At the sight of Rowland, he muttered a curse.
"Where is this money, Herr Förster?" he asked coolly.
"Money? And if I knew--do you think--I'd tell you? Go and let me die in peace."
"The black bag which you were told to throw into the middle of the lake is a poor substitute for what I want. The notes are hidden in Herr Hochwald's room, nicht wahr?"
Förster was in no condition to dissimulate and his chin gave the slightest twitch upward.
"Ah. That is kind of you---- If you will remain quite still, Herr Förster," continued Rowland, "I will send a Doctor to look after you. In the meanwhile I will take the liberty of locking the doors."
Lamp in hand he sought the room into which Khodkine had gone. It was luxuriously furnished with the trappings of a man, evidently the abode in times of peace of Count Monteori himself. First he searched the bathroom, with no results. There was a towel very much soiled upon the rack and another upon the floor which showed traces of some dark stuff.
"Slovenly blighter!" thought Rowland as he went out into the bedroom.
A book-shelf stood in one corner of the room--a likely place? But in a moment with all the volumes strewn upon the floor Rowland had to acknowledge himself mistaken. He tried the bed next, ripping up the mattress and the pillows. The drawers of the bureau were empty, but he took them out one by one and examined the woodwork behind. Next he tested the chairs and couch without success. Then he stopped in disgust to sit down with a cigarette, scratch his head and grin at the frightful disorder he had created. Where--where could Hochwald have hidden the money? He had been in the house less than two hours. Skillful camouflage would require a longer time than that. It must be something more obvious, a simple expedient but clever, worthy of the talents of the gentleman who had locked him in the safe.
He had examined the porcelain stove, a large affair which stood in one corner of the room but there was nothing in it except a few old newspapers. Now as he stared at it, a new thought came to him and lighting his cigarette he touched the fire from the match to the waste paper in the stove. The result was quite surprising, for smoke poured from every aperture, filling the room and driving Rowland to open the window. No draught. He climbed on a chair and lamp in hand, carefully examined the smoke pipe, his long subdued excitement growing again. There was half an inch of rust showing at the lower joint. He then got down from the chair and thrusting in his arm found the flue, at last found the aperture and discovered at once the meaning of the lack of draught, for his fingers met something soft to the touch which they closed on and with some difficulty drew forth. But when he moved the tightly wedged cloth there was a commotion in the smoke pipe above, and as he drew forth the grimy towels which had stopped the hole, a heavy object fell into the smouldering ashes below--an oil-cloth package, the appearance of which was familiar to him--another--another--until in less than ten minutes in a sooty pile upon the rug in an orderly row which tickled his fancy were the twenty-five packages of bank-notes of the Vault of Nemi. He made no mistake this time, examining each one carefully in turn. Triumph! Hurriedly he packed them into the black bag. Clever? It was a wonder that he hadn't thought of it at first--especially after the sooty towels. A childish expedient, a temporary one at best, until Herr Hochwald and Herr Förster could find a way to hide the fortune more effectually.