"What do you make of it?" asked the banker.
"Your man François evidently is in the habit of making signals," the detective replied, laughing. He was beginning to feel hopeful. The search of the two rooms was bearing fruit.
For the next half-hour, Duvall went over the contents of the chauffeur's room with the utmost care. He removed and replaced, just as he found them, the contents of the dresser drawers. He opened a small wooden trunk which stood at one side of the room, and examined its contents minutely. He explored the closet, looked behind the pictures, sounded the walls. Nothing further of an unusual nature rewarded his efforts. Still he seemed unsatisfied.
"What more can you hope to find, Mr. Duvall?" inquired the banker, who had begun to find the proceedings tiresome.
The detective stood in the center of the room, and glanced about in some perplexity. "I had hoped to find one thing more," he said; "but I am afraid it isn't here."
Suddenly he strode over to the mantel, upon which stood a small nickel-plated alarm clock of American make.
"This clock doesn't seem to be going," he remarked, then whipped out his magnifying glass and carefully studied the brass handle which projected from the back, by which it was wound up. "It hasn't been wound for several days, either. The back is covered with dust." He picked up the clock and tried to wind it; but the handle resisted his efforts.
In an instant he took out his knife, and a moment later was removing the screws which held the metal back of the clock in place.
Mr. Stapleton watched him curiously. Duvall's methods savored, to him, of the accepted sleuth of fiction. He took little stock in the tiny clues upon which the whole modern science of criminology is built.
In a few moments the detective had removed the screws and lifted out the rear plate of the clock. As he did so, he gave a grunt of satisfaction. A small pasteboard box fell out upon the mantel.