.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 52498
   :PG.Title: No. 13 Toroni
   :PG.Released: 2016-07-04
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Julius Regis
   :DC.Title: No. 13 Toroni
              A Mystery
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1922
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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NO. 13 TORONI
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      *No. 13 Toroni*

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      *A Mystery*

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      *By JULIUS REGIS*

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      NEW YORK
      HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
      1922

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      COPYRIGHT, 1922,
      BY
      HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

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      First printing, October, 1922

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      PRINTED IN \U. \S. \A.

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   CONTENTS

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   PART I.

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   THE MYSTERY OF ELAINE ROBERTSON

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   CHAPTER

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I. `STEPS THAT GROW SILENT`_
II. `"DO NOT LET HER ESCAPE"`_
III. `THE GIRL IN GREY`_
IV. `"HE FRIGHTENED ME"`_
V. `THE OTHER DREYEL`_
VI. `THE TRACK OF THE "INVISIBLE" ONE`_
VII. `DOCTOR AUGUSTUS N. CORMAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF`_
VIII. `ONWARD TO THE UNKNOWN`_

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   PART II.

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   THE WOODEN DOLLS

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IX. `ELAINE ROBERTSON'S STORY`_
X. `RICARDO FERAIL`_
XI. `A "WELCOME" GIFT AT SEATTLE`_
XII. `WILLIAM ROBERTSON`_
XIII. `FERAIL MAKES A PROPOSAL`_
XIV. `ELAINE'S SECOND DISAPPEARANCE`_
XV. `HOTEL "GOLDEN SNAKE"`_
XVI. `THE "ARIADNE"`_

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   PART III.

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   HURRICANE ISLAND

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XVII. `TORONI RE-ASSUMES HIS RIGHT NAME`_
XVIII. `THE STORY OF "KING SOLOMON"`_
XIX. `WHERE THOMAS FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES`_
XX. `ELAINE TELLS THE TRUTH`_
XXI. `TEN FATHOMS FROM THE GOAL`_
XXII. `MADAME LORRAINE'S SURPRISE`_
XXIII. `GO SHARES ... THEN PART`_
XXIV. `AFTER THE CONFLICT`_

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.. _`STEPS THAT GROW SILENT`:

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   PART I

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   "THE MYSTERY OF ELAINE ROBERTSON"

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   CHAPTER I

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   STEPS THAT GROW SILENT

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"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:—

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   "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."

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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.





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.. _`"DO NOT LET HER ESCAPE"`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   "DO NOT LET HER ESCAPE"

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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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GIRL IN GREY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center large bold

   THE GIRL IN GREY

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"HE FRIGHTENED ME"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center large bold

   "HE FRIGHTENED ME"

.. vspace:: 2

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"

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE OTHER DREYEL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center large bold

   THE OTHER DREYEL

.. vspace:: 2

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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE TRACK OF THE "INVISIBLE" ONE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE TRACK OF THE "INVISIBLE" ONE

.. vspace:: 2

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"

.. vspace:: 1

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:

.. vspace:: 2

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

.. vspace:: 2

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.:

.. vspace:: 2

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

.. vspace:: 2

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!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DOCTOR AUGUSTUS N. CORMAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center large bold

   DOCTOR AUGUSTUS N. CORMAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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

.. vspace:: 2

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.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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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:

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.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

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

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





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.. _`ONWARD TO THE UNKNOWN`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center large bold

   ONWARD TO THE UNKNOWN

.. vspace:: 2

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.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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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:

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.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   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?

.. vspace:: 2

"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.

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.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



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.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



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."





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.. _`ELAINE ROBERTSON'S STORY`:

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   PART II


.. class:: center large bold

   "THE WOODEN DOLLS"

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX

.. class:: center large bold

   ELAINE ROBERTSON'S STORY

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





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.. _`RICARDO FERAIL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center large bold

   RICARDO FERAIL

.. vspace:: 2

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:

.. vspace:: 2

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

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A "WELCOME" GIFT AT SEATTLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center large bold

   A "WELCOME" GIFT AT SEATTLE

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



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?

The afternoon merged into evening as Tom
and his friend sat silently waiting in the hotel,
each immersed in his own reflections.

"What are we waiting for?" inquired Tom,
at last.  "Why don't you do something?"

Wallion vouchsafed no answer; he kept looking
at the clock; it was getting dark.  At eight
McTuft appeared.

"At last," exclaimed Wallion, rising from his
chair.  "Where is Ferail?"

"Shall I report at length or will you simply
question me?" replied the young Scotsman,
curtly but pleasantly.  "This man, Ferail, was
the very devil for giving me trouble.  I
shadowed him in a car and he did only two things
worth mentioning.  At 6:30 he telephoned to
Director Edward A. Dixon."

"To whom, did you say?" burst out Wallion.

"To Director E. A. Dixon," repeated McTuft.

"Elaine Robertson's employer," Wallion
whispered to Tom, who sat silent and
dumb-founded.  "All seems turning out well, as you
see.  Now what more?"

"Ferail inquired whether the 'goods' had
come.  The answer seemed to satisfy him."

"So the 'goods' have arrived," observed
Wallion, whose eyes glowed triumphantly, "and
then?"

"Then our man drove to his lodgings at 39
Church Street, and there he remained; I put on
a man to watch whilst I am here, but first I
drove to Headquarters to get a few particulars,
as you see."  He gave Wallion a paper from
which he read aloud:

.. vspace:: 2

..
   
   "RICARDO FERAIL.  Greek.  Age 42.—Professes
   to be a dealer in antiques, but has no
   real profession or business; otherwise known
   as a professional gambler.  Never convicted.
   Nicknamed 'Silent Ferail.'  Is not an American
   citizen.  Has been living for the last
   eight months at 39 Church Street.
   
   "EDWARD ATTISWOOD DIXON.  Born in New
   York 1859.  Well-known business man in
   Seattle.  Supposed to be insolvent.  The
   dispute with the Insurance Company about the
   the summer hotel burnt recently was decided
   in his favor.  The sum paid by the Insurance
   Company saved him from bankruptcy.  Owns
   five hotels and a wharf on the coast.  Has
   extensive import connections."

.. vspace:: 2

Wallion gave McTuft a hearty slap on the back.

"Good," he said.  "You know your business.
Now what about the other matter in hand to
which I referred in my telegram."

McTuft shook his head.  "I have not been
able to find out anything at all about King
Solomon.  There is no record of any King Solomon
mines, and nothing about a catastrophe in
Alaska which might fit in with your theories, in
the Seattle papers of 1902.  On the other hand
we've got Doctor Corman," McTuft continued
undisturbed, in true reporter fashion.  "Towards
the end of the nineties he was accused of
poisoning at Chicago; his wife died of arsenic
poisoning.  He was pronounced 'Not Guilty.'  At
present he is Dixon's most intimate friend
and lives, in part, at his expense."

Both Wallion and Tom stared in amazement
at the detective, who retailed his news with
no more emotion than if he had been talking
about the weather.

"Well, and what about the sister?" inquired
Wallion when McTuft had finished.

"There's nothing of any importance about
her," said McTuft.

"And what about Corman's asylum?"

"It's quite correct that he is a medico,"
the Scotsman said, shrugging his shoulders.
"Want to know anything more?  Well then,
I'll go back to 39 Church Street."

He went, and for some minutes Wallion stood
as if dead to all his surroundings; his nostrils
quivered and his lips were pressed hard
together.  All at once he said:

"I take less interest in Doctor Corman's past
than in the fact of his connection with Dixon,
the kindly employer who was so much interested
in Elaine Robertson's history ... the chain is
complete now.  Scarcely had Ferail set foot in
Seattle when he inquired about certain 'goods' at
Dixon's, the 'goods' being the two stolen dolls,
and it was to Dixon he had sent them from
Stockholm.  Again, I am perfectly sure now that
Corman and Ferail exchanged signals at the station.
They are old acquaintances, but they kept it
secret from us.  Dixon, Corman and Ferail, there
we have our enemies."

"But who, then, is this fellow Ferail?" asked Tom.

"Haven't you already guessed?  He is Toroni,
of course."

A waiter came up just then.

"A gentleman is here asking for Mr. Wallion;
his name is Henry Morris."

"Show him in."

A pale, short-sighted man in black came
forward, and after an awkward bow said: "I am
Doctor Corman's assistant.  The doctor sends
his compliments and he hopes to see you,
gentlemen, at the asylum at 11 to-morrow morning."

"Thanks, are you going back there?"

"No, I gave up my post to-day and am leaving
for Portland by the night train.  I offered to
leave his message on my way."

"Is that so?" said Wallion, very deliberately.
"Does Doctor Corman intend to look after his
patients alone then?"

"He has only one."

Wallion nodded, it was just what he had
expected.  He accompanied Morris to the door and
said:

"Nice place, Portland, are you going to set
up in practice there?"

"No, I am going to be assistant surgeon at
the hospital," replied Morris, and with a stiff
inclination of the head he left the hotel.

Tom, who all this time had been on tenterhooks,
rushed at Wallion and seized his arm.

"What is the meaning of it all?" he said.
"You say that Ferail is Toroni and Corman's
friend; why didn't you have him put in gaol?"

"Because I want to find out first where those
wooden dolls have got to," replied Wallion
calmly, "but I am rather beginning to fear that
I gave him too long a respite."  After a pause
he added: "Tom, we shall have to..."

Again there was an interruption; a waiter
appeared with a biggish parcel done up in blue
paper.  "For Mr. Wallion," he announced.

"Hallo, what next?  Who left this?"

"A little chap, who ran away immediately, sir."

Wallion made a sign to the man to leave the
room, and proceeded to undo the parcel.  It
contained five wooden dolls, exact facsimiles of
those with which they were already only too well
acquainted.  Wallion picked up a card on which
was written, in a fine female hand:

.. vspace:: 2

..
   
   "If you want to hear more about these dolls
   come to the West Seattle railway station one
   hour after midnight."

.. vspace:: 2

"What on earth is it?" said Tom, rather scared.

"'Welcome to Seattle,'" said Wallion, bursting
into a fit of grim merriment.  "A few playthings
to amuse us whilst we are waiting."

He examined the figures minutely one by one.
Under the foot of each he found a number; these
were respectively: 1, 3, 7, 9 and 11.

"Uneven numbers only," he grunted; "with
the one we took out of the girl's satchel the series
from one to eleven would be complete.  Yes, that
is rather puzzling; an unknown giver," he said
with a sardonic smile, looking at the card once
more.  "H—m, West Seattle station at one
o'clock in the morning."  He tore the card to
pieces.  "No," he said in a hard voice, "that
trap is not good enough.  Put those images into
a bag, Tom ... we'll have another look at them
later on."

He paced up and down the room for a time,
deep in thought; then he spoke: "They want to
keep us out of the way till to-morrow, that is
why they want us to keep the appointment
to-night; Tom, I shall require your assistance; I
mean to pay a little surprise visit to the doctor
and his friends to-night."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WILLIAM ROBERTSON`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center large bold

   WILLIAM ROBERTSON

.. vspace:: 2

Doctor Corman's villa and private asylum
lay just outside and to the north of the
town.  At ten P.M. Wallion and his friends got
out of a taxi which drew up a hundred yards from
the heavy iron gates of the villa and, as they
anticipated a long, tedious wait, they sent the
chauffeur home.  Their object was to find out who
was there and to interfere in case of need only.

"Remember that William Robertson is there,"
was Wallion's cautious remark; "we must be
careful not to bring things to a premature
crisis."

They passed by the gates and climbed over a
wall protected by shady trees.  The night was
dark, cloudy, and very still; there seemed no
other houses near.  They landed in what
appeared to be badly kept marshy ground.  The
villa lay immediately before them, a pretentious,
modern stone building on two floors, with a
loggia giving on to the grounds, and a spacious
lawn in front whence a short drive led to the
gates.  A faint light burning in a room over the
loggia revealed that there were iron bars to the
window.  With the exception of this feeble
illumination there was nothing on this side of the
house to indicate that it was inhabited; but
Wallion made a noiseless investigation of the
other side and discovered lights in two windows
on the second floor.  These had no bars—merely
thick curtains.

"I am thinking of climbing up to that barred
window," he whispered, when he again joined
Tom, "wait for me here."  And before Tom
could expostulate Wallion had climbed on to the
roof of the loggia, and disappeared from sight.
For a few minutes he lay at full length on the
zinc roof and listened intently; hearing nothing
he stealthily crept up to the window and looked in.

What he saw was nothing less than a whitewashed
cell with a single lamp suspended from
the ceiling; the furniture consisted of a strong
wooden stool, a wooden table, and a wooden
bedstead securely fixed to the wall.  A man lay on
the bed.  Wallion recognized him at once, thanks
to the photograph in Elaine's locket; the
neglected white hair, the emaciated features and the
feverish bright eyes had left a deep impression
on his mind.  He was William Robertson.  He
lay motionless on his back, his hands clasped
under his head.  Wallion looked long and pityingly
at him through the thick glass.  There was
nothing in William Robertson's expression to
indicate madness; his face wore a look of apathy
and calm resignation.  The poor man, a prisoner
rather than a patient, the object of their
search—would he be able to answer the questions put
to him?  Wallion looked towards the door.  It
was locked, no doubt.  How dark and dismal
the house must be! ... Why was Elaine not
with her father?  He stopped to think, and then
crept along the roof as far as the other windows
which had no bars, but were now in complete
darkness; he gently tried one of them which did
not appear to be fastened; it yielded without any
noise and he stepped in.  The room in which he
found himself was small and led into a
dimly-lighted passage; he thought he could detect a
faint odor of tobacco.  Finally, hearing nothing,
he crossed the room and looked out into the
passage.  A lamp hung from the ceiling at the
farther end, and he perceived the balustrade of
a staircase, and several doors—all shut.  He
walked along a red carpet to the end of the
corridor, and there found that one of the doors,
which seemed to be more massive than the rest,
was padlocked, but the key was in the lock.
Wallion's bump of topography told him that
this must be the door of the cell he had seen
through the window.  Without another moment's
hesitation he turned the key and went in.  The
man on the bed slowly raised himself, but Wallion
quickly closed the door and laid a finger on
his lips.

"All right, Mr. Robertson," he said with a
smile, "don't be alarmed.  My name is Wallion.
I have come from Sweden and bring a message
from Christian Dreyel."

William Robertson looked steadily at him, not
with fear, but with an almost childlike curiosity.

"You are welcome, Mr. Wallion," he answered
in a voice the strength of which had been sapped
long ago, "don't be afraid that I shall make a
noise.  My daughter has told me all about you
and your friend."  In a low and hopeless tone
he added, "But you have come too late."

"Too late? ... Not a bit of it....  It is never
too late for anything," said Wallion soothingly,
sitting down on the edge of the bed.  "Your
daughter is here safe and sound, and we are
going to help you; but time flies, and you must
tell me everything quickly, precisely and
without reserve.  My friend Murner is waiting
outside, and no one has the remotest idea that I am
here with you."

Robertson wrinkled his brow in a painful
effort to understand.

"If they did know," he whispered, "you would
not get out of here alive.  I am in a prison;
they insist on taking me for a madman.  I am
not mad—but expect I soon shall be.  Oh, if
you only knew what I have to go through.
Their prisoner ... their prisoner..." and he
laid his hand on Wallion's coat sleeve.

"But your daughter?"

"They have deceived my daughter."

Wallion saw a spark of fire in the dim eyes as
Robertson leant over nearer to him, and deep in
those hollow orbs there glowed a soul driven to
the utmost border of reason, appealing for help.
Wallion was seized with inexpressible compassion,
and by way of encouragement took the
cold, weak hands into his own warm ones.

"Try to set your mind at rest," he said.  "But
tell me: am I to understand that your daughter
is not aware of the treatment Doctor Corman
metes out to you?"

"Doctor Corman is cunning," whispered
Robertson.  "He enticed me here at first when I
was sick ... Yes, when I was cast down and ill
he took me up in a kind, friendly way; I was put
into a pretty little room on the other side of the
corridor, a sweet little room with no bars."
... Here he lost himself ... "without bars," he
repeated.

"Yes, I see," said Wallion, "so he was kind to
you for a time ... but one day you got to
know that he was a friend of Toroni's, did you not?"

Robertson looked up in fear.

"Do you really know everything?" he gasped.
"That was it; Toroni was alive and prying into
the secret.  Toroni was Doctor Corman's friend,
but though the Doctor was sly and deceitful, I
saw through him and his many questions at last;
then they moved me in here.  But listen how
artful he was.  When Elaine came to see me I had
to receive her in that pretty little room as if it
were still mine, and behind a curtain Toroni
watched, revolver in hand, ready to shoot me, if
I revealed the least thing.  Can you imagine
such a thing?" he burst out, raising his clasped
hands.  "And he would have killed us both had
I ventured to say a word."

"Anyhow, you managed secretly to persuade
your daughter to undertake the voyage to Sweden."

"Who knows whether that also did not leak
out?  I believe it did," Robertson answered
languidly.  "I had sent off the dolls before I
came here.  They probably decoyed me here so
that they might find out their whereabouts.  I
am inclined to think so...."

Wallion nodded: "There's not the least doubt
of that; Toroni and his accomplices went about
their work thoroughly.  Do you think your
daughter has the least inkling of the plight you
are in?"

"No, but I believe she begins to think the
Doctor's diagnosis of my case is wrong,"
replied Robertson in an unusually natural and
deliberate voice.  "She told me last night that I
am going to be taken away from here, and that
everything would be made clear...."

"Oh, there she is right enough," said Wallion,
"but a lot of things have to be done before then.
You must place full confidence in me,
Mr. Robertson, and tell me all," he bent forward.
"Tell me what is the mystery about King Solomon?"

