CHAPTER XRICARDO FERAILThe next day after dinner Wallion and Tom were quietly sitting in their cabin. The latter in a miserable frame of mind, for Elaine and her people had not appeared at table. He had sent an attendant with his visiting card to inquire after Elaine's health, and was waiting impatiently for an answer. Wallion smoked in silence, casting an occasional glance at his friend."Alaska," he suddenly said as though following up a train of thought. "Why shouldn't 'King Solomon' have been the name of a mine?""Why not, indeed?" remarked Tom starting up. "But, if so, why did the Dreyels or Robertson not go back there?" he said, hesitatingly. "A mine can't disappear entirely from the face of the earth.""No, but it can be exhausted, and the booty purloined ... There are all sorts of possibilities in connection with Alaska. I wish we were on land, we might glean some information from the papers of 1902 as to whether there was any catastrophe there at that time, how news of it was conveyed to Mrs. Robertson, what became of Sandy MacCormick, and who Sanderson, and Russel were—to say nothing of the wooden dolls?"Tom looked uneasily at Wallion, who continued to envelop himself in a cloud of smoke and asked in a low tone:"What do you think about her story?"This was the tenth time this question, with sundry variations, had been put to Wallion, but he remained quite unruffled, and answered:"It is a most extraordinary one ... I have already said I consider it remarkable.""Just so, but did she tell us the truth? Who on earth is this Doctor Corman, with his sarcastic, satanic countenance?" said Tom. "Maybe he has forced her to ... to...""Tell lies? No, her story is incontrovertible, and as far as she knows, perfectly true," said Wallion, leaning forward as he continued:"But that does not prevent the doctor's demeanor from seeming rather singular. I have just got hold of an interesting tale about their journey from New York to Gothenburg. They traveled on this very boat; Elaine went second class, the Doctor and his sister first class, but did he know then that the fugitive he was pursuing was so near ... or did he not? Again, how could fugitive and pursuer travel in the same train from Gothenburg to Stockholm without noticing one another?""Well, that might be possible.""It might be possible, but it is not likely. People meet so easily on board ship; for instance, I myself am already acquainted with all our fellow passengers, both first and second class,in every detail."Tom burst out laughing."And did you find out anything?""Yes, I heard who else of those on board her now traveled by this liner on her last voyage to Sweden.""Well?""It seems there is only one other, and his name is Ricardo Ferail.""The Greek antiquary?""Yes."Tom recalled the look the Greek had given to Elaine in the dining-saloon, and with an uncomfortable kind of foreboding he said:"Do you know whether they are acquainted with each other?""Not openly, at least."An odd undefined suspicion flitted through Tom's brain. He got up and looked long and fixedly at his friend, but Wallion's features were inscrutable; he was listlessly staring at the ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. Just then Tom's attention was diverted by a waiter, who handed him a card and disappeared. On the card, and written in a bold round hand, were these words:"I have ordered our protégée absolute rest for the next few days. Kindest regards.Augustus N. Corman.""Damn the doctor!" cried Tom. "I don't like his tone. He and Madame Lorraine keep guard over Elaine as if she had committed some crime. Besides who the deuce is this Madame Lorraine?""She married a French violin player, Roland Lorraine by name, but they were separated, that's all I know," replied Wallion, getting up from his seat and yawning. "Are you coming in?""No," said Tom, throwing himself on the sofa, "as our fellow travelers prefer to remain invisible I can worry here as well as anywhere else."But when Wallion opened the door to go out, Tom remembered a question he wanted to ask him."Why do you wish to see Ferail run, as you said yesterday at dinner?"Wallion turned back. "Wouldn't it be rather amusing to see an antiquary run?" he answered quite seriously.Tom winked and threw up his hands. "Get out," he said. "I feel my brain reeling.... God knows what sort of a nightmare I shall have to-night."The giant liner pursued its appointed way over the ocean; showers of feathery foam played round the bows and all lights were on. From the depths below, between decks, the wind wafted aloft echos of cheerful dance music. A fresh breeze had sprung up and there was no one on deck. Evidently they were enjoying themselves on board.For the last hour and more, Maurice Wallion had been pacing up and down, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Now that he was alone his clear cut features looked grave and perplexed; he had been turning the problem over in his mind, and he had just realized that he could acquire full and irrefutable information on one important detail whenever he felt inclined to do so. He had never found himself in such a peculiar situation; but with a sudden, resolute gesture, he flung the end of his cigar into the water; and as it disappeared in the dark like a shooting star, he muttered to himself: "Yes, I'll do it."He went down to the promenade deck, and a minute later appeared calm and unperturbed in the smoking-room, which was crowded and blue with smoke. In a corner to the left of the bar, he perceived an Assyrian profile which made him screw up his eyes. It was Ricardo Ferail having a game of poker with three other men. Wallion who, as a rule, recognized every other or every third person he came across in the four quarters of the globe, earnestly scanned Ferail's partners, and found that he knew one of them well. Here was luck. He advanced, and gave the man in question a tap on the shoulder, saying:"Evening, Mr. Derringer! It's a long time since that night at Johannesburg.""So it's you, Mr. Wallion," he answered without a trace of embarrassment. Derringer was a thin, bony Englishman with a skin deeply tanned by a tropical sun. "Take a chair and join in our game; we want one more to make up the ideal five."After a casual, formal introduction to the other players, Wallion sat down. Ferail, who was the dealer, lifted his eyes for a second and gave him a swift look. The play continued for a time without interruption and in silence. Then the Greek ran his finger-tips through his frowzy beard, cast down his eyes, and observed:"Where did you learn to play poker, Mr. Wallion?""At an Officers' Mess in India, Mr. Ferail.""A very fine school, no doubt," said the antiquary. "You are going to beat me."These were the first words they had exchanged. The game went on. Half-an-hour later Derringer burst out laughing, and said: "Your luck has turned, eh, Ferail?"The antiquary had really lost a considerable amount, and his pile of money melted quickly away. Wallion acted on the defensive; he neither won nor lost, but kept his eye on Ferail, who sat sulky and silent, his white face, with the thin, sickly lips, giving not the slightest indication of the workings of his mind. He shuffled the cards and dealt them with a quick and practised hand. He seldom bought more than one or two, and with a kind of dogged obstinacy kept increasing his stakes, but that no longer helped him, for he lost every round. After another ten minutes Derringer rose, and there was no more play."It's so deucedly monotonous always to be winning," he said with a yawn. "Let us leave off, I'll give you your revenge to-morrow."He and his two friends left the saloon, and Wallion and Ferail found themselves alone, sitting opposite one another.Drops of moisture shone on the Greek's forehead, and he blinked his eyes as, with philosophic composure, he gathered up the cards, but he did not seem conscious that Wallion's sharp eyes were constantly fixed upon him. Presently Wallion leant across the table and said:"Now to business, please ... No. 13 Toroni."It seemed ages before Ferail opened his shining black eyes to their full extent and shot an enigmatic glance at Wallion, saying as he did so: "I don't take you.""Have a little sense, Toroni," said Wallion with an ambiguous smile. "Perhaps you are not used to my ways ... but why should not we two be frank with each other? There are no witnesses!""I don't grasp your meaning," repeated Ferail, in the same tone of indifference."Well, I'll explain to you. First of all then I'll tell you how I know who you are. My theory is this: In all probability Toroni traveled to Stockholm in the same boat and the same train as Elaine, and both arrived simultaneously at Dreyel's studio; it is equally probable that, having accomplished his object, Toroni immediately returned to America. When one hears that a particular person used the same boat for a voyage there and back, one begins to take an interest in that person, and if he is short, thin and nimble the interest is heightened.Youare that person, but it has yet to be proved whether you are identical with 'Toroni.' According to Christian Dreyel's account the man I saw in his garden was Toroni, but I only caught sight of his back as he was running away; his face was concealed by a high collar, and his hat tilted over his eyes. I watched you on deck this morning, it was blowing hard; your hat blew off and you ran after it. I saw your back and recognized at once the motion of your arms and your gentle tiptoeing. No, don't interrupt me ... the identification was conclusive. What should you say if I had you arrested on the spot and your four trunks containing 'antiques,' searched? Would you describe the two wooden dolls also as antique curios?"Ferail had not moved, but he continued to stroke his beard."Unfortunately, I must again repeat that I don't understand you," he answered; "your conversation is very odd but rather interesting. I am Ricardo Ferail, born at Salonika, but an American citizen for the last ten years. I have visited your beautiful country in search of antiques, and can produce papers bearing me out.""Of that I have not the least doubt," replied Wallion. "I am sure you protected yourself perfectly well.""Now, supposing I were that Toroni," the Greek resumed, "should I be so careless as to have those dolls among my luggage? ... I can't tell ... but it seems to me that I should rather have sent them through the post to some address you would not know—you can't open every mailbag that leaves Sweden—or have hidden them somewhere after having found out their secret meaning. I might even have destroyed them. There are so many ways. The arresting of that Toroni you speak of would be a ticklish undertaking. Meanwhile the secret of the wooden dolls might be hopelessly lost, to you and your friends.""You are a clever fellow," said Wallion. "That's why I want to come to an understanding or at least to make a bargain with you. I can arrest you now—and it entirely depends upon yourself whether I shall do so or not, for you have a shocking disregard for human