“You must have some reason,” he persisted.
“I have no reason,” she assured him, “only some day I shall see behind these doors. Afterwards, I shall hear the voices no more.”
She was busy tying a shawl around her head. Hamel watched her, still puzzled. He could not get rid of the idea that there was some method behind her madness.
“Tell me—I have found you listening here before. Have you ever heard anything suspicious?”
“I have heard nothing yet,” she admitted, “nothing that counts.”
“Come,” he continued, “couldn’t we clear this matter up sensibly? Do you believe that there is anybody in there? Do you believe the place is being used in any way for a wrong purpose? If so, we will insist upon having the keys from Mr. Fentolin. He cannot refuse. The place is mine.”
“Mr. Fentolin would not give you the keys, sir,” she replied. “If he did, it would be useless.”
“Would you like me to break the door in?” Hamel asked.
“You could not do it, sir,” she told him, “not you nor anybody else. The door is thicker than my fist, of solid oak. It was a mechanic from New York who fitted the locks. I have heard it said in the village—Bill Hamas, the carpenter, declares that there are double doors. The workmen who were employed here were housed in a tent upon the beach and sent home the day they finished their job. They were never allowed in the village. They were foreigners, most of them. They came from nobody knows where, and when they had finished they disappeared. Why was that, sir? What is there inside which Mr. Fentolin needs to guard so carefully?”
“Mr. Fentolin has invented something,” Hamel explained. “He keeps the model in there. Inventors are very jealous of their work.”