In a few seconds she did all she had come to do. It did not look anything serious, if there had been any one there to observe her movements. She seemed only to be passing her hands about the door and then hiding them in her cloak, ere she moved away. But this is what she did: She slipped the glass tube, with the rubber stopper, from her cloak sleeve, inserted the mouth of the syringe into the keyhole, and pressed gently upon the rubber bulb. The result was to inject into the bedroom of Lord Vinton a small quantity of one of the strongest and most effective narcotics known to science. The almost invisible vapor went through the keyhole and instantly spread to all parts of the apartment. Every nook and crack of the room was filled with the stuff, and it was absolutely unbreathable by any human being. So strong was it that only an unforeseen accident could prevent its taking action. Once under its influence, and the sturdiest man would fall into a deathlike stupor, which might last for several hours. The baroness had made the vapor as strong as it was possible to do without rendering it too dangerous. She had no intention of killing any of her victims. Her object merely was to make them unconscious, and then get possession of them. Incidentally, she took care to freight herself with all their portable wealth, such as jewelry and precious stones. Even this last she did not do herself in the case of Lord Vinton. As will have been divined, this mysterious young and beautiful woman who chose to be known at the Hotel Amsterdam as the Baroness Latour had plenty of men at her orders. All she did was to prepare the way for them, and then let them do the rough work. She satisfied herself by listening at the keyhole--in which the key had been left--that the spray had operated properly, and that Lord Vinton was most assuredly in a state of coma. Then she glided swiftly back to her own rooms, was let in without a moment’s delay by the watchful Florine, and sank into a chair to regain her breath. “You may go to bed, Florine.” Florine, the docile, said “Good night!” and departed to her own apartment, adjoining that of her employer. The baroness, still wearing her black cloak, threw open the window of the sitting room, and, her room in darkness, looked across the bay at the white yacht, which she could just make out in the gloom. “They ought to be here soon,” she murmured, as she placed the glass cylinder in its steel case. “I won’t send another signal. It might be caught by somebody else. Besides, it is not necessary.” She was right. It was not necessary to signal her men on the yacht, gently rocking some two miles from shore. On the other hand, it was nearly an hour before her ear caught the subdued thumping of muffled oars. “They have to row slowly,” she said to herself. “That’s so. Even with oars muffled, they might be heard if they came too fast.”