life, Toroni, and you have already made an attempt to silence Elaine Robertson for good and all. Now as we shall be, if I mistake not, fellow travelers as far as Seattle, to begin with—for I am not going to lose sight of you—what say you to a truce during the voyage? I let you run to the end of your tether, and you stop molesting Elaine?""And then?""That will be a question between you and me." Ferail reflected for a few minutes."Do you mean that I shall be arrested the moment we arrive at Seattle?" he said."How long respite do you want?""Twenty-four hours."Wallion lighted a cigar and attentively watched the Greek. "I shall shadow you," he said."If I were Toroni it might, perhaps, prove dangerous," he remarked."I am not concerned about my own safety; you shall have your twenty-four hours, but I shall not be far off, I give you warning."Ferail sank listlessly back in his corner and closed his eyes. "I accept the bargain," he said."All right," replied Wallion, rising. "Good evening, Mr. Ferail," and without so much as a nod or offering his hand he left the smoking-room. When he came down he found Tom sound asleep, and he wondered whether he should wake the young man to tell him what had happened."No, I won't," he thought. "Time enough when we get to Seattle ... That is where the struggle will begin."That night Wallion enjoyed good, sound sleep, such as comes after hard work.CHAPTER XIA "WELCOME" GIFT AT SEATTLEA few hours before the liner was due to run into New York harbor Doctor Corman approached the two Swedes, who were leaning against the railing."Allow me to make a suggestion," he said in an amicable tone. "We have before us a long journey by train right across America, and I suppose your destination, like our own, is still Seattle?""It may not be our final one," answered Wallion; "at any rate it is our nearest."The doctor raised his hands as deprecating Wallion's ambiguous reply, and said: "Then let us form a little, exclusive friendly party and our journey will be the pleasanter, will it not? Elaine is nearly well again now, but for her sake we should agree to let all business matters rest until we arrive.""Of course, we quite think so," replied Wallion. The suggestion met with unqualified approval from Tom, and he almost began to like the Doctor.When the statue of the goddess of Liberty, and behind it the turrets of the sky-scrapers, became visible, the passengers emerged from their cabins one by one. Elaine and Madame Lorraine joined the men and the conversation became lively. Elaine, though still pale, was evidently on the way to recovery. Tom had to acknowledge that the prohibition which had bereft him of the sight of her for some days had really been a happy thought, and that, too, made him more favorably disposed towards the doctor. He could hardly take his eyes off her thoughtful, attractive face, and said:"I trust your principles with regard to the journey by rail are less rigid than with regard to a voyage by boat.""How so?" she asked."So that we may enjoy more of your company, I meant to say."She smiled, but there was a look of anxiety in her eyes, which she steadily turned towards the land. Signals of all descriptions came from the ships, a heavy shower fell, the seagulls shrieked, and there was a stir in the air. Immediately before landing, Wallion came up to Tom and hurriedly whispered in his ear: "Stay here with them and lend a helping hand with our luggage at the Customs; I shall look you up later."He hurried away and found the man answering to the name of Ricardo Ferail at the head of the big stairs. They had not exchanged a word since that memorable night in the smoke-room. Without any preliminaries Wallion said curtly:"I intend to be near you when your luggage is examined; come along, it is time."Ferail began to move without answering, and went down the steps, Wallion close at his heels. Twenty minutes later the journalist was convinced that Ferail had not got the dolls with him, for the four enormous trunks contained a jumbled mass of curios and antique objects which seemed to have been scraped together without care or knowledge; but there were no well-known wooden images. Wallion looked at Ferail, who was watching the proceedings inert and silent."I am half-inclined to believe that you did send them through the post, Toroni," he said, in a low, sharp tone. "The other alternative you spoke of is less likely; ... you reckoned to arrive at the same time as the parcels ... and you must have an accomplice, a receiver ... at Seattle, or where?"Ferail turned livid with anger, but he neither looked up nor spoke."You are silent? Now listen, Toroni, would it not be wiser to save yourself and the Government police a heap of trouble? Confess now and I will see to the rest."Ferail' shot a glance of deadly hate right into Walloon's gray eyes."No!" He sputtered out the word as if it had been poison, turned and went away.* * * * *The express, with its shining row of Pullman cars, stood ready to depart, and a babel of voices, hurrying steps and creaking barrows, filled the huge station hall. Tom looked anxiously about for Wallion, of whom he had not caught a glimpse since landing. At last he saw him coming along, lost in thought, and Tom, much relieved, called out:"I thought you had quite disappeared. Where have you been? The ladies and the doctor are already on board waiting for you." He stopped abruptly, for at that moment he saw the Greek antiquary climb up into one of the last carriages. He saw, too, that Wallion was keeping a watchful eye on the man, and said: "What! he, too. Where is that despicable creature going?""We shall see," answered Wallion—who was not inclined to tell how he had shadowed Ferail through half New York; and that the man had neither spoken to any one or sent any messages—and he heaved a sigh of relief when he saw his taciturn enemy safely ensconced in the train. "Get in," he said to Tom; "I'll be there in a minute,"—and he hurried off to the telephone.He rang up the Secret Service Division in New York; the next minute a well-known voice, expressing surprise, answered:"Hallo! Wallion, how do you do? I've just heard that you came over in the Swedish liner.... What in the world are you doing here—in this town?"The Chief of the secret police in New York was looked upon as one of the cleverest officials in that city. Wallion had made his personal acquaintance in connection with a big English case, and so could confidently reckon on a very friendly reception."I intend to ask you for a little assistance," he said; "I am on my way to Seattle on a very tiresome job. I shall, probably, be able to requisition official help before long, but just now there is an important link missing in the chain of evidence.""All right, I understand ... What shape shall it take?""Can I have a clever, reliable man to meet me at the station at Seattle?""H—m, what has he got to do?""To shadow a certain person for twenty-four hours; after that I think we can have him arrested.""H—m, sounds promising. I'll supply your man. Tell me by what train you are leaving. Oh, indeed ... well, it shall be done, and say, Wallion, on your way back come and see me and have a smoke.""Thanks," replied Wallion, laughing. He rushed back to the train, which was just about to move, entered the compartment into which he had seen Ferail disappear, and finding his man there engrossed in a paper and seemingly regardless of the outer world, went quietly to his own compartment and joined his party.Tom was engaged in animated conversation with Madame Lorraine, and had even succeeded in bringing a smile to Elaine's lips. The long train journey once begun, a feeling of relief seemed to have come over all of them. For several days there would be no change; one would have a little breathing time and could, for the present, forget what the future might have in store. But Wallion's thoughts were with the pale, silent man sitting in the same train not twenty yards away, huddled up in a corner, waiting ... planning ... what?The sociable relations suggested by Doctor Corman were outwardly maintained throughout the long railway journey across America; one cannot always vouch for what will happen nowadays on a journey by train, notwithstanding its amenities, its comforts, and almost uninterrupted contact with the outside world.It would be an exaggeration to assert that all went smoothly and harmoniously, however. Doctor Corman's frigid politeness hardly glossed over his frequent sarcasms, and his whole bearing showed plainly that he considered the society of the two Swedes tolerable but absolutely uninteresting. Madame Lorraine had fits of silent abstraction, and Wallion, who noticed everything, used sometimes to wonder what she was thinking about. On several occasions, having noticed that she seemed to look upon her brother with contempt, he said to himself: "What does she know? ... and what does she expect? ... A silent woman is an incomprehensible anomaly even to her friends ... We are certainly a heterogeneous party."In the meantime Wallion noticed with some measure of gratification that Tom and Elaine got on extremely well together. There were two, at least, who were not up in arms against each other, quite the reverse; in fact, day by day Tom's devotion became more marked, and Elaine's eyes shone with newly-awakened interest.But Wallion had other things to think about. Hour after hour, as the train sped over the mountain and plain, he watched the man who posed as Ferail; and though they never spoke, each was well aware of the proximity of the other. Ferail remained perfectly silent; he never appeared in the smoking compartment nor on the standing platform to see the view.On the day fixed for the arrival of the train at Seattle a telegram was put into Wallion's hands; it ran: "McTuft, will meet the train at Seattle. He is clever and discreet." He rubbed his hands, for he had been anxiously expecting some such communication, and at once despatched a long, detailed wire to McTuft, whom he had never seen, but who was waiting for him.With a creaking of brakes the train ran into the station of Seattle. Wallion and Tom stepped out on to the platform with as much elation as one goes to the theater with on an interesting "first night." But they had no time to exchange words, as Doctor Corman and his sister came up to them."Mr. Wallion," began the doctor with a smile which displayed nearly all his teeth, "we have reached our destination and I am at your service. When may I count upon your visit to my Home?""The sooner the better," replied Wallion."Nevertheless, it may, perhaps, not be quite convenient this afternoon; Elaine is my sister's guest in our villa, which is also the asylum, and settling in again always requires a certain amount of time. Then there is my assistant who looked after the Home during my absence and will, no doubt, want to confer with me. Can I send you a message later, naming an hour?"Wallion cast a quizzical look at the doctor."Thanks," he said. "Murner and I are staying at the Pacific. I will wait there for your message." He