“The room is nothing less than a death-trap,” I remarked. “And yet the baneful influence is a mysterious one. I wish you could tell us the name of the sender of the message, Miss Wynd. It would materially assist us in our researches.”
“I tell you that it was a friend who could have no object whatever in making any attack upon my life,” she answered, ambiguously.
“But this woman,” I continued. “Are you certain that you do not know her—that you have never met her before?”
“Quite certain,” she responded without hesitation. “She was an utter stranger.”
I exchanged glances with Hoefer. The mystery was still inscrutable.
Again we all four went to the door of the room of mystery, and Hoefer, still grunting in dissatisfaction, declared his intention to re-enter the place. Seen from the hall there was certainly nothing about the apartment to excite suspicion. It was bright and comfortable, with handsome substantial furniture, sage-green hangings, and a thick Turkey carpet into which one’s feet sank noiselessly.
“It is a risk!” exclaimed her ladyship, when Hoefer made the announcement. “Death lurks in that place. Let us close and lock it.”
“Ach! no, madame,” he responded. “It is no risk now that we have the prophylactic.” And, turning to me, he handed me a little of the last injection which he had given to Beryl, together with the phial of ether and the syringe.
“Use this, if necessary,” he said, briefly, and then leaving us, he crossed the threshold and examined every nook of the room.
The window was still open, but he closed and fastened it. Upon a little writing-table in the corner lay the soiled sheet of note-paper that Beryl had obtained on her first visit to the library, thus proving the truth of her story. The door swung to, as before, and after about five minutes he again emerged.