Again I glanced sideways at this Bulgarian assassin—the murderer of Stambouleff, and of God knows how many others.
We came to the door of his dark bedroom and I went in with the lighted candle. First I examined the electric fixture.
"Nobody's cut your wire," said I. "The globe's burnt out."
"Does that seem at all suspicious to you?" he asked in an agitated voice, coming up behind me.
I smiled. "That happens daily as you must know." I got down on my knees and peered under his bed. Of course there was nobody there. Nevertheless he got down on all fours and took the candle to examine every corner. Then, puffing, he reared up, shuffled to his flat, splay feet, and went about peeping into closets, behind curtains and sofas, moving from room to room in his suite with a stealthy flapping of his bare feet on the parquet.
Meanwhile I went around trying the several electric switches. It was odd that all the globes should have been burnt out at once. Evidently some fuse in the cellar had blown out.
There was another candle on his dresser. I lighted it. And, as it flickered into yellow flame, something on the floor of the dressing-room beyond caught the light and sparkled. And I went forward on tip-toe and picked it up.
The Tzar of all the Bulgars was busy searching the sitting-room. Now, satisfied that there was no intruder concealed about the apartment, he waddled massively back to where I stood.
"All the same," he said, "I heard the knob of my door squeak."
"There are no robbers in this region," said I with a shrug.