CHAPTER XIIIFERAIL MAKES A PROPOSAL"Good evening," said Wallion, in an amicable tone. "You are right in making the most of the fleeting moments; your twenty-four hours' respite has not quite run out yet."The Doctor was as imperturbably cool as ever but Ferail's countenance had altered indeed. His upper lip was drawn up above the gums, his eyes were burning, and the skin of his distorted, repulsive face had turned to a greenish pallor, as if his choler were choking him."I can do without your respite, Wallion," he said. "Did you think I could not shake off that simpleton McTuft? You had better get some other man in his place, for he is no good. Why don't you have me arrested now, eh?""Have you arrested? Certainly not ... your conversation is so exceedingly pleasant....""Enough of that," interrupted Doctor Corman, "Ferail, get that roll our visitor is holding in his hand. He has had better luck than we, he has found Robertson's notes.... I am sorry, Mr. Wallion, but they don't belong to you. Take them, Ferail."The Greek did so, and went with great thoroughness through the pockets of his victim, though he took nothing except the Browning, which he threw on the sideboard.Steps became audible in the corridor, and a stout but active-looking man in a well-fitting chauffeur's uniform, walked in."What is all this delay about?" he said sharply. "Haven't you settled it yet, boys? Who the deuce is that man there?" he added, staring at Wallion who, being now without a weapon, stood with his arms at his side and his hands in his pockets, leaning against a chair."He is one of those Swedes," answered Corman. "We caught him in the act of stealing some papers of Robertson's.""My name is Maurice Wallion, at your service," said the journalist detective, with a mocking bow, "I presume I am addressing Mr. Edward Attiswood Dixon?" The name rolled glibly off his tongue.He had made a shrewd guess at the owner of the black motor, and he examined him with undisguised curiosity. In spite of his corpulence the man moved with well-trained ease and self-possession; his face was ruddy, and he was bald with the exception of a little gray fringe at the back of his head. His features were full and coarse—a face like that of Nero up-to-date, made in America.Wallion was not disappointed, he had pictured Elaine's employer something like this.Dixon slowly took off his driving gloves and let his eyes, which were entirely devoid of expression, rest on the "Problem-Solver.""Well, Mr. Wallion," he said, "you seem to be in rather a fix just now. Pray, are you always so imprudent?""Of course, life would be so monotonous otherwise."Dixon showed no sign of having heard this remark. He took the roll out of Ferail's hand and stuffed it into one of his inner pockets."I am going to look after this," he observed in a business-like voice. "We are in a hurry, the road is clear and I've got the two dolls in the car. What are you going to do with him, Doctor?" he asked, with a movement of his hand in the direction of Wallion."Allow me to make a proposal," said Ferail, taking a step forward. His peculiar short breathing made every one look at him."Well, what is it?" asked Dixon abruptly.Ferail's face twitched, he looked like one possessed, his right hand wandered to his waistcoat and he drew forth a long, straight, thin knife.... "This is what I wished to propose," he said.The knife was as bright as though it had been polished with the utmost care, and Wallion had not the least doubt that, barely two yards away, his eyes beheld the weapon which had slain Victor Dreyel, all but killed Christian and severely wounded Elaine. Ferail had put his revolver back in his pocket, he seemed to despise any weapon other than his shining blade, and he no longer fixed his eyes on Wallion's face but came closer up to him...."Ferail," said the Doctor.The Greek stood still."Your methods are not ours," resumed Corman. "Put that thing away."Ferail lowered his eyes and stood for a time with head bowed low, then silently put the knife away."That is well," said Wallion, "but I shall not forget your gentle proposal, Ferail."The Doctor and his friend exchanged a few inaudible words, whereupon Dixon said in a loud voice: "The simplest way will be to shut him up in that little room down there."Doctor Corman nodded assent, and turning to Wallion: "Come along," he said, in a tone of command. "Go down the stairs in front of me, and take my word for it that I will shoot you down without the slightest compunction at the very first attempt of escape.""Thanks, your attitude with regard to the fifth commandment is original, very," replied Wallion, and laughed as he made his way past his adversaries. In the corridor he stopped to light a cigar, and then went quickly down the stairs.The Doctor threw open a door on the right, and with a sardonic smile motioned to Wallion to go in. Wallion, knowing that resistance would prove as fatal as suicide, resigned himself with apparent submission to the inevitable, and obeyed. The door closed upon him with a mighty bang.He was left to himself in a cell even smaller than the one occupied by Robertson, while the bars of its window were more massive. It was sparsely lighted by a lamp suspended from the ceiling, but far out of reach, and the window also was set a good yard beyond the thick bars inside. There was not a stick of furniture of any kind. Wallion tried the door; it was of solid oak, with a lock impossible to negotiate from the inside."A regular prison cell," growled Wallion. "I wonder for whom it was originally intended."He tried to look out, but the darkness outside prevented him from seeing anything, and he could not extinguish the lamp. He hoped most sincerely that Tom Murner would return to town and give information to the police that he had mysteriously disappeared, but presently, with silent scorn for his weakness, he remembered that he had not given Tom any instructions in case of such a contingency.He heard footsteps and voices, both within and without, and realized that his last hope was gone.... He heard Tom Murner's voice in the entrance hall. He could not catch his words distinctly, but he heard the Doctor reply, "Yes, he is here. Do come in, you are very welcome, Mr. Murner."Tom's voice seemed to draw near and sounded somewhat suspicious."Can I speak to him at once?" he said."Yes, of course.... This way, please."The steps came nearer and Tom asked from outside, "Is Wallion here?""Yes, here he is, you need only walk in."The door of the cell was opened, Tom was roughly pushed in, then it was slammed to again and sounds of loud, derisive laughter came from the hall. Tom picked himself up half-dazed. "You, too?" he said, lamely. Wallion made a wry face—he no longer felt any inclination to smile—and merely said: "As you see."A dazzling light passed the window; the lamps of the motor car were being lighted ... Sounds in the distance indicated that it had started.CHAPTER XIVELAINE'S SECOND DISAPPEARANCEWallion looked thoughtfully at the lamp. Then he took out his clasp knife, and with unerring aim, hurled it at the globe, which fell to the ground in countless pieces, and left the room pitch dark."What in the world did you do that for?" cried Tom."That I might look out," said Wallion, leaning against the window-bars, and gazing eagerly out into the night. The lights of the car below came round a turn of the drive and a black mass could be seen making its way towards the gate. Both men caught a glimpse of Elaine's head in the car before it was lost in the darkness. Tom nearly yelled:"Oh, the wretches, they are taking her away.""She is going with them of her own free will," said Wallion wearily. "Be quiet and let me think."He sat down and crossed his legs, leaning against the wall, with closed eyes. After a time he began to relate all that had happened since he had got into the house."So you will understand that she has not the slightest idea of what goes on here, and that, in a way, makes her position more difficult," he concluded. "There is a possibility of their wanting to keep her as a sort of hostage, for she can scarcely have any further information to give them...." Here he stopped in order to think a little, "I wish I could have saved Robertson's notes," he continued, "then we might, perhaps, know where they are going now."His cool, deliberate tone irritated Tom."I consider we have behaved like consummate idiots," he burst out."Yes, I have especially," Wallion drily confessed. There was something in his voice which filled Tom with self-reproach."Forgive me," he said, "I am almost beside myself."Wallion pressed his hand in the dark."I am thinking about those dolls," he volunteered. "What Robertson said about a list of twelve who were the real owners, taken in conjunction with Victor Dreyel's words when he said the dolls were 'likenesses of the dead' which bring misfortune to the 'living,' has put a queer notion into my head. The figures were all numbered and we have seen sundry numbers up to twelve. Possibly these images really represent the 'genuine' proprietors, and there should be exactly twelve.... How does that strike you?""It sounds very likely," replied Tom."We have come across all the uneven numbers," Wallion went on, "in a way which rather seems to indicate that the uneven numbers are of no value. The figure that was stolen from Victor Dreyel bore the number 12 and the one his cousin had was marked 6. In what way, do you suppose, can the even numbers be of more value than the odd ones? The uneven numbers stood alone, but under No. 6 and No. 12 were some other numbers in addition, 29" and 33". Let us take the even numbers 2, 4, 6, 8, 10 and 12, and when we divide them into two groups we find on the last in each group the numbers 29" and 33". Now make a shot at something ... guess!""No, I don't take that in," said Tom, "what are you aiming at?""Purely a supposition, just imaginary," replied Wallion. "Let us assume that in the year 1902 there were twelve men, proprietors of a gold-mine in Alaska, that the majority of these fell victims to some unexpected calamity; and that the few who survived returned, sorely disappointed, to civilized life. One of these, no doubt, was William Robertson, and two others, Victor and Christian Dreyel, cousins. Well then, if for some reason or other Robertson wished to record the longitude and latitude of the mine on the dolls, which bore even numbers, the degrees, minutes and seconds, you understand ... one number on each figure ... the seconds would fall to No. 6 and No. 12."At last Tom seemed to comprehend his friend's theory."Yes, of course," he cried aloud, "and if the situation of the mine can be pretty accurately located the numbers referring to the seconds are indispensible. That was why Robertson sent Nos. 6 and 12 to the Dreyel cousins for safety, and why Ferail began his murderous work. Wallion, you have solved the mystery of King Solomon."Wallion shook his head."No," he said. "I fancy I am pretty near it, though. Who is No. 13 Toroni? Where does he hail from? As I have represented things there are still various discrepancies. Can a mine disappear so entirely in the space of sixteen years? Could those fellows that drove away in Dixon's car have set