“True. I came here to tell you about that.” “About what?” “One of the caterer’s assistants came in here a short time ago, not more than twenty minutes, and stated that Mr. Lenaire wanted to see me in the dining room.” “Lenaire is the caterer?” “Yes. It was upon my recommendation that he was given this job. I asked Clayton if he had any immediate use for me, and he told me to go ahead and see what Lenaire wanted. I did so and found him in the dining room.” “What did he want?” “He wanted to thank me again for having recommended him, and also to ask me to express his gratitude to Clayton for having seconded my suggestion, which he feared he would not have an opportunity to do personally before Clayton departed. He explained at some length, Nick, and when I returned I found that Clayton was missing. Then, when unable to find Clara, I feared something was wrong.” “I see,” Nick nodded. “Did the waiter who came up return to the dining room with you?” “No, not with me,” said Vandyke. “I hurried down ahead of him. I did not see him again.” “Do you know his name?” “I think Lenaire called him Toulon.” “By Jove, I think I scent the rat in the meal,” Nick muttered. “Have you looked in the closet, Vandyke?” “Not yet. Who would expect to find Clayton in the closet, or concealed in any part of the room? It would be absurd to suppose anything of the kind----” “Not absurd to me,” Nick suddenly interrupted. “See for yourself.” He had, while Vandyke was speaking, looked hurriedly into the wardrobe closet and under the bed. A broad, old-fashioned couch near one of the walls then claimed his attention. It was draped with a valance, which he quickly raised, and then he found what he was seeking. Flat on his back under the couch lay the senseless form of Chester Clayton, his eyes closed and his white face upturned, as ghastly as if the hand of death had been laid upon him. Vandyke recoiled with a shudder. “Good heavens!” he cried. “Is he dead? Is he dead, Mr. Carter?” “Quiet,” Nick cautioned. “No, not dead. The rascal who did this job doesn’t thrust his knavish neck into a noose. Clayton has been drugged. It’s the work of the same miscreant who downed him at the time of the jewel robbery.” “David Margate?” “Yes.” “What shall we----” “Don’t stop to question,” Nick interrupted. “Lend me a hand and we will place him on the couch. Slip out and find a physician, if there is one among the guests. Don’t alarm them, however, by stating what has occurred. A physician soon can revive him. Send Mr. Langham in here, but not a word about this to Mrs. Julia Clayton. Leave me to inform her.” “You think----” “Never mind what I think,” Nick again cut in while they placed the senseless man on the couch. “Do what I have directed.” “But Clara, his wife--what of her?” “There’s nothing to it, Vandyke,” said the detective. “It’s as plain as twice two. The bride has been stolen.” CHAPTER III. THE ASSAULTED WAITER.