bowed and proceeded along the platform as if he wanted to look after some luggage. As soon as he had mingled with the crowd he drew forth his handkerchief and mopped his brow, whereupon a tall, gaunt young man approached as if by command."I am McTuft, at your service, Mr. Wallion," he said, touching his hat.Wallion looked at him closely. At first sight the young Seattle detective looked like an awkward, simple, red-haired country lad; but there was something in his light blue, gentle eyes and wide, mobile mouth, that inspired Wallion with entire satisfaction."That's all right, Mr. McTuft, we shall get on very well together. Your job can begin immediately ... Do you see that man over there who is just passing through the stile?""The one that looks like a cross between Belshazzar and Judas?" McTuft asked drily."Yes, that's the man ... He calls himself Ricardo Ferail, dealer in antiques; you must follow him like his shadow wherever he goes; notice with whom he gets into communication, and report every step he takes to me at the Pacific Hotel before ten this evening at latest.""Suppose he should leave Seattle, what then?""Send me a wire, and go with him."The next minute McTuft had joined the crowd, rushed through the stile and disappeared in the track of the antiquary. Wallion smiled and followed more leisurely. Outside he encountered Tom; they exchanged cool good-bys with Doctor Corman and the ladies, who were just getting into a motor. Ten paces away Ferail was opening the door of another car. Wallion was startled, for he thought he saw the Doctor and the Greek exchanging a significant though scarcely perceptible nod. The two motors drew out of the station yard; a third followed close upon the one in which Ferail sat. McTuft had begun his task.Wallion waited a little and looked after them until they disappeared. Was it a fact that Ferail had given a sign to Doctor Corman? He bit his lip."Let us drive to the hotel," he said. "We must hold ourselves in readiness. Things may move more quickly than I thought," he said to himself."What things?" said Tom, taken aback. But he got no answer beyond an impatient "We shall see."As it happened, Tom was not in the humor for conversation; he had become so accustomed to Elaine's society that the separation left a great blank; her sweet face and gentle voice occupied his thoughts to such an extent that he felt both happy and miserable. They had been so near each other during the journey, and how was it going to be now?The afternoon merged into evening as Tom and his friend sat silently waiting in the hotel, each immersed in his own reflections."What are we waiting for?" inquired Tom, at last. "Why don't you do something?"Wallion vouchsafed no answer; he kept looking at the clock; it was getting dark. At eight McTuft appeared."At last," exclaimed Wallion, rising from his chair. "Where is Ferail?""Shall I report at length or will you simply question me?" replied the young Scotsman, curtly but pleasantly. "This man, Ferail, was the very devil for giving me trouble. I shadowed him in a car and he did only two things worth mentioning. At 6:30 he telephoned to Director Edward A. Dixon.""To whom, did you say?" burst out Wallion."To Director E. A. Dixon," repeated McTuft."Elaine Robertson's employer," Wallion whispered to Tom, who sat silent and dumb-founded. "All seems turning out well, as you see. Now what more?""Ferail inquired whether the 'goods' had come. The answer seemed to satisfy him.""So the 'goods' have arrived," observed Wallion, whose eyes glowed triumphantly, "and then?""Then our man drove to his lodgings at 39 Church Street, and there he remained; I put on a man to watch whilst I am here, but first I drove to Headquarters to get a few particulars, as you see." He gave Wallion a paper from which he read aloud:"RICARDO FERAIL. Greek. Age 42.—Professes to be a dealer in antiques, but has no real profession or business; otherwise known as a professional gambler. Never convicted. Nicknamed 'Silent Ferail.' Is not an American citizen. Has been living for the last eight months at 39 Church Street."EDWARD ATTISWOOD DIXON. Born in New York 1859. Well-known business man in Seattle. Supposed to be insolvent. The dispute with the Insurance Company about the the summer hotel burnt recently was decided in his favor. The sum paid by the Insurance Company saved him from bankruptcy. Owns five hotels and a wharf on the coast. Has extensive import connections."Wallion gave McTuft a hearty slap on the back."Good," he said. "You know your business. Now what about the other matter in hand to which I referred in my telegram."McTuft shook his head. "I have not been able to find out anything at all about King Solomon. There is no record of any King Solomon mines, and nothing about a catastrophe in Alaska which might fit in with your theories, in the Seattle papers of 1902. On the other hand we've got Doctor Corman," McTuft continued undisturbed, in true reporter fashion. "Towards the end of the nineties he was accused of poisoning at Chicago; his wife died of arsenic poisoning. He was pronounced 'Not Guilty.' At present he is Dixon's most intimate friend and lives, in part, at his expense."Both Wallion and Tom stared in amazement at the detective, who retailed his news with no more emotion than if he had been talking about the weather."Well, and what about the sister?" inquired Wallion when McTuft had finished."There's nothing of any importance about her," said McTuft."And what about Corman's asylum?""It's quite correct that he is a medico," the Scotsman said, shrugging his shoulders. "Want to know anything more? Well then, I'll go back to 39 Church Street."He went, and for some minutes Wallion stood as if dead to all his surroundings; his nostrils quivered and his lips were pressed hard together. All at once he said:"I take less interest in Doctor Corman's past than in the fact of his connection with Dixon, the kindly employer who was so much interested in Elaine Robertson's history ... the chain is complete now. Scarcely had Ferail set foot in Seattle when he inquired about certain 'goods' at Dixon's, the 'goods' being the two stolen dolls, and it was to Dixon he had sent them from Stockholm. Again, I am perfectly sure now that Corman and Ferail exchanged signals at the station. They are old acquaintances, but they kept it secret from us. Dixon, Corman and Ferail, there we have our enemies.""But who, then, is this fellow Ferail?" asked Tom."Haven't you already guessed? He is Toroni, of course."A waiter came up just then."A gentleman is here asking for Mr. Wallion; his name is Henry Morris.""Show him in."A pale, short-sighted man in black came forward, and after an awkward bow said: "I am Doctor Corman's assistant. The doctor sends his compliments and he hopes to see you, gentlemen, at the asylum at 11 to-morrow morning.""Thanks, are you going back there?""No, I gave up my post to-day and am leaving for Portland by the night train. I offered to leave his message on my way.""Is that so?" said Wallion, very deliberately. "Does Doctor Corman intend to look after his patients alone then?""He has only one."Wallion nodded, it was just what he had expected. He accompanied Morris to the door and said:"Nice place, Portland, are you going to set up in practice there?""No, I am going to be assistant surgeon at the hospital," replied Morris, and with a stiff inclination of the head he left the hotel.Tom, who all this time had been on tenterhooks, rushed at Wallion and seized his arm."What is the meaning of it all?" he said. "You say that Ferail is Toroni and Corman's friend; why didn't you have him put in gaol?""Because I want to find out first where those wooden dolls have got to," replied Wallion calmly, "but I am rather beginning to fear that I gave him too long a respite." After a pause he added: "Tom, we shall have to..."Again there was an interruption; a waiter appeared with a biggish parcel done up in blue paper. "For Mr. Wallion," he announced."Hallo, what next? Who left this?""A little chap, who ran away immediately, sir."Wallion made a sign to the man to leave the room, and proceeded to undo the parcel. It contained five wooden dolls, exact facsimiles of those with which they were already only too well acquainted. Wallion picked up a card on which was written, in a fine female hand:"If you want to hear more about these dolls come to the West Seattle railway station one hour after midnight.""What on earth is it?" said Tom, rather scared."'Welcome to Seattle,'" said Wallion, bursting into a fit of grim merriment. "A few playthings to amuse us whilst we are waiting."He examined the figures minutely one by one. Under the foot of each he found a number; these were respectively: 1, 3, 7, 9 and 11."Uneven numbers only," he grunted; "with the one we took out of the girl's satchel the series from one to eleven would be complete. Yes, that is rather puzzling; an unknown giver," he said with a sardonic smile, looking at the card once more. "H—m, West Seattle station at one o'clock in the morning." He tore the card to pieces. "No," he said in a hard voice, "that trap is not good enough. Put those images into a bag, Tom ... we'll have another look at them later on."He paced up and down the room for a time, deep in thought; then he spoke: "They want to keep us out of the way till to-morrow, that is why they want us to keep the appointment to-night; Tom, I shall require your assistance; I mean to pay a little surprise visit to the doctor and his friends to-night."CHAPTER XIIWILLIAM ROBERTSONDoctor Corman's villa and private asylum lay just outside and to the north of the town. At ten P.M. Wallion and his friends got out of a taxi which drew up a hundred yards from the heavy iron gates of the villa and, as they anticipated a long, tedious wait, they sent the chauffeur home. Their object was to find out who was there and to interfere in case of need only."Remember that William Robertson is there," was Wallion's cautious remark; "we must be careful not to bring things to a premature crisis."They passed by the gates and climbed over a wall protected by shady trees. The night was dark, cloudy, and very still; there seemed no other houses near. They landed in what appeared to be badly kept marshy ground. The villa lay immediately before them, a pretentious, modern stone building on two floors, with a loggia giving on to the grounds, and a spacious lawn in front whence a short drive led to the gates. A faint light burning in a room over the loggia revealed that there were iron bars to the window. With the exception of this feeble illumination there was nothing on this side of the house to indicate that it was inhabited; but Wallion made a noiseless investigation of the other side and discovered lights in two windows on the second floor. These had no bars—merely thick curtains."I am thinking of climbing up to that barred window," he whispered, when he again joined Tom, "wait for me here." And before Tom could expostulate Wallion had climbed on to the roof of the loggia, and disappeared from sight. For a few