Chapter XXV: The Final Blow

By the morning Conrad’s condition was little changed, though Wallace thought that the pulse was a trifle stronger. His own rest had been very broken, for the doctor had left instructions for hot-water bottles to be applied to the sides and feet of the unconscious man, and these had had to be refilled at intervals. The sight of his best friend lying there so pallid and still affected him deeply, and robbed him of some of the joy that Yolande’s confession had given birth to.

Fouchard came in at an early hour to see how things were progressing, but shook his head sadly when he saw the still form. He stayed while Wallace took his bath, but nothing that he could do would bring a sound from the closed lips.

“I’m worried about him,” said Wallace. “If anything were to happen----”

“I don’t think there is any danger. I’ve seen cases of concussion before. Once they come round they pick up very quickly. It’s such a pity when he is in possession of valuable information. That paper----”

“Damn the paper! I’m more concerned about Conrad.”

“That’s natural, of course.”

“Have you seen Yolande this morning?”

“Not yet. She said she would send for a nurse.”

“I doubt if she will get one to stay. The château has such an evil reputation. I wish the doctor would come. He said he would pay an early visit.”

“Did you see that?” asked Fouchard suddenly. “He moved his lips, I’ll swear! Look--there it is again!”

There was no doubting it this time. Wallace’s heart beat a new note, for it was the first movement of any kind that he had observed since the night before.

“Conrad!” cried Fouchard loudly.

“S-sh! What the devil are you doing?”

“It’s all right--the usual thing. Sometimes a shout will arouse them to full consciousness. Conrad!”

“I don’t trust your medical knowledge,” grumbled Wallace.

“_Zut!_ I’ve seen men with half their heads blown off brought round this way. You feel his pulse--it is going well.”

This was true, and there were more slight facial movements. Fortunately the doctor turned up a few minutes later. He examined the patient thoroughly and nodded his head.

“Well?”

“I think he is coming round. In any case there is no need for apprehension. I will leave some calomel pills which must be given to him as soon as he becomes conscious. Did mademoiselle get a nurse?”

“Not yet.”

“I don’t think she will be required. As a matter of fact, one hears strange stories about the château. You might get a nurse from Paris, but in the country where superstition is rife I fear that the grim happenings here have an effect upon the natives. Well, the pulse is much better. He is out of danger.”

It was an hour later when Conrad opened his eyes, and tried to focus them on objects about the room. At last they rested on Wallace’s face.

“Connie!”

The pale face became querulous. Conrad was trying to recall the past, without much success. It came as a shock to Wallace to realise that he was not recognised.

“Don’t you know me, Connie?”

“Ralph!”

“Splendid! That’s good enough for the time being. Don’t worry, old man. It will all come to you in time.”

Fouchard slipped through the door, and smiled joyfully to see the patient’s eyes open.

“So he’s come round?”

“Yes. But you aren’t going to start bombarding him with questions yet.”

“It wouldn’t take a minute.”

“He wouldn’t understand. What difference does an hour or two make?”

“Perhaps not. What’s that?”

Wallace called “_Entrez!_” in response to the soft knock on the door, and a maid entered. He thought she had come to tidy up the room, but instead she broke into voluble French, with much hand movement. Her brogue was so strong he did not get the gist of it for a moment, but Fouchard’s expression, coupled with the mention of “mademoiselle,” was enough to set his heart bounding.

“What’s that?” he queried.

“Mademoiselle--has vanished.”

“Great heavens!”

Fouchard turned to the trembling girl, wagging his finger at her as if she were a child.

“You are sure mademoiselle did not sleep in her room last night?”

“_Mais non_, m’sieur. Come and look.”

“Great God!” cried Wallace. “This is terrible!”

They followed the maid into Yolande’s room. There was no sign of any disturbance, and the bedclothes were turned back neatly. On the pillow was Yolande’s white nightdress folded up.

“Who saw her last?” asked Fouchard.

“I did,” replied Wallace. “I said good night to her outside her door at about ten-thirty.”

“This looks bad.”

“Bad!” Wallace became inarticulate with apprehension. His brain seemed to snap as he thought of the creature who had presumably committed two foul crimes already. The awful elusive form, with a naked razor-- “What is to be done, Fouchard? What can one do?”

But Fouchard looked stumped. He stood biting his finger-nails viciously, staring from window to bed and back again. Yesterday he had been boasting about nearing the solution, and now had happened what looked like being the most ghastly business of all.

“We--we’ve got to look,” he said in a low voice. “There’s a chance--a bare chance.”

