“Yes,” I said, making a quick examination of the room, and looking beneath the bed. “There is certainly nothing here.”
I noted that the communicating door between her room and her father’s was still secured by the small brass bolt.
“Well,” I declared, “it is utterly inexplicable.” My voice evidently awakened Shaw, for we heard him tap at the door and ask in a deep, drowsy voice—
“What’s the matter in there, Asta?”
“Oh, nothing at all, Dad,” was the girl’s reply. “Only I fancy there must be a rat in my room—and Mr Kemball is looking for it.”
“Didn’t you scream?” he asked wearily.
“Yes,” I said, as she unbolted the door, and her father entered. “Miss Seymour’s scream woke me up.”
“Did you see the rat?” Shaw asked me.
“No,” I laughed, in an endeavour to conceal our fear. “I expect if there is one it has got away down its hole. I’ve searched, but can find nothing.”
“Ah!” growled the man awakened from his sleep. “That’s the worst of these confounded Continental hotels. Most of them are overrun with vermin. I’ve often had rats in my room. Well, dear,” he added, turning to Asta, “go to bed again, and leave your electric light on. They won’t come out then.”