PART III.

HURRICANE ISLAND

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

*PART I*

*"THE MYSTERY OF ELAINE ROBERTSON"*

*CHAPTER I*

*STEPS THAT GROW SILENT*

"They are all gone ... all, that crazy Craig Russel, Sanderson, the

black Colonel, all gone. All, save William Robertson, myself and you,

and the mystery of King Solomon is not solved...."

Victor Dreyel left off writing and looked expectantly towards the door.

As he sat there in his well-lighted studio he looked rather like an old

bird of prey in a glass cage. All round him reigned unbroken silence,

but in his clear, sad eyes there lurked an expression of suspense, and,

if any of his fellow-lodgers in No. 30 John Street had seen him at that

moment, they would have said he had cause for the strain; he had the

look of one suffering from painful memories.

Victor Dreyel, a silent man of about sixty, with wrinkled face and white

hair well brushed back from his forehead, his light blue eyes shaded by

bushy brows, was spare and thin. Fifteen years ago, when first he had

taken up his abode on the fifth floor of No. 30 John Street, in one of

the oldest and least frequented quarters of Stockholm, he had been an

object of much curiosity among the neighbors; he seemed so lonely, so

reticent, yet well able to shift for himself, and as he refused all

offers of help with cool but studied politeness, some sort of story

regarding his former life had to be invented and set going. One heard

that he had been mixed up with Chinese smugglers on the coast of

California, another was informed that he had taken part in some Arctic

expedition which had ended disastrously; the general opinion, however,

was that he had led a life of adventure and had returned to Sweden from

North America, where he had been implicated in some mysterious affair

which had left an indelible mark upon his character.

His business in No. 30 John Street was a very prosaic one--he set up as

a photographer. He was fairly capable though, occasionally, a little

behind the times. A showcase outside the front door which bore witness

to his skill, might have attracted a goodly number of customers, had not

the Gothic brick walls of St. John's Church and a thick clump of trees

cut John Street off from all ordinary traffic, so that with the years,

Dreyel's studio became more and more desolate and empty. People left

off associating the aged photographer, in threadbare but well-brushed

garments, with any exciting adventure; and there came a time when his

very existence was forgotten. For fifteen years the silent lodger went

in and out of the old house like a stranger, people got accustomed to

him, though the secret of his life had never been discovered.

It was, however, decreed that the interest of Victor Dreyel's neighbors

should be aroused once more, and that in a way no one would have dreamed

of, on the evening of the first of August, 1918....

After having again cast wistful glances at the door, Dreyel once more

bent over his desk and continued to write: "Fifteen years have I been

living in this somber and quiet corner; perhaps it was my time of

probation all along. They say likenesses of the dead bring misfortune

to the living. After all those years it was a curious gift to you and

me; and whatever may happen to-night I shall not give in without a

struggle...."

Suddenly he let his pen fall. The church clock struck eight and at the

same moment there was a sharp ring at the door. Dreyel's face grew hard

and alert; he passed through the studio and waiting-room, and opened the

door into the passage; a young man in dripping rain-coat entered

precipitately.

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

with you?"

"No, he is coming at nine o'clock," replied the young man, throwing his

hat upon a chair, "he couldn't come earlier. I had a good deal of

trouble to get at him, but I know his ways and caught him at last; he

seemed very much interested."

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

help me now."

Murner smiled as if he had heard something funny.

"My dear Dreyel, you may rest assured that Maurice Wallion can help you.

Don't you know that every one calls him the 'problem solver'? Why, man,

it was he who only last summer unravelled the mystery of the 'Copper

House,' and he has only lately returned to Sweden after working a whole

twelve-month for the English government."

Murner spoke with all the enthusiasm of youth, and his praise would

greatly have delighted the popular detective reporter of the daily

paper, could he have heard it. As both men entered the studio Murner

continued: "The question seems rather to be whether he _will_; you are

so unnaturally reticent, Dreyel, but you can talk openly to him. I have

known you for nearly a year now, and not one word have you ever said

about yourself. What is this infernal secret you are carrying about

with you? And if you persist in your obstinate silence, what is the use

of asking Maurice Wallion to come here?"

"When he does I shall speak fast enough. If all you say about your

friend is true, he'll see that he has not come here for nothing. Oh,

yes, I'll speak out," Dreyel added slowly, "if only it is not too late!"

Murner shrugged his shoulders.

"He'll be here in an hour's time at the latest," he said, "I can't

understand your anxiety; the wire you got this morning cannot possibly

do you any harm."

"No, the wire can't; it's what will come after," replied Dreyel, making

an effort to speak calmly.

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

"Forgive me," said Dreyel, absently thrusting his hands into his

pockets, "here it is."

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

"Victor Dreyel, John Street, 30, Stockholm.

"Toroni has got to know the secret. Watch the wooden doll.

Expect me this evening between 8 and 9. E.R."

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

meaning.

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

and Toroni?"

At the mention of Toroni's name Dreyel set his lips and snatched the

paper from Murner.

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

He clenched his hands and relapsed into silence, and for a few seconds

neither spoke. Rain and wind dashed against the window and a few stray,

faded leaves gleamed like gold on the wet panes illumined from within.

Dreyel was deadly pale, and the next moment he said in a strained voice:

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

Wallion arrives."

He stopped, lost in thought; Murner cast an inquiring look at him. On

the careworn face of the aged recluse there lay an expression of stern

resolve which inspired the young man with a feeling of respect and

reverence, and prevented his breaking the silence.

Furtively he looked round the large, gloomy room and shivered. The

studio was about thirty feet by twenty with a sloping roof of small,

dusty panes of glass in lead-setting, painted grey; a protruding bit of

wall showed that the studio had been made by pulling down the partition

between the two attics. A screen covered with some white and grey

material, a movable kind of balustrade, a couch, a looking-glass and,

above all, a huge camera under a green cloth and a small table littered

with all sorts of photographic paraphernalia formed the inventory of the

front part. At the farther end stood a simple writing table, a stool

and a bookcase on which were exposed numerous photographs, the lower

shelf being filled with books, mostly of a technical character. Two

upholstered chairs flanked the book-case; on the right were two doors

leading into the dark-room and Dreyel's sleeping apartment. A row of

electric lamps, minus shades, cast a weird light over the vast,

melancholy chamber which resembled a room in some dismal museum.

Murner's eyes scanned the photographs on the upper shelf; almost

unconsciously he strove to evolve some sort of connection between that

shelf and the mysterious telegram. Suddenly he started ... yes, there

among the photos, in the top row, stood the wooden doll mentioned in the

telegram!

He bent forward that he might see it better, but at the same moment

Dreyel, who had been standing behind him, so altered his position that

his shadow crept along the wall like that of an unwieldy wounded beast,

stooping over the shelf as though something there needed protection.

Murner was seized with a feeling of inward discomfort and muttered to

himself, "What in the world have I to do with this odd old fellow's

existence?"

His connection with Dreyel began in a somewhat casual way. When he

(Murner) installed himself on the fourth floor of No. 30, John Street,

he felt at once considerable sympathy for his taciturn fellow-lodger on

the floor above. He had approached Dreyel with regard to some

photographs of certain old houses in the neighborhood required for

illustrating an article in one of the local papers; that had been the

beginning of their acquaintance, and Dreyel appeared to have taken a

genuine liking to the young fellow, who was rather inclined to discuss

his future plans with an older, much-travelled and experienced man.

The curious rumors afloat respecting Dreyel's past had, of course,

reached Murner also, but he had made no attempt to pry into secrets, the

existence of which his own common-sense led him to consider doubtful.

But one day early in June, Dreyel, in Murner's presence, received a

parcel by post from America. This parcel was to lead to important

results. Murner, in his surprise, had exclaimed, "Oh, I say, it seems

your friends in the States haven't forgotten you!"

His astonishment had been even greater when Dreyel opened the parcel.

It contained only a little wooden image about eight inches high,

representing a man in a workman's sweater, broad-brimmed hat and

jack-boots, the whole being carved in dark, polished wood. It was a

doll or rather a statuette skilfully executed. The features were broad

and hard and bore a peculiarly life-like impress of defiance and brute

force. Dreyel's face had assumed an ashen hue, but he allowed Murner to

examine the curious little figure without a word. When, however, the

latter ventured to put a few searching questions, Dreyel curtly replied:

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

subject.

It was this identical wooden object Murner had discovered on the shelf

in the studio, and this evening it inspired him with unaccountable

aversion. In its brown face, hardly bigger than a man's thumb-nail,

there seemed to lurk a fixed, diabolical grin, giving it the appearance

of some loathsome fetish.

"Watch the wooden doll," repeated Murner. "It is nonsensical; first a

wooden doll, and then that telegram.... The vile thing! Take it away,

I can't bear it."

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

Murner had already put out his hands for it but drew back, surprised at

the tone of Dreyel's voice. They stood face to face.

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

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

yet."

He took up a position between the shelf and Murner. When he saw the

expression of Murner's face, he indulged in a cynical smile. "You are so

impatient," he said, "I can't tell you any more just now, but perhaps

the visitor I am expecting will...." He stopped abruptly. "Go down to

your diggings, Murner, and leave me to myself; when your detective

friend does come, he will find a tangle, even in his opinion, worth

unraveling."

Murner was about to answer, but Dreyel's determined attitude prevented

him, and he turned obediently towards the door. Then he looked round

once more and said:

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

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

Wallion downstairs."

He shook the young man's hand and said good-bye. Then he almost pushed

him into the passage and closed the door.

It was nearly half-past eight when Murner reached his own quarters,

below those occupied by Dreyel. He hung up his wet coat and went into

his workroom or study. He felt ill at ease as if he had been drawn into

a strange, antagonistic circle against his will. Dreyel's curious

behavior both irritated and worried him. What was it that had really

happened? He could not prevent his thoughts from dwelling on the

telegram which, undoubtedly, had some connection with the wooden doll.

Who could "E.R." be, whom Dreyel was so anxious to receive alone that

evening? Who was "Toroni," and what secret had he got to know?

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

confused brain.

The wooden figure had arrived from America early in June, and to-day,

August the first, that wire from Gothenburg. The old man had been

pacing to and fro in the studio overhead all the morning. Then came his

unexpected visit about two P.M., when he was pale, but calm. "Will you

render me a service, Murner?" he said, "I can't quite explain, but I

have had a wire which has put me into a damned hole. You know Maurice

Wallion well, don't you?"

Murner nodded, much surprised.

"Well, I want his help," continued Dreyel, "it means more to me than I

can say; for God's sake make Maurice Wallion come at once."

Struck by the painful earnestness of Dreyel's words, Murner promised to

find the ever busy and unget-at-able "Journalist Detective" whom he knew

well. After a search lasting several hours, Wallion was discovered at

last and listened with keen interest to what Murner had to tell him, but

he said only:

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

Murner had almost expected a refusal. Could it be possible that Maurice

Wallion, with only such slight data to go upon, had already come to some

conclusion regarding this wretched affair? And why did Dreyel seek his

help now? Naturally he had often talked about Maurice Wallion with

Dreyel, but if any serious danger threatened Dreyel, would it not have

seemed more practical to communicate with the police? Murner's sensible

mind was, for the time being, rather irritated by Dreyel's mysterious

ways. Taking a good whiff at his cigar he said to himself: "All this is

quite childish; his recluse life has affected his brain."