minutes he lay at full length on the zinc roof and listened intently; hearing nothing he stealthily crept up to the window and looked in.What he saw was nothing less than a whitewashed cell with a single lamp suspended from the ceiling; the furniture consisted of a strong wooden stool, a wooden table, and a wooden bedstead securely fixed to the wall. A man lay on the bed. Wallion recognized him at once, thanks to the photograph in Elaine's locket; the neglected white hair, the emaciated features and the feverish bright eyes had left a deep impression on his mind. He was William Robertson. He lay motionless on his back, his hands clasped under his head. Wallion looked long and pityingly at him through the thick glass. There was nothing in William Robertson's expression to indicate madness; his face wore a look of apathy and calm resignation. The poor man, a prisoner rather than a patient, the object of their search—would he be able to answer the questions put to him? Wallion looked towards the door. It was locked, no doubt. How dark and dismal the house must be! ... Why was Elaine not with her father? He stopped to think, and then crept along the roof as far as the other windows which had no bars, but were now in complete darkness; he gently tried one of them which did not appear to be fastened; it yielded without any noise and he stepped in. The room in which he found himself was small and led into a dimly-lighted passage; he thought he could detect a faint odor of tobacco. Finally, hearing nothing, he crossed the room and looked out into the passage. A lamp hung from the ceiling at the farther end, and he perceived the balustrade of a staircase, and several doors—all shut. He walked along a red carpet to the end of the corridor, and there found that one of the doors, which seemed to be more massive than the rest, was padlocked, but the key was in the lock. Wallion's bump of topography told him that this must be the door of the cell he had seen through the window. Without another moment's hesitation he turned the key and went in. The man on the bed slowly raised himself, but Wallion quickly closed the door and laid a finger on his lips."All right, Mr. Robertson," he said with a smile, "don't be alarmed. My name is Wallion. I have come from Sweden and bring a message from Christian Dreyel."William Robertson looked steadily at him, not with fear, but with an almost childlike curiosity."You are welcome, Mr. Wallion," he answered in a voice the strength of which had been sapped long ago, "don't be afraid that I shall make a noise. My daughter has told me all about you and your friend." In a low and hopeless tone he added, "But you have come too late.""Too late? ... Not a bit of it.... It is never too late for anything," said Wallion soothingly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Your daughter is here safe and sound, and we are going to help you; but time flies, and you must tell me everything quickly, precisely and without reserve. My friend Murner is waiting outside, and no one has the remotest idea that I am here with you."Robertson wrinkled his brow in a painful effort to understand."If they did know," he whispered, "you would not get out of here alive. I am in a prison; they insist on taking me for a madman. I am not mad—but expect I soon shall be. Oh, if you only knew what I have to go through. Their prisoner ... their prisoner..." and he laid his hand on Wallion's coat sleeve."But your daughter?""They have deceived my daughter."Wallion saw a spark of fire in the dim eyes as Robertson leant over nearer to him, and deep in those hollow orbs there glowed a soul driven to the utmost border of reason, appealing for help. Wallion was seized with inexpressible compassion, and by way of encouragement took the cold, weak hands into his own warm ones."Try to set your mind at rest," he said. "But tell me: am I to understand that your daughter is not aware of the treatment Doctor Corman metes out to you?""Doctor Corman is cunning," whispered Robertson. "He enticed me here at first when I was sick ... Yes, when I was cast down and ill he took me up in a kind, friendly way; I was put into a pretty little room on the other side of the corridor, a sweet little room with no bars." ... Here he lost himself ... "without bars," he repeated."Yes, I see," said Wallion, "so he was kind to you for a time ... but one day you got to know that he was a friend of Toroni's, did you not?"Robertson looked up in fear."Do you really know everything?" he gasped. "That was it; Toroni was alive and prying into the secret. Toroni was Doctor Corman's friend, but though the Doctor was sly and deceitful, I saw through him and his many questions at last; then they moved me in here. But listen how artful he was. When Elaine came to see me I had to receive her in that pretty little room as if it were still mine, and behind a curtain Toroni watched, revolver in hand, ready to shoot me, if I revealed the least thing. Can you imagine such a thing?" he burst out, raising his clasped hands. "And he would have killed us both had I ventured to say a word.""Anyhow, you managed secretly to persuade your daughter to undertake the voyage to Sweden.""Who knows whether that also did not leak out? I believe it did," Robertson answered languidly. "I had sent off the dolls before I came here. They probably decoyed me here so that they might find out their whereabouts. I am inclined to think so...."Wallion nodded: "There's not the least doubt of that; Toroni and his accomplices went about their work thoroughly. Do you think your daughter has the least inkling of the plight you are in?""No, but I believe she begins to think the Doctor's diagnosis of my case is wrong," replied Robertson in an unusually natural and deliberate voice. "She told me last night that I am going to be taken away from here, and that everything would be made clear....""Oh, there she is right enough," said Wallion, "but a lot of things have to be done before then. You must place full confidence in me, Mr. Robertson, and tell me all," he bent forward. "Tell me what is the mystery about King Solomon?"William Robertson raised his hand to his forehead as if to disperse the mist of years; it shook and the fire in his eyes died down once more."Oh, of course, I will tell you," he said half absently, "the time has come that I should tell you, perhaps, though you had better read it..." he roused himself. "I've written it all down—the account of King Solomon, you shall read it...."All at once he looked with more intelligence at Wallion."I wrote it all down when I was in that room on the other side of the corridor. It is the first door on the left; there you'll find the document as well as a list of the twelve.""What twelve?" broke in Wallion excitedly."Well, the list of the twelve who were the rightful owners."Wallion was about to speak, but Robertson resumed with feverish haste:"Go in there, open the window and feel along the molding on the further side; that is where the papers are, wrapped up in a piece of oilcloth. I hid them there."Greatly surprised, Wallion smiled."A very good hiding place, too," he said reflectively. "Things seem quiet enough in the house," he continued, "and those documents I certainly must have...." He lifted a warning finger. "A motor is coming up the drive."The hum of a motor, and the grinding of wheels on the gravel could be heard distinctly on the other side of the house. Wallion turned to Robertson and said:"Stay here, and be calm; I'll come back soon, if I can; anyhow, you will be free to-morrow at the latest. Trust me."He gave a parting nod to the poor man, who looked wistfully after him, and went out. There was no one in the corridor and he locked the door so as not to raise a sudden alarm. On the farther side of the house he heard a door open and stopped to listen. There was no other sound, but he thought he heard the murmur of voices behind one of the doors a long way down. He frowned and hurriedly transferred his Browning from an inner to an outer pocket; then he made his way into the "sweet, little room" which had been the unfortunate man's first resting place in the asylum. It was simple but bright with flowers on the table, most likely put there by Elaine.But Wallion had no time to waste on details. Without striking a light he opened the window, stepped out, and with his hands groped along the molding above his head. Immediately below he noticed the shining black hood of a motor, with shaded lamps and faintly humming engine, but there was no one to be seen in the drive. Wallion observed these facts mechanically, for his hands had already grasped a roll of something which had been hidden in the molding of the wall above the window. He got down satisfied and elated, and closed the casement again. "At last," he said to himself, "at last the key to the mystery is in my hands." He took a few steps into the room, but suddenly stopped short, every nerve in his body whispered "Danger," and his hands sought his pocket. The electric light was switched on, and in the doorway stood Doctor Corman."I beg you to keep quiet," said the Doctor, with his usual cold, well-trained voice, "and hands up, if you please." A revolver gleamed in his hand—and Wallion obeyed."Delighted to meet you hereen famille, Doctor," he said smiling, "I know now how keenly I appreciated your worth during our railway journey together.""What business brings you here?" asked the Doctor curtly."Did you think I was going to play with dolls like a good boy, and go to the station at West Seattle at one o'clock in the morning?" said Wallion. "No, the card you made Madame Lorraine write did not lure me, and I hadn't patience enough to wait until eleven o'clock to-morrow; that's what has brought me here.""And you preferred to sneak in like a thief?""You are very particular ... I got in where I could.""You will be received accordingly. Be good enough to keep still; our explanation will be short but to the point."Wallion's eyes wandered to the left, where he suspected a door concealed behind a curtain."As you please," he said, "but I think our friend Ferail had better show himself too. Aha, he is hesitating, perhaps he would rather be addressed by another name. Now, then, come along, No. 13 Toroni."The curtain was drawn aside and Ferail appeared in the light. He also had a revolver in his hand.
CHAPTER X
RICARDO FERAIL
The next day after dinner Wallion and Tom were quietly sitting in their cabin. The latter in a miserable frame of mind, for Elaine and her people had not appeared at table. He had sent an attendant with his visiting card to inquire after Elaine's health, and was waiting impatiently for an answer. Wallion smoked in silence, casting an occasional glance at his friend.
"Alaska," he suddenly said as though following up a train of thought. "Why shouldn't 'King Solomon' have been the name of a mine?"
"Why not, indeed?" remarked Tom starting up. "But, if so, why did the Dreyels or Robertson not go back there?" he said, hesitatingly. "A mine can't disappear entirely from the face of the earth."
