"Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. He continued his ditty, in spite of the angry glances of his leader. "I lost a very valuable one some time ago. I'll lay my life he's gone. His initial nervousness had already abated, and it took some valour to allow himself to become embroiled in Melusine’s crazy schemes. I was looking for rooms last week.
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