He laid down his cigar and listened intently for footsteps overhead, but

all was quiet. What might Dreyel be doing now? The whole house was so

still and silent, it might have been tenantless and empty; only the rain

beat against the windows. He tried once more to collect his thoughts

and calmly recall what Dreyel had said and his own words, but he had to

give up the attempt. The bare remembrance of the wooden doll and the

telegram was revolting; the whole thing was so foolish....

Suddenly he heard sounds above; some one was walking across the studio;

he recognized Dreyel's steps, but immediately after he heard some one go

up who seemed to move much more quickly; judging from the sound the

steps proceeded from the waiting-room as Dreyel's had done. Murner was

startled. So there was a visitor up there? It must have been true

then, and the telegram had not been an ill-timed joke; and Dreyel's

words had not been the outcome of a diseased brain. Surely the stranger

must be the redoubtable "E.R." The steps halted for a few seconds, then

turned towards the studio and when they ceased altogether Murner fancied

he heard a dull thud, as of a heavy trunk or sack being deposited on the

floor. His curiosity waxed stronger; he waited impatiently, but nothing

more was to be heard. He tried to picture the situation. Most likely

Dreyel and the mysterious visitor had drawn their chairs up to the

writing-table and were having a long, subdued conversation; about what?

The wooden doll?

Murner thrust his hands into his pockets and paced up and down the room,

feeling much perturbed. He looked at the clock; it was twenty minutes

to nine; twenty more long, tedious minutes must elapse before Maurice

Wallion would come. Wouldn't it be better for him to go upstairs at

once? Why such profound silence up there? No footsteps ... no anything

... He felt his heart beat; a wave of icy cold seemed to emanate from

the stillness above. All at once he realized that possibly he was the

only friend Dreyel had, the only one to whom the old man could as a last

resource turn with his prayer for help!

He hurried to the door; as he was about to open it a shrill scream broke

the silence of the house, and a door banged a long way off.

*CHAPTER II*

*"DO NOT LET HER ESCAPE"*

Thomas Murner tore open the door and rushed into the passage. Had he

for a moment dreamed that this proceeding would land him in an adventure

destined to influence all his life and send him to the other end of the

world, he might have thought twice before dashing out in such a hurry;

but Fate had already cast the die. From that moment or rather from a

quarter to nine on August the first, 1918, Thomas Murner became the hero

of many a wild and curious episode.

At this point it may be as well to give a sketch of this young man's

person, character, and position in life.

Thomas Murner, at twenty-eight years of age, was in many ways as lonely

as Victor Dreyel; both his parents were dead and other family ties were

little more than a myth to him, but he differed from Dreyel in that he

was a cheerful, sociable and energetic young man, with the normal

aspirations and keen intelligence of youth, instead of a soured recluse.

In possession of a fair competence inherited from his father, ambitious,

and cherishing great plans as a fully qualified architect, the future

loomed brightly before him. After a short and laborious apprenticeship

in an architect's office, he was now cast upon his own resources; his

position at this time might have been much better if he had not devoted

so much work and time to a "bright idea"; for "bright ideas" emanating

from the brains of aspiring young men do not always meet with due

appreciation.

Murner's "bright idea" had been the erection of a "Terrace House," but

what sort of an edifice this was meant to be no one had had the patience

or curiosity to inquire.

In person he was of medium height, thin, agile, with an impulsive

manner, dark hair, blue eyes and an engaging expression of youthful

self-reliance played round his mouth. Every one liked him, and liked

him too well to take his "bright ideas" seriously, which amused more

than it vexed him. Though skeptical he was ever hopeful, and was

prepared to spend a few more years in attaining the realization of his

dream, which took the form of a luxurious and prosperous office whence

the "fashionable, famous architect" would issue orders and plans for the

building of innumerable "Terrace Houses," but, as has been already

observed, no one can foretell the future.

The first thing Murner heard when he stepped out of the half-dark roomy

passage was the sound of some one coming out on the upper landing and

shouting down the stairs: "Don't let her escape!" He recognized the

croaking voice of the porter's wife, and cried: "What on earth is up?"

"Is that Mr. Murner? For God's sake come up here, something awful has

happened ... but don't let that little monster escape."

The voice could be heard all over the house and, finally ended in an

hysterical scream; every door was opened and people were heard coming up

from the lower rooms. In two strides Murner was at the top of the

stairs where he found the porter's wife, white with fear and shaking

from head to foot, standing at the studio door.

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

to escape?"

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

here."

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

"She murdered Mr. Dreyel."

For a second Tom stood as if paralyzed, but the next moment he dashed

through the waiting-room into the studio. On the floor right in front

of the bookshelf lay Dreyel, face downward, his shoulders convulsively

drawn up, his head and the upper part of the body turned on one side and

both arms stretched out. Murner sank on his knees and put out his hands

to turn the dead man over, but quickly drew back. Victor Dreyel was

past human aid; a knife had penetrated through his clothes between the

shoulder blades; his coat had been considerably crumpled by the fall.

The porter's wife suddenly burst into loud and uncontrollable weeping,

but the young man strove to keep cool. From the woman's disconnected

account he gathered that she was on her usual round, locking the doors,

and extinguishing the lights; finding the studio door ajar she had gone

in; struck by the unusual quiet she had proceeded to the other end, and,

to her indescribable horror had found Dreyel lying dead on the floor.

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

grey?"

"She stood hidden behind that screen there, and when I screamed and was

about to run away, she ran out of the door just in front of me and

slammed it after her."

"What was she like?"

"I could only see that she was in grey; she fled past me like a cat and

when I got to the door she was gone. I understood then that she must

have killed him."

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

shall remain here."

As she obediently went to the door he called after her, "You wait below

for the police and make them send for a doctor."

Left alone he gazed for a few minutes at the still and lifeless object

before him with dry and smarting eyes, for the tragedy unnerved him; it

was so difficult to think that poor shrunken form in his threadbare

clothes was a dead man; he knew that the dull thud he had heard while in

his workroom, must have been caused by Dreyel's fall, and the light

footsteps must have been those of the girl. Dreyel had never mentioned

any girl to him....

He endeavored to collect his thoughts, and as he pondered on what Dreyel

had or had not said, cursed the indifference with which he had listened

to words, some of which, no doubt, had been of serious import. If only

he had remained up there with him; it seemed almost as if he had

betrayed the old recluse to his enemies.

Mechanically he went up to the writing-table where his attention was

attracted by a white paper half concealed under the blotter; it was

probably a half-finished letter. He began to read it, but the words

failed to convey any meaning to his brain, and he caught himself staring

again at the motionless body, when a sudden noise made him start

violently. Had the police come already?

Unconsciously he stuffed the letter into his pocket and strained his

ears to listen. Steps were audible in the waiting-room; yes, it was the

police. Murner gave vent to a sigh of intense relief. Three detectives

entered hastily, followed by the porter's wife. The chief detective was

a pleasant, thick set individual, with a small, grizzled mustache; he

looked round and, stopping short at sight of the corpse, said in a

commanding tone, "Yes, things do look pretty bad up here. Has any one

touched him?"

The porter's wife denied having done so, and he advanced a step nearer

to the body. He cast a quick, penetrating look at Murner and said

sternly, "Mr. Murner, I presume?" The young man bowed slightly. "I am

Superintendent Aspeland. If I have been rightly informed you also live

in this house and were intimately acquainted with the murdered man. Is

that so?"

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

"You were not present at the murder?"

"Certainly not," replied Murner, and he would have said more had not the

superintendent prevented him.

"A young girl, dark, slender, very pale and dressed in grey is said to

have run out of the house ... Did you see her? No? Do you know who she

is?"

"No, I never heard of her before this evening," said Murner, wondering

whether in this connection he ought to mention the telegram or his

having heard strange footsteps. As though answering his unspoken

thoughts the superintendent continued:

"I shall presently have a few more questions to put to you, Mr. Murner;

perhaps you will be good enough to retire to your own quarters

meanwhile. After what this woman has said it seems the girl never left

the house at all."

"I can swear to that," broke in the porter's wife, "When she ran out of

the studio, there were at least five or six people about or on the

stairs, but not one of them saw her. She must have hidden somewhere,

though I can't make out..."

"So much the worse for her if she _is_ here," said the superintendent

gruffly, "I have two men stationed in the yard and two more in the road;

now I am just going to have a look round till the doctor comes."

He took out a pocket-book and pencil, beckoned to one of the other

detectives, and bent down over the body. Murner profited by the

occasion and left the landing, grateful for the relief; he longed for

undisturbed solitude in which to think over recent events. Outside he

encountered a dozen inquisitive tenants, mostly women, and beat a

precipitate retreat from their alarmed inquiries. He found his door shut

but not locked, though he remembered leaving it ajar in his hurry to go

up to the studio, and supposed that some passer-by had closed it. He

went in, locked the door and switched on the light. Catching sight of

himself in the glass, he noticed that he was deadly pale, and seeing his

own drawn, distorted features, he was seized with the most unreasonable

fury against the inhuman wretch who had murdered Dreyel. "It is

horrible," he said, to himself, "there is no possible excuse for such an

act of brutality."

He took a draught of water and opened the door leading to his study, but

remained on the threshold petrified ... some one was sitting in his

armchair by the table!

It was the tall, slight figure of a girl in a simple grey costume and

black silk hat! The large, half open brown eyes were set in a

colorless, thin face; her lips quivered and her hands were tightly

clasped over a leather satchel on her knee.

Their eyes met.

*CHAPTER III*

*THE GIRL IN GREY*

Tom Murner closed the inner door mechanically from force of habit and

leant against it. He began to wonder if he were dreaming. The girl sat

still, immovable, but followed every movement of his with her eyes.

All of a sudden she said something but in so low a tone that he could

not hear her words.

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

She continued staring at him with the same unnatural look in her eyes;

but presently the bag slipped from her knees and he noticed that her

hands were twitching convulsively. He was beside himself at the

awkwardness of the situation and angrily inquired:

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

She rose from, her chair and said in a listless tone: "I _had_ to hide,

I want to get out of here."

She bent down to pick up her bag and burst into tears, then leaving the

satchel on the floor, she made wildly for the door, but as Tom did not

move she stopped short in front of him with bowed head, her whole form

shaking.

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

"The house is full of police," he answered deliberately. "They declare

that Victor Dreyel met with his death at the hands of a girl in grey."

She staggered as though she had been struck. She moaned pitifully,

lifted her hands to her throat and fixed her eyes upon his face as if

dazed. The silent appeal in her feverishly burning eyes made him regret

his harshness.

"It is not true," she said, closed her eyes and fell back in a dead

faint. He caught her in his arms and carried her to the easy chair; her

white blouse showed through the open grey coat. A wave of compassion

surged through his brain as he saw how frail and helpless she was;

small, pearly teeth gleamed between her half-open lips. She breathed

faintly and her deathly pallor accentuated the thinness of her face; her

expression was one of childhood innocence. For a moment he touched her

hand, which was soft and warm. Could it be that these small hands were

stained with the lifeblood of Victor Dreyel? He shuddered at the bare

thought and yet how could the situation be explained? Here he was in

his own room alone with a girl ... an entire stranger to him ... wanted

by the police ... in a dead faint. He was at his wits' end.