William Robertson raised his hand to his
forehead as if to disperse the mist of years; it
shook and the fire in his eyes died down once
more.

"Oh, of course, I will tell you," he said half
absently, "the time has come that I should tell
you, perhaps, though you had better read it..."
he roused himself.  "I've written it all down—the
account of King Solomon, you shall read it...."

All at once he looked with more intelligence at
Wallion.

"I wrote it all down when I was in that room
on the other side of the corridor.  It is the first
door on the left; there you'll find the document
as well as a list of the twelve."

"What twelve?" broke in Wallion excitedly.

"Well, the list of the twelve who were the
rightful owners."

Wallion was about to speak, but Robertson
resumed with feverish haste:

"Go in there, open the window and feel along
the molding on the further side; that is where
the papers are, wrapped up in a piece of oilcloth.
I hid them there."

Greatly surprised, Wallion smiled.

"A very good hiding place, too," he said
reflectively.  "Things seem quiet enough in the
house," he continued, "and those documents I
certainly must have...."  He lifted a warning
finger.  "A motor is coming up the drive."

The hum of a motor, and the grinding of
wheels on the gravel could be heard distinctly
on the other side of the house.  Wallion turned
to Robertson and said:

"Stay here, and be calm; I'll come back soon,
if I can; anyhow, you will be free to-morrow at
the latest.  Trust me."

He gave a parting nod to the poor man, who
looked wistfully after him, and went out.  There
was no one in the corridor and he locked the door
so as not to raise a sudden alarm.  On the
farther side of the house he heard a door open
and stopped to listen.  There was no other
sound, but he thought he heard the murmur of
voices behind one of the doors a long way down.
He frowned and hurriedly transferred his
Browning from an inner to an outer pocket; then he
made his way into the "sweet, little room" which
had been the unfortunate man's first resting
place in the asylum.  It was simple but bright
with flowers on the table, most likely put there
by Elaine.

But Wallion had no time to waste on details.
Without striking a light he opened the window,
stepped out, and with his hands groped along
the molding above his head.  Immediately
below he noticed the shining black hood of a
motor, with shaded lamps and faintly humming
engine, but there was no one to be seen in the
drive.  Wallion observed these facts mechanically,
for his hands had already grasped a roll
of something which had been hidden in the
molding of the wall above the window.  He
got down satisfied and elated, and closed the
casement again.  "At last," he said to himself,
"at last the key to the mystery is in my hands."
He took a few steps into the room, but suddenly
stopped short, every nerve in his body whispered
"Danger," and his hands sought his pocket.  The
electric light was switched on, and in the
doorway stood Doctor Corman.

"I beg you to keep quiet," said the Doctor,
with his usual cold, well-trained voice, "and
hands up, if you please."  A revolver gleamed in
his hand—and Wallion obeyed.

"Delighted to meet you here *en famille*, Doctor,"
he said smiling, "I know now how keenly
I appreciated your worth during our railway
journey together."

"What business brings you here?" asked the
Doctor curtly.

"Did you think I was going to play with dolls
like a good boy, and go to the station at West
Seattle at one o'clock in the morning?" said
Wallion.  "No, the card you made Madame
Lorraine write did not lure me, and I hadn't
patience enough to wait until eleven o'clock
to-morrow; that's what has brought me here."

"And you preferred to sneak in like a thief?"

"You are very particular ... I got in where
I could."

"You will be received accordingly.  Be good
enough to keep still; our explanation will be
short but to the point."

Wallion's eyes wandered to the left, where he
suspected a door concealed behind a curtain.

"As you please," he said, "but I think our
friend Ferail had better show himself too.
Aha, he is hesitating, perhaps he would rather
be addressed by another name.  Now, then,
come along, No. 13 Toroni."

The curtain was drawn aside and Ferail appeared
in the light.  He also had a revolver in
his hand.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FERAIL MAKES A PROPOSAL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center large bold

   FERAIL MAKES A PROPOSAL

.. vspace:: 2

"Good evening," said Wallion, in an
amicable tone.  "You are right in making
the most of the fleeting moments; your twenty-four
hours' respite has not quite run out yet."

The Doctor was as imperturbably cool as ever
but Ferail's countenance had altered indeed.
His upper lip was drawn up above the gums, his
eyes were burning, and the skin of his distorted,
repulsive face had turned to a greenish pallor,
as if his choler were choking him.

"I can do without your respite, Wallion," he
said.  "Did you think I could not shake off that
simpleton McTuft?  You had better get some
other man in his place, for he is no good.  Why
don't you have me arrested now, eh?"

"Have you arrested?  Certainly not ... your
conversation is so exceedingly pleasant...."

"Enough of that," interrupted Doctor Corman,
"Ferail, get that roll our visitor is holding in
his hand.  He has had better luck than we, he
has found Robertson's notes....  I am sorry,
Mr. Wallion, but they don't belong to you.  Take
them, Ferail."

The Greek did so, and went with great
thoroughness through the pockets of his victim,
though he took nothing except the Browning,
which he threw on the sideboard.

Steps became audible in the corridor, and a
stout but active-looking man in a well-fitting
chauffeur's uniform, walked in.

"What is all this delay about?" he said sharply.
"Haven't you settled it yet, boys?  Who the
deuce is that man there?" he added, staring at
Wallion who, being now without a weapon, stood
with his arms at his side and his hands in his
pockets, leaning against a chair.

"He is one of those Swedes," answered
Corman.  "We caught him in the act of stealing
some papers of Robertson's."

"My name is Maurice Wallion, at your service,"
said the journalist detective, with a mocking
bow, "I presume I am addressing Mr. Edward
Attiswood Dixon?"  The name rolled
glibly off his tongue.

He had made a shrewd guess at the owner of
the black motor, and he examined him with
undisguised curiosity.  In spite of his corpulence
the man moved with well-trained ease and
self-possession; his face was ruddy, and he was bald
with the exception of a little gray fringe at the
back of his head.  His features were full and
coarse—a face like that of Nero up-to-date, made
in America.

Wallion was not disappointed, he had pictured
Elaine's employer something like this.

Dixon slowly took off his driving gloves and
let his eyes, which were entirely devoid of
expression, rest on the "Problem-Solver."

"Well, Mr. Wallion," he said, "you seem to be
in rather a fix just now.  Pray, are you always
so imprudent?"

"Of course, life would be so monotonous otherwise."

Dixon showed no sign of having heard this
remark.  He took the roll out of Ferail's hand and
stuffed it into one of his inner pockets.

"I am going to look after this," he observed
in a business-like voice.  "We are in a hurry,
the road is clear and I've got the two dolls in
the car.  What are you going to do with him,
Doctor?" he asked, with a movement of his hand
in the direction of Wallion.

"Allow me to make a proposal," said Ferail,
taking a step forward.  His peculiar short
breathing made every one look at him.

"Well, what is it?" asked Dixon abruptly.

Ferail's face twitched, he looked like one
possessed, his right hand wandered to his waistcoat
and he drew forth a long, straight, thin knife....
"This is what I wished to propose," he said.

The knife was as bright as though it had been
polished with the utmost care, and Wallion had
not the least doubt that, barely two yards away,
his eyes beheld the weapon which had slain
Victor Dreyel, all but killed Christian and severely
wounded Elaine.  Ferail had put his revolver
back in his pocket, he seemed to despise any
weapon other than his shining blade, and he no
longer fixed his eyes on Wallion's face but came
closer up to him....

"Ferail," said the Doctor.

The Greek stood still.

"Your methods are not ours," resumed Corman.
"Put that thing away."

Ferail lowered his eyes and stood for a time
with head bowed low, then silently put the knife
away.

"That is well," said Wallion, "but I shall not
forget your gentle proposal, Ferail."

The Doctor and his friend exchanged a few
inaudible words, whereupon Dixon said in a loud
voice: "The simplest way will be to shut him
up in that little room down there."

Doctor Corman nodded assent, and turning
to Wallion: "Come along," he said, in a tone of
command.  "Go down the stairs in front of me,
and take my word for it that I will shoot you
down without the slightest compunction at the
very first attempt of escape."

"Thanks, your attitude with regard to the
fifth commandment is original, very," replied
Wallion, and laughed as he made his way past
his adversaries.  In the corridor he stopped to
light a cigar, and then went quickly down the
stairs.

The Doctor threw open a door on the right,
and with a sardonic smile motioned to Wallion
to go in.  Wallion, knowing that resistance
would prove as fatal as suicide, resigned himself
with apparent submission to the inevitable, and
obeyed.  The door closed upon him with a
mighty bang.

He was left to himself in a cell even smaller
than the one occupied by Robertson, while the
bars of its window were more massive.  It was
sparsely lighted by a lamp suspended from the
ceiling, but far out of reach, and the window also
was set a good yard beyond the thick bars
inside.  There was not a stick of furniture of any
kind.  Wallion tried the door; it was of solid
oak, with a lock impossible to negotiate from
the inside.

"A regular prison cell," growled Wallion.
"I wonder for whom it was originally intended."

He tried to look out, but the darkness outside
prevented him from seeing anything, and he
could not extinguish the lamp.  He hoped most
sincerely that Tom Murner would return to town
and give information to the police that he had
mysteriously disappeared, but presently, with
silent scorn for his weakness, he remembered
that he had not given Tom any instructions in
case of such a contingency.

He heard footsteps and voices, both within and
without, and realized that his last hope was
gone....  He heard Tom Murner's voice in the
entrance hall.  He could not catch his words
distinctly, but he heard the Doctor reply, "Yes, he
is here.  Do come in, you are very welcome,
Mr. Murner."

Tom's voice seemed to draw near and sounded
somewhat suspicious.

"Can I speak to him at once?" he said.

"Yes, of course....  This way, please."

The steps came nearer and Tom asked from
outside, "Is Wallion here?"

"Yes, here he is, you need only walk in."

The door of the cell was opened, Tom was
roughly pushed in, then it was slammed to again
and sounds of loud, derisive laughter came from
the hall.  Tom picked himself up half-dazed.
"You, too?" he said, lamely.  Wallion made a
wry face—he no longer felt any inclination to
smile—and merely said: "As you see."

A dazzling light passed the window; the lamps
of the motor car were being lighted ... Sounds
in the distance indicated that it had started.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ELAINE'S SECOND DISAPPEARANCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center large bold

   ELAINE'S SECOND DISAPPEARANCE

.. vspace:: 2

Wallion looked thoughtfully at the lamp.
Then he took out his clasp knife, and with
unerring aim, hurled it at the globe, which fell
to the ground in countless pieces, and left the
room pitch dark.

"What in the world did you do that for?" cried Tom.

"That I might look out," said Wallion, leaning
against the window-bars, and gazing eagerly
out into the night.  The lights of the car below
came round a turn of the drive and a black mass
could be seen making its way towards the gate.
Both men caught a glimpse of Elaine's head in
the car before it was lost in the darkness.  Tom
nearly yelled:

"Oh, the wretches, they are taking her away."

"She is going with them of her own free will,"
said Wallion wearily.  "Be quiet and let me
think."

He sat down and crossed his legs, leaning
against the wall, with closed eyes.  After a time
he began to relate all that had happened since
he had got into the house.

"So you will understand that she has not the
slightest idea of what goes on here, and that, in
a way, makes her position more difficult," he
concluded.  "There is a possibility of their
wanting to keep her as a sort of hostage, for she can
scarcely have any further information to give
them...."  Here he stopped in order to think
a little, "I wish I could have saved Robertson's
notes," he continued, "then we might, perhaps,
know where they are going now."

His cool, deliberate tone irritated Tom.

"I consider we have behaved like consummate
idiots," he burst out.

"Yes, I have especially," Wallion drily
confessed.  There was something in his voice which
filled Tom with self-reproach.

"Forgive me," he said, "I am almost beside myself."

Wallion pressed his hand in the dark.

"I am thinking about those dolls," he
volunteered.  "What Robertson said about a list of
twelve who were the real owners, taken in
conjunction with Victor Dreyel's words when he
said the dolls were 'likenesses of the dead' which
bring misfortune to the 'living,' has put a queer
notion into my head.  The figures were all
numbered and we have seen sundry numbers up
to twelve.  Possibly these images really represent
the 'genuine' proprietors, and there should
be exactly twelve....  How does that strike you?"

"It sounds very likely," replied Tom.

"We have come across all the uneven numbers,"
Wallion went on, "in a way which rather
seems to indicate that the uneven numbers are of
no value.  The figure that was stolen from
Victor Dreyel bore the number 12 and the one his
cousin had was marked 6.  In what way, do you
suppose, can the even numbers be of more value
than the odd ones?  The uneven numbers stood
alone, but under No. 6 and No. 12 were some
other numbers in addition, 29" and 33".  Let us
take the even numbers 2, 4, 6, 8, 10 and 12, and
when we divide them into two groups we find
on the last in each group the numbers 29" and
33".  Now make a shot at something ... guess!"

"No, I don't take that in," said Tom, "what are
you aiming at?"

"Purely a supposition, just imaginary,"
replied Wallion.  "Let us assume that in the year
1902 there were twelve men, proprietors of a
gold-mine in Alaska, that the majority of these
fell victims to some unexpected calamity; and
that the few who survived returned, sorely
disappointed, to civilized life.  One of these, no
doubt, was William Robertson, and two others,
Victor and Christian Dreyel, cousins.  Well
then, if for some reason or other Robertson
wished to record the longitude and latitude of
the mine on the dolls, which bore even numbers,
the degrees, minutes and seconds, you
understand ... one number on each figure ... the
seconds would fall to No. 6 and No. 12."

At last Tom seemed to comprehend his friend's
theory.

"Yes, of course," he cried aloud, "and if the
situation of the mine can be pretty accurately
located the numbers referring to the seconds are
indispensible.  That was why Robertson sent
Nos. 6 and 12 to the Dreyel cousins for safety,
and why Ferail began his murderous work.
Wallion, you have solved the mystery of King
Solomon."

Wallion shook his head.

"No," he said.  "I fancy I am pretty near it,
though.  Who is No. 13 Toroni?  Where does
he hail from?  As I have represented things
there are still various discrepancies.  Can a
mine disappear so entirely in the space of
sixteen years?  Could those fellows that drove
away in Dixon's car have set to work in peace
and quiet to exploit a stolen gold-mine?  Why
did not Robertson and the Dreyels go back
again if it could be worked anew?  No, King
Solomon remains a riddle to us, my friend."

Tom relapsed into his former state of depression.
What was the use of speculating when
Elaine might be on the road to renewed dangers?
He jumped up and began a wild attack on the
door.  "We must get out of this!" he said
angrily.

Wallion, who had risen, walked to the window,
turned round sharply, and said:

"Pull yourself together, man, in five minutes
relief will come."

Tom, bewildered, muttered: "How?"  Half
hopeful, half in doubt.

"I rather think McTuft is standing by the
gate," was Wallion's laconic reply as he fumbled
for his knife, which he threw with all his might
against the window between the bars; the panes
broke with a crash which in the dead silence
could be heard for a great distance, and almost
immediately light footsteps sounded on the
gravel outside.

"McTuft!" Wallion called out.

"Here I am," answered the Scotsman below.
"Whatever are you doing there, Mr. Wallion?"
he asked with apparent interest.  "I thought the
house was empty."

"We are shut up," replied Wallion briefly.
"Creep in as best you can and open the door for
us; I will knock so that you will know which
door."

McTuft whistled softly and ran round to the
entrance.  After a seemingly endless time the
door sprang open and they were free.  McTuft
could hardly restrain his curiosity.

In a few words Wallion told him what had
happened, and fixing his eyes on the Scotsman,
said:

"So you have lost Ferail?"

"Yes, the scoundrel made his way over the
roof," said McTuft, visibly affected.  "I did not
know it was a habit of his....  Anyhow, I
traced him here," he added.

"Well, by this time he is probably a good
distance away from here, but I am not going to
find fault with you on that account, McTuft, you
helped so cleverly with the doors; did you come
alone?"

"No, with my assistant, who is now waiting
with the car a little way down the road."

"Splendid, call him up quick," said Wallion,
as he ran upstairs.  He unlocked the door of
Robertson's cell, half afraid of what he might
see within, but to his great relief he found the
man in bed, lying on his back as before.

"Anybody been here?" he asked

"The Doctor looked in once without saying
anything," replied Robertson, who sat up as soon
as Wallion came in, more wide awake and
expectant than he had seen him yet.  "What has
been going on?  I heard steps and voices....
Where is my daughter?"

"You must take things quietly now," said
Wallion kindly.  "I can't explain matters just
at present, but there is nothing to be alarmed
about.  Your daughter has left the house, but
you will have news of her soon.  You have done
with your tormentors now, for good and all,
and I shall put you under the care of a really
trustworthy person."

At this point McTuft and his assistant, a
young, pleasant-looking official named
Johnstone, entered the room.

"There are two things you must do, Johnstone,"
was Wallion's greeting as he hurriedly
scribbled a few lines on a card.  "First of all you
must take Mr. Robertson to the Pacific Hotel,
give this card to the manager and see that he is
properly looked after.  Secondly, alarm the
police.  They must track the individuals whose
names I have written down: Edward A. Dixon,
Doctor Augustus N. Corman, Madame Lorraine
and Ricardo Ferail, commonly called 'Toroni';
the last is guilty of murder, the others are
accomplices."

Johnstone wrote down the names.

"They have only just driven away in Dixon's
car, and under false pretenses induced Miss
Elaine Robertson to accompany them," said
Wallion more deliberately.  "Her father,
Mr. Robertson, need not be told, but he may give
information respecting their motives and actions;
got that down?"

