No. 13 Toroni: A Mystery

No. 13 Toroni

A Mystery

By JULIUS REGIS

NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1922

COPYRIGHT, 1922,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

First printing, October, 1922

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

CONTENTS

PART I.

THE MYSTERY OF ELAINE ROBERTSON

CHAPTER

1. [STEPS THAT GROW SILENT]
2. ["DO NOT LET HER ESCAPE"]
3. [THE GIRL IN GREY]
4. ["HE FRIGHTENED ME"]
5. [THE OTHER DREYEL]
6. [THE TRACK OF THE "INVISIBLE" ONE]
7. [DOCTOR AUGUSTUS N. CORMAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF]
8. [ONWARD TO THE UNKNOWN]

PART II.

THE WOODEN DOLLS

1. [ELAINE ROBERTSON'S STORY]
2. [RICARDO FERAIL]
3. [A "WELCOME" GIFT AT SEATTLE]
4. [WILLIAM ROBERTSON]
5. [FERAIL MAKES A PROPOSAL]
6. [ELAINE'S SECOND DISAPPEARANCE]
7. [HOTEL "GOLDEN SNAKE"]
8. [THE "ARIADNE"]

PART III.

HURRICANE ISLAND

1. [TORONI RE-ASSUMES HIS RIGHT NAME]
2. [THE STORY OF "KING SOLOMON"]
3. [WHERE THOMAS FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES]
4. [ELAINE TELLS THE TRUTH]
5. [TEN FATHOMS FROM THE GOAL]
6. [MADAME LORRAINE'S SURPRISE]
7. [GO SHARES ... THEN PART]
8. [AFTER THE CONFLICT]

PART I

"THE MYSTERY OF ELAINE ROBERTSON"

CHAPTER I

STEPS THAT GROW SILENT

"They are all gone ... all, that crazy Craig Russel, Sanderson, the black Colonel, all gone. All, save William Robertson, myself and you, and the mystery of King Solomon is not solved...."

Victor Dreyel left off writing and looked expectantly towards the door. As he sat there in his well-lighted studio he looked rather like an old bird of prey in a glass cage. All round him reigned unbroken silence, but in his clear, sad eyes there lurked an expression of suspense, and, if any of his fellow-lodgers in No. 30 John Street had seen him at that moment, they would have said he had cause for the strain; he had the look of one suffering from painful memories.

Victor Dreyel, a silent man of about sixty, with wrinkled face and white hair well brushed back from his forehead, his light blue eyes shaded by bushy brows, was spare and thin. Fifteen years ago, when first he had taken up his abode on the fifth floor of No. 30 John Street, in one of the oldest and least frequented quarters of Stockholm, he had been an object of much curiosity among the neighbors; he seemed so lonely, so reticent, yet well able to shift for himself, and as he refused all offers of help with cool but studied politeness, some sort of story regarding his former life had to be invented and set going. One heard that he had been mixed up with Chinese smugglers on the coast of California, another was informed that he had taken part in some Arctic expedition which had ended disastrously; the general opinion, however, was that he had led a life of adventure and had returned to Sweden from North America, where he had been implicated in some mysterious affair which had left an indelible mark upon his character.

His business in No. 30 John Street was a very prosaic one—he set up as a photographer. He was fairly capable though, occasionally, a little behind the times. A showcase outside the front door which bore witness to his skill, might have attracted a goodly number of customers, had not the Gothic brick walls of St. John's Church and a thick clump of trees cut John Street off from all ordinary traffic, so that with the years, Dreyel's studio became more and more desolate and empty. People left off associating the aged photographer, in threadbare but well-brushed garments, with any exciting adventure; and there came a time when his very existence was forgotten. For fifteen years the silent lodger went in and out of the old house like a stranger, people got accustomed to him, though the secret of his life had never been discovered.

It was, however, decreed that the interest of Victor Dreyel's neighbors should be aroused once more, and that in a way no one would have dreamed of, on the evening of the first of August, 1918....

After having again cast wistful glances at the door, Dreyel once more bent over his desk and continued to write: "Fifteen years have I been living in this somber and quiet corner; perhaps it was my time of probation all along. They say likenesses of the dead bring misfortune to the living. After all those years it was a curious gift to you and me; and whatever may happen to-night I shall not give in without a struggle...."

Suddenly he let his pen fall. The church clock struck eight and at the same moment there was a sharp ring at the door. Dreyel's face grew hard and alert; he passed through the studio and waiting-room, and opened the door into the passage; a young man in dripping rain-coat entered precipitately.

"You have been a long time, Murner," said Dreyel. "Have you brought him with you?"

"No, he is coming at nine o'clock," replied the young man, throwing his hat upon a chair, "he couldn't come earlier. I had a good deal of trouble to get at him, but I know his ways and caught him at last; he seemed very much interested."

"Really?" murmured Dreyel thoughtfully. "The question is whether he can help me now."

Murner smiled as if he had heard something funny.

"My dear Dreyel, you may rest assured that Maurice Wallion can help you. Don't you know that every one calls him the 'problem solver'? Why, man, it was he who only last summer unravelled the mystery of the 'Copper House,' and he has only lately returned to Sweden after working a whole twelve-month for the English government."

Murner spoke with all the enthusiasm of youth, and his praise would greatly have delighted the popular detective reporter of the daily paper, could he have heard it. As both men entered the studio Murner continued: "The question seems rather to be whether he will; you are so unnaturally reticent, Dreyel, but you can talk openly to him. I have known you for nearly a year now, and not one word have you ever said about yourself. What is this infernal secret you are carrying about with you? And if you persist in your obstinate silence, what is the use of asking Maurice Wallion to come here?"

"When he does I shall speak fast enough. If all you say about your friend is true, he'll see that he has not come here for nothing. Oh, yes, I'll speak out," Dreyel added slowly, "if only it is not too late!"

Murner shrugged his shoulders.

"He'll be here in an hour's time at the latest," he said, "I can't understand your anxiety; the wire you got this morning cannot possibly do you any harm."

"No, the wire can't; it's what will come after," replied Dreyel, making an effort to speak calmly.

"I haven't even seen it yet," remarked Murner.

"Forgive me," said Dreyel, absently thrusting his hands into his pockets, "here it is."

The young man eagerly seized the telegram which read as follows:—

"Victor Dreyel, John Street, 30, Stockholm.

"Toroni has got to know the secret. Watch the wooden doll. Expect me this evening between 8 and 9. E.R."

Murner was puzzled, he read it through once more but failed to grasp its meaning.

"Despatched from Gothenburg this morning," he said; "but who are E.R. and Toroni?"

At the mention of Toroni's name Dreyel set his lips and snatched the paper from Murner.

"Toroni?" he repeated after a pause, "Toroni ... he was the thirteenth."

He clenched his hands and relapsed into silence, and for a few seconds neither spoke. Rain and wind dashed against the window and a few stray, faded leaves gleamed like gold on the wet panes illumined from within. Dreyel was deadly pale, and the next moment he said in a strained voice:

"Don't ask me any more questions now, you will hear all when Maurice Wallion arrives."

He stopped, lost in thought; Murner cast an inquiring look at him. On the careworn face of the aged recluse there lay an expression of stern resolve which inspired the young man with a feeling of respect and reverence, and prevented his breaking the silence.

Furtively he looked round the large, gloomy room and shivered. The studio was about thirty feet by twenty with a sloping roof of small, dusty panes of glass in lead-setting, painted grey; a protruding bit of wall showed that the studio had been made by pulling down the partition between the two attics. A screen covered with some white and grey material, a movable kind of balustrade, a couch, a looking-glass and, above all, a huge camera under a green cloth and a small table littered with all sorts of photographic paraphernalia formed the inventory of the front part. At the farther end stood a simple writing table, a stool and a bookcase on which were exposed numerous photographs, the lower shelf being filled with books, mostly of a technical character. Two upholstered chairs flanked the book-case; on the right were two doors leading into the dark-room and Dreyel's sleeping apartment. A row of electric lamps, minus shades, cast a weird light over the vast, melancholy chamber which resembled a room in some dismal museum.

Murner's eyes scanned the photographs on the upper shelf; almost unconsciously he strove to evolve some sort of connection between that shelf and the mysterious telegram. Suddenly he started ... yes, there among the photos, in the top row, stood the wooden doll mentioned in the telegram!

He bent forward that he might see it better, but at the same moment Dreyel, who had been standing behind him, so altered his position that his shadow crept along the wall like that of an unwieldy wounded beast, stooping over the shelf as though something there needed protection. Murner was seized with a feeling of inward discomfort and muttered to himself, "What in the world have I to do with this odd old fellow's existence?"

His connection with Dreyel began in a somewhat casual way. When he (Murner) installed himself on the fourth floor of No. 30, John Street, he felt at once considerable sympathy for his taciturn fellow-lodger on the floor above. He had approached Dreyel with regard to some photographs of certain old houses in the neighborhood required for illustrating an article in one of the local papers; that had been the beginning of their acquaintance, and Dreyel appeared to have taken a genuine liking to the young fellow, who was rather inclined to discuss his future plans with an older, much-travelled and experienced man.

The curious rumors afloat respecting Dreyel's past had, of course, reached Murner also, but he had made no attempt to pry into secrets, the existence of which his own common-sense led him to consider doubtful.

But one day early in June, Dreyel, in Murner's presence, received a parcel by post from America. This parcel was to lead to important results. Murner, in his surprise, had exclaimed, "Oh, I say, it seems your friends in the States haven't forgotten you!"

His astonishment had been even greater when Dreyel opened the parcel. It contained only a little wooden image about eight inches high, representing a man in a workman's sweater, broad-brimmed hat and jack-boots, the whole being carved in dark, polished wood. It was a doll or rather a statuette skilfully executed. The features were broad and hard and bore a peculiarly life-like impress of defiance and brute force. Dreyel's face had assumed an ashen hue, but he allowed Murner to examine the curious little figure without a word. When, however, the latter ventured to put a few searching questions, Dreyel curtly replied:

"We shall see, this is only the beginning," and would say no more on the subject.

It was this identical wooden object Murner had discovered on the shelf in the studio, and this evening it inspired him with unaccountable aversion. In its brown face, hardly bigger than a man's thumb-nail, there seemed to lurk a fixed, diabolical grin, giving it the appearance of some loathsome fetish.

"Watch the wooden doll," repeated Murner. "It is nonsensical; first a wooden doll, and then that telegram.... The vile thing! Take it away, I can't bear it."

"Don't you touch it," said Dreyel sharply.

Murner had already put out his hands for it but drew back, surprised at the tone of Dreyel's voice. They stood face to face.

"What do you mean?" asked Murner, "Are you afraid of it?"

"No," replied Dreyel, "but no one must lay a finger upon it ... not yet."

He took up a position between the shelf and Murner. When he saw the expression of Murner's face, he indulged in a cynical smile. "You are so impatient," he said, "I can't tell you any more just now, but perhaps the visitor I am expecting will...." He stopped abruptly. "Go down to your diggings, Murner, and leave me to myself; when your detective friend does come, he will find a tangle, even in his opinion, worth unraveling."

Murner was about to answer, but Dreyel's determined attitude prevented him, and he turned obediently towards the door. Then he looked round once more and said:

"Wouldn't it be better if I stayed with you?"

"No," replied Dreyel, "it will be better that you should receive Maurice Wallion downstairs."

He shook the young man's hand and said good-bye. Then he almost pushed him into the passage and closed the door.

It was nearly half-past eight when Murner reached his own quarters, below those occupied by Dreyel. He hung up his wet coat and went into his workroom or study. He felt ill at ease as if he had been drawn into a strange, antagonistic circle against his will. Dreyel's curious behavior both irritated and worried him. What was it that had really happened? He could not prevent his thoughts from dwelling on the telegram which, undoubtedly, had some connection with the wooden doll. Who could "E.R." be, whom Dreyel was so anxious to receive alone that evening? Who was "Toroni," and what secret had he got to know?

Impatiently Murner threw himself into an armchair in order to clear his confused brain.

The wooden figure had arrived from America early in June, and to-day, August the first, that wire from Gothenburg. The old man had been pacing to and fro in the studio overhead all the morning. Then came his unexpected visit about two P.M., when he was pale, but calm. "Will you render me a service, Murner?" he said, "I can't quite explain, but I have had a wire which has put me into a damned hole. You know Maurice Wallion well, don't you?"

Murner nodded, much surprised.

"Well, I want his help," continued Dreyel, "it means more to me than I can say; for God's sake make Maurice Wallion come at once."

Struck by the painful earnestness of Dreyel's words, Murner promised to find the ever busy and unget-at-able "Journalist Detective" whom he knew well. After a search lasting several hours, Wallion was discovered at last and listened with keen interest to what Murner had to tell him, but he said only:

"Remember me to your friend and tell him I will call at nine o'clock."

Murner had almost expected a refusal. Could it be possible that Maurice Wallion, with only such slight data to go upon, had already come to some conclusion regarding this wretched affair? And why did Dreyel seek his help now? Naturally he had often talked about Maurice Wallion with Dreyel, but if any serious danger threatened Dreyel, would it not have seemed more practical to communicate with the police? Murner's sensible mind was, for the time being, rather irritated by Dreyel's mysterious ways. Taking a good whiff at his cigar he said to himself: "All this is quite childish; his recluse life has affected his brain."

He laid down his cigar and listened intently for footsteps overhead, but all was quiet. What might Dreyel be doing now? The whole house was so still and silent, it might have been tenantless and empty; only the rain beat against the windows. He tried once more to collect his thoughts and calmly recall what Dreyel had said and his own words, but he had to give up the attempt. The bare remembrance of the wooden doll and the telegram was revolting; the whole thing was so foolish....

Suddenly he heard sounds above; some one was walking across the studio; he recognized Dreyel's steps, but immediately after he heard some one go up who seemed to move much more quickly; judging from the sound the steps proceeded from the waiting-room as Dreyel's had done. Murner was startled. So there was a visitor up there? It must have been true then, and the telegram had not been an ill-timed joke; and Dreyel's words had not been the outcome of a diseased brain. Surely the stranger must be the redoubtable "E.R." The steps halted for a few seconds, then turned towards the studio and when they ceased altogether Murner fancied he heard a dull thud, as of a heavy trunk or sack being deposited on the floor. His curiosity waxed stronger; he waited impatiently, but nothing more was to be heard. He tried to picture the situation. Most likely Dreyel and the mysterious visitor had drawn their chairs up to the writing-table and were having a long, subdued conversation; about what? The wooden doll?

Murner thrust his hands into his pockets and paced up and down the room, feeling much perturbed. He looked at the clock; it was twenty minutes to nine; twenty more long, tedious minutes must elapse before Maurice Wallion would come. Wouldn't it be better for him to go upstairs at once? Why such profound silence up there? No footsteps ... no anything ... He felt his heart beat; a wave of icy cold seemed to emanate from the stillness above. All at once he realized that possibly he was the only friend Dreyel had, the only one to whom the old man could as a last resource turn with his prayer for help!

He hurried to the door; as he was about to open it a shrill scream broke the silence of the house, and a door banged a long way off.

CHAPTER II

"DO NOT LET HER ESCAPE"

Thomas Murner tore open the door and rushed into the passage. Had he for a moment dreamed that this proceeding would land him in an adventure destined to influence all his life and send him to the other end of the world, he might have thought twice before dashing out in such a hurry; but Fate had already cast the die. From that moment or rather from a quarter to nine on August the first, 1918, Thomas Murner became the hero of many a wild and curious episode.

At this point it may be as well to give a sketch of this young man's person, character, and position in life.

Thomas Murner, at twenty-eight years of age, was in many ways as lonely as Victor Dreyel; both his parents were dead and other family ties were little more than a myth to him, but he differed from Dreyel in that he was a cheerful, sociable and energetic young man, with the normal aspirations and keen intelligence of youth, instead of a soured recluse. In possession of a fair competence inherited from his father, ambitious, and cherishing great plans as a fully qualified architect, the future loomed brightly before him. After a short and laborious apprenticeship in an architect's office, he was now cast upon his own resources; his position at this time might have been much better if he had not devoted so much work and time to a "bright idea"; for "bright ideas" emanating from the brains of aspiring young men do not always meet with due appreciation.

Murner's "bright idea" had been the erection of a "Terrace House," but what sort of an edifice this was meant to be no one had had the patience or curiosity to inquire.

In person he was of medium height, thin, agile, with an impulsive manner, dark hair, blue eyes and an engaging expression of youthful self-reliance played round his mouth. Every one liked him, and liked him too well to take his "bright ideas" seriously, which amused more than it vexed him. Though skeptical he was ever hopeful, and was prepared to spend a few more years in attaining the realization of his dream, which took the form of a luxurious and prosperous office whence the "fashionable, famous architect" would issue orders and plans for the building of innumerable "Terrace Houses," but, as has been already observed, no one can foretell the future.

The first thing Murner heard when he stepped out of the half-dark roomy passage was the sound of some one coming out on the upper landing and shouting down the stairs: "Don't let her escape!" He recognized the croaking voice of the porter's wife, and cried: "What on earth is up?"

"Is that Mr. Murner? For God's sake come up here, something awful has happened ... but don't let that little monster escape."

The voice could be heard all over the house and, finally ended in an hysterical scream; every door was opened and people were heard coming up from the lower rooms. In two strides Murner was at the top of the stairs where he found the porter's wife, white with fear and shaking from head to foot, standing at the studio door.

"Quick, tell me what has occurred and who it is that must not be allowed to escape?"

"The girl in the grey dress," stammered the woman, "she came out of here."

"Out of the studio? Well, and what then?"

"She murdered Mr. Dreyel."

For a second Tom stood as if paralyzed, but the next moment he dashed through the waiting-room into the studio. On the floor right in front of the bookshelf lay Dreyel, face downward, his shoulders convulsively drawn up, his head and the upper part of the body turned on one side and both arms stretched out. Murner sank on his knees and put out his hands to turn the dead man over, but quickly drew back. Victor Dreyel was past human aid; a knife had penetrated through his clothes between the shoulder blades; his coat had been considerably crumpled by the fall.

The porter's wife suddenly burst into loud and uncontrollable weeping, but the young man strove to keep cool. From the woman's disconnected account he gathered that she was on her usual round, locking the doors, and extinguishing the lights; finding the studio door ajar she had gone in; struck by the unusual quiet she had proceeded to the other end, and, to her indescribable horror had found Dreyel lying dead on the floor.

"Well now, about the girl?" asked Murner impatiently, "the girl in grey?"

"She stood hidden behind that screen there, and when I screamed and was about to run away, she ran out of the door just in front of me and slammed it after her."

"What was she like?"

"I could only see that she was in grey; she fled past me like a cat and when I got to the door she was gone. I understood then that she must have killed him."

Murner interrupted her. "Telephone at once to the police," he said, "I shall remain here."

As she obediently went to the door he called after her, "You wait below for the police and make them send for a doctor."

Left alone he gazed for a few minutes at the still and lifeless object before him with dry and smarting eyes, for the tragedy unnerved him; it was so difficult to think that poor shrunken form in his threadbare clothes was a dead man; he knew that the dull thud he had heard while in his workroom, must have been caused by Dreyel's fall, and the light footsteps must have been those of the girl. Dreyel had never mentioned any girl to him....