to work in peace and quiet to exploit a stolen gold-mine? Why did not Robertson and the Dreyels go back again if it could be worked anew? No, King Solomon remains a riddle to us, my friend."Tom relapsed into his former state of depression. What was the use of speculating when Elaine might be on the road to renewed dangers? He jumped up and began a wild attack on the door. "We must get out of this!" he said angrily.Wallion, who had risen, walked to the window, turned round sharply, and said:"Pull yourself together, man, in five minutes relief will come."Tom, bewildered, muttered: "How?" Half hopeful, half in doubt."I rather think McTuft is standing by the gate," was Wallion's laconic reply as he fumbled for his knife, which he threw with all his might against the window between the bars; the panes broke with a crash which in the dead silence could be heard for a great distance, and almost immediately light footsteps sounded on the gravel outside."McTuft!" Wallion called out."Here I am," answered the Scotsman below. "Whatever are you doing there, Mr. Wallion?" he asked with apparent interest. "I thought the house was empty.""We are shut up," replied Wallion briefly. "Creep in as best you can and open the door for us; I will knock so that you will know which door."McTuft whistled softly and ran round to the entrance. After a seemingly endless time the door sprang open and they were free. McTuft could hardly restrain his curiosity.In a few words Wallion told him what had happened, and fixing his eyes on the Scotsman, said:"So you have lost Ferail?""Yes, the scoundrel made his way over the roof," said McTuft, visibly affected. "I did not know it was a habit of his.... Anyhow, I traced him here," he added."Well, by this time he is probably a good distance away from here, but I am not going to find fault with you on that account, McTuft, you helped so cleverly with the doors; did you come alone?""No, with my assistant, who is now waiting with the car a little way down the road.""Splendid, call him up quick," said Wallion, as he ran upstairs. He unlocked the door of Robertson's cell, half afraid of what he might see within, but to his great relief he found the man in bed, lying on his back as before."Anybody been here?" he asked"The Doctor looked in once without saying anything," replied Robertson, who sat up as soon as Wallion came in, more wide awake and expectant than he had seen him yet. "What has been going on? I heard steps and voices.... Where is my daughter?""You must take things quietly now," said Wallion kindly. "I can't explain matters just at present, but there is nothing to be alarmed about. Your daughter has left the house, but you will have news of her soon. You have done with your tormentors now, for good and all, and I shall put you under the care of a really trustworthy person."At this point McTuft and his assistant, a young, pleasant-looking official named Johnstone, entered the room."There are two things you must do, Johnstone," was Wallion's greeting as he hurriedly scribbled a few lines on a card. "First of all you must take Mr. Robertson to the Pacific Hotel, give this card to the manager and see that he is properly looked after. Secondly, alarm the police. They must track the individuals whose names I have written down: Edward A. Dixon, Doctor Augustus N. Corman, Madame Lorraine and Ricardo Ferail, commonly called 'Toroni'; the last is guilty of murder, the others are accomplices."Johnstone wrote down the names."They have only just driven away in Dixon's car, and under false pretenses induced Miss Elaine Robertson to accompany them," said Wallion more deliberately. "Her father, Mr. Robertson, need not be told, but he may give information respecting their motives and actions; got that down?""Yes," answered the young official with enthusiasm and, grinning at McTuft, observed: "'Hotel Dixon' is in for it this time. Just think of it!""That's good," said Wallion, "but you must provide yourselves with another car, the one that is here we shall want for ourselves;au revoir, Mr. Robertson, and don't you worry," he concluded, shaking hands heartily with the bewildered man, after which he hurried away.It was past eleven, and darker than ever, when Wallion, Murner and McTuft ran down the drive to the gates. By the light of McTuft's pocket-lamp they could distinctly see the traces of Dixon's car on the damp road."They have taken a northerly direction, probably for the coast..." said McTuft.They got into the car, and McTuft, who knew the country well, took the wheel; there was no need for any deliberation on the way, both Wallion and Tom knew exactly what to do. Dixon and his associates must be taken at any cost, in the least possible space of time, and sent to prison. Tom said nothing, but he was prepared. The picture of Elaine's sweet, innocent face among such repulsive surroundings as "Silent" Ferail's Assyrian profile, Doctor Corman's satanic features and mocking smile, and Dixon's Nero-like head, almost drove him frantic.The motor flew along like an arrow and left Corman's dark, empty house far behind; the lights of Seattle disappeared from sight and all that lay before them was a desolate, white road, leading ... where?CHAPTER XVHOTEL "GOLDEN SNAKE"A cool breeze was blowing from the sea, and far away in Puget Sound hoarse and peculiar signals, proceeding from an invisible steamer, filled the air. The last breath of wind, however, soon ceased, the atmosphere grew more oppressive and finally resolved itself into fog. The motor rushed on with careless speed, the impulsive, gruff Scotsman proving himself an ideal chauffeur. Fortunately, at that hour the road was almost deserted, and by the white light of the lamps the traces of Dixon's car, in double, unbroken lines, were plainly visible. All at once McTuft remarked:"One would think they were making for the Canadian frontier.""They won't get there," said Wallion, "it's much too far.""Well, it is a good bit off, as you say," assented McTuft drily, "and I guess Johnstone has given the alarm by now."They were getting near the water and, still following the track, they turned into a road which it seemed likely ran parallel with the shore in a northwesterly direction."Perhaps they intend going on board some vessel," suggested Tom uneasily."I was just thinking the same thing," Wallion answered.At the same moment McTuft put on the brake, for a lad of about fifteen was coming from the opposite direction on a bicycle, and the Scotsman called out:"Hallo, boy!""Boy yourself," retorted the lad, stopping. "Say, is there a motor-race on this evening, eh?""Have you met a black-covered car?""I have, and, my eye, it could run too; it dashed past me like a shot.""How long since you saw it?""Ten minutes or so."McTuft started the car and remarked: "They haven't got far ahead." Trees and bushes flew past and the travelers felt as if they were sitting still in the midst of a hurricane. Black pools of water were visible on the left, as they rushed past detached villas and groups of houses on the sea front. Now and then they met a car, which carefully turned aside to let them pass, and in a few seconds was left far in the rear.But shortly afterwards, when the car was beginning to toil up a long ascent, almost parallel with the beach, McTuft again applied his brakes, and pulled up in front of a signboard which read:G O L D E N S N A K ESUMMER HOTELA gravel path led to a dark, high building which rose almost from the edge of the water. Near it was a tennis lawn, and further away a landing-stage for motor-boats, a long line of bathing machines and several villas. McTuft pointed to the roadway. Evidently Dixon's car had pulled up for a few minutes by the side gate and then started again. A sleepy, uncouth individual in slippers and shirt sleeves was about to slink into the hotel by the kitchen entrance when a shout from McTuft stopped him."You, over there, come here!" The man turned and came slowly."Golden Snake Hotel! Curious name that for a summer hotel," said Wallion."It's named after this little bay which is called Golden Snake Bay," volunteered McTuft; "newly erected. Meant to make this into a fashionable watering-place, I guess, but I don't think it will attract many visitors—one of Dixon's unsuccessful speculations.""What? Is this one of Dixon's Summer hotels?" asked Wallion in surprise. "If so..." He rose hurriedly and jumped out of the car.By this time the man had come up, and Wallion inquired."Are you in Mr. Dixon's employ?""I am," said the man, and yawned."Your employer's car pulled up here a little while ago, didn't it?"The man nodded."Well, what did he want? ... Now answer me quick or it will be the worse for you."The man blinked his malicious, inquisitive eyes in the light, and scratched his head."Now then," said McTuft harshly ... "No nonsense.""He had one of our chauffeurs called up from bed and took him," said the man reluctantly. "I can quite understand he must have been awfully tired driving the car himself all that time.""Then he drove on again, I suppose; how long ago was that?""Five ... ten minutes, maybe."Wallion looked closely at the man in slippers but remained dumb. McTuft gave vent to a war-whoop, he was madly impatient."Quick, get in again, Mr. Wallion, and let us be after them.""No," said Wallion, "I stay here.""What's that you say? ... You want to remain here? ... But what about the car?"The Scotsman's red hair seemed to stand on end; he had taken off his cap and was staring at Wallion as at one who had suddenly taken leave of his senses."Can I speak to the landlord?" said Wallion, turning to the man, who stood there gaping."He has gone away, the hotel is closed for alterations.""But it seems that there are chauffeurs?""Yes, we have the garage to let.""We are wasting time," said McTuft in despair. Wallion looked at him and smiled."You are right, McTuft, I have changed my plans. Go after Dixon's car at once and stop it; perhaps Murner and I will come on later; no arguing ... be off." Wallion had spoken in a tone of command. The Scotsman straightened himself, bit his lip, and said, "All right."Tom had only just time to get out before the car started and disappeared round the corner."What does all this mean?" asked Tom confusedly."It means," replied Wallion, "that McTuft, who is stubborn, is getting his own way, that the black car won't be running much further, and that the Golden Snake Hotel is much too interesting to be passed by..."He pounced upon the sleepy man and caught him somewhat savagely by the arm."What is your job here?" he asked gruffly."Night watchman," came the sullen answer."Good," said Wallion, hustling the man in front of him along the gravel path towards the hotel."Then, of course, you can tell me what sort of people have been here recently and which of them have only just left." He pointed to the path where half obliterated marks of many feet were still to be seen.The man's knees began to shake and he opened his mouth in dumb despair."Look here, my man, we are detectives, so you had better keep a civil tongue in your head. Well, you say that Dixon had a chauffeur in readiness here and that the black car went on again with that same chauffeur at the wheel?""Yes," stammered the man. Wallion