"Yes," answered the young official with
enthusiasm and, grinning at McTuft, observed:
"'Hotel Dixon' is in for it this time.  Just
think of it!"

"That's good," said Wallion, "but you must
provide yourselves with another car, the one that
is here we shall want for ourselves; *au revoir*,
Mr. Robertson, and don't you worry," he
concluded, shaking hands heartily with the
bewildered man, after which he hurried away.

It was past eleven, and darker than ever, when
Wallion, Murner and McTuft ran down the drive
to the gates.  By the light of McTuft's pocket-lamp
they could distinctly see the traces of Dixon's
car on the damp road.

"They have taken a northerly direction,
probably for the coast..." said McTuft.

They got into the car, and McTuft, who knew
the country well, took the wheel; there was no
need for any deliberation on the way, both
Wallion and Tom knew exactly what to do.  Dixon
and his associates must be taken at any cost, in
the least possible space of time, and sent to
prison.  Tom said nothing, but he was prepared.
The picture of Elaine's sweet, innocent face
among such repulsive surroundings as "Silent"
Ferail's Assyrian profile, Doctor Corman's
satanic features and mocking smile, and Dixon's
Nero-like head, almost drove him frantic.

The motor flew along like an arrow and left
Corman's dark, empty house far behind; the
lights of Seattle disappeared from sight and all
that lay before them was a desolate, white road,
leading ... where?

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOTEL "GOLDEN SNAKE"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center large bold

   HOTEL "GOLDEN SNAKE"

.. vspace:: 2

A cool breeze was blowing from the sea, and
far away in Puget Sound hoarse and peculiar
signals, proceeding from an invisible
steamer, filled the air.  The last breath of wind,
however, soon ceased, the atmosphere grew more
oppressive and finally resolved itself into fog.
The motor rushed on with careless speed, the
impulsive, gruff Scotsman proving himself an ideal
chauffeur.  Fortunately, at that hour the road
was almost deserted, and by the white light of
the lamps the traces of Dixon's car, in double,
unbroken lines, were plainly visible.  All at
once McTuft remarked:

"One would think they were making for the
Canadian frontier."

"They won't get there," said Wallion, "it's
much too far."

"Well, it is a good bit off, as you say,"
assented McTuft drily, "and I guess Johnstone has
given the alarm by now."

They were getting near the water and, still
following the track, they turned into a road
which it seemed likely ran parallel with the
shore in a northwesterly direction.

"Perhaps they intend going on board some
vessel," suggested Tom uneasily.

"I was just thinking the same thing," Wallion
answered.

At the same moment McTuft put on the brake,
for a lad of about fifteen was coming from the
opposite direction on a bicycle, and the
Scotsman called out:

"Hallo, boy!"

"Boy yourself," retorted the lad, stopping.
"Say, is there a motor-race on this evening, eh?"

"Have you met a black-covered car?"

"I have, and, my eye, it could run too; it
dashed past me like a shot."

"How long since you saw it?"

"Ten minutes or so."

McTuft started the car and remarked: "They
haven't got far ahead."  Trees and bushes flew
past and the travelers felt as if they were sitting
still in the midst of a hurricane.  Black pools
of water were visible on the left, as they rushed
past detached villas and groups of houses on the
sea front.  Now and then they met a car, which
carefully turned aside to let them pass, and in a
few seconds was left far in the rear.

But shortly afterwards, when the car was beginning
to toil up a long ascent, almost parallel
with the beach, McTuft again applied his brakes,
and pulled up in front of a signboard which
read:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   G O L D E N  S N A K E
   SUMMER HOTEL

.. vspace:: 1

A gravel path led to a dark, high building which
rose almost from the edge of the water.  Near
it was a tennis lawn, and further away a
landing-stage for motor-boats, a long line of bathing
machines and several villas.  McTuft pointed
to the roadway.  Evidently Dixon's car had
pulled up for a few minutes by the side gate and
then started again.  A sleepy, uncouth individual
in slippers and shirt sleeves was about to
slink into the hotel by the kitchen entrance when
a shout from McTuft stopped him.

"You, over there, come here!"  The man
turned and came slowly.

"Golden Snake Hotel!  Curious name that
for a summer hotel," said Wallion.

"It's named after this little bay which is called
Golden Snake Bay," volunteered McTuft;
"newly erected.  Meant to make this into a
fashionable watering-place, I guess, but I don't
think it will attract many visitors—one of
Dixon's unsuccessful speculations."

"What?  Is this one of Dixon's Summer hotels?"
asked Wallion in surprise.  "If so..."  He
rose hurriedly and jumped out of the car.

By this time the man had come up, and Wallion
inquired.

"Are you in Mr. Dixon's employ?"

"I am," said the man, and yawned.

"Your employer's car pulled up here a little
while ago, didn't it?"

The man nodded.

"Well, what did he want? ... Now answer
me quick or it will be the worse for you."

The man blinked his malicious, inquisitive
eyes in the light, and scratched his head.

"Now then," said McTuft harshly ... "No
nonsense."

"He had one of our chauffeurs called up from
bed and took him," said the man reluctantly.
"I can quite understand he must have been awfully
tired driving the car himself all that time."

"Then he drove on again, I suppose; how long
ago was that?"

"Five ... ten minutes, maybe."

Wallion looked closely at the man in slippers
but remained dumb.  McTuft gave vent to a
war-whoop, he was madly impatient.

"Quick, get in again, Mr. Wallion, and let us
be after them."

"No," said Wallion, "I stay here."

"What's that you say? ... You want to
remain here? ... But what about the car?"

The Scotsman's red hair seemed to stand on
end; he had taken off his cap and was staring
at Wallion as at one who had suddenly taken
leave of his senses.

"Can I speak to the landlord?" said Wallion,
turning to the man, who stood there gaping.

"He has gone away, the hotel is closed for
alterations."

"But it seems that there are chauffeurs?"

"Yes, we have the garage to let."

"We are wasting time," said McTuft in
despair.  Wallion looked at him and smiled.

"You are right, McTuft, I have changed my
plans.  Go after Dixon's car at once and stop it;
perhaps Murner and I will come on later; no
arguing ... be off."  Wallion had spoken in a
tone of command.  The Scotsman straightened
himself, bit his lip, and said, "All right."

Tom had only just time to get out before the
car started and disappeared round the corner.

"What does all this mean?" asked Tom confusedly.

"It means," replied Wallion, "that McTuft,
who is stubborn, is getting his own way, that the
black car won't be running much further, and
that the Golden Snake Hotel is much too
interesting to be passed by..."

He pounced upon the sleepy man and caught
him somewhat savagely by the arm.

"What is your job here?" he asked gruffly.

"Night watchman," came the sullen answer.

"Good," said Wallion, hustling the man in
front of him along the gravel path towards the
hotel.

"Then, of course, you can tell me what sort of
people have been here recently and which of
them have only just left."  He pointed to the
path where half obliterated marks of many feet
were still to be seen.

The man's knees began to shake and he opened
his mouth in dumb despair.

"Look here, my man, we are detectives, so you
had better keep a civil tongue in your head.
Well, you say that Dixon had a chauffeur in
readiness here and that the black car went on
again with that same chauffeur at the wheel?"

"Yes," stammered the man.  Wallion seized
and shook him like a rat.

"Now about Dixon himself, he got out here,
didn't he?  And his party as well; don't try to
deny it," said Wallion, in a voice that nearly
scared the man out of his wits.  "They got out
here; where are they now?"

The man lifted his hand and with trembling
finger—he seemed unable to speak—pointed to
the bay.  Wallion pushed him away.

"To the beach," he said with a frown.  "A
boat!  Aha, what is that?  Over there?"

As soon as they passed the corner of the
untenanted hotel they obtained an open view over
the smooth water of the bay.  Outside the
breakwater lay a large pleasure yacht, painted white,
with steam up.

"What sort of a boat is that?" asked Wallion
sharply.

"That ... that is Mr. Dixon's steam yacht
'Ariadne,'" the man answered dejectedly.

Wallion looked at Tom.  Both immediately
grasped the situation.  Wallion let go the man's
arms and pointed to the house.

"Go in there and don't stick even the tip of
your nose out of the door."

The man disappeared in the direction of the
hotel, and he did not notice that he had lost his
slippers on the way; the treatment he had
received from Wallion had rather dazed him.

Wallion and Tom cast wistful eyes upon the
pleasure yacht which lay proudly on the dark,
gleaming water, smoke issuing from the yellow
funnel ... She was evidently ready to start.

"I suppose they are on board already," said
Wallion huskily.  "Confound it all!"

He ran so fast towards the point that Tom
could scarcely keep up with him.  No one was
near, but a prolonged whistle from the yacht
came across the water, and Tom wondered
whether it might be a signal to some other boat
lying in the offing.  Wallion had already
climbed up the cliffs on the point, and as his
silhouette became visible for a moment under
the clear sky Tom fancied he saw him waving his
hand.  After much exertion Tom at last reached
the top of the cliff; Wallion was nowhere to
be seen, but when he leant over the rocks, a
strange sight met his eyes.

From the foot of the cliff a boat, manned by
four men, shot out into the water, but the men
were sitting still with oars tilted, as if waiting
for some one.  Wallion came walking along the
top some little distance away, heading straight
towards the boat, and Tom felt by intuition that
his friend had not noticed the skiff lying below.
His voice froze on his lips—A short, nimble
figure had thrown itself upon Wallion from behind,
and both men rolled towards the edge of the
cliff.  There followed a smothered cry, a flash
and the report of a shot; at the same time
Wallion's body was jerked backwards and fell into
the water with a splash.  The short man scrambled
hastily down the cliff and jumped into the
boat, which immediately put out to sea.  The
beach was silent and deserted; the whole
tragedy had not occupied five minutes and it left
Tom cold, paralyzed and speechless.  He ran
like a maniac down to the place where his friend
had disappeared.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE "ARIADNE"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE "ARIADNE"

.. vspace:: 2

The catastrophe had come like a thunderbolt,
and though Tom did not doubt either
his eyes or his ears, he could not help repeating
to himself: "It can't be possible, it can't be true."

He had recognized Ferail's cat-like movements,
had heard the shot and had seen Wallion
fall into the water; he reached the fateful spot
breathless and panting, and gazed into the dark,
oily water which seemed to have no bottom.
The cliffs were precipitous, but the water below
was not very deep, though whatever was
dropped into it was bound to be swept out to
sea by the receding tide.  Nothing was to be
seen.  Tom walked to and fro in the hope that
Wallion might have swum ashore, but no trace
of him could he discover.  On the spot where
the short struggle had taken place he picked up
a spent Browning cartridge, that was all.

The boat with the rowers had gone also, and
the outlines of the yacht were obscured by the
rocks.  The loneliness and silence fell upon Tom
like a heavy weight; he threw himself down
upon the ground, covered his face with his hands
and groaned.  Confused visions floated through
his brain; he must seek help, give the alarm,
inform the police ... Ten minutes went by
without a sound save the splashing of the waves
over the pebbles.

When he got up he shook as if from cold, his
eyes were blood-shot, and he was conscious of
one thing only, he must get away, he must
... He ran up the headland; the fog had become
more dense and was driven in great masses from
Eliot Bay, which appeared like a dark speck in
the distance.  The yacht was lying to about a
hundred yards from the point, but its outlines
were blurred and its lights looked like tiny
glowworms.  The sound of chains clanking and
cogwheels moving came to the place where he stood....
They were weighing the anchors ... The
'Ariadne' was evidently putting out to sea.

He rushed back to the landing-stage near the
hotel—without further thought he had made up
his mind.  He was benumbed with pain and
cold, and Ferail's repulsive features constantly
rose up before him.  How he longed to twist his
fingers round the monster's throat!  Wild,
brutal impulses came over him like fits of ague;
he saw red, sparks flew before his eyes
... Then there was Elaine, where had they taken
her to, what was the fate in store for her?  He
set his teeth.  Elaine must be saved at all costs.

Half-hidden under the landing-stage he discovered
a small rowing boat; he jumped into it,
cut the rope by which it was secured and laid
hold of the oars.

The 'Ariadne's' propeller had begun to work,
its rhythmical din seemed very near, and when
he turned his head the green light on the
starboard was only a few yards away; the yacht
passed at half speed.  Tom made a violent effort
and the little boat lightly grazed the gleaming
white side of the 'Ariadne.'  The lifeboat still
swung from the davits and the end of a rope
dangled within his reach; he seized it and hauled
himself up; the little row-boat disappeared from
under his feet and went dancing off on the cool
waters.  He climbed the rail and tumbled down
on the deck, where he lay with beating heart,
expecting a cry of alarm to be raised; but none
came.  The quarter-deck was deserted, but,
immediately in front of him, under an awning, he
could see the stairs leading down to the cabins.
A table and three basket-chairs stood by their
side; further on was a shelter and over all rose
the captain's bridge, whence came the sound of
voices, the only signs of life he could detect on
board at that moment.

The yacht was larger than one would have
supposed, seeing it from the land.  It was
clearly quite an up-to-date vessel of 500 tons,
fitted with wireless, installed between the two
lofty masts; under the awning an electric lamp
was burning.

Tom was just going to pick himself up when
two figures emerged from the stairs.  Doctor
Corman and Ferail were both smoking and had
their coat collars turned up as a protection
against the fog.

"Well, yes, I was rather taken aback when I
caught sight of that devil of a Swede on the
headland," said Ferail, as if he were resuming
an interrupted conversation.  "I thought he
had seen the rowing boat, but I made the men
conceal it under the rocks, and when Wallion
came down he looked rather surprised....  I
could have laughed if I had had time."

The doctor growled out something and Ferail
continued, "Yes, with the knife, but he snatched
it from me, and I had to shoot him instead; the
bullet hit him between the ribs and he fell
backwards into the water ... the water there is
pretty deep, so we need not worry about him any
more."  A guttural sound which might have
been interpreted as a laugh escaped Ferail's
throat.  "I told the men that I had only been
settling up old scores with one of those 'black
ones,' and they thought...."

Corman and Ferail went out of earshot.

Tom felt a wild desire to hurl himself upon
the criminal, but he pulled himself together.
They ascended the bridge and disappeared.

Tom lay completely stupefied.  It was true
then, incontrovertibly true, that Maurice
Wallion was dead ... yet every fiber in his body
seemed to repudiate the idea; he felt it
unreasonable to believe that his strong, cool,
stout-hearted friend, after Sherlock Holmes the
cleverest expert in criminal cases, could in a single
moment have been silenced for ever by this Greek
imposter, this despicable monster.  He buried
his face in his hands ...

"I don't understand what is going on, but at
any rate I must try to pull myself together
... because now I must do the work of two."

He knew he was dead tired.  Gradually the
yacht put on full steam, and the ripple of the
water on the bows melted into a steady swish-swish.
Like a sword through the fog shone the
white rays of a searchlight.

Tom rose with a sigh of weariness; he felt
stiff in every joint, and with a last remnant of
clear intellect he said to himself: "I must bide
my time....  If they discover me now I am lost."

He fixed his aching eyes upon the rocking life-boat.
No, not that one; unsteadily he staggered
over to the boat on the larboard, which was
properly made fast and covered with a tarpaulin,
under which he crept and lay at full length at
the bottom; thinking that, for the present, at
least, he would be safe there.  No one suspected
that he was on board, and no one would look for
him there.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



At frequent intervals the siren on the yacht
shrieked and was answered by signals from
other vessels.  The "Ariadne," with full steam
up, sped through the fog, which entirely
prevented Tom from forming any idea of his
bearings.  Neither land nor water could be
distinguished.  He heard steps approaching and a
deep voice which could be none other than
Dixon's said:

"Well, Captain, we will go straight to Hurricane
Island now.  Think we can do it in three
days and three nights?  That is the time the
last voyage took us, I remember."

"Oh yes, Mr. Dixon," replied another voice,
clear, yet respectful and decisive.  "We will do
our best; the 'Ariadne' is a good girl, and I
suppose you are in a desperate hurry this time?"

"Never was in such a hurry in all my life before,"
said the owner of the yacht, in an amicable tone.

"H—m," said the captain, "we may have a
storm, for at this time of year Hurricane Island
deserves the name.  If we don't, I promise you
we shall be there by Thursday morning,
Mr. Dixon."

"Not so bad," said Dixon.  "Thursday morning
then, eh?"  He went down the stairs and
the captain returned to the bridge.

"Hurricane Island," thought Tom, "whereever
is Hurricane Island?"  He made an effort
to think over what he had heard, but the noise
of the machinery dulled his tired brain and with
the raw, foggy air in his nostrils, he fell into a
heavy sleep.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TORONI RE-ASSUMES HIS RIGHT NAME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   PART III


.. class:: center large bold

   HURRICANE ISLAND

.. vspace:: 3



.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII

.. class:: center large bold

   TORONI REASSUMES HIS RIGHT NAME

.. vspace:: 2

When Tom woke the sun was shining in
between the tarpaulin and the rail of the
boat, the air was mild—fanned by a feeble
breeze—and the yacht rode easily.

Tom had to collect his scattered thoughts
before he could remember where he was, and when
he did get a clear idea of the situation a
shudder ran through him.  With great care he raised
the tarpaulin and took a look round.  The
"Ariadne" seemed to be in the open sea, only
from the starboard could he discern a faint blue
outline of land; the waves rose and fell in gentle
undulations which reflected the sun's rays, the
fog was gone and the sky was almost cloudless.
The fresh air revived him and he took a deep
breath.  Some distance off he saw two of the
crew, barefoot, scrubbing and flushing the
decks, and on the bridge he noticed the broad
back of the captain.  Tom looked at his watch.
It was twenty minutes to one, and he had slept
more than twelve hours!