He endeavored to collect his thoughts, and as he pondered on what Dreyel had or had not said, cursed the indifference with which he had listened to words, some of which, no doubt, had been of serious import. If only he had remained up there with him; it seemed almost as if he had betrayed the old recluse to his enemies.

Mechanically he went up to the writing-table where his attention was attracted by a white paper half concealed under the blotter; it was probably a half-finished letter. He began to read it, but the words failed to convey any meaning to his brain, and he caught himself staring again at the motionless body, when a sudden noise made him start violently. Had the police come already?

Unconsciously he stuffed the letter into his pocket and strained his ears to listen. Steps were audible in the waiting-room; yes, it was the police. Murner gave vent to a sigh of intense relief. Three detectives entered hastily, followed by the porter's wife. The chief detective was a pleasant, thick set individual, with a small, grizzled mustache; he looked round and, stopping short at sight of the corpse, said in a commanding tone, "Yes, things do look pretty bad up here. Has any one touched him?"

The porter's wife denied having done so, and he advanced a step nearer to the body. He cast a quick, penetrating look at Murner and said sternly, "Mr. Murner, I presume?" The young man bowed slightly. "I am Superintendent Aspeland. If I have been rightly informed you also live in this house and were intimately acquainted with the murdered man. Is that so?"

"I was acquainted with him, but not intimately."

"You were not present at the murder?"

"Certainly not," replied Murner, and he would have said more had not the superintendent prevented him.

"A young girl, dark, slender, very pale and dressed in grey is said to have run out of the house ... Did you see her? No? Do you know who she is?"

"No, I never heard of her before this evening," said Murner, wondering whether in this connection he ought to mention the telegram or his having heard strange footsteps. As though answering his unspoken thoughts the superintendent continued:

"I shall presently have a few more questions to put to you, Mr. Murner; perhaps you will be good enough to retire to your own quarters meanwhile. After what this woman has said it seems the girl never left the house at all."

"I can swear to that," broke in the porter's wife, "When she ran out of the studio, there were at least five or six people about or on the stairs, but not one of them saw her. She must have hidden somewhere, though I can't make out..."

"So much the worse for her if she is here," said the superintendent gruffly, "I have two men stationed in the yard and two more in the road; now I am just going to have a look round till the doctor comes."

He took out a pocket-book and pencil, beckoned to one of the other detectives, and bent down over the body. Murner profited by the occasion and left the landing, grateful for the relief; he longed for undisturbed solitude in which to think over recent events. Outside he encountered a dozen inquisitive tenants, mostly women, and beat a precipitate retreat from their alarmed inquiries. He found his door shut but not locked, though he remembered leaving it ajar in his hurry to go up to the studio, and supposed that some passer-by had closed it. He went in, locked the door and switched on the light. Catching sight of himself in the glass, he noticed that he was deadly pale, and seeing his own drawn, distorted features, he was seized with the most unreasonable fury against the inhuman wretch who had murdered Dreyel. "It is horrible," he said, to himself, "there is no possible excuse for such an act of brutality."

He took a draught of water and opened the door leading to his study, but remained on the threshold petrified ... some one was sitting in his armchair by the table!

It was the tall, slight figure of a girl in a simple grey costume and black silk hat! The large, half open brown eyes were set in a colorless, thin face; her lips quivered and her hands were tightly clasped over a leather satchel on her knee.

Their eyes met.

CHAPTER III

THE GIRL IN GREY

Tom Murner closed the inner door mechanically from force of habit and leant against it. He began to wonder if he were dreaming. The girl sat still, immovable, but followed every movement of his with her eyes.

All of a sudden she said something but in so low a tone that he could not hear her words.

"What was it you said?" he asked hoarsely.

She continued staring at him with the same unnatural look in her eyes; but presently the bag slipped from her knees and he noticed that her hands were twitching convulsively. He was beside himself at the awkwardness of the situation and angrily inquired:

"How did you get here? Who are you?"

She rose from, her chair and said in a listless tone: "I had to hide, I want to get out of here."

She bent down to pick up her bag and burst into tears, then leaving the satchel on the floor, she made wildly for the door, but as Tom did not move she stopped short in front of him with bowed head, her whole form shaking.

"Let me go," she said. "Oh, God, let me get away from here!"

"The house is full of police," he answered deliberately. "They declare that Victor Dreyel met with his death at the hands of a girl in grey."

She staggered as though she had been struck. She moaned pitifully, lifted her hands to her throat and fixed her eyes upon his face as if dazed. The silent appeal in her feverishly burning eyes made him regret his harshness.

"It is not true," she said, closed her eyes and fell back in a dead faint. He caught her in his arms and carried her to the easy chair; her white blouse showed through the open grey coat. A wave of compassion surged through his brain as he saw how frail and helpless she was; small, pearly teeth gleamed between her half-open lips. She breathed faintly and her deathly pallor accentuated the thinness of her face; her expression was one of childhood innocence. For a moment he touched her hand, which was soft and warm. Could it be that these small hands were stained with the lifeblood of Victor Dreyel? He shuddered at the bare thought and yet how could the situation be explained? Here he was in his own room alone with a girl ... an entire stranger to him ... wanted by the police ... in a dead faint. He was at his wits' end.

"This can't go on," he reflected. "What on earth am I to do?"

She had not entirely lost consciousness, and he saw that her dark eyes were fixed upon his with a puzzled expression. Presently in a broken voice she said:

"I was hiding behind your door when you opened it; I heard people about and ran in here."

"You ran in here? And what for, may I ask?" he queried in despair.

"I did not want to fall into the hands of the police...."

"Then you must have some reason for being afraid of them?"

She looked down without answering; after a few seconds she glanced up again and asked, "Is there any one about who could hear me?"

The unexpected question startled him; he was about to reply in the negative, but his suspicious were roused, and he made a hasty examination of his rooms.

His quarters comprised three rooms—his study littered with sketches, plans and models; his living—or as he preferred to call it his smoke-room, with comfortable leather chairs; and his bedroom. At first he had intended to make his household a model one, but his various housekeepers having proved failures he had turned his domestic offices into lumber rooms. Returning from his investigation he said:

"There is no one about, and now, I trust, you will explain how you came to be found in the studio?"

"And supposing I can't?" she whispered.

"In that case I am afraid the police will make you!"

At that moment there was a violent ring at the outer door and Tom caught the buzz of voices. The ringing was renewed from time to time, accompanied by loud knocking; and he went towards the hall—as in a dream.

The girl jumped up without a word and threw her arms round him in order to hold him back. Her tears broke out afresh, and her flaming eyes made her look like a little fury; but he pushed her away and said in a decisive tone:

"Look here, this won't do, I must open the door."

"No, no," she whimpered, "you must help me.... I can swear ... Oh, do help me!" She covered her face with her hands and he heard her murmur: "There is no one in the world who will help me."

He did not release his hold of her and the small figure seemed to dwindle in his grasp: without knowing how it happened he found her head resting on his shoulder.

"Well, well, try to be calm," he said austerely "I never said I should hand you over to the police, did I?"

"No, you did not," she replied gravely "you did not."

She sighed and dried her tears.

"Go into the next room and keep quiet," he said hurriedly.

The girl hesitated, but another furious ring scared her and the next minute she had disappeared. Tom stuffed her satchel under some papers, looked round once more and found a grey glove on the chair which he bundled into his pocket and went to open the door. Superintendent Aspeland walked in.

"So this is where you live," he grunted, looking about him. "Yes, you seem to have all you want here. Have you heard anything of the woman since you came down from the studio? Have you seen her? What about that window there, does that look into the street?"

Tom drew a long breath.

"Are you referring to the girl in grey, Inspector?"

"Yes, of course."

"I know nothing more about her," said the young man in a loud voice; "but that window over there does look into the street," he added.

"Hm!" said the superintendent, who had already thrown open the window, and was looking up and down the road. He closed it rather noisily.

"I see," he mumbled, tugging at his mustache, "and what about that door over there?"

"Goes into the next room," Tom said, inwardly quaking. "It is..."

"Oh," remarked Aspeland carelessly, taking out pocket-book and pencil. "Oh, I say, I just picked up a telegram here."

He made Tom tell him what he knew about the telegram from Gothenburg, then he said rather crossly, "It seems to me as if no one here were capable of giving any explanation of this tiresome business! Oh, well, I haven't done with it yet; we shall see."

He stood still for a while without appearing to be looking at anything in particular, then he slowly walked out, shutting the door after him. Tom began to feel dizzy and to wonder what he really had been doing; had he really in cold blood been trying to bamboozle a police superintendent?

The door of the next room was gently opened and the girl came out. They looked at one another in silence. Tom essayed to speak, but his voice failed him. In his mind's eye he still beheld the lifeless body, and his wrath and indignation against the murderer broke out afresh.

"Anyhow, you were there," he said, hardness and suspicion in his tone.

The girl hung her head.

"Then you don't believe me?" she said in a low voice. "I ... I can't explain. It is so hard ... I am so awfully lonely."

Tom went a step nearer to her.

"If only you..." he began eagerly, then stopped abruptly. What had he been going to say? What did he know?

"Won't you tell me who you are?" he continued more gently. She shivered.

"No, I had better go; thanks for what you have done, and ... goodbye."

She put out her hand without raising her eyes, and let the small, soft fingers rest for a moment in his own. She withdrew them with a nervous exclamation. There was again a ring at the door as the church clock struck nine, and without uttering a word the girl ran back into the smoking room. "She trusts me," he thought, and he felt oddly touched, but quickly pulled himself together.

He went out into the hall, fully determined to tell the inspector everything. Was it not his duty? But when he opened the door he was completely taken aback; for without any ado, a tall, well set-up man in a mackintosh crossed the threshold, hung his hat on a peg and unbuttoned his coat.

"Good evening," he said in a deep, mellow voice, "this house seems more lively than I was led to believe. Where is your mysterious friend Dreyel?"

Tom stood as if turned to stone.

"Maurice Wallion, by Jove!" he said panting, "I had quite forgotten you were coming."

The journalist looked at him as he wiped the rain drops from his face. Tom felt like a guilty schoolboy before those calm grey eyes, and went hot all over. A sudden smile passed over the detective's usually grave and impassive features.

"I begin to suspect," he said, "that you ought to have called me in sooner. You promised me an interesting evening and the first persons I run into are two men from the police. What has happened? Has Victor Dreyel got himself into a mess?"

"He was murdered half-an-hour ago." said Tom.

Maurice Wallion bit his lip and cast a peculiarly keen look at the young man; then he slowly took his way to the study, looked round and said: "Too late, I see. Where and how did it happen?"

Tom, in an incoherent manner, told him. He mentioned his conversation with Dreyel at eight o'clock, the wooden doll, the telegram and the mysterious footsteps, finishing up with the suspicions of the police in regard to a certain young girl in grey.

But he went no further. Now, having recapitulated all the details in order, he himself for the first time got a clear insight as to how matters stood. A cold sweat came over him.

Up there, in the studio ... a dead man; down here in the very next room an unknown girl, possibly an adventuress, most likely Dreyel's murderess, in spite of her assertions to the contrary ... concealed in his own abode!

"I do believe you are turning pale," observed Wallion, who had been narrowly studying his friend's face; "got anything more to tell me?"

Tom hesitated.

"Wallion," he said at last, "do you believe the poor girl did it?"

"Who? Your girl in grey, the stranger? How should I know? Funnier things than that have happened."

Wallion looked annoyed and absent. He listened attentively to occasional footsteps overhead; without asking, he knew they came from Dreyel's studio.

"They have got something to think about now," he muttered with an odd flash in his eye. "I say, Murner, the story Dreyel might have told would have been worth hearing. Is that Aspeland walking about up there?"

"I think it must be," answered Tom feebly. He was in doubt as to what Wallion intended to do, and dared not ask; he kept thinking of the girl in hiding not ten feet away—thinking it might be better to let Wallion know that she was there. In his confusion he fancied that Wallion knew everything already, and was only making fun of him; he became desperate. He had the confession on the tip of his tongue. Better make a clean breast of it at once, he thought—and was just going to open his mouth when the journalist said: "If the wooden doll has disappeared, then the matter will be cleared up."

Tom drew a deep breath.

"What ... what do you mean?"

"Let us go up to the studio," was Wallion's answer: "if I judge the situation aright this is the most curious mystery I have ever had to deal with."

"You have had to deal with?"

"Yes, and I intend to get to the bottom of it too; I feel I owe it to poor old Dreyel."

He went out quickly. Tom followed, taking good care to shut the door tight this time. They went upstairs and into the studio.

Aspeland, two detectives and a well-dressed gentleman with a grey beard stood silent and transfixed in the middle of the room. All the lamps were lighted, and the Superintendent was busy making notes in his book.

"What do you want here?" he called out without turning round.

"Good evening, Aspeland," said Wallion, "how are you?"

Aspeland turned quickly.

"'The Problem Solver,' as sure as I am alive," he said awkwardly, "however did you get here? Are you a conjurer? Has the news of this tragedy already reached the town?"

"No, not the town, but it has reached me; it is something in my line of business you see. Have you got him fast?"

"Him? Who?"

"Why, the murderer, of course."

"Well it isn't a HE, it's a SHE," Aspeland answered, "and she is here in this house, and we are going to be after her."

"How do you know she is here in this house?"

"Because she was seen running out of the studio after the crime, also because nobody saw her go down the stairs, though heaps of people were about. I tell you she is in hiding somewhere not far off, and if I have to send fifty men after her I mean to catch her."

Wallion gazed thoughtfully at Tom.

"Oh, very well," was all he said. He thrust his hands into his pockets and took a good, long look round the studio. The body had been removed, but a dark red spot, scarcely dry, showed on the grey linoleum in front of the bookcase; it was but a small stain which could easily have been covered with an inverted teacup, but it was of supreme importance, and all eyes were automatically turned upon it, as Wallion bent over it. For several seconds there was no sound save the patter of the rain on the glass roof, and then Wallion inquired as to the whereabouts of the body.

"It has been taken into the bedroom," answered Aspeland. "The doctor says death must have been instantaneous, the man having been stabbed in the back," he pointed to the silent gentleman with the grey beard by way of introduction, and said, "Doctor Baum."

Having bowed to each other, the doctor laconically remarked, "A most cold-blooded murder—the work of an expert. Between the shoulder-blades—straight through the heart—internal hemorrhage, death practically instantaneous."

"Does the wound give any clue to the instrument used?"

"Yes, it must have been a sharp, long and narrow blade, possibly a daggerlike weapon, used with unerring precision."

Aspeland interrupted the doctor impatiently.

"Would you like to view the corpse?" he inquired of Wallion. "I am not against hearing your opinion," he added, somewhat clumsily, and called to one of the detectives: "Tell the porter's wife to come up again."

Then the superintendent, Wallion and the doctor proceeded to Dreyel's small, untidy bedroom. Tom followed in their wake, but he could not bring himself to go near the iron bedstead from which the doctor lifted the sheet.

"Let me look at his hands," said Wallion with decision, "and then help me to turn him over."

"The wound has closed, as you see," said the doctor, as if he were giving a lecture on anatomy, "an uncommonly well-directed blow—not a bone touched—the inquest will show..."

Tom shuddered and went back into the studio, the other three soon followed, and the doctor took up his hat.

"We shall meet again to-morrow," he said to Aspeland. "Good evening, gentlemen."

Wallion's face assumed a new expression; he seemed to have been deeply impressed at sight of the dead man, and Tom inquired anxiously, "Found out anything?"

The journalist looked at him for a moment,

"Tom," he exclaimed suddenly, "I wonder whether any man has ever been murdered from a more incomprehensible motive than your poor friend. Whoever it was who did the deed he is the vilest monster I ever came across, unfit to be called a human being. Yes," he added abjectly, "Dreyel, in his extreme need, begged for my help—I know why now—and the help came too late..." The muscles of his face were working. "But whoever it was that killed Victor Dreyel, he shall not escape."

Before Tom's eyes there rose a vision of a girl hidden in the dark room and, quaking with fear and apprehension, he listened to the steps of the pursuers. At last he asked: "What are you going to do?"

"I am going to unravel the mystery, of course," replied Wallion, rather irritably.

He went up to the portrait shelf and said, "It seems absurd, and yet it is true, Tom, this is the place where the wooden doll stood, isn't it?"

The young man shivered. Wallion was pointing to the upper shelf and to his dismay, Tom perceived that the little wooden figure was indeed no longer there; but Wallion gave him no time to speak. Turning to the superintendent, he suddenly remarked:

"Well, Aspeland, and what is supposed to have been the motive?"

The officer who was just then deep in conversation with the porter's wife, replied with some irritation:

"The motive, sir? That will be a question to be answered later on. Once we've got hold of the perpetrator the motive will reveal itself fast enough."

Wallion smiled at Aspeland's display of temper. He knew that clever, conscientious official of old and could make a shrewd guess at what had put him out. It would have been an immense gratification to the old veteran to have laid hands on a reckless criminal, but to run down a poor girl who might have been driven to commit the crime, and was now probably hiding like some hunted animal, was not at all to his taste. Wallion cast an interrogative glance at Tom and said:

"Isn't it rather a waste of time to wait here any longer?"

"What do you mean?" said the inspector in a grumbling tone.

"Would it not be more to the point to search for the short, slim individual who climbed on to the roof through that window there?"

Nothing in Wallion's tone gave the slightest indication that he attached any importance to his question, but all eyes turned to him and the official became uncomfortably red.

"Eh! What? Window ... I ... what window?"

"That one over there," said Wallion pointing to the one furthest from the door.

"Oh, that one," said Aspeland drily, hurrying towards it. "I saw that, you need not teach me observation; Dreyel may have closed it himself."

Wallion called his attention to a chair which stood under said window, and had on its seat the mark of a wet shoe.

"If you measure that mark you 'll find that it was made by a shoe two or three sizes shorter than Dreyel's. Besides the window can only have been opened a few minutes or there would be some drops of rain about here, and it is not—as you say—closed. It has only dropped—as can be seen by the unturned bolt. You will notice also that the intruder, probably to facilitate getting on to the roof, stood on the fore part of his feet or toes, as the impression on the seat shows."

Aspeland stroked his chin.

"Well, well," he said deprecatingly. "But about the girl, the murderess? Apparently she had an accomplice..."

Wallion's manner and speech had so far been those of a calm, critical observer; now, he was roused, and in an authoritative voice, he said, "Aspeland, it was not a girl who dealt that blow. Dismiss all thought of her from your mind for the present; you don't believe me, but I say it again, some man has escaped through that window on to the roof. I maintain that it was he who murdered Dreyel. Moreover here is his card!"

Wallion went back to the shelf and pointed to its surface where the dust lay thick, except for a small space of perhaps three inches, indicating that some object which had lain there for a long time had recently been removed.

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed the porter's wife who had just come up, wringing her hands, "the wooden image has gone."

"Yes, it has," answered Wallion, "but Mr. Murner can bear witness that it was there at 8:30 this evening; the marks in the dust are irrefutable.... They were made by a coat sleeve with two buttons, therefore, undoubtedly, that of a man. At a guess one would say the shelf must be about three and a half feet in height, and the marks in the dust lead to the conclusion that the man must have been short of stature and slight, otherwise he could not have wriggled through that small aperture in the corner."

"If it happens to have been that one," growled Aspeland.

"Of course, but why shouldn't it have been that one? There were no marks of dust on Dreyel's sleeve, so it wasn't he who removed the wooden doll, and there was no one else here."