"No, but it can be exhausted, and the booty purloined ... There are all sorts of possibilities in connection with Alaska. I wish we were on land, we might glean some information from the papers of 1902 as to whether there was any catastrophe there at that time, how news of it was conveyed to Mrs. Robertson, what became of Sandy MacCormick, and who Sanderson, and Russel were—to say nothing of the wooden dolls?"
Tom looked uneasily at Wallion, who continued to envelop himself in a cloud of smoke and asked in a low tone:
"What do you think about her story?"
This was the tenth time this question, with sundry variations, had been put to Wallion, but he remained quite unruffled, and answered:
"It is a most extraordinary one ... I have already said I consider it remarkable."
"Just so, but did she tell us the truth? Who on earth is this Doctor Corman, with his sarcastic, satanic countenance?" said Tom. "Maybe he has forced her to ... to..."
"Tell lies? No, her story is incontrovertible, and as far as she knows, perfectly true," said Wallion, leaning forward as he continued:
"But that does not prevent the doctor's demeanor from seeming rather singular. I have just got hold of an interesting tale about their journey from New York to Gothenburg. They traveled on this very boat; Elaine went second class, the Doctor and his sister first class, but did he know then that the fugitive he was pursuing was so near ... or did he not? Again, how could fugitive and pursuer travel in the same train from Gothenburg to Stockholm without noticing one another?"
"Well, that might be possible."
"It might be possible, but it is not likely. People meet so easily on board ship; for instance, I myself am already acquainted with all our fellow passengers, both first and second class,in every detail."
Tom burst out laughing.
"And did you find out anything?"
"Yes, I heard who else of those on board her now traveled by this liner on her last voyage to Sweden."
"Well?"
"It seems there is only one other, and his name is Ricardo Ferail."
"The Greek antiquary?"
"Yes."
Tom recalled the look the Greek had given to Elaine in the dining-saloon, and with an uncomfortable kind of foreboding he said:
"Do you know whether they are acquainted with each other?"
"Not openly, at least."
An odd undefined suspicion flitted through Tom's brain. He got up and looked long and fixedly at his friend, but Wallion's features were inscrutable; he was listlessly staring at the ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. Just then Tom's attention was diverted by a waiter, who handed him a card and disappeared. On the card, and written in a bold round hand, were these words:
"I have ordered our protégée absolute rest for the next few days. Kindest regards.Augustus N. Corman."
"I have ordered our protégée absolute rest for the next few days. Kindest regards.
Augustus N. Corman."
"Damn the doctor!" cried Tom. "I don't like his tone. He and Madame Lorraine keep guard over Elaine as if she had committed some crime. Besides who the deuce is this Madame Lorraine?"
"She married a French violin player, Roland Lorraine by name, but they were separated, that's all I know," replied Wallion, getting up from his seat and yawning. "Are you coming in?"
"No," said Tom, throwing himself on the sofa, "as our fellow travelers prefer to remain invisible I can worry here as well as anywhere else."
But when Wallion opened the door to go out, Tom remembered a question he wanted to ask him.
"Why do you wish to see Ferail run, as you said yesterday at dinner?"
Wallion turned back. "Wouldn't it be rather amusing to see an antiquary run?" he answered quite seriously.
Tom winked and threw up his hands. "Get out," he said. "I feel my brain reeling.... God knows what sort of a nightmare I shall have to-night."
The giant liner pursued its appointed way over the ocean; showers of feathery foam played round the bows and all lights were on. From the depths below, between decks, the wind wafted aloft echos of cheerful dance music. A fresh breeze had sprung up and there was no one on deck. Evidently they were enjoying themselves on board.
For the last hour and more, Maurice Wallion had been pacing up and down, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Now that he was alone his clear cut features looked grave and perplexed; he had been turning the problem over in his mind, and he had just realized that he could acquire full and irrefutable information on one important detail whenever he felt inclined to do so. He had never found himself in such a peculiar situation; but with a sudden, resolute gesture, he flung the end of his cigar into the water; and as it disappeared in the dark like a shooting star, he muttered to himself: "Yes, I'll do it."
He went down to the promenade deck, and a minute later appeared calm and unperturbed in the smoking-room, which was crowded and blue with smoke. In a corner to the left of the bar, he perceived an Assyrian profile which made him screw up his eyes. It was Ricardo Ferail having a game of poker with three other men. Wallion who, as a rule, recognized every other or every third person he came across in the four quarters of the globe, earnestly scanned Ferail's partners, and found that he knew one of them well. Here was luck. He advanced, and gave the man in question a tap on the shoulder, saying:
"Evening, Mr. Derringer! It's a long time since that night at Johannesburg."
"So it's you, Mr. Wallion," he answered without a trace of embarrassment. Derringer was a thin, bony Englishman with a skin deeply tanned by a tropical sun. "Take a chair and join in our game; we want one more to make up the ideal five."
After a casual, formal introduction to the other players, Wallion sat down. Ferail, who was the dealer, lifted his eyes for a second and gave him a swift look. The play continued for a time without interruption and in silence. Then the Greek ran his finger-tips through his frowzy beard, cast down his eyes, and observed:
"Where did you learn to play poker, Mr. Wallion?"
"At an Officers' Mess in India, Mr. Ferail."
"A very fine school, no doubt," said the antiquary. "You are going to beat me."
These were the first words they had exchanged. The game went on. Half-an-hour later Derringer burst out laughing, and said: "Your luck has turned, eh, Ferail?"
The antiquary had really lost a considerable amount, and his pile of money melted quickly away. Wallion acted on the defensive; he neither won nor lost, but kept his eye on Ferail, who sat sulky and silent, his white face, with the thin, sickly lips, giving not the slightest indication of the workings of his mind. He shuffled the cards and dealt them with a quick and practised hand. He seldom bought more than one or two, and with a kind of dogged obstinacy kept increasing his stakes, but that no longer helped him, for he lost every round. After another ten minutes Derringer rose, and there was no more play.
"It's so deucedly monotonous always to be winning," he said with a yawn. "Let us leave off, I'll give you your revenge to-morrow."
He and his two friends left the saloon, and Wallion and Ferail found themselves alone, sitting opposite one another.
Drops of moisture shone on the Greek's forehead, and he blinked his eyes as, with philosophic composure, he gathered up the cards, but he did not seem conscious that Wallion's sharp eyes were constantly fixed upon him. Presently Wallion leant across the table and said:
"Now to business, please ... No. 13 Toroni."
It seemed ages before Ferail opened his shining black eyes to their full extent and shot an enigmatic glance at Wallion, saying as he did so: "I don't take you."
"Have a little sense, Toroni," said Wallion with an ambiguous smile. "Perhaps you are not used to my ways ... but why should not we two be frank with each other? There are no witnesses!"
"I don't grasp your meaning," repeated Ferail, in the same tone of indifference.
"Well, I'll explain to you. First of all then I'll tell you how I know who you are. My theory is this: In all probability Toroni traveled to Stockholm in the same boat and the same train as Elaine, and both arrived simultaneously at Dreyel's studio; it is equally probable that, having accomplished his object, Toroni immediately returned to America. When one hears that a particular person used the same boat for a voyage there and back, one begins to take an interest in that person, and if he is short, thin and nimble the interest is heightened.Youare that person, but it has yet to be proved whether you are identical with 'Toroni.' According to Christian Dreyel's account the man I saw in his garden was Toroni, but I only caught sight of his back as he was running away; his face was concealed by a high collar, and his hat tilted over his eyes. I watched you on deck this morning, it was blowing hard; your hat blew off and you ran after it. I saw your back and recognized at once the motion of your arms and your gentle tiptoeing. No, don't interrupt me ... the identification was conclusive. What should you say if I had you arrested on the spot and your four trunks containing 'antiques,' searched? Would you describe the two wooden dolls also as antique curios?"
Ferail had not moved, but he continued to stroke his beard.
"Unfortunately, I must again repeat that I don't understand you," he answered; "your conversation is very odd but rather interesting. I am Ricardo Ferail, born at Salonika, but an American citizen for the last ten years. I have visited your beautiful country in search of antiques, and can produce papers bearing me out."
"Of that I have not the least doubt," replied Wallion. "I am sure you protected yourself perfectly well."
"Now, supposing I were that Toroni," the Greek resumed, "should I be so careless as to have those dolls among my luggage? ... I can't tell ... but it seems to me that I should rather have sent them through the post to some address you would not know—you can't open every mailbag that leaves Sweden—or have hidden them somewhere after having found out their secret meaning. I might even have destroyed them. There are so many ways. The arresting of that Toroni you speak of would be a ticklish undertaking. Meanwhile the secret of the wooden dolls might be hopelessly lost, to you and your friends."
"You are a clever fellow," said Wallion. "That's why I want to come to an understanding or at least to make a bargain with you. I can arrest you now—and it entirely depends upon yourself whether I shall do so or not, for you have a shocking disregard for human life, Toroni, and you have already made an attempt to silence Elaine Robertson for good and all. Now as we shall be, if I mistake not, fellow travelers as far as Seattle, to begin with—for I am not going to lose sight of you—what say you to a truce during the voyage? I let you run to the end of your tether, and you stop molesting Elaine?"
"And then?"
"That will be a question between you and me." Ferail reflected for a few minutes.
"Do you mean that I shall be arrested the moment we arrive at Seattle?" he said.
"How long respite do you want?"
"Twenty-four hours."