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

She had not entirely lost consciousness, and he saw that her dark eyes

were fixed upon his with a puzzled expression. Presently in a broken

voice she said:

"I was hiding behind your door when you opened it; I heard people about

and ran in here."

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

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

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

She looked down without answering; after a few seconds she glanced up

again and asked, "Is there any one about who could hear me?"

The unexpected question startled him; he was about to reply in the

negative, but his suspicious were roused, and he made a hasty

examination of his rooms.

His quarters comprised three rooms--his study littered with sketches,

plans and models; his living--or as he preferred to call it his

smoke-room, with comfortable leather chairs; and his bedroom. At first

he had intended to make his household a model one, but his various

housekeepers having proved failures he had turned his domestic offices

into lumber rooms. Returning from his investigation he said:

"There is no one about, and now, I trust, you will explain how you came

to be found in the studio?"

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

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

At that moment there was a violent ring at the outer door and Tom caught

the buzz of voices. The ringing was renewed from time to time,

accompanied by loud knocking; and he went towards the hall--as in a

dream.

The girl jumped up without a word and threw her arms round him in order

to hold him back. Her tears broke out afresh, and her flaming eyes made

her look like a little fury; but he pushed her away and said in a

decisive tone:

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

"No, no," she whimpered, "you must help me.... I can swear ... Oh, do

help me!" She covered her face with her hands and he heard her murmur:

"There is no one in the world who will help me."

He did not release his hold of her and the small figure seemed to

dwindle in his grasp: without knowing how it happened he found her head

resting on his shoulder.

"Well, well, try to be calm," he said austerely "I never said I should

hand you over to the police, did I?"

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

She sighed and dried her tears.

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

The girl hesitated, but another furious ring scared her and the next

minute she had disappeared. Tom stuffed her satchel under some papers,

looked round once more and found a grey glove on the chair which he

bundled into his pocket and went to open the door. Superintendent

Aspeland walked in.

"So this is where you live," he grunted, looking about him. "Yes, you

seem to have all you want here. Have you heard anything of the woman

since you came down from the studio? Have you seen her? What about that

window there, does that look into the street?"

Tom drew a long breath.

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

"Yes, of course."

"I know nothing more about her," said the young man in a loud voice;

"but that window over there does look into the street," he added.

"Hm!" said the superintendent, who had already thrown open the window,

and was looking up and down the road. He closed it rather noisily.

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

over there?"

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

"Oh," remarked Aspeland carelessly, taking out pocket-book and pencil.

"Oh, I say, I just picked up a telegram here."

He made Tom tell him what he knew about the telegram from Gothenburg,

then he said rather crossly, "It seems to me as if no one here were

capable of giving any explanation of this tiresome business! Oh, well,

I haven't done with it yet; we shall see."

He stood still for a while without appearing to be looking at anything

in particular, then he slowly walked out, shutting the door after him.

Tom began to feel dizzy and to wonder what he really had been doing; had

he really in cold blood been trying to bamboozle a police

superintendent?

The door of the next room was gently opened and the girl came out. They

looked at one another in silence. Tom essayed to speak, but his voice

failed him. In his mind's eye he still beheld the lifeless body, and

his wrath and indignation against the murderer broke out afresh.

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

The girl hung her head.

"Then you don't believe me?" she said in a low voice. "I ... I can't

explain. It is so hard ... I am so awfully lonely."

Tom went a step nearer to her.

"If only you..." he began eagerly, then stopped abruptly. What had he

been going to say? What did he know?

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

shivered.

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

She put out her hand without raising her eyes, and let the small, soft

fingers rest for a moment in his own. She withdrew them with a nervous

exclamation. There was again a ring at the door as the church clock

struck nine, and without uttering a word the girl ran back into the

smoking room. "She trusts me," he thought, and he felt oddly touched,

but quickly pulled himself together.

He went out into the hall, fully determined to tell the inspector

everything. Was it not his duty? But when he opened the door he was

completely taken aback; for without any ado, a tall, well set-up man in

a mackintosh crossed the threshold, hung his hat on a peg and unbuttoned

his coat.

"Good evening," he said in a deep, mellow voice, "this house seems more

lively than I was led to believe. Where is your mysterious friend

Dreyel?"

Tom stood as if turned to stone.

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

were coming."

The journalist looked at him as he wiped the rain drops from his face.

Tom felt like a guilty schoolboy before those calm grey eyes, and went

hot all over. A sudden smile passed over the detective's usually grave

and impassive features.

"I begin to suspect," he said, "that you ought to have called me in

sooner. You promised me an interesting evening and the first persons I

run into are two men from the police. What has happened? Has Victor

Dreyel got himself into a mess?"

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

Maurice Wallion bit his lip and cast a peculiarly keen look at the young

man; then he slowly took his way to the study, looked round and said:

"Too late, I see. Where and how did it happen?"

Tom, in an incoherent manner, told him. He mentioned his conversation

with Dreyel at eight o'clock, the wooden doll, the telegram and the

mysterious footsteps, finishing up with the suspicions of the police in

regard to a certain young girl in grey.

But he went no further. Now, having recapitulated all the details in

order, he himself for the first time got a clear insight as to how

matters stood. A cold sweat came over him.

Up there, in the studio ... a dead man; down here in the very next room

an unknown girl, possibly an adventuress, most likely Dreyel's

murderess, in spite of her assertions to the contrary ... concealed in

his own abode!

"I do believe you are turning pale," observed Wallion, who had been

narrowly studying his friend's face; "got anything more to tell me?"

Tom hesitated.

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

"Who? Your girl in grey, the stranger? How should _I_ know? Funnier

things than that have happened."

Wallion looked annoyed and absent. He listened attentively to

occasional footsteps overhead; without asking, he knew they came from

Dreyel's studio.

"They have got something to think about now," he muttered with an odd

flash in his eye. "I say, Murner, the story Dreyel might have told would

have been worth hearing. Is that Aspeland walking about up there?"

"I think it must be," answered Tom feebly. He was in doubt as to what

Wallion intended to do, and dared not ask; he kept thinking of the girl

in hiding not ten feet away--thinking it might be better to let Wallion

know that she was there. In his confusion he fancied that Wallion knew

everything already, and was only making fun of him; he became desperate.

He had the confession on the tip of his tongue. Better make a clean

breast of it at once, he thought--and was just going to open his mouth

when the journalist said: "If the wooden doll has disappeared, then the

matter will be cleared up."

Tom drew a deep breath.

"What ... what do you mean?"

"Let us go up to the studio," was Wallion's answer: "if I judge the

situation aright this is the most curious mystery I have ever had to

deal with."

"_You_ have had to deal with?"

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

poor old Dreyel."

He went out quickly. Tom followed, taking good care to shut the door

tight this time. They went upstairs and into the studio.

Aspeland, two detectives and a well-dressed gentleman with a grey beard

stood silent and transfixed in the middle of the room. All the lamps

were lighted, and the Superintendent was busy making notes in his book.

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

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

Aspeland turned quickly.

"'The Problem Solver,' as sure as I am alive," he said awkwardly,

"however did you get here? Are you a conjurer? Has the news of this

tragedy already reached the town?"

"No, not the town, but it has reached me; it is something in my line of

business you see. Have you got him fast?"

"Him? Who?"

"Why, the murderer, of course."

"Well it isn't a HE, it's a SHE," Aspeland answered, "and she is here in

this house, and we are going to be after her."

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

"Because she was seen running out of the studio after the crime, also

because nobody saw her go down the stairs, though heaps of people were

about. I tell you she is in hiding somewhere not far off, and if I have

to send fifty men after her I mean to catch her."

Wallion gazed thoughtfully at Tom.

"Oh, very well," was all he said. He thrust his hands into his pockets

and took a good, long look round the studio. The body had been removed,

but a dark red spot, scarcely dry, showed on the grey linoleum in front

of the bookcase; it was but a small stain which could easily have been

covered with an inverted teacup, but it was of supreme importance, and

all eyes were automatically turned upon it, as Wallion bent over it.

For several seconds there was no sound save the patter of the rain on

the glass roof, and then Wallion inquired as to the whereabouts of the

body.

"It has been taken into the bedroom," answered Aspeland. "The doctor

says death must have been instantaneous, the man having been stabbed in

the back," he pointed to the silent gentleman with the grey beard by way

of introduction, and said, "Doctor Baum."

Having bowed to each other, the doctor laconically remarked, "A most

cold-blooded murder--the work of an expert. Between the

shoulder-blades--straight through the heart--internal hemorrhage, death

practically instantaneous."

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

"Yes, it must have been a sharp, long and narrow blade, possibly a

daggerlike weapon, used with unerring precision."

Aspeland interrupted the doctor impatiently.

"Would you like to view the corpse?" he inquired of Wallion. "I am not

against hearing your opinion," he added, somewhat clumsily, and called

to one of the detectives: "Tell the porter's wife to come up again."

Then the superintendent, Wallion and the doctor proceeded to Dreyel's

small, untidy bedroom. Tom followed in their wake, but he could not

bring himself to go near the iron bedstead from which the doctor lifted

the sheet.

"Let me look at his hands," said Wallion with decision, "and then help

me to turn him over."

"The wound has closed, as you see," said the doctor, as if he were

giving a lecture on anatomy, "an uncommonly well-directed blow--not a

bone touched--the inquest will show..."

Tom shuddered and went back into the studio, the other three soon

followed, and the doctor took up his hat.

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

gentlemen."

Wallion's face assumed a new expression; he seemed to have been deeply

impressed at sight of the dead man, and Tom inquired anxiously, "Found

out anything?"

The journalist looked at him for a moment,

"Tom," he exclaimed suddenly, "I wonder whether any man has ever been

murdered from a more incomprehensible motive than your poor friend.

Whoever it was who did the deed he is the vilest monster I ever came

across, unfit to be called a human being. Yes," he added abjectly,

"Dreyel, in his extreme need, begged for my help--I know why now--and

the help came too late..." The muscles of his face were working. "But

whoever it was that killed Victor Dreyel, he shall not escape."

Before Tom's eyes there rose a vision of a girl hidden in the dark room

and, quaking with fear and apprehension, he listened to the steps of the

pursuers. At last he asked: "What are you going to do?"

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

irritably.

He went up to the portrait shelf and said, "It seems absurd, and yet it

is true, Tom, this is the place where the wooden doll stood, isn't it?"

The young man shivered. Wallion was pointing to the upper shelf and to

his dismay, Tom perceived that the little wooden figure was indeed no

longer there; but Wallion gave him no time to speak. Turning to the

superintendent, he suddenly remarked:

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

The officer who was just then deep in conversation with the porter's

wife, replied with some irritation:

"The motive, sir? That will be a question to be answered later on.

Once we've got hold of the perpetrator the motive will reveal itself

fast enough."

Wallion smiled at Aspeland's display of temper. He knew that clever,

conscientious official of old and could make a shrewd guess at what had

put him out. It would have been an immense gratification to the old

veteran to have laid hands on a reckless criminal, but to run down a

poor girl who might have been driven to commit the crime, and was now

probably hiding like some hunted animal, was not at all to his taste.

Wallion cast an interrogative glance at Tom and said:

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

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

"Would it not be more to the point to search for the short, slim

individual who climbed on to the roof through that window there?"

Nothing in Wallion's tone gave the slightest indication that he attached

any importance to his question, but all eyes turned to him and the

official became uncomfortably red.

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

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

the door.

