was the language I learnt first."
"Is your father still living?"
"Yes."
"And is his name William Robertson?"
Again she hesitated with her answer, but nodded assent. She cast a
troubled look round as if she feared further questioning; then she took
off her locket, opened it, and passed it across to Tom.
"That is my father," she said shyly.
It was evidently the work of an amateur, and represented the
three-quarter face of an elderly, careworn man; two bright, deep-set
eyes shone under a lofty forehead; the hair was white and smooth, the
lips were firmly set and the expression of the mouth was as kindly as
that of the eyes, which spoke plainly of hopes crushed and a life
wasted. Tom was greatly moved. In the old man's countenance were
depicted physical suffering and mental worry, yet he seemed to detect a
certain likeness to it in the girl by his side, the same melancholy
touch of resignation and the same spirit. He reverently closed the
locket and gave it back to her ... he understood her trust in him.
"How he must have suffered!"
"He is not even fifty," she replied.
Tom made an involuntary gesture of surprise. The portrait represented
him as a man of nearly seventy, one who had turned his back upon life.
"Victor Dreyel was much older," he observed thoughtfully, "but he, too,
had that same expression of hopeless resignation."
"They were schoolfellows," said Elaine. "My father..." She stopped; it
seemed as if every attempt to speak out or to explain entailed an almost
superhuman effort, and as her mute appealing look was more than he could
bear, Tom sat down by her side and took her white, trembling hands in
his.
"Your father sent you here, did he not?" he said with emotion. "We know
that your errand had some connection with those wooden dolls. Victor
Dreyel is no more and, I daresay, Mrs. Toby has told you that his cousin
has been badly wounded."
Elaine gave a melancholy little nod.
"Both dolls have been stolen. You must see that your errand is too hard
for you to accomplish singlehanded; won't you trust yourself to us?"
As she made no answer he continued with some eagerness: "I am not
thinking of myself, but I want you to understand about Maurice Wallion
and who he is, the best helper you could have, if only you would confide
in him...."
"Mrs. Toby has told me about him," replied the girl in a low voice; "Oh,
yes, I owe a full explanation to you both ... I can't do anything more
by myself." She rose, and withdrawing her hands from his, she cried:
"If only your friend will help me." The cry came from the depth of a
burdened heart.
Neither of them had heard the bell or the opening of the door, but at
that moment Mrs. Toby appeared and called Tom out.
Maurice Wallion, in traveling get-up, came forward smiling. They shook
hands, and Tom's eyes looked searchingly for news.
"I have come direct from Gaevle," said Wallion. "Aspeland also returned
by the same train. We have had monstrous bad luck; the search has been
carried on day and night ... without result."
"Has he escaped again, then?" asked Tom.
"Yes, he wiggled out of the net like an eel, and you may believe me this
time we used tempting bait to catch our fish. Did you get my wire?"
His angular features simply beamed with pent up energy, and he was
evidently much excited as he spoke.
Tom vouchsafing no answer, he resumed:
"Is our client ready to give information? She must get away from here
but if she can't give a clear account of herself, the situation is, of
course, untenable. One of the boys belonging to the evening paper hangs
on to Ferlin like his shadow. Hallo!" he said, turning and bowing to
the girl. "I am delighted to see you have returned from the land of
feverish dreams."
He took a chair and continued, "You know who I am, don't you? Well,
then you will understand that I have something to tell you, so don't be
alarmed, and forgive me if I plunge into the thick of it at once ...
even the minutes are precious. You cannot remain here, and before we
decide upon the next move you must tell us everything."
The girl sat stiff and pale.
"Everything?" she said, solemnly looking up at him. Curiously enough
Wallion's quick, energetic manner upset her much less than Tom's more
gentle questioning. In a steady voice she at once added:
"And if I refused to say anything?"
"About whom?" asked Wallion kindly.... "Are you referring to your
father? In that case he ought to have come himself instead of exposing
you to such a dangerous adventure."
Elaine's hand went up to the locket as if it needed protection.
"You don't understand," she said. "I simply had to go ... my father is
ill."
"Ill?"
"Yes, he is staying with a friend of ours, Doctor Corman."
"Where?"
"At his private Home, just outside Seattle."
Wallion started visibly and exchanged a quick glance with Tom.
"In a Home, you say. Tell us more about it."
Elaine handed him the locket. He looked closely at the photograph, and
she said in a broken voice:
"There you see my father, but you must not think ... you must not think
that his mind is affected ... he has broken down with grief and sorrow,
no one has gone through so much adversity, but he is not out of his
mind."
Wallion returned the locket but said nothing. She pressed it to her
bosom and repeated: "He has broken down, but he is not mad, he has been
injured by wicked people ... if I had not looked after him he would have
died ... Oh, it is only justice he wants and a clear explanation, an
explanation of the great, big secret."
She rose and walked to the window, and they saw her furtively drying her
eyes.... After a pause she said in a firmer tone:
"I am given to understand you did not hand me over to the police because
you wanted to give me an opportunity to explain first. What I tell you
now I could not have said before those officials. I came here with the
object of getting back from Victor and Christian Dreyel the two wooden
dolls given them by my father."
"My dear young lady," replied Wallion, surprised, "we have been aware of
that all along, and why wouldn't you give this simple explanation before
the officials?"
"Because I am so afraid of those dolls."
"Afraid?"
"Yes, because I can't make out what they are intended for," she said
almost inaudibly.
Maurice Wallion leapt from, his chair. "You don't know? You? You
don't know the secret of those wooden figures for which men have risked
their lives and which have apparently vanished into space.... You don't
know what the numbers mean, nor what 'King Solomon' is supposed to stand
for?"
"No," she replied, and when Wallion, leaning over the table, looked
inquiringly into her eyes, she gently added: "I swear that I know
nothing."
Wallion stood motionless as if he had received a blow; he fumbled about
in his pockets for a cigar and growled: "Nobody seems to know
anything--it is inconceivable--neither Dreyel nor you ... and yet that
dread of the wooden dolls ... that unreasonable terror." He took sundry
whiffs and then in an off hand manner he asked: "And who is Toroni?"
Elaine did not seem to have heard his question; she was leaning out of
the window, gazing down the street with wide open eyes. Presently a
look of doubt and confusion cast a shadow over her face. She drew back
hastily and walked into the room with uncertain steps, gave a shy glance
round and said in a totally altered tone: "Don't ask me any more
questions, it is no use."
Wallion went to the window and saw an empty motor drawn up at the door;
he frowned savagely.
"What did you see?" he asked.
She replied in the same peculiar voice: "I must be going." She spoke as
if she were dreaming and her gestures were those of a somnambulist.
"He has come to fetch me."
"He ... who?"
There was a ring at the door and the girl sank trembling into a chair.
Mrs. Toby came in with a visiting card in her hand which she gave to
Tom. On it he read:
_Augustus N. Corman, M.D.
Seattle, U.S.A._
"Doctor Corman requests an interview with you, sir," she said. "He is
in the study." She cast a look he knew of old at Wallion and when he
was quite close to her, she said in a low voice which he alone could
hear: "I have seen him before, he went past the house both last night
and this morning and looked up at the window. He speaks English with an
American accent."
Wallion nodded and laid a finger on his lips as Tom was about to speak.
They both looked at the girl, who sat with her face buried in her hands;
she seemed more ashamed than alarmed at having been caught ... a child's
mortification. Wallion smiled grimly.
"Come along," he said, going into the study with Tom.
A well-dressed man of middle stature, perfectly self-possessed and at
his ease, stood near the table, hat in hand. He was apparently about
forty years of age, with a broad forehead and dark brown, wavy hair and
mustache, but the eyes behind the gold rimmed pince-nez were clear and
blue like billows of the sea, steadfast and piercing; he bowed slightly,
saying:
"Good morning, Mr. Murner," in a strong, full voice, as, ignoring
Wallion, he looked straight into Tom's face. The latter returned the
greeting with a stiff inclination of the head.
"Good morning, Doctor Corman," he said in English ... "This is my friend
and adviser, Mr. Wallion."
The Doctor bowed again with perceptibly heightened interest.
"To what do we owe the honor of a visit from you?" Tom said with an
effort.
The Doctor's mustache concealed a faint smile of amusement.
"I have come to relieve you from a situation which is certainly as
embarrassing as it was unexpected, Mr. Murner."
His sonorous voice was calculated to break down any kind of opposition
and to negative any doubts, as a physician's is wont to do in a sick
room. Tom felt that the doctor knew all.
"I don't quite understand," he said haltingly.
Doctor Corman waved his hat towards the smoking-room and said: "I have
come to take the little lady back to her father. She has had adventures
enough. The thing is settled."
"Speak a little more explicitly," he said.
The doctor removed his pince-nez and looked at him with his eyes
half-closed, as is the way of people afflicted with short sight.
"Any further explanation between us would be superfluous. I have
ascertained that Elaine Robertson is here. I am her guardian, appointed
as such by reason of her father's dementia. As such I tender you my
thanks for the shelter you have given her and I intend to take her away
immediately; my motor is waiting."
Wallion reflected for a while. He gave Tom a meaning look, for here
undoubtedly was a step towards the solution of the problem. In any case
the girl must go, for this aggressive and amazing doctor was certainly
in the right.
"So you affirm that her father is out of his mind?" he asked; "will you
not give us a little more information?"
"Do you know what 'Phantom-Mania' is?" answered the doctor. "Delusions
about mysteries which are non-existent ... a fear of pursuers who are
not there ... a love for sending messages and gifts which mean nothing.
Only the overwrought brain of a neurotic girl can give credence to
these. The actions of a weak-minded man or the whims and fancies of a
nervous young woman ... both have a fictitious value."
"The death of Victor Dreyel, the stab in the girl's arm, the attack in
Captain Street and the theft of the wooden dolls were not delusions."
"I am not concerned with what has occurred here. Elaine accidentally
crossed the path of an unknown robber ... it is always the unexpected
which happens and such contingencies are from the devil."
"Is that all you have to say about it?"
"Yes, I know what I am talking about, Mr. Wallion, and I don't allow
myself to be caught unawares. I am here in the capacity of William
Robertson's medical adviser and Elaine's guardian, and I desire to see
her at once." His tone had a touch of increased sharpness in it.
"One moment," said Wallion, "how did you get here?"
"That is very simple, as soon as Elaine started from Seattle on her
imaginary quest, her father grew anxious and in a lucid moment confessed
to me that he had acted on a delusion. I set off immediately to prevent
the girl from doing anything foolish. My sister, Madame Nina Lorraine,
is with me to look after things. The whole affair is a farce, but likely
to end in a tragedy."
Wallion laughed and looked straight at the doctor.
"Do you know," he said, "why Miss Elaine is in hiding here? Are you
aware that the police are looking for her?"
The doctor gave no answer. The door of the smoking-room slowly opened
and Elaine stood on the threshold, pale and silent.
"What are you talking about?" she said in a monotonous tone. "I am
here, take me home to father, Doctor Corman, I am so tired."
Corman took her hand with an air of triumph and speaking over her bowed
head he said: "There, you see, Mr. Wallion. What are you going to do?"
Wallion replied: "I presume you and your sister are staying in some
hotel?"
"Yes, at the Grand Hotel."
"Miss Robertson is quite at liberty to go with you. For the present any
further discussion is unnecessary, but what I said just now was meant as
a caution to you, doctor, and you shall hear from me before you leave."
"All right," said the doctor frigidly.
Five minutes later Elaine Robertson had left No. 30 John Street, in
Doctor Corman's company.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*ONWARD TO THE UNKNOWN*
Tom was raving. Everything had been done in such haste that his brain
was in a whirl when he tried to look back upon recent events. Elaine's
cold and hurried "Good-by" stung him like a thousand pin-pricks, and the
doctor's voice echoed fiendishly shrill in his ears. Why had Wallion
given in so quickly?
The journalist did not stop to listen to Tom's excited inquiries. He
made some hurried notes in his pocket-book and departed. It seemed as if
he were pursuing some new train of thought. Had he got weary of the
Elaine Robertson mystery after the unforeseen intermezzo? Half-an-hour
later he sent the following telephone message: "Expect me at five
o'clock. Tell Mrs. Toby to have dinner ready and inquire whether any
one saw the girl leave the house. Further details later on." Then he
rang off.