"No, but the wooden figure—what was the story about it?" broke in Aspeland. "A wooden image?" he added fixing his eyes on Tom. "That must have been a most wonderful thing, what do you know about it?"

"Nothing more than that Dreyel received the figure from America early in July," said Tom, describing the packet as well as he could. "That's all, but it must certainly have been the object alluded to in the telegram."

"Telegram, telegram," muttered the superintendent, looking round distractedly. "So there is a wooden doll and a man who..." his bloodshot eyes turned to the window in the corner. "Johnson," he cried, "go out and whistle for one or two men to help you, and then go and examine the roof minutely." Addressing the porter's wife he said:

"Did you happen to see a short, agile man anywhere about the house this evening?"

She shook her head. Aspeland sniffed.

"Come along with me," he said roughly, "we'll ask some of the other tenants; some one must have noticed him, seeing he was made of flesh and blood," and, giving Wallion an angry look, he went out.

The other detectives remained to keep watch on the window. Murner and Wallion lighted a cigarette and went out arm-in-arm, "Let's go down to your digs," said Wallion.

CHAPTER IV

"HE FRIGHTENED ME"

Tom stopped aghast at his door with the key in his hand. It was again half-open.

"That's odd," he murmured, "it begins to be quite uncanny; I could have taken my oath that this time I shut the door and locked it, too."

Wallion pricked up his ears. "This time?" he said.

"Yes, when the porter's wife gave the alarm I forgot it and left it open, but now? It certainly is very odd."

Wallion became much interested; secretly he measured the distance between the door and the stairs leading to the studio; but he made no remark, and turning the handle of the hall door walked in.

Tom who had changed color, laid a detaining hand on his arm.

"Maurice," he panted, "just a minute, I've got something to tell you."

Wallion turned his head and fixed his penetrating grey eyes on Tom.

"Look here, Tom," he said calmly, "a little while ago you asked me whether I thought the girl in gray was guilty? You then heard me insist that it was a man who had killed Dreyel. Do you take me?"

The young man was dumbfounded. Wallion smiled, opened the door and went in; all was dark.

"Didn't you leave the light on?" Wallion asked, standing still.

Tom, completely unnerved, trembled.

"Certainly I did," he stammered, "Maurice ... there is..."

"Stop," whispered Wallion, "there is some one crouching behind the inner door."

He fumbled for the electric button and found it after a time; the flash revealed a figure, huddled up against the wall of the study door. It was the girl in gray ... she might have been asleep, her head sunk upon her breast and her arms clasped round her knees. Wallion closed the outer door and bent over the motionless figure.

Tom endeavored to raise her head, but it drooped helplessly to one side.

"She has fainted," said Wallion, "we must take her somewhere, ... but where?"

"Lay her on the couch in the smoke-room," suggested Tom.

They lifted her carefully and laid her on the couch. As Tom was gently slipping a cushion under her head, she opened her eyes. "He did frighten me so," she said in a feeble voice.

"Who frightened you?" asked Tom.

"In the hall," continued the girl, more feebly still. "I was afraid of being alone ... and I crept out ... then he came down the stairs behind me ... and ... he frightened me so."

"Who was it? What was he like?"

She made no answer. Wallion bent down and saw that her eyes were again closed. He took Tom by the arm and made him look at her left wrist. A slender thread of blood had come from under the sleeve of her coat, and drops were falling on the couch.

"He not only frightened her, the beast, he must have hurt her too! Lend me a hand and let us help her off with her jacket."

They tenderly raised the unconscious form and divested her of her outer garment. The left sleeve of her blouse was saturated with blood; Wallion rolled it up gently and said:

"A nasty wound, but not necessarily dangerous; she probably put up her arm to save herself. Go and get some water."

With a practised hand Wallion bandaged the girl's arm whilst Tom stood by on tenter-hooks. Having finished his work, Wallion gravely scanned the face of his patient, who was breathing calmly and regularly; then he drew Tom into the study.

"Now, be quick and tell me the meaning of this," he said.

Tom unburdened his oppressed conscience in a stream of words; the girl had concealed herself in his rooms for fear of being taken by the police, but she herself had protested she was innocent.

"In Heaven's name, what shall we do with her, Maurice?"

Wallion listened attentively and then said:

"Yes, my good friend, the situation is undoubtedly embarrassing; our little unknown guest must choose between two things. Either she must put herself into the hands of the police or she must pass the night in your bachelor apartments. Present day conventions most certainly demand that..."

"Conventions be hanged!" burst out Tom in despair; "We can't leave the poor thing to her fate like this."

"She requires care," said Wallion. "She can't be moved without attracting attention, but there is a certain law which refers to 'accessories' to a crime."

Tom paced wildly up and down and did not notice the gleam of quiet humor in the journalist's eyes.

"This must be a punishment for my sins—a nice predicament to be in, by Jove—what on earth am I to do?"

Wallion pushed him into his armchair.

"Try to be quiet," he said, "and listen to what I have to propose. The girl did not kill Dreyel; on the contrary, the real murderer made an attempt to kill her too. We can't tell what business she had in the studio, she might have come only to warn Dreyel; anyhow, she certainly had. nothing to do with the murderer, and it might be ... mark you ... I only say it might be that if we hand her over to the police her last plight would be worse than the first. She had better make her confession to us, then we shall know where we are."

Tom raised his eyes. "Then you think...?"

"The girl must remain here, there's nothing else to be done."

"Yes, but ... that ... that..."

"Is a clear case for Mrs. Toby," swiftly interrupted Wallion, as he reached out his hand for the telephone receiver.

"And who the deuce is Mrs. Toby?"

"Mrs. Toby happens to be my housekeeper, she is a regular good old soul and can adapt herself ... turn her hand to anything."

Tom heard him call for his own number, and after a while, the response came: "Hallo! It is Wallion ... No ... Want your help immediately. Take a taxi to 30, John Street, and come up to the fourth floor, the name on the door is Thomas Murner.... Yes ... now—at once ... No, some one has been taken ill ... Yes ... Thanks ... Good-bye."

He restored the receiver to its place and smiled.

"She is used to obeying queer orders," he said. "You wait here, whilst I just go out and see what the police are doing."

With that he disappeared. Somewhat easier in mind, Tom sat quiet for a while; he still had a feeling of moving in a weird, incomprehensible dream; and wondered how it was going to end? He rose and he peered through the door of the smoke-room, the girl still lay where they had put her. Her thin face was very white but peaceful; she had the look of a sleeping child, tired after play. Where had she sprung from? Who might she be?

He continued walking up and down in his study, when a noise in the street below disturbed his meditations. He threw open the window and looked out. The shifting clouds and the rain had turned this August night into a very autumnal one, but the lamps of two motors cast a glaring light across the pavement, and he saw two men coming out of the house bearing a coffin, which they deposited in the larger of the two motors; he understood that they were taking Dreyel's body away.

Soon afterwards Superintendent Aspeland came out, accompanied by Maurice Wallion; they exchanged a few parting words and shook hands; Aspeland got into the other motor. When the party had gone Wallion returned indoors.

A few minutes later he entered the study, flung himself down on a chair and said in a tone of considerable annoyance: "Aspeland ought to have had more men with him."

"Why?"

"Dreyel's murderer has got away!"

"You don't say so? How did that happen?"

"The detectives found clear proof that a man had got through the window on to the roof, precisely as I said, but he was no longer there. It so happens that at the back there are two unoccupied attics; he broke a pane of glass in one of them and by that means landed in a passage on the fifth floor. He must have slipped out at the very moment the girl went to your door; perhaps he recognized her—who can tell? Anyhow he attacked and stabbed her. By the last flight of stairs he came upon the police, so without more ado, he rang the first bell he saw. When the door was opened he pushed the servant aside, ran through one of the rooms, opened a window looking into the street and jumped out—that's all. When the men started in pursuit he had disappeared in the darkness. Aspeland, meanwhile, saw I had been right and at once despatched men in all directions to catch the criminal, who really was—as I surmised—very short, spare and agile; he had on a green mackintosh and a felt bowler, but no one saw his face, and the 'mack' was subsequently found on a seat in the churchyard. For all the good that clue is, I don't envy the police."

Curiously enough the story of the assassin's escape seemed to afford Tom Murner a certain amount of relief; somehow it rendered his own position a trifle less compromising, and as the police were everywhere on the watch for the man, things looked decidedly better.

"Did Aspeland say anything more about the girl?" he asked.

"No. Aspeland is a clever fellow and has had experience, he is always ready to tackle a job, but will brook no interference. Just now he seems to have forgotten her."

"So much the better."

"Yes, but there are still detectives in the house, and I have seen among them, a sharp little chap called Ferlin, one of the cleverest spies in the force. The porter, too, is keeping his eyes open, and so from this time forward you must be officially on the 'sick-list.'"

"I ... on the 'sick-list.'"

"Exactly, and, indeed, you really don't look at all well since this tragedy occurred. We shall have to exaggerate things a little ... as an excuse for certain other matters; therefore, your nervous system has gone all wrong, so you have asked me to stay and keep you company for a few days ... and I have sent for my housekeeper to look after us both."

"I get you——!" said Tom.

"Well, isn't it true? The story is a little thin, I grant, but that can't be helped. How is the girl now?"

"I believe she is asleep."

"Good! Early to-morrow morning we'll send for a doctor I know, who won't say any more than is absolutely needful. And now, whilst we are waiting for Mrs. Toby, you might as well tell me—even to the minutest detail, what took place at the studio in the afternoon."

He lay back in his chair and listened attentively, now and then helping the younger man out by judicious questions. When he bad all the facts clearly before him, he quietly put on his considering cap.

"Dreyel, I suppose, obstinately kept to his secret to the last," he remarked. "He wanted help and yet received the mysterious 'E.R,' quite alone. The paradox is only on the surface ... it may be assumed that he himself was anxious for an explanation though he feared danger at the same time. To speak plainly, he anticipated news from 'E.R.' and danger from Toroni. It is impossible to ascertain whether Toroni himself was a personal danger or only the source from which it might spring. It can only be surmised that the man who has just escaped had some connection with Toroni the 13th. Again, I should not wonder if the girl on the couch might turn out to be 'E.R.'"

"I have had my suspicions all the time," said Tom, "but that would be awful ... awful."

"Awful? I don't see that, we know nothing about that. Everything considered, it is clear there exists some secret of supreme importance to Dreyel and one or two other persons in America. A certain man named Toroni had got to know the secret and it was in danger. Therefore 'E.R.' was sent to warn Dreyel; but when 'E.R.' arrived at the studio, Dreyel was found dead, slain by his adversary or his adversary's agent. To me that seems a natural conclusion."

"And the wooden doll?"

"I confess that is an extraordinary detail, though 'detail' is hardly the right word; the wooden doll is, so to say, the central figure in this mysterious problem; let us, therefore, follow its track. First, then, the doll was sent to Dreyel from America. Secondly, it worried him as though he expected something unpleasant to follow. Thirdly, in a telegram from 'E.R.' he was admonished to keep a watchful eye upon the doll since Toroni had learnt the secrets. Fourthly, before 'E.R.' could have a personal interview with Dreyel, he was murdered by some one who stole the wooden doll. One can't overlook the importance of the odd little figure. Tell me, did you ever have it in your hands?"

Tom nodded. "Yes, the very first time Dreyel showed it to me."

"Was it hollow inside?"

"No, it was absolutely solid wood throughout."

"Was there nothing to unscrew?"

"No, certainly not."

Rather disconcerted, Wallion said: "And wasn't there a mark of any kind?"

Tom sat up. "Well, now that you have mentioned it, I do recollect having noticed some figures cut in the wood on the sole of one of the feet."

"Aha!" exclaimed Wallion.

"Wait a minute, I've got it, I remember quite well what they looked like."

Tom drew a piece of paper towards him and proceeded to draw what was meant to represent the outline of the sole of a foot, in the middle of which he drew the following figures:

No. 12
------
33"

Wallion inspected this sketch with a frown and gave a low whistle. "So, ..." he said, "our materials are accumulating, but we are not much the wiser for all that....

"Did No. 12 apply to the wooden figure or was it meant to indicate that something was camouflaged as No. 12? Dreyel always spoke of Toroni as the thirteenth. That almost seems to tally, the wooden doll No. 12 and Toroni 13 ... but let us proceed warily with our theories for the present. Now what about the other figures? They may mean 33 inches or 33 minutes, or they may belong to some private code."

As Tom was about to make some impetuous remark, Wallion raised a deprecating hand, saying:

"Beware of obstacles, Tom; if we begin with mere suppositions we shall soon run our heads against a wall, perhaps we had better let the girl tell her story first."

Just then a car drew up at the door. Wallion listened and rose from his chair.

"Auxiliary troops, Tom," he said, smiling ... "Mrs. Toby to the fore."

He went out, and a few minutes later reappeared with a stout, elderly woman, dressed in black, with white hair; her still, comely countenance and regular features bore a stamp of strength and quiet content.

"I quite understand," she said to Wallion, who had probably already given her instructions. "I'll do what I can." Her kindly eyes rested upon Tom, and she curtsied; that was all the introduction. Then they all went into the smoke-room.

The girl had not stirred. Wallion pointed towards the white figure and said: "There's your patient, Mrs. Toby."

The old dame was already bending over the couch, and her deft fingers at once rearranged the cushion and the girl's clothes, which had got untidy. In a gentle, motherly way she crooned over her: "Such a poor little bird! Would any one believe that two big, stupid men hadn't even the sense to relieve her of her hat!"

The two men, like awkward schoolboys, stood and heard her remarks in silence; she removed the girl's small hat and handed it to Tom. "Now then, go and hang it up," she said, seeing the young man standing irresolute with his hands full. Having examined the bandage and felt the girl's pulse, she said: "The child is feverish. Please bring in my luggage, Mr. Wallion, and you, Mr. Murner, make haste and put a saucepanful of water on the gas-stove to boil."

She looked round and went into the bedroom, where she at once made herself at home. She took clean sheets out of a cupboard, and at one fell swoop turned out Murner's dressing-gown, slippers, smoking-jacket and shaving tools—in fact all his personal belongings—which she deposited in the smoke-room.

"I ought really to turn you out also, but I'll let you stay," she said, laughing, but hustling him out of the apartment. "I am mistress here now."

Tom ventured to say: "Can't I help you?"

"Rubbish!" answered Mrs. Toby, as she lifted the girl from the couch and carried her into the bedroom, shutting the door after her.

Wallion had settled himself comfortably in the study, and with an amused smile he said to Tom: "Mind you don't get in Mrs. Toby's way, she was born to rule."

They had a good smoke, and could hear at intervals sounds of Mrs. Toby's industry and energy.

"There's one thing that perplexes me," presently said Wallion, "to judge from appearances the girl must have come up from Gothenburg by the morning train; but people don't generally travel without luggage or with empty hands."

Tom smote his forehead with his hand.

"Good Heavens!" he cried, "her satchel!" he drew the black satchel from the papers under which he had concealed it.

Wallion nodded approval, and said complacently:

"That may help to clear up a lot."

The little bag had only the ordinary fastening; seeing Tom hesitate, Wallion took it from him and forthwith emptied the contents on the table. A lace handkerchief, a small silver purse containing Swedish money, various "vanity" articles, and lastly a hundred-dollar note, nothing more.

"Is that all?" asked Tom, when Wallion had finished; but with a curiously absent manner the journalist once more examined the satchel.

"No, that is not all," he said at last, hurriedly taking out another object and setting it on the table, "there is that."

"The wooden doll," ejaculated Tom, and a cold wave seemed to pass over him; vague but horrible thoughts floated through his brain. He saw before him a figure carved in hard, brown wood, eight inches high, representing a man in slouch hat, sweater, cartridge belt and high lace-up boots; but on more minute inspection he breathed a sigh of relief, the little figure bore a distinct resemblance to the one which had stood on Dreyel's shelf, but it was not the same.

"This is another," he said, taking it up; "but I say, I do believe ... it is an exact likeness of Victor Dreyel."

This discovery completed his consternation; the brown face was an exact representation of the murdered man, to his most characteristic and peculiar features. He looked at the sole of the doll's feet and there found an incised mark, No. 5 ... Nothing more.

"Look here," he said, "this one also bears a number."

Wallion took and silently examined it, whilst Tom's whole body quivered with excitement.

"What do you think it means?" he asked eagerly. "This is the third time we have come up against a number; it is very odd, but on the other doll there was in addition the number '33' ... Why not the same on this one? What do you make of it?"

Wallion said nothing, but his eyes grew bright; he smiled, took out and lighted a cigar; then he once more searched every corner of the satchel with renewed interest, till he came upon a pocket in the lining, whence he extracted a small note-book bound in leather. It contained only a few leaves, on the first of which the friends noticed two addresses, written in small, dainty characters: Victor Dreyel, 30, John Street, Stockholm ... and Christian Dreyel, Captain Street, Borne. There was nothing else written in the book, but four or five visiting cards fell out, each one bearing the same name: "Elaine Robertson." The two men looked at one another.

Wallion said: "'E.R.'! At any rate the question of that name is settled now."

At this juncture Mrs. Toby, hot from her work, came in with the tea-tray. "There," she said in a motherly tone, "I thought you gentlemen might be glad of a little refreshment; the young lady is asleep, but the fever seems inclined to be obstinate; she has been talking a rare lot of nonsense about a doll, and what it's all about I'm sure I don't know, but she never said what her name was."

"Her name is Elaine Robertson," replied Wallion, "and early in the morning I shall call in a doctor."

CHAPTER V

THE OTHER DREYEL

When Mrs. Toby had left the room Wallion said: "Did you know that there were two men named Dreyel?"

Tom shook his head.

"I never heard Christian Dreyel mentioned, maybe he is a brother. I don't know."

The young man's voice sounded listless and tired; the existing complication seemed too much for him, his brain was in a whirl; he only longed to get away from it all and go to sleep. With a prolonged yawn, thrusting his hands into his pockets, he said:

"Perhaps we had better send a telegram to the other Dreyel; he is, naturally, the person most nearly concerned.... Hallo! what's this?" He broke off suddenly and from his pocket he drew forth a gray glove and a crumpled piece of paper.

"Look here, Wallion, here's a letter I found on Dreyel's table."

Wallion took the letter and began to read it, lifting his eyebrows. "This is prime stuff, of the first order," he said, "a letter from Victor Dreyel to Christian Dreyel...."

He read the epistle out loud: "Dear Christian," it began. "You are quite right, miracles do not happen now-a-days but justice may prevail in the end. The wooden dolls were only the beginning, a caution, a warning. To-day I got a telegram which I enclose. Who is it from? I don't know whether it is true that Toroni is still alive, but if he is, strange things are likely to happen. They are all gone ... all, that crazy Craig Russel, Sanderson, the black Colonel, all gone. All, save William Robertson, myself and you, and the mystery of King Solomon is not solved. Fifteen years have I been living in this somber and quiet corner; perhaps it was my time of probation all along. They say likenesses of the dead bring misfortune to the living. After all those years it was a curious gift to you and me; and whatever may happen to-night, I shall not give in without a struggle..."

Wallion stopped. "It is not finished," he said, "Death stepped in between."

"King Solomon's secret," repeated Tom. "Secret indeed ... What a loathsome word! And what has Elaine Robertson to do with King Solomon's affairs?"

