Duvall was almost tempted to laugh. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous—so utterly absurd. Absent-mindedly he tried a pinch of the snuff, inhaling it into his nostrils. It produced nothing more startling than a violent fit of sneezing. Undoubtedly Monsieur de Grissac had told the truth. He did use snuff.
Closing the box, Duvall regarded it for a moment in silence, then looked at Dufrenne. "It isn't worth a hundred francs," he said.
"The box?" answered the curio dealer, as he followed Duvall's glances. "No, monsieur—what you say is indeed true, yet I would not sell it for a hundred million."
"But why? What is there about it that makes it so valuable? Surely you can tell me that, now that we have safely recovered it."
"Alas, monsieur. I could not tell you, even if I knew, which I assure you I do not. I can only say that Monsieur Lefevre has told me that it holds within it the honor of my beloved country, and therefore I would not sell it for all the money in the world."
Duvall was clearly puzzled. "Well," he said at length, as he thrust the box into his pocket, "there's evidently some mystery about the thing that I do not understand, but I suppose I shall, some day. Just at present our first duty is to return the box to Monsieur de Grissac."
"You are right, monsieur, and at once. There is a train for Antwerp in half an hour. From there we can take the night boat to Harwich. Let us set out without further delay."
"And that fellow in there?" remarked the detective with a grim laugh. "We've got to take him with us, you know. He'll be wanted in London for the murder of the man Noël."
"Yes. That also is important." Dufrenne went into the adjoining room and stood looking at the sleeping barber. "But not so important as the return of the snuff box to Monsieur de Grissac."
Duvall followed him, and lifting one of Seltz's arms, let it drop suddenly. It fell to his side, lifeless. "He's sleeping like a log. The doctor must have given him a pretty stiff dose. I don't see how we are going to travel with him in this condition."