* * * * *
Shortly before five o'clock that same afternoon Wallion came to see Tom,
who was sitting in his room, lost in melancholy reflections.
"We have hurled the bomb," he said, throwing a bundle of newspapers on
the table, "but it has not exploded yet."
He proceeded to unfold the evening paper and pointed to a column
therein, headed:
ASSASSINATION OF DREYEL. AN ACT OF REVENGE.
Christian Dreyel also attacked and robbed.
Two Works of Art stolen. Was it the act
of a madman?
"Now listen," said Wallion, laughing. "My colleague of the evening
paper has been very energetic, the last paragraph is of most interest to
us," and he began to read:
"The unknown young lady who left Victor Dreyel's studio at the time of
the murder has not made herself known; she is now said not to have been
implicated. She may have been a casual customer come to fetch her
photographs, or an acquaintance of the murdered man's, and on the
presumption that she found him lying dead it was only natural that she
should have declined to come forward as a witness, and her depositions
would not, anyhow, have been more reliable than those of the porter's
wife. It has been ascertained that the perpetrator was a man who set
about his dastardly work with unusual--one may say,
incredible--brutality, and the fact that his sole aim both in John
Street and in Captain Street was to get at a certain statuette, a bit of
carved wood of little value, proves that the scoundrel must have been a
maniac, perhaps actuated by a feeling of revenge towards the Dreyels,
who during their long residence abroad, etc., etc...."
"Well made up," said Wallion, stopping abruptly. "A wonderful mixture
of truth and falsehood. Special stress must be laid on the fact that
the girl in grey is done with, that she no longer counts. The _Daily
Universal_ actually doubts the porter's wife being in her right senses;
whereas the _Evening News_ exhorts the unknown lady in any case to come
forward and to affirm that she was out of it all! The chief point at
present, however, is that, now the papers have taken it up, the girl in
grey has vanished like smoke. I have just been to the Police Court and
seen Ferlin, who was as subdued and crestfallen as a whipped hound, for
he has been wild to catch her all the time. What would he have said if
he had been here and seen the doctor drive away with her in his car?
By-the-bye..." he looked inquiringly at Tom, who replied:
"No, no one noticed Miss Robertson going away. She was dressed in
black, and even the porter's wife had not curiosity enough to come up."
"Good," said Wallion, rather relieved. He looked scrutinizingly at Tom
Murner's downcast face and intuitively guessed what he was thinking of.
"Don't look so glum," he said. "I don't deny that Doctor Corman cropped
up rather inopportunely, but I should never have dreamt of preventing
him. All he said was perfectly clear and explanatory..."
"Explanatory?" said Tom, scornfully; "when he refused to give any
information, pooh-poohing everything as if it were a fable?"
"Just so, Doctor Corman is an interesting personality, perhaps more
interesting than you think. I have heard sundry details, so listen to
what I am going to tell you. Corman and his sister arrived late on the
evening of the first of August and went to the Grand. Therefore he came
at the same time as Miss Elaine, whom he wanted to 'overtake'; they
travelled in the same train from Gothenburg and in all probability on
the same steamer from America. Do you understand that? During the
entire journey, therefore, he must have been more or less near her, but
he did not reveal his identity until to-day; and--what is even more
remarkable--he had not only bespoken rooms for himself and Madame
Lorraine, but for Miss Elaine Robertson as well."
"What is that you say?" interrupted Tom, half dazed; "I don't take it
in. Do you mean to imply that the doctor and the girl acted in
collusion?"
"Not at all. At first I thought so, but that is very unlikely. No, the
doctor kept at a distance to see what she was up to. Wait a minute, I
can see what you are thinking about; no, old man, the doctor is not
identical with Victor Dreyel's murderer or the marauder of Captain
Street. The latter I saw with my own eyes and his build was quite
different; he was much shorter and thinner. Besides, the doctor only
left the hotel for a few hours and could not possibly have been anywhere
north of Gaevle, but he has very frequently been out here. We must take
care not to confound him with the miscreant unless we have incontestable
proofs. So far he is immune. Note that the girl seemed to trust him,
and was quite ready to go with him."
At this juncture Tom again burst out into vituperation.
Wallion listened unperturbed, but at last he spoke:
"Why did I let her go? Because just when Corman turned up I recognized
the difficulty of our position; we were not justified in keeping her
here. When the girl showed herself willing to go with him, the affair
was 'settled,' as the doctor expressed it. But it is not at an end
yet."
He sat down and seemed to be ruminating. After a while Tom heard him
mutter to himself: "Anyhow, he is most interesting as a representative
of a certain type."
"Who? Doctor Corman?" interrogated Tom.
Wallion vouchsafed no reply; he had suddenly grown taciturn, sullen,
almost irritable, and soon after dinner he went out, taking Mrs. Toby
back with him as her services were no longer required at No. 30, John
Street. Tom remained alone in the little dwelling which now seemed to
him gloomy and deserted, not to say haunted.
* * * * *
Next day came the long expected summons from the Chief Detective, which
he obeyed with considerable misgivings, but the Chief received him very
pleasantly, and the cross-examination was reduced to a few questions
regarding his connection with Victor Dreyel, though he was asked to
furnish a minute description of the famous wooden doll.
"Do you know Mr. Wallion?" the Chief finally inquired with a long,
searching look at Tom.
"Yes," the latter replied. "It was through me that he came to take an
interest in this business."
"H--m! It's odd that he never published the results in the _Daily
Courier_. Do you know whether he intends to continue his
investigations?"
"No," answered Tom, not without a touch of annoyance, for it was a
question he had been debating with himself all the morning.
"Well," said the Chief in a genial manner, "remember me to Mr. Wallion,
and tell him, if he hears news that might lead to important results we
shall be happy to cooeperate with him."
When Tom reached home he found Wallion sitting in his study, with the
wooden doll on the table in front of him, and looking rather
disconcerted. As Tom entered he said:
"Look here, we forgot this thing when we gave Miss Elaine back her
satchel, and she will know that we searched it."
Tom proposed that it should be sent to the Grand at once.
"It is too late, Doctor Corman and the two ladies have gone to
Gothenburg."
"What? Already?"
"Yes, and they have booked their passages on the next boat to America
... it leaves on Thursday next week."
Tom could see that Wallion had something up his sleeve by the dry way in
which he spoke, and the suspicion caused him to look fixedly at his
friend.
Maurice Wallion sat still with his eyes half-closed, his hands in his
pockets.
"Maurice," asked Tom impatiently. "What are you thinking about?"
"What did the Chief say?" was Walloon's retort.
Tom repeated the conversation and gave his message.
Wallion laughed. "Results?" he said. "There is only one way to get any
'results' in this affair."
"What might that be?" queried Tom.
Wallion opened his eyes very wide and said:
"It is to allow Elaine Robertson and Doctor Corman to continue their
journey unmolested."
"Back to Seattle?"
"Yes, and to follow in their track to the same place."
Tom clung to the arm of his chair for support; they looked at each other
in silence for some minutes.
"Since Doctor Corman took Elaine under the shelter of his wing, there is
only one place where this conundrum can be solved, and that place is a
certain private 'Home' or asylum on the outskirts of Seattle."
"But what about the other ... the murderer?"
"Something tells me that the police will never capture him here, but
that he himself and the two dolls will be found at the journey's end."
Wallion spoke with a sort of wistful longing. Tom could not refrain from
looking at him earnestly; he began to think he had but half-known his
friend so far. A craving for action took possession of him also; and
when at last he grasped the portent of Wallion's look the
"Problem-Solver" had come to a decision.
"At the end of the journey?" repeated Tom, in a voice which shook with
excitement ... "Are you going?"
"I promised Christian Dreyel I would do my best," replied Wallion.
The two men exchanged glances which furnished a sufficient answer to the
perplexed thoughts of many clays. Great resolutions are not necessarily
preceded by much talking.
"I shall go with you," said Tom.
"I knew you would," was Wallion's laconic reply.
* * * * *
The newspapers had not succeeded in stirring up any great interest in
the Dreyel case, and when the novelty had worn off, they said no more
about it. After Victor Dreyel's funeral, which took place on the Monday
following, Wallion had a short conversation with Aspeland in the
deserted studio. The Superintendent was reluctantly giving up his
hopeless task and said somewhat bitterly:
"Toroni is merely a name. We have done our utmost, but we can't put the
bracelets on a shadow, and the search is at an end unless something new
turns up."
Wallion and Aspeland left the studio together, and the latter having
locked up and given the keys to the porter, wended his way home.
"A symbolical proceeding," remarked Wallion to Tom a little later.
"Victor Dreyel has solved the great riddle and has gone 'home'; Aspeland
found no clue, and he has gone 'home' ... it is our turn now, No. 13
Toroni."
Wallion and Tom started for Gothenburg on the following Tuesday. Tom
wished to defray the traveling expenses, but Wallion, after his work in
England, was financially independent, and settled matters with these
words:
"War expenses have to be shared equally ... Danger and success likewise
... Is that clear to you now? Well then, off and away to the great
unknown."
*PART II*
*"THE WOODEN DOLLS"*
*CHAPTER IX*
*ELAINE ROBERTSON'S STORY*
"Our second day on board and not a glimpse of either her or the doctor,"
said Tom, gloomily. "I begin to doubt their being on board at all."
He and Wallion were standing on the promenade deck, leaning over the
rails, and by chance no one else was there. For two days the gigantic
propeller had been plowing its way through the surf. A fresh breeze was
blowing and the sky stretched like a blue canopy from horizon to horizon
across the ever rising and falling waves. The rhythmical thud of the
machinery within the capacious interior of the boat reached them where
they stood.
Tom gazed at the endless amplitude of the ocean, and, obsessed by doubts
when Wallion did not reply, at once continued. "After all what are we
really here for? Who knows whether the solving of the mystery connected
with those wooden dolls does, indeed, await us? We may have left it
behind, and Elaine may have disappeared for ever."
Wallion made a gesture as if lie had just awakened from sleep, and
looked at his friend.
"Compose yourself," he said. "You don't suppose I should leave anything
to chance? Certainly we did not see them come on board, but they are
here. I have seen the list of passengers, and have had a chat with the
purser; they have engaged two of the best upper deck cabins. Madame
Lorraine and the girl are in number five and the doctor in number seven.
As they keep so much to themselves, and even have their meals in the
cabin, I fancy they are aware of our presence. I daresay they
wonder--perhaps, not without reason, what our intentions are."
"Yes, what must she think?" said Tom gravely. "What shall I say to
her?"
"Say to her? Why tell her the truth, that I am going to Seattle on
business for Christian Dreyel, and that you have come to keep me
company. The promenade deck is free to all, and before this adventure
has come to an end I shall have to thank my stars and yours that we were
on the spot," said Wallion with much energy.
He threw away his cigar and looked at his watch.
"It is time to dress for dinner; we may meet our interesting traveling
companions in the dining-saloon."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, they will have to get the better of their ... shyness, shall I
say? Otherwise one might think they were suffering from a guilty
conscience."
When they entered the luxurious, brilliantly-lighted saloon, the two men
found themselves among the late comers. Tom took his seat with burning
cheeks ... He had seen her again!
Elaine Robertson sat at one of the tables at the farther end. She wore
a simple but costly black evening dress, her head was bent but he
thought that a slight blush mantled her cheeks also. Had she seen him?
Doctor Corman, whose dark, Mephistophelian face expressed nothing in
particular, sat on her left. On her right Tom noticed a bright,
good-looking woman with thick, burnished golden hair, who at that
moment, appeared to be putting a serious question to the Doctor.
"Madame Lorraine," remarked Wallion. "I wonder if she was making any
inquiries about us?"
The doctor's face turned in their direction, and he gave his
interlocutor a curt answer; for, if he had noticed their presence he
certainly did not show it. Tom fidgetted with impatience.
"Don't worry," said Wallion, "we shall naturally get into conversation
with them, and don't keep staring their way; there are plenty of other
people to look at."
