"There are no secret hiding-places in our hotel," screamed Madame Poulain angrily. "We have no objection at all to being inspected in the greatest detail. But I must warn you, gentlemen, that your job will take some time to carry through."
The Police Agent shrugged his shoulders disagreeably. "Come along," he said sharply. "Let us begin at once! We would like to start by seeing your own rooms, madame."
Gerald Burton began to feel very uncomfortable. Under pleasanter, more normal circumstances he would have thoroughly enjoyed a long exhaustive inspection of a house which had probably been remodelled, early in the eighteenth century, on the site of a mediaeval building.
For the first time since he had begun to study with a view to excelling in the profession he had himself chosen, he had forgotten his work—the work he so much enjoyed—for three whole days. This Perquisition brought some of the old interest back. As an architect he could not but be interested and stimulated by this intimate inspection of what had been a magnificent specimen of a French town mansion.
When the search party reached the bed-chamber of the hotel-keeper and his wife Gerald Burton drew back, but Madame Poulain gave him a smart tap on the arm. "Go in, go in!" she said tartly, but he saw there were tears in her eyes. "We have nothing to hide, Monsieur Gerald! This is my room of memories; the room where our beloved Virginie was born. Little did I think it would ever be dishonoured by the presence of the police!"
Gerald, thus objurgated, walked through into a large room, low-ceilinged as are all rooms situated on the entresol floor of a Paris house.
Over the bed hung Madame Poulain's wedding wreath of artificial orange blossoms in a round glass case. Photographs of the beloved Virginie taken at various stages of her life, from infancy to girlhood, were the sole other adornment of the room, and formed an odd contrast to the delicately carved frames of the old dim mirrors let into grey panelled walls.
"What have we here?" cried the Police Agent tapping one of the panels which formed the wall opposite the door and the fireplace.
"It is a way through into our daughter's room," said Poulain sullenly, and opening what appeared to be a cupboard door.
The American took an eager step forward.