A glance out of the window showed me that the house we were in was in the open country. Already it was broad daylight, and a perfect calm had succeeded the storm of the previous night. But had it been the previous night? I supposed so. Signs of the storm were still visible everywhere—trees blown down and lying on their sides, branches and great limbs lying about. The country all around was densely wooded. Look in what direction I would, only trees, grass fields and mountains were visible. There was not a house in sight; not a cottage; not a hut.
I went over to Faulkner, and shook him roughly. He was still sleeping soundly, and it took me some minutes to arouse him into consciousness.
His first observation when at last fully awake, was characteristic of the young man—
“Where, in Heaven’s name, am I?”
Chapter Fourteen.
The Perfume.
I dashed across to the door. It was locked. “Now tell me, what do you make of it?” Faulkner asked, when he had looked about the unfamiliar room and stared blankly out of the window.
“The solution seems pretty obvious,” I said. “We’ve been drugged, or in some way made unconscious last night in Paulton’s car, and driven here. I distinctly remember trying to keep awake. You gave me that cigar I smoked. Was it one of your own?”