"What is it?" asked Stapleton.
"The box of cigarettes," remarked Duvall, as he opened it. "There are three missing. I shall take a fourth." He selected one of the paper-covered tubes, placed it within his pocketbook, then thrust the box back into the clock, and rapidly replaced the metal plate.
"I don't think there is anything further to be done here, Mr. Stapleton," he remarked. "I think I'll be getting along to my room. Tomorrow I shall be quite busy."
He stopped for a moment, on his way out, to glance from the window which faced toward the north. Between the buildings and trees ran the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, its course illuminated by many street lamps, and the flashing lights of passing motor cars. Duvall gazed intently at the scene before him for a few moments, then turned to the door, and, accompanied by Mr. Stapleton, descended the stairs.
As he was about to leave the house, the banker, who evidently had something on his mind, stopped him.
"Mr. Duvall," he said, earnestly, "I would like very much to know what you intend to do."
"I'm going to catch these fellows, if I possibly can," the detective replied, earnestly.
"What steps do you propose to take?"
"I cannot exactly say—yet. Why do you ask?"
"I'll tell you. The fellow who was here tonight, the one with the black beard, is coming to see me tomorrow night, at eight o'clock. I cannot tell you more than that. I did not intend to tell you that much—but I am obliged to do so."