"Oh, that one," said Aspeland drily, hurrying towards it. "I saw that,

you need not teach me observation; Dreyel may have closed it himself."

Wallion called his attention to a chair which stood under said window,

and had on its seat the mark of a wet shoe.

"If you measure that mark you 'll find that it was made by a shoe two or

three sizes shorter than Dreyel's. Besides the window can only have

been opened a few minutes or there would be some drops of rain about

here, and it is not--as you say--closed. It has only dropped--as can be

seen by the unturned bolt. You will notice also that the intruder,

probably to facilitate getting on to the roof, stood on the fore part of

his feet or toes, as the impression on the seat shows."

Aspeland stroked his chin.

"Well, well," he said deprecatingly. "But about the girl, the

murderess? Apparently she had an accomplice..."

Wallion's manner and speech had so far been those of a calm, critical

observer; now, he was roused, and in an authoritative voice, he said,

"Aspeland, it was not a girl who dealt that blow. Dismiss all thought

of her from your mind for the present; you don't believe me, but I say

it again, some _man_ has escaped through that window on to the roof. I

maintain that it was he who murdered Dreyel. Moreover here is his

card!"

Wallion went back to the shelf and pointed to its surface where the dust

lay thick, except for a small space of perhaps three inches, indicating

that some object which had lain there for a long time had recently been

removed.

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed the porter's wife who had just come up,

wringing her hands, "the wooden image has gone."

"Yes, it has," answered Wallion, "but Mr. Murner can bear witness that

it was there at 8:30 this evening; the marks in the dust are

irrefutable.... They were made by a coat sleeve with two buttons,

therefore, undoubtedly, that of a man. At a guess one would say the

shelf must be about three and a half feet in height, and the marks in

the dust lead to the conclusion that the man must have been short of

stature and slight, otherwise he could not have wriggled through that

small aperture in the corner."

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

"Of course, but why shouldn't it have been that one? There were no

marks of dust on Dreyel's sleeve, so it wasn't he who removed the wooden

doll, and there was no one else here."

"No, but the wooden figure--what was the story about it?" broke in

Aspeland. "A wooden image?" he added fixing his eyes on Tom. "That must

have been a most wonderful thing, what do you know about it?"

"Nothing more than that Dreyel received the figure from America early in

July," said Tom, describing the packet as well as he could. "That's all,

but it must certainly have been the object alluded to in the telegram."

"Telegram, telegram," muttered the superintendent, looking round

distractedly. "So there is a wooden doll and a man who..." his

bloodshot eyes turned to the window in the corner. "Johnson," he cried,

"go out and whistle for one or two men to help you, and then go and

examine the roof minutely." Addressing the porter's wife he said:

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

evening?"

She shook her head. Aspeland sniffed.

"Come along with me," he said roughly, "we'll ask some of the other

tenants; some one must have noticed him, seeing he was made of flesh and

blood," and, giving Wallion an angry look, he went out.

The other detectives remained to keep watch on the window. Murner and

Wallion lighted a cigarette and went out arm-in-arm, "Let's go down to

your digs," said Wallion.

*CHAPTER IV*

*"HE FRIGHTENED ME"*

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

half-open.

"That's odd," he murmured, "it begins to be quite uncanny; I could have

taken my oath that this time I shut the door and locked it, too."

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

"Yes, when the porter's wife gave the alarm I forgot it and left it

open, but now? It certainly is very odd."

Wallion became much interested; secretly he measured the distance

between the door and the stairs leading to the studio; but he made no

remark, and turning the handle of the hall door walked in.

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

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

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

"Look here, Tom," he said calmly, "a little while ago you asked me

whether I thought the girl in gray was guilty? You then heard me insist

that it was a man who had killed Dreyel. Do you take me?"

The young man was dumbfounded. Wallion smiled, opened the door and went

in; all was dark.

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

Tom, completely unnerved, trembled.

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

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

door."

He fumbled for the electric button and found it after a time; the flash

revealed a figure, huddled up against the wall of the study door. It was

the girl in gray ... she might have been asleep, her head sunk upon her

breast and her arms clasped round her knees. Wallion closed the outer

door and bent over the motionless figure.

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

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

where?"

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

They lifted her carefully and laid her on the couch. As Tom was gently

slipping a cushion under her head, she opened her eyes. "He did

frighten me so," she said in a feeble voice.

"Who frightened you?" asked Tom.

"In the hall," continued the girl, more feebly still. "I was afraid of

being alone ... and I crept out ... then he came down the stairs behind

me ... and ... he frightened me so."

"Who was it? What was he like?"

She made no answer. Wallion bent down and saw that her eyes were again

closed. He took Tom by the arm and made him look at her left wrist. A

slender thread of blood had come from under the sleeve of her coat, and

drops were falling on the couch.

"He not only frightened her, the beast, he must have hurt her too! Lend

me a hand and let us help her off with her jacket."

They tenderly raised the unconscious form and divested her of her outer

garment. The left sleeve of her blouse was saturated with blood;

Wallion rolled it up gently and said:

"A nasty wound, but not necessarily dangerous; she probably put up her

arm to save herself. Go and get some water."

With a practised hand Wallion bandaged the girl's arm whilst Tom stood

by on tenter-hooks. Having finished his work, Wallion gravely scanned

the face of his patient, who was breathing calmly and regularly; then he

drew Tom into the study.

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

Tom unburdened his oppressed conscience in a stream of words; the girl

had concealed herself in his rooms for fear of being taken by the

police, but she herself had protested she was innocent.

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

Wallion listened attentively and then said:

"Yes, my good friend, the situation is undoubtedly embarrassing; our

little unknown guest must choose between two things. Either she must

put herself into the hands of the police or she must pass the night in

your bachelor apartments. Present day conventions most certainly demand

that..."

"Conventions be hanged!" burst out Tom in despair; "We can't leave the

poor thing to her fate like this."

"She requires care," said Wallion. "She can't be moved without

attracting attention, but there is a certain law which refers to

'accessories' to a crime."

Tom paced wildly up and down and did not notice the gleam of quiet humor

in the journalist's eyes.

"This must be a punishment for my sins--a nice predicament to be in, by

Jove--what on earth am I to do?"

Wallion pushed him into his armchair.

"Try to be quiet," he said, "and listen to what I have to propose. The

girl did not kill Dreyel; on the contrary, the real murderer made an

attempt to kill her too. We can't tell what business she had in the

studio, she might have come only to warn Dreyel; anyhow, she certainly

had. nothing to do with the murderer, and it might be ... mark you ... I

only say it _might_ be that if we hand her over to the police her last

plight would be worse than the first. She had better make her

confession to us, then we shall know where we are."

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

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

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

"Is a clear case for Mrs. Toby," swiftly interrupted Wallion, as he

reached out his hand for the telephone receiver.

"And who the deuce is Mrs. Toby?"

"Mrs. Toby happens to be my housekeeper, she is a regular good old soul

and can adapt herself ... turn her hand to anything."

Tom heard him call for his own number, and after a while, the response

came: "Hallo! It is Wallion ... No ... Want your help immediately. Take

a taxi to 30, John Street, and come up to the fourth floor, the name on

the door is Thomas Murner.... Yes ... now--at once ... No, some one has

been taken ill ... Yes ... Thanks ... Good-bye."

He restored the receiver to its place and smiled.

"She is used to obeying queer orders," he said. "You wait here, whilst

I just go out and see what the police are doing."

With that he disappeared. Somewhat easier in mind, Tom sat quiet for a

while; he still had a feeling of moving in a weird, incomprehensible

dream; and wondered how it was going to end? He rose and he peered

through the door of the smoke-room, the girl still lay where they had

put her. Her thin face was very white but peaceful; she had the look of

a sleeping child, tired after play. Where had she sprung from? Who

might she be?

He continued walking up and down in his study, when a noise in the

street below disturbed his meditations. He threw open the window and

looked out. The shifting clouds and the rain had turned this August

night into a very autumnal one, but the lamps of two motors cast a

glaring light across the pavement, and he saw two men coming out of the

house bearing a coffin, which they deposited in the larger of the two

motors; he understood that they were taking Dreyel's body away.

Soon afterwards Superintendent Aspeland came out, accompanied by Maurice

Wallion; they exchanged a few parting words and shook hands; Aspeland

got into the other motor. When the party had gone Wallion returned

indoors.

A few minutes later he entered the study, flung himself down on a chair

and said in a tone of considerable annoyance: "Aspeland ought to have

had more men with him."

"Why?"

"Dreyel's murderer has got away!"

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

"The detectives found clear proof that a man _had_ got through the

window on to the roof, precisely as I said, but he was no longer there.

It so happens that at the back there are two unoccupied attics; he broke

a pane of glass in one of them and by that means landed in a passage on

the fifth floor. He must have slipped out at the very moment the girl

went to your door; perhaps he recognized her--who can tell? Anyhow he

attacked and stabbed her. By the last flight of stairs he came upon the

police, so without more ado, he rang the first bell he saw. When the

door was opened he pushed the servant aside, ran through one of the

rooms, opened a window looking into the street and jumped out--that's

all. When the men started in pursuit he had disappeared in the

darkness. Aspeland, meanwhile, saw I had been right and at once

despatched men in all directions to catch the criminal, who really

was--as I surmised--very short, spare and agile; he had on a green

mackintosh and a felt bowler, but no one saw his face, and the 'mack'

was subsequently found on a seat in the churchyard. For all the good

that clue is, I don't envy the police."

Curiously enough the story of the assassin's escape seemed to afford Tom

Murner a certain amount of relief; somehow it rendered his own position

a trifle less compromising, and as the police were everywhere on the

watch for the man, things looked decidedly better.

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

"No. Aspeland is a clever fellow and has had experience, he is always

ready to tackle a job, but will brook no interference. Just now he

seems to have forgotten her."

"So much the better."

"Yes, but there are still detectives in the house, and I have seen among

them, a sharp little chap called Ferlin, one of the cleverest spies in

the force. The porter, too, is keeping his eyes open, and so from this

time forward you must be officially on the 'sick-list.'"

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

"Exactly, and, indeed, you really don't look at all well since this

tragedy occurred. We shall have to exaggerate things a little ... as an

excuse for certain other matters; therefore, your nervous system has

gone all wrong, so you have asked me to stay and keep you company for a

few days ... and I have sent for my housekeeper to look after us both."

"I get you----!" said Tom.

"Well, isn't it true? The story is a little thin, I grant, but that

can't be helped. How is the girl now?"

"I believe she is asleep."

"Good! Early to-morrow morning we'll send for a doctor I know, who

won't say any more than is absolutely needful. And now, whilst we are

waiting for Mrs. Toby, you might as well tell me--even to the minutest

detail, what took place at the studio in the afternoon."

He lay back in his chair and listened attentively, now and then helping

the younger man out by judicious questions. When he bad all the facts

clearly before him, he quietly put on his considering cap.

"Dreyel, I suppose, obstinately kept to his secret to the last," he

remarked. "He wanted help and yet received the mysterious 'E.R,' quite

alone. The paradox is only on the surface ... it may be assumed that he

himself was anxious for an explanation though he feared danger at the

same time. To speak plainly, he anticipated news from 'E.R.' and danger

from Toroni. It is impossible to ascertain whether Toroni himself was a

personal danger or only the source from which it might spring. It can

only be surmised that the man who has just escaped had some connection

with Toroni the 13th. Again, I should not wonder if the girl on the

couch might turn out to be 'E.R.'"

