Richard Duvall looked at the tense figure, the agitated face of his companion, and once again a feeling of surprise swept over him, as he observed the little Frenchman's joy at the recovery of Monsieur de Grissac's snuff box.
Throughout the exciting events of the morning, and of the night before, the detective had lost sight of the apparent insignificance of the object of their search; now that he for the first time saw it before him, his curiosity was once more aroused. Surely there must be something of vast interest about this apparently worthless bit of ivory, to make its theft the reason for a brutal murder, its recovery a matter of such extreme importance that Monsieur Lefevre should consider the honor of his country at stake.
He took the box from Dufrenne's trembling fingers and examined it carefully. It was about two and a half inches in circumference, and quite shallow, not over half an inch in depth, in all. The ivory was old and yellow from use and time, and very thin and smooth. The lightness of the box surprised him—it seemed to weigh almost nothing, as he balanced it on the palm of his hand.
The circular top of the box was curiously ornamented with a circle of small colorless pearls, of trifling value, set at regular intervals about the edge of the cover. Within this row of pearls was an inscription in Latin, carved in tiny letters in the ivory. From its first words, "Pater noster," Duvall saw that it was the Lord's Prayer. The letters extended around the circumference of the box in several concentric lines, or rings, inside of the ring of pearls. In the center of the box was a cross of ivory, carved so as to be slightly raised above its general surface. Beyond this, the box contained no other ornamentation.
Along the front edge of the box Duvall noticed a small spring. He pressed it, in considerable excitement. Evidently the reason for the box's value must be within—some papers, no doubt, of extreme importance. He saw the cover of the box fly upward and glanced hastily inside. The box contained nothing but a few pinches of snuff.
Duvall was almost tempted to laugh. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous—so utterly absurd. Absent-mindedly he tried a pinch of the snuff, inhaling it into his nostrils. It produced nothing more startling than a violent fit of sneezing. Undoubtedly Monsieur de Grissac had told the truth. He did use snuff.
Closing the box, Duvall regarded it for a moment in silence, then looked at Dufrenne. "It isn't worth a hundred francs," he said.
"The box?" answered the curio dealer, as he followed Duvall's glances. "No, monsieur—what you say is indeed true, yet I would not sell it for a hundred million."
"But why? What is there about it that makes it so valuable? Surely you can tell me that, now that we have safely recovered it."
"Alas, monsieur. I could not tell you, even if I knew, which I assure you I do not. I can only say that Monsieur Lefevre has told me that it holds within it the honor of my beloved country, and therefore I would not sell it for all the money in the world."
Duvall was clearly puzzled. "Well," he said at length, as he thrust the box into his pocket, "there's evidently some mystery about the thing that I do not understand, but I suppose I shall, some day. Just at present our first duty is to return the box to Monsieur de Grissac."
"You are right, monsieur, and at once. There is a train for Antwerp in half an hour. From there we can take the night boat to Harwich. Let us set out without further delay."
"And that fellow in there?" remarked the detective with a grim laugh. "We've got to take him with us, you know. He'll be wanted in London for the murder of the man Noël."
"Yes. That also is important." Dufrenne went into the adjoining room and stood looking at the sleeping barber. "But not so important as the return of the snuff box to Monsieur de Grissac."
Duvall followed him, and lifting one of Seltz's arms, let it drop suddenly. It fell to his side, lifeless. "He's sleeping like a log. The doctor must have given him a pretty stiff dose. I don't see how we are going to travel with him in this condition."
"Then we must leave him in the care of Monsieur Lefevre's other agents here in Brussels. We cannot delay an instant, on any account."
"I do not agree with you, monsieur. There is one thing which is as important to me as the recovery of the snuff box could possibly be to Monsieur de Grissac, and that is, the safety of my wife."
"Your wife?" Dufrenne stared at him in surprise.
"Yes, monsieur, my wife. She is at present in Dr. Hartmann's house. How she came there, I do not know, but I imagine that our friend the Prefect sent her there, to assist, if occasion offered, in our work. In that he was wise; but for her presence, I fear my plan would have failed. Had Seltz rung the doorbell, and been admitted by any of the doctor's servants, I doubt if I should have been able to get the box from him before the latter had seen him. I should then have been obliged to use force, and the results might have been disastrous."
