With a nod of thanks to the footman, Larose ran to the cloister door, rejoicing that its key had been among the things that Henrik had returned to his pocket along with the little automatic.
He passed into the Abbey and ran up the long passage to the lumber-room door. It was shut but not locked, and he was inside in two seconds.
He had no torch with him, but quickly striking a match, saw at once that the child was not there. Then, starting to thread his way among the tins and rubbish towards the boarded-up end of the room, as the match flickered and died in his fingers, he suddenly became aware of a smell, other than paint or varnish. It was faint, but distinctly ether-like in its character; it reminded him of a hospital.
“It's not chloroform or ether,” he panted. “It's more like ethyl