The captain slowly turned round, and Tom
again ducked down under the tarpaulin.  He
began to consider what he should do; but what
could he do all alone?  He clenched his hands
until the knuckles grew white as he reviewed
the terrible events of the previous night; but
now he was better able to consider his position
calmly, he rejected one after another, as
impractical, his plans for revenge or escape.  He
did not even possess a revolver, nor did he know
anything about the footing on which the
captain and crew might stand with the three
men who were his foes; perhaps they were all
tarred with the same brush; anyhow, Dixon was
the master or employer, and as Tom had no
proofs, he was unarmed in a double sense.  He
spent an hour in fruitless brooding.

The name of Hurricane Island recurred to his
mind.  What sort of place might that be?
There were islands all along the coast from
Seattle to the Bering Sea, an archipelago
hundreds of miles in extent, full of hiding-places
and possibilities for lawless adventurers.  The
time mentioned for the duration of the voyage—three
days and three nights—and his limited
knowledge of geography gave him nothing to go
upon, nor was he able to calculate the "Ariadne's"
speed, although it appeared very fair.  He
began to feel hungry; that was a new trouble,
difficult of solution.  He remembered having
read that lifeboats were always provided with
fresh water and necessaries in case of sudden
emergency, and he set about searching the boat
surreptitiously, but found nothing.

"I shall have to wait till it is night, but
something will have to be done then, for they shall
not take me with my consent."

A stoical calm came over him; he understood
that he could not do anything before darkness
set in, and he lay down and shut his eyes in an
endeavor to forget the cravings of his inner man.

Hours passed, the sun flitted from east to
west, and the yacht kept on her course.  Tom
hoped the passengers would come on deck; the
thought of Elaine, especially, filled him with
longing; but no one came, and the deck remained
deserted.  The strip of land seen from the
starboard had dwindled into blue mist, and all
around nothing was to be seen but sea and sky;
the setting sun dyed the horizon a dark, glowing
red, and there thin banks of cloud stained it
with a deeper hue and ever and again with
fleeting gold.

Tom grew hot all over when he heard Doctor
Corman's voice quite close to him, saying:

"It was lucky that we had the 'Ariadne' to
go to, otherwise we should not have been able to
carry out our plans."

"You have always been a skeptic," Dixon
answered.  "The job is as good as finished, the
plan worked like clock-work....  Now we have
only to reap the reward of our labor."

They had evidently come up the gangway, for
Tom not only smelt a whiff of tobacco but heard
the creaking of basket-chairs and the clinking of
glasses.  Then there was a lull, and Torn could
not resist the temptation to look over the edge
of the boat.

Dixon, Corman and Ferail were comfortably
installed in chairs round the table upon which
bottles and glasses had been set.  Dixon was
rather red in the face; perhaps his dinner had
been extra good, thought Tom, not without a
touch of envy.

"Reward for our labor," exclaimed Dixon,
with a laugh of greedy anticipation.  "It was a
difficult task to engineer, but with those two
dolls in our hands all the rest is mere child's
play."

"We shall, of course, be obliged to give up the
'Ariadne,'" said Corman.  "We have left a
pretty tangle behind us as it is, and, if I am not
mistaken, that business of yours at Seattle will
be thoroughly investigated."

Dixon again burst into a laugh.  "I don't
deny that I was rather too old to make a good
man of business, but my last deal was certainly
my best.  Of course, the 'Ariadne' must be
sacrificed after Thursday next, as a description of
her will be wired to every port and every boat
to-day or to-morrow.  So far, our own wireless
has not received any little greeting; but don't
you worry, it is sure to come."

"That's so, but our agreement is quite clear,"
put in Corman.

"To go shares and dissolve partnership at
once?" laughed Dixon.  "From Hurricane Island
it is easy enough to get to Canada, and then
I myself mean to go by the name of Christopher
Cummings.  What are you going to call
yourself, Ferail?"

"From now till Thursday I insist on being
known as Toroni," the Greek replied, in a
muffled tone.  "I am sick of the name of Ferail—it
has a flavor of sour wine in my mouth; call
me ... Toroni."

The two others looked at him in surprise, and
yet as if they were used to his unaccountable
outbursts of frantic rage and annoyance and
could never be sure of his enigmatical temper.
It was clear he inspired them with a sort of
repulsive curiosity.

After a pause Dixon said, "As you like," and,
raising his glass, he continued: "I propose a
toast to Toroni, the name borne by a man who
plotted and carried through one of the most
brilliant transactions of the last ten years."  His
tone was a mixture of condescension and contempt.

They drank it, Toroni in gloomy silence; the
doctor with a sharp, mocking laugh.

"In any case, my much esteemed friend Toroni,"
said Dixon, after momentary reflection, "it
would be advisable to confine the use of your
illustrious name to ourselves, or Elaine might
take it into her head to have an attack of
hysterics, and Captain Hawkins ... ha, ha, ha!"  He
concluded, overcome by a fit of hilarity: "It
was a splendid idea of yours to pose as an Italian
detective charged by the Government to investigate
the secret affairs of the 'Black Hand'....
Detective Ferail, to whom I afforded my valuable
assistance solely in the interests of the community.
The captain and the crew are making themselves
quite ill, racking their brains to find out
what on earth you want to do on Hurricane
Island.  Well, old man, the comedy is too good to
be spoilt....  Officially you are obliged to
answer to the name of Ferail....  Good Heavens,
man, we are about to pocket six million dollars
in gold, pure gold, and you can be squeamish
about a name!"

Dixon began to get excited, his voice grew
louder and louder, and the doctor hurriedly
seized his glass in order to put a stop to his
half-crazy flow of words.

"A toast," said Corman, drily, "a toast to the
six millions!"

His timely intervention saved the situation.

There was a bright light in Dixon's shifty and
evil eyes as he raised his glass to drink the toast.
"In gold, pure gold," he said.

Toroni did not look up nor did he touch his
glass.  Dixon fumbled with his hands in his
great coat pockets, from which he produced two
objects which he placed on the table; they were
the two wooden dolls.

Tom recognized the one which had been in the
possession of Victor Dreyel; the other had,
undoubtedly, belonged to Christian Dreyel.  The
small figures glowed blood-red in the light of
the setting sun.  Tom gazed at them with a
shudder, even the doctor seemed uncomfortable.

"Throw them overboard," he said abruptly;
"they are no longer wanted."

"Throw them overboard?" retorted Dixon,
reproachfully.  "Our constant guardians, with
whom Toroni had no end of trouble before he
sent them to my place....  Never.  I want to
have them constantly before my eyes until the
gold has seen the light of day, and then I shall
return them to Robertson as a little souvenir."

Overheated with whisky and joyful anticipation,
he unbuttoned his coat, took it off and
threw it down upon a chair.  "Poor old
Robertson!" he soliloquized as he mixed himself
another drink.  "Things weren't very comfortable
for him when he was your patient, you old
compounder of poisons, you!"

Doctor Corman's face assumed an ashen hue,
the eyes under his pince-nez flashed; but he
restrained himself, and a painful silence ensued.
It dawned upon Dixon that he had said too
much, and he looked persistently at his cigar.
At last Toroni lifted his tawny eyelids and said:
"Talking of Robertson ... what do you intend
to do with his daughter?"

That was a matter which had long occupied
Tom's thoughts and now sent a shiver down his
spine.  Dixon became suddenly sober, and the
doctor cast down his eyes without saying a word
or moving a muscle.  The silence seemed unending.
At last Dixon said, impatiently, "Bah,
Elaine?  We brought her with us for otherwise
she might have been a witness, but I..."

There was a rustling of silk on the stairs, and
Madame Lorraine hurried up.  She looked at
the three men with undisguised loathing.

"Are you aware that the skylight above the
saloon is open?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" inquired Corman, with
some asperity.  Each of them cast a quick
glance at the skylight, which was indeed half-open.

"Only that I went into the saloon just now
and found Elaine there."  The three looked
at one another.

"Think she heard?" the doctor asked.

"I can't say, but I heard every word you
uttered ... distinctly."

"How did she look?"

"Much as usual," said Madame Lorraine, and
left them.

Dixon had regained his self-control as if he
had never tasted a drop of whisky; he took up
the two wooden dolls and made his way to the
stairs.  At the first step he stopped, turned and
gazed at them earnestly.

"Bah!" he said again.  "If she had heard
anything she would have screamed."  Then he went
down and the other two followed him.  Tom
breathed again; it was only now he remembered
that he had been kneeling in the boat, with his
head well over the edge, and that any one who
chanced to look that way might easily have seen
him.  It was a miracle, indeed, that he had not
been seen; but he had no time even to send a
grateful thought to his guardian angel, for his
mind was fully taken up with what he had just
heard.  Moreover, his attention was rivetted
upon Dixon's overcoat, which had been left lying
cm a chair, carelessly flung over the back of it,
half-open, so that Tom could see a packet done
up in oilcloth protruding from an inner pocket.
He remembered what Wallion had told him
about the scene at the asylum, and he realized
that within five yards of him lay those precious
papers of William Robertson's.  His fingers
itched, an irresistible desire seized him; he must
have those papers and read them.

The sun had set, and twilight was beginning
to melt into night; there was no one to be seen
either on the bridge or on the upper deck
... nor was there any sound from the gangway.  He
got out of the boat noiselessly and walked
warily towards the coat.

At the same instant a hand from the back of
the cabin deck abstracted the roll from the coat
pocket and disappeared.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE STORY OF "KING SOLOMON"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE STORY OF "KING SOLOMON"

.. vspace:: 2

To say the least of it, Tom was stunned: the
packet had been seized with such lightning
rapidity that he had scarcely even seen the
mysterious hand.  At first, after his consternation
at seeing the key to the secret disappear in such
a way, just when he had felt it in his grasp, he
could hardly collect his thoughts; it
overwhelmed him.

Thoroughly exasperated and throwing prudence
to the winds, he darted forward, intent on
getting that packet back from this extraordinary
thief.  There was no one anywhere near
the cabins; he closely examined all of them.
The invisible thief was nowhere to be found.  It
was still light enough for him to be able to
distinguish every detail on the upper deck; there
was no hiding-place large enough for a cat, let
alone a human being, and Tom experienced a
sudden feeling of dread.  "Whatever is it?" he
thought.  "Am I beginning to have delusions
... or to see visions?"

He heard Captain Hawkins' voice on the
bridge, and he was fearful lest he should be
discovered.  Deadly white, he turned to port and
climbed back into the boat.  Just as he was
about to lie down and pull the tarpaulin over
him, he felt a strong arm pressing him down and
a hand was laid over his mouth.

"Not a sound," said a low, deep voice, "it is I."

Tom's heart jumped into his mouth and then
began to beat violently.

"Wallion?" he whispered, wild with delight
and relief.  "Oh, Maurice, I thought I should
never hear your voice again," and he flung his
arms round his friend's neck.

The Problem Solver was quite himself, but in
the calm gray eyes it was easy to read how glad
he was to see Tom.

"How in the world did you get here?" asked
the latter, breathlessly.  "Toroni was positive he
had shot you, and I myself saw you..."

"Oh, no; things don't go so easily as that,"
answered Wallion.  "When Toroni fired his shot I
pretended to stagger, and fell backwards into
the sea.  I thought it was a good opportunity to
let him think I was out of the reckoning.  He is
a splendid shot, though he is still more expert
with the knife.  So I did a dive, swam out a
good distance, and when I came up again the
row-boat was just starting.  Then after swimming
a little farther I let the boat pass, and
followed it at a convenient distance as far as the
yacht; and when you came up I was lying snugly
hidden in the starboard boat.  Had you chosen
that retreat we should have been in one another's
company from the first; still it is just as well
you didn't, as for a little while I had to hide in
a deck-cabin, whilst they turned out and cleaned
the boat.  I was afraid to wake you during the
night, and by day it was, of course, impossible
... but how are you off for food?"

Tom put on a woeful expression and Wallion grinned.

"I've got a little something to begin with," he
said, producing two long loaves, a tin of salmon,
a piece of smoked sausage and two bottles of
beer.

Tom must be excused for not doing more than
casting a look of thanksgiving up to the sky by
way of gratitude, as he fell upon the feast.
With the aid of his knife Wallion skilfully
opened the tin, uncorked the bottles without the
least noise, and both set to with a voracious
appetite.

"What do you think of the conversation among
our three fellow travelers?" asked Wallion
after a pause.

Tom, having appeased the most insistent
pangs of hunger, said, with a touch of curiosity:
"Then you heard it too?"

"Yes, I had made myself quite comfortable in
the cabin; Dixon is a fine fellow, isn't he?  You
didn't seem to worry though; any one might
have seen your head a thousand yards away...."

"You didn't trouble either," retorted Tom.
"Of course, I was rather taken aback when the
packet disappeared before my very eyes."

Wallion laughed and held it up.

"You see, in spite of that, the thing hasn't got
lost," he said.  He untied the string and
unrolled the oilcloth, revealing several sheets of
note-paper, covered with writing in a bold, clear
hand.

"Let us take advantage of the daylight remaining
and read William Robertson's notes whilst
we are still undisturbed."

He smiled at Tom as he said: "Do you know
I am beginning to feel quite nervous, for in
another ten minutes the King Solomon secret and
the purpose of the wooden dolls will be known
to us?  Such moments are well worth all the
trouble engendered by one's vague speculations....
Just now I would not exchange these
scraps of paper for the six millions Dixon talked
about."

It almost looked as if he were going to
postpone the reading.

"Quick, quick, I am dying to know..."
ejaculated Tom.

"Well, we deserve it," said Wallion.  Spreading
out the documents, he bent over them and
began to read.  William Robertson's notes had
the following introduction:

.. vspace:: 2

"Below will be found a true and, as far as
possible, complete account of the destruction of the
'King Solomon,' set down here that, in case of
my death, it may prove of use to those who have
an indisputable right to the precious contents of
that ship.

"On August the fifteenth, 1902, the full-rigged
American cutter, 'King Solomon' started from
Nome in Alaska for Seattle.  The owners were
Fraser, Hutchinson and Co., of Seattle, but this
firm ceased to exist many years ago.  On that
voyage the vessel (500 tons) was commanded by
Captain John P. Howell.  Though not quite
new, it was well-equipped; the crew consisted of
eleven men only, because ten others had gone to
the gold-fields.  The insufficient number left was
probably one of the causes of the disaster which
overtook the ship later.  There were thirteen
passengers on board, twelve of whom were
diggers, and a heap of gold as well.  I, the
undersigned, was also there, accompanied by Sandy
McCormick, a Scotchman, and my two Swedish
friends, Victor and Christian Dreyel; we four
had been working a claim discovered by
McCormick in the course of the summer, and each, of us
had gold on him to about the value of 200,000
dollars.  We soon made acquaintance with the
other passengers, of whom Craig Russel, a
splendid man of the indomitable bandit type,
nicknamed 'crazy or looney Russel' was the most
important, seeing he had with him gold to the tune
of 1,200,000 dollars.  The other twelve were:
Nicholas Sanderson, an elderly, quiet,
unobtrusive Englishman; Aaron Payter; 'Colonel'
Hyppolite Xerxes Symes, a well-educated, merry
mulatto; Frederick O'Bryan, an Irishman; Jean
Rameau, a Canadian; Phil Murray and Walter
Randolph, two young Englishmen.  The amount
each one of these had on him in gold is recorded
in the accompanying list.

"The thirteenth passenger, however, was a
stranger unknown to any of us; he had no gold
whatever, and his name was Toroni.  No one
knew where he hailed from, for he kept silent and
aloof; but he was supposed to be an
Italian.  His melancholy demeanor seemed to
presage ill-luck, and had a most depressing
influence on all of us; so he was called 'No. 13
Toroni.'

"On board 'Looney Russel' was, so to say,
boss.  We, who with indescribable trouble and
hard work, had wrested treasure from the desert,
felt on our way back to civilized life like rich
men; and naturally, we were constantly in a
jovial frame of mind which did not always find
vent in the choicest expressions.

"The gold, mostly well-washed nuggets, was in
leather sacks, sealed, and packed in oak chests
with iron bands.  These chests or boxes—small,
but too heavy for one man to lift—were fifteen in
number, each being inscribed with a name.  They
were piled up in the saloon, and constant watch
kept over them.  Wild scenes took place in that
saloon, in which gold to the amount of nearly
six million dollars was stored.

"'Looney' Russel, by reason of his wealth and
his tremendous physical strength, had constituted
himself king of the revels; whisky flowed
in streams, and gambling and drink were the
order of the day.  Russel, O'Brien, Rameau and
Murray were the most inveterate gamblers, and
hardly left the poker-table night or day.  Toroni
very soon chummed up with them; why I don't
know, as he had never been looked upon with
favor.

"Captain Howell tried to put a stop to these
orgies, but failed.  The second day of the voyage
there was a great storm, the 'King Solomon,'
running before the wind, with top and foresail
in ribbons.  She had carried too much canvas as
we were all anxious to get on ahead, but most of
the desperadoes were too drunk to be of much use.
Only the cousins Dreyel, the commander, and I,
knew the state the crew were in, and foresaw,
with great uneasiness, the impending catastrophe....

"On the morning of the third day, soon after
four o'clock, the disaster overtook us.  I heard
shots in the saloon, and ran, only half awake, out
of my cabin.  Poker had been going on all night;
Russel and Murray had lost fabulous sums to
Toroni.  Apparently Randolph had tried to persuade
his friend Murray to leave off playing, but
his well-meant interference had led to a general
shindy.