"Yes, monsieur. I see that. The young lady at Dr. Hartmann's was sent by Monsieur Lefevre. His agents here have already informed me of that. But that she is your wife I did not know." He pondered for a moment, glancing at his watch. "It is a great pity. Delay may be most dangerous. Why do you not send her word to join you in Paris?"
Duvall frowned, and began to walk about the room nervously. "A few hours' delay can make no difference," he presently said. "The box is perfectly safe in our hands. I am not, however, at all convinced that my wife is perfectly safe in the hands of Dr. Hartmann."
"But he knows nothing?"
"That I cannot say. So far he does not, I think, suspect that Seltz was the man he expected from London. If he had, he would never have let me leave his office. Luckily for us, Seltz was a stranger to him, and with the murder of Noël on his conscience, he feared to say anything to the doctor about the snuff box while I was present. I imagine he suspected a trap of some sort. But the doctor will discover, probably before the day is out, how he has been tricked. Then he will begin to investigate, and if he finds out that it was my wife who admitted the man, he may in his rage decide to retaliate upon her. I cannot think of leaving Brussels, without her. She must go with me. Upon that I am determined."
Dufrenne looked grave, and a glint of anger came into his eyes. "The service of France, monsieur, is more important than your private affairs. I beg of you that you leave here at once."
"But why, my friend? We can leave just as well in the morning. The box is safe." He felt his waistcoat pocket.
"Safe, monsieur! Let me tell you that neither the box nor you yourself are safe for a moment, as long as you remain in Brussels. You would be in no greater danger, if you were carrying about with you a package of dynamite."
"You are unduly nervous, monsieur," laughed Duvall, as he observed the Frenchman's look of terror. "I have every confidence in my ability to take care of myself. I must notify my wife to join me here as soon as possible."
"How do you propose to do so?" inquired Dufrenne.
For a moment Duvall was puzzled. "You could not safely call her up by telephone," the Frenchman continued. "For her to leave the sanatorium now, in response to such a call, would attract the doctor's suspicion at once. He is probably quite well aware of the fact that she knows no one in Brussels. If he should have her followed here, and see her meet you, he would at once conclude that there was something wrong about the whole affair. He is very well known here in Brussels, and very powerful. Undoubtedly he would have you both arrested on some pretext. Once you are searched, and the snuff box taken from you, all our work is lost."
His earnest face, his frightened tones, disturbed the detective greatly. He saw the force of Dufrenne's arguments, yet the thought of leaving Grace to bear the brunt of Dr. Hartmann's anger was not to be considered for a moment. He looked out of the window in silence for a long time, trying to think out some plan that would insure Grace's safety. A gentle tapping at the door caused him to turn. He nodded to Dufrenne, who at once went to the door and opened it.
The newcomer proved to be Lablanche, of the Prefect's office, whom Dufrenne had met earlier in the day. He bowed to Duvall, who knew him slightly, then glanced at the sleeping figure on the bed. "You have been successful, monsieur?" he inquired eagerly.
Duvall nodded. "This fellow"—he indicated Seltz—"must be taken to London as soon as he is in condition to travel. We will leave the matter to you."
"Excellent, monsieur. He shall be well taken care of. I presume that you and Monsieur Dufrenne will start at once."
"I desire first, Monsieur Lablanche, to get my wife from the house of Dr. Hartmann."
Lablanche gave a low whistle. "I should not advise you to attempt to communicate with her, monsieur."
"You think her sudden departure would make Hartmann suspicious?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Then we must arrange for her to come to Brussels this afternoon on some pretext. If she only had some friends in the city—"
"The American Minister, monsieur!" exclaimed Lablanche, suddenly. "He recommended her to Dr. Hartmann. It appears that he was at one time acquainted with your wife's people. Perhaps he would undertake to telephone to her. That would be entirely safe. But I beg of you, monsieur, do not let the Minister know what your wife's object in going to Dr. Hartmann's was. He knows her only as Miss Ellicott. He vouched for her to Hartmann. If he knew that he had been used, it would make him extremely angry."
