Duvall listened to the doctor with an impassive face. "I know nothing about any snuff box," he returned, with a show of anger. "You are wasting your time, Dr. Hartmann. I have nothing more to say on the subject." He turned his back and gazed moodily out across the lawn.
Hartmann regarded him with a scowl of anger. "I give you until to-night, Mr. Duvall, to do as I ask. After that, I shall be compelled to force you to do so."
The detective shrugged his shoulders and turned to the door. "You use strong words, my friend. If any harm comes to me, my government will know how to deal with you." His threat did not seem to alarm the doctor particularly. "Do not forget, Mr. Duvall," he said, with an evil smile, "that while I know how to cure mental disorders, I also know how to create them. Good-morning."
The grave threat in his words filled Duvall with uneasiness. What did Hartmann mean? Did he propose to feed him with drugs, cunningly concealed in his food, which would steal away his senses, and leave him a babbling child? The thought was terrifying. Yet he had until to-night. He decided to return to his room and think, hoping thus to evolve some plan which might prove a solution of his difficulties. In the afternoon he would communicate it to Grace, and she, in return, could send word to Dufrenne, so that the latter might coöperate with him.
He found everything in his room as he had left it, and, seating himself by the window, was soon plunged in deep thought. The arrival of one of the attendants with his luncheon some two hours later woke him from a maze of profitless scheming. The problem was as yet still unsolved.
After luncheon, he decided to go down and have a talk with Grace. By keeping away from the house, and walking through the shrubbery, he hoped to be able to talk with her more freely. Much to his surprise, he found the door of his room once more locked. He sat down with a feeling of utter helplessness. The net was beginning to close about him.
Dinner was brought in at seven, and with it a small bottle of claret. He made an excellent meal, in spite of his unhappy reflections. The claret proved a welcome addition to it. On the tray was also a cigar. Decidedly the doctor was thoughtful, he reflected grimly.
Shortly after dinner he began to feel strangely drowsy. For a time he resisted the feeling—fought against it, but his eyelids seemed weighted with lead. Try as he would, he could not keep his eyes open. He threw up the window, gasping at the fresh air, but it had little effect. He rushed to the door, tried it, found it locked as he had expected, then groped toward the bed and fell heavily upon it, drunk with sleep. "It must have been the wine," he muttered to himself, and in another moment his muscles relaxed and he lay unconscious.