seized and shook him like a rat."Now about Dixon himself, he got out here, didn't he? And his party as well; don't try to deny it," said Wallion, in a voice that nearly scared the man out of his wits. "They got out here; where are they now?"The man lifted his hand and with trembling finger—he seemed unable to speak—pointed to the bay. Wallion pushed him away."To the beach," he said with a frown. "A boat! Aha, what is that? Over there?"As soon as they passed the corner of the untenanted hotel they obtained an open view over the smooth water of the bay. Outside the breakwater lay a large pleasure yacht, painted white, with steam up."What sort of a boat is that?" asked Wallion sharply."That ... that is Mr. Dixon's steam yacht 'Ariadne,'" the man answered dejectedly.Wallion looked at Tom. Both immediately grasped the situation. Wallion let go the man's arms and pointed to the house."Go in there and don't stick even the tip of your nose out of the door."The man disappeared in the direction of the hotel, and he did not notice that he had lost his slippers on the way; the treatment he had received from Wallion had rather dazed him.Wallion and Tom cast wistful eyes upon the pleasure yacht which lay proudly on the dark, gleaming water, smoke issuing from the yellow funnel ... She was evidently ready to start."I suppose they are on board already," said Wallion huskily. "Confound it all!"He ran so fast towards the point that Tom could scarcely keep up with him. No one was near, but a prolonged whistle from the yacht came across the water, and Tom wondered whether it might be a signal to some other boat lying in the offing. Wallion had already climbed up the cliffs on the point, and as his silhouette became visible for a moment under the clear sky Tom fancied he saw him waving his hand. After much exertion Tom at last reached the top of the cliff; Wallion was nowhere to be seen, but when he leant over the rocks, a strange sight met his eyes.From the foot of the cliff a boat, manned by four men, shot out into the water, but the men were sitting still with oars tilted, as if waiting for some one. Wallion came walking along the top some little distance away, heading straight towards the boat, and Tom felt by intuition that his friend had not noticed the skiff lying below. His voice froze on his lips—A short, nimble figure had thrown itself upon Wallion from behind, and both men rolled towards the edge of the cliff. There followed a smothered cry, a flash and the report of a shot; at the same time Wallion's body was jerked backwards and fell into the water with a splash. The short man scrambled hastily down the cliff and jumped into the boat, which immediately put out to sea. The beach was silent and deserted; the whole tragedy had not occupied five minutes and it left Tom cold, paralyzed and speechless. He ran like a maniac down to the place where his friend had disappeared.CHAPTER XVITHE "ARIADNE"The catastrophe had come like a thunderbolt, and though Tom did not doubt either his eyes or his ears, he could not help repeating to himself: "It can't be possible, it can't be true."He had recognized Ferail's cat-like movements, had heard the shot and had seen Wallion fall into the water; he reached the fateful spot breathless and panting, and gazed into the dark, oily water which seemed to have no bottom. The cliffs were precipitous, but the water below was not very deep, though whatever was dropped into it was bound to be swept out to sea by the receding tide. Nothing was to be seen. Tom walked to and fro in the hope that Wallion might have swum ashore, but no trace of him could he discover. On the spot where the short struggle had taken place he picked up a spent Browning cartridge, that was all.The boat with the rowers had gone also, and the outlines of the yacht were obscured by the rocks. The loneliness and silence fell upon Tom like a heavy weight; he threw himself down upon the ground, covered his face with his hands and groaned. Confused visions floated through his brain; he must seek help, give the alarm, inform the police ... Ten minutes went by without a sound save the splashing of the waves over the pebbles.When he got up he shook as if from cold, his eyes were blood-shot, and he was conscious of one thing only, he must get away, he must ... He ran up the headland; the fog had become more dense and was driven in great masses from Eliot Bay, which appeared like a dark speck in the distance. The yacht was lying to about a hundred yards from the point, but its outlines were blurred and its lights looked like tiny glowworms. The sound of chains clanking and cogwheels moving came to the place where he stood.... They were weighing the anchors ... The 'Ariadne' was evidently putting out to sea.He rushed back to the landing-stage near the hotel—without further thought he had made up his mind. He was benumbed with pain and cold, and Ferail's repulsive features constantly rose up before him. How he longed to twist his fingers round the monster's throat! Wild, brutal impulses came over him like fits of ague; he saw red, sparks flew before his eyes ... Then there was Elaine, where had they taken her to, what was the fate in store for her? He set his teeth. Elaine must be saved at all costs.Half-hidden under the landing-stage he discovered a small rowing boat; he jumped into it, cut the rope by which it was secured and laid hold of the oars.The 'Ariadne's' propeller had begun to work, its rhythmical din seemed very near, and when he turned his head the green light on the starboard was only a few yards away; the yacht passed at half speed. Tom made a violent effort and the little boat lightly grazed the gleaming white side of the 'Ariadne.' The lifeboat still swung from the davits and the end of a rope dangled within his reach; he seized it and hauled himself up; the little row-boat disappeared from under his feet and went dancing off on the cool waters. He climbed the rail and tumbled down on the deck, where he lay with beating heart, expecting a cry of alarm to be raised; but none came. The quarter-deck was deserted, but, immediately in front of him, under an awning, he could see the stairs leading down to the cabins. A table and three basket-chairs stood by their side; further on was a shelter and over all rose the captain's bridge, whence came the sound of voices, the only signs of life he could detect on board at that moment.The yacht was larger than one would have supposed, seeing it from the land. It was clearly quite an up-to-date vessel of 500 tons, fitted with wireless, installed between the two lofty masts; under the awning an electric lamp was burning.Tom was just going to pick himself up when two figures emerged from the stairs. Doctor Corman and Ferail were both smoking and had their coat collars turned up as a protection against the fog."Well, yes, I was rather taken aback when I caught sight of that devil of a Swede on the headland," said Ferail, as if he were resuming an interrupted conversation. "I thought he had seen the rowing boat, but I made the men conceal it under the rocks, and when Wallion came down he looked rather surprised.... I could have laughed if I had had time."The doctor growled out something and Ferail continued, "Yes, with the knife, but he snatched it from me, and I had to shoot him instead; the bullet hit him between the ribs and he fell backwards into the water ... the water there is pretty deep, so we need not worry about him any more." A guttural sound which might have been interpreted as a laugh escaped Ferail's throat. "I told the men that I had only been settling up old scores with one of those 'black ones,' and they thought...."Corman and Ferail went out of earshot.Tom felt a wild desire to hurl himself upon the criminal, but he pulled himself together. They ascended the bridge and disappeared.Tom lay completely stupefied. It was true then, incontrovertibly true, that Maurice Wallion was dead ... yet every fiber in his body seemed to repudiate the idea; he felt it unreasonable to believe that his strong, cool, stout-hearted friend, after Sherlock Holmes the cleverest expert in criminal cases, could in a single moment have been silenced for ever by this Greek imposter, this despicable monster. He buried his face in his hands ..."I don't understand what is going on, but at any rate I must try to pull myself together ... because now I must do the work of two."He knew he was dead tired. Gradually the yacht put on full steam, and the ripple of the water on the bows melted into a steady swish-swish. Like a sword through the fog shone the white rays of a searchlight.Tom rose with a sigh of weariness; he felt stiff in every joint, and with a last remnant of clear intellect he said to himself: "I must bide my time.... If they discover me now I am lost."He fixed his aching eyes upon the rocking life-boat. No, not that one; unsteadily he staggered over to the boat on the larboard, which was properly made fast and covered with a tarpaulin, under which he crept and lay at full length at the bottom; thinking that, for the present, at least, he would be safe there. No one suspected that he was on board, and no one would look for him there.* * * * *At frequent intervals the siren on the yacht shrieked and was answered by signals from other vessels. The "Ariadne," with full steam up, sped through the fog, which entirely prevented Tom from forming any idea of his bearings. Neither land nor water could be distinguished. He heard steps approaching and a deep voice which could be none other than Dixon's said:"Well, Captain, we will go straight to Hurricane Island now. Think we can do it in three days and three nights? That is the time the last voyage took us, I remember.""Oh yes, Mr. Dixon," replied another voice, clear, yet respectful and decisive. "We will do our best; the 'Ariadne' is a good girl, and I suppose you are in a desperate hurry this time?""Never was in such a hurry in all my life before," said the owner of the yacht, in an amicable tone."H—m," said the captain, "we may have a storm, for at this time of year Hurricane Island deserves the name. If we don't, I promise you we shall be there by Thursday morning, Mr. Dixon.""Not so bad," said Dixon. "Thursday morning then, eh?" He went down the stairs and the captain returned to the bridge."Hurricane Island," thought Tom, "whereever is Hurricane Island?" He made an effort to think over what he had heard, but the noise of the machinery dulled his tired brain and with the raw, foggy air in his nostrils, he fell into a heavy sleep.PART IIIHURRICANE ISLANDCHAPTER XVIITORONI REASSUMES HIS RIGHT NAMEWhen Tom woke the sun was shining in between the tarpaulin and the rail of the boat, the air was mild—fanned by a feeble breeze—and the yacht rode easily.Tom had to collect his scattered thoughts before he could remember where he was, and when he did get a clear idea of the situation a shudder ran through him. With great care he raised the tarpaulin and took a look round. The "Ariadne" seemed to be in the open sea, only from the starboard could he discern a faint blue outline of land; the waves rose and fell in gentle undulations which reflected the sun's rays, the fog was gone and the sky was almost