Wallion lighted a cigar and attentively watched the Greek. "I shall shadow you," he said.
"If I were Toroni it might, perhaps, prove dangerous," he remarked.
"I am not concerned about my own safety; you shall have your twenty-four hours, but I shall not be far off, I give you warning."
Ferail sank listlessly back in his corner and closed his eyes. "I accept the bargain," he said.
"All right," replied Wallion, rising. "Good evening, Mr. Ferail," and without so much as a nod or offering his hand he left the smoking-room. When he came down he found Tom sound asleep, and he wondered whether he should wake the young man to tell him what had happened.
"No, I won't," he thought. "Time enough when we get to Seattle ... That is where the struggle will begin."
That night Wallion enjoyed good, sound sleep, such as comes after hard work.
CHAPTER XI
A "WELCOME" GIFT AT SEATTLE
A few hours before the liner was due to run into New York harbor Doctor Corman approached the two Swedes, who were leaning against the railing.
"Allow me to make a suggestion," he said in an amicable tone. "We have before us a long journey by train right across America, and I suppose your destination, like our own, is still Seattle?"
"It may not be our final one," answered Wallion; "at any rate it is our nearest."
The doctor raised his hands as deprecating Wallion's ambiguous reply, and said: "Then let us form a little, exclusive friendly party and our journey will be the pleasanter, will it not? Elaine is nearly well again now, but for her sake we should agree to let all business matters rest until we arrive."
"Of course, we quite think so," replied Wallion. The suggestion met with unqualified approval from Tom, and he almost began to like the Doctor.
When the statue of the goddess of Liberty, and behind it the turrets of the sky-scrapers, became visible, the passengers emerged from their cabins one by one. Elaine and Madame Lorraine joined the men and the conversation became lively. Elaine, though still pale, was evidently on the way to recovery. Tom had to acknowledge that the prohibition which had bereft him of the sight of her for some days had really been a happy thought, and that, too, made him more favorably disposed towards the doctor. He could hardly take his eyes off her thoughtful, attractive face, and said:
"I trust your principles with regard to the journey by rail are less rigid than with regard to a voyage by boat."
"How so?" she asked.
"So that we may enjoy more of your company, I meant to say."
She smiled, but there was a look of anxiety in her eyes, which she steadily turned towards the land. Signals of all descriptions came from the ships, a heavy shower fell, the seagulls shrieked, and there was a stir in the air. Immediately before landing, Wallion came up to Tom and hurriedly whispered in his ear: "Stay here with them and lend a helping hand with our luggage at the Customs; I shall look you up later."
He hurried away and found the man answering to the name of Ricardo Ferail at the head of the big stairs. They had not exchanged a word since that memorable night in the smoke-room. Without any preliminaries Wallion said curtly:
"I intend to be near you when your luggage is examined; come along, it is time."
Ferail began to move without answering, and went down the steps, Wallion close at his heels. Twenty minutes later the journalist was convinced that Ferail had not got the dolls with him, for the four enormous trunks contained a jumbled mass of curios and antique objects which seemed to have been scraped together without care or knowledge; but there were no well-known wooden images. Wallion looked at Ferail, who was watching the proceedings inert and silent.
"I am half-inclined to believe that you did send them through the post, Toroni," he said, in a low, sharp tone. "The other alternative you spoke of is less likely; ... you reckoned to arrive at the same time as the parcels ... and you must have an accomplice, a receiver ... at Seattle, or where?"
Ferail turned livid with anger, but he neither looked up nor spoke.
"You are silent? Now listen, Toroni, would it not be wiser to save yourself and the Government police a heap of trouble? Confess now and I will see to the rest."
Ferail' shot a glance of deadly hate right into Walloon's gray eyes.
"No!" He sputtered out the word as if it had been poison, turned and went away.
* * * * *
The express, with its shining row of Pullman cars, stood ready to depart, and a babel of voices, hurrying steps and creaking barrows, filled the huge station hall. Tom looked anxiously about for Wallion, of whom he had not caught a glimpse since landing. At last he saw him coming along, lost in thought, and Tom, much relieved, called out:
"I thought you had quite disappeared. Where have you been? The ladies and the doctor are already on board waiting for you." He stopped abruptly, for at that moment he saw the Greek antiquary climb up into one of the last carriages. He saw, too, that Wallion was keeping a watchful eye on the man, and said: "What! he, too. Where is that despicable creature going?"
"We shall see," answered Wallion—who was not inclined to tell how he had shadowed Ferail through half New York; and that the man had neither spoken to any one or sent any messages—and he heaved a sigh of relief when he saw his taciturn enemy safely ensconced in the train. "Get in," he said to Tom; "I'll be there in a minute,"—and he hurried off to the telephone.
He rang up the Secret Service Division in New York; the next minute a well-known voice, expressing surprise, answered:
"Hallo! Wallion, how do you do? I've just heard that you came over in the Swedish liner.... What in the world are you doing here—in this town?"
The Chief of the secret police in New York was looked upon as one of the cleverest officials in that city. Wallion had made his personal acquaintance in connection with a big English case, and so could confidently reckon on a very friendly reception.
"I intend to ask you for a little assistance," he said; "I am on my way to Seattle on a very tiresome job. I shall, probably, be able to requisition official help before long, but just now there is an important link missing in the chain of evidence."
"All right, I understand ... What shape shall it take?"
"Can I have a clever, reliable man to meet me at the station at Seattle?"
"H—m, what has he got to do?"
"To shadow a certain person for twenty-four hours; after that I think we can have him arrested."
"H—m, sounds promising. I'll supply your man. Tell me by what train you are leaving. Oh, indeed ... well, it shall be done, and say, Wallion, on your way back come and see me and have a smoke."
"Thanks," replied Wallion, laughing. He rushed back to the train, which was just about to move, entered the compartment into which he had seen Ferail disappear, and finding his man there engrossed in a paper and seemingly regardless of the outer world, went quietly to his own compartment and joined his party.
Tom was engaged in animated conversation with Madame Lorraine, and had even succeeded in bringing a smile to Elaine's lips. The long train journey once begun, a feeling of relief seemed to have come over all of them. For several days there would be no change; one would have a little breathing time and could, for the present, forget what the future might have in store. But Wallion's thoughts were with the pale, silent man sitting in the same train not twenty yards away, huddled up in a corner, waiting ... planning ... what?
The sociable relations suggested by Doctor Corman were outwardly maintained throughout the long railway journey across America; one cannot always vouch for what will happen nowadays on a journey by train, notwithstanding its amenities, its comforts, and almost uninterrupted contact with the outside world.
It would be an exaggeration to assert that all went smoothly and harmoniously, however. Doctor Corman's frigid politeness hardly glossed over his frequent sarcasms, and his whole bearing showed plainly that he considered the society of the two Swedes tolerable but absolutely uninteresting. Madame Lorraine had fits of silent abstraction, and Wallion, who noticed everything, used sometimes to wonder what she was thinking about. On several occasions, having noticed that she seemed to look upon her brother with contempt, he said to himself: "What does she know? ... and what does she expect? ... A silent woman is an incomprehensible anomaly even to her friends ... We are certainly a heterogeneous party."
In the meantime Wallion noticed with some measure of gratification that Tom and Elaine got on extremely well together. There were two, at least, who were not up in arms against each other, quite the reverse; in fact, day by day Tom's devotion became more marked, and Elaine's eyes shone with newly-awakened interest.
But Wallion had other things to think about. Hour after hour, as the train sped over the mountain and plain, he watched the man who posed as Ferail; and though they never spoke, each was well aware of the proximity of the other. Ferail remained perfectly silent; he never appeared in the smoking compartment nor on the standing platform to see the view.
On the day fixed for the arrival of the train at Seattle a telegram was put into Wallion's hands; it ran: "McTuft, will meet the train at Seattle. He is clever and discreet." He rubbed his hands, for he had been anxiously expecting some such communication, and at once despatched a long, detailed wire to McTuft, whom he had never seen, but who was waiting for him.
With a creaking of brakes the train ran into the station of Seattle. Wallion and Tom stepped out on to the platform with as much elation as one goes to the theater with on an interesting "first night." But they had no time to exchange words, as Doctor Corman and his sister came up to them.
"Mr. Wallion," began the doctor with a smile which displayed nearly all his teeth, "we have reached our destination and I am at your service. When may I count upon your visit to my Home?"
"The sooner the better," replied Wallion.
"Nevertheless, it may, perhaps, not be quite convenient this afternoon; Elaine is my sister's guest in our villa, which is also the asylum, and settling in again always requires a certain amount of time. Then there is my assistant who looked after the Home during my absence and will, no doubt, want to confer with me. Can I send you a message later, naming an hour?"
Wallion cast a quizzical look at the doctor.
"Thanks," he said. "Murner and I are staying at the Pacific. I will wait there for your message." He bowed and proceeded along the platform as if he wanted to look after some luggage. As soon as he had mingled with the crowd he drew forth his handkerchief and mopped his brow, whereupon a tall, gaunt young man approached as if by command.
"I am McTuft, at your service, Mr. Wallion," he said, touching his hat.
Wallion looked at him closely. At first sight the young Seattle detective looked like an awkward, simple, red-haired country lad; but there was something in his light blue, gentle eyes and wide, mobile mouth, that inspired Wallion with entire satisfaction.