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

awful ... awful."

"Awful? I don't see that, we know nothing about that. Everything

considered, it is clear there exists some secret of supreme importance

to Dreyel and one or two other persons in America. A certain man named

Toroni had got to know the secret and it was in danger. Therefore 'E.R.'

was sent to warn Dreyel; but when 'E.R.' arrived at the studio, Dreyel

was found dead, slain by his adversary or his adversary's agent. To me

that seems a natural conclusion."

"And the wooden doll?"

"I confess that is an extraordinary detail, though 'detail' is hardly

the right word; the wooden doll is, so to say, the central figure in

this mysterious problem; let us, therefore, follow its track. First,

then, the doll was sent to Dreyel from America. Secondly, it worried

him as though he expected something unpleasant to follow. Thirdly, in a

telegram from 'E.R.' he was admonished to keep a watchful eye upon the

doll since Toroni had learnt the secrets. Fourthly, before 'E.R.' could

have a personal interview with Dreyel, he was murdered by some one who

stole the wooden doll. One can't overlook the importance of the odd

little figure. Tell me, did you ever have it in your hands?"

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

"Was it hollow inside?"

"No, it was absolutely solid wood throughout."

"Was there nothing to unscrew?"

"No, certainly not."

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

kind?"

Tom sat up. "Well, now that you have mentioned it, I do recollect

having noticed some figures cut in the wood on the sole of one of the

feet."

"Aha!" exclaimed Wallion.

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

like."

Tom drew a piece of paper towards him and proceeded to draw what was

meant to represent the outline of the sole of a foot, in the middle of

which he drew the following figures:

No. 12

------

33"

Wallion inspected this sketch with a frown and gave a low whistle. "So,

..." he said, "our materials are accumulating, but we are not much the

wiser for all that....

"Did No. 12 apply to the wooden figure or was it meant to indicate that

something was camouflaged as No. 12? Dreyel always spoke of Toroni as

the thirteenth. That almost seems to tally, the wooden doll No. 12 and

Toroni 13 ... but let us proceed warily with our theories for the

present. Now what about the other figures? They may mean 33 inches or

33 minutes, or they may belong to some private code."

As Tom was about to make some impetuous remark, Wallion raised a

deprecating hand, saying:

"Beware of obstacles, Tom; if we begin with mere suppositions we shall

soon run our heads against a wall, perhaps we had better let the girl

tell her story first."

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

chair.

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

He went out, and a few minutes later reappeared with a stout, elderly

woman, dressed in black, with white hair; her still, comely countenance

and regular features bore a stamp of strength and quiet content.

"I quite understand," she said to Wallion, who had probably already

given her instructions. "I'll do what I can." Her kindly eyes rested

upon Tom, and she curtsied; that was all the introduction. Then they

all went into the smoke-room.

The girl had not stirred. Wallion pointed towards the white figure and

said: "There's your patient, Mrs. Toby."

The old dame was already bending over the couch, and her deft fingers at

once rearranged the cushion and the girl's clothes, which had got

untidy. In a gentle, motherly way she crooned over her: "Such a poor

little bird! Would any one believe that two big, stupid men hadn't even

the sense to relieve her of her hat!"

The two men, like awkward schoolboys, stood and heard her remarks in

silence; she removed the girl's small hat and handed it to Tom. "Now

then, go and hang it up," she said, seeing the young man standing

irresolute with his hands full. Having examined the bandage and felt

the girl's pulse, she said: "The child is feverish. Please bring in my

luggage, Mr. Wallion, and you, Mr. Murner, make haste and put a

saucepanful of water on the gas-stove to boil."

She looked round and went into the bedroom, where she at once made

herself at home. She took clean sheets out of a cupboard, and at one

fell swoop turned out Murner's dressing-gown, slippers, smoking-jacket

and shaving tools--in fact all his personal belongings--which she

deposited in the smoke-room.

"I ought really to turn you out also, but I'll let you stay," she said,

laughing, but hustling him out of the apartment. "I am mistress here

now."

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

"Rubbish!" answered Mrs. Toby, as she lifted the girl from the couch and

carried her into the bedroom, shutting the door after her.

Wallion had settled himself comfortably in the study, and with an amused

smile he said to Tom: "Mind you don't get in Mrs. Toby's way, she was

born to rule."

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

industry and energy.

"There's one thing that perplexes me," presently said Wallion, "to judge

from appearances the girl must have come up from Gothenburg by the

morning train; but people don't generally travel without luggage or with

empty hands."

Tom smote his forehead with his hand.

"Good Heavens!" he cried, "her satchel!" he drew the black satchel from

the papers under which he had concealed it.

Wallion nodded approval, and said complacently:

"That may help to clear up a lot."

The little bag had only the ordinary fastening; seeing Tom hesitate,

Wallion took it from him and forthwith emptied the contents on the

table. A lace handkerchief, a small silver purse containing Swedish

money, various "vanity" articles, and lastly a hundred-dollar note,

nothing more.

"Is that all?" asked Tom, when Wallion had finished; but with a

curiously absent manner the journalist once more examined the satchel.

"No, that is not all," he said at last, hurriedly taking out another

object and setting it on the table, "there is that."

"The wooden doll," ejaculated Tom, and a cold wave seemed to pass over

him; vague but horrible thoughts floated through his brain. He saw

before him a figure carved in hard, brown wood, eight inches high,

representing a man in slouch hat, sweater, cartridge belt and high

lace-up boots; but on more minute inspection he breathed a sigh of

relief, the little figure bore a distinct resemblance to the one which

had stood on Dreyel's shelf, but it was not the same.

"This is another," he said, taking it up; "but I say, I do believe ...

it is an exact likeness of Victor Dreyel."

This discovery completed his consternation; the brown face was an exact

representation of the murdered man, to his most characteristic and

peculiar features. He looked at the sole of the doll's feet and there

found an incised mark, No. 5 ... Nothing more.

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

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

with excitement.

"What do you think it means?" he asked eagerly. "This is the third time

we have come up against a number; it is very odd, but on the other doll

there was in addition the number '33' ... Why not the same on this one?

What do you make of it?"

Wallion said nothing, but his eyes grew bright; he smiled, took out and

lighted a cigar; then he once more searched every corner of the satchel

with renewed interest, till he came upon a pocket in the lining, whence

he extracted a small note-book bound in leather. It contained only a

few leaves, on the first of which the friends noticed two addresses,

written in small, dainty characters: Victor Dreyel, 30, John Street,

Stockholm ... and Christian Dreyel, Captain Street, Borne. There was

nothing else written in the book, but four or five visiting cards fell

out, each one bearing the same name: "Elaine Robertson." The two men

looked at one another.

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

now."

At this juncture Mrs. Toby, hot from her work, came in with the

tea-tray. "There," she said in a motherly tone, "I thought you

gentlemen might be glad of a little refreshment; the young lady is

asleep, but the fever seems inclined to be obstinate; she has been

talking a rare lot of nonsense about a doll, and what it's all about I'm

sure I don't know, but she never said what her name was."

"Her name is Elaine Robertson," replied Wallion, "and early in the

morning I shall call in a doctor."

*CHAPTER V*

*THE OTHER DREYEL*

When Mrs. Toby had left the room Wallion said: "Did you know that there

were two men named Dreyel?"

Tom shook his head.

"I never heard Christian Dreyel mentioned, maybe he is a brother. I

don't know."

The young man's voice sounded listless and tired; the existing

complication seemed too much for him, his brain was in a whirl; he only

longed to get away from it all and go to sleep. With a prolonged yawn,

thrusting his hands into his pockets, he said:

"Perhaps we had better send a telegram to the other Dreyel; he is,

naturally, the person most nearly concerned.... Hallo! what's this?"

He broke off suddenly and from his pocket he drew forth a gray glove and

a crumpled piece of paper.

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

Wallion took the letter and began to read it, lifting his eyebrows.

"This is prime stuff, of the first order," he said, "a letter from

Victor Dreyel to Christian Dreyel...."

He read the epistle out loud: "Dear Christian," it began. "You are

quite right, miracles do not happen now-a-days but justice may prevail

in the end. The wooden dolls were only the beginning, a caution, a

warning. To-day I got a telegram which I enclose. Who is it from? I

don't know whether it is true that Toroni is still alive, but if he is,

strange things are likely to happen. They are all gone ... all, that

crazy Craig Russel, Sanderson, the black Colonel, all gone. All, save

William Robertson, myself and you, and the mystery of King Solomon is

not solved. Fifteen years have I been living in this somber and quiet

corner; perhaps it was my time of probation all along. They say

likenesses of the dead bring misfortune to the living. After all those

years it was a curious gift to you and me; and whatever may happen

to-night, I shall not give in without a struggle..."

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

between."

"King Solomon's secret," repeated Tom. "Secret indeed ... What a

loathsome word! And what has Elaine Robertson to do with King Solomon's

affairs?"

Wallion looked at the wooden doll and said:

"Your inquiry is premature ... we are still in the dark. The secret has

acquired a name, that is all ... 'King Solomon'; and 'King Solomon' may

stand for a place, a nickname, or for anything you like. You should

rather ask what connection there can be between 'E.R.' and William

Robertson? Well, to begin with both are alive at present, whereas

another lot of persons, who evidently also had something to do with

'King Solomon' are dead; among the latter are 'that crazy Craig Russel,

Sanderson and the black Colonel,' and several others, whatever sort of

folk they may have been. These, as well as Robertson and the two

Dreyels, were in the secret for more than fifteen years, until a third

party, by the name of Toroni, stepped in and discovered it, which

threatened evil consequences. Toroni's informants were known and the

bare mention of his name was enough to terrify Victor Dreyel: in short,

Toroni was the villain of the piece. Again, only William Robertson and

the two Dreyels being alive, it is plain that 'E.R.' must have been sent

by Robertson to warn the others; the wooden dolls also ... mystic

emblems ... must have come from Robertson! Must, did I say? We are

pursuing wild conjectures, and here am I sitting and only making rough

guesses."

"But you are right," said Tom, struck by Wallion's words. "It must be

as you say, you have already brought the problem within measurable

distance..."

"Have I?" said Wallion, laughing. "Yes, I have confined it to the

obscurity of fifteen years, and located it in the continent of America

... a child might have done that much. No, no, my lad, it won't do to

make any deductions from those infernal wooden dolls. They are

irrational objects and before we get at the reason of their existence we

may have to cast our present theories to the winds."

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

"Three points of view, my friend. First, that this is the most glorious

problem it has ever been my luck to handle. Secondly, that I can't

understand it at all. And thirdly, that I want to go to sleep now."

He drew up a chair, stretched his legs upon it, leant his head against

the back and was fast asleep in a few minutes. The rain continued to

come down in torrents, flooding the gutters. The clock struck eleven.

Battalions of wooden dolls marched past and cast evil glances at Tom.

Their small, polished, sphinxlike faces glowed in the darkness like live

sparks and voices from thousands of throats came through the shadows,

crying: "We are the riddle, the mystery of King Solomon is ours." ...

Then he seemed to hear sounds of weeping and felt a warm, soft little

hand in his. "It is not true," he heard a girl whisper.... "I have

killed no one, but I am so lonely ... no one will help me ..." Tom was

just going to reply, but Elaine fled away through black clouds, and then

he heard stealthy footsteps ...