cloudless. The fresh air revived him and he took a deep breath. Some distance off he saw two of the crew, barefoot, scrubbing and flushing the decks, and on the bridge he noticed the broad back of the captain. Tom looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to one, and he had slept more than twelve hours!The captain slowly turned round, and Tom again ducked down under the tarpaulin. He began to consider what he should do; but what could he do all alone? He clenched his hands until the knuckles grew white as he reviewed the terrible events of the previous night; but now he was better able to consider his position calmly, he rejected one after another, as impractical, his plans for revenge or escape. He did not even possess a revolver, nor did he know anything about the footing on which the captain and crew might stand with the three men who were his foes; perhaps they were all tarred with the same brush; anyhow, Dixon was the master or employer, and as Tom had no proofs, he was unarmed in a double sense. He spent an hour in fruitless brooding.The name of Hurricane Island recurred to his mind. What sort of place might that be? There were islands all along the coast from Seattle to the Bering Sea, an archipelago hundreds of miles in extent, full of hiding-places and possibilities for lawless adventurers. The time mentioned for the duration of the voyage—three days and three nights—and his limited knowledge of geography gave him nothing to go upon, nor was he able to calculate the "Ariadne's" speed, although it appeared very fair. He began to feel hungry; that was a new trouble, difficult of solution. He remembered having read that lifeboats were always provided with fresh water and necessaries in case of sudden emergency, and he set about searching the boat surreptitiously, but found nothing."I shall have to wait till it is night, but something will have to be done then, for they shall not take me with my consent."A stoical calm came over him; he understood that he could not do anything before darkness set in, and he lay down and shut his eyes in an endeavor to forget the cravings of his inner man.Hours passed, the sun flitted from east to west, and the yacht kept on her course. Tom hoped the passengers would come on deck; the thought of Elaine, especially, filled him with longing; but no one came, and the deck remained deserted. The strip of land seen from the starboard had dwindled into blue mist, and all around nothing was to be seen but sea and sky; the setting sun dyed the horizon a dark, glowing red, and there thin banks of cloud stained it with a deeper hue and ever and again with fleeting gold.Tom grew hot all over when he heard Doctor Corman's voice quite close to him, saying:"It was lucky that we had the 'Ariadne' to go to, otherwise we should not have been able to carry out our plans.""You have always been a skeptic," Dixon answered. "The job is as good as finished, the plan worked like clock-work.... Now we have only to reap the reward of our labor."They had evidently come up the gangway, for Tom not only smelt a whiff of tobacco but heard the creaking of basket-chairs and the clinking of glasses. Then there was a lull, and Torn could not resist the temptation to look over the edge of the boat.Dixon, Corman and Ferail were comfortably installed in chairs round the table upon which bottles and glasses had been set. Dixon was rather red in the face; perhaps his dinner had been extra good, thought Tom, not without a touch of envy."Reward for our labor," exclaimed Dixon, with a laugh of greedy anticipation. "It was a difficult task to engineer, but with those two dolls in our hands all the rest is mere child's play.""We shall, of course, be obliged to give up the 'Ariadne,'" said Corman. "We have left a pretty tangle behind us as it is, and, if I am not mistaken, that business of yours at Seattle will be thoroughly investigated."Dixon again burst into a laugh. "I don't deny that I was rather too old to make a good man of business, but my last deal was certainly my best. Of course, the 'Ariadne' must be sacrificed after Thursday next, as a description of her will be wired to every port and every boat to-day or to-morrow. So far, our own wireless has not received any little greeting; but don't you worry, it is sure to come.""That's so, but our agreement is quite clear," put in Corman."To go shares and dissolve partnership at once?" laughed Dixon. "From Hurricane Island it is easy enough to get to Canada, and then I myself mean to go by the name of Christopher Cummings. What are you going to call yourself, Ferail?""From now till Thursday I insist on being known as Toroni," the Greek replied, in a muffled tone. "I am sick of the name of Ferail—it has a flavor of sour wine in my mouth; call me ... Toroni."The two others looked at him in surprise, and yet as if they were used to his unaccountable outbursts of frantic rage and annoyance and could never be sure of his enigmatical temper. It was clear he inspired them with a sort of repulsive curiosity.After a pause Dixon said, "As you like," and, raising his glass, he continued: "I propose a toast to Toroni, the name borne by a man who plotted and carried through one of the most brilliant transactions of the last ten years." His tone was a mixture of condescension and contempt.They drank it, Toroni in gloomy silence; the doctor with a sharp, mocking laugh."In any case, my much esteemed friend Toroni," said Dixon, after momentary reflection, "it would be advisable to confine the use of your illustrious name to ourselves, or Elaine might take it into her head to have an attack of hysterics, and Captain Hawkins ... ha, ha, ha!" He concluded, overcome by a fit of hilarity: "It was a splendid idea of yours to pose as an Italian detective charged by the Government to investigate the secret affairs of the 'Black Hand'.... Detective Ferail, to whom I afforded my valuable assistance solely in the interests of the community. The captain and the crew are making themselves quite ill, racking their brains to find out what on earth you want to do on Hurricane Island. Well, old man, the comedy is too good to be spoilt.... Officially you are obliged to answer to the name of Ferail.... Good Heavens, man, we are about to pocket six million dollars in gold, pure gold, and you can be squeamish about a name!"Dixon began to get excited, his voice grew louder and louder, and the doctor hurriedly seized his glass in order to put a stop to his half-crazy flow of words."A toast," said Corman, drily, "a toast to the six millions!"His timely intervention saved the situation.There was a bright light in Dixon's shifty and evil eyes as he raised his glass to drink the toast. "In gold, pure gold," he said.Toroni did not look up nor did he touch his glass. Dixon fumbled with his hands in his great coat pockets, from which he produced two objects which he placed on the table; they were the two wooden dolls.Tom recognized the one which had been in the possession of Victor Dreyel; the other had, undoubtedly, belonged to Christian Dreyel. The small figures glowed blood-red in the light of the setting sun. Tom gazed at them with a shudder, even the doctor seemed uncomfortable."Throw them overboard," he said abruptly; "they are no longer wanted.""Throw them overboard?" retorted Dixon, reproachfully. "Our constant guardians, with whom Toroni had no end of trouble before he sent them to my place.... Never. I want to have them constantly before my eyes until the gold has seen the light of day, and then I shall return them to Robertson as a little souvenir."Overheated with whisky and joyful anticipation, he unbuttoned his coat, took it off and threw it down upon a chair. "Poor old Robertson!" he soliloquized as he mixed himself another drink. "Things weren't very comfortable for him when he was your patient, you old compounder of poisons, you!"Doctor Corman's face assumed an ashen hue, the eyes under his pince-nez flashed; but he restrained himself, and a painful silence ensued. It dawned upon Dixon that he had said too much, and he looked persistently at his cigar. At last Toroni lifted his tawny eyelids and said: "Talking of Robertson ... what do you intend to do with his daughter?"That was a matter which had long occupied Tom's thoughts and now sent a shiver down his spine. Dixon became suddenly sober, and the doctor cast down his eyes without saying a word or moving a muscle. The silence seemed unending. At last Dixon said, impatiently, "Bah, Elaine? We brought her with us for otherwise she might have been a witness, but I..."There was a rustling of silk on the stairs, and Madame Lorraine hurried up. She looked at the three men with undisguised loathing."Are you aware that the skylight above the saloon is open?" she asked."What do you mean?" inquired Corman, with some asperity. Each of them cast a quick glance at the skylight, which was indeed half-open."Only that I went into the saloon just now and found Elaine there." The three looked at one another."Think she heard?" the doctor asked."I can't say, but I heard every word you uttered ... distinctly.""How did she look?""Much as usual," said Madame Lorraine, and left them.Dixon had regained his self-control as if he had never tasted a drop of whisky; he took up the two wooden dolls and made his way to the stairs. At the first step he stopped, turned and gazed at them earnestly."Bah!" he said again. "If she had heard anything she would have screamed." Then he went down and the other two followed him. Tom breathed again; it was only now he remembered that he had been kneeling in the boat, with his head well over the edge, and that any one who chanced to look that way might easily have seen him. It was a miracle, indeed, that he had not been seen; but he had no time even to send a grateful thought to his guardian angel, for his mind was fully taken up with what he had just heard. Moreover, his attention was rivetted upon Dixon's overcoat, which had been left lying cm a chair, carelessly flung over the back of it, half-open, so that Tom could see a packet done up in oilcloth protruding from an inner pocket. He remembered what Wallion had told him about the scene at the asylum, and he realized that within five yards of him lay those precious papers of William Robertson's. His fingers itched, an irresistible desire seized him; he must have those papers and read them.The sun had set, and twilight was beginning to melt into night; there was no one to be seen either on the bridge or on the upper deck ... nor was there any sound from the gangway. He got out of the boat noiselessly and walked warily towards the coat.At the same instant a hand from the back of the cabin deck abstracted the roll from the coat pocket and disappeared.
CHAPTER XIII
FERAIL MAKES A PROPOSAL
"Good evening," said Wallion, in an amicable tone. "You are right in making the most of the fleeting moments; your twenty-four hours' respite has not quite run out yet."
The Doctor was as imperturbably cool as ever but Ferail's countenance had altered indeed. His upper lip was drawn up above the gums, his eyes were burning, and the skin of his distorted, repulsive face had turned to a greenish pallor, as if his choler were choking him.