Tom hardly heard him. Wallion continued talking and presently Tom
became interested.
"Look at that little man at the small table, on the left there in the
corner--the one that looks like an Assyrian,--how does he strike you?"
Tom followed the direction indicated by Wallion and quickly discovered
the individual mentioned.
He was a man with narrow shoulders who ate and drank with philosophical
complacency, and without speaking to any one. His appearance was
calculated to attract attention, his raven black, wavy beard was parted
down the middle and formed a sort of shiny chest-protector under the
sickly, thin-lipped mouth, above which was a long, straight nose,
starting from an abnormally high, arched forehead of triangular shape,
fringed by untidy, unkempt black locks, while his eyebrows resembled
streaks of soot.
"Who is he?" asked Tom, "a Persian philosopher?"
"No, in the list of passengers he figures as a Greek antiquary; his name
is Ricardo Ferail, which does not in the least sound like Greek."
"He seems to interest you?"
"He does, I should rather like to see him run," replied Wallion
absently; "but do look at Madame, I believe she is scolding."
Madame Lorraine had moved closer to Doctor Corman, and was talking
earnestly to the Doctor who several times shook his head.
Some of those sitting near began to notice them, and Madame stopped
talking with an angry shrug of her ample white shoulders.
At that moment something very strange occurred. The Greek antiquary,
whose heavy eyelids had until now been cast down on his plate, suddenly
raised his dark, velvety orbs and turned them towards Elaine with a
sinister, dreamy look. Elaine started visibly as if she had come into
contact with some loathsome object, and presently she got up hurriedly,
said something to the Doctor and left the saloon.
Corman and his sister exchanged glances and followed her; all three
disappeared, but the Greek continued his meal with the same indolent
serenity. As Tom was also about to get up, Wallion said: "Sit still,
there's no hurry."
"But I want to speak to her," replied Tom, "I don't understand what is
going on here, but she looks sad and depressed, and once for all I must
speak to her."
"All right," retorted Wallion, "but couldn't you wait a few minutes?"
"And suppose they should retire to their cabins again?" said Tom vexed.
"They won't this time," said Wallion, "that would be a very bad policy,
and the Doctor is a thorough diplomat ..."
A quarter of an hour later Tom and Wallion again came up on deck with
fairly buoyant expectations. They had not long to wait for their
mysterious fellow-passengers. Doctor Corman came out of the saloon with
hands outstretched as if he had only just recognized them.
"What a surprise!" he cried, "the world is very small; so there was some
truth in what my sister heard: that the famous Maurice Wallion was on
board. We should have met before if the two ladies had not been so
sick." He shook them warmly by the hand and talked incessantly as if to
make up for the cool and over-hasty leave-taking in John Street.
"So delightful, gentlemen, such a charming surprise ... we can travel in
company."
"Yes," said Wallion, "as far as Seattle let us hope."
The doctor's expression of polite surprise, which was undeniably only a
mask, became more marked.
"As far as Seattle?" he repeated in an entirely indifferent tone.
"Yes," replied Wallion smiling, "the last time we met I promised that
you should hear from me before you left Sweden. We called once or twice
at your hotel at Gothenburg, but never had the luck to find you in, so
we were obliged to put off asking for the little elucidation we require,
until now."
The doctor's eyes became sharper behind his pince-nez.
"Your journey to Seattle seems to have been quite a sudden plan?"
"As sudden as Dreyel's death, Doctor Corman, which makes an explanation
all the more needful."
The doctor gave a mocking smile, and said, "Well, my curiosity is
beginning to be aroused; let us go into the saloon." He led the way,
and before he realized where he was, Tom found himself bowing before
Elaine Robertson, whose fearless, serious eyes looked into his. She was
sitting beside Madame Lorraine on a sofa in the corner. Tom had an
uncomfortable suspicion that this meeting had been pre-arranged.
The doctor introduced his sister, and the usual civilities were
exchanged. Madame was stout, unusually fair and good-looking, a little
over thirty, with sea-green, sleepy eyes and carmine lips; she looked at
the two men with the bold curiosity of a woman of the world but said
nothing. Tom took a seat by Elaine and asked:
"Are you not surprised to see us here?"
"No," she said. "I knew you were on board."
"Don't you wonder what brought us here?"
"Well, perhaps ... why should I, though?" she broke off with a smile.
"We were bound to meet on the way, were we not?"
"Of course, if one's destination happened to be the same," he replied.
Just then Doctor Corman's voice was heard from above their heads: "And
only think, Elaine, what a surprise, these gentlemen are going to keep
us company as far as Seattle."
She breathed hard, her dark eyes gazing into the far distance. Turning
to Tom, she asked eagerly: "Is that so?"
He nodded assent and turned for confirmation to Wallion, who drew up a
chair and joined them. The Doctor sat down by his sister, folded his
arms with an air of interested expectation and said pleasantly: "Well,
now let us have the little explanation you seem to think so necessary,
Mr. Wallion."
"After what occurred in Stockholm the necessity should be patent,"
replied Wallion. "I consider it my duty to inform you that I am
traveling at the request of Christian Dreyel to get a little light upon
the mystery of those wooden dolls, and, as we are convinced that it can
be obtained only from William Robertson, we desire to see your father in
person, Miss Robertson, and rely upon Doctor Corman's assistance."
Elaine never moved but listened with strained attention. The Doctor was
going to speak, but Wallion continued:
"Yes, the information you gave us at our former meeting was most
valuable, but even for 'Phantom-Mania' there must be some tangible
reason, and it is this reason or cause we wish to discover. Is there
anything in William Robertson's life to account for the death of Dreyel
or the vile attack upon his cousin?"
"You think there is?" said the Doctor very deliberately.
"It is my firm conviction."
In a still more leisurely tone the Doctor said:
"Elaine, would you mind telling these gentlemen how you found your
father?"
"No," she answered promptly, with what might have been taken for a sigh
of relief. She looked at Wallion and said: "All along I have been
anxious to tell you all I knew. There isn't anything I want to keep
back ... but a great deal ... oh, such a great deal that I don't
understand."
Tom was quite surprised at her evident eagerness, and it had a similar
effect upon Wallion. She no longer looked at any one in particular, but
was pale and nervous, as if she feared the opportunity might slip away
from her, and began her story at once, in a low, subdued voice:
"My father was born in Sweden, for William Robertson is only an
alteration of his Swedish name, which he has not used for the last
thirty years. The name he bore during his boyhood in Sweden is no
longer remembered. The narrow-minded and proud relations who forced him
to leave his native land are all gone."
"They forced him?" interposed Wallion.
"Yes," she went on. "Perhaps it is not such an unusual story. His
father was a lawyer and wanted his son to become one also. At Upsala he
got among the artists, discovered that he had a talent for sculpture,
neglected his studies and evil rumors came to the ears of his father.
They led to a crisis which ended in his leaving the country
precipitately. He has never done wrong to any one, never deceived or
slandered others as they have slandered him. He came over to the United
States, broken down, without means and, though a well-educated
University man, was by turns reporter on a 'gold' paper, barman, steward
on a fruit-ship, and lastly a tramp. Then he went out West, and was
stableman on a wheat-farm until he became foreman. The owner of the
farm, Mr. Bridgeman, took an interest in him, and one day, happening to
see a sketch my father had made--a pastoral idyll--sent it to a paper in
San Francisco, which accepted it, and, in a few years' time, my father
became a popular, well-paid draughtsman. That was his best time. He
married Violet Seymour and settled in San Francisco. I was born on
January 10, 1898." Here she paused.
The siren over their heads sent a deafening signal out into the night,
and was answered by another in the offing. When all was quiet, Elaine
again took up the thread of her story:
"On New Year's Day, 1902, my father accidentally came across two Swedes
whom he had known from childhood. They were the cousins Dreyel, Victor
and Christian, and they told him they were just going to Alaska. At
that time Klondyke had not the same old lure, but gold had been
discovered in the sand on the shores of the Seward peninsula in 1898,
and the two Dreyels met a Scotchman, Sandy MacCormick by name, who
professed to know quite a new place for digging the precious metal.
When my father heard their glowing promises he, too, was seized with the
gold-fever and resolved to join them. He begged my mother to remain in
San Francisco, and promised her he would return within a twelvemonth.
Then, with the two Dreyels and MacCormick, he set off for Alaska."
"Aha!" ejaculated Wallion, whose eyes were glittering, "you won't object
to my jotting down a few notes, will you?"
Almost unconsciously she bent her pretty head in assent and went on:
"That was the last my mother saw of him. In the autumn of the same year
terrible news reached us, and though I was only five years old I can
remember the beautiful, pale face of my mother on the morning she was
found dead in her chair. Something awful must have happened up there in
Alaska, but how we got the message or what it was I don't know, only
that it was too much for my mother's weak heart. Mr. and Mrs. Bridgeman
took me to live with them, and what I have been telling you now was told
me by Mr. Bridgeman, but my father's fate was never mentioned. I took
it for granted that he was dead. The Bridgemans were kind, superior
people; they gave me all they could, and I was devoted to them. But
Mrs. Bridgeman--auntie--died when I was sixteen, and Mr. Bridgeman the
year following--strange to say of the same complaint--inflammation of
the lungs. I succeeded in getting a situation as typist in a
business-house in Sacramento."
"Did the Bridgemans leave you anything?" asked Tom.
"No, the farm was entirely in the hands of the railway company, owing to
bad harvests for two years in succession. I obtained a better post
after a time in an office in Seattle, but did not get on there; one of
the directors, Mr. Dixon, who had been advertising for an expert
stenographer for his office at Seattle, fortunately chose me, after
making the most minute enquiries, from among a hundred applicants, and I
have been eighteen months in his employment. Mr. Dixon is one of the
leading men of business in Seattle and has, among other things, a
wide-spread import connection, while he owns a wharf and several hotels
on the coast for summer visitors. He is exacting, but kind and helpful,
and he showed great interest in my father's fate. He offered to assist
me to send out a search party, but nothing came of it. In November last
year..." Elaine leant back on the sofa and closed her eyes, but after a
short rest she continued with trembling voice:
"In the beginning of November last year I saw my father again after
fifteen years. I found him in a way which you might think beyond
belief. One of Mr. Dixon's hotels had been burned down; there were
difficulties about the insurance and, as Mr. Dixon was away, it was part
of my duty to furnish the reporters with certain details, and that was
how my name came to be in all the local papers. A few days later a
white-haired, bent, fever-stricken man walked into the office. He wept
for joy, and could hardly articulate my name ... that man..." She
looked up, her eyes full of tears ... "that man was my father! He had
seen my name in the papers but, scarcely dared believe his eyes, and it
was almost ghastly to see his childish delight, for he was completely
broken down and was living in the greatest poverty in one of the most
squalid quarters in Seattle ... I have shown you his photograph. I had
to look after him like a child, and I soon began to notice that he was
no longer in full possession of his senses. I could only vaguely
surmise that he had returned from Alaska towards the close of the year
1902, ruined and in despair; that when he heard that my mother was dead
and I had gone, no one knew where, he was stricken down with a sharp
attack of brain fever, and five months later dismissed from the
hospital, a wreck both physical and mental. I dare not even think of
the life he must then have led for nearly fifteen years, sunk in
melancholy brooding, a lonely wanderer from place to place. I could
never prevail upon him to tell me what had happened up there in Alaska,
the region of gold and death, which had been the primary cause of his
misery and my mother's death; but it must have been something awful,
indescribable and terrible, for every question I asked made him shudder,
and, at times, when I could see in his eyes that some dread recollection
had risen in his mind, he became nearly wild with despair or unreasoning
fury, and after such attacks he rarely spoke for days together. More
serious symptoms then appeared. He adhered to the idea that spies were
on his track; he used to burn paper as a spell, and shut himself up in
his room and busy himself with some mysterious work, the nature of which
I found out only by slow degrees. He used to carve little wooden
figures which he called his dolls, his guardians, and he said:
'Don't you see they watch over certain secrets. They are the dead
waiting.'
