The number was 111, his daughter’s room! He tried to open it, but the door was locked. Rushing to his own room, No. 107, he seized one of a pair of revolvers (the kind that are made for millionaires) and followed after Jules down the transverse corridor. At the end of this corridor was a window; the window was open; and Jules was innocently gazing out of the window. Ten silent strides, and Theodore Racksole was upon him. ‘One word, my friend,’ the millionaire began, carelessly waving the revolver in the air. Jules was indubitably startled, but by an admirable exercise of self-control he recovered possession of his faculties in a second. ‘Sir?’ said Jules. ‘I just want to be informed, what the deuce you were doing in No. 111 a moment ago.’ ‘I had been requested to go there,’ was the calm response. ‘You are a liar, and not a very clever one. That is my daughter’s room. Now--out with it, before I decide whether to shoot you or throw you into the street.’ ‘Excuse me, sir, No. 111 is occupied by a gentleman.’ ‘I advise you that it is a serious error of judgement to contradict me, my friend. Don’t do it again. We will go to the room together, and you shall prove that the occupant is a gentleman, and not my daughter.’ ‘Impossible, sir,’ said Jules. ‘Scarcely that,’ said Racksole, and he took Jules by the sleeve. The millionaire knew for a certainty that Nella occupied No. 111, for he had examined the room with her, and himself seen that her trunks and her maid and herself had arrived there in safety. ‘Now open the door,’ whispered Racksole, when they reached No.111. ‘I must knock.’ ‘That is just what you mustn’t do. Open it. No doubt you have your pass- key.’ Confronted by the revolver, Jules readily obeyed, yet with a deprecatory gesture, as though he would not be responsible for this outrage against the decorum of hotel life. Racksole entered. The room was brilliantly lighted. ‘A visitor, who insists on seeing you, sir,’ said Jules, and fled. Mr Reginald Dimmock, still in evening dress, and smoking a cigarette, rose hurriedly from a table. ‘Hello, my dear Mr Racksole, this is an unexpected--ah--pleasure.’ ‘Where is my daughter? This is her room.’ ‘Did I catch what you said, Mr Racksole?’ ‘I venture to remark that this is Miss Racksole’s room.’ ‘My good sir,’ answered Dimmock, ‘you must be mad to dream of such a thing. Only my respect for your daughter prevents me from expelling you forcibly, for such an extraordinary suggestion.’ A small spot half-way down the bridge of the millionaire’s nose turned suddenly white. ‘With your permission,’ he said in a low calm voice, ‘I will examine the dressing-room and the bath-room.’ ‘Just listen to me a moment,’ Dimmock urged, in a milder tone.