Tom Murner jumped up confused and benumbed with cold. He had spent the

night on the hard couch in his study, and the recollection of his

horrible nightmare affected his nerves. In a moment everything which had

occurred since yesterday afternoon unrolled itself like a film before

his mind's eye; he put his hands up to his aching head and shivered with

apprehension. Victor Dreyel's dreadful end, the girl hidden in his

bedroom, the fiendish wooden doll still standing on his writing-table,

everything passed before his mental vision. He looked round and stared

at the designs for his "Terrace" houses as if he had never seen them

before; something was different, but it was nothing tangible or outside

... the change was within his own soul. From a world of books and

dreams he had all at once been flung into a life of adventure. Fate had

decided and the great comedy which is enacted but once in a lifetime had

begun. A small, pleading voice whispered in his brain: "Nonsense, such

a thing could not happen. She may be innocent or she may not. See that

she gets away from here as soon as possible, and see that you have

nothing to do with her." The conflict in his mind began anew; he

marvelled at the clearness with which he remembered every act, every

word, yes, every gesture of hers. He jumped up and stretched his limbs.

The ghostly monitor persisted: "Don't meddle with what you don't

understand. Don't meddle with..." "Well, and what then?" he reflected,

"is one ever justified in refusing to help another?"

He threw up the window and drew a deep breath, there were still clouds

about, but the air was clear and fresh. Presently he heard the sound of

voices proceeding from the smoke-room; Wallion and Mrs. Toby were

talking and the name Elaine Robertson caught his ear. The journalist

soon came out, walked into the study and closed the door after him; he

looked very serious.

"I see you are awake, good!" he remarked drily; "There's much to be

done. With Aspeland's assistance I have already gone through Dreyel's

papers. Christian turns out to be a cousin of his; other relatives

there are none; as for the rest of his papers there was nothing in them

worth consideration."

Wallion then took up the wooden doll and put it in his pocket. "I am

going to take that with me now, and for the present you mustn't say

anything about it. The Chief Detective will probably call here, so mind

you don't forget that you are on the sick-list. You are at liberty to

say all you know, but nothing in any way relating to 'E.R.' Mrs. Toby

has had her instructions."

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

"The little lady? She is very feverish from her wound, but you need not

be alarmed; the doctor will be here before long, ostensibly to see you

... hallo! Who's coming now...?"

There was a ring at the door and Superintendent Aspeland was admitted.

He was accompanied by Detective Ferlin, and both men looked excited.

"Gone, without leaving the slightest trace behind him," Aspeland said,

turning to Wallion. "Since the miscreant got out of the house he has

disappeared from human ken like a 'U' boat."

"And is as great a danger," added Ferlin. "In my opinion that man is the

greatest menace we have ever come across. But we must not forget the

girl; she must have something to tell."

Detective Ferlin was short of stature, grave and alert, somewhat

excitable and fidgetty, inclined to be a little bumptious, but clever

and shrewd beyond the average. Aspeland tugged at his moustache and

looked at his colleague sideways.

"Ferlin," he said, in an amicable tone, "I posted you and Rankel at the

door, but both the assassin and the girl seem to have neglected to make

your acquaintance. Have you any advice to give?"

Ferlin turned crimson to the roots of his hair, gazed for a moment at

Tom and said: "Mr. Murner, will you give me an answer on one point?"

Tom grew as rigid as if ice were sliding down his spine, but he replied

calmly: "Yes, of course, what is it you want to know?"

"Mr. Murner, you came out into the hall precisely at the moment the girl

came rushing down the stairs. Did you not see her?"

"If you wish it I can affirm on oath that I never saw a shimmer of her,"

replied Tom, truthfully, and he could not refrain from laughing at

something which only Wallion knew. Ferlin glowered at him with an ironic

smile.

"Excuse me," continued Tom, "my laughing arose purely from nervousness

... You will understand."

"I understand," grunted the little man.

"This is no child's play, Mr. Murner, so you had better be careful....

The girl may be out of reach--we must just see. I, for one, shall keep

my eyes open, though they mayn't be so fine as her own."

"By Jove! what a talker you are," remarked Aspeland. "Now, Mr. Wallion,

Ferlin and I must have a little conversation about this Christian

Dreyel, and be ready to answer a heap of questions when the Head of the

Department arrives on the scene ... Good-by till then."

Ferlin and he went out together, and soon after sounds of people busy at

work overhead became audible.

Wallion grew impatient and began to pace the room.

"What time is it?" he growled. "Half-past eight? Confound it all!

Tom, before night I have to be at the other Dreyel's. I have no time

for arguing. No, I don't want your company; it would only drag you

deeper into the mire and I believe Ferlin is already thinking of

arresting you...."

"What? Me...?"

"Yes, just you. We shall hear what the Chief Detective will have to say

to the only intimate friend Dreyel had ... If they knew that the

girl..."

He lifted both hands, and they exchanged glances.

"Wallion," resumed Tom in a low voice, "I have made up my mind, I mean

to do all I can to help Miss Robertson, but I won't abuse your

friendship if you are not inclined for a game of Hide and Seek with the

police or the law."

Wallion's eyes sparkled--his expression was comical.

"You are talking like an idiot; who said anything about the law? And as

to circumventing the police, I should soon put a stop to that. What are

you making such a fuss about? Can't the girl remain quietly where she

is?"

"Yes ... but..."

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

Wallion himself went to the door and a middle-aged man with a jovial,

ruddy countenance walked in, and was introduced by Wallion as the

"Doctor"--no name being mentioned. He seemed to be acquainted with the

facts of the case, and with a formal bow to Tom, he came further into

the room. Presently Mrs. Toby appeared at the door and beckoned to

Wallion to come out ... Seeing Tom about to follow she shook her head.

"I don't want a procession," she said crossly, and slammed the door.

Wallion went into the bedroom where he found the doctor standing by the

window and writing a prescription. Without turning round the latter

said: "Mr. Wallion, I shall keep a quiet tongue about what I have seen,

but one thing I feel bound to tell you. The girl is a physical wreck.

The wound is nothing. Make her take this now, Mrs. Toby, and again

to-night, and by to-morrow the fever will be gone. What she wants is

good nursing, and above all no excitement ... She has already gone

through more than such a delicate constitution as hers can stand. She

appears to have no means, and is half-starved and thoroughly worn out."

Wallion threw a hasty glance at Mrs. Toby who, accustomed to give her

opinion, said without any preamble: "Starved she is not, but that she

has not got any money is true. Her clothes are of the best stuff, and

though threadbare, made by a first-class tailor. Her hands show no

traces of hard work. She is undoubtedly a girl of good social standing.

Last night when her mind was wandering, she kept calling for 'Father,'

sometimes in English, sometimes in Swedish, poor little lamb."

"Did she say anything else?"

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

Toroni."

Wallion nodded his head and was soon lost in thought. He took a long

look at the sleeping girl with her white face and little black curls.

Her gentle, regular breathing pleased him particularly as seeming, more

than anything else, to prove her feeling of perfect confidence in her

strange surroundings, and as he looked at her more closely he noticed

the look of almost child-like peace on her wan, refined features. It

struck him the more when he remembered how he had last seen her with

eyes wide open, a prey to the world's cruelty and wickedness. He turned

away sadly.

"I have a great mind to try an experiment, Doctor," he said, "if you

will give me leave."

"As long as you don't frighten her," he answered, coming nearer to the

couch. "She still has a temperature, and her mind wanders at times."

Wallion bent over the sleeper. Half aloud he uttered the name "Toroni";

her breath came a little faster and she frowned slightly. He repeated

the name once more. In a clear, child-like voice she said: "Yes, oh yes

... No. 13 Toroni ... Number six and number twelve ... Take care ...

They are coming ... Father ... Papa, papa..."

Wallion straightened himself and looked at the doctor. His eyes

betrayed an inclination to laugh though he was sorely perplexed; after a

while he said: "Do you think she is wandering now, doctor?"

The doctor shook his head. "No, she is not wandering now, she is

talking in her sleep."

"Dreaming?"

"No, the name you mentioned awoke subconscious memories and pictures."

The doctor took Wallion by the arm and led him into the study.

"Leave her in peace now," he said. "Mrs. Toby is an excellent nurse,

and unless anything particular happens I need not call again. Good-by."

Tom heaped question after question upon Wallion who recounted what had

taken place. "She is all right," he added feelingly, "all right, Tom, I

would take off my hat to any girl without friends and without means who

could take such a load upon her shoulders."

Tom shook his friend's hand warmly.

"There are cases in which it is expedient to trust a little in one's

intuition," continued Wallion thoughtfully, "at least until one has made

all due investigations ... Have you a timetable handy? Thanks. Where

is Borne? Oh, Borne seems to be one of the stations north of Gaevle.

Now listen, Tom, if Victor Dreyel had in his possession a wooden doll

which it was worth while committing murder for, might not Christian

Dreyel be in possession of one like it? May he not also have one of

those 'likenesses' of the 'dead' which bring misfortune to the 'living'?

Do you remember the unfinished letter and that the unseen culprit is

still at liberty. Well, I intend to go to Borne, or perhaps..."

Again there was a ring at the door.

"Your doorbell has started business," grumbled the impatient Wallion, as

he went out into the hall.

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

"The Chief isn't coming," he said. "He is busy sending out scouts after

the assassin and the young lady that porter saw--only in his dreams, I

do believe--so you won't be bothered any more. I'm off now, but if

anything happens Ferlin will be close at hand."

He went and Wallion whistled softly to himself.

"It rather seems as if they had their hands full," he remarked. "So

much the better, it gives us another day's breathing time. You keep mum

here, obey Mrs. Toby, and don't think too much about the little girl.

Now, I am going to look after some affairs of my own in case the

business in hand should drag on much longer, then I shall go up to

Borne. Au revoir, we shall meet to-morrow."

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

Some Gaevle newspaper reporters who had spotted him in the train, had

made interesting attempts to discover the object of his journey, but

Maurice Wallion was not inclined for company. All his thoughts were

concentrated upon the mystery of the wooden dolls, on the foolish yet

tragic row of wooden images which seemed one by one to peer at him

through the darkness. One of them had found its way over Victor Dreyel's

body into the pocket of the vanished enemy, another he had in his own

... would a third be found at Christian Dreyel's? If so, might not the

assassin, too, be on his way there? Step by step he had been through

every compartment of the train without finding any one whom it would be

worth while suspecting. Maurice Wallion was decidedly growing uneasy, a

most unusual and unaccountable proceeding on his part. He felt that he

had not got a sure or firm grasp of the case. Was another catastrophe

about to happen? ... Was he again coming too late? With quick steps he

walked through the little village; he had been told at the station that

Captain Street was half-an-hour's walk from there, but he stepped out so

briskly that twenty minutes found him at the door of a low, lonely,

dilapidated building, which answered to the description given him. He

opened, or rather lifted the rickety gate and ran up through the garden,

which was overgrown with rank grass, among gnarled fruit trees. A

couple of rooks, croaking dismally, flew down from the roof, but there

was no one to be seen. Wallion knocked loudly at the door.