Wallion looked at the wooden doll and said:

"Your inquiry is premature ... we are still in the dark. The secret has acquired a name, that is all ... 'King Solomon'; and 'King Solomon' may stand for a place, a nickname, or for anything you like. You should rather ask what connection there can be between 'E.R.' and William Robertson? Well, to begin with both are alive at present, whereas another lot of persons, who evidently also had something to do with 'King Solomon' are dead; among the latter are 'that crazy Craig Russel, Sanderson and the black Colonel,' and several others, whatever sort of folk they may have been. These, as well as Robertson and the two Dreyels, were in the secret for more than fifteen years, until a third party, by the name of Toroni, stepped in and discovered it, which threatened evil consequences. Toroni's informants were known and the bare mention of his name was enough to terrify Victor Dreyel: in short, Toroni was the villain of the piece. Again, only William Robertson and the two Dreyels being alive, it is plain that 'E.R.' must have been sent by Robertson to warn the others; the wooden dolls also ... mystic emblems ... must have come from Robertson! Must, did I say? We are pursuing wild conjectures, and here am I sitting and only making rough guesses."

"But you are right," said Tom, struck by Wallion's words. "It must be as you say, you have already brought the problem within measurable distance..."

"Have I?" said Wallion, laughing. "Yes, I have confined it to the obscurity of fifteen years, and located it in the continent of America ... a child might have done that much. No, no, my lad, it won't do to make any deductions from those infernal wooden dolls. They are irrational objects and before we get at the reason of their existence we may have to cast our present theories to the winds."

"Yes, but I suppose you have formed some point of view..."

"Three points of view, my friend. First, that this is the most glorious problem it has ever been my luck to handle. Secondly, that I can't understand it at all. And thirdly, that I want to go to sleep now."

He drew up a chair, stretched his legs upon it, leant his head against the back and was fast asleep in a few minutes. The rain continued to come down in torrents, flooding the gutters. The clock struck eleven. Battalions of wooden dolls marched past and cast evil glances at Tom. Their small, polished, sphinxlike faces glowed in the darkness like live sparks and voices from thousands of throats came through the shadows, crying: "We are the riddle, the mystery of King Solomon is ours." ... Then he seemed to hear sounds of weeping and felt a warm, soft little hand in his. "It is not true," he heard a girl whisper.... "I have killed no one, but I am so lonely ... no one will help me ..." Tom was just going to reply, but Elaine fled away through black clouds, and then he heard stealthy footsteps ...

Tom Murner jumped up confused and benumbed with cold. He had spent the night on the hard couch in his study, and the recollection of his horrible nightmare affected his nerves. In a moment everything which had occurred since yesterday afternoon unrolled itself like a film before his mind's eye; he put his hands up to his aching head and shivered with apprehension. Victor Dreyel's dreadful end, the girl hidden in his bedroom, the fiendish wooden doll still standing on his writing-table, everything passed before his mental vision. He looked round and stared at the designs for his "Terrace" houses as if he had never seen them before; something was different, but it was nothing tangible or outside ... the change was within his own soul. From a world of books and dreams he had all at once been flung into a life of adventure. Fate had decided and the great comedy which is enacted but once in a lifetime had begun. A small, pleading voice whispered in his brain: "Nonsense, such a thing could not happen. She may be innocent or she may not. See that she gets away from here as soon as possible, and see that you have nothing to do with her." The conflict in his mind began anew; he marvelled at the clearness with which he remembered every act, every word, yes, every gesture of hers. He jumped up and stretched his limbs. The ghostly monitor persisted: "Don't meddle with what you don't understand. Don't meddle with..." "Well, and what then?" he reflected, "is one ever justified in refusing to help another?"

He threw up the window and drew a deep breath, there were still clouds about, but the air was clear and fresh. Presently he heard the sound of voices proceeding from the smoke-room; Wallion and Mrs. Toby were talking and the name Elaine Robertson caught his ear. The journalist soon came out, walked into the study and closed the door after him; he looked very serious.

"I see you are awake, good!" he remarked drily; "There's much to be done. With Aspeland's assistance I have already gone through Dreyel's papers. Christian turns out to be a cousin of his; other relatives there are none; as for the rest of his papers there was nothing in them worth consideration."

Wallion then took up the wooden doll and put it in his pocket. "I am going to take that with me now, and for the present you mustn't say anything about it. The Chief Detective will probably call here, so mind you don't forget that you are on the sick-list. You are at liberty to say all you know, but nothing in any way relating to 'E.R.' Mrs. Toby has had her instructions."

"All right, but how is...?"

"The little lady? She is very feverish from her wound, but you need not be alarmed; the doctor will be here before long, ostensibly to see you ... hallo! Who's coming now...?"

There was a ring at the door and Superintendent Aspeland was admitted. He was accompanied by Detective Ferlin, and both men looked excited.

"Gone, without leaving the slightest trace behind him," Aspeland said, turning to Wallion. "Since the miscreant got out of the house he has disappeared from human ken like a 'U' boat."

"And is as great a danger," added Ferlin. "In my opinion that man is the greatest menace we have ever come across. But we must not forget the girl; she must have something to tell."

Detective Ferlin was short of stature, grave and alert, somewhat excitable and fidgetty, inclined to be a little bumptious, but clever and shrewd beyond the average. Aspeland tugged at his moustache and looked at his colleague sideways.

"Ferlin," he said, in an amicable tone, "I posted you and Rankel at the door, but both the assassin and the girl seem to have neglected to make your acquaintance. Have you any advice to give?"

Ferlin turned crimson to the roots of his hair, gazed for a moment at Tom and said: "Mr. Murner, will you give me an answer on one point?"

Tom grew as rigid as if ice were sliding down his spine, but he replied calmly: "Yes, of course, what is it you want to know?"

"Mr. Murner, you came out into the hall precisely at the moment the girl came rushing down the stairs. Did you not see her?"

"If you wish it I can affirm on oath that I never saw a shimmer of her," replied Tom, truthfully, and he could not refrain from laughing at something which only Wallion knew. Ferlin glowered at him with an ironic smile.

"Excuse me," continued Tom, "my laughing arose purely from nervousness ... You will understand."

"I understand," grunted the little man.

"This is no child's play, Mr. Murner, so you had better be careful.... The girl may be out of reach—we must just see. I, for one, shall keep my eyes open, though they mayn't be so fine as her own."

"By Jove! what a talker you are," remarked Aspeland. "Now, Mr. Wallion, Ferlin and I must have a little conversation about this Christian Dreyel, and be ready to answer a heap of questions when the Head of the Department arrives on the scene ... Good-by till then."

Ferlin and he went out together, and soon after sounds of people busy at work overhead became audible.

Wallion grew impatient and began to pace the room.

"What time is it?" he growled. "Half-past eight? Confound it all! Tom, before night I have to be at the other Dreyel's. I have no time for arguing. No, I don't want your company; it would only drag you deeper into the mire and I believe Ferlin is already thinking of arresting you...."

"What? Me...?"

"Yes, just you. We shall hear what the Chief Detective will have to say to the only intimate friend Dreyel had ... If they knew that the girl..."

He lifted both hands, and they exchanged glances.

"Wallion," resumed Tom in a low voice, "I have made up my mind, I mean to do all I can to help Miss Robertson, but I won't abuse your friendship if you are not inclined for a game of Hide and Seek with the police or the law."

Wallion's eyes sparkled—his expression was comical.

"You are talking like an idiot; who said anything about the law? And as to circumventing the police, I should soon put a stop to that. What are you making such a fuss about? Can't the girl remain quietly where she is?"

"Yes ... but..."

"No buts ... There's the doctor."

Wallion himself went to the door and a middle-aged man with a jovial, ruddy countenance walked in, and was introduced by Wallion as the "Doctor"—no name being mentioned. He seemed to be acquainted with the facts of the case, and with a formal bow to Tom, he came further into the room. Presently Mrs. Toby appeared at the door and beckoned to Wallion to come out ... Seeing Tom about to follow she shook her head. "I don't want a procession," she said crossly, and slammed the door.

Wallion went into the bedroom where he found the doctor standing by the window and writing a prescription. Without turning round the latter said: "Mr. Wallion, I shall keep a quiet tongue about what I have seen, but one thing I feel bound to tell you. The girl is a physical wreck. The wound is nothing. Make her take this now, Mrs. Toby, and again to-night, and by to-morrow the fever will be gone. What she wants is good nursing, and above all no excitement ... She has already gone through more than such a delicate constitution as hers can stand. She appears to have no means, and is half-starved and thoroughly worn out."

Wallion threw a hasty glance at Mrs. Toby who, accustomed to give her opinion, said without any preamble: "Starved she is not, but that she has not got any money is true. Her clothes are of the best stuff, and though threadbare, made by a first-class tailor. Her hands show no traces of hard work. She is undoubtedly a girl of good social standing. Last night when her mind was wandering, she kept calling for 'Father,' sometimes in English, sometimes in Swedish, poor little lamb."

"Did she say anything else?"

"Yes, she raved about dolls, and frequently mentioned the name of Toroni."

Wallion nodded his head and was soon lost in thought. He took a long look at the sleeping girl with her white face and little black curls. Her gentle, regular breathing pleased him particularly as seeming, more than anything else, to prove her feeling of perfect confidence in her strange surroundings, and as he looked at her more closely he noticed the look of almost child-like peace on her wan, refined features. It struck him the more when he remembered how he had last seen her with eyes wide open, a prey to the world's cruelty and wickedness. He turned away sadly.

"I have a great mind to try an experiment, Doctor," he said, "if you will give me leave."

"As long as you don't frighten her," he answered, coming nearer to the couch. "She still has a temperature, and her mind wanders at times."

Wallion bent over the sleeper. Half aloud he uttered the name "Toroni"; her breath came a little faster and she frowned slightly. He repeated the name once more. In a clear, child-like voice she said: "Yes, oh yes ... No. 13 Toroni ... Number six and number twelve ... Take care ... They are coming ... Father ... Papa, papa..."

Wallion straightened himself and looked at the doctor. His eyes betrayed an inclination to laugh though he was sorely perplexed; after a while he said: "Do you think she is wandering now, doctor?"

The doctor shook his head. "No, she is not wandering now, she is talking in her sleep."

"Dreaming?"

"No, the name you mentioned awoke subconscious memories and pictures." The doctor took Wallion by the arm and led him into the study.

"Leave her in peace now," he said. "Mrs. Toby is an excellent nurse, and unless anything particular happens I need not call again. Good-by."

Tom heaped question after question upon Wallion who recounted what had taken place. "She is all right," he added feelingly, "all right, Tom, I would take off my hat to any girl without friends and without means who could take such a load upon her shoulders."

Tom shook his friend's hand warmly.

"There are cases in which it is expedient to trust a little in one's intuition," continued Wallion thoughtfully, "at least until one has made all due investigations ... Have you a timetable handy? Thanks. Where is Borne? Oh, Borne seems to be one of the stations north of Gävle. Now listen, Tom, if Victor Dreyel had in his possession a wooden doll which it was worth while committing murder for, might not Christian Dreyel be in possession of one like it? May he not also have one of those 'likenesses' of the 'dead' which bring misfortune to the 'living'? Do you remember the unfinished letter and that the unseen culprit is still at liberty. Well, I intend to go to Borne, or perhaps..."

Again there was a ring at the door.

"Your doorbell has started business," grumbled the impatient Wallion, as he went out into the hall.

"Next man, please," he said. It turned out to be Aspeland.

"The Chief isn't coming," he said. "He is busy sending out scouts after the assassin and the young lady that porter saw—only in his dreams, I do believe—so you won't be bothered any more. I'm off now, but if anything happens Ferlin will be close at hand."

He went and Wallion whistled softly to himself.

"It rather seems as if they had their hands full," he remarked. "So much the better, it gives us another day's breathing time. You keep mum here, obey Mrs. Toby, and don't think too much about the little girl. Now, I am going to look after some affairs of my own in case the business in hand should drag on much longer, then I shall go up to Borne. Au revoir, we shall meet to-morrow."

It was already dusk when the "Problem Solver" arrived at Borne.

Some Gävle newspaper reporters who had spotted him in the train, had made interesting attempts to discover the object of his journey, but Maurice Wallion was not inclined for company. All his thoughts were concentrated upon the mystery of the wooden dolls, on the foolish yet tragic row of wooden images which seemed one by one to peer at him through the darkness. One of them had found its way over Victor Dreyel's body into the pocket of the vanished enemy, another he had in his own ... would a third be found at Christian Dreyel's? If so, might not the assassin, too, be on his way there? Step by step he had been through every compartment of the train without finding any one whom it would be worth while suspecting. Maurice Wallion was decidedly growing uneasy, a most unusual and unaccountable proceeding on his part. He felt that he had not got a sure or firm grasp of the case. Was another catastrophe about to happen? ... Was he again coming too late? With quick steps he walked through the little village; he had been told at the station that Captain Street was half-an-hour's walk from there, but he stepped out so briskly that twenty minutes found him at the door of a low, lonely, dilapidated building, which answered to the description given him. He opened, or rather lifted the rickety gate and ran up through the garden, which was overgrown with rank grass, among gnarled fruit trees. A couple of rooks, croaking dismally, flew down from the roof, but there was no one to be seen. Wallion knocked loudly at the door.

CHAPTER VI

THE TRACK OF THE "INVISIBLE" ONE

After waiting a few minutes, Wallion heard footsteps approaching and the door opened. A tall man with a stoop, of coarse, ungainly build, about fifty years of age, stood before him. The individual in question had long, thick dark hair and an unkempt beard, but there was an indisputable resemblance to Victor Dreyel. Wallion raised his hat and said: "Mr. Christian Dreyel, I presume?" The man looked at him with undisguised curiosity.

"My name is Wallion and I am the bearer of a letter from your cousin."

"The door was open," he said in a deep bass voice. "You need not have knocked. Come in, Mr. Wallion."

"With your leave," said Wallion, "but I thought doors were meant to be shut." With which sarcastic remark he closed it after him.

Dreyel frowned and said: "Where is the letter?"

They entered a simple but comfortably furnished room, lighted by the dazzling golden rays of the setting sun.

Wallion took the letter Murner had found on the dead man's table from his pocket and silently handed it to Christian Dreyel. The latter stopped in the middle of reading it and observed: "He says he was enclosing a telegram. Where is it?"

"I can repeat it to you from memory," said Wallion evasively, at the same time doing so. The man nodded and continued to read.

"The letter isn't finished," he said, and his face began to twitch nervously with evident emotion.

"Tell me everything, quick, I am not nervous. What have you come here for?"

"Then you have not read the papers nor heard any news from Stockholm?"

"No."

"It is ill news that I bring, Mr. Dreyel. Your cousin was murdered in his studio last night by an unknown individual who has escaped. He left no papers, except this letter, which could throw light upon the tragedy. The telegram mentioned is in the hands of the police."

Christian Dreyel had gone to the window, through which he gazed in silence. A long pause ensued; at last he said:

"Are you from the police, Mr. Wallion, or not?"

"No," replied the journalist, "I came here to show you this," taking the wooden doll from his pocket and placing it on the table.

Christian turned in his chair, crossed his arms and examined the small wooden image without touching it or uttering a word. After a time he remarked: "Where did you get that?"

Wallion answered: "Allow me a question first. Do you happen to know 'E.R.'?"

At the mention of the initials Christian Dreyel made a movement of surprise, leant forward and said; "'E.R.' a woman ... what age?"

"About twenty."

"I don't understand," murmured Christian Dreyel, sinking back in his chair. "Only twenty, you say ... then she can't ... Elaine? What has she to do with the wooden dolls?"

"I got that doll from her. You see it has the features of your cousin Victor Dreyel and Elaine Robertson was in the studio at the time of his death."

"And the other one which was my cousin's own property?"

"The assassin stole that."

Christian Dreyel bent his head. Nothing seemed to surprise him. Wallion looked into the man's deep-set eyes. They were burning and Wallion guessed that Christian Dreyel was making a supreme effort not to exhibit an atom of feeling before a stranger. But as Wallion did not open his mouth, he said in the same calm tone as before: "Won't you tell me ... all?"

Darkness was gathering in the corners of the room and the golden light of the western sun had resolved itself into a narrow glowing band. Wallion began his story and Christian Dreyel listened in silence. When it was finished the two men could no longer distinguish each other's faces; the sky was covered with clouds of a bluish gray, the woods rose black and grim round Captain Street, and all was as silent as the desert. When at last Christian Dreyel spoke, Wallion was startled; he could scarcely recognize the voice.

"You seem to attach great importance to the wooden dolls, Mr. Wallion," he said in a hoarse tone.

"I do," answered Wallion; "and I believe the reason is pretty evident, 'likeness' of the 'dead' bring misfortune upon the 'living' ..."

Christian got up to light an oil lamp, and Wallion saw how the man's hand shook. He put the lamp on the table and gazed vacantly into space. His face looked ten years older but it had lost some of its hardness, and his emotion evidently overpowered him for he said gently:

"Thank you for coming. My poor cousin and I had not much in common, but he was my only relative. And now..." he broke off ... "you want to hear the truth, I know. Honestly, and without any ulterior motive: I would say to you, have nothing to do with the King Solomon mystery; let it be. It is hopeless to dig up the past, and evil often follows."

"My good Dreyel, it seems to me the digging process has begun already ... you forget No. 13 Toroni."

A curious expression came into Dreyel's eyes.

"With all your cleverness, sir, I believe you underrate the extent of the mystery," he replied. "Toroni, well, he really was the thirteenth, but I am not superstitious. Toroni has been dead more than fifteen years."

"Dead, you say? That is not possible; the telegram sent by Elaine Robertson distinctly says that Toroni has got to know the secret."

"Who is Elaine Robertson?" inquired Dreyel. "She may be William Robertson's daughter, what of it? What is her object? Perhaps you think I know everything," he went on, "yet you must have noticed how little my cousin knew—how he worried himself with vague presentiments and uncertain hopes. Ah, well, I know as little, maybe even less."

"Do you really mean what you say?" asked the journalist. "Please forgive me, I do not doubt your word. But Victor Dreyel's presentiments, which you call vague, turned out to be well founded. He is dead, but the same danger threatens you."

"The danger of being murdered, do you mean? What for?"

"For being the owner of a wooden image of the same mysterious character as the one owned by your cousin."

"Oh, you stick to that?"

"Of course. Perhaps you doubt your cousin's letter?"

Christian Dreyel hesitated for a few minutes, then he took out a bunch of keys and opened an old-fashioned writing-table which stood behind him.

"No, you are right," he said. "Here it is." And he set a dark, brown wooden figure on the table beside the other one. At first sight they seemed as much alike as two tin soldiers, but Wallion detected a difference; the one he had brought with him featured Victor Dreyel, whereas this second one represented a thin, sinewy man, with small, shifty eyes, a broad hook-nose, and a short goatee.

The journalist examined it closely, and on the sole of one foot he found, as he expected the figures

No. 6
-----
29"

Christian Dreyel, who had been watching him, said with a laugh:

"Oh, yes, they are there sure enough, the figures are in their place. I'll save your making inquiries. I got this thing in a parcel by post at the same time my cousin got his. The parcel came from Seattle in the United States. There was no explanation with it, and I can't make out the meaning of the figure itself or what the numbers refer to. I wrote to Victor about it and we came to the conclusion that the riddle was impossible to solve."

