He leaned over Graham, who for the first time struggled furiously but
ineffectually with his bonds. His fingers all the time were straining
towards the inside pocket of his coat. Fischer nodded understandingly.

"Allow me to anticipate you," he said.

With a quick thrust he drew a little handful of papers from the pocket
of his captive. One by one he glanced them through and flung them on to
the floor. As he came towards the end of his search, however, his
expression of confident complacency vanished. His lips shrivelled up a
little, his eyes narrowed. The last folded sheet of paper--a little
perfumed note from Peggy, thanking Sandy for his beautiful roses--he
crumpled fiercely into a little ball. He opened his lips to speak, then
he paused. A new light broke in upon him. The fury had passed from
Sandy Graham's face. In its stead there was an expression of blank
astonishment.

"Where is the formula?" Fischer asked fiercely.

There was no reply. Sandy Graham was still staring at the little pile
of papers upon the floor. Fischer made a brief examination of the other
pockets. Then he stepped back. His voice shook, his face was dark and
malevolent.

"Joseph, Hassan, Jules--listen to me!" he ordered. "Did any one else
enter the musicians' room whilst he was lying in the alcove?"

"Impossible!" Jules declared.

"The door was locked," Hassan murmured.