"Benissimo," answered the little man, looking intently at Featherson and myself. "Please come with me."
We went into the inner office of the hotel, and were certainly most thoroughly gone through. We could not have successfully hidden a pin. Ella had been taken to another room by a woman, and came out looking even whiter than before. We all three then went for a stroll in the beautiful hotel grounds, for the weather was fine, and the moon delightfully bright and clear.
"A very unpleasant business," declared Featherson. "Ella, you're looking quite queer and ill."
"I feel faint, father," was her answer. "I think I'll go to my room."
We two men walked on a short distance, and were then joined by my American friend—Mr. James B. Rowe.
"I guess those jewels are gone for 'keeps'," he volunteered to us. "I reckon the crook who took them was too cute for most folk," he added.
"What makes you think that?" asked my companion.
"Wal," drawled the New Yorker, "by the time they've gone through all the baggage and