The honest ring of his voice left no room for doubt, and Wallion's hopes dwindled; his journey had been in vain; the key to the problem was certainly not in Christian Dreyel's hands. Greatly disappointed he pushed the dolls away from him and said:

"So you will not even venture a guess that these figures were sent by William Robertson?"

Dreyel shrugged his shoulders.

"What's the use of guessing? ... I can give you one hint though, the expression 'likeness' of the 'dead' which my cousin used, is quite correct. The figure standing there is meant to represent a certain Aaron Payter, the one my cousin had was meant, he affirmed; for one Walter Randolph ... both Payter and Randolph died fifteen years ago ... we had been schoolfellows..."

Wallion put his hands to his head in despair.

"I don't follow you," he said. "You say you don't know anything, and all the time I feel that I am on the verge of being enlightened. All those names: William Robertson, Craig Russel, Sanderson, the black Colonel, Payter, Randolph and Toroni ... the thirteenth. Who are they? You must know if you were at school together."

He went round to the other side of the table and suddenly taking Dreyel by the shoulders, he said in a tone of annoyance:

"One thing, at least, you can tell me, what is the meaning of 'King Solomon'?"

Dreyel gently but firmly shook himself free. "You are very insistent, Mr. Wallion."

"It concerns more people than yourself."

"You want me to rake up the most terrible recollection of my life. That is asking rather a lot."

"But not too much; can't you understand that I want to help you? What was it that happened fifteen years ago?"

Dreyel had withdrawn a little, but Wallion followed him. "Quick, there's no time to lose. What was ..." he broke off, went up to the table and blew out the light. The room was pitch dark, the window only looked like a pale gray square. A slight rustle in the grass outside had made itself heard, and a figure was dimly discernible running across the garden at lightning speed.

"He has come," whispered Wallion. "You were wrong to doubt. Victor Dreyel's murderer is here now to fetch the other doll."

He adjusted his Browning and opened the window, but it was impossible to distinguish anything among the trees. He turned back into the room and asked in a low voice: "Have you any servants here?"

"No."

"Are all the doors and windows shut and fastened?"

"Yes."

They listened for a few minutes. Nothing could be heard but Christian Dreyel's deep breathing; the tension was beginning to affect Wallion's nerves. He knew that he was not mistaken; the man who had murdered Victor Dreyel, wounded Elaine Robertson, and slipped through the cordon of police in 30, John Street, had come to complete his secret work on the body of the other Dreyel.

The whites of Christian Dreyel's eyes shone in the dark. He had taken a double-barrelled gun from the wall. His powerful frame seemed to grow larger, for the approach of danger seemed to have put new life into him.

"Do you see him?" he whispered.

"No," replied Wallion who, by this time, had jumped out of the window and was standing in the high grass waiting. "You stay there, I'll go after him."

The mysterious shadow had gone past the window from left to right and Wallion carefully took the same direction. Having gone about a dozen steps he stopped to listen; the grass under his feet rustled like silk and he thought he heard a similar rustle a little way off, near the maple trees which sheltered the house on the north. He strained his eyes, but could distinguish nothing, and all was quiet again. Then he suddenly saw before him footprints in the still wet grass ... He started ... The shape of these footprints reminded him of the one he had seen on the chair in Dreyel's studio. That the "Invisible One" had gone this way there was no longer any doubt. The wild beast was near, prowling after his prey, and following him up unalarmed by the hunter. Maurice Wallion crept close to the wall where the path was clear and sprang noiselessly to the corner, half expecting a collision, but a cold shiver ran down his back as he looked ahead; for on the north side of the house there was a door evidently leading to the kitchen, and that door stood wide open ... the ruffian had forced his way into the house. For a moment Wallion was seized with desperate anger. Perhaps the door had not been properly locked. What a mistake, what an unpardonable blunder! He had a vision of Christian Dreyel alone in the room in the dark with the two wooden figures waiting ... for what...?

Wallion uttered a shrill cry of warning and rushed through the open door like a whirlwind. "Look out!" he screamed, "the assassin has got in!"

He ran along a short passage, opened a door and found himself in the front hall. On the right he noticed the door by which Christian Dreyel had let him in. He burst it open and rushed in with his Browning cocked. The window was still open and the curtains waved gently in the breeze, but Christian Dreyel had disappeared!

"Where are you?" he cried. There was no answer; but he thought he heard a faint sound under the window; in three bounds he was there, and stumbling over something soft he fell forward against the window frame.

A stooping, thin, nimble figure was running from tree to tree in the garden and, without more ado, Wallion pulled the trigger and fired. The apparition vanished. He lighted a match and looked down on the ground. He half expected what he saw, but could not repress an exclamation of horror and pity at what the burning match revealed. The object over which he had stumbled proved to be Christian Dreyel's right arm, the man lay motionless on his back under the window, his double-barrelled gun a short distance away. When Wallion raised him up he saw a stream of blood dyeing his shirt red on the left side and found a freely bleeding wound immediately under the collar bone. Dreyel opened his eyes and looked vacantly round.

"The wooden doll," he whispered, "the shadow came up to the table, I saw him ... he stabbed me..."

He pulled himself up into a sitting posture and laid his hands on his breast; it was wet with blood.

"Who fired?" he asked quite confused.

"I did, but the fellow got away. Be careful now, I will put on a bandage and fetch the doctor."

"No, don't ... look after the wooden doll first." The wounded man repeated the words over and over again: "The wooden doll ... the wooden doll..."

Wallion took a cushion from the sofa and put it under Dreyel's head; then he closed the window, drew the curtains and casting one more searching look out into the darkness, went back. To pursue the murderer without help would be worse than useless; he was probably already a long way off.

It had all happened with lightning speed and as he relit the lamp Wallion's hands still trembled from the shock. The chimney was still warm.

He looked at the table where lately two wooden figures had stood. There was now only one—the doll belonging to Christian Dreyel was gone. Wallion took up the one he had brought with him and examined it. Victor Dreyel's image was uninjured; the criminal had passed it over as worthless ... but why ... why...?

"The wooden doll," stammered the wounded man who had fallen back again on the cushion. "It is gone ... he has taken it...."

"Yes," answered Wallion with a great effort at restraint, "once more he has had good luck; but try to be calm, the police will soon get hold of him; you must think of yourself now and only rest."

He bent over the huge form and undid its garments; the blood streamed from the gaping wound, and the laboured breathing showed that the lungs had been touched. Wallion stopped the bleeding with a towel dipped in water, and put on a temporary bandage.

"Send for Doctor Moving," said Dreyel, groaning and twisting under Wallion's touch. "It does burn so ... The devil ... but it must be true he knew that ... King Solomon's secret..."

"I will fetch the doctor myself, lie still," said Wallion in a tone of command. He hurried out into the road on his way to the station, but a few yards from the gate he met a barefooted boy of about ten, coming along with a fishing-rod and a few fish. Wallion took out a florin and put it into the boy's hand.

"Run along to Doctor Moving's and ask him to come here, Captain Street, at once," he said. "At once, do you understand? Mr. Dreyel is ill."

The boy nodded his tousled head, looked at the coin and was off like a shot. Wallion went back to the house. He was pale with excitement; his nostrils quivered and his eyes burned. He was fuming over with what he called his "clumsiness" but a hasty examination of the back door reassured him in some degree, for two or three scratches round the lock showed that it had been forced open by the intruder ... So it had been locked, and so far there had been no negligence. He lighted a cigar to soothe his nerves, the tension of which had prevented his being able to think clearly. Through loss of blood the wounded man was sinking into a kind of stupor, but when Wallion gave him a few drops of water he opened his eyes and muttered:

"Now I understand everything ... I see clearly ... Robertson and Toroni have been here ... King Solomon ... Oh, my God, and that after fifteen years!" He beat the air with his hands and cried with a deep, choking voice: "I saw him as he lifted the knife ... I saw him ... I saw..."

"All right, but you must be quiet now."

"No, I will speak out. He was greatly changed but I knew him again. It was Toroni."

"What? You yourself told me he was dead."

"No, Toroni ... No, thirteen Toroni ... what a long way off you are ... you don't hear me."

It was tragic and pitiful to see the big, strong man exert the last of his remaining strength in the effort to tell everything, for though the delirium of fever gripped him inch by inch, his lips continued to move and Wallion bent over him to catch his words, low as the beating of his pulse.

"The numbers ... the numbers ... it is from Robertson ... you must help ... many will be grateful to you ... if you can find King Solomon, the numbers ... take care ... I am falling ... take care, Toroni."

He stopped, but his eyes sought the other's with an expression so appealing, so helplessly pitiful that Wallion, deeply touched, pressed his hand.

"I promise to do my best," he said. "Don't distress yourself any more, everything will be all right."

Christian Dreyel smiled like a child and lay still. He closed his eyes, his muscles relaxed and he lost consciousness.

Out in the road the sound of cycle wheels became audible and some one came in through the gate. It was Doctor Moving, and Wallion met him half-way. The doctor was stout of build, getting gray, and had a glowing cigar in his mouth. A few words sufficed to acquaint him with the nature of the case. Without speaking he threw off his coat and helped to carry the man into the bedroom. There, with deft and practised hands the doctor quickly got to work. Fifteen minutes later he removed the cigar from his mouth and said:

"The fellow has an iron constitution, he has lost a lot of blood, but the wound is not very serious and he will live. The top of one lung is pierced, but it might have been worse. Have you a match?"

"How long will it take him to recover?" said Wallion.

"Well, well, you seem in a hurry," growled the doctor, relighting his cigar. "For the next few weeks he must neither move nor talk, then we shall see. A stab with a knife dealt by such a fiendish expert does not heal at once; but leave him to me, I'll take him under my charge ... You look after the man who dealt the blow."

Wallion shook hands with the doctor, gave one more look at Christian Dreyel's white face and then went away; but he did not forget to put the wooden doll into his pocket. Twenty minutes later he despatched the following telegram to the Chief Detective in Stockholm:

"This evening Victor Dreyel's murderer attacked Christian Dreyel. Badly wounded. Similar wooden figure stolen. Local police informed. Police dogs needed.—Wallion."

For many years Maurice Wallion had been in possession of a police pass, which was of immense use to him now. Within an hour a thorough, systematic search of the environs had been organized, telephones were working with feverish haste, and the train service at Borne and the surrounding stations put under the strictest surveillance. The following answer from Stockholm reached Wallion at 10:30 A.M.:

"Police dog last train from Gävle. Sustain search thoroughly. Aspeland arriving to-morrow."

At midnight a detective from Gävle arrived with a police dog which was led to the marks of the footsteps under the window in Captain Street, and after a short delay took up the scent through the garden. Wallion, the sergeant and detective followed, greatly excited. The dog led them straight through the wood for two miles or more to a high road where he stopped abruptly. He had lost the scent and nothing would induce him to go on. Not far off was a farm and the inmates were called up, but none of them could remember having seen a stranger on the road, although various farm-hands had driven past at quite a late hour. This information inspired the three men with serious misgivings ... The murderer had probably continued his flight concealed in one of those waggons and was, most likely, miles away by this time. The detective from Gävle looked at Wallion and remarked: "I wonder whether an accurate description would not be of rather more use than the dog under present circumstances. Shadow, last seen in a garden, etc., is, anyway, a somewhat dubious clue!"

CHAPTER VII

DOCTOR AUGUSTUS N. CORMAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF

On the morning of the third of August, Aspeland, imbued with more than his usual amount of energy, came rushing into Tom Murner's apartments.

"Have you heard what has happened to Maurice Wallion?" he cried, whilst still on the threshold. "My goodness, he does manage to be on the spot when wanted." Aspeland then related what had taken place in Captain Street on the previous evening, adding "The man is an out and out scoundrel, bold and determined, it remains for us to see that he does not escape our net this time." Breathing hard the superintendent twirled his mustache.

"The wretch may be back in Stockholm by now."

"No, he'll try to get here, no doubt, but to-day, every train from the north is being watched, and presently I shall be going myself to Gävle. I'm almost sure he has got out of the country; we have no criminal of that type here just now, for he's an expert, he is. Naturally, he would try to get back with his booty on the first available opportunity. Wooden doll, indeed!" The superintendent shook his head. "One man killed and another badly wounded, and all for the sake of getting at a couple of small wooden images. It's more than one can understand."

Aspeland gone, the house once more became as silent as the grave.

Tom Murner, thus doomed to solitude and idleness, was unable either to read or work. The strange drama in which he was one of the actors nearly drove him mad. Who was this girl who had claimed his hospitality in such an unaccountable manner? How was the affair going to end?

Early in the afternoon a telegram arrived from Wallion, but it gave him small comfort.

"Can't return before to-morrow. Make inquiries after a certain person's luggage. If necessary provide other clothes. Prepare for departure.—WALLION."

Tom called Mrs. Toby out of the bedroom and showed her the telegram.

"Yes, surely, that's right enough," Mrs. Toby said in her usual quiet but decisive tone. "She must be got away to-morrow morning at latest, and that can be managed all right. She was awake a little while ago; it seems she left a box of clothes at the Central Station—the receipt was in the pocket of her jacket—and I have sent for it."

Mrs. Toby's presence went a good way towards soothing Tom, she took everything so naturally, with so much practical good sense, it made him laugh. He answered:

"You say that Miss Robertson woke up. Well, what did she say?"

"Nothing. She looked round as if she didn't quite know where she was, and I noticed that she seemed rather frightened at not being able to locate herself. I comforted her, though she was for getting up and going away at once, but she is terribly weak, poor little soul, and now she has fallen asleep again."

"Can't I see her and speak to her?"

Mrs. Toby shook her head, smiled, and returned to her patient.

* * * * *

During these days Tom Murner studied the papers with eagerness. Every time he opened one he did so with as much care as one would handle a dead snake. But in 1918 the press concerned itself chiefly with news of the Great War, the latest sanguinary encounter, and it was only in a mid-day edition of August the third that he came upon a short paragraph reporting that the photographer, Victor Dreyel, had been "found dead in his studio on the night of the day before yesterday, under circumstances which pointed to robbery. Examination by the police is proceeding." Maurice Wallion's own paper, the Daily Courier, was silent on the subject, and when no further allusion was made to it on the fourth, Tom began to suspect that the "Problem-Solver" had a hand in its suppression. It was a foregone conclusion that the affair would be kept dark for a few days in order that Elaine Robertson's hiding place should not be discovered, which was also the reason why Wallion wished to hasten her departure, for sooner or later the bomb was bound to explode. It was not that Wallion's conduct perplexed Murner; he knew the journalist would never work in opposition to the police. Had the search for the girl in gray been totally abandoned? Perhaps.

Deep in the morning paper of August the fourth, Tom pored long over the problem without attaining any result. The day had begun fine and sunny and, unconsciously, his optimistic temper was in harmony with the weather. So far all had gone well. If only Wallion would come.... Mrs. Toby looked into the study with a smile and said, "I thought I heard you whistle, sir."

"You did," he replied cheerfully. "And how is our patient to-day?"

"I'll go and see," she said, as she withdrew with even a broader smile.

After a short interval the door again opened and Tom cried over his shoulder, "Well, how is she?"

"Very well, thank you," replied a soft, melodious voice.

Tom started and turned round; Elaine Robertson stood before him. She was dressed in a simple gown of black silk and her face, framed by her black hair, was white and transparent as after a long illness. She looked at him gravely, in silence, and put out her hand.

"How can I thank you?" she said.

The blood rose to his cheeks, but he took her hand as a matter of course, and said:

"So you made up your mind to come back to life," Then, after a brief silence on both sides he continued. "I hope Mrs. Toby..."

Then a faint color mantled the girl's cheeks also; she sat down on a chair and said:

"Mrs. Toby has told me everything, I myself cannot remember anything. I seem to have awakened from a bad dream." An absent look came into her dark eyes. She sat silent for a while immersed in recollections which made her features appear cold and hard; then she gave a little sigh, raised her eyes and continued: "I can never repay such kindness, I can only express my thanks to all, Mrs. Toby, yourself, and your friend whom I have never seen."

"Maurice Wallion? Oh, he is coming soon, but please don't talk about gratitude."

"Well, well, I don't understand how you could ... why, you don't even know who I am."

"Was that necessary?"

She pointed to her arm, where a lump under the thin silk blouse revealed the bandage. "The man who gave me that wound ... he knew well enough who I was," she said with a sorrowful smile that went to Tom's heart.

"It proves that Victor Dreyel's murderer was no friend of yours," he answered.

"But you ... are you not afraid I might be an adventuress?" she said in a scarcely audible voice.

They looked into each other's eyes, but suddenly she averted her gaze and bent her head.

"No," he answered, "I was never afraid of that."

She rose hurriedly. "If you won't let me express my thanks there is nothing for me but to go," she said.

He wanted to speak, to beg her to tell him everything in strict confidence; to offer her his help; but all he could manage was to say very awkwardly: "Why?"

"I do not wish to add further to my obligation..."

"Why use that word?"

"Because I know so well that for all you have done, it is impossible to..." Here her voice failed her, she could only whisper: "Without your help I should have been lost indeed!"

This time he dared not attempt a reply. The position was embarrassing for both, and both felt that it was too difficult for words. Luckily, Mrs. Toby appeared; she made a wry face when she saw them apparently so quiet and miserable.

"When you've quite done thinking, both of you," she said, "your breakfast is waiting in the smoke-room." Her practical, humorous remark saved the situation. Tom laughed outright and the girl smiled. Mrs. Toby, too at breakfast, over which she presided, pressed them to eat, and led the conversation with so much natural tact and ease as to banish any awkwardness there might have been. When the meal was over and she left them, they continued their discourse, Tom occasionally stealing a furtive glance at the girl. The sun shone on her half-open lips; her complexion was of a pallid, ivory hue, and for the first time he noticed that her clear cut profile had the charm which Botticelli and pre-Raphaelite painters loved to portray. The only ornament she wore was a small, simple gold locket round her neck. "Tell me," said Tom, leaning forward, "how is it that you can speak Swedish and English equally well? At first I took you for an American."

"Why should you take me for an American?"

"Well, haven't you just come from America? And somehow your name sounds rather American."

She gazed at him with wide-open eyes and the characteristic little frown appeared on her brow as if she were puzzled, but at last she said:

"My father is a Swede, my mother had Swedish blood in her, and Swedish was the language I learnt first."

"Is your father still living?"

"Yes."

"And is his name William Robertson?"

Again she hesitated with her answer, but nodded assent. She cast a troubled look round as if she feared further questioning; then she took off her locket, opened it, and passed it across to Tom.

"That is my father," she said shyly.

It was evidently the work of an amateur, and represented the three-quarter face of an elderly, careworn man; two bright, deep-set eyes shone under a lofty forehead; the hair was white and smooth, the lips were firmly set and the expression of the mouth was as kindly as that of the eyes, which spoke plainly of hopes crushed and a life wasted. Tom was greatly moved. In the old man's countenance were depicted physical suffering and mental worry, yet he seemed to detect a certain likeness to it in the girl by his side, the same melancholy touch of resignation and the same spirit. He reverently closed the locket and gave it back to her ... he understood her trust in him.

"How he must have suffered!"

"He is not even fifty," she replied.

Tom made an involuntary gesture of surprise. The portrait represented him as a man of nearly seventy, one who had turned his back upon life.

