His first observation when at last fully awake, was characteristic of the young man-- "Where, in Heaven's name, am I?" CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE PERFUME. I dashed across to the door. It was locked. "Now tell me, what do you make of it?" Faulkner asked, when he had looked about the unfamiliar room and stared blankly out of the window. "The solution seems pretty obvious," I said. "We've been drugged, or in some way made unconscious last night in Paulton's car, and driven here. I distinctly remember trying to keep awake. You gave me that cigar I smoked. Was it one of your own?" He paused, then said-- "Now I come to think of it, Ashton, I remember noticing I had three cigars in the case I left in the pocket of my overcoat when I hung it in the cloakroom. There were only two when I pulled the case out in the car. I wondered then if the cloakroom attendant had helped himself. Paulton was the first to light up, you may remember, and he offered us cigars, whereupon I said I had some, and I gave you one of mine--one of the two. It struck me that my cigar had rather a peculiar flavour, but after a while it got all right. I believe those weeds must have been slipped into my case by Paulton and my own cigars removed. The ones we smoked last night were drugged, that I will swear." I pulled out my watch. "What time do you make it?" I asked. "My watch has stopped." He produced his own and glanced at it. "So has mine," he said. "It stopped at five minutes to four." We both sat in silence for some moments. Obviously there was nothing to be done but to wait for somebody to come. The door was locked, there was no bell in the room, and the room was on an upper floor. Over an hour must have passed, and we had endeavoured to take our bearings. From what we could see of the place from the high up window, it was a huge rambling old chateau with round turrets, and slated roofs, overlooking a large sloping park in the midst of picturesque mountains, many of which were still tipped with snow. The situation was perfect, but it was in a remote, lonely spot, without another house in sight. In the front was a long double colonnade with a terrace which commanded a fine vista down the valley. The style was that of Louis XV, as indeed was the furniture of the room, and there were several old paintings and works of art in the apartment. It was a huge grim place, which seemed to be half a prison, half a fortress--a place wherein dwelt the ghosts of a glorious long-forgotten past. There was an air of neglect and decay about its time-mellowed court-yard, some of the walls of which were half-hidden by ivy. One of the round towers indeed was roofless, while what had once been an Italian flower-bed was now but a wilderness of weeds.