"His undue excitement made me very anxious, and when Mr. Dixon became
aware of that I was obliged to tell him everything. He was greatly
touched and made me consult Doctor Corman, who at once pronounced my
father to be suffering from 'Phantom-mania.'"
"And that in the worst form," corroborated the Doctor. "I immediately
took William Robertson under my own personal observation in my Home, and
my diagnosis revealed maniacal tendencies; as frequently happens, he was
perfectly sane with regard to the details of every-day life."
A long silence ensued. Then Wallion asked:
"And what is your own impression, Miss Robertson, for you would scarcely
undertake a journey from Seattle to Stockholm for the purpose of
carrying out a sick man's fancy?"
"I hardly knew what to think," she replied shivering. "A feeling
sometimes comes over me that eventually ... that my father..."
"That your father? ... What? ..." queried the doctor.
"I don't rightly know," she stammered. "But if you had seen the look in
my father's eyes when he bade me go and bring back the two wooden
figures he had secretly sent to the two Dreyel cousins, if you had heard
his tearful appeal, you would understand me better. It was one evening
early in July that he persuaded me to undertake the journey. 'It is a
matter of life or death to your father, Elaine,' he said, 'you must tell
them that Toroni has discovered the secret, and you must bring back the
wooden dolls, but take good care of them; go alone and speak to no one.'
At that moment I thought him not responsible for his words and actions,
but I went. I felt that I was fulfilling a duty--abstract, but
imperative--I can't express myself more clearly. My father gave me one
of the dolls as a sort of pattern."
"And which, I am afraid, we forgot to give you back," said Wallion,
laughing.
"I never want to see it again," she answered, with another shiver. "I
have told you all I know of the abominable transactions which prevented
my getting the dolls, and you know more than I do."
"Only another question or two," said Wallion. "How did your father know
the addresses of the two cousins?"
"I believe he was in correspondence with an Information Bureau in
Stockholm. Just before being taken to the asylum he indulged in an
enormous amount of letter writing to various places."
"Had he told you to send that telegram provisionally to Dreyel from
Gothenburg?"
"Yes ... as a warning; he said that every hour might be fatal."
"Extraordinary!" remarked Wallion, looking at Doctor Corman. "Under
these circumstances do you really believe the appearance of the assassin
to have been accidental?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
"Anyhow, you followed the young lady about," said Wallion with some
asperity. "You believed there was danger."
"Danger only to this extent, that she had started almost without means,
and without protection," retorted the doctor drily. "Forgive me for
referring to such a trifling fact, Elaine; your hurried journey was more
like an attempt to escape, wasn't it?"
Elaine had risen, she put both hands up to her head and said wearily: "I
have a bad headache, and am so tired I think I must go in."
She staggered and leant heavily on Tom's arm. Madame Lorraine rushed to
the girl's aid and lovingly took her in her arms.
"My darling," she said fondly, "you have overexerted yourself, and you
must go in and rest."
All had risen from their seats. With a wan smile Elaine bade them
"Good-night," and obediently went in with Madame Lorraine. When the two
ladies had gone there was a gloomy silence for a time, broken at last by
Doctor Corman.
"As you see, her nerves are overwrought. I am sorry to have interrupted
the interesting recital so abruptly, but, no doubt, you observed that my
statement regarding William Robertson's condition was confirmed. Do you
still consider your journey to Seattle necessary?"
"A journey begun should never be abandoned," said Wallion sententiously,
fixing his eyes upon him.
The doctor threw back his head and laughed, showing his big white teeth.
"All right ... I admire your energy, I promise to do what I can to
hasten the result ... au revoir!" He bowed and departed.
"Oh, excellent Doctor!" murmured Wallion. "I'll give you an opportunity
to keep your promise. Let us go into the smoking-room, Tom."
On the upper deck the Greek antiquary passed close to them and then
disappeared like a shadow into the darkness.
*CHAPTER X*
*RICARDO FERAIL*
The next day after dinner Wallion and Tom were quietly sitting in their
cabin. The latter in a miserable frame of mind, for Elaine and her
people had not appeared at table. He had sent an attendant with his
visiting card to inquire after Elaine's health, and was waiting
impatiently for an answer. Wallion smoked in silence, casting an
occasional glance at his friend.
"Alaska," he suddenly said as though following up a train of thought.
"Why shouldn't 'King Solomon' have been the name of a mine?"
"Why not, indeed?" remarked Tom starting up. "But, if so, why did the
Dreyels or Robertson not go back there?" he said, hesitatingly. "A mine
can't disappear entirely from the face of the earth."
"No, but it can be exhausted, and the booty purloined ... There are all
sorts of possibilities in connection with Alaska. I wish we were on
land, we might glean some information from the papers of 1902 as to
whether there was any catastrophe there at that time, how news of it was
conveyed to Mrs. Robertson, what became of Sandy MacCormick, and who
Sanderson, and Russel were--to say nothing of the wooden dolls?"
Tom looked uneasily at Wallion, who continued to envelop himself in a
cloud of smoke and asked in a low tone:
"What do you think about her story?"
This was the tenth time this question, with sundry variations, had been
put to Wallion, but he remained quite unruffled, and answered:
"It is a most extraordinary one ... I have already said I consider it
remarkable."
"Just so, but did she tell us the truth? Who on earth is this Doctor
Corman, with his sarcastic, satanic countenance?" said Tom. "Maybe he
has forced her to ... to..."
"Tell lies? No, her story is incontrovertible, and as far as she knows,
perfectly true," said Wallion, leaning forward as he continued:
"But that does not prevent the doctor's demeanor from seeming rather
singular. I have just got hold of an interesting tale about their
journey from New York to Gothenburg. They traveled on this very boat;
Elaine went second class, the Doctor and his sister first class, but did
he know then that the fugitive he was pursuing was so near ... or did he
not? Again, how could fugitive and pursuer travel in the same train
from Gothenburg to Stockholm without noticing one another?"
"Well, that might be possible."
"It might be possible, but it is not likely. People meet so easily on
board ship; for instance, I myself am already acquainted with all our
fellow passengers, both first and second class, _in every detail_."
Tom burst out laughing.
"And did you find out anything?"
"Yes, I heard who else of those on board her now traveled by this liner
on her last voyage to Sweden."
"Well?"
"It seems there is only one other, and his name is Ricardo Ferail."
"The Greek antiquary?"
"Yes."
Tom recalled the look the Greek had given to Elaine in the
dining-saloon, and with an uncomfortable kind of foreboding he said:
"Do you know whether they are acquainted with each other?"
"Not openly, at least."
An odd undefined suspicion flitted through Tom's brain. He got up and
looked long and fixedly at his friend, but Wallion's features were
inscrutable; he was listlessly staring at the ceiling, his hands clasped
behind his head. Just then Tom's attention was diverted by a waiter, who
handed him a card and disappeared. On the card, and written in a bold
round hand, were these words:
"I have ordered our protegee absolute rest for the next few
days. Kindest regards.
Augustus N. Corman."
"Damn the doctor!" cried Tom. "I don't like his tone. He and Madame
Lorraine keep guard over Elaine as if she had committed some crime.
Besides who the deuce is this Madame Lorraine?"
"She married a French violin player, Roland Lorraine by name, but they
were separated, that's all I know," replied Wallion, getting up from his
seat and yawning. "Are you coming in?"
"No," said Tom, throwing himself on the sofa, "as our fellow travelers
prefer to remain invisible I can worry here as well as anywhere else."
But when Wallion opened the door to go out, Tom remembered a question he
wanted to ask him.
"Why do you wish to see Ferail run, as you said yesterday at dinner?"
Wallion turned back. "Wouldn't it be rather amusing to see an antiquary
run?" he answered quite seriously.
Tom winked and threw up his hands. "Get out," he said. "I feel my
brain reeling.... God knows what sort of a nightmare I shall have
to-night."
The giant liner pursued its appointed way over the ocean; showers of
feathery foam played round the bows and all lights were on. From the
depths below, between decks, the wind wafted aloft echos of cheerful
dance music. A fresh breeze had sprung up and there was no one on deck.
Evidently they were enjoying themselves on board.
For the last hour and more, Maurice Wallion had been pacing up and down,
his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Now that he was alone his clear
cut features looked grave and perplexed; he had been turning the problem
over in his mind, and he had just realized that he could acquire full
and irrefutable information on one important detail whenever he felt
inclined to do so. He had never found himself in such a peculiar
situation; but with a sudden, resolute gesture, he flung the end of his
cigar into the water; and as it disappeared in the dark like a shooting
star, he muttered to himself: "Yes, I'll do it."
He went down to the promenade deck, and a minute later appeared calm and
unperturbed in the smoking-room, which was crowded and blue with smoke.
In a corner to the left of the bar, he perceived an Assyrian profile
which made him screw up his eyes. It was Ricardo Ferail having a game
of poker with three other men. Wallion who, as a rule, recognized every
other or every third person he came across in the four quarters of the
globe, earnestly scanned Ferail's partners, and found that he knew one
of them well. Here was luck. He advanced, and gave the man in question
a tap on the shoulder, saying:
"Evening, Mr. Derringer! It's a long time since that night at
Johannesburg."
"So it's you, Mr. Wallion," he answered without a trace of
embarrassment. Derringer was a thin, bony Englishman with a skin deeply
tanned by a tropical sun. "Take a chair and join in our game; we want
one more to make up the ideal five."
After a casual, formal introduction to the other players, Wallion sat
down. Ferail, who was the dealer, lifted his eyes for a second and gave
him a swift look. The play continued for a time without interruption
and in silence. Then the Greek ran his finger-tips through his frowzy
beard, cast down his eyes, and observed:
"Where did you learn to play poker, Mr. Wallion?"
"At an Officers' Mess in India, Mr. Ferail."
"A very fine school, no doubt," said the antiquary. "You are going to
beat me."
These were the first words they had exchanged. The game went on.
Half-an-hour later Derringer burst out laughing, and said: "Your luck
has turned, eh, Ferail?"
The antiquary had really lost a considerable amount, and his pile of
money melted quickly away. Wallion acted on the defensive; he neither
won nor lost, but kept his eye on Ferail, who sat sulky and silent, his
white face, with the thin, sickly lips, giving not the slightest
indication of the workings of his mind. He shuffled the cards and dealt
them with a quick and practised hand. He seldom bought more than one or
two, and with a kind of dogged obstinacy kept increasing his stakes, but
that no longer helped him, for he lost every round. After another ten
minutes Derringer rose, and there was no more play.
"It's so deucedly monotonous always to be winning," he said with a yawn.
"Let us leave off, I'll give you your revenge to-morrow."
He and his two friends left the saloon, and Wallion and Ferail found
themselves alone, sitting opposite one another.
Drops of moisture shone on the Greek's forehead, and he blinked his eyes
as, with philosophic composure, he gathered up the cards, but he did not
seem conscious that Wallion's sharp eyes were constantly fixed upon him.
Presently Wallion leant across the table and said:
"Now to business, please ... No. 13 Toroni."
It seemed ages before Ferail opened his shining black eyes to their full
extent and shot an enigmatic glance at Wallion, saying as he did so: "I
don't take you."
"Have a little sense, Toroni," said Wallion with an ambiguous smile.
"Perhaps you are not used to my ways ... but why should not we two be
frank with each other? There are no witnesses!"
"I don't grasp your meaning," repeated Ferail, in the same tone of
indifference.
"Well, I'll explain to you. First of all then I'll tell you how I know
who you are. My theory is this: In all probability Toroni traveled to
Stockholm in the same boat and the same train as Elaine, and both
arrived simultaneously at Dreyel's studio; it is equally probable that,
having accomplished his object, Toroni immediately returned to America.
When one hears that a particular person used the same boat for a voyage
there and back, one begins to take an interest in that person, and if he
is short, thin and nimble the interest is heightened. _You_ are that
person, but it has yet to be proved whether you are identical with
'Toroni.' According to Christian Dreyel's account the man I saw in his
garden was Toroni, but I only caught sight of his back as he was running
away; his face was concealed by a high collar, and his hat tilted over
his eyes. I watched you on deck this morning, it was blowing hard; your
hat blew off and you ran after it. I saw your back and recognized at
once the motion of your arms and your gentle tiptoeing. No, don't
interrupt me ... the identification was conclusive. What should you say
if I had you arrested on the spot and your four trunks containing
'antiques,' searched? Would you describe the two wooden dolls also as
antique curios?"