*CHAPTER VI*

*THE TRACK OF THE "INVISIBLE" ONE*

After waiting a few minutes, Wallion heard footsteps approaching and the

door opened. A tall man with a stoop, of coarse, ungainly build, about

fifty years of age, stood before him. The individual in question had

long, thick dark hair and an unkempt beard, but there was an

indisputable resemblance to Victor Dreyel. Wallion raised his hat and

said: "Mr. Christian Dreyel, I presume?" The man looked at him with

undisguised curiosity.

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

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

knocked. Come in, Mr. Wallion."

"With your leave," said Wallion, "but I thought doors were meant to be

shut." With which sarcastic remark he closed it after him.

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

They entered a simple but comfortably furnished room, lighted by the

dazzling golden rays of the setting sun.

Wallion took the letter Murner had found on the dead man's table from

his pocket and silently handed it to Christian Dreyel. The latter

stopped in the middle of reading it and observed: "He says he was

enclosing a telegram. Where is it?"

"I can repeat it to you from memory," said Wallion evasively, at the

same time doing so. The man nodded and continued to read.

"The letter isn't finished," he said, and his face began to twitch

nervously with evident emotion.

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

for?"

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

"No."

"It is ill news that I bring, Mr. Dreyel. Your cousin was murdered in

his studio last night by an unknown individual who has escaped. He left

no papers, except this letter, which could throw light upon the tragedy.

The telegram mentioned is in the hands of the police."

Christian Dreyel had gone to the window, through which he gazed in

silence. A long pause ensued; at last he said:

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

"No," replied the journalist, "I came here to show you this," taking the

wooden doll from his pocket and placing it on the table.

Christian turned in his chair, crossed his arms and examined the small

wooden image without touching it or uttering a word. After a time he

remarked: "Where did you get that?"

Wallion answered: "Allow me a question first. Do you happen to know

'E.R.'?"

At the mention of the initials Christian Dreyel made a movement of

surprise, leant forward and said; "'E.R.' a woman ... what age?"

"About twenty."

"I don't understand," murmured Christian Dreyel, sinking back in his

chair. "Only twenty, you say ... then she can't ... Elaine? What has

she to do with the wooden dolls?"

"I got that doll from her. You see it has the features of your cousin

Victor Dreyel and Elaine Robertson was in the studio at the time of his

death."

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

"The assassin stole that."

Christian Dreyel bent his head. Nothing seemed to surprise him.

Wallion looked into the man's deep-set eyes. They were burning and

Wallion guessed that Christian Dreyel was making a supreme effort not to

exhibit an atom of feeling before a stranger. But as Wallion did not

open his mouth, he said in the same calm tone as before: "Won't you tell

me ... all?"

Darkness was gathering in the corners of the room and the golden light

of the western sun had resolved itself into a narrow glowing band.

Wallion began his story and Christian Dreyel listened in silence. When

it was finished the two men could no longer distinguish each other's

faces; the sky was covered with clouds of a bluish gray, the woods rose

black and grim round Captain Street, and all was as silent as the

desert. When at last Christian Dreyel spoke, Wallion was startled; he

could scarcely recognize the voice.

"You seem to attach great importance to the wooden dolls, Mr. Wallion,"

he said in a hoarse tone.

"I do," answered Wallion; "and I believe the reason is pretty evident,

'likeness' of the 'dead' bring misfortune upon the 'living' ..."

Christian got up to light an oil lamp, and Wallion saw how the man's

hand shook. He put the lamp on the table and gazed vacantly into space.

His face looked ten years older but it had lost some of its hardness,

and his emotion evidently overpowered him for he said gently:

"Thank you for coming. My poor cousin and I had not much in common, but

he was my only relative. And now..." he broke off ... "you want to hear

the truth, I know. Honestly, and without any ulterior motive: I would

say to you, have nothing to do with the King Solomon mystery; let it be.

It is hopeless to dig up the past, and evil often follows."

"My good Dreyel, it seems to me the digging process has begun already

... you forget No. 13 Toroni."

A curious expression came into Dreyel's eyes.

"With all your cleverness, sir, I believe you underrate the extent of

the mystery," he replied. "Toroni, well, he really was the thirteenth,

but I am not superstitious. Toroni has been dead more than fifteen

years."

"Dead, you say? That is not possible; the telegram sent by Elaine

Robertson distinctly says that Toroni has got to know the secret."

"Who is Elaine Robertson?" inquired Dreyel. "She may be William

Robertson's daughter, what of it? What is her object? Perhaps you

think I know everything," he went on, "yet you must have noticed how

little my cousin knew--how he worried himself with vague presentiments

and uncertain hopes. Ah, well, I know as little, maybe even less."

"Do you really mean what you say?" asked the journalist. "Please

forgive me, I do not doubt your word. But Victor Dreyel's

presentiments, which you call vague, turned out to be well founded. He

is dead, but the same danger threatens you."

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

"For being the owner of a wooden image of the same mysterious character

as the one owned by your cousin."

"Oh, you stick to that?"

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

Christian Dreyel hesitated for a few minutes, then he took out a bunch

of keys and opened an old-fashioned writing-table which stood behind

him.

"No, you are right," he said. "Here it is." And he set a dark, brown

wooden figure on the table beside the other one. At first sight they

seemed as much alike as two tin soldiers, but Wallion detected a

difference; the one he had brought with him featured Victor Dreyel,

whereas this second one represented a thin, sinewy man, with small,

shifty eyes, a broad hook-nose, and a short goatee.

The journalist examined it closely, and on the sole of one foot he

found, as he expected the figures

No. 6

-----

29"

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

"Oh, yes, they are there sure enough, the figures are in their place.

I'll save your making inquiries. I got this thing in a parcel by post

at the same time my cousin got his. The parcel came from Seattle in the

United States. There was no explanation with it, and I can't make out

the meaning of the figure itself or what the numbers refer to. I wrote

to Victor about it and we came to the conclusion that the riddle was

impossible to solve."

The honest ring of his voice left no room for doubt, and Wallion's hopes

dwindled; his journey had been in vain; the key to the problem was

certainly not in Christian Dreyel's hands. Greatly disappointed he

pushed the dolls away from him and said:

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

William Robertson?"

Dreyel shrugged his shoulders.

"What's the use of guessing? ... I can give you one hint though, the

expression 'likeness' of the 'dead' which my cousin used, is quite

correct. The figure standing there is meant to represent a certain

Aaron Payter, the one my cousin had was meant, he affirmed; for one

Walter Randolph ... both Payter and Randolph died fifteen years ago ...

we had been schoolfellows..."

Wallion put his hands to his head in despair.

"I don't follow you," he said. "You say you don't know anything, and

all the time I feel that I am on the verge of being enlightened. All

those names: William Robertson, Craig Russel, Sanderson, the black

Colonel, Payter, Randolph and Toroni ... the thirteenth. Who are they?

You must know if you were at school together."

He went round to the other side of the table and suddenly taking Dreyel

by the shoulders, he said in a tone of annoyance:

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

Solomon'?"

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

Mr. Wallion."

"It concerns more people than yourself."

"You want me to rake up the most terrible recollection of my life. That

is asking rather a lot."

"But not too much; can't you understand that I want to help you? What

was it that happened fifteen years ago?"

Dreyel had withdrawn a little, but Wallion followed him. "Quick,

there's no time to lose. What was ..." he broke off, went up to the

table and blew out the light. The room was pitch dark, the window only

looked like a pale gray square. A slight rustle in the grass outside

had made itself heard, and a figure was dimly discernible running across

the garden at lightning speed.

"He has come," whispered Wallion. "You were wrong to doubt. Victor

Dreyel's murderer is here now to fetch the other doll."

He adjusted his Browning and opened the window, but it was impossible to

distinguish anything among the trees. He turned back into the room and

asked in a low voice: "Have you any servants here?"

"No."

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

"Yes."

They listened for a few minutes. Nothing could be heard but Christian

Dreyel's deep breathing; the tension was beginning to affect Wallion's

nerves. He knew that he was not mistaken; the man who had murdered

Victor Dreyel, wounded Elaine Robertson, and slipped through the cordon

of police in 30, John Street, had come to complete his secret work on

the body of the other Dreyel.

The whites of Christian Dreyel's eyes shone in the dark. He had taken a

double-barrelled gun from the wall. His powerful frame seemed to grow

larger, for the approach of danger seemed to have put new life into him.

"Do you see him?" he whispered.

"No," replied Wallion who, by this time, had jumped out of the window

and was standing in the high grass waiting. "You stay there, I'll go

after him."

The mysterious shadow had gone past the window from left to right and

Wallion carefully took the same direction. Having gone about a dozen

steps he stopped to listen; the grass under his feet rustled like silk

and he thought he heard a similar rustle a little way off, near the

maple trees which sheltered the house on the north. He strained his

eyes, but could distinguish nothing, and all was quiet again. Then he

suddenly saw before him footprints in the still wet grass ... He started

... The shape of these footprints reminded him of the one he had seen on

the chair in Dreyel's studio. That the "Invisible One" had gone this

way there was no longer any doubt. The wild beast was near, prowling

after his prey, and following him up unalarmed by the hunter. Maurice

Wallion crept close to the wall where the path was clear and sprang

noiselessly to the corner, half expecting a collision, but a cold shiver

ran down his back as he looked ahead; for on the north side of the house

there was a door evidently leading to the kitchen, and that door stood

wide open ... the ruffian had forced his way into the house. For a

moment Wallion was seized with desperate anger. Perhaps the door had

not been properly locked. What a mistake, what an unpardonable blunder!

He had a vision of Christian Dreyel alone in the room in the dark with

the two wooden figures waiting ... for what...?

Wallion uttered a shrill cry of warning and rushed through the open door

like a whirlwind. "Look out!" he screamed, "the assassin has got in!"

He ran along a short passage, opened a door and found himself in the

front hall. On the right he noticed the door by which Christian Dreyel

had let him in. He burst it open and rushed in with his Browning

cocked. The window was still open and the curtains waved gently in the

breeze, but Christian Dreyel had disappeared!

"Where are you?" he cried. There was no answer; but he thought he heard

a faint sound under the window; in three bounds he was there, and

stumbling over something soft he fell forward against the window frame.

A stooping, thin, nimble figure was running from tree to tree in the

garden and, without more ado, Wallion pulled the trigger and fired. The

apparition vanished. He lighted a match and looked down on the ground.

He half expected what he saw, but could not repress an exclamation of

horror and pity at what the burning match revealed. The object over

which he had stumbled proved to be Christian Dreyel's right arm, the man

lay motionless on his back under the window, his double-barrelled gun a

short distance away. When Wallion raised him up he saw a stream of

blood dyeing his shirt red on the left side and found a freely bleeding

wound immediately under the collar bone. Dreyel opened his eyes and

looked vacantly round.

"The wooden doll," he whispered, "the shadow came up to the table, I saw

him ... he stabbed me..."

He pulled himself up into a sitting posture and laid his hands on his

breast; it was wet with blood.

"Who fired?" he asked quite confused.

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

bandage and fetch the doctor."

"No, don't ... look after the wooden doll first." The wounded man

repeated the words over and over again: "The wooden doll ... the wooden

doll..."

Wallion took a cushion from the sofa and put it under Dreyel's head;

then he closed the window, drew the curtains and casting one more

searching look out into the darkness, went back. To pursue the murderer

without help would be worse than useless; he was probably already a long

way off.

It had all happened with lightning speed and as he relit the lamp

Wallion's hands still trembled from the shock. The chimney was still

warm.