For a few moments Duvall stood in silent thought, then picking up his hat, went toward the door. "I will see the American Minister at once," he said, as he went out. "Wait for me here, gentlemen. I will be back within an hour."
Mr. Phelps, the United States Minister, was busy in his cabinet when Duvall was announced. He took the card from his secretary and glanced at it carelessly. The detective's name caused him to start. "Richard Duvall," he said aloud, to his secretary. "Surely it can't be the well-known detective, yet the name—" He regarded the card, his forehead wrinkled with thought. Duvall's distinguished position as the author of several works on the science of criminology was well known to him. "Show him in," he said, at length, and began to relight his cigar.
Duvall was ushered in, and in a few moments had explained the object of his visit. "A young lady—a Miss Ellicott," he told the Minister, "had come to Brussels the night before, and had gone to Dr. Hartmann's as a patient." Mr. Phelps nodded, and added that he had met Miss Ellicott, and had used his influence to enable her to obtain Dr. Hartmann's services. "The doctor is a great friend of mine," the Minister remarked. "I regard him as one of the leading scientists of Europe."
"Undoubtedly," the detective assented gravely. "I am not acquainted with him, myself. My business is with Miss Ellicott."
"Then why have you come here?" asked Mr. Phelps, with some asperity. "The doctor's house is but a few moments' drive."
"I know that. But unfortunately I am not acquainted with Miss Ellicott. She might resent my calling on her so unceremoniously. I had hoped that you might ask her to come here, so that I might be properly introduced to her."
The Minister considered the matter carefully. Evidently he did not altogether like it. "You forget, Mr. Duvall," he said, finally, "that I myself do not know you. Furthermore I certainly have no desire to involve Miss Ellicott in any difficulties. I trust," he concluded, uneasily, "that she is not already so involved."
"No." The detective shook his head. "Not yet. But unless I can have a few words with her in private, she soon may be. I am working in her interests. I am here to protect her from a grave danger." He went toward the Minister, and, taking a package of papers from his pocket, placed them in the latter's hand. "Here are my credentials. From them you will see that I am what I represent myself to be. I cannot undertake to explain to you now the reasons which prevent me from going to Miss Ellicott where she is. The mere fact that I am unknown to her will, I trust, prove sufficient. I wish to say to her but a few words. She will be very glad to hear them, I know."
The Minister returned the papers to Duvall and glanced at the clock upon his desk. "We are having a few friends for dinner to-night, Mr. Duvall. I shall ask Miss Ellicott to join us. If you care to be one of the party—" He paused, looking at the other questioningly.
"I shall be very glad indeed to accept, Mr. Phelps. I assure you that I would under no circumstances force myself upon you in this way, were it not for Miss Ellicott's good. And, in order that your other guests may not by any chance identify me, may I ask that you will introduce me as Mr. Brooks?"
The Minister nodded. "Very well, if you wish it, Mr. Duvall. The whole affair strikes me as extremely unusual, and did I not know you to be a man of your word, I should have nothing to do with it. Under the circumstances, I will consent. At least, I feel sure that no harm can come to Miss Ellicott while she is under my roof."
The detective murmured his thanks. "You will be doing Miss Ellicott a great service, my dear sir," he said. "And one thing more. When you telephone to her, asking her to come, kindly do not mention the fact that I have called." He took the Minister's hand and pressed it warmly. "Some day you will realize the dangers with which Miss Ellicott is being threatened."
On his return to the Hotel Metropole, Duvall found everything as he had left it. Seltz was still sleeping soundly. Lablanche was reading a newspaper. Dufrenne was superintending the placing of Duvall's portmanteau, which had arrived from Paris in response to a hasty wire from him that morning. He had been without a change of linen since the day before, and the arrival of his baggage was gratifying.
