The thief had not entered by the windows; he had come into the room by
the door which gave to the corridor. He stood on a chair and examined
the transom sill. The dust was undisturbed. He inspected the keyhole;
sniffed; stood up, bent and sniffed again. It was an odor totally
unknown to him. He stuffed the corner of his fresh handkerchief into
the keyhole, drew it out and sniffed that. Barely perceptible. He
wrapped the corner into the heart of the handkerchief, and put it back
into his pocket. Some powerful narcotic had been forced into the room
through the keyhole. This would account for the prince's headache.
These Orientals were as bad as the Dutch; they never opened their
windows for fresh air.
Beyond this faint, mysterious odor there was nothing else. The first
step would be to ascertain whether this narcotic was occidental or
oriental.
"Nothing doing yet," he confessed to the anxious manager. "But there
ain't any cause for you t' worry. You're not responsible for jools not
left in th' office."
"That isn't the idea.
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