"I can do without your respite, Wallion," he said. "Did you think I could not shake off that simpleton McTuft? You had better get some other man in his place, for he is no good. Why don't you have me arrested now, eh?"
"Have you arrested? Certainly not ... your conversation is so exceedingly pleasant...."
"Enough of that," interrupted Doctor Corman, "Ferail, get that roll our visitor is holding in his hand. He has had better luck than we, he has found Robertson's notes.... I am sorry, Mr. Wallion, but they don't belong to you. Take them, Ferail."
The Greek did so, and went with great thoroughness through the pockets of his victim, though he took nothing except the Browning, which he threw on the sideboard.
Steps became audible in the corridor, and a stout but active-looking man in a well-fitting chauffeur's uniform, walked in.
"What is all this delay about?" he said sharply. "Haven't you settled it yet, boys? Who the deuce is that man there?" he added, staring at Wallion who, being now without a weapon, stood with his arms at his side and his hands in his pockets, leaning against a chair.
"He is one of those Swedes," answered Corman. "We caught him in the act of stealing some papers of Robertson's."
"My name is Maurice Wallion, at your service," said the journalist detective, with a mocking bow, "I presume I am addressing Mr. Edward Attiswood Dixon?" The name rolled glibly off his tongue.
He had made a shrewd guess at the owner of the black motor, and he examined him with undisguised curiosity. In spite of his corpulence the man moved with well-trained ease and self-possession; his face was ruddy, and he was bald with the exception of a little gray fringe at the back of his head. His features were full and coarse—a face like that of Nero up-to-date, made in America.
Wallion was not disappointed, he had pictured Elaine's employer something like this.
Dixon slowly took off his driving gloves and let his eyes, which were entirely devoid of expression, rest on the "Problem-Solver."
"Well, Mr. Wallion," he said, "you seem to be in rather a fix just now. Pray, are you always so imprudent?"
"Of course, life would be so monotonous otherwise."
Dixon showed no sign of having heard this remark. He took the roll out of Ferail's hand and stuffed it into one of his inner pockets.
"I am going to look after this," he observed in a business-like voice. "We are in a hurry, the road is clear and I've got the two dolls in the car. What are you going to do with him, Doctor?" he asked, with a movement of his hand in the direction of Wallion.
"Allow me to make a proposal," said Ferail, taking a step forward. His peculiar short breathing made every one look at him.
"Well, what is it?" asked Dixon abruptly.
Ferail's face twitched, he looked like one possessed, his right hand wandered to his waistcoat and he drew forth a long, straight, thin knife.... "This is what I wished to propose," he said.
The knife was as bright as though it had been polished with the utmost care, and Wallion had not the least doubt that, barely two yards away, his eyes beheld the weapon which had slain Victor Dreyel, all but killed Christian and severely wounded Elaine. Ferail had put his revolver back in his pocket, he seemed to despise any weapon other than his shining blade, and he no longer fixed his eyes on Wallion's face but came closer up to him....
"Ferail," said the Doctor.
The Greek stood still.
"Your methods are not ours," resumed Corman. "Put that thing away."
Ferail lowered his eyes and stood for a time with head bowed low, then silently put the knife away.
"That is well," said Wallion, "but I shall not forget your gentle proposal, Ferail."
The Doctor and his friend exchanged a few inaudible words, whereupon Dixon said in a loud voice: "The simplest way will be to shut him up in that little room down there."
Doctor Corman nodded assent, and turning to Wallion: "Come along," he said, in a tone of command. "Go down the stairs in front of me, and take my word for it that I will shoot you down without the slightest compunction at the very first attempt of escape."
"Thanks, your attitude with regard to the fifth commandment is original, very," replied Wallion, and laughed as he made his way past his adversaries. In the corridor he stopped to light a cigar, and then went quickly down the stairs.
The Doctor threw open a door on the right, and with a sardonic smile motioned to Wallion to go in. Wallion, knowing that resistance would prove as fatal as suicide, resigned himself with apparent submission to the inevitable, and obeyed. The door closed upon him with a mighty bang.
He was left to himself in a cell even smaller than the one occupied by Robertson, while the bars of its window were more massive. It was sparsely lighted by a lamp suspended from the ceiling, but far out of reach, and the window also was set a good yard beyond the thick bars inside. There was not a stick of furniture of any kind. Wallion tried the door; it was of solid oak, with a lock impossible to negotiate from the inside.
"A regular prison cell," growled Wallion. "I wonder for whom it was originally intended."
He tried to look out, but the darkness outside prevented him from seeing anything, and he could not extinguish the lamp. He hoped most sincerely that Tom Murner would return to town and give information to the police that he had mysteriously disappeared, but presently, with silent scorn for his weakness, he remembered that he had not given Tom any instructions in case of such a contingency.
He heard footsteps and voices, both within and without, and realized that his last hope was gone.... He heard Tom Murner's voice in the entrance hall. He could not catch his words distinctly, but he heard the Doctor reply, "Yes, he is here. Do come in, you are very welcome, Mr. Murner."
Tom's voice seemed to draw near and sounded somewhat suspicious.
"Can I speak to him at once?" he said.
"Yes, of course.... This way, please."
The steps came nearer and Tom asked from outside, "Is Wallion here?"
"Yes, here he is, you need only walk in."
The door of the cell was opened, Tom was roughly pushed in, then it was slammed to again and sounds of loud, derisive laughter came from the hall. Tom picked himself up half-dazed. "You, too?" he said, lamely. Wallion made a wry face—he no longer felt any inclination to smile—and merely said: "As you see."
A dazzling light passed the window; the lamps of the motor car were being lighted ... Sounds in the distance indicated that it had started.
CHAPTER XIV
ELAINE'S SECOND DISAPPEARANCE
Wallion looked thoughtfully at the lamp. Then he took out his clasp knife, and with unerring aim, hurled it at the globe, which fell to the ground in countless pieces, and left the room pitch dark.
"What in the world did you do that for?" cried Tom.
"That I might look out," said Wallion, leaning against the window-bars, and gazing eagerly out into the night. The lights of the car below came round a turn of the drive and a black mass could be seen making its way towards the gate. Both men caught a glimpse of Elaine's head in the car before it was lost in the darkness. Tom nearly yelled:
"Oh, the wretches, they are taking her away."
"She is going with them of her own free will," said Wallion wearily. "Be quiet and let me think."
He sat down and crossed his legs, leaning against the wall, with closed eyes. After a time he began to relate all that had happened since he had got into the house.
"So you will understand that she has not the slightest idea of what goes on here, and that, in a way, makes her position more difficult," he concluded. "There is a possibility of their wanting to keep her as a sort of hostage, for she can scarcely have any further information to give them...." Here he stopped in order to think a little, "I wish I could have saved Robertson's notes," he continued, "then we might, perhaps, know where they are going now."
His cool, deliberate tone irritated Tom.
"I consider we have behaved like consummate idiots," he burst out.
"Yes, I have especially," Wallion drily confessed. There was something in his voice which filled Tom with self-reproach.
"Forgive me," he said, "I am almost beside myself."
Wallion pressed his hand in the dark.
"I am thinking about those dolls," he volunteered. "What Robertson said about a list of twelve who were the real owners, taken in conjunction with Victor Dreyel's words when he said the dolls were 'likenesses of the dead' which bring misfortune to the 'living,' has put a queer notion into my head. The figures were all numbered and we have seen sundry numbers up to twelve. Possibly these images really represent the 'genuine' proprietors, and there should be exactly twelve.... How does that strike you?"
"It sounds very likely," replied Tom.
"We have come across all the uneven numbers," Wallion went on, "in a way which rather seems to indicate that the uneven numbers are of no value. The figure that was stolen from Victor Dreyel bore the number 12 and the one his cousin had was marked 6. In what way, do you suppose, can the even numbers be of more value than the odd ones? The uneven numbers stood alone, but under No. 6 and No. 12 were some other numbers in addition, 29" and 33". Let us take the even numbers 2, 4, 6, 8, 10 and 12, and when we divide them into two groups we find on the last in each group the numbers 29" and 33". Now make a shot at something ... guess!"
"No, I don't take that in," said Tom, "what are you aiming at?"
"Purely a supposition, just imaginary," replied Wallion. "Let us assume that in the year 1902 there were twelve men, proprietors of a gold-mine in Alaska, that the majority of these fell victims to some unexpected calamity; and that the few who survived returned, sorely disappointed, to civilized life. One of these, no doubt, was William Robertson, and two others, Victor and Christian Dreyel, cousins. Well then, if for some reason or other Robertson wished to record the longitude and latitude of the mine on the dolls, which bore even numbers, the degrees, minutes and seconds, you understand ... one number on each figure ... the seconds would fall to No. 6 and No. 12."
At last Tom seemed to comprehend his friend's theory.
"Yes, of course," he cried aloud, "and if the situation of the mine can be pretty accurately located the numbers referring to the seconds are indispensible. That was why Robertson sent Nos. 6 and 12 to the Dreyel cousins for safety, and why Ferail began his murderous work. Wallion, you have solved the mystery of King Solomon."
Wallion shook his head.
"No," he said. "I fancy I am pretty near it, though. Who is No. 13 Toroni? Where does he hail from? As I have represented things there are still various discrepancies. Can a mine disappear so entirely in the space of sixteen years? Could those fellows that drove away in Dixon's car have set to work in peace and quiet to exploit a stolen gold-mine? Why did not Robertson and the Dreyels go back again if it could be worked anew? No, King Solomon remains a riddle to us, my friend."