He looked at the table where lately two wooden figures had stood. There

was now only one--the doll belonging to Christian Dreyel was gone.

Wallion took up the one he had brought with him and examined it. Victor

Dreyel's image was uninjured; the criminal had passed it over as

worthless ... but why ... why...?

"The wooden doll," stammered the wounded man who had fallen back again

on the cushion. "It is gone ... he has taken it...."

"Yes," answered Wallion with a great effort at restraint, "once more he

has had good luck; but try to be calm, the police will soon get hold of

him; you must think of yourself now and only rest."

He bent over the huge form and undid its garments; the blood streamed

from the gaping wound, and the laboured breathing showed that the lungs

had been touched. Wallion stopped the bleeding with a towel dipped in

water, and put on a temporary bandage.

"Send for Doctor Moving," said Dreyel, groaning and twisting under

Wallion's touch. "It does burn so ... The devil ... but it must be true

he knew that ... King Solomon's secret..."

"I will fetch the doctor myself, lie still," said Wallion in a tone of

command. He hurried out into the road on his way to the station, but a

few yards from the gate he met a barefooted boy of about ten, coming

along with a fishing-rod and a few fish. Wallion took out a florin and

put it into the boy's hand.

"Run along to Doctor Moving's and ask him to come here, Captain Street,

at once," he said. "At once, do you understand? Mr. Dreyel is ill."

The boy nodded his tousled head, looked at the coin and was off like a

shot. Wallion went back to the house. He was pale with excitement; his

nostrils quivered and his eyes burned. He was fuming over with what he

called his "clumsiness" but a hasty examination of the back door

reassured him in some degree, for two or three scratches round the lock

showed that it had been forced open by the intruder ... So it had been

locked, and so far there had been no negligence. He lighted a cigar to

soothe his nerves, the tension of which had prevented his being able to

think clearly. Through loss of blood the wounded man was sinking into a

kind of stupor, but when Wallion gave him a few drops of water he opened

his eyes and muttered:

"Now I understand everything ... I see clearly ... Robertson and Toroni

have been here ... King Solomon ... Oh, my God, and that after fifteen

years!" He beat the air with his hands and cried with a deep, choking

voice: "I saw him as he lifted the knife ... I saw him ... I saw..."

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

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

was Toroni."

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

"No, Toroni ... No, thirteen Toroni ... what a long way off you are ...

you don't hear me."

It was tragic and pitiful to see the big, strong man exert the last of

his remaining strength in the effort to tell everything, for though the

delirium of fever gripped him inch by inch, his lips continued to move

and Wallion bent over him to catch his words, low as the beating of his

pulse.

"The numbers ... the numbers ... it is from Robertson ... you must help

... many will be grateful to you ... if you can find King Solomon, the

numbers ... take care ... I am falling ... take care, Toroni."

He stopped, but his eyes sought the other's with an expression so

appealing, so helplessly pitiful that Wallion, deeply touched, pressed

his hand.

"I promise to do my best," he said. "Don't distress yourself any more,

everything will be all right."

Christian Dreyel smiled like a child and lay still. He closed his eyes,

his muscles relaxed and he lost consciousness.

Out in the road the sound of cycle wheels became audible and some one

came in through the gate. It was Doctor Moving, and Wallion met him

half-way. The doctor was stout of build, getting gray, and had a

glowing cigar in his mouth. A few words sufficed to acquaint him with

the nature of the case. Without speaking he threw off his coat and

helped to carry the man into the bedroom. There, with deft and

practised hands the doctor quickly got to work. Fifteen minutes later he

removed the cigar from his mouth and said:

"The fellow has an iron constitution, he has lost a lot of blood, but

the wound is not very serious and he will live. The top of one lung is

pierced, but it might have been worse. Have you a match?"

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

"Well, well, you seem in a hurry," growled the doctor, relighting his

cigar. "For the next few weeks he must neither move nor talk, then we

shall see. A stab with a knife dealt by such a fiendish expert does not

heal at once; but leave him to me, I'll take him under my charge ... You

look after the man who dealt the blow."

Wallion shook hands with the doctor, gave one more look at Christian

Dreyel's white face and then went away; but he did not forget to put the

wooden doll into his pocket. Twenty minutes later he despatched the

following telegram to the Chief Detective in Stockholm:

"This evening Victor Dreyel's murderer attacked Christian

Dreyel. Badly wounded. Similar wooden figure stolen. Local

police informed. Police dogs needed.--Wallion."

For many years Maurice Wallion had been in possession of a police pass,

which was of immense use to him now. Within an hour a thorough,

systematic search of the environs had been organized, telephones were

working with feverish haste, and the train service at Borne and the

surrounding stations put under the strictest surveillance. The

following answer from Stockholm reached Wallion at 10:30 A.M.:

"Police dog last train from Gaevle. Sustain search thoroughly.

Aspeland arriving to-morrow."

At midnight a detective from Gaevle 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 Gaevle looked at Wallion and remarked: "I wonder whether an

accurate description would not be of rather more use than the dog under

present circumstances. Shadow, last seen in a garden, etc., is, anyway,

a somewhat dubious clue!"

*CHAPTER VII*

*DOCTOR AUGUSTUS N. CORMAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF*

On the morning of the third of August, Aspeland, imbued with more than

his usual amount of energy, came rushing into Tom Murner's apartments.

"Have you heard what has happened to Maurice Wallion?" he cried, whilst

still on the threshold. "My goodness, he does manage to be on the spot

when wanted." Aspeland then related what had taken place in Captain

Street on the previous evening, adding "The man is an out and out

scoundrel, bold and determined, it remains for us to see that he does

not escape our net this time." Breathing hard the superintendent

twirled his mustache.

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

"No, he'll try to get here, no doubt, but to-day, every train from the

north is being watched, and presently I shall be going myself to Gaevle.

I'm almost sure he has got out of the country; we have no criminal of

that type here just now, for he's an expert, he is. Naturally, he would

try to get back with his booty on the first available opportunity.

Wooden doll, indeed!" The superintendent shook his head. "One man

killed and another badly wounded, and all for the sake of getting at a

couple of small wooden images. It's more than one can understand."

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

Tom Murner, thus doomed to solitude and idleness, was unable either to

read or work. The strange drama in which he was one of the actors nearly

drove him mad. Who was this girl who had claimed his hospitality in

such an unaccountable manner? How was the affair going to end?

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

small comfort.

"Can't return before to-morrow. Make inquiries after a certain

person's luggage. If necessary provide other clothes. Prepare

for departure.--WALLION."

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

"Yes, surely, that's right enough," Mrs. Toby said in her usual quiet

but decisive tone. "She must be got away to-morrow morning at latest,

and that can be managed all right. She was awake a little while ago; it

seems she left a box of clothes at the Central Station--the receipt was

in the pocket of her jacket--and I have sent for it."

Mrs. Toby's presence went a good way towards soothing Tom, she took

everything so naturally, with so much practical good sense, it made him

laugh. He answered:

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

"Nothing. She looked round as if she didn't quite know where she was,

and I noticed that she seemed rather frightened at not being able to

locate herself. I comforted her, though she was for getting up and

going away at once, but she is terribly weak, poor little soul, and now

she has fallen asleep again."

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

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

* * * * *

During these days Tom Murner studied the papers with eagerness. Every

time he opened one he did so with as much care as one would handle a

dead snake. But in 1918 the press concerned itself chiefly with news of

the Great War, the latest sanguinary encounter, and it was only in a

mid-day edition of August the third that he came upon a short paragraph

reporting that the photographer, Victor Dreyel, had been "found dead in

his studio on the night of the day before yesterday, under circumstances

which pointed to robbery. Examination by the police is proceeding."

Maurice Wallion's own paper, the _Daily Courier_, was silent on the

subject, and when no further allusion was made to it on the fourth, Tom

began to suspect that the "Problem-Solver" had a hand in its

suppression. It was a foregone conclusion that the affair would be kept

dark for a few days in order that Elaine Robertson's hiding place should

not be discovered, which was also the reason why Wallion wished to

hasten her departure, for sooner or later the bomb was bound to explode.

It was not that Wallion's conduct perplexed Murner; he knew the

journalist would never work in opposition to the police. Had the search

for the girl in gray been totally abandoned? Perhaps.

Deep in the morning paper of August the fourth, Tom pored long over the

problem without attaining any result. The day had begun fine and sunny

and, unconsciously, his optimistic temper was in harmony with the

weather. So far all had gone well. If only Wallion would come.... Mrs.

Toby looked into the study with a smile and said, "I thought I heard you

whistle, sir."

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

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

After a short interval the door again opened and Tom cried over his

shoulder, "Well, how is she?"

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

Tom started and turned round; Elaine Robertson stood before him. She

was dressed in a simple gown of black silk and her face, framed by her

black hair, was white and transparent as after a long illness. She

looked at him gravely, in silence, and put out her hand.

"How can I thank you?" she said.

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

course, and said:

"So you made up your mind to come back to life," Then, after a brief

silence on both sides he continued. "I hope Mrs. Toby..."

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

chair and said:

"Mrs. Toby has told me everything, I myself cannot remember anything. I

seem to have awakened from a bad dream." An absent look came into her

dark eyes. She sat silent for a while immersed in recollections which

made her features appear cold and hard; then she gave a little sigh,

raised her eyes and continued: "I can never repay such kindness, I can

only express my thanks to all, Mrs. Toby, yourself, and your friend whom

I have never seen."

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

gratitude."

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

know who I am."

"Was that necessary?"

She pointed to her arm, where a lump under the thin silk blouse revealed

the bandage. "The man who gave me that wound ... he knew well enough

who I was," she said with a sorrowful smile that went to Tom's heart.

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

answered.

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

a scarcely audible voice.

They looked into each other's eyes, but suddenly she averted her gaze

and bent her head.

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

She rose hurriedly. "If you won't let me express my thanks there is

nothing for me but to go," she said.

He wanted to speak, to beg her to tell him everything in strict

confidence; to offer her his help; but all he could manage was to say

very awkwardly: "Why?"

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

"Why use that word?"

"Because I know so well that for all you have done, it is impossible

to..." Here her voice failed her, she could only whisper: "Without your

help I should have been lost indeed!"

This time he dared not attempt a reply. The position was embarrassing

for both, and both felt that it was too difficult for words. Luckily,

Mrs. Toby appeared; she made a wry face when she saw them apparently so

quiet and miserable.

"When you've quite done thinking, both of you," she said, "your

breakfast is waiting in the smoke-room." Her practical, humorous remark

saved the situation. Tom laughed outright and the girl smiled. Mrs.

Toby, too at breakfast, over which she presided, pressed them to eat,

and led the conversation with so much natural tact and ease as to banish

any awkwardness there might have been. When the meal was over and she

left them, they continued their discourse, Tom occasionally stealing a

furtive glance at the girl. The sun shone on her half-open lips; her

complexion was of a pallid, ivory hue, and for the first time he noticed

that her clear cut profile had the charm which Botticelli and

pre-Raphaelite painters loved to portray. The only ornament she wore was

a small, simple gold locket round her neck. "Tell me," said Tom,

leaning forward, "how is it that you can speak Swedish and English

equally well? At first I took you for an American."

"Why should you take me for an American?"

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

rather American."

She gazed at him with wide-open eyes and the characteristic little frown

appeared on her brow as if she were puzzled, but at last she said: