'I must knock.'

'That is just what you mustn't do. Open it. No doubt you have your
pass-key.'

Confronted by the revolver, Jules readily obeyed, yet with a
deprecatory gesture, as though he would not be responsible for this
outrage against the decorum of hotel life. Racksole entered. The
room was brilliantly lighted.

'A visitor, who insists on seeing you, sir,' said Jules, and fled.

Mr Reginald Dimmock, still in evening dress, and smoking a
cigarette, rose hurriedly from a table.

'Hello, my dear Mr Racksole, this is an unexpected - ah - pleasure.'

'Where is my daughter? This is her room.'

'Did I catch what you said, Mr Racksole?'

'I venture to remark that this is Miss Racksole's room.'

'My good sir,' answered Dimmock, 'you must be mad to dream of
such a thing.

Only my respect for your daughter prevents me from expelling you
forcibly, for such an extraordinary suggestion.'

A small spot half-way down the bridge of the millionaire's nose