"Scarcely that. I tried to talk like they do in stories, with this result. The maxim is, always strike first and question afterward. You warn your father quietly while I hunt up Ferraud and Cathewe."
Seeing that he was really uninjured she turned and flew down the dark corridor and knocked at her father's door.
Fitzgerald stumbled along toward M. Ferraud's room, murmuring: "All right, Mr. Breitmann; all right. But hang me if I don't hand you back that one with interest. Where the devil is that Frenchman?" as he hammered on Ferraud's door and obtained no response. He tried the knob. The door opened. The room was black, and he struck a match. M. Ferraud, fully dressed, lay upon his bed. There was a handkerchief over his mouth and his hands and feet were securely bound. His eyes were open.
CHAPTER XXIII
CATHEWE ASKS QUESTIONS
The hunter of butterflies rubbed his released wrists and ankles, tried his collar, coughed, and dropped his legs to the floor.
"I am getting old," he cried in self-communion; "near-sighted and old. I've worn spectacles so long in jest that now I must wear them in earnest."
"How long have you been here?" asked Fitzgerald.
"I should say about two hours. It was very simple. He came to the door. I opened it. He came in. Zut! He is as powerful as a lion."
"Why didn't you call?"