"Then Russel suddenly found out that Toroni
had cheated; and, mad drunk, drew his revolver
and fired at Toroni, without hitting him.
Captain Howell, who flung himself between them,
had Toroni seized and locked up in his own cabin.
But as I was leaving the saloon, Russel fired a
second shot, and Captain Howell fell dead on the
floor with a bullet through his head.

"Bellowing like a bull, the madman retreated
to the companion ladder, firing at random as he
went; Rameau got a bullet in his stomach, and
died sitting in his chair.  Murray, Randolph,
and I drew our revolvers, but Russel darted up
on deck, and when we went after him met us
with a succession of shots from both his weapons
at once.  Murray fell, hit by two bullets, the
mulatto, Symes, was wounded in the arm and
Randolph in the head.

"The crew, already short-handed, were scared
by these terrible events, and particularly by the
death of their captain; the pilot left the wheel to
escape the bullets, and 'King Solomon' fell off
her course.  In less than a minute the ship
presented her broadside to the waves and rolled so
heavily that I thought we should go down at any
moment.  The first mate and two sailors went
overboard while attempting to shorten sail and
heave to; heavy seas broke over every part of the
ship and stopped the fighting.  'Looney' Russel
had disappeared in a wave and was seen no more.

"The second mate took over the command, but
could not make himself heard.  The ship drifted
helplessly; the foremast went overboard, got
caught in the tackle, and in a short time made a
leak on the larboard side.  The pumps were
manned, but every one on board knew that 'King
Solomon' was doomed.  Then some one shouted:
'Save the gold.'  'We'll thank God if we can save
our lives,' the second mate replied.

"At 6 A.M. the life boats were launched in a
sea the waves of which were mountain high; the
long boat and the launch were dashed to pieces
at once, but the quarter-boats were kept clear.
Panic, however, reigned supreme—every one was
madly intent on saving his own life.  Six of the
crew leapt into one of the quarter-boats with
Sanderson, O'Bryan and McCormick, pushed off,
and were swept away in the dark; that was the
last I saw of them.  I had no time to think, and
I don't believe any one thought of the gold.
Those of us still on board were making frantic
efforts to lower the second quarter-boat.  Then the
mizzen mast broke, and a falling spar struck me;
I fell unconscious down the cabin stairs, where I
was washed into a corner with no one to help me.
The rest of the ship's company, viz.: the second
mate, the mulatto, Symes, Payter, Randolph,
and the two Dreyels, left in the other quarter-boat,
and the wreck drifted aimlessly in an
easterly direction with me and six million dollars
in gold on board.

"When I regained consciousness it was broad
daylight, the storm had abated, and 'King
Solomon' floated low and deep on the big waves.  I
thought I was alone on board, but presently.  I
fancied I heard a faint knocking on the cabin
door.  It was Toroni, who had been locked in
and forgotten!  I let him out and we considered
our position.  There was one boat left on the
ship,—the small gig,—but even that was badly
damaged by the waves.  It looked as if 'King
Solomon' were about to sink at any minute,
and we set to work repairing the gig.  There
was food in plenty, but we did not allow
ourselves time to eat.  The fifteen boxes of gold
still stood in the saloon, but we did not care to
look at them, and whilst we were at work 'King
Solomon' still drifted eastward.  I can't say
whether it was on the second or third day after
the shipwreck that we sighted land—those
terrible days and nights are confused in my mind—but
there *was* land at last, and 'King Solomon'
glided slowly in between two islands,
divided by a broad channel.  No houses, people or
boats were to be seen, and the rocky shore did
not look very inviting.  'King Solomon's' voyage
was ended.  The wreck began to sink rapidly in
mid-channel; there was just time to push off the
gig before the ship went down; and it was not
till she had sunk that I realized what a loss was
mine, that my hardly-won gold—and that of my
mates—was lying at the bottom of the sea and
that I was ruined.  Fortunately the ship's
instruments were in the boat; and with a vague
thought that I might return some day and
retrieve the gold from the deep, I fixed the place
where 'King Solomon' had sunk by seconds—for
though the coast furnished infallible
landmarks, the channel was more than a mile in
breadth—and then ascertained that the wreck
lay at a depth of about ten fathoms.  Toroni was
present but he had no knowledge of navigation
and I am now aware that he made no copy of
the bearings I fixed.

"Now as to the place: it lies among the islands
that run along the coast to the most southerly
part of Alaska.  The largest of these is called
'Hurricane Island,' and is a rocky, deserted place,
cut in two by the 'Black Valley,' which is
covered in part by forest, and opposite the
smaller 'Fir Island.'  The channel between the
islands is five miles long and one or two wide,
with a depth varying from eight to twenty-five
fathoms; there it was 'King Solomon' went to
the bottom.  When I had thus located the wreck
Toroni and I hoisted a sail and departed in a
southerly direction.  On the eighteenth day we
were sighted by a Norwegian barque, bound for
San Francisco.

"Of our condition at that time I will only say
that the hardships we had gone through had
affected our minds; that we were half-starved
and feverish, and could not even give an account
of what had happened.  I was perfectly stunned
by the catastrophe.  We parted at San Francisco.

"I was told afterwards that the first quarterdeck
boat had been lost, leaving no trace behind,
but the second had reached land with Victor and
Christian Dreyel as sole survivors.  The papers
did not get hold of the facts, and only one, a
San Francisco paper, had a short notice to the
effect that 'King Solomon' had gone down with
all hands on board.  That notice was the cause
of my wife's death.  I was..."

Here Wallion turned a few leaves and remarked:

"We are already acquainted with William's
illness and his fifteen years of crazy
wandering; we will skip that."

They continued with the reading.

"The finding of my daughter was a turning-point
for me; I began to make plans for the
recovery of the gold which had lain so long at the
bottom of the sea, but that required funds.  I
put myself in communication with the next of
kin of the men who had perished on the 'King
Solomon,' and took steps to find their heirs.
Then an unexpected thing happened.  I came
across Toroni in the street one day, under
circumstances which clearly showed that he was
spying upon me, and it was borne in upon me
that some one wanted to steal the papers giving
particulars of the place where the wreck lay.  I
was terribly worried.  Partly to pass away the
time I had carved wooden figures to represent
myself and my eleven companions in misfortune,
and had numbered them according to the
accompanying list.  I destroyed the notes
referring to 'King Solomon' after having engraved
numbers denoting longitude and latitude on the
feet of those dolls which bore even numbers—the
latitude in degrees, minutes and seconds on
dolls numbered 2, 4, and 6, and the longitude on
those numbered 8, 10, and 12.  As an additional
measure of precaution I sent the two dolls which
gave the seconds to the two Dreyel cousins.  It
was a well-conceived plan; for two days later—I
don't know how—the rest of the dolls were
stolen.  This discovery aggravated my illness, and
I felt that I did, indeed, require medical advice.

"But I fell from the frying-pan into the fire,
and am now virtually a prisoner in Doctor
Corman's villa.  Edward Dixon is hoodwinking
Elaine, and I cannot do anything to save
myself.  I am writing this in hopes that it may
bring this diabolical plot to the notice of the
authorities.  Toroni is the prime mover in it;
all these years, thoughts of the six millions must
have been seething in his brain.  I got to know
that in 1904 he had made a secret attempt to get
up the gold at Hurricane Island by himself.
That was foolish; divers and modern appliances
are required for such a purpose.  Moreover, it
is easier to find 'a needle in a bottle of hay' than
to find a wreck ten fathoms below the surface,
in a channel half a Swedish mile in length and
over two miles in breadth.  I cannot say whether
he was preparing for a bolder stroke; at any rate,
soon after, a decided obstacle came in the way.

"In 1913 a man, of the name of Compton,
reported that he had discovered rich copper
mines in the Black Valley on Hurricane Island;
a company was formed, hundreds of workmen
were sent out and operations on a large scale
begun.  The legend of the copper mine was
exploded in 1917, and the islands were deserted.
Now was Toroni's chance, he looked about for a
capitalist and found ... Edward Attiswood
Dixon, who appeared to make large deals and
whose means were so ample that he no longer
engaged in any regular business.  He gladly
agreed to Toroni's proposal; and for a ridiculously
small sum acquired Hurricane Island and
Fir Island, with the buildings left there by the
former copper mine company.  Officially he
gave out that he meant to erect a repairing
station for vessels trading between Alaska and the
States; he did, in fact, build a breakwater with
all modern improvements for sheltering ships,
but that was only a blind to cover his search for
the wreck of 'King Solomon,' which was begun
without delay.  The search came to nothing; it
only proved that my notes were indispensible.
Then they got at Elaine, and through her I was
enticed to leave my secluded quarters.  Her
engagement in Dixon's office and my incarceration
at Doctor Corman's were only small items in
their plans, but I was not going to give away the
secret of 'King Solomon,' if I could help it!  I
am hoping to escape, and as it may be necessary
to get the two dolls back from the Dreyel cousins.
I shall try to persuade Elaine to help me.  If
these papers should fall into the hands of honest
people, I hope they will straightway send them
to Headquarters.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Seattle, July the third, 1918,
       "William Robertson."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   "LIST OF THE OWNERS OF THE GOLD."

.. vspace:: 1

1.  William Robertson, only relative, one daughter,
Elaine . . . 200,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

2.  Nicholas Sanderson (drowned), probable relatives at
West Hartlepool, England . . . 600,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

3.  Craig Russel (drowned), family in Chicago, one
brother in Melbourne . . . 1,200,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

4.  Christian Dreyel, domiciled in Sweden, Captain Street,
Borne . . . 200,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

5.  Victor Dreyel, cousin of the above, domiciled in
Sweden, 30 John Street, Stockholm . . . 200,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

6.  Aaron Payter (died in boat, no relations . . . 800,000
dollars

.. vspace:: 1

7.  Frederick O'Bryan (drowned), wife in Dublin, 142
Green Street . . . 800,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

8.  Hippolyte Xerxes Byrnes (died in boat), probably
mother and sisters in Louisiana . . . 500,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

9.  Jean Rameau (shot on board), three sisters in
Ontario . . . 200,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

10.  Sandy McCormick (drowned), no
relations . . . 200,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

11.  Phil Murray (shot on board), parents in a village
in Sussex, England . . . 600,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

12.  Walter Randolph (died in boat), possibly relatives
in Wales or Cornwall, England . . . 300,000 dollars

.. vspace:: 1

"Total . . . 5,800,000 dollars"

.. vspace:: 2

Wallion and Tom looked up from the last
page at one another.  It had grown so dark that
they could hardly decipher the final lines.

"What do you think of that?" whispered Tom.

"It is beyond my most sanguine expectations,"
replied Wallion.

He rolled the papers up again in the oilcloth.

"What do you intend to do?" inquired his friend.

"I intend to replace the packet in Dixon's
coat pocket.  If he were to miss it and give the
alarm, that would be an end to our liberty."

Wallion wriggled out of the boat and restored
the packet to its place, after which he returned
to his hiding-place; without a word he lay down
on his back with hands clasped under his head.
Tom, who thought his friend must be turning
over in his mind the amazing story they had just
read, did not venture to break the silence for a
time.  At last one of the thousand questions
with which his brain was teeming could no
longer be restrained.

"Maurice," he said, "do you think McTuft has
any idea where we are?"

Receiving no answer, he bent down to look at
his friend and repeat his question.

Maurice Wallion was sound asleep.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WHERE THOMAS FALLS INTO THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center large bold white-space-pre-line

   WHERE THOMAS FALLS INTO THE
   HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning there was a strong wind, and
the yacht pitched a good deal; the violent
motion woke Tom to find Wallion already awake.
A shower of rain came down, but under the
tarpaulin, though rather cramped, they were dry.
Now that the mystery of the wooden dolls was
solved, Wallion resumed his usual placid
demeanor.  They breakfasted on salmon, bread
and sausage and then, in subdued tones,
discussed the information gleaned from William
Robertson's notes.

"It never occurred to me that 'King Solomon'
might be a wrecked vessel," remarked Wallion
thoughtfully.  "I wish I had known that three
days ago; it rather alters the situation.
Evidently our adversaries do not contemplate a
long delay; they have brought divers, and all is
clear at the so-called 'wharf.'  Having located
the spot only a few hours are required for
hauling up the gold.  I wonder..."

He laid his finger on his lips and his hand on
Tom's arm; footsteps could be heard on deck.

"Thursday morning," said Doctor Corman
irascibly, "that is rather late, Dixon."

"Rubbish!  Why?" asked the owner of the yacht.

"Why?  Because I am under no delusion
about what we have left behind.  Wallion is out
of the reckoning" (here the latter pinched Tom's
arm), "but don't forget McTuft, who was at
Toroni's heels, and Wallion's Swedish friend,
too, would not be idle either; it is quite possible
that he was at the Golden Snake Hotel with
Wallion.  William Robertson has been set at
liberty ere this, and would, naturally, tell all he
knows.  In short," said the Doctor with
bitterness, "there is no lack of witnesses who can
swear that we went out on a trip whence we shall
require no return tickets."

"Fudge," said Dixon again, "the ocean is large."

"Answer me one thing," interrupted the Doctor.
"How is it our wireless has received no
inquiries about the 'Ariadne' from either
incoming or out-going vessels?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Well, I can tell you: it is because we are
being tracked, and it was probably known that
same evening that we were on board her.  As
they don't seem to be making inquiries about the
yacht, I conclude they know all about her, that
very likely a patrol-boat is chasing us already;
and if they have discovered our final destination
they will make straight for Hurricane
Island and as likely as not arrive there before us."

A mournful silence followed this speech.

"I should say you're right about that," said Dixon.

"I'll just have a talk with the captain."

He was back again in five minutes.

"Hawkins says that with this wind the
'Ariadne' can be at Hurricane Island by Wednesday
evening, if I will take the risk of the boiler
bursting," he said evidently greatly relieved.

"Well?" growled the Doctor.

"I said," continued Dixon, rather brutally,
"I didn't mind if the 'Ariadne' were shivered to
atoms, provided he landed us safely on Hurricane
Island by mid-day Wednesday, at the latest."

The Doctor, apparently satisfied, said nothing
more, and, judging by the sound, the two men
had turned back towards their cabins.  Dixon
had picked up the coat he had forgotten.

"Corman is no fool," remarked Wallion.  "I
was just going to say I wonder how far McTuft
has got.  When he gave up the black car, he
very likely went back to the 'Golden Snake,'
where he would be told that the 'Ariadne' had
put out to sea.  A patrol-boat would have been put
at his disposal yesterday morning at latest, and
a nice race it will be, indeed.  I should rather
like to give him a few choice bits of information...."

"Information as to what?" asked Tom.

"That there are always means of evasion,"
said Wallion suavely.  "I only wish I had my
faithful Browning."

"But tell me, do you think Captain Hawkins
and the crew would come over to our side if we
explained the situation to them?"

"H—m!  I don't feel inclined to run the risk;
my papers of identification are at the bottom of
the sea near the Golden Snake Hotel, because
I took off my shoes and coat when I swam out to
the yacht.  The coat I am wearing now I
borrowed from the Captain's exceedingly
well-stocked wardrobe."  He laughed, but
immediately became grave again.  "No, my friend, if
we were to show ourselves now, that precious
'Italian Detective' would have us shut up as
members of the 'Black Hand.'"  He pondered a
while, and then remarked philosophically: "We
must leave it to time, we have no particular
inducement for interfering; besides, the 'Ariadne'
is taking us precisely where we want to go...."

"To Hurricane Island?  I am not particularly
keen on going there, especially in company with
these gentlemen," replied Tom; "the place is so
infernally out of the way too."

"That can't be helped," said Wallion, "business
must always be settled in its proper place and
at the proper time."

Soon the smoke from the tall, yellow funnel
grew thicker and thicker, until it rolled in a
compact black mass over the water.  The vibration
increased, and the noise of the propeller
became louder; evidently the engines were working
at the highest possible pressure.  The strain
had begun.

"Look here," said Wallion, much interested,
"this abnormal speed shows the captain is
keeping his word; by twelve o'clock the 'Ariadne'
will be lying at anchor off Hurricane Island."

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



The yacht's wireless was installed behind the
bridge and connected with the chart-house.
Occasionally they caught a glimpse of the operator,
a pale young man named Moreland.  He had
not much to do, and sometimes left his apparatus
for an hour or two; consequently no messages
were sent, and calls were left unanswered.

On the bridge, taking turns with Captain
Hawkins, they noticed a young, smart-looking
ship's officer, whom the captain addressed as
"Weston."  These two were evidently the only
men in authority.  Wallion took the crew to
consist of five or six men only.

About 2 P.M., Tom experienced a sudden,
most delightful thrill.  Elaine Robertson
appeared on deck; she was accompanied by
Madame Lorraine, and the two walked up and
down for nearly fifteen minutes, without
uttering a word.  Elaine seemed grave and worried;
at every turn she stopped for a few seconds and
looked wistfully towards the horizon.  Did she
hope she might see the smoke of a liner?
Perhaps; but all around nothing was to be seen but
passing clouds; and eventually she and
Madame Lorraine went below.  In the afternoon
there was no one on the bridge.

Tom yawned; he was bored to death.  He and
Wallion had come to the end of their provisions.
Night had fallen.

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.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



After some hours of troubled sleep Tom awoke;
the hard bottom of the boat was not exactly
an ideal resting place; moreover, he was very
hungry.  It was still dark, but most of the night
had passed and day was dawning in the East.
He tried to look at his watch but could not see
the hands; by his side Wallion continued fast
asleep.

Two days and nights of enforced idleness
had begun to tell on Tom.  He did not like his
unshaven chin; he was not accustomed—like his
friend—to such small sacrifices on the altar of
his profession; his muscles were stiff and his
hunger astounding.  If Wallion had been so
successful in procuring food, why should not he?

