Hunterleys stared blankly at the gendarme.
"Can't you tell me at least what has happened?" he persisted. "I am Sir Henry Hunterleys. That is my apartment. Why do I find it locked against me?"
"By order of the Director of the Police, monsieur," was the parrot-like reply.
Hunterleys turned away impatiently. At that moment the reception clerk who downstairs had fled at his approach, returned, bringing with him the manager of the hotel. Hunterleys welcomed the latter with an air of relief.
"Monsieur Picard," he exclaimed, "what on earth is the meaning of this? Why do I find my room closed and this gendarme outside?"
Monsieur Picard was a tall man, black-bearded, immaculate in appearance and deportment, with manners and voice of velvet. Yet he, too, had lost his wonderful imperturbability. He waved away the floor waiter, who had drawn near. His manner was almost agitated.
"Monsieur Sir Henry," he explained, "an affair the most regrettable has happened in your room. I have allotted to you another apartment upon the same floor. Your things have been removed there. If you will come with me I will show it to you. It is an apartment better by far than the one you have been occupying, and the price is the same."
"But what on earth has happened in my room?" Hunterleys demanded.
"Monsieur," the hotel manager replied, "some poor demented creature who has doubtless lost his all, in your absence found his way there and committed suicide."
"Found his way into my room?" Hunterleys repeated. "But I locked the door before I went out. I have the key in my pocket."