Ferail had not moved, but he continued to stroke his beard.
"Unfortunately, I must again repeat that I don't understand you," he
answered; "your conversation is very odd but rather interesting. I am
Ricardo Ferail, born at Salonika, but an American citizen for the last
ten years. I have visited your beautiful country in search of antiques,
and can produce papers bearing me out."
"Of that I have not the least doubt," replied Wallion. "I am sure you
protected yourself perfectly well."
"Now, supposing I were that Toroni," the Greek resumed, "should I be so
careless as to have those dolls among my luggage? ... I can't tell ...
but it seems to me that I should rather have sent them through the post
to some address you would not know--you can't open every mailbag that
leaves Sweden--or have hidden them somewhere after having found out
their secret meaning. I might even have destroyed them. There are so
many ways. The arresting of that Toroni you speak of would be a
ticklish undertaking. Meanwhile the secret of the wooden dolls might be
hopelessly lost, to you and your friends."
"You are a clever fellow," said Wallion. "That's why I want to come to
an understanding or at least to make a bargain with you. I can arrest
you now--and it entirely depends upon yourself whether I shall do so or
not, for you have a shocking disregard for human life, Toroni, and you
have already made an attempt to silence Elaine Robertson for good and
all. Now as we shall be, if I mistake not, fellow travelers as far as
Seattle, to begin with--for I am not going to lose sight of you--what
say you to a truce during the voyage? I let you run to the end of your
tether, and you stop molesting Elaine?"
"And then?"
"That will be a question between you and me." Ferail reflected for a
few minutes.
"Do you mean that I shall be arrested the moment we arrive at Seattle?"
he said.
"How long respite do you want?"
"Twenty-four hours."
Wallion lighted a cigar and attentively watched the Greek. "I shall
shadow you," he said.
"If I were Toroni it might, perhaps, prove dangerous," he remarked.
"I am not concerned about my own safety; you shall have your twenty-four
hours, but I shall not be far off, I give you warning."
Ferail sank listlessly back in his corner and closed his eyes. "I
accept the bargain," he said.
"All right," replied Wallion, rising. "Good evening, Mr. Ferail," and
without so much as a nod or offering his hand he left the smoking-room.
When he came down he found Tom sound asleep, and he wondered whether he
should wake the young man to tell him what had happened.
"No, I won't," he thought. "Time enough when we get to Seattle ... That
is where the struggle will begin."
That night Wallion enjoyed good, sound sleep, such as comes after hard
work.
*CHAPTER XI*
*A "WELCOME" GIFT AT SEATTLE*
A few hours before the liner was due to run into New York harbor Doctor
Corman approached the two Swedes, who were leaning against the railing.
"Allow me to make a suggestion," he said in an amicable tone. "We have
before us a long journey by train right across America, and I suppose
your destination, like our own, is still Seattle?"
"It may not be our final one," answered Wallion; "at any rate it is our
nearest."
The doctor raised his hands as deprecating Wallion's ambiguous reply,
and said: "Then let us form a little, exclusive friendly party and our
journey will be the pleasanter, will it not? Elaine is nearly well
again now, but for her sake we should agree to let all business matters
rest until we arrive."
"Of course, we quite think so," replied Wallion. The suggestion met with
unqualified approval from Tom, and he almost began to like the Doctor.
When the statue of the goddess of Liberty, and behind it the turrets of
the sky-scrapers, became visible, the passengers emerged from their
cabins one by one. Elaine and Madame Lorraine joined the men and the
conversation became lively. Elaine, though still pale, was evidently on
the way to recovery. Tom had to acknowledge that the prohibition which
had bereft him of the sight of her for some days had really been a happy
thought, and that, too, made him more favorably disposed towards the
doctor. He could hardly take his eyes off her thoughtful, attractive
face, and said:
"I trust your principles with regard to the journey by rail are less
rigid than with regard to a voyage by boat."
"How so?" she asked.
"So that we may enjoy more of your company, I meant to say."
She smiled, but there was a look of anxiety in her eyes, which she
steadily turned towards the land. Signals of all descriptions came from
the ships, a heavy shower fell, the seagulls shrieked, and there was a
stir in the air. Immediately before landing, Wallion came up to Tom and
hurriedly whispered in his ear: "Stay here with them and lend a helping
hand with our luggage at the Customs; I shall look you up later."
He hurried away and found the man answering to the name of Ricardo
Ferail at the head of the big stairs. They had not exchanged a word
since that memorable night in the smoke-room. Without any preliminaries
Wallion said curtly:
"I intend to be near you when your luggage is examined; come along, it
is time."
Ferail began to move without answering, and went down the steps, Wallion
close at his heels. Twenty minutes later the journalist was convinced
that Ferail had not got the dolls with him, for the four enormous trunks
contained a jumbled mass of curios and antique objects which seemed to
have been scraped together without care or knowledge; but there were no
well-known wooden images. Wallion looked at Ferail, who was watching
the proceedings inert and silent.
"I am half-inclined to believe that you did send them through the post,
Toroni," he said, in a low, sharp tone. "The other alternative you
spoke of is less likely; ... you reckoned to arrive at the same time as
the parcels ... and you must have an accomplice, a receiver ... at
Seattle, or where?"
Ferail turned livid with anger, but he neither looked up nor spoke.
"You are silent? Now listen, Toroni, would it not be wiser to save
yourself and the Government police a heap of trouble? Confess now and I
will see to the rest."
Ferail' shot a glance of deadly hate right into Walloon's gray eyes.
"No!" He sputtered out the word as if it had been poison, turned and
went away.
* * * * *
The express, with its shining row of Pullman cars, stood ready to
depart, and a babel of voices, hurrying steps and creaking barrows,
filled the huge station hall. Tom looked anxiously about for Wallion,
of whom he had not caught a glimpse since landing. At last he saw him
coming along, lost in thought, and Tom, much relieved, called out:
"I thought you had quite disappeared. Where have you been? The ladies
and the doctor are already on board waiting for you." He stopped
abruptly, for at that moment he saw the Greek antiquary climb up into
one of the last carriages. He saw, too, that Wallion was keeping a
watchful eye on the man, and said: "What! he, too. Where is that
despicable creature going?"
"We shall see," answered Wallion--who was not inclined to tell how he
had shadowed Ferail through half New York; and that the man had neither
spoken to any one or sent any messages--and he heaved a sigh of relief
when he saw his taciturn enemy safely ensconced in the train. "Get in,"
he said to Tom; "I'll be there in a minute,"--and he hurried off to the
telephone.
He rang up the Secret Service Division in New York; the next minute a
well-known voice, expressing surprise, answered:
"Hallo! Wallion, how do you do? I've just heard that you came over in
the Swedish liner.... What in the world are you doing here--in this
town?"
The Chief of the secret police in New York was looked upon as one of the
cleverest officials in that city. Wallion had made his personal
acquaintance in connection with a big English case, and so could
confidently reckon on a very friendly reception.
"I intend to ask you for a little assistance," he said; "I am on my way
to Seattle on a very tiresome job. I shall, probably, be able to
requisition official help before long, but just now there is an
important link missing in the chain of evidence."
"All right, I understand ... What shape shall it take?"
"Can I have a clever, reliable man to meet me at the station at
Seattle?"
"H--m, what has he got to do?"
"To shadow a certain person for twenty-four hours; after that I think we
can have him arrested."
"H--m, sounds promising. I'll supply your man. Tell me by what train
you are leaving. Oh, indeed ... well, it shall be done, and say,
Wallion, on your way back come and see me and have a smoke."
"Thanks," replied Wallion, laughing. He rushed back to the train, which
was just about to move, entered the compartment into which he had seen
Ferail disappear, and finding his man there engrossed in a paper and
seemingly regardless of the outer world, went quietly to his own
compartment and joined his party.
Tom was engaged in animated conversation with Madame Lorraine, and had
even succeeded in bringing a smile to Elaine's lips. The long train
journey once begun, a feeling of relief seemed to have come over all of
them. For several days there would be no change; one would have a
little breathing time and could, for the present, forget what the future
might have in store. But Wallion's thoughts were with the pale, silent
man sitting in the same train not twenty yards away, huddled up in a
corner, waiting ... planning ... what?
The sociable relations suggested by Doctor Corman were outwardly
maintained throughout the long railway journey across America; one
cannot always vouch for what will happen nowadays on a journey by train,
notwithstanding its amenities, its comforts, and almost uninterrupted
contact with the outside world.
It would be an exaggeration to assert that all went smoothly and
harmoniously, however. Doctor Corman's frigid politeness hardly glossed
over his frequent sarcasms, and his whole bearing showed plainly that he
considered the society of the two Swedes tolerable but absolutely
uninteresting. Madame Lorraine had fits of silent abstraction, and
Wallion, who noticed everything, used sometimes to wonder what she was
thinking about. On several occasions, having noticed that she seemed to
look upon her brother with contempt, he said to himself: "What does she
know? ... and what does she expect? ... A silent woman is an
incomprehensible anomaly even to her friends ... We are certainly a
heterogeneous party."
In the meantime Wallion noticed with some measure of gratification that
Tom and Elaine got on extremely well together. There were two, at
least, who were not up in arms against each other, quite the reverse; in
fact, day by day Tom's devotion became more marked, and Elaine's eyes
shone with newly-awakened interest.
But Wallion had other things to think about. Hour after hour, as the
train sped over the mountain and plain, he watched the man who posed as
Ferail; and though they never spoke, each was well aware of the
proximity of the other. Ferail remained perfectly silent; he never
appeared in the smoking compartment nor on the standing platform to see
the view.
On the day fixed for the arrival of the train at Seattle a telegram was
put into Wallion's hands; it ran: "McTuft, will meet the train at
Seattle. He is clever and discreet." He rubbed his hands, for he had
been anxiously expecting some such communication, and at once despatched
a long, detailed wire to McTuft, whom he had never seen, but who was
waiting for him.
With a creaking of brakes the train ran into the station of Seattle.
Wallion and Tom stepped out on to the platform with as much elation as
one goes to the theater with on an interesting "first night." But they
had no time to exchange words, as Doctor Corman and his sister came up
to them.
"Mr. Wallion," began the doctor with a smile which displayed nearly all
his teeth, "we have reached our destination and I am at your service.
When may I count upon your visit to my Home?"
"The sooner the better," replied Wallion.
"Nevertheless, it may, perhaps, not be quite convenient this afternoon;
Elaine is my sister's guest in our villa, which is also the asylum, and
settling in again always requires a certain amount of time. Then there
is my assistant who looked after the Home during my absence and will, no
doubt, want to confer with me. Can I send you a message later, naming an
hour?"
Wallion cast a quizzical look at the doctor.
"Thanks," he said. "Murner and I are staying at the Pacific. I will
wait there for your message." He bowed and proceeded along the platform
as if he wanted to look after some luggage. As soon as he had mingled
with the crowd he drew forth his handkerchief and mopped his brow,
whereupon a tall, gaunt young man approached as if by command.
"I am McTuft, at your service, Mr. Wallion," he said, touching his hat.
Wallion looked at him closely. At first sight the young Seattle
detective looked like an awkward, simple, red-haired country lad; but
there was something in his light blue, gentle eyes and wide, mobile
mouth, that inspired Wallion with entire satisfaction.
"That's all right, Mr. McTuft, we shall get on very well together. Your
job can begin immediately ... Do you see that man over there who is just
passing through the stile?"
"The one that looks like a cross between Belshazzar and Judas?" McTuft
asked drily.
"Yes, that's the man ... He calls himself Ricardo Ferail, dealer in
antiques; you must follow him like his shadow wherever he goes; notice
with whom he gets into communication, and report every step he takes to
me at the Pacific Hotel before ten this evening at latest."
"Suppose he should leave Seattle, what then?"
"Send me a wire, and go with him."