Tom relapsed into his former state of depression. What was the use of speculating when Elaine might be on the road to renewed dangers? He jumped up and began a wild attack on the door. "We must get out of this!" he said angrily.
Wallion, who had risen, walked to the window, turned round sharply, and said:
"Pull yourself together, man, in five minutes relief will come."
Tom, bewildered, muttered: "How?" Half hopeful, half in doubt.
"I rather think McTuft is standing by the gate," was Wallion's laconic reply as he fumbled for his knife, which he threw with all his might against the window between the bars; the panes broke with a crash which in the dead silence could be heard for a great distance, and almost immediately light footsteps sounded on the gravel outside.
"McTuft!" Wallion called out.
"Here I am," answered the Scotsman below. "Whatever are you doing there, Mr. Wallion?" he asked with apparent interest. "I thought the house was empty."
"We are shut up," replied Wallion briefly. "Creep in as best you can and open the door for us; I will knock so that you will know which door."
McTuft whistled softly and ran round to the entrance. After a seemingly endless time the door sprang open and they were free. McTuft could hardly restrain his curiosity.
In a few words Wallion told him what had happened, and fixing his eyes on the Scotsman, said:
"So you have lost Ferail?"
"Yes, the scoundrel made his way over the roof," said McTuft, visibly affected. "I did not know it was a habit of his.... Anyhow, I traced him here," he added.
"Well, by this time he is probably a good distance away from here, but I am not going to find fault with you on that account, McTuft, you helped so cleverly with the doors; did you come alone?"
"No, with my assistant, who is now waiting with the car a little way down the road."
"Splendid, call him up quick," said Wallion, as he ran upstairs. He unlocked the door of Robertson's cell, half afraid of what he might see within, but to his great relief he found the man in bed, lying on his back as before.
"Anybody been here?" he asked
"The Doctor looked in once without saying anything," replied Robertson, who sat up as soon as Wallion came in, more wide awake and expectant than he had seen him yet. "What has been going on? I heard steps and voices.... Where is my daughter?"
"You must take things quietly now," said Wallion kindly. "I can't explain matters just at present, but there is nothing to be alarmed about. Your daughter has left the house, but you will have news of her soon. You have done with your tormentors now, for good and all, and I shall put you under the care of a really trustworthy person."
At this point McTuft and his assistant, a young, pleasant-looking official named Johnstone, entered the room.
"There are two things you must do, Johnstone," was Wallion's greeting as he hurriedly scribbled a few lines on a card. "First of all you must take Mr. Robertson to the Pacific Hotel, give this card to the manager and see that he is properly looked after. Secondly, alarm the police. They must track the individuals whose names I have written down: Edward A. Dixon, Doctor Augustus N. Corman, Madame Lorraine and Ricardo Ferail, commonly called 'Toroni'; the last is guilty of murder, the others are accomplices."
Johnstone wrote down the names.
"They have only just driven away in Dixon's car, and under false pretenses induced Miss Elaine Robertson to accompany them," said Wallion more deliberately. "Her father, Mr. Robertson, need not be told, but he may give information respecting their motives and actions; got that down?"
"Yes," answered the young official with enthusiasm and, grinning at McTuft, observed: "'Hotel Dixon' is in for it this time. Just think of it!"
"That's good," said Wallion, "but you must provide yourselves with another car, the one that is here we shall want for ourselves;au revoir, Mr. Robertson, and don't you worry," he concluded, shaking hands heartily with the bewildered man, after which he hurried away.
It was past eleven, and darker than ever, when Wallion, Murner and McTuft ran down the drive to the gates. By the light of McTuft's pocket-lamp they could distinctly see the traces of Dixon's car on the damp road.
"They have taken a northerly direction, probably for the coast..." said McTuft.
They got into the car, and McTuft, who knew the country well, took the wheel; there was no need for any deliberation on the way, both Wallion and Tom knew exactly what to do. Dixon and his associates must be taken at any cost, in the least possible space of time, and sent to prison. Tom said nothing, but he was prepared. The picture of Elaine's sweet, innocent face among such repulsive surroundings as "Silent" Ferail's Assyrian profile, Doctor Corman's satanic features and mocking smile, and Dixon's Nero-like head, almost drove him frantic.
The motor flew along like an arrow and left Corman's dark, empty house far behind; the lights of Seattle disappeared from sight and all that lay before them was a desolate, white road, leading ... where?
CHAPTER XV
HOTEL "GOLDEN SNAKE"
A cool breeze was blowing from the sea, and far away in Puget Sound hoarse and peculiar signals, proceeding from an invisible steamer, filled the air. The last breath of wind, however, soon ceased, the atmosphere grew more oppressive and finally resolved itself into fog. The motor rushed on with careless speed, the impulsive, gruff Scotsman proving himself an ideal chauffeur. Fortunately, at that hour the road was almost deserted, and by the white light of the lamps the traces of Dixon's car, in double, unbroken lines, were plainly visible. All at once McTuft remarked:
"One would think they were making for the Canadian frontier."
"They won't get there," said Wallion, "it's much too far."
"Well, it is a good bit off, as you say," assented McTuft drily, "and I guess Johnstone has given the alarm by now."
They were getting near the water and, still following the track, they turned into a road which it seemed likely ran parallel with the shore in a northwesterly direction.
"Perhaps they intend going on board some vessel," suggested Tom uneasily.
"I was just thinking the same thing," Wallion answered.
At the same moment McTuft put on the brake, for a lad of about fifteen was coming from the opposite direction on a bicycle, and the Scotsman called out:
"Hallo, boy!"
"Boy yourself," retorted the lad, stopping. "Say, is there a motor-race on this evening, eh?"
"Have you met a black-covered car?"
"I have, and, my eye, it could run too; it dashed past me like a shot."
"How long since you saw it?"
"Ten minutes or so."
McTuft started the car and remarked: "They haven't got far ahead." Trees and bushes flew past and the travelers felt as if they were sitting still in the midst of a hurricane. Black pools of water were visible on the left, as they rushed past detached villas and groups of houses on the sea front. Now and then they met a car, which carefully turned aside to let them pass, and in a few seconds was left far in the rear.
But shortly afterwards, when the car was beginning to toil up a long ascent, almost parallel with the beach, McTuft again applied his brakes, and pulled up in front of a signboard which read:
G O L D E N S N A K ESUMMER HOTEL
A gravel path led to a dark, high building which rose almost from the edge of the water. Near it was a tennis lawn, and further away a landing-stage for motor-boats, a long line of bathing machines and several villas. McTuft pointed to the roadway. Evidently Dixon's car had pulled up for a few minutes by the side gate and then started again. A sleepy, uncouth individual in slippers and shirt sleeves was about to slink into the hotel by the kitchen entrance when a shout from McTuft stopped him.
"You, over there, come here!" The man turned and came slowly.
"Golden Snake Hotel! Curious name that for a summer hotel," said Wallion.
"It's named after this little bay which is called Golden Snake Bay," volunteered McTuft; "newly erected. Meant to make this into a fashionable watering-place, I guess, but I don't think it will attract many visitors—one of Dixon's unsuccessful speculations."
"What? Is this one of Dixon's Summer hotels?" asked Wallion in surprise. "If so..." He rose hurriedly and jumped out of the car.
By this time the man had come up, and Wallion inquired.
"Are you in Mr. Dixon's employ?"
"I am," said the man, and yawned.
"Your employer's car pulled up here a little while ago, didn't it?"
The man nodded.
"Well, what did he want? ... Now answer me quick or it will be the worse for you."
The man blinked his malicious, inquisitive eyes in the light, and scratched his head.
"Now then," said McTuft harshly ... "No nonsense."
"He had one of our chauffeurs called up from bed and took him," said the man reluctantly. "I can quite understand he must have been awfully tired driving the car himself all that time."
"Then he drove on again, I suppose; how long ago was that?"
"Five ... ten minutes, maybe."
Wallion looked closely at the man in slippers but remained dumb. McTuft gave vent to a war-whoop, he was madly impatient.
"Quick, get in again, Mr. Wallion, and let us be after them."
"No," said Wallion, "I stay here."
"What's that you say? ... You want to remain here? ... But what about the car?"
The Scotsman's red hair seemed to stand on end; he had taken off his cap and was staring at Wallion as at one who had suddenly taken leave of his senses.
"Can I speak to the landlord?" said Wallion, turning to the man, who stood there gaping.
"He has gone away, the hotel is closed for alterations."
"But it seems that there are chauffeurs?"
"Yes, we have the garage to let."
"We are wasting time," said McTuft in despair. Wallion looked at him and smiled.
"You are right, McTuft, I have changed my plans. Go after Dixon's car at once and stop it; perhaps Murner and I will come on later; no arguing ... be off." Wallion had spoken in a tone of command. The Scotsman straightened himself, bit his lip, and said, "All right."
Tom had only just time to get out before the car started and disappeared round the corner.
"What does all this mean?" asked Tom confusedly.
"It means," replied Wallion, "that McTuft, who is stubborn, is getting his own way, that the black car won't be running much further, and that the Golden Snake Hotel is much too interesting to be passed by..."
He pounced upon the sleepy man and caught him somewhat savagely by the arm.
"What is your job here?" he asked gruffly.
"Night watchman," came the sullen answer.
"Good," said Wallion, hustling the man in front of him along the gravel path towards the hotel.
"Then, of course, you can tell me what sort of people have been here recently and which of them have only just left." He pointed to the path where half obliterated marks of many feet were still to be seen.
