Chapter II: Part III: Hurricane Island (2)

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

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

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

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

Wallion listened attentively and then said:

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

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

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

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

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

Wallion pushed him into his armchair.

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

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

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

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

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

"And who the deuce is Mrs. Toby?"

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

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

He restored the receiver to its place and smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

"Dreyel's murderer has got away!"

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

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

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

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

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

"So much the better."

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

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

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

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

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

"I believe she is asleep."

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

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

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

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

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

"And the wooden doll?"

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

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

"Was it hollow inside?"

"No, it was absolutely solid wood throughout."

"Was there nothing to unscrew?"

"No, certainly not."

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

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

"Aha!" exclaimed Wallion.

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

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

No. 12
------
33"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom smote his forehead with his hand.

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

Wallion nodded approval, and said complacently:

"That may help to clear up a lot."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*CHAPTER V*

*THE OTHER DREYEL*

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

Tom shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wallion looked at the wooden doll and said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I understand," grunted the little man.

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

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

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

Wallion grew impatient and began to pace the room.

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

"What? Me...?"

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

He lifted both hands, and they exchanged glances.

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

Wallion's eyes sparkled--his expression was comical.

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

"Yes ... but..."

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

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

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

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

"Did she say anything else?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dreaming?"

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

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

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

Tom shook his friend's hand warmly.

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

Again there was a ring at the door.

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

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

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

He went and Wallion whistled softly to himself.

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

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

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

*CHAPTER VI*

*THE TRACK OF THE "INVISIBLE" ONE*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About twenty."

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

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

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

"The assassin stole that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A curious expression came into Dreyel's eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, you stick to that?"

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

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

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

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

No. 6
-----
29"

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

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

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

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

Dreyel shrugged his shoulders.

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

Wallion put his hands to his head in despair.

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

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

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

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

"It concerns more people than yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

"Yes."

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

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

"Do you see him?" he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who fired?" he asked quite confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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