“No, not with me,” said Vandyke. “I hurried down ahead of him. I did not see him again.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I think Lenaire called him Toulon.”
“By Jove, I think I scent the rat in the meal,” Nick muttered. “Have you looked in the closet, Vandyke?”
“Not yet. Who would expect to find Clayton in the closet, or concealed in any part of the room? It would be absurd to suppose anything of the kind——”
“Not absurd to me,” Nick suddenly interrupted. “See for yourself.”
He had, while Vandyke was speaking, looked hurriedly into the wardrobe closet and under the bed. A broad, old-fashioned couch near one of the walls then claimed his attention. It was draped with a valance, which he quickly raised, and then he found what he was seeking.
Flat on his back under the couch lay the senseless form of Chester Clayton, his eyes closed and his white face upturned, as ghastly as if the hand of death had been laid upon him.
Vandyke recoiled with a shudder.
“Good heavens!” he cried. “Is he dead? Is he dead, Mr. Carter?”