The man's knees began to shake and he opened his mouth in dumb despair.
"Look here, my man, we are detectives, so you had better keep a civil tongue in your head. Well, you say that Dixon had a chauffeur in readiness here and that the black car went on again with that same chauffeur at the wheel?"
"Yes," stammered the man. Wallion seized and shook him like a rat.
"Now about Dixon himself, he got out here, didn't he? And his party as well; don't try to deny it," said Wallion, in a voice that nearly scared the man out of his wits. "They got out here; where are they now?"
The man lifted his hand and with trembling finger—he seemed unable to speak—pointed to the bay. Wallion pushed him away.
"To the beach," he said with a frown. "A boat! Aha, what is that? Over there?"
As soon as they passed the corner of the untenanted hotel they obtained an open view over the smooth water of the bay. Outside the breakwater lay a large pleasure yacht, painted white, with steam up.
"What sort of a boat is that?" asked Wallion sharply.
"That ... that is Mr. Dixon's steam yacht 'Ariadne,'" the man answered dejectedly.
Wallion looked at Tom. Both immediately grasped the situation. Wallion let go the man's arms and pointed to the house.
"Go in there and don't stick even the tip of your nose out of the door."
The man disappeared in the direction of the hotel, and he did not notice that he had lost his slippers on the way; the treatment he had received from Wallion had rather dazed him.
Wallion and Tom cast wistful eyes upon the pleasure yacht which lay proudly on the dark, gleaming water, smoke issuing from the yellow funnel ... She was evidently ready to start.
"I suppose they are on board already," said Wallion huskily. "Confound it all!"
He ran so fast towards the point that Tom could scarcely keep up with him. No one was near, but a prolonged whistle from the yacht came across the water, and Tom wondered whether it might be a signal to some other boat lying in the offing. Wallion had already climbed up the cliffs on the point, and as his silhouette became visible for a moment under the clear sky Tom fancied he saw him waving his hand. After much exertion Tom at last reached the top of the cliff; Wallion was nowhere to be seen, but when he leant over the rocks, a strange sight met his eyes.
From the foot of the cliff a boat, manned by four men, shot out into the water, but the men were sitting still with oars tilted, as if waiting for some one. Wallion came walking along the top some little distance away, heading straight towards the boat, and Tom felt by intuition that his friend had not noticed the skiff lying below. His voice froze on his lips—A short, nimble figure had thrown itself upon Wallion from behind, and both men rolled towards the edge of the cliff. There followed a smothered cry, a flash and the report of a shot; at the same time Wallion's body was jerked backwards and fell into the water with a splash. The short man scrambled hastily down the cliff and jumped into the boat, which immediately put out to sea. The beach was silent and deserted; the whole tragedy had not occupied five minutes and it left Tom cold, paralyzed and speechless. He ran like a maniac down to the place where his friend had disappeared.
CHAPTER XVI
THE "ARIADNE"
The catastrophe had come like a thunderbolt, and though Tom did not doubt either his eyes or his ears, he could not help repeating to himself: "It can't be possible, it can't be true."
He had recognized Ferail's cat-like movements, had heard the shot and had seen Wallion fall into the water; he reached the fateful spot breathless and panting, and gazed into the dark, oily water which seemed to have no bottom. The cliffs were precipitous, but the water below was not very deep, though whatever was dropped into it was bound to be swept out to sea by the receding tide. Nothing was to be seen. Tom walked to and fro in the hope that Wallion might have swum ashore, but no trace of him could he discover. On the spot where the short struggle had taken place he picked up a spent Browning cartridge, that was all.
The boat with the rowers had gone also, and the outlines of the yacht were obscured by the rocks. The loneliness and silence fell upon Tom like a heavy weight; he threw himself down upon the ground, covered his face with his hands and groaned. Confused visions floated through his brain; he must seek help, give the alarm, inform the police ... Ten minutes went by without a sound save the splashing of the waves over the pebbles.
When he got up he shook as if from cold, his eyes were blood-shot, and he was conscious of one thing only, he must get away, he must ... He ran up the headland; the fog had become more dense and was driven in great masses from Eliot Bay, which appeared like a dark speck in the distance. The yacht was lying to about a hundred yards from the point, but its outlines were blurred and its lights looked like tiny glowworms. The sound of chains clanking and cogwheels moving came to the place where he stood.... They were weighing the anchors ... The 'Ariadne' was evidently putting out to sea.
He rushed back to the landing-stage near the hotel—without further thought he had made up his mind. He was benumbed with pain and cold, and Ferail's repulsive features constantly rose up before him. How he longed to twist his fingers round the monster's throat! Wild, brutal impulses came over him like fits of ague; he saw red, sparks flew before his eyes ... Then there was Elaine, where had they taken her to, what was the fate in store for her? He set his teeth. Elaine must be saved at all costs.
Half-hidden under the landing-stage he discovered a small rowing boat; he jumped into it, cut the rope by which it was secured and laid hold of the oars.
The 'Ariadne's' propeller had begun to work, its rhythmical din seemed very near, and when he turned his head the green light on the starboard was only a few yards away; the yacht passed at half speed. Tom made a violent effort and the little boat lightly grazed the gleaming white side of the 'Ariadne.' The lifeboat still swung from the davits and the end of a rope dangled within his reach; he seized it and hauled himself up; the little row-boat disappeared from under his feet and went dancing off on the cool waters. He climbed the rail and tumbled down on the deck, where he lay with beating heart, expecting a cry of alarm to be raised; but none came. The quarter-deck was deserted, but, immediately in front of him, under an awning, he could see the stairs leading down to the cabins. A table and three basket-chairs stood by their side; further on was a shelter and over all rose the captain's bridge, whence came the sound of voices, the only signs of life he could detect on board at that moment.
The yacht was larger than one would have supposed, seeing it from the land. It was clearly quite an up-to-date vessel of 500 tons, fitted with wireless, installed between the two lofty masts; under the awning an electric lamp was burning.
Tom was just going to pick himself up when two figures emerged from the stairs. Doctor Corman and Ferail were both smoking and had their coat collars turned up as a protection against the fog.
"Well, yes, I was rather taken aback when I caught sight of that devil of a Swede on the headland," said Ferail, as if he were resuming an interrupted conversation. "I thought he had seen the rowing boat, but I made the men conceal it under the rocks, and when Wallion came down he looked rather surprised.... I could have laughed if I had had time."
The doctor growled out something and Ferail continued, "Yes, with the knife, but he snatched it from me, and I had to shoot him instead; the bullet hit him between the ribs and he fell backwards into the water ... the water there is pretty deep, so we need not worry about him any more." A guttural sound which might have been interpreted as a laugh escaped Ferail's throat. "I told the men that I had only been settling up old scores with one of those 'black ones,' and they thought...."
Corman and Ferail went out of earshot.
Tom felt a wild desire to hurl himself upon the criminal, but he pulled himself together. They ascended the bridge and disappeared.
Tom lay completely stupefied. It was true then, incontrovertibly true, that Maurice Wallion was dead ... yet every fiber in his body seemed to repudiate the idea; he felt it unreasonable to believe that his strong, cool, stout-hearted friend, after Sherlock Holmes the cleverest expert in criminal cases, could in a single moment have been silenced for ever by this Greek imposter, this despicable monster. He buried his face in his hands ...
"I don't understand what is going on, but at any rate I must try to pull myself together ... because now I must do the work of two."
He knew he was dead tired. Gradually the yacht put on full steam, and the ripple of the water on the bows melted into a steady swish-swish. Like a sword through the fog shone the white rays of a searchlight.
Tom rose with a sigh of weariness; he felt stiff in every joint, and with a last remnant of clear intellect he said to himself: "I must bide my time.... If they discover me now I am lost."
He fixed his aching eyes upon the rocking life-boat. No, not that one; unsteadily he staggered over to the boat on the larboard, which was properly made fast and covered with a tarpaulin, under which he crept and lay at full length at the bottom; thinking that, for the present, at least, he would be safe there. No one suspected that he was on board, and no one would look for him there.
* * * * *
At frequent intervals the siren on the yacht shrieked and was answered by signals from other vessels. The "Ariadne," with full steam up, sped through the fog, which entirely prevented Tom from forming any idea of his bearings. Neither land nor water could be distinguished. He heard steps approaching and a deep voice which could be none other than Dixon's said:
"Well, Captain, we will go straight to Hurricane Island now. Think we can do it in three days and three nights? That is the time the last voyage took us, I remember."
"Oh yes, Mr. Dixon," replied another voice, clear, yet respectful and decisive. "We will do our best; the 'Ariadne' is a good girl, and I suppose you are in a desperate hurry this time?"
"Never was in such a hurry in all my life before," said the owner of the yacht, in an amicable tone.
"H—m," said the captain, "we may have a storm, for at this time of year Hurricane Island deserves the name. If we don't, I promise you we shall be there by Thursday morning, Mr. Dixon."
"Not so bad," said Dixon. "Thursday morning then, eh?" He went down the stairs and the captain returned to the bridge.
"Hurricane Island," thought Tom, "whereever is Hurricane Island?" He made an effort to think over what he had heard, but the noise of the machinery dulled his tired brain and with the raw, foggy air in his nostrils, he fell into a heavy sleep.
PART III
HURRICANE ISLAND
CHAPTER XVII
TORONI REASSUMES HIS RIGHT NAME
When Tom woke the sun was shining in between the tarpaulin and the rail of the boat, the air was mild—fanned by a feeble breeze—and the yacht rode easily.