"That's all right, Mr. McTuft, we shall get on very well together. Your job can begin immediately ... Do you see that man over there who is just passing through the stile?"
"The one that looks like a cross between Belshazzar and Judas?" McTuft asked drily.
"Yes, that's the man ... He calls himself Ricardo Ferail, dealer in antiques; you must follow him like his shadow wherever he goes; notice with whom he gets into communication, and report every step he takes to me at the Pacific Hotel before ten this evening at latest."
"Suppose he should leave Seattle, what then?"
"Send me a wire, and go with him."
The next minute McTuft had joined the crowd, rushed through the stile and disappeared in the track of the antiquary. Wallion smiled and followed more leisurely. Outside he encountered Tom; they exchanged cool good-bys with Doctor Corman and the ladies, who were just getting into a motor. Ten paces away Ferail was opening the door of another car. Wallion was startled, for he thought he saw the Doctor and the Greek exchanging a significant though scarcely perceptible nod. The two motors drew out of the station yard; a third followed close upon the one in which Ferail sat. McTuft had begun his task.
Wallion waited a little and looked after them until they disappeared. Was it a fact that Ferail had given a sign to Doctor Corman? He bit his lip.
"Let us drive to the hotel," he said. "We must hold ourselves in readiness. Things may move more quickly than I thought," he said to himself.
"What things?" said Tom, taken aback. But he got no answer beyond an impatient "We shall see."
As it happened, Tom was not in the humor for conversation; he had become so accustomed to Elaine's society that the separation left a great blank; her sweet face and gentle voice occupied his thoughts to such an extent that he felt both happy and miserable. They had been so near each other during the journey, and how was it going to be now?
The afternoon merged into evening as Tom and his friend sat silently waiting in the hotel, each immersed in his own reflections.
"What are we waiting for?" inquired Tom, at last. "Why don't you do something?"
Wallion vouchsafed no answer; he kept looking at the clock; it was getting dark. At eight McTuft appeared.
"At last," exclaimed Wallion, rising from his chair. "Where is Ferail?"
"Shall I report at length or will you simply question me?" replied the young Scotsman, curtly but pleasantly. "This man, Ferail, was the very devil for giving me trouble. I shadowed him in a car and he did only two things worth mentioning. At 6:30 he telephoned to Director Edward A. Dixon."
"To whom, did you say?" burst out Wallion.
"To Director E. A. Dixon," repeated McTuft.
"Elaine Robertson's employer," Wallion whispered to Tom, who sat silent and dumb-founded. "All seems turning out well, as you see. Now what more?"
"Ferail inquired whether the 'goods' had come. The answer seemed to satisfy him."
"So the 'goods' have arrived," observed Wallion, whose eyes glowed triumphantly, "and then?"
"Then our man drove to his lodgings at 39 Church Street, and there he remained; I put on a man to watch whilst I am here, but first I drove to Headquarters to get a few particulars, as you see." He gave Wallion a paper from which he read aloud:
"RICARDO FERAIL. Greek. Age 42.—Professes to be a dealer in antiques, but has no real profession or business; otherwise known as a professional gambler. Never convicted. Nicknamed 'Silent Ferail.' Is not an American citizen. Has been living for the last eight months at 39 Church Street."EDWARD ATTISWOOD DIXON. Born in New York 1859. Well-known business man in Seattle. Supposed to be insolvent. The dispute with the Insurance Company about the the summer hotel burnt recently was decided in his favor. The sum paid by the Insurance Company saved him from bankruptcy. Owns five hotels and a wharf on the coast. Has extensive import connections."
"RICARDO FERAIL. Greek. Age 42.—Professes to be a dealer in antiques, but has no real profession or business; otherwise known as a professional gambler. Never convicted. Nicknamed 'Silent Ferail.' Is not an American citizen. Has been living for the last eight months at 39 Church Street.
"EDWARD ATTISWOOD DIXON. Born in New York 1859. Well-known business man in Seattle. Supposed to be insolvent. The dispute with the Insurance Company about the the summer hotel burnt recently was decided in his favor. The sum paid by the Insurance Company saved him from bankruptcy. Owns five hotels and a wharf on the coast. Has extensive import connections."
Wallion gave McTuft a hearty slap on the back.
"Good," he said. "You know your business. Now what about the other matter in hand to which I referred in my telegram."
McTuft shook his head. "I have not been able to find out anything at all about King Solomon. There is no record of any King Solomon mines, and nothing about a catastrophe in Alaska which might fit in with your theories, in the Seattle papers of 1902. On the other hand we've got Doctor Corman," McTuft continued undisturbed, in true reporter fashion. "Towards the end of the nineties he was accused of poisoning at Chicago; his wife died of arsenic poisoning. He was pronounced 'Not Guilty.' At present he is Dixon's most intimate friend and lives, in part, at his expense."
Both Wallion and Tom stared in amazement at the detective, who retailed his news with no more emotion than if he had been talking about the weather.
"Well, and what about the sister?" inquired Wallion when McTuft had finished.
"There's nothing of any importance about her," said McTuft.
"And what about Corman's asylum?"
"It's quite correct that he is a medico," the Scotsman said, shrugging his shoulders. "Want to know anything more? Well then, I'll go back to 39 Church Street."
He went, and for some minutes Wallion stood as if dead to all his surroundings; his nostrils quivered and his lips were pressed hard together. All at once he said:
"I take less interest in Doctor Corman's past than in the fact of his connection with Dixon, the kindly employer who was so much interested in Elaine Robertson's history ... the chain is complete now. Scarcely had Ferail set foot in Seattle when he inquired about certain 'goods' at Dixon's, the 'goods' being the two stolen dolls, and it was to Dixon he had sent them from Stockholm. Again, I am perfectly sure now that Corman and Ferail exchanged signals at the station. They are old acquaintances, but they kept it secret from us. Dixon, Corman and Ferail, there we have our enemies."
"But who, then, is this fellow Ferail?" asked Tom.
"Haven't you already guessed? He is Toroni, of course."
A waiter came up just then.
"A gentleman is here asking for Mr. Wallion; his name is Henry Morris."
"Show him in."
A pale, short-sighted man in black came forward, and after an awkward bow said: "I am Doctor Corman's assistant. The doctor sends his compliments and he hopes to see you, gentlemen, at the asylum at 11 to-morrow morning."
"Thanks, are you going back there?"
"No, I gave up my post to-day and am leaving for Portland by the night train. I offered to leave his message on my way."
"Is that so?" said Wallion, very deliberately. "Does Doctor Corman intend to look after his patients alone then?"
"He has only one."
Wallion nodded, it was just what he had expected. He accompanied Morris to the door and said:
"Nice place, Portland, are you going to set up in practice there?"
"No, I am going to be assistant surgeon at the hospital," replied Morris, and with a stiff inclination of the head he left the hotel.
Tom, who all this time had been on tenterhooks, rushed at Wallion and seized his arm.
"What is the meaning of it all?" he said. "You say that Ferail is Toroni and Corman's friend; why didn't you have him put in gaol?"
"Because I want to find out first where those wooden dolls have got to," replied Wallion calmly, "but I am rather beginning to fear that I gave him too long a respite." After a pause he added: "Tom, we shall have to..."
Again there was an interruption; a waiter appeared with a biggish parcel done up in blue paper. "For Mr. Wallion," he announced.
"Hallo, what next? Who left this?"
"A little chap, who ran away immediately, sir."
Wallion made a sign to the man to leave the room, and proceeded to undo the parcel. It contained five wooden dolls, exact facsimiles of those with which they were already only too well acquainted. Wallion picked up a card on which was written, in a fine female hand:
"If you want to hear more about these dolls come to the West Seattle railway station one hour after midnight."
"If you want to hear more about these dolls come to the West Seattle railway station one hour after midnight."
"What on earth is it?" said Tom, rather scared.
"'Welcome to Seattle,'" said Wallion, bursting into a fit of grim merriment. "A few playthings to amuse us whilst we are waiting."
He examined the figures minutely one by one. Under the foot of each he found a number; these were respectively: 1, 3, 7, 9 and 11.
"Uneven numbers only," he grunted; "with the one we took out of the girl's satchel the series from one to eleven would be complete. Yes, that is rather puzzling; an unknown giver," he said with a sardonic smile, looking at the card once more. "H—m, West Seattle station at one o'clock in the morning." He tore the card to pieces. "No," he said in a hard voice, "that trap is not good enough. Put those images into a bag, Tom ... we'll have another look at them later on."
He paced up and down the room for a time, deep in thought; then he spoke: "They want to keep us out of the way till to-morrow, that is why they want us to keep the appointment to-night; Tom, I shall require your assistance; I mean to pay a little surprise visit to the doctor and his friends to-night."
CHAPTER XII
WILLIAM ROBERTSON
Doctor Corman's villa and private asylum lay just outside and to the north of the town. At ten P.M. Wallion and his friends got out of a taxi which drew up a hundred yards from the heavy iron gates of the villa and, as they anticipated a long, tedious wait, they sent the chauffeur home. Their object was to find out who was there and to interfere in case of need only.
"Remember that William Robertson is there," was Wallion's cautious remark; "we must be careful not to bring things to a premature crisis."
