Turning at the first landing, he walked briskly along the corridor to the left.
"29, 31, 33," he counted, "35, 37. Here we are." The corridor was empty; he slipped his skeleton-key from his pocket and deftly manipulated it.
The door opened noiselessly. He was in a dark little hallway. At the end was a door, and a gleam of light shone under it. He closed the door behind him, stepped softly along the carpeted floor, and his hand was on the handle of the further door, when a sweet voice called him by name from the room.
"Adelante! Señor Smit'," it said; and, obeying the summons, T. B. entered.
The room was well, if floridly, furnished; but T. B. had no eyes save for the graceful figure lounging in a big wicker-chair, a thin cigarette between her red lips, and her hands carelessly folded on her lap.
"Come in," she repeated, this time in French. "I have been expecting you."
T. B. bowed slightly.
"I was told that I should probably receive a visit from you."
"First," said T. B. gently, "let me relieve you of that ugly toy."
Before she could realise what was happening, two strong hands seized her wrists and lifted them. Then one hand clasped her two, and a tiny pistol that lay in her lap was in the detective's possession.