The waiter shook his head reluctantly. "I do not think that there is a duplicate key," he said, with his eyes fixed upon Deane's right hand.
"Perhaps you could make inquiries," Deane suggested smoothly. "I want to get a photograph of the inside of the room for my people, if possible. It would be worth quite a great deal of money."
The man was impressed. "I will go away and see," he said slowly.
"Keep this to yourself," Deane ordered. "I don't want it all over the hotel."
The man made a sign of assent and withdrew. Deane rang for the chambermaid. Once, twice, three times he rang, without response. Then a middle-aged person came shuffling in, very much out of breath. Deane gave her some trivial order.
"By the way," he asked, "are you the chambermaid who waits on this room?"
"No!" she answered, with some hesitation. "The regular chambermaid is down at her breakfast."
Deane nodded. "Will you tell her," he asked, "that I should like to see her as soon as she is up? I want to see about some laundry," he added.
The woman disappeared. Deane was left alone once more. He unpacked some books, and made himself comfortable in an easy-chair. He was not able even to descend to the smoking-room. Mr. Stirling Deane, it was well known, had left town for Scotland. Mr. B. Stocks, who had arrived at the hotel the night before and taken this room, was a person who had particular reasons for not desiring to be seen even in the precincts of the hotel. Deane settled himself down to read—a somewhat difficult task. By the time he had smoked several cigarettes, there was a soft tap at the door and the waiter reappeared.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said.