Tom had to collect his scattered thoughts before he could remember where he was, and when he did get a clear idea of the situation a shudder ran through him. With great care he raised the tarpaulin and took a look round. The "Ariadne" seemed to be in the open sea, only from the starboard could he discern a faint blue outline of land; the waves rose and fell in gentle undulations which reflected the sun's rays, the fog was gone and the sky was almost cloudless. The fresh air revived him and he took a deep breath. Some distance off he saw two of the crew, barefoot, scrubbing and flushing the decks, and on the bridge he noticed the broad back of the captain. Tom looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes to one, and he had slept more than twelve hours!
The captain slowly turned round, and Tom again ducked down under the tarpaulin. He began to consider what he should do; but what could he do all alone? He clenched his hands until the knuckles grew white as he reviewed the terrible events of the previous night; but now he was better able to consider his position calmly, he rejected one after another, as impractical, his plans for revenge or escape. He did not even possess a revolver, nor did he know anything about the footing on which the captain and crew might stand with the three men who were his foes; perhaps they were all tarred with the same brush; anyhow, Dixon was the master or employer, and as Tom had no proofs, he was unarmed in a double sense. He spent an hour in fruitless brooding.
The name of Hurricane Island recurred to his mind. What sort of place might that be? There were islands all along the coast from Seattle to the Bering Sea, an archipelago hundreds of miles in extent, full of hiding-places and possibilities for lawless adventurers. The time mentioned for the duration of the voyage—three days and three nights—and his limited knowledge of geography gave him nothing to go upon, nor was he able to calculate the "Ariadne's" speed, although it appeared very fair. He began to feel hungry; that was a new trouble, difficult of solution. He remembered having read that lifeboats were always provided with fresh water and necessaries in case of sudden emergency, and he set about searching the boat surreptitiously, but found nothing.
"I shall have to wait till it is night, but something will have to be done then, for they shall not take me with my consent."
A stoical calm came over him; he understood that he could not do anything before darkness set in, and he lay down and shut his eyes in an endeavor to forget the cravings of his inner man.
Hours passed, the sun flitted from east to west, and the yacht kept on her course. Tom hoped the passengers would come on deck; the thought of Elaine, especially, filled him with longing; but no one came, and the deck remained deserted. The strip of land seen from the starboard had dwindled into blue mist, and all around nothing was to be seen but sea and sky; the setting sun dyed the horizon a dark, glowing red, and there thin banks of cloud stained it with a deeper hue and ever and again with fleeting gold.
Tom grew hot all over when he heard Doctor Corman's voice quite close to him, saying:
"It was lucky that we had the 'Ariadne' to go to, otherwise we should not have been able to carry out our plans."
"You have always been a skeptic," Dixon answered. "The job is as good as finished, the plan worked like clock-work.... Now we have only to reap the reward of our labor."
They had evidently come up the gangway, for Tom not only smelt a whiff of tobacco but heard the creaking of basket-chairs and the clinking of glasses. Then there was a lull, and Torn could not resist the temptation to look over the edge of the boat.
Dixon, Corman and Ferail were comfortably installed in chairs round the table upon which bottles and glasses had been set. Dixon was rather red in the face; perhaps his dinner had been extra good, thought Tom, not without a touch of envy.
"Reward for our labor," exclaimed Dixon, with a laugh of greedy anticipation. "It was a difficult task to engineer, but with those two dolls in our hands all the rest is mere child's play."
"We shall, of course, be obliged to give up the 'Ariadne,'" said Corman. "We have left a pretty tangle behind us as it is, and, if I am not mistaken, that business of yours at Seattle will be thoroughly investigated."
Dixon again burst into a laugh. "I don't deny that I was rather too old to make a good man of business, but my last deal was certainly my best. Of course, the 'Ariadne' must be sacrificed after Thursday next, as a description of her will be wired to every port and every boat to-day or to-morrow. So far, our own wireless has not received any little greeting; but don't you worry, it is sure to come."
"That's so, but our agreement is quite clear," put in Corman.
"To go shares and dissolve partnership at once?" laughed Dixon. "From Hurricane Island it is easy enough to get to Canada, and then I myself mean to go by the name of Christopher Cummings. What are you going to call yourself, Ferail?"
"From now till Thursday I insist on being known as Toroni," the Greek replied, in a muffled tone. "I am sick of the name of Ferail—it has a flavor of sour wine in my mouth; call me ... Toroni."
The two others looked at him in surprise, and yet as if they were used to his unaccountable outbursts of frantic rage and annoyance and could never be sure of his enigmatical temper. It was clear he inspired them with a sort of repulsive curiosity.
After a pause Dixon said, "As you like," and, raising his glass, he continued: "I propose a toast to Toroni, the name borne by a man who plotted and carried through one of the most brilliant transactions of the last ten years." His tone was a mixture of condescension and contempt.
They drank it, Toroni in gloomy silence; the doctor with a sharp, mocking laugh.
"In any case, my much esteemed friend Toroni," said Dixon, after momentary reflection, "it would be advisable to confine the use of your illustrious name to ourselves, or Elaine might take it into her head to have an attack of hysterics, and Captain Hawkins ... ha, ha, ha!" He concluded, overcome by a fit of hilarity: "It was a splendid idea of yours to pose as an Italian detective charged by the Government to investigate the secret affairs of the 'Black Hand'.... Detective Ferail, to whom I afforded my valuable assistance solely in the interests of the community. The captain and the crew are making themselves quite ill, racking their brains to find out what on earth you want to do on Hurricane Island. Well, old man, the comedy is too good to be spoilt.... Officially you are obliged to answer to the name of Ferail.... Good Heavens, man, we are about to pocket six million dollars in gold, pure gold, and you can be squeamish about a name!"
Dixon began to get excited, his voice grew louder and louder, and the doctor hurriedly seized his glass in order to put a stop to his half-crazy flow of words.
"A toast," said Corman, drily, "a toast to the six millions!"
His timely intervention saved the situation.
There was a bright light in Dixon's shifty and evil eyes as he raised his glass to drink the toast. "In gold, pure gold," he said.
Toroni did not look up nor did he touch his glass. Dixon fumbled with his hands in his great coat pockets, from which he produced two objects which he placed on the table; they were the two wooden dolls.
Tom recognized the one which had been in the possession of Victor Dreyel; the other had, undoubtedly, belonged to Christian Dreyel. The small figures glowed blood-red in the light of the setting sun. Tom gazed at them with a shudder, even the doctor seemed uncomfortable.
"Throw them overboard," he said abruptly; "they are no longer wanted."
"Throw them overboard?" retorted Dixon, reproachfully. "Our constant guardians, with whom Toroni had no end of trouble before he sent them to my place.... Never. I want to have them constantly before my eyes until the gold has seen the light of day, and then I shall return them to Robertson as a little souvenir."
Overheated with whisky and joyful anticipation, he unbuttoned his coat, took it off and threw it down upon a chair. "Poor old Robertson!" he soliloquized as he mixed himself another drink. "Things weren't very comfortable for him when he was your patient, you old compounder of poisons, you!"
Doctor Corman's face assumed an ashen hue, the eyes under his pince-nez flashed; but he restrained himself, and a painful silence ensued. It dawned upon Dixon that he had said too much, and he looked persistently at his cigar. At last Toroni lifted his tawny eyelids and said: "Talking of Robertson ... what do you intend to do with his daughter?"
That was a matter which had long occupied Tom's thoughts and now sent a shiver down his spine. Dixon became suddenly sober, and the doctor cast down his eyes without saying a word or moving a muscle. The silence seemed unending. At last Dixon said, impatiently, "Bah, Elaine? We brought her with us for otherwise she might have been a witness, but I..."
There was a rustling of silk on the stairs, and Madame Lorraine hurried up. She looked at the three men with undisguised loathing.
"Are you aware that the skylight above the saloon is open?" she asked.
"What do you mean?" inquired Corman, with some asperity. Each of them cast a quick glance at the skylight, which was indeed half-open.
"Only that I went into the saloon just now and found Elaine there." The three looked at one another.
"Think she heard?" the doctor asked.
"I can't say, but I heard every word you uttered ... distinctly."
"How did she look?"
"Much as usual," said Madame Lorraine, and left them.
Dixon had regained his self-control as if he had never tasted a drop of whisky; he took up the two wooden dolls and made his way to the stairs. At the first step he stopped, turned and gazed at them earnestly.
"Bah!" he said again. "If she had heard anything she would have screamed." Then he went down and the other two followed him. Tom breathed again; it was only now he remembered that he had been kneeling in the boat, with his head well over the edge, and that any one who chanced to look that way might easily have seen him. It was a miracle, indeed, that he had not been seen; but he had no time even to send a grateful thought to his guardian angel, for his mind was fully taken up with what he had just heard. Moreover, his attention was rivetted upon Dixon's overcoat, which had been left lying cm a chair, carelessly flung over the back of it, half-open, so that Tom could see a packet done up in oilcloth protruding from an inner pocket. He remembered what Wallion had told him about the scene at the asylum, and he realized that within five yards of him lay those precious papers of William Robertson's. His fingers itched, an irresistible desire seized him; he must have those papers and read them.
The sun had set, and twilight was beginning to melt into night; there was no one to be seen either on the bridge or on the upper deck ... nor was there any sound from the gangway. He got out of the boat noiselessly and walked warily towards the coat.
At the same instant a hand from the back of the cabin deck abstracted the roll from the coat pocket and disappeared.