"I don't know."
"Will you permit us to open it?" he inquired, much interested.
"Certainly," I responded. "I am anxious to see what it contains."
The detective took it, and cut the string with his pocket-knife; then, while his subordinate and the Director of the Casino craned their necks to investigate, he unwrapped paper after paper until he came to a square jewel-case covered in dark crimson leather.
"An ornament, I suppose!" exclaimed the detective.
Then he opened the box, and from its velvet-lined depths something fell to the ground which caused us to utter a loud cry of surprise in chorus.
The detective stooped to pick it up.
I stood dumbfounded and aghast. In his hand was a bundle of folded French bank-notes—each for one thousand francs. They were the notes stolen from Reginald Thorne by his assassin.