"Victor Dreyel was much older," he observed thoughtfully, "but he, too, had that same expression of hopeless resignation."

"They were schoolfellows," said Elaine. "My father..." She stopped; it seemed as if every attempt to speak out or to explain entailed an almost superhuman effort, and as her mute appealing look was more than he could bear, Tom sat down by her side and took her white, trembling hands in his.

"Your father sent you here, did he not?" he said with emotion. "We know that your errand had some connection with those wooden dolls. Victor Dreyel is no more and, I daresay, Mrs. Toby has told you that his cousin has been badly wounded."

Elaine gave a melancholy little nod.

"Both dolls have been stolen. You must see that your errand is too hard for you to accomplish singlehanded; won't you trust yourself to us?"

As she made no answer he continued with some eagerness: "I am not thinking of myself, but I want you to understand about Maurice Wallion and who he is, the best helper you could have, if only you would confide in him...."

"Mrs. Toby has told me about him," replied the girl in a low voice; "Oh, yes, I owe a full explanation to you both ... I can't do anything more by myself." She rose, and withdrawing her hands from his, she cried:

"If only your friend will help me." The cry came from the depth of a burdened heart.

Neither of them had heard the bell or the opening of the door, but at that moment Mrs. Toby appeared and called Tom out.

Maurice Wallion, in traveling get-up, came forward smiling. They shook hands, and Tom's eyes looked searchingly for news.

"I have come direct from Gävle," said Wallion. "Aspeland also returned by the same train. We have had monstrous bad luck; the search has been carried on day and night ... without result."

"Has he escaped again, then?" asked Tom.

"Yes, he wiggled out of the net like an eel, and you may believe me this time we used tempting bait to catch our fish. Did you get my wire?" His angular features simply beamed with pent up energy, and he was evidently much excited as he spoke.

Tom vouchsafing no answer, he resumed:

"Is our client ready to give information? She must get away from here but if she can't give a clear account of herself, the situation is, of course, untenable. One of the boys belonging to the evening paper hangs on to Ferlin like his shadow. Hallo!" he said, turning and bowing to the girl. "I am delighted to see you have returned from the land of feverish dreams."

He took a chair and continued, "You know who I am, don't you? Well, then you will understand that I have something to tell you, so don't be alarmed, and forgive me if I plunge into the thick of it at once ... even the minutes are precious. You cannot remain here, and before we decide upon the next move you must tell us everything."

The girl sat stiff and pale.

"Everything?" she said, solemnly looking up at him. Curiously enough Wallion's quick, energetic manner upset her much less than Tom's more gentle questioning. In a steady voice she at once added:

"And if I refused to say anything?"

"About whom?" asked Wallion kindly.... "Are you referring to your father? In that case he ought to have come himself instead of exposing you to such a dangerous adventure."

Elaine's hand went up to the locket as if it needed protection.

"You don't understand," she said. "I simply had to go ... my father is ill."

"Ill?"

"Yes, he is staying with a friend of ours, Doctor Corman."

"Where?"

"At his private Home, just outside Seattle."

Wallion started visibly and exchanged a quick glance with Tom.

"In a Home, you say. Tell us more about it."

Elaine handed him the locket. He looked closely at the photograph, and she said in a broken voice:

"There you see my father, but you must not think ... you must not think that his mind is affected ... he has broken down with grief and sorrow, no one has gone through so much adversity, but he is not out of his mind."

Wallion returned the locket but said nothing. She pressed it to her bosom and repeated: "He has broken down, but he is not mad, he has been injured by wicked people ... if I had not looked after him he would have died ... Oh, it is only justice he wants and a clear explanation, an explanation of the great, big secret."

She rose and walked to the window, and they saw her furtively drying her eyes.... After a pause she said in a firmer tone:

"I am given to understand you did not hand me over to the police because you wanted to give me an opportunity to explain first. What I tell you now I could not have said before those officials. I came here with the object of getting back from Victor and Christian Dreyel the two wooden dolls given them by my father."

"My dear young lady," replied Wallion, surprised, "we have been aware of that all along, and why wouldn't you give this simple explanation before the officials?"

"Because I am so afraid of those dolls."

"Afraid?"

"Yes, because I can't make out what they are intended for," she said almost inaudibly.

Maurice Wallion leapt from, his chair. "You don't know? You? You don't know the secret of those wooden figures for which men have risked their lives and which have apparently vanished into space.... You don't know what the numbers mean, nor what 'King Solomon' is supposed to stand for?"

"No," she replied, and when Wallion, leaning over the table, looked inquiringly into her eyes, she gently added: "I swear that I know nothing."

Wallion stood motionless as if he had received a blow; he fumbled about in his pockets for a cigar and growled: "Nobody seems to know anything—it is inconceivable—neither Dreyel nor you ... and yet that dread of the wooden dolls ... that unreasonable terror." He took sundry whiffs and then in an off hand manner he asked: "And who is Toroni?"

Elaine did not seem to have heard his question; she was leaning out of the window, gazing down the street with wide open eyes. Presently a look of doubt and confusion cast a shadow over her face. She drew back hastily and walked into the room with uncertain steps, gave a shy glance round and said in a totally altered tone: "Don't ask me any more questions, it is no use."

Wallion went to the window and saw an empty motor drawn up at the door; he frowned savagely.

"What did you see?" he asked.

She replied in the same peculiar voice: "I must be going." She spoke as if she were dreaming and her gestures were those of a somnambulist.

"He has come to fetch me."

"He ... who?"

There was a ring at the door and the girl sank trembling into a chair. Mrs. Toby came in with a visiting card in her hand which she gave to Tom. On it he read:

Augustus N. Corman, M.D.
Seattle, U.S.A.

"Doctor Corman requests an interview with you, sir," she said. "He is in the study." She cast a look he knew of old at Wallion and when he was quite close to her, she said in a low voice which he alone could hear: "I have seen him before, he went past the house both last night and this morning and looked up at the window. He speaks English with an American accent."

Wallion nodded and laid a finger on his lips as Tom was about to speak. They both looked at the girl, who sat with her face buried in her hands; she seemed more ashamed than alarmed at having been caught ... a child's mortification. Wallion smiled grimly.

"Come along," he said, going into the study with Tom.

A well-dressed man of middle stature, perfectly self-possessed and at his ease, stood near the table, hat in hand. He was apparently about forty years of age, with a broad forehead and dark brown, wavy hair and mustache, but the eyes behind the gold rimmed pince-nez were clear and blue like billows of the sea, steadfast and piercing; he bowed slightly, saying:

"Good morning, Mr. Murner," in a strong, full voice, as, ignoring Wallion, he looked straight into Tom's face. The latter returned the greeting with a stiff inclination of the head.

"Good morning, Doctor Corman," he said in English ... "This is my friend and adviser, Mr. Wallion."

The Doctor bowed again with perceptibly heightened interest.

"To what do we owe the honor of a visit from you?" Tom said with an effort.

The Doctor's mustache concealed a faint smile of amusement.

"I have come to relieve you from a situation which is certainly as embarrassing as it was unexpected, Mr. Murner."

His sonorous voice was calculated to break down any kind of opposition and to negative any doubts, as a physician's is wont to do in a sick room. Tom felt that the doctor knew all.

"I don't quite understand," he said haltingly.

Doctor Corman waved his hat towards the smoking-room and said: "I have come to take the little lady back to her father. She has had adventures enough. The thing is settled."

"Speak a little more explicitly," he said.

The doctor removed his pince-nez and looked at him with his eyes half-closed, as is the way of people afflicted with short sight.

"Any further explanation between us would be superfluous. I have ascertained that Elaine Robertson is here. I am her guardian, appointed as such by reason of her father's dementia. As such I tender you my thanks for the shelter you have given her and I intend to take her away immediately; my motor is waiting."

Wallion reflected for a while. He gave Tom a meaning look, for here undoubtedly was a step towards the solution of the problem. In any case the girl must go, for this aggressive and amazing doctor was certainly in the right.

"So you affirm that her father is out of his mind?" he asked; "will you not give us a little more information?"

"Do you know what 'Phantom-Mania' is?" answered the doctor. "Delusions about mysteries which are non-existent ... a fear of pursuers who are not there ... a love for sending messages and gifts which mean nothing. Only the overwrought brain of a neurotic girl can give credence to these. The actions of a weak-minded man or the whims and fancies of a nervous young woman ... both have a fictitious value."

"The death of Victor Dreyel, the stab in the girl's arm, the attack in Captain Street and the theft of the wooden dolls were not delusions."

"I am not concerned with what has occurred here. Elaine accidentally crossed the path of an unknown robber ... it is always the unexpected which happens and such contingencies are from the devil."

"Is that all you have to say about it?"

"Yes, I know what I am talking about, Mr. Wallion, and I don't allow myself to be caught unawares. I am here in the capacity of William Robertson's medical adviser and Elaine's guardian, and I desire to see her at once." His tone had a touch of increased sharpness in it.

"One moment," said Wallion, "how did you get here?"

"That is very simple, as soon as Elaine started from Seattle on her imaginary quest, her father grew anxious and in a lucid moment confessed to me that he had acted on a delusion. I set off immediately to prevent the girl from doing anything foolish. My sister, Madame Nina Lorraine, is with me to look after things. The whole affair is a farce, but likely to end in a tragedy."

Wallion laughed and looked straight at the doctor.

"Do you know," he said, "why Miss Elaine is in hiding here? Are you aware that the police are looking for her?"

The doctor gave no answer. The door of the smoking-room slowly opened and Elaine stood on the threshold, pale and silent.

"What are you talking about?" she said in a monotonous tone. "I am here, take me home to father, Doctor Corman, I am so tired."

Corman took her hand with an air of triumph and speaking over her bowed head he said: "There, you see, Mr. Wallion. What are you going to do?"

Wallion replied: "I presume you and your sister are staying in some hotel?"

"Yes, at the Grand Hotel."

"Miss Robertson is quite at liberty to go with you. For the present any further discussion is unnecessary, but what I said just now was meant as a caution to you, doctor, and you shall hear from me before you leave."

"All right," said the doctor frigidly.

Five minutes later Elaine Robertson had left No. 30 John Street, in Doctor Corman's company.

CHAPTER VIII

ONWARD TO THE UNKNOWN

Tom was raving. Everything had been done in such haste that his brain was in a whirl when he tried to look back upon recent events. Elaine's cold and hurried "Good-by" stung him like a thousand pin-pricks, and the doctor's voice echoed fiendishly shrill in his ears. Why had Wallion given in so quickly?

The journalist did not stop to listen to Tom's excited inquiries. He made some hurried notes in his pocket-book and departed. It seemed as if he were pursuing some new train of thought. Had he got weary of the Elaine Robertson mystery after the unforeseen intermezzo? Half-an-hour later he sent the following telephone message: "Expect me at five o'clock. Tell Mrs. Toby to have dinner ready and inquire whether any one saw the girl leave the house. Further details later on." Then he rang off.

* * * * *

Shortly before five o'clock that same afternoon Wallion came to see Tom, who was sitting in his room, lost in melancholy reflections.

"We have hurled the bomb," he said, throwing a bundle of newspapers on the table, "but it has not exploded yet."

He proceeded to unfold the evening paper and pointed to a column therein, headed:

ASSASSINATION OF DREYEL. AN ACT OF REVENGE.
Christian Dreyel also attacked and robbed.
Two Works of Art stolen. Was it the act
of a madman?

"Now listen," said Wallion, laughing. "My colleague of the evening paper has been very energetic, the last paragraph is of most interest to us," and he began to read:

"The unknown young lady who left Victor Dreyel's studio at the time of the murder has not made herself known; she is now said not to have been implicated. She may have been a casual customer come to fetch her photographs, or an acquaintance of the murdered man's, and on the presumption that she found him lying dead it was only natural that she should have declined to come forward as a witness, and her depositions would not, anyhow, have been more reliable than those of the porter's wife. It has been ascertained that the perpetrator was a man who set about his dastardly work with unusual—one may say, incredible—brutality, and the fact that his sole aim both in John Street and in Captain Street was to get at a certain statuette, a bit of carved wood of little value, proves that the scoundrel must have been a maniac, perhaps actuated by a feeling of revenge towards the Dreyels, who during their long residence abroad, etc., etc...."

"Well made up," said Wallion, stopping abruptly. "A wonderful mixture of truth and falsehood. Special stress must be laid on the fact that the girl in grey is done with, that she no longer counts. The Daily Universal actually doubts the porter's wife being in her right senses; whereas the Evening News exhorts the unknown lady in any case to come forward and to affirm that she was out of it all! The chief point at present, however, is that, now the papers have taken it up, the girl in grey has vanished like smoke. I have just been to the Police Court and seen Ferlin, who was as subdued and crestfallen as a whipped hound, for he has been wild to catch her all the time. What would he have said if he had been here and seen the doctor drive away with her in his car? By-the-bye..." he looked inquiringly at Tom, who replied:

"No, no one noticed Miss Robertson going away. She was dressed in black, and even the porter's wife had not curiosity enough to come up."

"Good," said Wallion, rather relieved. He looked scrutinizingly at Tom Murner's downcast face and intuitively guessed what he was thinking of.

"Don't look so glum," he said. "I don't deny that Doctor Corman cropped up rather inopportunely, but I should never have dreamt of preventing him. All he said was perfectly clear and explanatory..."

"Explanatory?" said Tom, scornfully; "when he refused to give any information, pooh-poohing everything as if it were a fable?"

"Just so, Doctor Corman is an interesting personality, perhaps more interesting than you think. I have heard sundry details, so listen to what I am going to tell you. Corman and his sister arrived late on the evening of the first of August and went to the Grand. Therefore he came at the same time as Miss Elaine, whom he wanted to 'overtake'; they travelled in the same train from Gothenburg and in all probability on the same steamer from America. Do you understand that? During the entire journey, therefore, he must have been more or less near her, but he did not reveal his identity until to-day; and—what is even more remarkable—he had not only bespoken rooms for himself and Madame Lorraine, but for Miss Elaine Robertson as well."

"What is that you say?" interrupted Tom, half dazed; "I don't take it in. Do you mean to imply that the doctor and the girl acted in collusion?"

"Not at all. At first I thought so, but that is very unlikely. No, the doctor kept at a distance to see what she was up to. Wait a minute, I can see what you are thinking about; no, old man, the doctor is not identical with Victor Dreyel's murderer or the marauder of Captain Street. The latter I saw with my own eyes and his build was quite different; he was much shorter and thinner. Besides, the doctor only left the hotel for a few hours and could not possibly have been anywhere north of Gävle, but he has very frequently been out here. We must take care not to confound him with the miscreant unless we have incontestable proofs. So far he is immune. Note that the girl seemed to trust him, and was quite ready to go with him."

At this juncture Tom again burst out into vituperation.

Wallion listened unperturbed, but at last he spoke:

"Why did I let her go? Because just when Corman turned up I recognized the difficulty of our position; we were not justified in keeping her here. When the girl showed herself willing to go with him, the affair was 'settled,' as the doctor expressed it. But it is not at an end yet."

He sat down and seemed to be ruminating. After a while Tom heard him mutter to himself: "Anyhow, he is most interesting as a representative of a certain type."

"Who? Doctor Corman?" interrogated Tom.

Wallion vouchsafed no reply; he had suddenly grown taciturn, sullen, almost irritable, and soon after dinner he went out, taking Mrs. Toby back with him as her services were no longer required at No. 30, John Street. Tom remained alone in the little dwelling which now seemed to him gloomy and deserted, not to say haunted.

* * * * *

Next day came the long expected summons from the Chief Detective, which he obeyed with considerable misgivings, but the Chief received him very pleasantly, and the cross-examination was reduced to a few questions regarding his connection with Victor Dreyel, though he was asked to furnish a minute description of the famous wooden doll.

"Do you know Mr. Wallion?" the Chief finally inquired with a long, searching look at Tom.

"Yes," the latter replied. "It was through me that he came to take an interest in this business."

"H—m! It's odd that he never published the results in the Daily Courier. Do you know whether he intends to continue his investigations?"

"No," answered Tom, not without a touch of annoyance, for it was a question he had been debating with himself all the morning.

"Well," said the Chief in a genial manner, "remember me to Mr. Wallion, and tell him, if he hears news that might lead to important results we shall be happy to coöperate with him."

When Tom reached home he found Wallion sitting in his study, with the wooden doll on the table in front of him, and looking rather disconcerted. As Tom entered he said:

"Look here, we forgot this thing when we gave Miss Elaine back her satchel, and she will know that we searched it."

Tom proposed that it should be sent to the Grand at once.

"It is too late, Doctor Corman and the two ladies have gone to Gothenburg."

"What? Already?"

"Yes, and they have booked their passages on the next boat to America ... it leaves on Thursday next week."

Tom could see that Wallion had something up his sleeve by the dry way in which he spoke, and the suspicion caused him to look fixedly at his friend.

Maurice Wallion sat still with his eyes half-closed, his hands in his pockets.

"Maurice," asked Tom impatiently. "What are you thinking about?"

"What did the Chief say?" was Walloon's retort.

Tom repeated the conversation and gave his message.

Wallion laughed. "Results?" he said. "There is only one way to get any 'results' in this affair."

"What might that be?" queried Tom.

Wallion opened his eyes very wide and said:

"It is to allow Elaine Robertson and Doctor Corman to continue their journey unmolested."

"Back to Seattle?"

"Yes, and to follow in their track to the same place."

Tom clung to the arm of his chair for support; they looked at each other in silence for some minutes.

"Since Doctor Corman took Elaine under the shelter of his wing, there is only one place where this conundrum can be solved, and that place is a certain private 'Home' or asylum on the outskirts of Seattle."

"But what about the other ... the murderer?"

"Something tells me that the police will never capture him here, but that he himself and the two dolls will be found at the journey's end."

Wallion spoke with a sort of wistful longing. Tom could not refrain from looking at him earnestly; he began to think he had but half-known his friend so far. A craving for action took possession of him also; and when at last he grasped the portent of Wallion's look the "Problem-Solver" had come to a decision.

"At the end of the journey?" repeated Tom, in a voice which shook with excitement ... "Are you going?"

"I promised Christian Dreyel I would do my best," replied Wallion.

The two men exchanged glances which furnished a sufficient answer to the perplexed thoughts of many clays. Great resolutions are not necessarily preceded by much talking.

"I shall go with you," said Tom.

"I knew you would," was Wallion's laconic reply.

* * * * *

The newspapers had not succeeded in stirring up any great interest in the Dreyel case, and when the novelty had worn off, they said no more about it. After Victor Dreyel's funeral, which took place on the Monday following, Wallion had a short conversation with Aspeland in the deserted studio. The Superintendent was reluctantly giving up his hopeless task and said somewhat bitterly:

"Toroni is merely a name. We have done our utmost, but we can't put the bracelets on a shadow, and the search is at an end unless something new turns up."

Wallion and Aspeland left the studio together, and the latter having locked up and given the keys to the porter, wended his way home.

"A symbolical proceeding," remarked Wallion to Tom a little later.

"Victor Dreyel has solved the great riddle and has gone 'home'; Aspeland found no clue, and he has gone 'home' ... it is our turn now, No. 13 Toroni."

Wallion and Tom started for Gothenburg on the following Tuesday. Tom wished to defray the traveling expenses, but Wallion, after his work in England, was financially independent, and settled matters with these words:

"War expenses have to be shared equally ... Danger and success likewise ... Is that clear to you now? Well then, off and away to the great unknown."