They passed by the gates and climbed over a wall protected by shady trees. The night was dark, cloudy, and very still; there seemed no other houses near. They landed in what appeared to be badly kept marshy ground. The villa lay immediately before them, a pretentious, modern stone building on two floors, with a loggia giving on to the grounds, and a spacious lawn in front whence a short drive led to the gates. A faint light burning in a room over the loggia revealed that there were iron bars to the window. With the exception of this feeble illumination there was nothing on this side of the house to indicate that it was inhabited; but Wallion made a noiseless investigation of the other side and discovered lights in two windows on the second floor. These had no bars—merely thick curtains.
"I am thinking of climbing up to that barred window," he whispered, when he again joined Tom, "wait for me here." And before Tom could expostulate Wallion had climbed on to the roof of the loggia, and disappeared from sight. For a few minutes he lay at full length on the zinc roof and listened intently; hearing nothing he stealthily crept up to the window and looked in.
What he saw was nothing less than a whitewashed cell with a single lamp suspended from the ceiling; the furniture consisted of a strong wooden stool, a wooden table, and a wooden bedstead securely fixed to the wall. A man lay on the bed. Wallion recognized him at once, thanks to the photograph in Elaine's locket; the neglected white hair, the emaciated features and the feverish bright eyes had left a deep impression on his mind. He was William Robertson. He lay motionless on his back, his hands clasped under his head. Wallion looked long and pityingly at him through the thick glass. There was nothing in William Robertson's expression to indicate madness; his face wore a look of apathy and calm resignation. The poor man, a prisoner rather than a patient, the object of their search—would he be able to answer the questions put to him? Wallion looked towards the door. It was locked, no doubt. How dark and dismal the house must be! ... Why was Elaine not with her father? He stopped to think, and then crept along the roof as far as the other windows which had no bars, but were now in complete darkness; he gently tried one of them which did not appear to be fastened; it yielded without any noise and he stepped in. The room in which he found himself was small and led into a dimly-lighted passage; he thought he could detect a faint odor of tobacco. Finally, hearing nothing, he crossed the room and looked out into the passage. A lamp hung from the ceiling at the farther end, and he perceived the balustrade of a staircase, and several doors—all shut. He walked along a red carpet to the end of the corridor, and there found that one of the doors, which seemed to be more massive than the rest, was padlocked, but the key was in the lock. Wallion's bump of topography told him that this must be the door of the cell he had seen through the window. Without another moment's hesitation he turned the key and went in. The man on the bed slowly raised himself, but Wallion quickly closed the door and laid a finger on his lips.
"All right, Mr. Robertson," he said with a smile, "don't be alarmed. My name is Wallion. I have come from Sweden and bring a message from Christian Dreyel."
William Robertson looked steadily at him, not with fear, but with an almost childlike curiosity.
"You are welcome, Mr. Wallion," he answered in a voice the strength of which had been sapped long ago, "don't be afraid that I shall make a noise. My daughter has told me all about you and your friend." In a low and hopeless tone he added, "But you have come too late."
"Too late? ... Not a bit of it.... It is never too late for anything," said Wallion soothingly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Your daughter is here safe and sound, and we are going to help you; but time flies, and you must tell me everything quickly, precisely and without reserve. My friend Murner is waiting outside, and no one has the remotest idea that I am here with you."
Robertson wrinkled his brow in a painful effort to understand.
"If they did know," he whispered, "you would not get out of here alive. I am in a prison; they insist on taking me for a madman. I am not mad—but expect I soon shall be. Oh, if you only knew what I have to go through. Their prisoner ... their prisoner..." and he laid his hand on Wallion's coat sleeve.
"But your daughter?"
"They have deceived my daughter."
Wallion saw a spark of fire in the dim eyes as Robertson leant over nearer to him, and deep in those hollow orbs there glowed a soul driven to the utmost border of reason, appealing for help. Wallion was seized with inexpressible compassion, and by way of encouragement took the cold, weak hands into his own warm ones.
"Try to set your mind at rest," he said. "But tell me: am I to understand that your daughter is not aware of the treatment Doctor Corman metes out to you?"
"Doctor Corman is cunning," whispered Robertson. "He enticed me here at first when I was sick ... Yes, when I was cast down and ill he took me up in a kind, friendly way; I was put into a pretty little room on the other side of the corridor, a sweet little room with no bars." ... Here he lost himself ... "without bars," he repeated.
"Yes, I see," said Wallion, "so he was kind to you for a time ... but one day you got to know that he was a friend of Toroni's, did you not?"
Robertson looked up in fear.
"Do you really know everything?" he gasped. "That was it; Toroni was alive and prying into the secret. Toroni was Doctor Corman's friend, but though the Doctor was sly and deceitful, I saw through him and his many questions at last; then they moved me in here. But listen how artful he was. When Elaine came to see me I had to receive her in that pretty little room as if it were still mine, and behind a curtain Toroni watched, revolver in hand, ready to shoot me, if I revealed the least thing. Can you imagine such a thing?" he burst out, raising his clasped hands. "And he would have killed us both had I ventured to say a word."
"Anyhow, you managed secretly to persuade your daughter to undertake the voyage to Sweden."
"Who knows whether that also did not leak out? I believe it did," Robertson answered languidly. "I had sent off the dolls before I came here. They probably decoyed me here so that they might find out their whereabouts. I am inclined to think so...."
Wallion nodded: "There's not the least doubt of that; Toroni and his accomplices went about their work thoroughly. Do you think your daughter has the least inkling of the plight you are in?"
"No, but I believe she begins to think the Doctor's diagnosis of my case is wrong," replied Robertson in an unusually natural and deliberate voice. "She told me last night that I am going to be taken away from here, and that everything would be made clear...."
"Oh, there she is right enough," said Wallion, "but a lot of things have to be done before then. You must place full confidence in me, Mr. Robertson, and tell me all," he bent forward. "Tell me what is the mystery about King Solomon?"
William Robertson raised his hand to his forehead as if to disperse the mist of years; it shook and the fire in his eyes died down once more.
"Oh, of course, I will tell you," he said half absently, "the time has come that I should tell you, perhaps, though you had better read it..." he roused himself. "I've written it all down—the account of King Solomon, you shall read it...."
All at once he looked with more intelligence at Wallion.
"I wrote it all down when I was in that room on the other side of the corridor. It is the first door on the left; there you'll find the document as well as a list of the twelve."
"What twelve?" broke in Wallion excitedly.
"Well, the list of the twelve who were the rightful owners."
Wallion was about to speak, but Robertson resumed with feverish haste:
"Go in there, open the window and feel along the molding on the further side; that is where the papers are, wrapped up in a piece of oilcloth. I hid them there."
Greatly surprised, Wallion smiled.
"A very good hiding place, too," he said reflectively. "Things seem quiet enough in the house," he continued, "and those documents I certainly must have...." He lifted a warning finger. "A motor is coming up the drive."
The hum of a motor, and the grinding of wheels on the gravel could be heard distinctly on the other side of the house. Wallion turned to Robertson and said:
"Stay here, and be calm; I'll come back soon, if I can; anyhow, you will be free to-morrow at the latest. Trust me."
He gave a parting nod to the poor man, who looked wistfully after him, and went out. There was no one in the corridor and he locked the door so as not to raise a sudden alarm. On the farther side of the house he heard a door open and stopped to listen. There was no other sound, but he thought he heard the murmur of voices behind one of the doors a long way down. He frowned and hurriedly transferred his Browning from an inner to an outer pocket; then he made his way into the "sweet, little room" which had been the unfortunate man's first resting place in the asylum. It was simple but bright with flowers on the table, most likely put there by Elaine.
But Wallion had no time to waste on details. Without striking a light he opened the window, stepped out, and with his hands groped along the molding above his head. Immediately below he noticed the shining black hood of a motor, with shaded lamps and faintly humming engine, but there was no one to be seen in the drive. Wallion observed these facts mechanically, for his hands had already grasped a roll of something which had been hidden in the molding of the wall above the window. He got down satisfied and elated, and closed the casement again. "At last," he said to himself, "at last the key to the mystery is in my hands." He took a few steps into the room, but suddenly stopped short, every nerve in his body whispered "Danger," and his hands sought his pocket. The electric light was switched on, and in the doorway stood Doctor Corman.
"I beg you to keep quiet," said the Doctor, with his usual cold, well-trained voice, "and hands up, if you please." A revolver gleamed in his hand—and Wallion obeyed.
"Delighted to meet you hereen famille, Doctor," he said smiling, "I know now how keenly I appreciated your worth during our railway journey together."
"What business brings you here?" asked the Doctor curtly.
"Did you think I was going to play with dolls like a good boy, and go to the station at West Seattle at one o'clock in the morning?" said Wallion. "No, the card you made Madame Lorraine write did not lure me, and I hadn't patience enough to wait until eleven o'clock to-morrow; that's what has brought me here."
"And you preferred to sneak in like a thief?"
"You are very particular ... I got in where I could."
"You will be received accordingly. Be good enough to keep still; our explanation will be short but to the point."
Wallion's eyes wandered to the left, where he suspected a door concealed behind a curtain.
"As you please," he said, "but I think our friend Ferail had better show himself too. Aha, he is hesitating, perhaps he would rather be addressed by another name. Now, then, come along, No. 13 Toroni."
The curtain was drawn aside and Ferail appeared in the light. He also had a revolver in his hand.