The next minute McTuft had joined the crowd, rushed through the stile
and disappeared in the track of the antiquary. Wallion smiled and
followed more leisurely. Outside he encountered Tom; they exchanged
cool good-bys with Doctor Corman and the ladies, who were just getting
into a motor. Ten paces away Ferail was opening the door of another
car. Wallion was startled, for he thought he saw the Doctor and the
Greek exchanging a significant though scarcely perceptible nod. The two
motors drew out of the station yard; a third followed close upon the one
in which Ferail sat. McTuft had begun his task.
Wallion waited a little and looked after them until they disappeared.
Was it a fact that Ferail had given a sign to Doctor Corman? He bit his
lip.
"Let us drive to the hotel," he said. "We must hold ourselves in
readiness. Things may move more quickly than I thought," he said to
himself.
"What things?" said Tom, taken aback. But he got no answer beyond an
impatient "We shall see."
As it happened, Tom was not in the humor for conversation; he had become
so accustomed to Elaine's society that the separation left a great
blank; her sweet face and gentle voice occupied his thoughts to such an
extent that he felt both happy and miserable. They had been so near
each other during the journey, and how was it going to be now?
The afternoon merged into evening as Tom and his friend sat silently
waiting in the hotel, each immersed in his own reflections.
"What are we waiting for?" inquired Tom, at last. "Why don't you do
something?"
Wallion vouchsafed no answer; he kept looking at the clock; it was
getting dark. At eight McTuft appeared.
"At last," exclaimed Wallion, rising from his chair. "Where is Ferail?"
"Shall I report at length or will you simply question me?" replied the
young Scotsman, curtly but pleasantly. "This man, Ferail, was the very
devil for giving me trouble. I shadowed him in a car and he did only
two things worth mentioning. At 6:30 he telephoned to Director Edward
A. Dixon."
"To whom, did you say?" burst out Wallion.
"To Director E. A. Dixon," repeated McTuft.
"Elaine Robertson's employer," Wallion whispered to Tom, who sat silent
and dumb-founded. "All seems turning out well, as you see. Now what
more?"
"Ferail inquired whether the 'goods' had come. The answer seemed to
satisfy him."
"So the 'goods' have arrived," observed Wallion, whose eyes glowed
triumphantly, "and then?"
"Then our man drove to his lodgings at 39 Church Street, and there he
remained; I put on a man to watch whilst I am here, but first I drove to
Headquarters to get a few particulars, as you see." He gave Wallion a
paper from which he read aloud:
"RICARDO FERAIL. Greek. Age 42.--Professes to be a dealer in
antiques, but has no real profession or business; otherwise
known as a professional gambler. Never convicted. Nicknamed
'Silent Ferail.' Is not an American citizen. Has been living
for the last eight months at 39 Church Street.
"EDWARD ATTISWOOD DIXON. Born in New York 1859. Well-known
business man in Seattle. Supposed to be insolvent. The dispute
with the Insurance Company about the the summer hotel burnt
recently was decided in his favor. The sum paid by the
Insurance Company saved him from bankruptcy. Owns five hotels
and a wharf on the coast. Has extensive import connections."
Wallion gave McTuft a hearty slap on the back.
"Good," he said. "You know your business. Now what about the other
matter in hand to which I referred in my telegram."
McTuft shook his head. "I have not been able to find out anything at
all about King Solomon. There is no record of any King Solomon mines,
and nothing about a catastrophe in Alaska which might fit in with your
theories, in the Seattle papers of 1902. On the other hand we've got
Doctor Corman," McTuft continued undisturbed, in true reporter fashion.
"Towards the end of the nineties he was accused of poisoning at Chicago;
his wife died of arsenic poisoning. He was pronounced 'Not Guilty.' At
present he is Dixon's most intimate friend and lives, in part, at his
expense."
Both Wallion and Tom stared in amazement at the detective, who retailed
his news with no more emotion than if he had been talking about the
weather.
"Well, and what about the sister?" inquired Wallion when McTuft had
finished.
"There's nothing of any importance about her," said McTuft.
"And what about Corman's asylum?"
"It's quite correct that he is a medico," the Scotsman said, shrugging
his shoulders. "Want to know anything more? Well then, I'll go back to
39 Church Street."
He went, and for some minutes Wallion stood as if dead to all his
surroundings; his nostrils quivered and his lips were pressed hard
together. All at once he said:
"I take less interest in Doctor Corman's past than in the fact of his
connection with Dixon, the kindly employer who was so much interested in
Elaine Robertson's history ... the chain is complete now. Scarcely had
Ferail set foot in Seattle when he inquired about certain 'goods' at
Dixon's, the 'goods' being the two stolen dolls, and it was to Dixon he
had sent them from Stockholm. Again, I am perfectly sure now that
Corman and Ferail exchanged signals at the station. They are old
acquaintances, but they kept it secret from us. Dixon, Corman and
Ferail, there we have our enemies."
"But who, then, is this fellow Ferail?" asked Tom.
"Haven't you already guessed? He is Toroni, of course."
A waiter came up just then.
"A gentleman is here asking for Mr. Wallion; his name is Henry Morris."
"Show him in."
A pale, short-sighted man in black came forward, and after an awkward
bow said: "I am Doctor Corman's assistant. The doctor sends his
compliments and he hopes to see you, gentlemen, at the asylum at 11
to-morrow morning."
"Thanks, are you going back there?"
"No, I gave up my post to-day and am leaving for Portland by the night
train. I offered to leave his message on my way."
"Is that so?" said Wallion, very deliberately. "Does Doctor Corman
intend to look after his patients alone then?"
"He has only one."
Wallion nodded, it was just what he had expected. He accompanied Morris
to the door and said:
"Nice place, Portland, are you going to set up in practice there?"
"No, I am going to be assistant surgeon at the hospital," replied
Morris, and with a stiff inclination of the head he left the hotel.
Tom, who all this time had been on tenterhooks, rushed at Wallion and
seized his arm.
"What is the meaning of it all?" he said. "You say that Ferail is Toroni
and Corman's friend; why didn't you have him put in gaol?"
"Because I want to find out first where those wooden dolls have got to,"
replied Wallion calmly, "but I am rather beginning to fear that I gave
him too long a respite." After a pause he added: "Tom, we shall have
to..."
Again there was an interruption; a waiter appeared with a biggish parcel
done up in blue paper. "For Mr. Wallion," he announced.
"Hallo, what next? Who left this?"
"A little chap, who ran away immediately, sir."
Wallion made a sign to the man to leave the room, and proceeded to undo
the parcel. It contained five wooden dolls, exact facsimiles of those
with which they were already only too well acquainted. Wallion picked
up a card on which was written, in a fine female hand:
"If you want to hear more about these dolls come to the West
Seattle railway station one hour after midnight."
"What on earth is it?" said Tom, rather scared.
"'Welcome to Seattle,'" said Wallion, bursting into a fit of grim
merriment. "A few playthings to amuse us whilst we are waiting."
He examined the figures minutely one by one. Under the foot of each he
found a number; these were respectively: 1, 3, 7, 9 and 11.
"Uneven numbers only," he grunted; "with the one we took out of the
girl's satchel the series from one to eleven would be complete. Yes,
that is rather puzzling; an unknown giver," he said with a sardonic
smile, looking at the card once more. "H--m, West Seattle station at
one o'clock in the morning." He tore the card to pieces. "No," he said
in a hard voice, "that trap is not good enough. Put those images into a
bag, Tom ... we'll have another look at them later on."
He paced up and down the room for a time, deep in thought; then he
spoke: "They want to keep us out of the way till to-morrow, that is why
they want us to keep the appointment to-night; Tom, I shall require your
assistance; I mean to pay a little surprise visit to the doctor and his
friends to-night."
*CHAPTER XII*
*WILLIAM ROBERTSON*
Doctor Corman's villa and private asylum lay just outside and to the
north of the town. At ten P.M. Wallion and his friends got out of a
taxi which drew up a hundred yards from the heavy iron gates of the
villa and, as they anticipated a long, tedious wait, they sent the
chauffeur home. Their object was to find out who was there and to
interfere in case of need only.
"Remember that William Robertson is there," was Wallion's cautious
remark; "we must be careful not to bring things to a premature crisis."
They passed by the gates and climbed over a wall protected by shady
trees. The night was dark, cloudy, and very still; there seemed no
other houses near. They landed in what appeared to be badly kept marshy
ground. The villa lay immediately before them, a pretentious, modern
stone building on two floors, with a loggia giving on to the grounds,
and a spacious lawn in front whence a short drive led to the gates. A
faint light burning in a room over the loggia revealed that there were
iron bars to the window. With the exception of this feeble illumination
there was nothing on this side of the house to indicate that it was
inhabited; but Wallion made a noiseless investigation of the other side
and discovered lights in two windows on the second floor. These had no
bars--merely thick curtains.
"I am thinking of climbing up to that barred window," he whispered, when
he again joined Tom, "wait for me here." And before Tom could
expostulate Wallion had climbed on to the roof of the loggia, and
disappeared from sight. For a few minutes he lay at full length on the
zinc roof and listened intently; hearing nothing he stealthily crept up
to the window and looked in.
What he saw was nothing less than a whitewashed cell with a single lamp
suspended from the ceiling; the furniture consisted of a strong wooden
stool, a wooden table, and a wooden bedstead securely fixed to the wall.
A man lay on the bed. Wallion recognized him at once, thanks to the
photograph in Elaine's locket; the neglected white hair, the emaciated
features and the feverish bright eyes had left a deep impression on his
mind. He was William Robertson. He lay motionless on his back, his
hands clasped under his head. Wallion looked long and pityingly at him
through the thick glass. There was nothing in William Robertson's
expression to indicate madness; his face wore a look of apathy and calm
resignation. The poor man, a prisoner rather than a patient, the object
of their search--would he be able to answer the questions put to him?
Wallion looked towards the door. It was locked, no doubt. How dark and
dismal the house must be! ... Why was Elaine not with her father? He
stopped to think, and then crept along the roof as far as the other
windows which had no bars, but were now in complete darkness; he gently
tried one of them which did not appear to be fastened; it yielded
without any noise and he stepped in. The room in which he found himself
was small and led into a dimly-lighted passage; he thought he could
detect a faint odor of tobacco. Finally, hearing nothing, he crossed
the room and looked out into the passage. A lamp hung from the ceiling
at the farther end, and he perceived the balustrade of a staircase, and
several doors--all shut. He walked along a red carpet to the end of the
corridor, and there found that one of the doors, which seemed to be more
massive than the rest, was padlocked, but the key was in the lock.
Wallion's bump of topography told him that this must be the door of the
cell he had seen through the window. Without another moment's
hesitation he turned the key and went in. The man on the bed slowly
raised himself, but Wallion quickly closed the door and laid a finger on
his lips.
"All right, Mr. Robertson," he said with a smile, "don't be alarmed. My
name is Wallion. I have come from Sweden and bring a message from
Christian Dreyel."
William Robertson looked steadily at him, not with fear, but with an
almost childlike curiosity.
"You are welcome, Mr. Wallion," he answered in a voice the strength of
which had been sapped long ago, "don't be afraid that I shall make a
noise. My daughter has told me all about you and your friend." In a
low and hopeless tone he added, "But you have come too late."
"Too late? ... Not a bit of it.... It is never too late for anything,"
said Wallion soothingly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Your
daughter is here safe and sound, and we are going to help you; but time
flies, and you must tell me everything quickly, precisely and without
reserve. My friend Murner is waiting outside, and no one has the
remotest idea that I am here with you."
Robertson wrinkled his brow in a painful effort to understand.
"If they did know," he whispered, "you would not get out of here alive.
I am in a prison; they insist on taking me for a madman. I am not
mad--but expect I soon shall be. Oh, if you only knew what I have to go
through. Their prisoner ... their prisoner..." and he laid his hand on
Wallion's coat sleeve.
"But your daughter?"
"They have deceived my daughter."
Wallion saw a spark of fire in the dim eyes as Robertson leant over
nearer to him, and deep in those hollow orbs there glowed a soul driven
to the utmost border of reason, appealing for help. Wallion was seized
with inexpressible compassion, and by way of encouragement took the
cold, weak hands into his own warm ones.