The "Ariadne" sped through the darkness
with no lights showing.  Now and again Captain
Hawkins might be seen walking to and fro on
the bridge with long and resolute strides.

The pantry was only a little way off, and Tom
supposed he might get there under cover.  He
determined to make the attempt.

The next time the Captain's steps turned to
starboard, Tom leapt down on the deck and stole
to the stairs; below, everything was dark and
quiet.  Automatically he counted the steps, of
which there were eighteen, to the bottom, where
the edge of a red carpet was visible.  After some
hesitation he stealthily walked down one step
at a time, until he found himself standing on a
red carpet.  A corridor opened in front of him,
and on either side were three closed doors;
behind him, on the right of the stairs, was the
saloon, and on the left a kind of store-room.
He could see distinctly to the end of the
corridor, thanks to a little electric lamp on the
ceiling, and he noticed a door which he supposed
would lead to the fore-part of the ship.  With
noiseless steps he made for it, but when he was
about half-way along the corridor he had to put
out his hands to save himself from falling.  He
had caught his foot in a piece of string which
he could not shake off, and an electric bell close
by was ringing, not loudly but continuously.
A cold sweat broke out on his forehead.  He
made another desperate effort to free his foot,
and broke the string.

The bell ceased to ring, but at the same
moment three lamps in the ceiling flashed on.  A
door opened, and Doctor Corman stepped out,
clad only in his pyjamas.  He looked at Tom,
and said with great deliberation:

"I see I was right; I suspected you were on
board, and thought of proposing a search
to-morrow.  You are very welcome, Mr. Murner;
there's a special cabin waiting for you."

Tom took a step forward, but a pair of strong
arms gripped him from behind and held him as
in an iron vice; it was Toroni.  The owner of
the yacht appeared at the same time, half-dressed,
revolver in hand.

"What's up now?" said Dixon angrily.  "Your
alarm arrangement, Toroni, is the very
... Hallo!" he exclaimed as he caught sight of Tom,
changing the pungent expletive he was going to
use.  He burst into a loud guffaw of satisfaction
and surprise.  "Well, who'd have thought
it?  *You* here?  It's more than forty-eight
hours since the 'Ariadne' weighed anchor, and
you have lain low until now ... Why so bashful?
I trust you will not deprive us again of
your pleasant company."

"It takes two for that," was Tom's infuriated
answer.

He hurled himself with great violence upon
Toroni, who missed his footing, uttered a vile
oath, and losing hold of Tom, allowed him to
slip between Corman and Dixon, who knocked
the revolver out of Dixon's hand in his mad
rush for the stairs.  Where he should go next he
had not the least notion, but he thought his first
and most important duty was to divert attention
from Wallion and their place of concealment
in the larboard boat.  But his adversaries were
too quick for him.  On the lowest step he was
stopped and seized by three pairs of hands.  He
struggled for a few minutes, but gave in when he
found the muzzle of a pistol pointing at him.

"That's right, take things easy," said Dixon,
in a tone bordering on friendliness.  "We shall
come to terms before long."

Tom breathed hard, but submitted to his fate
in silence.  Dixon looked up, listening intently.
Tom feared that Wallion had betrayed himself
by some impetuous movement in the boat, but
Dixon was not looking in its direction.  The
wireless installation stood out against the bright,
blue sky, and an intermittent crackling sound
made itself plainly heard from above.  Dixon
ran up the stairs.

"What the devil are you doing, Moreland?"
he shouted.  "Are you mad?"

"Moreland is not here," answered the captain
from the bridge.  "He went to bed about eleven,
Mr. Dixon."

The wireless had stopped short, Dixon looked
up at the cables in anger and consternation.

"Who is sending a message?" he asked.

"Don't know," said the captain.  "Weston
says that two messages were sent during the
night, we thought it might be Mr. Ferail."

"Confound it all," roared Dixon, white with
fury.  "Call out the crew, there is a spy on
board."

A whistle sounded and the captain rushed up
to the wireless room.  Dixon pushed Tom back
into the corridor, gave him a look which boded
no good, and asked: "Who was with you?"

"I shan't tell you," Tom answered.  He
strongly suspected that Wallion had been in
the wireless room, and he was fully determined
not to admit anything.

"Was it McTuft?"

"No."

With a side glance at Toroni, Dixon said:

"Has a miracle happened?  Was it Wallion?"

Tom moved impatiently.

"What's the use of asking me?" he said.  "Do
you believe I should be likely to give you any
answer?"

Dixon, by this time more calm and sober, surveyed
him attentively; his face wore an expression
of cool determination.

"Shut him up in a safe place," he said to
Corman and Toroni.  Then he went on deck, and
Tom heard him shout:

"Are you there, Weston?  Take three men
with you and search the boat thoroughly.  Well,
Captain Hawkins?"

"There's no one in the room, Mr. Dixon, but
Moreland is there on duty now."

"All right, keep your eyes open, all of you....
A hundred dollars for the man who catches the
spy.  I shall expect to be face to face with him
in half-an-hour...."

The voices sounded farther away.  Toroni and
the Doctor led Tom down the corridor.  They
unlocked a door on the starboard side, and
signed to Tom to go in.  The door was double-locked
after him and he found himself shut in a
narrow, but luxuriously furnished, cabin lighted
by a lamp, with a yellow silk shade, fixed in the
wall.  He put out the lamp, for daylight already
began to filter through the small port-holes,
and forgetting his own pitiable plight he
listened anxiously for what might be going on
outside.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ELAINE TELLS THE TRUTH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center large bold

   ELAINE TELLS THE TRUTH

.. vspace:: 2

Tom heard orders given overhead and footsteps
in all parts of the boat, but nothing
to indicate that Wallion had been found.  He
had such unbounded faith in his friend's
ingenuity and dexterity that he believed it quite
possible that Wallion would succeed in escaping
from his pursuers.

For a whole hour the noise continued to
increase, then suddenly all was silent.  A long
way off, Dixon's voice could be heard, raised in
anger.  The Doctor seemed to be trying to soothe
him.  The two men were apparently going down
the stairs.

Tom felt less anxious now.  Clearly, in some
unaccountable manner, Wallion had disappeared.
He looked round his by no means horrible
prison; behind some beaded drapery he
discovered a small dressing-room, with hot and
cold water laid on.  There, too, he found a
shaving kit, and managed to make quite a decent
and comfortable toilet.  Then he helped himself
to a Virginia cigarette from a box of beaten
copper and sat down with a sigh of resignation.

The "Ariadne" pursued her way, always at
top speed; the black smoke cast long shadows
on the water and the seething breakers beat
against the little window.

About 10 A.M. the door opened, and a steward
made an unexpected appearance.

"Mr. Dixon requests Mr. Murner's presence
in the saloon," he said.

With mixed feelings Tom obeyed the summons.
On entering he found Dixon, Corman and Toroni
seated at a large table, and Hawkins standing
before them.

"Well, Hawkins," said Dixon.  "Here you
see one of them, and if we can only catch the
other we shall be all right.  They are two of
the most dangerous members of the 'Black
Hand'...."

"That's a lie," broke in Tom angrily.  "I am a
Swede, and my name is Thomas Murner.  Look
here, here are my..."  He was going to say
"papers" but when he put his hand in his
pocket he found they had gone; his pocket-book had
been taken from him during the struggle in the
corridor.

"Your *what*?" said Dixon derisively.  "Your
weapon?  No, you are harmless for the present,
my friend.  We found your hiding place in the
larboard boat.  Detective Ferail, my guest, has
reason to be proud of his catch.  Now tell us who
your companion was, and where he has gone to?"

Tom bit his lip and said nothing.  It was not
worth while entering into any explanation with
Hawkins, who, simple and honest seafaring man
man as he was, surveyed him with some curiosity
and distrust.

"So you won't answer?" continued Dixon.
"You can go now, Captain, and resume the
the search until the other fellow is found."

The captain took his leave.  When he had
gone Dixon burst out laughing.  "You *do* look
surprised, Mr. Murner; isn't our little joke to
your taste?  I am afraid it will have to be
carried on a little longer though; but, no doubt,
you understand that resistance can only lead
to harder conditions, and make matters worse
for you, and that, with or without your consent,
you must be our guest until the gold is hauled
up.  You see?"  He gave Tom a cold and
searching look.

"And then?" inquired Tom as calmly as he could.

"After that our ways will lie apart, you and
your bashful, retiring friend will be sent on a
little pleasure trip to ... shall we say
... Australia?  Naturally, under the supervision of
our good Hawkins."

Toroni remarked quietly:

"Much too much talk.  I should have settled
this business in a much simpler manner..."

"Misleading the police is quite enough," said
Corman with evident disgust, and without looking
at Toroni.  "Our record is already
sufficiently long."

One of the two doors Tom had noticed at the
farther end of the saloon was thrown open, and
Madame Lorraine with a cigarette between her
lips walked in.  She neither showed the least
surprise nor took any notice of Tom, but turned
to her brother and asked:

"Whatever is all the commotion on deck about?"

"There's some one on board we should rather
like to get hold of," replied the Doctor.  "You
keep out of the way, it is nothing that concerns
you."

Madame emitted a puff of smoke.

"Have you really searched everywhere?" she
said with indifference.  "Who can he be?"

"Well, we must see.  There is no danger, but
for safety's sake I just went in to have a look
at Elaine.  She seemed rather upset.  You can
comfort her, can't you?"

"Poor little thing," said Madame Lorraine,
"I'll look after her..."

She threw the stump of her cigarette on an
ash-tray and went out by the other door, closing
it after her.  Tom inferred that the cabins at
the back of the saloon had been reserved for the
two ladies.

"I suppose it is useless to put any more questions
to you, Mr. Murner?" said Dixon after a
pause.

"Perfectly useless."

"You won't even explain how you managed to
come on board?"

"Certainly not."

"In that case I have only one piece of advice
to give you.  Hold your tongue and you won't
have any complaint to make about your
treatment here so long as you are my guest.  Now,
may I request you to return to your cabin?
The steward will see that you have everything,
except ... your liberty."

Tom turned on his heels and went back to his
cabin.  Ten minutes later the waiter brought in
a tray with a liberal breakfast.  As he was
eating Tom heard a quiet knock at the closed door.
He looked at it in surprise.  A white card had
been pushed under it and lay on the floor.  It
was one of Wallion's visiting cards, and in the
firm handwriting he knew so well, he read:

.. vspace:: 1

..

   "Situation promising.  Hold yourself in readiness.
   Our day is coming.—M.W."

.. vspace:: 2

Tom ran to the door and shook it, but there
was no sound.  He gently whispered Wallion's
name; there was no response, but in a second or
two the steward came up and asked from the
outside:

"Did you require anything more, sir?"

"No, thank you, nothing," answered Tom.
He flung himself down on the bed.  Those
few words on the card had been like refreshing
wine to him.  The blood mounted to his head,
and his nerves tingled, but he was at a loss—turn
or twist the words as he might—to account
for such a message.  Wallion's audacity, too,
almost frightened him.  How was all this to end?

Certain signs indicated that the "Ariadne"
was approaching her journey's end, and Tom
began to get fidgety.  For safety's sake he tore the
card to bits, which he threw out of a porthole.
In the east, land could be discerned, and the
boat, still at top speed, passed a number of
islands, sometimes nearer, sometimes further
away, gray and red, with dabs of dark woods.

Lunch was served at two o'clock, but Tom's
appetite was gone.

"Shall we soon be there?" he asked.

"In about another hour," replied the steward
civilly, but he beat a hasty retreat to avoid any
further inquiries.

An hour went by.  Tom walked restlessly up
and down in his tiny cabin.  Then bit by bit
a high mountain ridge came in sight about a
thousand yards away, and a little later, when
the yacht had slackened speed, a steep arid
coast in some parts covered with tall firs, and
then a wide valley with lighter foliage in the
background.  The engines stopped, and the
yacht anchored about a hundred yards from a
dilapidated wooden pier.  The "Ariadne" had
reached her goal.

So this was Hurricane Island, and over there
the "Black Valley"?  On the left Tom noticed
a jumble of sheds and chimneys.

The wharf mentioned was a very simple affair,
there was no work going on, but a score of men
came out on the quay, from mere curiosity.  At
some distance down the valley could be seen a
skeleton swing-bridge, leading into a dark hole
on the mountain side; this was the deserted
copper mine; but, save for this reminder of
bygone industry, the surrounding country was
desolate.

A large motor boat came out from the quay,
and when it got alongside the "Ariadne" Tom
noticed at the wheel a man who might have been
the foreman of the wharf.  He had evidently
come to welcome his employers.  The boat
slipped round to the bow of the yacht and the
Captain shouted from the bridge:

"Mr. Dixon is engaged, but lay to and come
on board."

There was a high sea and the yacht rocked
considerably.  Things began to be very lively
on deck and Tom wondered what was going on.

The steward came in hurriedly to remove the
luncheon tray, and Tom had a shock.

This time the man had left the door unlocked!
Tom listened, thinking he might come back.  In
the direction of the stairs, he heard Dixon's
voice in sharp altercation with the Doctor.

"It is impossible," he was saying; "it can't be
done now, the sea is too rough.  We shall have
to wait an hour or two."

"In an hour or two it may be too late," the
Doctor replied.

"I don't think so.  Besides it takes time to
fix upon the exact place...."

"Well, and what about this Swede's friend
whom we couldn't catch?"

"Haven't we thoroughly searched every nook
and cranny?  There wasn't a spot as big as a
dollar left for any one to hide in.  He isn't
here, Corman.  The wireless has given out, that
is the solution of..."  Their voices died away
and they went up on deck.

Tom strained every nerve, trying to impress
upon his memory the things he had heard; he
conquered his desire to rush out, for Wallion's
instructions had only been "keep himself in
readiness."  And Wallion was at liberty, probably
with a deep scheme in his mind.  Trembling
with excitement he muttered, "Let us hope it
won't be long ... if only I knew."

The yacht tugged at her cables, and Fir Island
presently came in view.  It was smaller and
more wooded than Hurricane Island, and looked
as if the foot of man had never trodden there.

The "Ariadne" lay about midway in the long
and broad channel, through which the waters
flowed freely, and there was still a high sea
running, though the storm had abated; the clouds
were heavy and twilight was falling.  The
motor boat was towing a low, flat-bottomed barge,
laden with a variety of mysterious implements,
towards some point which Tom was unable to
see.  Immediately afterwards the yacht again
weighed anchor and slowly proceeded in the
same direction, stopped after backing a little,
and again dropped anchor.  Then feeble strokes
became audible on the larboard side; the yacht
was clearly alongside the barge.

A thought shot through Tom's brain.  They
were surely lying immediately over the wreck of
the "King Solomon."  He felt he could no
longer remain idle; in some way or another he
must be doing.  He opened the door and went
into the corridor; the road was clear.  Without
any attempt to conceal his movements he walked
straight into the saloon, where the lamps were
already lighted, and there, by the table, with
her back to the door, stood Elaine.  Tom
stopped short, but she had already heard him
and now turned round.  Her large, dark eyes
sparkled, and a smile hovered round her
trembling lips.  She was grave yet excited.

"You?" she cried.  "*You?*"

"Yes," he replied, taking her hands, "and you
can't turn me out now," he added, half in jest.
"We are still fellow-travelers, as you see, but it
seems ages since I last talked to you."

Without withdrawing her soft hands from his
she continued: "How dared you come on board
the yacht?"

"You were the magnet, Elaine."

She blushed slightly, and her smile vanished;
she looked furtively round.

"You ought not to have come..."

"Does my society bore you so much?"

"No, oh no, I am glad; you have done far too
much for me already, I can never..."

"I do so want to be near you and be able to
help you," he said, "if only you will tell me what
I can do."

"No, you can't help me."

"It is true that I am but a sorry knight."

"I don't mean that, but don't you see,
can't you understand, that it is too late? ..."

She pointed towards the table on which lay
a number of sea-charts and drawings; the two
wooden dolls had been carelessly thrown down
among them.

"They have done their worst and we are entirely
in their hands."  Something in her tone
made him lean towards her; her eyes burned
with excitement and deep despair.

"Elaine," he asked impulsively, "you know all?"

"I do," she replied.  "Oh, the scoundrels
... they deceived me, enticed me with lies ... my
poor father ... Oh, Tom, it is too late..."

Almost unconsciously she had called him by
his Christian name; tears rose to her eyes and
she leant her head against his shoulder.

"What an idyllic scene!" said an ironical
voice at the door.  "I am afraid we are
disturbing them, Dixon."

It was Doctor Corman and Dixon; on the
threshold they stood still, an expression of
scornful triumph on their faces.

"So we enticed you with lying words, Elaine?"
said Corman mockingly.  "What do you intend
to do then, eh?"

"Shut up," said Tom, clenching his fists.

Corman pretended to be greatly surprised.

"So you have been pleased to leave your cabin,
Mr. Murner?  Oh, well, it is of no consequence."

Elaine had pulled herself together; the sight
of the two men seemed to have put new vigor
into her.

"Oh, yes, I know all about you, who choose a
murderer for your friend and are worse than a
thief yourself," she cried, in a loud, clear voice.
"I overheard your conversation last night and
am glad to be able to tell you the truth at last.
Worse, yes, worse than a thief; compared with
*you* a thief is an honest man, you who rob
widows and orphans, plunder the dead and commit
murder for the sake of gold.  I see everything
clearly now; I hope the truth will scorch your
soul when you think of what you have done—you
liar, you devil."

Corman's face twitched, and Dixon turned
very white.  After Elaine's accusing words
there was a dead silence, till with a forced laugh
Dixon said, rather hoarsely:

"Well, Miss Robertson, maybe you are right,
only you have told us the truth just two months
too late, and you can't stop us now..."

