“Are you mad?” I asked, with well-assumed contempt.
“No; but the Mexican is. I have just left his room, and he raves perpetually of a ring he has given to Robert Harcliffe, of New Orleans. A ring that must be restored to him on demand.”
“He raves,” said I, coolly, although my heart was beating wildly.
“He does, indeed,” acknowledged Paola. “And he tells exactly where the ring was placed—in the outer pocket of your jacket. Will you pardon me, senhor, if I prove the truth of his assertion?”
He rose and advanced to me with a soft, stealthy tread, and I backed away until I stood fairly against the wall, vainly endeavoring to find some way to circumvent him.
“Hold!” cried a clear voice, and as Paola swung around upon his heel I saw beyond him the form of Valcour outlined by the dark doorway.
“You were doubtless about to search the prisoner, senhor,” said the spy, calmly, as he approached us. “I have myself just come from the Mexican’s room and heard his ravings. But the task must be mine, since the Emperor has placed the search for the key in my hands.”
Paola turned with a slight shrug and resumed his seat.
“I have searched the prisoner already,” he announced, “but failed to find the ring. Doubtless he has passed it to Piexoto, or secreted it. Or, it may be, the Mexican’s words are mere ravings.”
The detective hesitated.