"Try to set your mind at rest," he said. "But tell me: am I to
understand that your daughter is not aware of the treatment Doctor
Corman metes out to you?"
"Doctor Corman is cunning," whispered Robertson. "He enticed me here at
first when I was sick ... Yes, when I was cast down and ill he took me
up in a kind, friendly way; I was put into a pretty little room on the
other side of the corridor, a sweet little room with no bars." ... Here
he lost himself ... "without bars," he repeated.
"Yes, I see," said Wallion, "so he was kind to you for a time ... but
one day you got to know that he was a friend of Toroni's, did you not?"
Robertson looked up in fear.
"Do you really know everything?" he gasped. "That was it; Toroni was
alive and prying into the secret. Toroni was Doctor Corman's friend,
but though the Doctor was sly and deceitful, I saw through him and his
many questions at last; then they moved me in here. But listen how
artful he was. When Elaine came to see me I had to receive her in that
pretty little room as if it were still mine, and behind a curtain Toroni
watched, revolver in hand, ready to shoot me, if I revealed the least
thing. Can you imagine such a thing?" he burst out, raising his clasped
hands. "And he would have killed us both had I ventured to say a word."
"Anyhow, you managed secretly to persuade your daughter to undertake the
voyage to Sweden."
"Who knows whether that also did not leak out? I believe it did,"
Robertson answered languidly. "I had sent off the dolls before I came
here. They probably decoyed me here so that they might find out their
whereabouts. I am inclined to think so...."
Wallion nodded: "There's not the least doubt of that; Toroni and his
accomplices went about their work thoroughly. Do you think your
daughter has the least inkling of the plight you are in?"
"No, but I believe she begins to think the Doctor's diagnosis of my case
is wrong," replied Robertson in an unusually natural and deliberate
voice. "She told me last night that I am going to be taken away from
here, and that everything would be made clear...."
"Oh, there she is right enough," said Wallion, "but a lot of things have
to be done before then. You must place full confidence in me, Mr.
Robertson, and tell me all," he bent forward. "Tell me what is the
mystery about King Solomon?"
William Robertson raised his hand to his forehead as if to disperse the
mist of years; it shook and the fire in his eyes died down once more.
"Oh, of course, I will tell you," he said half absently, "the time has
come that I should tell you, perhaps, though you had better read it..."
he roused himself. "I've written it all down--the account of King
Solomon, you shall read it...."
All at once he looked with more intelligence at Wallion.
"I wrote it all down when I was in that room on the other side of the
corridor. It is the first door on the left; there you'll find the
document as well as a list of the twelve."
"What twelve?" broke in Wallion excitedly.
"Well, the list of the twelve who were the rightful owners."
Wallion was about to speak, but Robertson resumed with feverish haste:
"Go in there, open the window and feel along the molding on the further
side; that is where the papers are, wrapped up in a piece of oilcloth. I
hid them there."
Greatly surprised, Wallion smiled.
"A very good hiding place, too," he said reflectively. "Things seem
quiet enough in the house," he continued, "and those documents I
certainly must have...." He lifted a warning finger. "A motor is
coming up the drive."
The hum of a motor, and the grinding of wheels on the gravel could be
heard distinctly on the other side of the house. Wallion turned to
Robertson and said:
"Stay here, and be calm; I'll come back soon, if I can; anyhow, you will
be free to-morrow at the latest. Trust me."
He gave a parting nod to the poor man, who looked wistfully after him,
and went out. There was no one in the corridor and he locked the door
so as not to raise a sudden alarm. On the farther side of the house he
heard a door open and stopped to listen. There was no other sound, but
he thought he heard the murmur of voices behind one of the doors a long
way down. He frowned and hurriedly transferred his Browning from an
inner to an outer pocket; then he made his way into the "sweet, little
room" which had been the unfortunate man's first resting place in the
asylum. It was simple but bright with flowers on the table, most likely
put there by Elaine.
But Wallion had no time to waste on details. Without striking a light he
opened the window, stepped out, and with his hands groped along the
molding above his head. Immediately below he noticed the shining black
hood of a motor, with shaded lamps and faintly humming engine, but there
was no one to be seen in the drive. Wallion observed these facts
mechanically, for his hands had already grasped a roll of something
which had been hidden in the molding of the wall above the window. He
got down satisfied and elated, and closed the casement again. "At
last," he said to himself, "at last the key to the mystery is in my
hands." He took a few steps into the room, but suddenly stopped short,
every nerve in his body whispered "Danger," and his hands sought his
pocket. The electric light was switched on, and in the doorway stood
Doctor Corman.
"I beg you to keep quiet," said the Doctor, with his usual cold,
well-trained voice, "and hands up, if you please." A revolver gleamed
in his hand--and Wallion obeyed.
"Delighted to meet you here _en famille_, Doctor," he said smiling, "I
know now how keenly I appreciated your worth during our railway journey
together."
"What business brings you here?" asked the Doctor curtly.
"Did you think I was going to play with dolls like a good boy, and go to
the station at West Seattle at one o'clock in the morning?" said
Wallion. "No, the card you made Madame Lorraine write did not lure me,
and I hadn't patience enough to wait until eleven o'clock to-morrow;
that's what has brought me here."
"And you preferred to sneak in like a thief?"
"You are very particular ... I got in where I could."
"You will be received accordingly. Be good enough to keep still; our
explanation will be short but to the point."
Wallion's eyes wandered to the left, where he suspected a door concealed
behind a curtain.
"As you please," he said, "but I think our friend Ferail had better show
himself too. Aha, he is hesitating, perhaps he would rather be addressed
by another name. Now, then, come along, No. 13 Toroni."
The curtain was drawn aside and Ferail appeared in the light. He also
had a revolver in his hand.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*FERAIL MAKES A PROPOSAL*
"Good evening," said Wallion, in an amicable tone. "You are right in
making the most of the fleeting moments; your twenty-four hours' respite
has not quite run out yet."
The Doctor was as imperturbably cool as ever but Ferail's countenance
had altered indeed. His upper lip was drawn up above the gums, his eyes
were burning, and the skin of his distorted, repulsive face had turned
to a greenish pallor, as if his choler were choking him.
"I can do without your respite, Wallion," he said. "Did you think I
could not shake off that simpleton McTuft? You had better get some
other man in his place, for he is no good. Why don't you have me
arrested now, eh?"
"Have you arrested? Certainly not ... your conversation is so
exceedingly pleasant...."
"Enough of that," interrupted Doctor Corman, "Ferail, get that roll our
visitor is holding in his hand. He has had better luck than we, he has
found Robertson's notes.... I am sorry, Mr. Wallion, but they don't
belong to you. Take them, Ferail."
The Greek did so, and went with great thoroughness through the pockets
of his victim, though he took nothing except the Browning, which he
threw on the sideboard.
Steps became audible in the corridor, and a stout but active-looking man
in a well-fitting chauffeur's uniform, walked in.
"What is all this delay about?" he said sharply. "Haven't you settled it
yet, boys? Who the deuce is that man there?" he added, staring at
Wallion who, being now without a weapon, stood with his arms at his side
and his hands in his pockets, leaning against a chair.
"He is one of those Swedes," answered Corman. "We caught him in the act
of stealing some papers of Robertson's."
"My name is Maurice Wallion, at your service," said the journalist
detective, with a mocking bow, "I presume I am addressing Mr. Edward
Attiswood Dixon?" The name rolled glibly off his tongue.
He had made a shrewd guess at the owner of the black motor, and he
examined him with undisguised curiosity. In spite of his corpulence the
man moved with well-trained ease and self-possession; his face was
ruddy, and he was bald with the exception of a little gray fringe at the
back of his head. His features were full and coarse--a face like that
of Nero up-to-date, made in America.
Wallion was not disappointed, he had pictured Elaine's employer
something like this.
Dixon slowly took off his driving gloves and let his eyes, which were
entirely devoid of expression, rest on the "Problem-Solver."
"Well, Mr. Wallion," he said, "you seem to be in rather a fix just now.
Pray, are you always so imprudent?"
"Of course, life would be so monotonous otherwise."
Dixon showed no sign of having heard this remark. He took the roll out
of Ferail's hand and stuffed it into one of his inner pockets.
"I am going to look after this," he observed in a business-like voice.
"We are in a hurry, the road is clear and I've got the two dolls in the
car. What are you going to do with him, Doctor?" he asked, with a
movement of his hand in the direction of Wallion.
"Allow me to make a proposal," said Ferail, taking a step forward. His
peculiar short breathing made every one look at him.
"Well, what is it?" asked Dixon abruptly.
Ferail's face twitched, he looked like one possessed, his right hand
wandered to his waistcoat and he drew forth a long, straight, thin
knife.... "This is what I wished to propose," he said.
The knife was as bright as though it had been polished with the utmost
care, and Wallion had not the least doubt that, barely two yards away,
his eyes beheld the weapon which had slain Victor Dreyel, all but killed
Christian and severely wounded Elaine. Ferail had put his revolver back
in his pocket, he seemed to despise any weapon other than his shining
blade, and he no longer fixed his eyes on Wallion's face but came closer
up to him....
"Ferail," said the Doctor.
The Greek stood still.
"Your methods are not ours," resumed Corman. "Put that thing away."
Ferail lowered his eyes and stood for a time with head bowed low, then
silently put the knife away.
"That is well," said Wallion, "but I shall not forget your gentle
proposal, Ferail."
The Doctor and his friend exchanged a few inaudible words, whereupon
Dixon said in a loud voice: "The simplest way will be to shut him up in
that little room down there."
Doctor Corman nodded assent, and turning to Wallion: "Come along," he
said, in a tone of command. "Go down the stairs in front of me, and
take my word for it that I will shoot you down without the slightest
compunction at the very first attempt of escape."
"Thanks, your attitude with regard to the fifth commandment is original,
very," replied Wallion, and laughed as he made his way past his
adversaries. In the corridor he stopped to light a cigar, and then went
quickly down the stairs.
The Doctor threw open a door on the right, and with a sardonic smile
motioned to Wallion to go in. Wallion, knowing that resistance would
prove as fatal as suicide, resigned himself with apparent submission to
the inevitable, and obeyed. The door closed upon him with a mighty
bang.
He was left to himself in a cell even smaller than the one occupied by
Robertson, while the bars of its window were more massive. It was
sparsely lighted by a lamp suspended from the ceiling, but far out of
reach, and the window also was set a good yard beyond the thick bars
inside. There was not a stick of furniture of any kind. Wallion tried
the door; it was of solid oak, with a lock impossible to negotiate from
the inside.
"A regular prison cell," growled Wallion. "I wonder for whom it was
originally intended."
He tried to look out, but the darkness outside prevented him from seeing
anything, and he could not extinguish the lamp. He hoped most sincerely
that Tom Murner would return to town and give information to the police
that he had mysteriously disappeared, but presently, with silent scorn
for his weakness, he remembered that he had not given Tom any
instructions in case of such a contingency.
He heard footsteps and voices, both within and without, and realized
that his last hope was gone.... He heard Tom Murner's voice in the
entrance hall. He could not catch his words distinctly, but he heard
the Doctor reply, "Yes, he is here. Do come in, you are very welcome,
Mr. Murner."
Tom's voice seemed to draw near and sounded somewhat suspicious.
"Can I speak to him at once?" he said.
"Yes, of course.... This way, please."
The steps came nearer and Tom asked from outside, "Is Wallion here?"
"Yes, here he is, you need only walk in."
The door of the cell was opened, Tom was roughly pushed in, then it was
slammed to again and sounds of loud, derisive laughter came from the
hall. Tom picked himself up half-dazed. "You, too?" he said, lamely.
Wallion made a wry face--he no longer felt any inclination to smile--and
merely said: "As you see."
A dazzling light passed the window; the lamps of the motor car were
being lighted ... Sounds in the distance indicated that it had started.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*ELAINE'S SECOND DISAPPEARANCE*
Wallion looked thoughtfully at the lamp. Then he took out his clasp
knife, and with unerring aim, hurled it at the globe, which fell to the
ground in countless pieces, and left the room pitch dark.
