"Too bad," said O'Malley, with a sympathetic glance. "We won't keep you but a minute—"
He led the way, and wondering, Minot followed. In the tiny office of the hotel manager a bullet-headed man stood waiting.
"My friend, Mr. Huntley, of the Secret Service," O'Malley explained. "Awful sorry that this should happen. Mr. Minot but—we got to search you."
"Search me—for what?" Minot cried.
And in a flash, he knew. Through that wild night he had not once thought of it. But it was still in his inside coat pocket, of course. Chain Lightning's Collar!
"What does this mean?" he asked.
"That's what they all say," grunted Huntley. "Come here, my boy. Say, you're pretty wet. And shivering! Better have a warm bath and a drink. Turn around, please. Ah—"
With practised fingers the detective explored rapidly Mr. Minot's person and pockets. The victim of the search stood limp, helpless. What could he do? There was no escape. It was all up now—for whatever reason they desired Chain Lightning's Collar, they could not fail to have it in another minute.
Side pockets—trousers pockets—now! The inner coat pocket! Its contents were in the detective's hand. Minot stared down. A little gasp escaped him.
The envelope that held Chain Lightning's Collar was not among them!