He informed Lablanche of his plans. "I shall dine at the United States Minister's," he informed them, "as Mr. Brooks. After dinner I shall ask Miss Ellicott's permission to escort her home. We will take a cab and drive to the railway station in time for the midnight train for Paris. On my arrival there, I shall give the snuff box to Monsieur Lefevre, who will see that it is safely returned to the Ambassador in London. You, Lablanche, can go to London with Seltz as soon as the latter is sufficiently recovered to travel—in the morning, let us say. You, Dufrenne, will no doubt prefer to return with me to Paris. In that event, kindly settle with the hotel people for these rooms, and join me at the railway station." He paused, opened his traveling case, and drew out a suit of evening clothes.
Lablanche and Dufrenne withdrew into the adjoining room, where Seltz lay sleeping. The latter paused in the door as he went out. "Take care of the snuff box," he said, pointedly. "Remember—the honor of France."
Grace Duvall went to her room, at Dr. Hartmann's, after her husband's departure, her feelings divided between her joy at his success—for she felt that his departure with Seltz meant success—and her sorrow at seeing him leave her, without so much as a single glance. She felt certain that she would hear from him during the course of the afternoon, and after eating her luncheon, sat down to read a book.
The afternoon seemed interminable. When at last she could bear the inaction no longer, she rose, put on her hat, and started down the stairs. As she reached the hall, one of the attendants came up to her. "Someone wishes to speak to you at the telephone, Miss Ellicott," the woman said.
Grace hurried to the 'phone, which was placed in a small recess half-way down the hall. The woman accompanied her, and stood near by as she took up the receiver. Clearly she was listening. Grace determined to speak with caution. It was undoubtedly Richard calling.
When she at last made out that it was the American Minister, Mr. Phelps, who was speaking, she felt a keen sense of disappointment. She learned that he and his wife wished her to come in and dine with them. At first she refused, fearful least by going into Brussels she might miss some word from Richard. Mr. Phelps was insistent. They counted on her. He would not take a denial. The thought occurred to her, momentarily, that possibly Richard had taken this means of communicating with her. The idea seemed far fetched, and yet—she heard Mr. Phelps' voice, urging her to come, and rather half-heartedly she agreed to do so. "The United States Minister, Mr. Phelps, and his wife, have asked me to dine with them to-night," she said to the attendant. "Will you be so good as to have a cab here for me at half-past seven?"
The woman bowed. "Certainly, mademoiselle," she said, and moved aside as Dr. Hartmann came along the hall.
Grace thought that he looked both puzzled and angry. He assumed a pleasant expression as he saw her, however, and when he spoke she knew he had overheard what she had just said. "Dining at the Minister's to-night?" he remarked, as he paused for a moment. "A charming man, Mr. Phelps. I may look in later, myself, and bring you home." He passed on, his face at once resuming the angry scowl which Grace had marked as he approached her.
She returned to her room, and began her toilette for the evening. The small trunk she had brought from Paris contained but a limited wardrobe—she had not expected anything in the way of social engagements, in this work that Monsieur Lefevre had assigned to her. A gown of black satin, however, trimmed with silver, she had put in at the last moment. It was very becoming—Richard had never seen her in it—she hoped he might come to her, before the evening was over. She half-made up her mind to speak to Mr. Phelps about it—to ask him to telephone to the hotels and attempt to locate Richard for her. Then the thought came to her that she had represented herself to the Minister as Miss Ellicott. Clearly it would never do to let Mr. Phelps know that she had deceived him.
She arrived at the house early, and after being introduced to Mrs. Phelps, went to the latter's room to remove her wraps, and to talk over their mutual acquaintances. None of the other guests had as yet arrived. Grace talked to Mrs. Phelps as brightly as she could, but her mind was intent upon Richard, and she wondered when and how she would hear from him.
Duvall, meanwhile, had been engaged in changing his clothes. When he at last put on the white waistcoat of his evening suit, he took up the one he had worn during the day and removed from it the ivory snuff box which had been the cause of his interrupted honeymoon. He glanced at the thing carelessly, before placing it in his waistcoat pocket, and as he did so, he fancied he detected a slight noise in the corridor without. In a moment he had thrown open the door which led to the hall. A man—evidently one of the hotel servants—was just rising from his knees, a small brush in one hand, a dust pan in the other.