He looked around, but not at her.  After some
hesitation he passed in front of her and
gathered up the papers from the table, looking at
them with a covert smile.

"You see, my dear young lady, there are
things in our miserable lives that you can't
understand," he said.

Then he left the saloon in silence, and Corman
went with him.





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.. _`TEN FATHOMS FROM THE GOAL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center large bold

   TEN FATHOMS FROM THE GOAL

.. vspace:: 2

The wooden dolls still lay on the table, and
as if in a dream, Tom noticed for the first
time four other wooden figures on a shelf in the
wall.  A small marble clock on the same shelf
gave forth six shrill, harsh strokes.

Elaine had sunk down on a seat on the
larboard of the yacht, trembling nervously after
her recent outbreak.  Tom took a chair by her
side; he wanted to say something to comfort
her, but could not think of anything.

"Don't say anything," she whispered with a
nervous little smile which ended in a shiver.
"I am not going to be hysterical...."

Their attention was diverted by a noise and a
light outside the window; they looked out, and
saw that the barge had been towed alongside the
yacht.  Darkness lay over the sea, which had
become much less turbulent.  The searchlight
turned obliquely on the long, low deck of the
barge and its milk-white rays shone upon a
curious spectacle.  Preparations for hauling up
'King Solomon's' golden cargo were in full
swing.  A grotesque and clumsy gray figure, its
feet weighted with lead, was walking along the
planks; it was the diver.  An assistant held the
copper helmet in readiness, the breathing-tube
was coiled round his body and a third man was
looking after the air-pump.  On the deck stood
Dixon, Corman, and Toroni—the two former
smoking in gloomy silence; the young girl's
words must surely have burnt themselves into
their consciences and embittered their hour of
triumph.

Toroni, on the other hand, was watching the
work with apathetic curiosity, self-centered,
awaiting the result of the plot he had engineered
with violence and cunning twelve months before;
the hour when his hands should close on the
coveted six millions.  Did he really intend his
two accomplices to have a share in the booty?
Tom noticed the sinister look he cast at the
others through his half-closed eyes.  Was his
subtle brain evolving another piece of villainy?
The expression of his face seemed to say, "I am
quite aware that you despise me, though you
have no objection to share the roast ... but
don't be too sure."  He walked up to them,
pointed to the water, and with a cynical grimace
said a few words.

Tom noiselessly opened the ventilator and
distinctly heard Corman's answer:

"And then?  If they can't find it there, we
are lost, that's all about it."  He made a weary
and deprecating gesture with his hands.

"But it is there," said Toroni, in a low voice.
"Sixteen years ago I saw it disappearing in
the sea on the very spot upon which we are
standing to-day ... Why don't you say
something? ... Why don't you laugh?" and once
more he pointed to the dark, rolling waves.
"Only ten fathoms from the prize," he whispered,
"only ten fathoms from 'King Solomon'
... haven't you anything to say?"

Dixon turned his back upon him in order to
make an end of the matter, at the same time
shouting to the diver:

"Ready there? ... Look sharp about it."

The diver went down the steps and into the
water up to his waist; he hitched an electric
lamp with brightly polished reflector on to his
chest, and the helmet was screwed on over his
head.  The air-pump began to work with long,
absorbent puffs, and the copper helmet gradually
disappeared under the water, which bubbled
up over it; the assistant paid out the coil
and the rope with mechanical precision.
Fifteen minutes passed, then the diver came up
again on the steps.  Toroni bent down to him,
and Dixon and Corman also came forward;
the diver opened the little glass pane in the
helmet.

"The wreck is there all right; it has sunk a
little lower, but there are no difficulties.  The
chests are all right in the saloon."

"The fifteen, all told?" inquired Toroni.

"Yes, all of them, safe and uninjured."

Toroni gave his friends a look, but no word
passed between them.  A windlass had been
rigged up over the side of the barge, and the
diver at once went back to the wreck, taking a
supple steel wire with him.

The group on the boat stood stiff and motionless
in silent expectation; the men looked like
coal-black shadows in the steady rays of the
searchlight; it was pitch dark all round.  Tom,
sick with suspense, sought the back of a chair as
support.  Everything had gone so fast and in
such a business-like manner that time after time
he was forced to repeat to himself: "The gold is
there, it is there."

Again, in despair, he asked: "Where can
Wallion be, what can prevent him from coming?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MADAME LORRAINE'S SURPRISE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center large bold

   MADAME LORRAINE'S SURPRISE

.. vspace:: 2

There were suspicious movements in the
saloon behind them, and Elaine uttered a
cry.  It was Madame Lorraine, but a greatly
changed Madame Lorraine; her sea-green eyes
shone with a peculiar emotion, and she looked
at them both with an expression that made Tom
hurriedly get up from his chair.  She went close
up to him and put a revolver into his hand.

"You are stout-hearted," she said in so low a
voice that he could scarcely hear her.  "Your
friend says the time has come; take this, it is
loaded ... I have always kept it by me as a
last resource."

He hardly understood her.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Do not speak so loud," she answered.  "It
was I who slipped the card under your door, I
have a surprise in store for you ... and *them*,"
she added, in still more subdued tone.  Through
the ventilator she cast a look of intense hate
upon the silent group outside.

Then Tom grasped the fact that Madame
Lorraine had deserted her associates and come
over to the enemy!  He remembered that her
conduct throughout had often puzzled both
Wallion and himself.  Now she had come to a
decision, driven thereto by the loathsome presence
of Toroni.  The cabin occupied by Madame
Lorraine had been the only place not subjected
to the rigorous search made for the "Problem
Solver."

With one bound Tom dashed through the
half-open door into Madame Lorraine's cabin
... there, at the table, stood Maurice Wallion, in
the act of loading a revolver.

"I am just coming," he said, looking over his
shoulder and smiling.  "You know, it was
rather cute of you to let yourself be caught this
morning," he added, coming out into the saloon.
"You see, I had sent a few wireless messages to
McTuft during the night, but obviously that
could not go on much longer; and when that big
raid was on I had the good luck to find Madame
Lorraine alone here in the saloon, so I persuaded
her to come to a noble and reasonable decision"
(here he made a polite little bow).  "Thanks
for your hospitality, Madame, it will never be
forgotten," he said.  Then he shot a keen glance
through the window and frowned.

"The time has come," he said abruptly, "they
are much too busily engaged out there to suspect
our plans."

"What plans are those?"

"To take possession of the yacht."

Tom was just as eager for action as his friend.
"Yes," he said, almost breathless with excitement,
"go on, you'll have me near you."

They left the ladies in the saloon and hurriedly
went out.

"Where is McTuft?" asked Tom.

"He is chasing us in the 'Albatross,' a patrol-boat;
and, acting on my instructions, he will be
here soon."

Tom's confidence in Wallion rose many
degrees at that piece of information.  He had no
doubt that they could have surprised the
conspirators without assistance, but to deliver
them up to the law was a more ticklish affair;
for that purpose McTuft and his "boys" would
prove very useful.

They looked about them for a few minutes
from the top of the gangway.  On the larboard
side lay the barge, well-lighted up by the rays of
the searchlight, whilst all was dark and still on
the yacht.  The crew stood leaning over the
railings, looking on with great interest; on the
bridge near the wireless hut were Captain
Hawkins and the pilot Weston.  Tom accompanied
Wallion along the dark deck to the bridge.
Scattered lights from the wharf were reflected
in the water, but there was no danger to be
apprehended from that quarter.

"Moreland is in the wireless room," said
Wallion.  "When we get there you must go straight
up to him and point your revolver at his head.
I shall persuade the captain and pilot to go in
there too; the rest I will take into my own
hands."

They stole up to the bridge like a couple of
cats, only stopping occasionally to take breath.

The well-lighted wireless room was just
behind the chart-house; and immediately in front,
on the other side of the steering-wheel, they saw
the unmistakable silhouettes of Hawkins and
Weston.

The rhythmic suction of the air-pumps and
the sharp creaking of the windlass could be
heard far and wide in the stillness of the night.

"Now then, go ahead," said Wallion.

Tom straightened himself and noiselessly
entered the hut.  Moreland looked up, and turned
pale when he saw the revolver pointed at his
head.

"Sit still," said Tom, in a commanding tone;
"if you move I fire."

The telegraphist sat as motionless as a stone
image.

Meanwhile Wallion crept up behind Hawkins
and Western.

"Gentlemen," he said, "this is no time for
talking; I shall fire without compunction, if
necessary.  Go to the wireless room at once in front
of me."

They obeyed with hands up, and he ordered
them to sit down with their hands in front of
them.  Then he locked the door.

"Now for a little explanation," he said with a
smile.  "I regret having to act in this cavalier
fashion, but I had to make you hear what I have
to say, without raising an alarm; you take us
for two bandits belonging to the Black Hand
gang, don't you?"

"Mr. Dixon said so," retorted the captain sullenly.

"Very well, listen now; Mr. Dixon told a
downright damned lie.  My name is Maurice
Wallion, and I am a detective from Sweden,
and this gentleman" (pointing to Tom) "is my
friend and assistant, Mr. Murner."

Captain Hawkins stared distrustfully at him.
"Anybody might say that," he growled.

"But I can swear that it *is* so."

"In that case there should be no difficulty in
proving your identity."

"My own papers have been lost, and Murner's
have been taken away from him."

The captain shook his head.  "Excuse me if I
don't believe you; besides, what business could
you have on board Mr. Dixon's yacht?"

"My business here is to arrest Ricardo Ferail
for murder and theft, and Dixon and Corman
for aiding and abetting," Wallion said very
quietly.

Captain Hawkins stared as if he had heard
something perfectly impossible.  "You're a good
'un," he said scornfully, "you can tell that tale
to the marines."

"Then you don't believe what I say?"

"I don't."

Tom cast a troubled look at Wallion; it
seemed to him the situation was becoming critical.

"It will afford me much pleasure to prove
every word I have said, Captain Hawkins."

"How are you going to do that? ... It would
be rather amusing," was Hawkins' answer.

"It will be very simple: a few nautical miles
from here is an American patrol-boat, the
'Albatross,' with Detective McTuft from Seattle
on board.  He knows me well, and is, like myself,
on the track of the same delightful trio."

"Oh," said the captain, with growing interest.

"What could be easier than to make an inquiry
by wireless, requesting McTuft to prove
our identity?"

The captain rose, but immediately sat down
again.  "Not impossible," he said at last,
"Moreland, call up the 'Albatross,' then we
shall hear."

Wallion exchanged a look of triumph with
Tom, but their present position was rather
hazardous all the same.  The operator bent over his
apparatus, whilst the others kept silent; he
called up the 'Albatross,' and waited for an
answer.  It came at once:

"Who wants 'Albatross'?"

"Maurice Wallion, on board the 'Ariadne,'"
replied Moreland.  "Ask McTuft if he will,
please, come to the apparatus."

"So far I have told you the truth, you see,"
remarked Wallion, while they were waiting for the
reply.  "I presume fire-arms will no longer be
needed."

"No," replied the Captain, curtly; "but I mean
to get to the bottom of this," he said, adding:
"if you have told the truth and anybody down
there in the barge heard you, this room may
prove a dangerous place for you."

"There is no danger; the air-pump and windlass
drown the wireless, and what is more, their
attention is entirely taken up with those gold
chests."

Moreland made a sudden movement as the reply
came: "McTuft is here, go ahead, 'Ariadne.'"

"Will you speak, Captain, or shall I?" said
Wallion.

He and Tom laid aside their arms as being no
longer required.  Captain Hawkins was deeply
interested, and said:

"Let me, please, Mr. Wallion."  Then he
proceeded to dictate his message to Moreland:
"Request McTuft to furnish us with a description of
Wallion."

Moreland sent it off immediately, and after a
scarcely perceptible delay a prompt answer
came through space: "Maurice Wallion, detective
from Sweden; tall, thin, eyes gray, complexion
dark, hair brushed back from forehead; has
Thomas Murner with him, do you want HIS
description as well?"

Whilst the captain was hesitating about the
next inquiry to make, further signs of life
arrived from McTuft; he asked: "What's the
matter with Wallion?  Anything gone wrong?"

"No, nothing," dictated Hawkins, gloomily;
"only that he wants to impress upon the
'Ariadne's' company that certain proceedings are
unavoidable; send information regarding his
business on board the yacht for registration."

The reply, a very emphatic one, came at once;
one might have fancied it was in McTuft's own
indignant tones: "It is Wallion's business to
arrest every single soul on board the 'Ariadne,'
if they make a fuss; first and foremost the owner
and his party; will that do for you?"

"That's enough," said Hawkins, and laughed;
then he added rather seriously: "I am quite
convinced now, Mr. Wallion.  It is an unsavory,
horrible story, and my own plight is most
deplorable; but, of course, I must bow to the
law.  What do you wish me to do?"

"That depends" ... said Wallion.  He
turned to Moreland and dictated as follows:
"It is I, Wallion, speaking.  Thanks for
information, how long before the 'Albatross' will
reach Hurricane Island?"

Out of the darkness came McTuft's reply:
"Thanks to you for information given last night;
the 'Albatross' will be up in half-an-hour."  There
the odd conversation ended.  Wallion
got on to his feet and laughingly remarked to Tom:

"I begin to appreciate McTuft's tenacity.  He
has no intention of missing the last act of the
tragedy.  I fancy I see him now on the 'Albatross.'"

He put his head out of the window for a
moment.  The work on the barge below was being
carried on undisturbed; the pumps moaned
and the windlass creaked at regular intervals.

"Are the crew to be trusted?" asked Wallion.

"Yes, if I may have the handling of them,"
answered the captain.

The pilot undertook to call the men in one by
one and to explain the circumstances to them.

"Yes, that would perhaps be the best," Wallion
agreed; "what is your opinion about the
five men on the barge?"

"They belong to the wharf and they will give
no trouble," said the captain.  "I don't think
any of the workmen on the wharf are particularly
delighted with their employers."

"First rate.  I propose that you will call
your men to the chart-room and tell them to be
quiet; it is not necessary for them to interfere.
Dixon and his two associates are armed, but we
shall get the better of them before they have
finished their business down there."

All except Moreland left the cabin.

"Tom," said Wallion in a low voice, "in about
ten minutes there will be a nice scuffle; you keep
an eye on the barge whilst I help the captain to
prepare the crew, and come up to the chart-room
if any of our three friends make as though they
meant to return to the yacht."

Tom leant over the rails on the bridge and
looked down into the barge; he felt that never
again in all his life would he find himself in
such company or such a situation as this.  He
was calm and resolute, and his gaze was firmly
fixed on what lay before him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`GO SHARES ... THEN PART`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII


.. class:: center large bold

   GO SHARES ... THEN PART

.. vspace:: 2

The rays of the searchlight fell upon the
deck of the barge, on the rude planks of
which a strange scene was being enacted,
In the background lay Fir Island, like a dark
side-piece, and the water in the channel rose
and fell in glittering, heaving billows.  On the
stage, below where Tom stood, were eight
performers all told.

Dixon and Corman, in the center of the barge
and still motionless, were smoking, and had
lighted their cigarettes without exchanging a
word; Toroni sat on the railing as close as
possible to the spot where the ever-seething air
bubbles in the water indicated the place where
the diver was working on the wreck sixty feet
below.  Two men attended to the air-pumps, one
looked after the tube and signal-rope, and two
others stood ready by the stake, from which
wire ropes hung down into the deep.

But the picture had undergone a marvelous
change since Tom had watched it from the
loophole in the saloon.  A collection of wooden
cases of dark and curious appearance had been
deposited on planks in a pool of muddy water.
These cases were almost square and provided
with thick iron bands; the offside of each
showed letters carefully incised.  Tom thought
he could detect the name "Craig Russel" on one
of the chests....  They contained gold from
the ill-fated "King Solomon," which, after
sixteen years, had at last come up from the bottom
of the sea.

He counted the chests and had got as far as
ten when the man in charge of the signal-rope
raised his hand; the two on duty at the stake
rushed over the tackling to the edge of the boat,
and half a minute later the eleventh chest was
hauled up over the railing and placed by the
side of the others; then the wire rope slackened.

Toroni bent over this last chest and closely
examined it on all sides.  Like the others it was
sound and uninjured; made of good, stout oak,
the chests were in a wonderful state of preservation,
though the wood had turned nearly black
and the iron bands had been eaten away by rust
and came off in bits.  Apparently satisfied,
Toroni returned to his post of observation in
silence; his two companions had not stirred.

The diver down on the wreck seemed working
with a will, and ere long the twelfth case
made its appearance.  There were three more
to come up, and Toroni and his accomplices had
all but attained their object.

There was something rather ghastly in the
grim silence observed by these three, within reach
of the coveted six millions they had agreed to
share.  What was it that so deeply engrossed
their thoughts at this moment?

Tom was inclined to believe that he could
pretty well guess what was in Dixon's mind;
he meant to have the gold conveyed to the big
motor-boat from the wharf and to smuggle it
over the frontier into Canada, before abandoning
the "Ariadne" with Elaine, Tom, and the
other intruders on board.  There was every
prospect of such a plan proving successful,
provided nothing occurred to nip it in the bud, but
... did that plan fit in with Toroni's calculations?

Tom narrowly scrutinized that little man's
ill-favored countenance with its black beard,
shifty eyes and pale brow; he appeared no
longer to worry about Dixon or Corman, his
eyes swept the water's which concealed "King
Solomon."

Chests thirteen and fourteen also were safely
transferred to the barge; water flowed over the
planks freely, and masses of seaweed were
thrown up all around.