“Let’s start then--for the love of God!”

“The cellar--where we found the others. And if by a stroke of luck you see that fiend, shoot--and shoot to kill. But I’m afraid--terribly afraid----”

Wallace pulled himself together. He dreaded the cellar as he would hell itself, but there was no time for cowardice of that nature. With Yolande had gone the very light of his existence. He found himself filled with insensate rage and hate, and Fouchard’s advice was totally unnecessary.

They trod the various passages that led to the vaults, looking for anything that might serve as a clue--but in vain. Fouchard switched on the light and they descended the steps. So still was everything that their breathing sounded amazingly loud, and Wallace imagined he could actually hear the thumping of his heart.

“We’ll start here and examine every yard of the place,” said Fouchard in a sepulchral voice. “Look out for footprints!”

Under the arches they went, eyes keen and ears alert. There was a damp patch at the end of the first arcade, but it was unmarked by any footprint. Wallace winced when he suddenly saw the big barrel in which Fallières’s body had been discovered. He went to it but it was empty.

“There’s something white!” said Fouchard.

“I can’t----”

“There--ahead!”

Wallace ran to it, and picked it up. It was a cream-coloured handkerchief--a small embroidered thing with the initials “Y.F.” in the corner. It exuded the scent of roses.

“Yolande’s!”

“That proves it.”

“He carried her here. She must be here--somewhere.”

“But where?”

Every article that could hide a human form was moved, but the small handkerchief remained the sole clue. Yolande had disappeared as completely as if the earth had engulfed her. After an hour of it Fouchard gave it up, but Wallace went over the place yet again--hoping against hope.

“It’s no use,” said Fouchard. “We’re beaten.”

“Beaten! She must be somewhere. If he had-- Ugh! It’s too terrible to think about.”

“We shall make no progress down here.”

“Then what does this handkerchief signify? Why was Fallières’s body found here--and Severin’s?”

“Yes, I know it is very mysterious but what more can we do? This is a different case. I believe that Yolande is still alive.”

“You have no grounds----”

“I know. It’s just a feeling. Wherever the Monster is hiding, there we may hope to find mademoiselle. I am going to try the chapel again.”

“But you told me there was no possibility of anyone hiding there. It is little more than four bare walls.”

“Still, I will look.”

“Then I shall go up to the gallery. To think of her--with that Thing----”

He left Fouchard, and for two hours roamed all over the château. At last he was compelled to accept defeat, and went back to Conrad feeling that he was going mad. The incapacitated man was making progress, for he recognised Wallace immediately.

“How are you feeling, old man?” asked Wallace brokenly.

“I--my head. I can’t think what happened to me. Why am I here?”

“Don’t you remember the car--and the accident?”

“Car! Yes, there was a car. You were driving madly and someone was shooting----”

“Yes--yes. Go on!”

“There was a cellar and a grating--and you were looking through at me.”

“That was before the accident. Conrad, try to understand me. Yolande has gone--that devil has got her. We have a slip of paper with figures on it and a name. You came from England because you had discovered something. Can’t you remember what it was? It may lead me to Yolande.”

“Yolande! Gone!”

“Yes. God help her! Try to concentrate.”

While Conrad wrestled with the disintegrated segments of his mind, Fouchard knocked and entered.

“No luck!” he said bitterly. “Why, he is conscious!”

“S-sh! He’s getting a grip on things.” Then he questioned Conrad: “Do you remember the name Steinbech?”

“Steinbech! Why, that was it--Steinbech. It was a book--I brought it with me.”

“A book!” gasped Fouchard. “Where is it? What did it contain about this place?”

“In my luggage--only a small book.” Then, with a great effort: “Why can’t I think?”

“The devil!” exclaimed Fouchard. “His luggage is missing. Whatever that book contained we shall not know. That was Niels’s object--to prevent the book from reaching us.”

“But Conrad will know its contents. Connie, can’t you--can’t you remember?”

Again came a fearful mental struggle on the part of the sick man. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead, and his breathing became laboured. Wallace winced to see him so distressed.

“Rest, old man,” he said. “It will all come in time. Don’t force it now.”

“I’m going over to Mont Rouge again,” said Fouchard.

“What for?”

“This book he mentions. If I can find his bag, there may be just a chance that the volume is still inside it. It may be hours yet before he is in a fit state to enlighten us, and time is precious.”

“Take the Bentley then--it is faster. Watkins will drive it for you. But it is a hundred to one that they have destroyed the book.”

“I can’t afford to miss a chance.”

Fouchard went off in a hurry.