Duvall looked at him sharply. The man bowed, smiling in a stupid way, then began to withdraw, explaining that he was cleaning the hall, and hoping that he had not disturbed "monsieur." The detective closed the door, uncertain whether the man had been watching him or not. He remembered Dufrenne's warning, and realized that in going out, alone, this night, he ran some chances of having the snuff box taken from him. Of course, it was unlikely that Dr. Hartmann had any suspicions of him—yet it seemed advisable to put the box in as safe a place as possible, at least until he was once more across the French frontier. Yet where could he put it? To secrete the thing in his room was out of the question. The place might be searched, for all he knew, within half an hour of his leaving it. To conceal it successfully about his person seemed equally impossible. Where, indeed, could he hope to hide an object of this size, so as to defy a search, in case one should be made? His eyes suddenly fell upon the opera hat which he had taken from his portmanteau. He took it up and gazed at it with a smile, then quickly whipped out his knife and began, with great care, to detach the inner lining of the crown for a distance of perhaps three or four inches. Carefully drawing back the lining, he slipped the thin ivory box beneath it, and pushed it back into place. The lining was of heavy black silk, stiffened by the label of the maker which was glued to it. The space between it and the crown was considerable. When Duvall had once more fastened the silk in place with the aid of a needle and thread which he drew from his dressing case, it would have required a very careful inspection, indeed, to have discovered that there was anything unusual about the hat. Even the added weight of the box was not perceptible—its lightness prevented that. When he had completed his task, the detective suddenly threw open the door and glanced into the hall. It was vacant. Evidently he had not been observed.
There were but four guests at the Minister's that night, of whom Duvall and Grace were two. The other two were a Mr. and Mrs. Haddon, friends of Mrs. Phelps, who were making a short stay in the Belgian capital on their way to their home in London.
The little party, with the exception of Duvall, had already assembled in the drawing-room, awaiting his arrival. Grace found the Haddons charming and cultivated people who had traveled all over the world, owing to Mr. Haddon's connection with the English Consular service. Mr. Phelps had told Grace that they were expecting an American, a friend of his, whose name was Brooks, but she did not exhibit much interest in the matter. She was becoming more and more worried about Richard, and wondered if he could, by any possibility, have left Brussels without communicating with her. The thought seemed unbelievable.
Dinner was set for eight. As the hour was striking, the butler announced Mr. Brooks. Grace glanced up carelessly as the latter entered, then her face went white, and she started forward with a glad cry. Mr. Phelps, who was mumbling an introduction, did not, luckily, observe her agitation. Duvall looked at her coolly. "Good-evening, Miss Ellicott," he said, bowing. "I am delighted to meet you."
The shock of the thing almost unnerved her. "Mr. Brooks," she managed to gasp, her face crimson. In a moment she became calmer, as she observed her husband's warning look, and began to chat with him nervously, as though he were the chance acquaintance he pretended to be. In a moment they all were seated about the dinner-table. He had been able to say to her as they left the drawing-room, however, unheard by the others, "I will ask permission to escort you home." She nodded, with a twinkle in her eyes. All her nervousness and anxiety had left her now, and in their place came a delicious feeling of happiness at Richard's presence, and a keen sense of adventure that made the blood tingle through her whole body. "Mr. Brooks!" She laughed inwardly at the thought that no one at the table but themselves knew that they were husband and wife. She proceeded to enter into the spirit of the occasion with huge delight, questioning Mr. Brooks about his business in Brussels with a keen sense of mischief.
It was along toward the middle of dinner that one of the servants came in and handed Mr. Phelps a card. Duvall, engaged for the moment in conversation with Mrs. Haddon, did not perceive it, but Grace, who sat next to their host, experienced a sudden feeling of alarm. She observed the Minister's puzzled face, as he excused himself and left the table, and for an instant she thought of warning Richard. A moment's thought, however, convinced her of the uselessness of the attempt, nor did she indeed know what she could say to him. She remembered Dr. Hartmann's remark, that he might look in at the Minister's after dinner, to which she had attached no importance at the time. Now the thought came to her that the doctor was in the reception-room without, and that his coming, at this time, in the middle of dinner, meant that some disaster was impending.
