man moistened his lips, and his eyes turned away from the other's steady look.
Converse now had the door to No. 2 open, but he did not enter this room. It needed only the match he now struck to disclose layer upon layer of dust, the undisturbed accumulation of months.
"Now, then," said he, as he closed and locked the door again, "back to the light-well for a minute or two, and I am through."
He let himself out of the hall window, and made another circuit of the ledge around the skylight. The light-well was more or less a catch-all for the windows opening into it; it therefore contained many scraps of paper, every one of which he glanced at before casting it aside. Only one thing here seemed to interest him,—something he picked up far out on the skylight and scrutinized. Lynden was afforded another glimpse of the pocket-book.