The Little Anna Gold-Mine was world famous. There would be no chance of their overlooking a single document bearing such a name. Before he had reached his strange dwelling-place he had come to a resolution. Early next morning, stopping only to leave a note telling the girl where to find him when she arrived in London, he was off by the early train. By means of a little diplomacy he had succeeded in gaining a room within a few doors of the one in which Sinclair had been killed. Only a few feet of wall separated him from the room in which, somewhere or other, was to be found the paper he coveted. Well, his first attempt had been a failure. He knew quite well that the place was paraded by night watchmen, and that any attempt to gain an entrance into the room by orthodox means would result in prompt discovery. There was nothing to be done until the morrow. He threw himself upon the bed and tried to sleep. Waking with the first gleam of daylight, he took off his clothes, bathed, and made a leisurely toilet. Then he rang for the _valet de chambre_. The man was a pleasant-faced, loquacious sort of fellow. Deane talked to him for a while, and then made his effort. "Wasn't it upon this floor," he asked, "that a murder took place lately?" The valet looked around him for a moment before answering. "Yes, sir!" he replied. "In the very next room. We are not allowed to talk about it more than we can help." Deane nodded. All the time he was watching the man, wondering how far he dared go. "Look here," he said "you seem an honest fellow. I suppose you'd have no objection to bettering yourself in life?" "No objection in the slightest, sir," the man answered. "I am on the staff of a newspaper," Deane said slowly, "and my people are particularly anxious that I should inspect the interior of the room in which that murder was committed. Your people downstairs have absolutely refused to allow me to do anything of the sort. I have taken this room in the hope of being able to get in there. Do you think there is any chance for me?" "I should say not, sir," the man answered. "The door is locked, and Mr. Hartshorn himself, the manager, has taken the key." "There isn't such a thing as a duplicate, I suppose?" Deane asked. "Not that I know of, sir," the man answered. "You couldn't suggest any means by which I could enter that room, even if it were an affair of say fifty pounds to you?" Deane asked calmly. The man started. Fifty pounds was a great deal of money. On the other hand, the fifty pounds would take some earning. "I am afraid I can't, sir," he said. "There is no duplicate key that I know of, and in any case I dare not run the risk." "Fifty pounds is not enough, perhaps," Deane said. "Money is no particular object to me. If you said that you thought you could provide me with the key for a hundred pounds, I would willingly pay it." "I am afraid not, sir," the man answered, turning as though to leave the room. "Two hundred pounds!" Deane said.