In another minute the waiter came hurrying in, and reported that the other rooms were also empty. Tommy went to the window, only to draw back and shake his head. There was no balcony—nothing but a sheer drop to the street below.
“Certain it was this room they entered?” asked Carter peremptorily.
“Sure. Besides—” The man indicated the woman on the bed.
With the aid of a pen knife, Carter parted the scarf that was half choking her, and it was at once clear that whatever her sufferings, they had not deprived Mrs. Cortlandt Van Snyder of the use of her tongue.
When she had exhausted her first indignation, Mr. Carter spoke mildly.
“Would you mind telling me exactly what happened—from the beginning?”
“I guess I’ll sue the Hotel for this. It’s a perfect outrage. I was just looking for my bottle of ‘Killagrippe’ when a man sprang on me from behind and broke a little glass bottle right under my nose, and before I could get my breath I was all in. When I came to I was lying here, all trussed up, and goodness knows what’s happened to my jewels. He’s gotten the lot, I guess.”
“Your jewels are quite safe, I fancy,” said Mr. Carter drily. He wheeled round and picked up something from the floor. “You were standing just where I am when he sprang upon you?”
“That’s so,” assented Mrs. Van Snyder.
It was a fragment of thin glass that Mr. Carter had picked up. He sniffed it and handed it to Tommy.
“Ethyl Chloride,” he murmured. “Instant anaesthetic. But it only keeps one under for a moment or two. Surely he must still have been in the