"What in the world did you do that for?" cried Tom.
"That I might look out," said Wallion, leaning against the window-bars,
and gazing eagerly out into the night. The lights of the car below came
round a turn of the drive and a black mass could be seen making its way
towards the gate. Both men caught a glimpse of Elaine's head in the car
before it was lost in the darkness. Tom nearly yelled:
"Oh, the wretches, they are taking her away."
"She is going with them of her own free will," said Wallion wearily.
"Be quiet and let me think."
He sat down and crossed his legs, leaning against the wall, with closed
eyes. After a time he began to relate all that had happened since he
had got into the house.
"So you will understand that she has not the slightest idea of what goes
on here, and that, in a way, makes her position more difficult," he
concluded. "There is a possibility of their wanting to keep her as a
sort of hostage, for she can scarcely have any further information to
give them...." Here he stopped in order to think a little, "I wish I
could have saved Robertson's notes," he continued, "then we might,
perhaps, know where they are going now."
His cool, deliberate tone irritated Tom.
"I consider we have behaved like consummate idiots," he burst out.
"Yes, I have especially," Wallion drily confessed. There was something
in his voice which filled Tom with self-reproach.
"Forgive me," he said, "I am almost beside myself."
Wallion pressed his hand in the dark.
"I am thinking about those dolls," he volunteered. "What Robertson said
about a list of twelve who were the real owners, taken in conjunction
with Victor Dreyel's words when he said the dolls were 'likenesses of
the dead' which bring misfortune to the 'living,' has put a queer notion
into my head. The figures were all numbered and we have seen sundry
numbers up to twelve. Possibly these images really represent the
'genuine' proprietors, and there should be exactly twelve.... How does
that strike you?"
"It sounds very likely," replied Tom.
"We have come across all the uneven numbers," Wallion went on, "in a way
which rather seems to indicate that the uneven numbers are of no value.
The figure that was stolen from Victor Dreyel bore the number 12 and the
one his cousin had was marked 6. In what way, do you suppose, can the
even numbers be of more value than the odd ones? The uneven numbers
stood alone, but under No. 6 and No. 12 were some other numbers in
addition, 29" and 33". Let us take the even numbers 2, 4, 6, 8, 10 and
12, and when we divide them into two groups we find on the last in each
group the numbers 29" and 33". Now make a shot at something ... guess!"
"No, I don't take that in," said Tom, "what are you aiming at?"
"Purely a supposition, just imaginary," replied Wallion. "Let us assume
that in the year 1902 there were twelve men, proprietors of a gold-mine
in Alaska, that the majority of these fell victims to some unexpected
calamity; and that the few who survived returned, sorely disappointed,
to civilized life. One of these, no doubt, was William Robertson, and
two others, Victor and Christian Dreyel, cousins. Well then, if for
some reason or other Robertson wished to record the longitude and
latitude of the mine on the dolls, which bore even numbers, the degrees,
minutes and seconds, you understand ... one number on each figure ...
the seconds would fall to No. 6 and No. 12."
At last Tom seemed to comprehend his friend's theory.
"Yes, of course," he cried aloud, "and if the situation of the mine can
be pretty accurately located the numbers referring to the seconds are
indispensible. That was why Robertson sent Nos. 6 and 12 to the Dreyel
cousins for safety, and why Ferail began his murderous work. Wallion,
you have solved the mystery of King Solomon."
Wallion shook his head.
"No," he said. "I fancy I am pretty near it, though. Who is No. 13
Toroni? Where does he hail from? As I have represented things there
are still various discrepancies. Can a mine disappear so entirely in
the space of sixteen years? Could those fellows that drove away in
Dixon's car have set to work in peace and quiet to exploit a stolen
gold-mine? Why did not Robertson and the Dreyels go back again if it
could be worked anew? No, King Solomon remains a riddle to us, my
friend."
Tom relapsed into his former state of depression. What was the use of
speculating when Elaine might be on the road to renewed dangers? He
jumped up and began a wild attack on the door. "We must get out of
this!" he said angrily.
Wallion, who had risen, walked to the window, turned round sharply, and
said:
"Pull yourself together, man, in five minutes relief will come."
Tom, bewildered, muttered: "How?" Half hopeful, half in doubt.
"I rather think McTuft is standing by the gate," was Wallion's laconic
reply as he fumbled for his knife, which he threw with all his might
against the window between the bars; the panes broke with a crash which
in the dead silence could be heard for a great distance, and almost
immediately light footsteps sounded on the gravel outside.
"McTuft!" Wallion called out.
"Here I am," answered the Scotsman below. "Whatever are you doing there,
Mr. Wallion?" he asked with apparent interest. "I thought the house was
empty."
"We are shut up," replied Wallion briefly. "Creep in as best you can and
open the door for us; I will knock so that you will know which door."
McTuft whistled softly and ran round to the entrance. After a seemingly
endless time the door sprang open and they were free. McTuft could
hardly restrain his curiosity.
In a few words Wallion told him what had happened, and fixing his eyes
on the Scotsman, said:
"So you have lost Ferail?"
"Yes, the scoundrel made his way over the roof," said McTuft, visibly
affected. "I did not know it was a habit of his.... Anyhow, I traced
him here," he added.
"Well, by this time he is probably a good distance away from here, but I
am not going to find fault with you on that account, McTuft, you helped
so cleverly with the doors; did you come alone?"
"No, with my assistant, who is now waiting with the car a little way
down the road."
"Splendid, call him up quick," said Wallion, as he ran upstairs. He
unlocked the door of Robertson's cell, half afraid of what he might see
within, but to his great relief he found the man in bed, lying on his
back as before.
"Anybody been here?" he asked
"The Doctor looked in once without saying anything," replied Robertson,
who sat up as soon as Wallion came in, more wide awake and expectant
than he had seen him yet. "What has been going on? I heard steps and
voices.... Where is my daughter?"
"You must take things quietly now," said Wallion kindly. "I can't
explain matters just at present, but there is nothing to be alarmed
about. Your daughter has left the house, but you will have news of her
soon. You have done with your tormentors now, for good and all, and I
shall put you under the care of a really trustworthy person."
At this point McTuft and his assistant, a young, pleasant-looking
official named Johnstone, entered the room.
"There are two things you must do, Johnstone," was Wallion's greeting as
he hurriedly scribbled a few lines on a card. "First of all you must
take Mr. Robertson to the Pacific Hotel, give this card to the manager
and see that he is properly looked after. Secondly, alarm the police.
They must track the individuals whose names I have written down: Edward
A. Dixon, Doctor Augustus N. Corman, Madame Lorraine and Ricardo Ferail,
commonly called 'Toroni'; the last is guilty of murder, the others are
accomplices."
Johnstone wrote down the names.
"They have only just driven away in Dixon's car, and under false
pretenses induced Miss Elaine Robertson to accompany them," said Wallion
more deliberately. "Her father, Mr. Robertson, need not be told, but he
may give information respecting their motives and actions; got that
down?"
"Yes," answered the young official with enthusiasm and, grinning at
McTuft, observed: "'Hotel Dixon' is in for it this time. Just think of
it!"
"That's good," said Wallion, "but you must provide yourselves with
another car, the one that is here we shall want for ourselves; _au
revoir_, Mr. Robertson, and don't you worry," he concluded, shaking
hands heartily with the bewildered man, after which he hurried away.
It was past eleven, and darker than ever, when Wallion, Murner and
McTuft ran down the drive to the gates. By the light of McTuft's
pocket-lamp they could distinctly see the traces of Dixon's car on the
damp road.
"They have taken a northerly direction, probably for the coast..." said
McTuft.
They got into the car, and McTuft, who knew the country well, took the
wheel; there was no need for any deliberation on the way, both Wallion
and Tom knew exactly what to do. Dixon and his associates must be taken
at any cost, in the least possible space of time, and sent to prison.
Tom said nothing, but he was prepared. The picture of Elaine's sweet,
innocent face among such repulsive surroundings as "Silent" Ferail's
Assyrian profile, Doctor Corman's satanic features and mocking smile,
and Dixon's Nero-like head, almost drove him frantic.
The motor flew along like an arrow and left Corman's dark, empty house
far behind; the lights of Seattle disappeared from sight and all that
lay before them was a desolate, white road, leading ... where?
*CHAPTER XV*
*HOTEL "GOLDEN SNAKE"*
A cool breeze was blowing from the sea, and far away in Puget Sound
hoarse and peculiar signals, proceeding from an invisible steamer,
filled the air. The last breath of wind, however, soon ceased, the
atmosphere grew more oppressive and finally resolved itself into fog.
The motor rushed on with careless speed, the impulsive, gruff Scotsman
proving himself an ideal chauffeur. Fortunately, at that hour the road
was almost deserted, and by the white light of the lamps the traces of
Dixon's car, in double, unbroken lines, were plainly visible. All at
once McTuft remarked:
"One would think they were making for the Canadian frontier."
"They won't get there," said Wallion, "it's much too far."
"Well, it is a good bit off, as you say," assented McTuft drily, "and I
guess Johnstone has given the alarm by now."
They were getting near the water and, still following the track, they
turned into a road which it seemed likely ran parallel with the shore in
a northwesterly direction.
"Perhaps they intend going on board some vessel," suggested Tom
uneasily.
"I was just thinking the same thing," Wallion answered.
At the same moment McTuft put on the brake, for a lad of about fifteen
was coming from the opposite direction on a bicycle, and the Scotsman
called out:
"Hallo, boy!"
"Boy yourself," retorted the lad, stopping. "Say, is there a motor-race
on this evening, eh?"
"Have you met a black-covered car?"
"I have, and, my eye, it could run too; it dashed past me like a shot."
"How long since you saw it?"
"Ten minutes or so."
McTuft started the car and remarked: "They haven't got far ahead."
Trees and bushes flew past and the travelers felt as if they were
sitting still in the midst of a hurricane. Black pools of water were
visible on the left, as they rushed past detached villas and groups of
houses on the sea front. Now and then they met a car, which carefully
turned aside to let them pass, and in a few seconds was left far in the
rear.
But shortly afterwards, when the car was beginning to toil up a long
ascent, almost parallel with the beach, McTuft again applied his brakes,
and pulled up in front of a signboard which read:
G O L D E N S N A K E
SUMMER HOTEL
A gravel path led to a dark, high building which rose almost from the
edge of the water. Near it was a tennis lawn, and further away a
landing-stage for motor-boats, a long line of bathing machines and
several villas. McTuft pointed to the roadway. Evidently Dixon's car
had pulled up for a few minutes by the side gate and then started again.
A sleepy, uncouth individual in slippers and shirt sleeves was about to
slink into the hotel by the kitchen entrance when a shout from McTuft
stopped him.
"You, over there, come here!" The man turned and came slowly.
"Golden Snake Hotel! Curious name that for a summer hotel," said
Wallion.
"It's named after this little bay which is called Golden Snake Bay,"
volunteered McTuft; "newly erected. Meant to make this into a
fashionable watering-place, I guess, but I don't think it will attract
many visitors--one of Dixon's unsuccessful speculations."
"What? Is this one of Dixon's Summer hotels?" asked Wallion in
surprise. "If so..." He rose hurriedly and jumped out of the car.
By this time the man had come up, and Wallion inquired.
"Are you in Mr. Dixon's employ?"
"I am," said the man, and yawned.
"Your employer's car pulled up here a little while ago, didn't it?"
The man nodded.
"Well, what did he want? ... Now answer me quick or it will be the worse
for you."
The man blinked his malicious, inquisitive eyes in the light, and
scratched his head.
"Now then," said McTuft harshly ... "No nonsense."
"He had one of our chauffeurs called up from bed and took him," said the
man reluctantly. "I can quite understand he must have been awfully tired
driving the car himself all that time."
"Then he drove on again, I suppose; how long ago was that?"
"Five ... ten minutes, maybe."
Wallion looked closely at the man in slippers but remained dumb. McTuft
gave vent to a war-whoop, he was madly impatient.