In a few moments Mr. Phelps reëntered the room, followed by Dr. Hartmann. The latter was in evening clothes, and his face seemed peculiarly forbidding and grim.
"Dr. Hartmann has consented to join us," he said to his wife. "Philippe"—he turned to the butler—"lay another place." Then he proceeded to introduce Hartmann to Mr. and Mrs. Haddon and to Duvall.
The latter looked at the doctor calmly. "I think we have met before, Doctor," he said, in an even voice.
"Quite so." Hartmann's face showed not a trace of emotion of any sort. "I hope your servant is better."
"He's still asleep," laughed the detective, then explained to the others, in a few words, his adventure of the morning. He saw that the Minister was puzzled, but the latter said nothing, at the time, and in a few moments the matter was forgotten. Only Grace showed any signs of alarm—Duvall went calmly on with his dinner as though nothing had happened. He spoke to her only occasionally and then addressed her with the formal politeness of a total stranger.
Dr. Hartmann was observing him intently under cover of a spirited conversation with Mrs. Phelps. It was clear to Grace that he could not quite understand why Duvall, or Brooks, as he supposed him to be, was dining here at the Minister's.
It was quite late when the party rose from the table, and, a little while later, Grace, anxious to get away from the place, and be alone with Richard, announced that she must return home. "Mr. Brooks has kindly offered to escort me," she said, quickly, fearful that Dr. Hartmann might suggest that she return with him.
The latter smiled coldly, his eyes fixed on her with a gleam of suspicion. "I think I shall be going myself," he said, as he took leave of the remainder of the party.
As they reached the sidewalk, Duvall observed the taxicab he had ordered to be in readiness, standing in front of the door. He helped Grace inside, then turned in some hesitation to the chauffeur. He dared not tell the fellow to drive to the railway station, since Hartmann, who stood beside the cab chatting with Grace, would inevitably hear him. He therefore instructed the man to go to Dr. Hartmann's with the intention of countermanding the order a little later, as soon as they had got out of earshot of the house. He threw open the door, entered the cab, and was about to pull the door shut after him when he felt his wrist seized from behind in a powerful grasp, and before he realized what had happened, Dr. Hartmann had stepped into the cab and closed the door. The chauffeur at once started off at a great rate.
"I'm sure, Mr. Brooks," said the doctor, suavely, as he sat down in the forward seat, his right hand still grasping Duvall's wrist, "that you will not mind taking me home with you. It is a long walk, and I fear there are no other taxicabs in sight."
Duvall looked at him sternly, then attempted to draw away his hand. "What do you mean, monsieur," he asked, harshly, "by detaining me in this manner?" He again tried to free his wrist, but the doctor was too strong for him.
Hartmann smiled pleasantly. "I feared, Mr. Brooks," he said, "that you might be tempted to use the revolver which you have in the pocket of your coat." He reached over quickly with his other hand and drew the revolver from the detective's pocket.
Grace, through all this, had said absolutely nothing. She realized how fatal any interruption by herself might be. She did not know of her husband's intention to leave Brussels that night. She had heard him order the chauffeur to drive to the sanatorium. Perhaps he wished her to return there. In that event, it was imperative that Dr. Hartmann should not know that the supposed Mr. Brooks and herself were anything but the most chance acquaintances.
"Doctor," she cried out, "what are you doing?"
"It seems that Dr. Hartmann has suddenly lost his senses, Miss Ellicott," exclaimed Duvall angrily.
"Quite so, my friend," said the doctor, sarcastically. "Just as our poor friend Seltz lost his. Don't try anything like that," he snarled, suddenly, as Duvall attempted to release his arm with a sudden twist. "I have a few questions I desire to ask you, Mr. Brooks."
"Questions? What are they?"
"I cannot possibly ask them here, in the presence of Miss Ellicott. Perhaps you will oblige me by stepping into my office for a few moments when we arrive at our destination."
