‘It will be locked,’ said Racksole. ‘We must use the stairs to-night.’ ‘But I have a key. I always carry one,’ said Rocco, and he pulled one out of his pocket, and, unfastening the iron screen, pushed it open. Racksole smiled at his readiness and aplomb. ‘After you,’ said Rocco, bowing in his finest manner, and Racksole stepped into the lift. With the swiftness of lighting Rocco pushed forward the iron screen, which locked itself automatically. Theodore Racksole was hopelessly a prisoner within the lift, while Rocco stood free in the corridor. ‘Good-bye, Mr Racksole,’ he remarked suavely, bowing again, lower than before. ‘Good-bye: I hate to take a mean advantage of you in this fashion, but really you must allow that you have been very simple. You are a clever man, as I have already said, up to a certain point. It is past that point that my own cleverness comes in. Again, good-bye. After all, I shall have no rest to-night, but perhaps even that will be better that sleeping in a police cell. If you make a great noise you may wake someone and ultimately get released from this lift. But I advise you to compose yourself, and wait till morning. It will be more dignified. For the third time, good-bye.’ And with that Rocco, without hastening, walked down the corridor and so out of sight. Racksole said never a word. He was too disgusted with himself to speak. He clenched his fists, and put his teeth together, and held his breath. In the silence he could hear the dwindling sound of Rocco’s footsteps on the thick carpet. It was the greatest blow of Racksole’s life. The next morning the high-born guests of the Grand Babylon were aroused by a rumour that by some accident the millionaire proprietor of the hotel had remained all night locked up in the lift. It was also stated that Rocco had quarrelled with his new master and incontinently left the place. A duchess said that Rocco’s departure would mean the ruin of the hotel, whereupon her husband advised her not to talk nonsense. As for Racksole, he sent a message for the detective in charge of the Dimmock affair, and bravely told him the happenings of the previous night. The narration was a decided ordeal to a man of Racksole’s temperament. ‘A strange story!’ commented Detective Marshall, and he could not avoid a smile. ‘The climax was unfortunate, but you have certainly got some valuable facts.’ Racksole said nothing. ‘I myself have a clue,’ added the detective. ‘When your message arrived I was just coming up to see you. I want you to accompany me to a certain spot not far from here. Will you come, now, at once?’ ‘With pleasure,’ said Racksole. At that moment a page entered with a telegram. Racksole opened it read: ‘Please come instantly. Nella. Hôtel Wellington, Ostend.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I can’t come,’ he said to the detective. I’m going to Ostend.’ ‘To Ostend?’ ‘Yes, now.’ ‘But really, Mr Racksole,’ protested the detective. ‘My business is urgent.’