Chapter III: Part III: Hurricane Island (3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*CHAPTER VII*

*DOCTOR AUGUSTUS N. CORMAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How can I thank you?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Was that necessary?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why use that word?"

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

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

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

"Why should you take me for an American?"

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

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

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

"Is your father still living?"

"Yes."

"And is his name William Robertson?"

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

"That is my father," she said shyly.

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

"How he must have suffered!"

"He is not even fifty," she replied.

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

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

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

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

Elaine gave a melancholy little nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have come direct from 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.