PART II

"THE WOODEN DOLLS"

CHAPTER IX

ELAINE ROBERTSON'S STORY

"Our second day on board and not a glimpse of either her or the doctor," said Tom, gloomily. "I begin to doubt their being on board at all."

He and Wallion were standing on the promenade deck, leaning over the rails, and by chance no one else was there. For two days the gigantic propeller had been plowing its way through the surf. A fresh breeze was blowing and the sky stretched like a blue canopy from horizon to horizon across the ever rising and falling waves. The rhythmical thud of the machinery within the capacious interior of the boat reached them where they stood.

Tom gazed at the endless amplitude of the ocean, and, obsessed by doubts when Wallion did not reply, at once continued. "After all what are we really here for? Who knows whether the solving of the mystery connected with those wooden dolls does, indeed, await us? We may have left it behind, and Elaine may have disappeared for ever."

Wallion made a gesture as if lie had just awakened from sleep, and looked at his friend.

"Compose yourself," he said. "You don't suppose I should leave anything to chance? Certainly we did not see them come on board, but they are here. I have seen the list of passengers, and have had a chat with the purser; they have engaged two of the best upper deck cabins. Madame Lorraine and the girl are in number five and the doctor in number seven. As they keep so much to themselves, and even have their meals in the cabin, I fancy they are aware of our presence. I daresay they wonder—perhaps, not without reason, what our intentions are."

"Yes, what must she think?" said Tom gravely. "What shall I say to her?"

"Say to her? Why tell her the truth, that I am going to Seattle on business for Christian Dreyel, and that you have come to keep me company. The promenade deck is free to all, and before this adventure has come to an end I shall have to thank my stars and yours that we were on the spot," said Wallion with much energy.

He threw away his cigar and looked at his watch.

"It is time to dress for dinner; we may meet our interesting traveling companions in the dining-saloon."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, they will have to get the better of their ... shyness, shall I say? Otherwise one might think they were suffering from a guilty conscience."

When they entered the luxurious, brilliantly-lighted saloon, the two men found themselves among the late comers. Tom took his seat with burning cheeks ... He had seen her again!

Elaine Robertson sat at one of the tables at the farther end. She wore a simple but costly black evening dress, her head was bent but he thought that a slight blush mantled her cheeks also. Had she seen him? Doctor Corman, whose dark, Mephistophelian face expressed nothing in particular, sat on her left. On her right Tom noticed a bright, good-looking woman with thick, burnished golden hair, who at that moment, appeared to be putting a serious question to the Doctor.

"Madame Lorraine," remarked Wallion. "I wonder if she was making any inquiries about us?"

The doctor's face turned in their direction, and he gave his interlocutor a curt answer; for, if he had noticed their presence he certainly did not show it. Tom fidgetted with impatience.

"Don't worry," said Wallion, "we shall naturally get into conversation with them, and don't keep staring their way; there are plenty of other people to look at."

Tom hardly heard him. Wallion continued talking and presently Tom became interested.

"Look at that little man at the small table, on the left there in the corner—the one that looks like an Assyrian,—how does he strike you?"

Tom followed the direction indicated by Wallion and quickly discovered the individual mentioned.

He was a man with narrow shoulders who ate and drank with philosophical complacency, and without speaking to any one. His appearance was calculated to attract attention, his raven black, wavy beard was parted down the middle and formed a sort of shiny chest-protector under the sickly, thin-lipped mouth, above which was a long, straight nose, starting from an abnormally high, arched forehead of triangular shape, fringed by untidy, unkempt black locks, while his eyebrows resembled streaks of soot.

"Who is he?" asked Tom, "a Persian philosopher?"

"No, in the list of passengers he figures as a Greek antiquary; his name is Ricardo Ferail, which does not in the least sound like Greek."

"He seems to interest you?"

"He does, I should rather like to see him run," replied Wallion absently; "but do look at Madame, I believe she is scolding."

Madame Lorraine had moved closer to Doctor Corman, and was talking earnestly to the Doctor who several times shook his head.

Some of those sitting near began to notice them, and Madame stopped talking with an angry shrug of her ample white shoulders.

At that moment something very strange occurred. The Greek antiquary, whose heavy eyelids had until now been cast down on his plate, suddenly raised his dark, velvety orbs and turned them towards Elaine with a sinister, dreamy look. Elaine started visibly as if she had come into contact with some loathsome object, and presently she got up hurriedly, said something to the Doctor and left the saloon.

Corman and his sister exchanged glances and followed her; all three disappeared, but the Greek continued his meal with the same indolent serenity. As Tom was also about to get up, Wallion said: "Sit still, there's no hurry."

"But I want to speak to her," replied Tom, "I don't understand what is going on here, but she looks sad and depressed, and once for all I must speak to her."

"All right," retorted Wallion, "but couldn't you wait a few minutes?"

"And suppose they should retire to their cabins again?" said Tom vexed.

"They won't this time," said Wallion, "that would be a very bad policy, and the Doctor is a thorough diplomat ..."

A quarter of an hour later Tom and Wallion again came up on deck with fairly buoyant expectations. They had not long to wait for their mysterious fellow-passengers. Doctor Corman came out of the saloon with hands outstretched as if he had only just recognized them.

"What a surprise!" he cried, "the world is very small; so there was some truth in what my sister heard: that the famous Maurice Wallion was on board. We should have met before if the two ladies had not been so sick." He shook them warmly by the hand and talked incessantly as if to make up for the cool and over-hasty leave-taking in John Street.

"So delightful, gentlemen, such a charming surprise ... we can travel in company."

"Yes," said Wallion, "as far as Seattle let us hope."

The doctor's expression of polite surprise, which was undeniably only a mask, became more marked.

"As far as Seattle?" he repeated in an entirely indifferent tone.

"Yes," replied Wallion smiling, "the last time we met I promised that you should hear from me before you left Sweden. We called once or twice at your hotel at Gothenburg, but never had the luck to find you in, so we were obliged to put off asking for the little elucidation we require, until now."

The doctor's eyes became sharper behind his pince-nez.

"Your journey to Seattle seems to have been quite a sudden plan?"

"As sudden as Dreyel's death, Doctor Corman, which makes an explanation all the more needful."

The doctor gave a mocking smile, and said, "Well, my curiosity is beginning to be aroused; let us go into the saloon." He led the way, and before he realized where he was, Tom found himself bowing before Elaine Robertson, whose fearless, serious eyes looked into his. She was sitting beside Madame Lorraine on a sofa in the corner. Tom had an uncomfortable suspicion that this meeting had been pre-arranged.

The doctor introduced his sister, and the usual civilities were exchanged. Madame was stout, unusually fair and good-looking, a little over thirty, with sea-green, sleepy eyes and carmine lips; she looked at the two men with the bold curiosity of a woman of the world but said nothing. Tom took a seat by Elaine and asked:

"Are you not surprised to see us here?"

"No," she said. "I knew you were on board."

"Don't you wonder what brought us here?"

"Well, perhaps ... why should I, though?" she broke off with a smile. "We were bound to meet on the way, were we not?"

"Of course, if one's destination happened to be the same," he replied.

Just then Doctor Corman's voice was heard from above their heads: "And only think, Elaine, what a surprise, these gentlemen are going to keep us company as far as Seattle."

She breathed hard, her dark eyes gazing into the far distance. Turning to Tom, she asked eagerly: "Is that so?"

He nodded assent and turned for confirmation to Wallion, who drew up a chair and joined them. The Doctor sat down by his sister, folded his arms with an air of interested expectation and said pleasantly: "Well, now let us have the little explanation you seem to think so necessary, Mr. Wallion."

"After what occurred in Stockholm the necessity should be patent," replied Wallion. "I consider it my duty to inform you that I am traveling at the request of Christian Dreyel to get a little light upon the mystery of those wooden dolls, and, as we are convinced that it can be obtained only from William Robertson, we desire to see your father in person, Miss Robertson, and rely upon Doctor Corman's assistance."

Elaine never moved but listened with strained attention. The Doctor was going to speak, but Wallion continued:

"Yes, the information you gave us at our former meeting was most valuable, but even for 'Phantom-Mania' there must be some tangible reason, and it is this reason or cause we wish to discover. Is there anything in William Robertson's life to account for the death of Dreyel or the vile attack upon his cousin?"

"You think there is?" said the Doctor very deliberately.

"It is my firm conviction."

In a still more leisurely tone the Doctor said:

"Elaine, would you mind telling these gentlemen how you found your father?"

"No," she answered promptly, with what might have been taken for a sigh of relief. She looked at Wallion and said: "All along I have been anxious to tell you all I knew. There isn't anything I want to keep back ... but a great deal ... oh, such a great deal that I don't understand."

Tom was quite surprised at her evident eagerness, and it had a similar effect upon Wallion. She no longer looked at any one in particular, but was pale and nervous, as if she feared the opportunity might slip away from her, and began her story at once, in a low, subdued voice:

"My father was born in Sweden, for William Robertson is only an alteration of his Swedish name, which he has not used for the last thirty years. The name he bore during his boyhood in Sweden is no longer remembered. The narrow-minded and proud relations who forced him to leave his native land are all gone."

"They forced him?" interposed Wallion.

"Yes," she went on. "Perhaps it is not such an unusual story. His father was a lawyer and wanted his son to become one also. At Upsala he got among the artists, discovered that he had a talent for sculpture, neglected his studies and evil rumors came to the ears of his father. They led to a crisis which ended in his leaving the country precipitately. He has never done wrong to any one, never deceived or slandered others as they have slandered him. He came over to the United States, broken down, without means and, though a well-educated University man, was by turns reporter on a 'gold' paper, barman, steward on a fruit-ship, and lastly a tramp. Then he went out West, and was stableman on a wheat-farm until he became foreman. The owner of the farm, Mr. Bridgeman, took an interest in him, and one day, happening to see a sketch my father had made—a pastoral idyll—sent it to a paper in San Francisco, which accepted it, and, in a few years' time, my father became a popular, well-paid draughtsman. That was his best time. He married Violet Seymour and settled in San Francisco. I was born on January 10, 1898." Here she paused.

The siren over their heads sent a deafening signal out into the night, and was answered by another in the offing. When all was quiet, Elaine again took up the thread of her story:

"On New Year's Day, 1902, my father accidentally came across two Swedes whom he had known from childhood. They were the cousins Dreyel, Victor and Christian, and they told him they were just going to Alaska. At that time Klondyke had not the same old lure, but gold had been discovered in the sand on the shores of the Seward peninsula in 1898, and the two Dreyels met a Scotchman, Sandy MacCormick by name, who professed to know quite a new place for digging the precious metal. When my father heard their glowing promises he, too, was seized with the gold-fever and resolved to join them. He begged my mother to remain in San Francisco, and promised her he would return within a twelvemonth. Then, with the two Dreyels and MacCormick, he set off for Alaska."

"Aha!" ejaculated Wallion, whose eyes were glittering, "you won't object to my jotting down a few notes, will you?"

Almost unconsciously she bent her pretty head in assent and went on:

"That was the last my mother saw of him. In the autumn of the same year terrible news reached us, and though I was only five years old I can remember the beautiful, pale face of my mother on the morning she was found dead in her chair. Something awful must have happened up there in Alaska, but how we got the message or what it was I don't know, only that it was too much for my mother's weak heart. Mr. and Mrs. Bridgeman took me to live with them, and what I have been telling you now was told me by Mr. Bridgeman, but my father's fate was never mentioned. I took it for granted that he was dead. The Bridgemans were kind, superior people; they gave me all they could, and I was devoted to them. But Mrs. Bridgeman—auntie—died when I was sixteen, and Mr. Bridgeman the year following—strange to say of the same complaint—inflammation of the lungs. I succeeded in getting a situation as typist in a business-house in Sacramento."

"Did the Bridgemans leave you anything?" asked Tom.

"No, the farm was entirely in the hands of the railway company, owing to bad harvests for two years in succession. I obtained a better post after a time in an office in Seattle, but did not get on there; one of the directors, Mr. Dixon, who had been advertising for an expert stenographer for his office at Seattle, fortunately chose me, after making the most minute enquiries, from among a hundred applicants, and I have been eighteen months in his employment. Mr. Dixon is one of the leading men of business in Seattle and has, among other things, a wide-spread import connection, while he owns a wharf and several hotels on the coast for summer visitors. He is exacting, but kind and helpful, and he showed great interest in my father's fate. He offered to assist me to send out a search party, but nothing came of it. In November last year..." Elaine leant back on the sofa and closed her eyes, but after a short rest she continued with trembling voice:

"In the beginning of November last year I saw my father again after fifteen years. I found him in a way which you might think beyond belief. One of Mr. Dixon's hotels had been burned down; there were difficulties about the insurance and, as Mr. Dixon was away, it was part of my duty to furnish the reporters with certain details, and that was how my name came to be in all the local papers. A few days later a white-haired, bent, fever-stricken man walked into the office. He wept for joy, and could hardly articulate my name ... that man..." She looked up, her eyes full of tears ... "that man was my father! He had seen my name in the papers but, scarcely dared believe his eyes, and it was almost ghastly to see his childish delight, for he was completely broken down and was living in the greatest poverty in one of the most squalid quarters in Seattle ... I have shown you his photograph. I had to look after him like a child, and I soon began to notice that he was no longer in full possession of his senses. I could only vaguely surmise that he had returned from Alaska towards the close of the year 1902, ruined and in despair; that when he heard that my mother was dead and I had gone, no one knew where, he was stricken down with a sharp attack of brain fever, and five months later dismissed from the hospital, a wreck both physical and mental. I dare not even think of the life he must then have led for nearly fifteen years, sunk in melancholy brooding, a lonely wanderer from place to place. I could never prevail upon him to tell me what had happened up there in Alaska, the region of gold and death, which had been the primary cause of his misery and my mother's death; but it must have been something awful, indescribable and terrible, for every question I asked made him shudder, and, at times, when I could see in his eyes that some dread recollection had risen in his mind, he became nearly wild with despair or unreasoning fury, and after such attacks he rarely spoke for days together. More serious symptoms then appeared. He adhered to the idea that spies were on his track; he used to burn paper as a spell, and shut himself up in his room and busy himself with some mysterious work, the nature of which I found out only by slow degrees. He used to carve little wooden figures which he called his dolls, his guardians, and he said:

'Don't you see they watch over certain secrets. They are the dead waiting.'

"His undue excitement made me very anxious, and when Mr. Dixon became aware of that I was obliged to tell him everything. He was greatly touched and made me consult Doctor Corman, who at once pronounced my father to be suffering from 'Phantom-mania.'"

"And that in the worst form," corroborated the Doctor. "I immediately took William Robertson under my own personal observation in my Home, and my diagnosis revealed maniacal tendencies; as frequently happens, he was perfectly sane with regard to the details of every-day life."

A long silence ensued. Then Wallion asked:

"And what is your own impression, Miss Robertson, for you would scarcely undertake a journey from Seattle to Stockholm for the purpose of carrying out a sick man's fancy?"

"I hardly knew what to think," she replied shivering. "A feeling sometimes comes over me that eventually ... that my father..."

"That your father? ... What? ..." queried the doctor.

"I don't rightly know," she stammered. "But if you had seen the look in my father's eyes when he bade me go and bring back the two wooden figures he had secretly sent to the two Dreyel cousins, if you had heard his tearful appeal, you would understand me better. It was one evening early in July that he persuaded me to undertake the journey. 'It is a matter of life or death to your father, Elaine,' he said, 'you must tell them that Toroni has discovered the secret, and you must bring back the wooden dolls, but take good care of them; go alone and speak to no one.' At that moment I thought him not responsible for his words and actions, but I went. I felt that I was fulfilling a duty—abstract, but imperative—I can't express myself more clearly. My father gave me one of the dolls as a sort of pattern."

"And which, I am afraid, we forgot to give you back," said Wallion, laughing.

"I never want to see it again," she answered, with another shiver. "I have told you all I know of the abominable transactions which prevented my getting the dolls, and you know more than I do."

"Only another question or two," said Wallion. "How did your father know the addresses of the two cousins?"

"I believe he was in correspondence with an Information Bureau in Stockholm. Just before being taken to the asylum he indulged in an enormous amount of letter writing to various places."

"Had he told you to send that telegram provisionally to Dreyel from Gothenburg?"

"Yes ... as a warning; he said that every hour might be fatal."

"Extraordinary!" remarked Wallion, looking at Doctor Corman. "Under these circumstances do you really believe the appearance of the assassin to have been accidental?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

"Anyhow, you followed the young lady about," said Wallion with some asperity. "You believed there was danger."

"Danger only to this extent, that she had started almost without means, and without protection," retorted the doctor drily. "Forgive me for referring to such a trifling fact, Elaine; your hurried journey was more like an attempt to escape, wasn't it?"

Elaine had risen, she put both hands up to her head and said wearily: "I have a bad headache, and am so tired I think I must go in."

She staggered and leant heavily on Tom's arm. Madame Lorraine rushed to the girl's aid and lovingly took her in her arms.

"My darling," she said fondly, "you have overexerted yourself, and you must go in and rest."

All had risen from their seats. With a wan smile Elaine bade them "Good-night," and obediently went in with Madame Lorraine. When the two ladies had gone there was a gloomy silence for a time, broken at last by Doctor Corman.

"As you see, her nerves are overwrought. I am sorry to have interrupted the interesting recital so abruptly, but, no doubt, you observed that my statement regarding William Robertson's condition was confirmed. Do you still consider your journey to Seattle necessary?"

"A journey begun should never be abandoned," said Wallion sententiously, fixing his eyes upon him.

The doctor threw back his head and laughed, showing his big white teeth. "All right ... I admire your energy, I promise to do what I can to hasten the result ... au revoir!" He bowed and departed.

"Oh, excellent Doctor!" murmured Wallion. "I'll give you an opportunity to keep your promise. Let us go into the smoking-room, Tom."

On the upper deck the Greek antiquary passed close to them and then disappeared like a shadow into the darkness.

CHAPTER X

RICARDO FERAIL

The next day after dinner Wallion and Tom were quietly sitting in their cabin. The latter in a miserable frame of mind, for Elaine and her people had not appeared at table. He had sent an attendant with his visiting card to inquire after Elaine's health, and was waiting impatiently for an answer. Wallion smoked in silence, casting an occasional glance at his friend.

"Alaska," he suddenly said as though following up a train of thought. "Why shouldn't 'King Solomon' have been the name of a mine?"

"Why not, indeed?" remarked Tom starting up. "But, if so, why did the Dreyels or Robertson not go back there?" he said, hesitatingly. "A mine can't disappear entirely from the face of the earth."

"No, but it can be exhausted, and the booty purloined ... There are all sorts of possibilities in connection with Alaska. I wish we were on land, we might glean some information from the papers of 1902 as to whether there was any catastrophe there at that time, how news of it was conveyed to Mrs. Robertson, what became of Sandy MacCormick, and who Sanderson, and Russel were—to say nothing of the wooden dolls?"

Tom looked uneasily at Wallion, who continued to envelop himself in a cloud of smoke and asked in a low tone:

"What do you think about her story?"

This was the tenth time this question, with sundry variations, had been put to Wallion, but he remained quite unruffled, and answered:

"It is a most extraordinary one ... I have already said I consider it remarkable."

