“I wonder now. Is this Mrs. Van Snyder an accomplice, or is she—”
He left the sentence unfinished.
“Hear any noise from inside?” he asked abruptly.
“Not a thing. But the doors fit well. One couldn’t hope to hear much.”
Mr. Carter made up his mind suddenly.
“I don’t like this business. We’re going in. Got the master key?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Call up Evans and Clydesly.”
Reinforced by the other two men, they advanced towards the door of the suite. It opened noiselessly when the first man inserted his key.
They found themselves in a small hall. To the right was the open door of a bathroom, and in front of them was the sitting-room. On the left was a closed door and from behind it a faint sound—rather like an asthmatic pug—could be heard. Mr. Carter pushed the door open and entered.
The room was a bedroom, with a big double bed ornately covered with a bedspread of rose and gold. On it, bound hand and foot, with her mouth secured by a gag and her eyes almost starting out of her head with pain and rage, was a middle-aged fashionably-dressed woman.
On a brief order from Mr. Carter, the other men had covered the whole suite. Only Tommy and his Chief had entered the bedroom. As he leant over the bed and strove to unfasten the knots, Carter’s eyes went roving round the room in perplexity. Save for an immense quantity of truly American luggage, the room was empty. There was no sign of the Russian or Tuppence.