Tom looked uneasily at the clock.  Wallion
had said ten minutes, but already twenty had
elapsed.  He turned his head; deliberations still
seemed to be going on in the hut; he could
distinguish the captain's broad back, Wallion's
clear-cut profile and the pilot's anxious
features; the last of the sailors had left and gone
down.  Tom turned his eyes to the deck; the
crew had disappeared, but inquisitive eyes peered
from the forecastle.  The men were evidently
prepared.

All at once the door of the hut was pushed
open, and Wallion came out, followed by
Hawkins and Weston, pocketing their fire-arms.

The windlass creaked for the fifteenth time
... the last remnant of "King Solomon's cargo
was on its way up.  Wallion looked down, his
sharp features had assumed a hard, resolute
expression.

"Just right," he said.  "You, Mr. Weston,
had better go down and keep an eye on the men
and will you, Captain Hawkins, please remain
on the bridge.  You and I, Tom, will move a
little nearer to our fellow-travelers down there."

Noiselessly they climbed down to the
"Ariadne's" lower deck, then made their way
along under the bridge which brought them
within five yards of Dixon and Corman, who
were standing with their backs turned to the
yacht, not suspecting anything.  Toroni was
just getting on his feet again after a minute
inspection of the fifteenth and last chest, which
stood dripping beside the others.  The diver
came up and climbed over the side of the barge;
his helmet was unscrewed and the air-pump
ceased working.

All was quiet.  Toroni turned to his two
friends.

"None of them have been damaged," he said,
in a voice which ended in a hoarse whisper.
"Look sharp now, it's all done....  Let's get
away with the stuff as fast as we can.  Quick."

Dixon sighed as if he were just waking from
a bad dream.  He threw away the stump of his
cigarette, turned his head in the direction of the
bridge and shouted: "Captain Hawkins, give
the signal for the motor-boat to come here."

The Captain neither moved nor spoke, but
Wallion leveled his revolver.

"No signal is required, Dixon," he answered,
"everything is arranged."

Dixon and Corman swung round and stared
Wallion full in the face.

The Doctor muttered an oath and felt for his
pocket.  Wallion and Tom looked at him
fixedly, and the former said:

"Don't add another to the list of your crimes;
that would be foolish."

Dixon's lips had assumed an ashen hue, and
he had evidently to make a tremendous effort
to stand steady.

"Oho, so it was you, Mr. Wallion," he said
with some bitterness in his tone.  "Well, I give
in, I have got into deep water.  Corman, my
boy, it wasn't written in the stars that this was
the way we were to get rich...."  Then, looking
at Wallion, he said: "And what do you intend
to do with us?"

"You are my prisoner, Dixon, and you too,
Corman.  Go shares and then dissolve partnership,
that was your program, wasn't it?  Well,
the six millions will be shared, but not with
you, and the partnership will be dissolved,
though not quite in the way you intended."

Toroni, whom Wallion had kept well under
observation, stood as if glued to the spot, his
piercing black eyes fixed on the "Problem
Solver."

The five bargemen and the diver were
huddled together in a frightened heap.  Toroni
looked round.

"Don't expect you'll get any help," said
Wallion sternly.  "Come here, Toroni....  What?
... You would? ... Look out, Tom."

Quick as lightning Toroni had taken refuge
behind the gold chests, pulled out his revolver
and fired; the bullet made a hole in the wall of
the hut.  Wallion stooped and took aim, but he
could not sight his adversary.  Tom caught a
glimpse of Toroni's right hand as he again
raised his weapon between two of the chests
and fired at random without any particular aim.
A flash and a bang followed; Tom felt something
like the sting of a whip on his left temple.
He put up his hand; his fingers were wet and
smeared with blood.  He let fall his Browning
and believed he heard himself call out: "I am
wounded"; but in reality no sound passed his
lips.  He took a few steps without knowing
where he was going, staggered and fell forward
unconscious.

Toroni had dropped on his knees.  He was
grinning and showing his teeth like a wild
beast.  Under cover of the gold chests, he shot
time after time at Wallion, who promptly
returned the fire, and knew he had not missed his
mark, but Toroni seemed possessed of an evil
spirit.

"Give in," shouted Wallion.  "I want to take
you alive."

Toroni rose to his full height and threw away
his weapon; he had fired his last shot.  In his
eyes there was the look of an untamed tiger....
Furious anger at the loss of what he
thought already safe within his sordid grasp,
lust of the millions upon which his thoughts
had centered through sixteen years, had
obliterated every trait of humanity.

"Never," he said huskily; he took a step
forward....  A long, sharp knife gleamed in his
hand as he raised it towards Wallion.  At the
same instant Madame Lorraine's voice was
heard:

"You devil!  It was you who dragged us
down to perdition."

She had come to the railing of the yacht and
picked up Tom's revolver.  She looked as if she
were intent on fulfilling a long neglected duty.
She fired....  Toroni dropped the knife and
reeled backwards, his failing eyes still sought
the gold chests, then he folded his hands upon
his breast, turned, staggered against the side of
the barge, and blindly stretching out his arms,
fell into the water.  As his body sank, great
bubbles rose to the turbid surface; the
thirteenth passenger of the "King Solomon" had
returned to where the gold had lain which lured
him to his fate.  Madame Lorraine silently
retired to her cabin.

Dixon and Corman had looked on at the short
but unforgettable scene with indifference and
apathy.  Their parts were played and they had
neither the power nor the will to offer any
resistance to the law.

Weston and two of the sailors went on board
the barge and conveyed the two friends to the
upper deck of the "Ariadne."  They moved
listlessly, like automatons, and Dixon sank
wearily into one of the basket-chairs.  He buried
his head in his hands and, looking up at
Wallion's approach, said feebly:

"I suppose jail will be our next destination,
Mr. Wallion?"

The latter nodded and said nothing.  He
rather pitied Dixon, whose gray and crestfallen
features had aged in a few days by ten years.

Doctor Corman stood behind him, stoical
and resigned, with folded arms.  "Ah, well,"
he muttered.  "Toroni came off best after all."

By Wallion's orders Tom had been carried
down into the saloon.  The young man had
only a flesh-wound, and that a slight one, on one
of his temples; but the shock had stunned him
and he was still unconscious.

As soon as Wallion had satisfied himself that
his friend was not in danger, he returned to the
upper deck.  He had heard distant signals
across the water.  The lights of a steamer soon
became visible in the channel.  She was
approaching at full speed.  It was the
"Albatross," with McTuft on board, his red hair
blowing round his head like flames of fire.

"Hallo, Wallion," lie cried, "are things all
right, or have I come too late?"

"You have come in the nick of time," was
Wallion's answer, "to take these fifteen chests,
which contain gold, on board the 'Albatross,'
and set the police seal on them.  There you see
Mr. Dixon and Doctor Corman; it is now your
duty to arrest them.  We shall remain on the
'Ariadne' with Captain Hawkins to take us
back to Seattle.  That's all, I think...."

"But what about Ferail?"

"Ferail, otherwise No. 13 Toroni, is dead."

McTuft cast a long inquiring look at Wallion.

"If only you were a Scotchman now proud I
should be of you," he said.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AFTER THE CONFLICT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV


.. class:: center large bold

   AFTER THE CONFLICT

.. vspace:: 2

When Tom regained consciousness it was
with the feeling that his body was lying
at full length in a swing and that a screw was
being driven into his head.  He heard the clank
of chains and the starting of machinery.  His
memory came back by slow degrees.  A snapshot
in black and white representing the deck
of the barge, figures moving and smoke curling
up in thick clouds floated across his brain.
"Yes, of course, I have been wounded," he
thought confusedly.

And then something even more strange occurred,
and that quite close to his side.  Someone
was breathing hard and saying in a broken
voice:

"Wake up, dearest, look at me, and say that
you are not in danger, my dear one, my love."
... Two soft, warm lips were pressed on his,
then shyly withdrawn, only to return in a
passionate kiss.  It was indeed marvelous!

"I expect I am dreaming," he thought as he
opened his eyes.

Elaine's tear-stained, lovely face was very
near to his, an expression of unspeakable
anxiety and distress in her eyes.  He raised
himself upon his elbow and put a hand up to
his head; it was tightly bandaged.

"Won't you say once more what you said just
now?" he murmured, rather incoherently.

She bent her head and blushed.

"It is all over now," she said softly; "Dixon
and Corman are prisoners, and Toroni is dead;
it was he who fired at you, and oh ... I am so
glad that the wound is not dangerous."

Tom fell back against the cushions.  He had
discovered that he was lying on the couch in the
saloon and they were alone.

"I don't know," he said, hesitating.  "I fancy
it might be most dangerous unless I have a kind
and loving nurse."

"I shall try to do my best," she replied in a
gentle tone.

He sat up with a bound and drew her to him.

"Elaine," he said, "I love you."

She lay still in his arms; he raised her head
and kissed her.  "I have loved you from the
first moment I saw you," he said.

She smiled faintly.  "That's an old, old story
which you can read in any book."

"Yes, I know that.  I only said it as the
correct thing and as a matter of form.  But
really, Elaine, I have loved you from the time
when you were recovering from the fever of
your wound, and I saw you at the window in
my smoking-room.  My darling, say once more
what you said just now when I opened my eyes."

She bent down, looked into his eyes, and said:
"I love you."

"No, say it in Swedish," he said, in a tone of
command.

"*Jag älskar dig*," she repeated obediently.

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   \*      \*      \*

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A month later Maurice Wallion was sitting
in a chair facing the Chief of the Secret Service
Division of New York in his private office.
They were smoking the cigars the Chief had
once mentioned on the telephone, and he was
listening with intense interest to Wallion's
graphic story.

"Well, and what do you think of McTuft?"
he said genially when the story was finished.

"A fine, intelligent fellow, but as obstinate as
a mule," replied Wallion, laughing.  "I strongly
recommend him for promotion."

The Chief sat quiet for a time, turning over
in his mind the tale he had just heard.

"It will be a perplexing business to discover
all those heirs and share out the gold properly."

"A local Seattle paper is going to take the
initiative and form a sort of Managing
Committee," said Wallion, "but William Robertson
was not anxious that all the world should know
about it and, I suppose, the higher powers will
also have a word to say in the matter."

"Naturally.  By the way, I conclude you will
not be present when Dixon and Corman come
up for trial?"

"No, I have other business in hand, but I left
with the Public Prosecutor a clear and full
account of my part in the affair.  In a way, I am
rather sorry for Dixon: his power and influence
were in reality only nominal ... he coveted
wealth and position, and was dragged down
against his better knowledge.  As to Madame
Lorraine, she is sure to be acquitted, for she
was entirely under her brother's sway.  But
Doctor Corman deserves and must expect severe
punishment; he knew well enough what he was
doing."

"Yes," said the Chief Detective, meditatively,
"we humans are a queer lot to be called the
'crowning piece' of creation.  And the nice
little lady ... Elaine Robertson, what promises
does the future hold out to her?"

"Elaine Murner, once Robertson, you mean;
she is very well, judging from Tom's jubilant
telegram despatched immediately after the
wedding.  Her father is coming over to Sweden to
take up his abode with Christian Dreyel.
Elaine, of course, will be with her
happy—architect husband...."

For a time they continued to smoke without
speaking, then the Chief asked:

"Now, as to your own plans, Wallion: the
man who saved King Solomon's millions has a
right to a good big reward."

But Maurice Wallion interrupted him, and
stooping, unlocked a Gladstone bag which lay
at his feet.  Extracting therefrom twelve brown
wooden dolls, he set them in a row on the table,
and said with a laugh:

"As a reward I claim these ... as a souvenir of

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   NO. 13 TORONI."



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   The following pages
   contain information about
   OTHER BOOKS FOR THE GENERAL READER
   *Published by*
   HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

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   RECENT HUMOROUS BOOKS

.. vspace:: 2

LOVE CONQUERS ALL

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*By Robert C. Benchley.  Author of "Of All Things!"*

.. vspace:: 1

All the publisher's copy men wrote up hill
and wrote down again and they
couldn't give any idea of how funny this book is.
So one of them threw down his
pen and said: "It Beats 'Of All Things!'"
Why gild the butterfly?  Robert
Benchley's first book placed him at a bound
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.. vspace:: 3

EUCLID'S OUTLINE OF SEX

.. vspace:: 1

*By Wilbur D. Birdwood*

.. vspace:: 1

Mirthful beyond measure is this scientific work
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It is a Cervantesian view of that which so many
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"Outwitting Our Inhibitions" would have been
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The author, by the way, is a recluse poet known
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This is the first time he has, as the
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On the origin, the evolution and the psychology
of asses nothing approaching
his profundity has ever been seen.

Illustrated by Herb Roth.  $1.75

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DARKEST HOLLYWOOD

.. vspace:: 1

*By Robert E. Sherwood*

.. vspace:: 1

A comprehensive but cheerful description
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Here are the results of his investigation in
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There is also a detailed
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Illustrated by Ralph Barton.  Probable price, $2.00

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BELSHAZZAR COURT

.. vspace:: 1

*By Simeon Strunsky*

.. vspace:: 1

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*Author of "Sinbad and His Friends," "Professor Latimer's Progress," Etc.*

.. class:: center small

NEW EDITION.  ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER JACK DUNCAN

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This new edition of Mr. Strunsky's well-known book
contains a great deal of
new matter, and is further supplemented
with illustrations depicting various
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in the United States as a
light essayist, and can touch a popular note,
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   HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
   19 WEST 44TH STREET (VIII '22) NEW YORK



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 4

SECRET PARTNER

.. vspace:: 1

*By Elizabeth Frazer*

.. vspace:: 1

A story with humor of love, conflict and a fateful dream.  $1.75

*New York Post's Literary Review*: "A dream
adds a touch of the occult, an
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*New York Times' Book Review*: "Marked by excellent
suspense ... an
unusual supernatural quality."

*Bookman*: "An easy-to-read book with delightful details."

.. vspace:: 3

CHILDREN OF TRANSGRESSION

.. vspace:: 1

*By G. Vere Tyler*

.. vspace:: 1

A dramatic tale of a woman's expiation,
laid in the Virginia of to-day.  $1.75

*New York Herald*: "There is a strength,
sincerity and directness of passion
that is not quite of our own day.
It is almost necessary to go back to the
tremendous "night pieces" of John Webster
to find anything comparable in
effect."

*Boston Transcript*: "Makes the Northern
reader hold his breath....  A
deeply considered and carefully wrought
novel ... in many ways a remarkable
book.  One cannot leave it without a feeling
of respect for the unrelenting
bravery and deep insight of its author."

.. vspace:: 3

PATCHWORK

.. vspace:: 1

*By Beverley Nichols*

.. vspace:: 1

A novel of Oxford since the War that
offers striking comparisons to "The
Beginning of Wisdom."  $1.75

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and continuity, and occasionally
gives us passages which are more beautiful
than any in 'This Side of Paradise'
and as lovely as the most delicate
in 'The Beginning of Wisdom' ... The end
is wholly satisfactory."

*Hartford Courant*: "A lovely,
descriptive gift—the vision to perceive, and
to make others perceive with him....
Something there, which, in a wholly
indefinable way, suggests the work of Hugh Walpole."

*Outlook*: "Engaging, humorous, and delightfully youthful."

*London Observer*: At last!  Here is not only
a novel which will live, but one
which has been lived."

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   HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
   19 WEST 44TH STREET (VIII '22) NEW YORK

.. vspace:: 4

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large bold

   NOVELS BY ROMAIN ROLLAND

.. vspace:: 1

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   JEAN-CHRISTOPHE
   DAWN—MORNING—YOUTH—REVOLT

.. vspace:: 1

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   JEAN-CHRISTOPHE IN PARIS
   THE MARKET PLACE—ANTOINETTE—THE HOUSE

.. vspace:: 1

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   JEAN-CHRISTOPHE: JOURNEY'S END
   LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP—THE BURNING BUSH—THE NEW DAWN

.. vspace:: 1

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   Each $2.00

.. vspace:: 1

"'Hats off, gentlemen—a genius.' ... One
may mention 'Jean-Christophe' in the same breath
with Balzac's 'Lost Illusions'; it is
as big as that....  It is moderate
praise to call it with Edmund
Gosse 'the noblest work of fiction
of the twentieth century.' ...
A book as big, as elemental, as original
as though the art of fiction
began today....  We have nothing comparable in English
literature...."—*Springfield Republican*.

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   COLAS BREUGNON BURGUNDIAN

.. vspace:: 1

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   OF A GALLANT MAN IN THE DAYS OF MARIE DE MEDICIS.

.. class:: center

   $1.75

.. vspace:: 1

"A book playful and tender,
with an engaging philosophic
courageous old man for teller and
hero ... light-spirited yet
penetrating....  He has a noble courage
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of death....  Above all, he has all
the domestic virtues."—*New York Evening Post*.

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   CLERAMBAULT

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   THE STORY OF A MAN WHO DARED TO STAND AGAINST THE MOB.

.. class:: center

   $2.00

.. vspace:: 1

"The sanest work of art that
has come from the great war....
Indubitably Rolland's finest
work."—*Boston Transcript*.

.. vspace:: 2

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   PIERRE AND LUCE

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   AN IDYL OF LOVE "BORN UNDER THE WING OF DEATH."

.. class:: center

   $1.50

.. vspace:: 1

"This exquisite bit of work....
It is his hatred of war that
inspired the book, while it is his
greatness as a man that gave it
its present form."—*Chicago Evening Post*.

"He has equalled Victor Hugo's description of the love of
Marius."—*New York Sun*.

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*A 32-page leaflet on Rolland on request*

.. vspace:: 3

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   HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
   Publishers (VIII '22) New York

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.. pgfooter::