"Just so, but did she tell us the truth? Who on earth is this Doctor Corman, with his sarcastic, satanic countenance?" said Tom. "Maybe he has forced her to ... to..."

"Tell lies? No, her story is incontrovertible, and as far as she knows, perfectly true," said Wallion, leaning forward as he continued:

"But that does not prevent the doctor's demeanor from seeming rather singular. I have just got hold of an interesting tale about their journey from New York to Gothenburg. They traveled on this very boat; Elaine went second class, the Doctor and his sister first class, but did he know then that the fugitive he was pursuing was so near ... or did he not? Again, how could fugitive and pursuer travel in the same train from Gothenburg to Stockholm without noticing one another?"

"Well, that might be possible."

"It might be possible, but it is not likely. People meet so easily on board ship; for instance, I myself am already acquainted with all our fellow passengers, both first and second class, in every detail."

Tom burst out laughing.

"And did you find out anything?"

"Yes, I heard who else of those on board her now traveled by this liner on her last voyage to Sweden."

"Well?"

"It seems there is only one other, and his name is Ricardo Ferail."

"The Greek antiquary?"

"Yes."

Tom recalled the look the Greek had given to Elaine in the dining-saloon, and with an uncomfortable kind of foreboding he said:

"Do you know whether they are acquainted with each other?"

"Not openly, at least."

An odd undefined suspicion flitted through Tom's brain. He got up and looked long and fixedly at his friend, but Wallion's features were inscrutable; he was listlessly staring at the ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. Just then Tom's attention was diverted by a waiter, who handed him a card and disappeared. On the card, and written in a bold round hand, were these words:

"I have ordered our protégée absolute rest for the next few days. Kindest regards.

Augustus N. Corman."

"Damn the doctor!" cried Tom. "I don't like his tone. He and Madame Lorraine keep guard over Elaine as if she had committed some crime. Besides who the deuce is this Madame Lorraine?"

"She married a French violin player, Roland Lorraine by name, but they were separated, that's all I know," replied Wallion, getting up from his seat and yawning. "Are you coming in?"

"No," said Tom, throwing himself on the sofa, "as our fellow travelers prefer to remain invisible I can worry here as well as anywhere else."

But when Wallion opened the door to go out, Tom remembered a question he wanted to ask him.

"Why do you wish to see Ferail run, as you said yesterday at dinner?"

Wallion turned back. "Wouldn't it be rather amusing to see an antiquary run?" he answered quite seriously.

Tom winked and threw up his hands. "Get out," he said. "I feel my brain reeling.... God knows what sort of a nightmare I shall have to-night."

The giant liner pursued its appointed way over the ocean; showers of feathery foam played round the bows and all lights were on. From the depths below, between decks, the wind wafted aloft echos of cheerful dance music. A fresh breeze had sprung up and there was no one on deck. Evidently they were enjoying themselves on board.

For the last hour and more, Maurice Wallion had been pacing up and down, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Now that he was alone his clear cut features looked grave and perplexed; he had been turning the problem over in his mind, and he had just realized that he could acquire full and irrefutable information on one important detail whenever he felt inclined to do so. He had never found himself in such a peculiar situation; but with a sudden, resolute gesture, he flung the end of his cigar into the water; and as it disappeared in the dark like a shooting star, he muttered to himself: "Yes, I'll do it."

He went down to the promenade deck, and a minute later appeared calm and unperturbed in the smoking-room, which was crowded and blue with smoke. In a corner to the left of the bar, he perceived an Assyrian profile which made him screw up his eyes. It was Ricardo Ferail having a game of poker with three other men. Wallion who, as a rule, recognized every other or every third person he came across in the four quarters of the globe, earnestly scanned Ferail's partners, and found that he knew one of them well. Here was luck. He advanced, and gave the man in question a tap on the shoulder, saying:

"Evening, Mr. Derringer! It's a long time since that night at Johannesburg."

"So it's you, Mr. Wallion," he answered without a trace of embarrassment. Derringer was a thin, bony Englishman with a skin deeply tanned by a tropical sun. "Take a chair and join in our game; we want one more to make up the ideal five."

After a casual, formal introduction to the other players, Wallion sat down. Ferail, who was the dealer, lifted his eyes for a second and gave him a swift look. The play continued for a time without interruption and in silence. Then the Greek ran his finger-tips through his frowzy beard, cast down his eyes, and observed:

"Where did you learn to play poker, Mr. Wallion?"

"At an Officers' Mess in India, Mr. Ferail."

"A very fine school, no doubt," said the antiquary. "You are going to beat me."

These were the first words they had exchanged. The game went on. Half-an-hour later Derringer burst out laughing, and said: "Your luck has turned, eh, Ferail?"

The antiquary had really lost a considerable amount, and his pile of money melted quickly away. Wallion acted on the defensive; he neither won nor lost, but kept his eye on Ferail, who sat sulky and silent, his white face, with the thin, sickly lips, giving not the slightest indication of the workings of his mind. He shuffled the cards and dealt them with a quick and practised hand. He seldom bought more than one or two, and with a kind of dogged obstinacy kept increasing his stakes, but that no longer helped him, for he lost every round. After another ten minutes Derringer rose, and there was no more play.

"It's so deucedly monotonous always to be winning," he said with a yawn. "Let us leave off, I'll give you your revenge to-morrow."

He and his two friends left the saloon, and Wallion and Ferail found themselves alone, sitting opposite one another.

Drops of moisture shone on the Greek's forehead, and he blinked his eyes as, with philosophic composure, he gathered up the cards, but he did not seem conscious that Wallion's sharp eyes were constantly fixed upon him. Presently Wallion leant across the table and said:

"Now to business, please ... No. 13 Toroni."

It seemed ages before Ferail opened his shining black eyes to their full extent and shot an enigmatic glance at Wallion, saying as he did so: "I don't take you."

"Have a little sense, Toroni," said Wallion with an ambiguous smile. "Perhaps you are not used to my ways ... but why should not we two be frank with each other? There are no witnesses!"

"I don't grasp your meaning," repeated Ferail, in the same tone of indifference.

"Well, I'll explain to you. First of all then I'll tell you how I know who you are. My theory is this: In all probability Toroni traveled to Stockholm in the same boat and the same train as Elaine, and both arrived simultaneously at Dreyel's studio; it is equally probable that, having accomplished his object, Toroni immediately returned to America. When one hears that a particular person used the same boat for a voyage there and back, one begins to take an interest in that person, and if he is short, thin and nimble the interest is heightened. You are that person, but it has yet to be proved whether you are identical with 'Toroni.' According to Christian Dreyel's account the man I saw in his garden was Toroni, but I only caught sight of his back as he was running away; his face was concealed by a high collar, and his hat tilted over his eyes. I watched you on deck this morning, it was blowing hard; your hat blew off and you ran after it. I saw your back and recognized at once the motion of your arms and your gentle tiptoeing. No, don't interrupt me ... the identification was conclusive. What should you say if I had you arrested on the spot and your four trunks containing 'antiques,' searched? Would you describe the two wooden dolls also as antique curios?"

Ferail had not moved, but he continued to stroke his beard.

"Unfortunately, I must again repeat that I don't understand you," he answered; "your conversation is very odd but rather interesting. I am Ricardo Ferail, born at Salonika, but an American citizen for the last ten years. I have visited your beautiful country in search of antiques, and can produce papers bearing me out."

"Of that I have not the least doubt," replied Wallion. "I am sure you protected yourself perfectly well."

"Now, supposing I were that Toroni," the Greek resumed, "should I be so careless as to have those dolls among my luggage? ... I can't tell ... but it seems to me that I should rather have sent them through the post to some address you would not know—you can't open every mailbag that leaves Sweden—or have hidden them somewhere after having found out their secret meaning. I might even have destroyed them. There are so many ways. The arresting of that Toroni you speak of would be a ticklish undertaking. Meanwhile the secret of the wooden dolls might be hopelessly lost, to you and your friends."

"You are a clever fellow," said Wallion. "That's why I want to come to an understanding or at least to make a bargain with you. I can arrest you now—and it entirely depends upon yourself whether I shall do so or not, for you have a shocking disregard for human life, Toroni, and you have already made an attempt to silence Elaine Robertson for good and all. Now as we shall be, if I mistake not, fellow travelers as far as Seattle, to begin with—for I am not going to lose sight of you—what say you to a truce during the voyage? I let you run to the end of your tether, and you stop molesting Elaine?"

"And then?"

"That will be a question between you and me." Ferail reflected for a few minutes.

"Do you mean that I shall be arrested the moment we arrive at Seattle?" he said.

"How long respite do you want?"

"Twenty-four hours."

Wallion lighted a cigar and attentively watched the Greek. "I shall shadow you," he said.

"If I were Toroni it might, perhaps, prove dangerous," he remarked.

"I am not concerned about my own safety; you shall have your twenty-four hours, but I shall not be far off, I give you warning."

Ferail sank listlessly back in his corner and closed his eyes. "I accept the bargain," he said.

"All right," replied Wallion, rising. "Good evening, Mr. Ferail," and without so much as a nod or offering his hand he left the smoking-room. When he came down he found Tom sound asleep, and he wondered whether he should wake the young man to tell him what had happened.

"No, I won't," he thought. "Time enough when we get to Seattle ... That is where the struggle will begin."

That night Wallion enjoyed good, sound sleep, such as comes after hard work.

CHAPTER XI

A "WELCOME" GIFT AT SEATTLE

A few hours before the liner was due to run into New York harbor Doctor Corman approached the two Swedes, who were leaning against the railing.

"Allow me to make a suggestion," he said in an amicable tone. "We have before us a long journey by train right across America, and I suppose your destination, like our own, is still Seattle?"

"It may not be our final one," answered Wallion; "at any rate it is our nearest."

The doctor raised his hands as deprecating Wallion's ambiguous reply, and said: "Then let us form a little, exclusive friendly party and our journey will be the pleasanter, will it not? Elaine is nearly well again now, but for her sake we should agree to let all business matters rest until we arrive."

"Of course, we quite think so," replied Wallion. The suggestion met with unqualified approval from Tom, and he almost began to like the Doctor.

When the statue of the goddess of Liberty, and behind it the turrets of the sky-scrapers, became visible, the passengers emerged from their cabins one by one. Elaine and Madame Lorraine joined the men and the conversation became lively. Elaine, though still pale, was evidently on the way to recovery. Tom had to acknowledge that the prohibition which had bereft him of the sight of her for some days had really been a happy thought, and that, too, made him more favorably disposed towards the doctor. He could hardly take his eyes off her thoughtful, attractive face, and said:

"I trust your principles with regard to the journey by rail are less rigid than with regard to a voyage by boat."

"How so?" she asked.

"So that we may enjoy more of your company, I meant to say."

She smiled, but there was a look of anxiety in her eyes, which she steadily turned towards the land. Signals of all descriptions came from the ships, a heavy shower fell, the seagulls shrieked, and there was a stir in the air. Immediately before landing, Wallion came up to Tom and hurriedly whispered in his ear: "Stay here with them and lend a helping hand with our luggage at the Customs; I shall look you up later."

He hurried away and found the man answering to the name of Ricardo Ferail at the head of the big stairs. They had not exchanged a word since that memorable night in the smoke-room. Without any preliminaries Wallion said curtly:

"I intend to be near you when your luggage is examined; come along, it is time."

Ferail began to move without answering, and went down the steps, Wallion close at his heels. Twenty minutes later the journalist was convinced that Ferail had not got the dolls with him, for the four enormous trunks contained a jumbled mass of curios and antique objects which seemed to have been scraped together without care or knowledge; but there were no well-known wooden images. Wallion looked at Ferail, who was watching the proceedings inert and silent.

"I am half-inclined to believe that you did send them through the post, Toroni," he said, in a low, sharp tone. "The other alternative you spoke of is less likely; ... you reckoned to arrive at the same time as the parcels ... and you must have an accomplice, a receiver ... at Seattle, or where?"

Ferail turned livid with anger, but he neither looked up nor spoke.

"You are silent? Now listen, Toroni, would it not be wiser to save yourself and the Government police a heap of trouble? Confess now and I will see to the rest."

Ferail' shot a glance of deadly hate right into Walloon's gray eyes.

"No!" He sputtered out the word as if it had been poison, turned and went away.

* * * * *

The express, with its shining row of Pullman cars, stood ready to depart, and a babel of voices, hurrying steps and creaking barrows, filled the huge station hall. Tom looked anxiously about for Wallion, of whom he had not caught a glimpse since landing. At last he saw him coming along, lost in thought, and Tom, much relieved, called out:

"I thought you had quite disappeared. Where have you been? The ladies and the doctor are already on board waiting for you." He stopped abruptly, for at that moment he saw the Greek antiquary climb up into one of the last carriages. He saw, too, that Wallion was keeping a watchful eye on the man, and said: "What! he, too. Where is that despicable creature going?"

"We shall see," answered Wallion—who was not inclined to tell how he had shadowed Ferail through half New York; and that the man had neither spoken to any one or sent any messages—and he heaved a sigh of relief when he saw his taciturn enemy safely ensconced in the train. "Get in," he said to Tom; "I'll be there in a minute,"—and he hurried off to the telephone.

He rang up the Secret Service Division in New York; the next minute a well-known voice, expressing surprise, answered:

"Hallo! Wallion, how do you do? I've just heard that you came over in the Swedish liner.... What in the world are you doing here—in this town?"

The Chief of the secret police in New York was looked upon as one of the cleverest officials in that city. Wallion had made his personal acquaintance in connection with a big English case, and so could confidently reckon on a very friendly reception.

"I intend to ask you for a little assistance," he said; "I am on my way to Seattle on a very tiresome job. I shall, probably, be able to requisition official help before long, but just now there is an important link missing in the chain of evidence."

"All right, I understand ... What shape shall it take?"

"Can I have a clever, reliable man to meet me at the station at Seattle?"

"H—m, what has he got to do?"

"To shadow a certain person for twenty-four hours; after that I think we can have him arrested."

"H—m, sounds promising. I'll supply your man. Tell me by what train you are leaving. Oh, indeed ... well, it shall be done, and say, Wallion, on your way back come and see me and have a smoke."

"Thanks," replied Wallion, laughing. He rushed back to the train, which was just about to move, entered the compartment into which he had seen Ferail disappear, and finding his man there engrossed in a paper and seemingly regardless of the outer world, went quietly to his own compartment and joined his party.

Tom was engaged in animated conversation with Madame Lorraine, and had even succeeded in bringing a smile to Elaine's lips. The long train journey once begun, a feeling of relief seemed to have come over all of them. For several days there would be no change; one would have a little breathing time and could, for the present, forget what the future might have in store. But Wallion's thoughts were with the pale, silent man sitting in the same train not twenty yards away, huddled up in a corner, waiting ... planning ... what?

The sociable relations suggested by Doctor Corman were outwardly maintained throughout the long railway journey across America; one cannot always vouch for what will happen nowadays on a journey by train, notwithstanding its amenities, its comforts, and almost uninterrupted contact with the outside world.

It would be an exaggeration to assert that all went smoothly and harmoniously, however. Doctor Corman's frigid politeness hardly glossed over his frequent sarcasms, and his whole bearing showed plainly that he considered the society of the two Swedes tolerable but absolutely uninteresting. Madame Lorraine had fits of silent abstraction, and Wallion, who noticed everything, used sometimes to wonder what she was thinking about. On several occasions, having noticed that she seemed to look upon her brother with contempt, he said to himself: "What does she know? ... and what does she expect? ... A silent woman is an incomprehensible anomaly even to her friends ... We are certainly a heterogeneous party."

In the meantime Wallion noticed with some measure of gratification that Tom and Elaine got on extremely well together. There were two, at least, who were not up in arms against each other, quite the reverse; in fact, day by day Tom's devotion became more marked, and Elaine's eyes shone with newly-awakened interest.

But Wallion had other things to think about. Hour after hour, as the train sped over the mountain and plain, he watched the man who posed as Ferail; and though they never spoke, each was well aware of the proximity of the other. Ferail remained perfectly silent; he never appeared in the smoking compartment nor on the standing platform to see the view.

On the day fixed for the arrival of the train at Seattle a telegram was put into Wallion's hands; it ran: "McTuft, will meet the train at Seattle. He is clever and discreet." He rubbed his hands, for he had been anxiously expecting some such communication, and at once despatched a long, detailed wire to McTuft, whom he had never seen, but who was waiting for him.

With a creaking of brakes the train ran into the station of Seattle. Wallion and Tom stepped out on to the platform with as much elation as one goes to the theater with on an interesting "first night." But they had no time to exchange words, as Doctor Corman and his sister came up to them.

"Mr. Wallion," began the doctor with a smile which displayed nearly all his teeth, "we have reached our destination and I am at your service. When may I count upon your visit to my Home?"

"The sooner the better," replied Wallion.

"Nevertheless, it may, perhaps, not be quite convenient this afternoon; Elaine is my sister's guest in our villa, which is also the asylum, and settling in again always requires a certain amount of time. Then there is my assistant who looked after the Home during my absence and will, no doubt, want to confer with me. Can I send you a message later, naming an hour?"

Wallion cast a quizzical look at the doctor.

"Thanks," he said. "Murner and I are staying at the Pacific. I will wait there for your message." He bowed and proceeded along the platform as if he wanted to look after some luggage. As soon as he had mingled with the crowd he drew forth his handkerchief and mopped his brow, whereupon a tall, gaunt young man approached as if by command.

"I am McTuft, at your service, Mr. Wallion," he said, touching his hat.

Wallion looked at him closely. At first sight the young Seattle detective looked like an awkward, simple, red-haired country lad; but there was something in his light blue, gentle eyes and wide, mobile mouth, that inspired Wallion with entire satisfaction.

"That's all right, Mr. McTuft, we shall get on very well together. Your job can begin immediately ... Do you see that man over there who is just passing through the stile?"

"The one that looks like a cross between Belshazzar and Judas?" McTuft asked drily.

"Yes, that's the man ... He calls himself Ricardo Ferail, dealer in antiques; you must follow him like his shadow wherever he goes; notice with whom he gets into communication, and report every step he takes to me at the Pacific Hotel before ten this evening at latest."

"Suppose he should leave Seattle, what then?"

"Send me a wire, and go with him."

The next minute McTuft had joined the crowd, rushed through the stile and disappeared in the track of the antiquary. Wallion smiled and followed more leisurely. Outside he encountered Tom; they exchanged cool good-bys with Doctor Corman and the ladies, who were just getting into a motor. Ten paces away Ferail was opening the door of another car. Wallion was startled, for he thought he saw the Doctor and the Greek exchanging a significant though scarcely perceptible nod. The two motors drew out of the station yard; a third followed close upon the one in which Ferail sat. McTuft had begun his task.

Wallion waited a little and looked after them until they disappeared. Was it a fact that Ferail had given a sign to Doctor Corman? He bit his lip.

"Let us drive to the hotel," he said. "We must hold ourselves in readiness. Things may move more quickly than I thought," he said to himself.

"What things?" said Tom, taken aback. But he got no answer beyond an impatient "We shall see."

As it happened, Tom was not in the humor for conversation; he had become so accustomed to Elaine's society that the separation left a great blank; her sweet face and gentle voice occupied his thoughts to such an extent that he felt both happy and miserable. They had been so near each other during the journey, and how was it going to be now?