‘Certainly. I do dem in my mind. I tink dem. Why should I want materials? I know all flavours. I tink, and tink, and tink, and it is done. I write down. I give the recipe to my best chef--dere you are. I need not even taste, I know how it will taste. It is like composing music. De great composers do not compose at de piano.’ ‘I see,’ said Racksole. ‘It is because I work like dat dat you pay me three thousand a year,’ Rocco added gravely. ‘Heard about Jules?’ said Racksole abruptly. ‘Jules?’ ‘Yes. He’s been arrested in Ostend,’ the millionaire continued, lying cleverly at a venture. ‘They say that he and several others are implicated in a murder case--the murder of Reginald Dimmock.’ ‘Truly?’ drawled Rocco, scarcely hiding a yawn. His indifference was so superb, so gorgeous, that Racksole instantly divined that it was assumed for the occasion. ‘It seems that, after all, the police are good for something. But this is the first time I ever knew them to be worth their salt. There is to be a thorough and systematic search of the hotel to-morrow,’ Racksole went on. ‘I have mentioned it to you to warn you that so far as you are concerned the search is of course merely a matter of form. You will not object to the detectives looking through your rooms?’ ‘Certainly not,’ and Rocco shrugged his shoulders. ‘I shall ask you to say nothing about this to anyone,’ said Racksole. ‘The news of Jules’ arrest is quite private to myself. The papers know nothing of it. You comprehend?’ Rocco smiled in his grand manner, and Rocco’s master thereupon went away. Racksole was very well satisfied with the little conversation. It was perhaps dangerous to tell a series of mere lies to a clever fellow like Rocco, and Racksole wondered how he should ultimately explain them to this great master-chef if his and Nella’s suspicions should be unfounded, and nothing came of them. Nevertheless, Rocco’s manner, a strange elusive something in the man’s eyes, had nearly convinced Racksole that he was somehow implicated in Jules’ schemes--and probably in the death of Reginald Dimmock and the disappearance of Prince Eugen of Posen. That night, or rather about half-past one the next morning, when the last noises of the hotel’s life had died down, Racksole made his way to Room 111 on the second floor. He locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to examine the place, square foot by square foot. Every now and then some creak or other sound startled him, and he listened intently for a few seconds. The bedroom was furnished in the ordinary splendid style of bedrooms at the Grand Babylon Hôtel, and in that respect called for no remark. What most interested Racksole was the flooring. He pulled up the thick Oriental carpet, and peered along every plank, but could discover nothing unusual.