anything, won't you, Mr. Hatteras?" he cried as we were about to leave the room. "Think what my anxiety will be."
I gave my promise and then, accompanied by the inspector, left the house. Hailing a passing cab we jumped into it and told the driver to proceed as fast as he could to the hotel in question. Just as we started a clock in the neighbourhood struck twelve. Phyllis had been in Nikola's hands three hours.
Pulling up opposite the Canary Bird (the place where the footman had been drugged), I, Richard Hatteras, and the inspector jumped out and bade the cabman wait. The hotel was in complete darkness, and it was not until we had pealed the bell twice that we succeeded in producing any sign of life. Then the landlord, half dressed, and with a candle in his hand, came downstairs and called out to know who was there and what we wanted. My companion immediately said "police," and in answer to that magic word the door was unbarred.
"Good evening, Mr. Bartrell," said the inspector politely. "May we come in for a moment on business?"
"Certainly, Mr. Inspector," said the landlord, who evidently knew my companion. "But isn't this rather a late hour for a call? I hope there is nothing the matter."
"Nothing much," returned the inspector; "only we want to make a few inquiries about a man who was here to-night and for whom we are looking."
"If that is so I'm afraid I must roust out my barman. I was not in the bar this evening. If you'll excuse me I'll go and bring him down. In the meantime make yourselves comfortable."
