The man addressed as Mayer at once began a systematic search of Duvall's person. With deft fingers he explored his pockets, felt the linings of his clothing, tore through the contents of his pocketbook. The opera hat had fallen to the floor, in the short struggle which ensued when the detective found himself in Hartmann's grasp. Mayer picked it up, glanced at it carelessly, then threw it angrily into a corner, where it rolled unobserved, into the shadow of a large box.
"There is nothing here," he said, in a voice of keen disappointment. "He must have hidden it elsewhere."
"In his room at the hotel, perhaps—his portmanteau," the doctor said, eagerly, releasing Duvall's hands and throwing him to one side with some violence.
Mayer looked grave. "I have searched everything thoroughly. It is not there."
The doctor muttered an oath. "The other—the old Frenchman?"
"He was arrested to-night on a charge of irregularity in his passport. Nothing discovered. He will be released in the morning."
"Teufel!" The doctor swore excitedly in German. "Then the other one—the one who was in charge of Seltz—he must have it."
"No. He also has been searched, with the same results."
"May I ask what you are looking for?" asked Duvall, calmly.
"You know, well enough, Duvall," exclaimed Mayer, turning on him. "Oh, yes—I know your name. The examination of your baggage showed that. As soon as I wired to London and discovered that the man Seltz had left there last night, I knew how we had been fooled. One of our men saw the snuff box in your possession just before you left the hotel to go to the house of Mr. Phelps. What have you done with it?"