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.
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.