"I can spare you five minutes," said Duvall, sullenly. He could not help remembering Dufrenne's advice, and regretted bitterly that he had not followed it. He had been prepared for almost any contingency. As he left the Minister's house, his hand clutched a revolver in the pocket of his coat. There seemed no way in which Hartmann could prevent him from taking Grace to the railway station. He felt so sure of this that he became overconfident. One moment only had he been off guard—the moment when, with his back to Hartmann, he had stepped into the cab. And the latter, seizing upon that instant's slip, had turned the tables upon him so completely that he cursed himself in his chagrin. Here he was, headed for Dr. Hartmann's house, on the outskirts of the town. Once there, the latter's attendants could easily overpower him and carry him into the place helpless. There seemed no possible means of escape. He determined to brazen the matter out, and meet Hartmann on his own ground. Resistance would at this juncture be useless. He congratulated himself that Grace had, by her cleverness, not shown her hand. The doctor evidently did not suspect, at least not very strongly, that she was anything other than she seemed—a patient. He knew he would be searched, and hoped that the place of concealment of the snuff box would defy even Hartmann. After that, he would demand his release, and rely upon Mr. Phelps to get it for him.
He lifted his head and saw that they were at the house. Without loosening his hold upon Duvall's arm, the doctor called to the chauffeur, "Ring the bell." The latter did so. In a moment, a servant appeared. "Send Max and Rudolph here," cried Hartmann, and presently two husky young Germans came out of the house. Hartmann spoke a few quick words to them in their own language and they ranged themselves on either side of the cab door. Then the doctor threw it open, and released the detective's wrist. "Get out, if you please, Mr. Brooks," he said, with a sardonic smile.
When Grace arrived at Dr. Hartmann's that night, she was so utterly astonished by the course which events had taken that she was scarcely able to think. What to do she could not even guess. Here was her husband, the man she loved, in the power of Dr. Hartmann, and there seemed nothing whatever that she could do to help him. Yet how could she go quietly to her room, when Richard might be in the gravest danger? On the other hand, to attempt any resistance, to let the doctor know, by any action on her part, that she and Duvall were working in conjunction, would result in nothing but further disaster. The thought flashed through her mind that by preserving her character of a patient, she might, in the morning, communicate with Mr. Phelps, and secure his assistance in obtaining Richard's freedom.
These considerations came and went in the few seconds required for the little party to enter the hall. Her husband went first. Dr. Hartmann stood aside to permit her to follow him. Duvall turned as she passed through the door, and she heard him whisper, in a voice scarcely audible, "Say nothing." It was the cue she desired. She extended her hand as the doctor came in. "Good-night, Mr. Brooks," she said, quite calmly. "Thank you for bringing me home. I hope we shall meet again, sometime."
"I hope so," Duvall remarked, indifferently, then turned to the doctor. "Now, monsieur, let us have done with this farce as quickly as possible. I have no time to waste."
"Nor have I. Good-night, Miss Ellicott." He nodded pleasantly to Grace as she ascended the stairs, then addressed one of the two attendants. "Where is Herr Mayer?" he asked.
"He is waiting for you in the laboratory, Herr Doctor," the man replied.
"Good! This way, if you please." He motioned down the hall. "Be so good, Mr. Brooks, as to proceed at once."
Duvall started off down the hall in no pleasant frame of mind. The whole affair had been bungled by his stupidity. He passed through the door which Hartmann presently opened at the end of the hall, and found himself in a long narrow passage, lit by a single electric lamp. Hartmann closed the door carefully behind him, and came on down the corridor, his footsteps echoing loudly on the concrete floor.
At the end of the corridor a second door confronted them. It was opened by a tall blond man, with a reddish mustache and brilliant blue eyes. "I heard you coming," he said, nodding to Hartmann, then looked keenly at Duvall. "So this is the fellow, eh? Where shall we take him?"
The doctor pointed to an iron door which faced that by which they had entered. Between the two doors ran a narrow corridor, with an iron staircase to the left, leading upward. "In here," he said, shortly, and going to the door, opened it with a key which he drew from his pocket.
Again Duvall cursed his stupidity. For a moment, thoughts of resistance crossed his mind but he at once realized the hopelessness of it, and followed the doctor into the room. The tall man brought up the rear, closing the door silently after him.
The room was pitch dark. In a moment, however, Hartmann had pressed an electric button, and a brilliant light flooded the place. Duvall looked about him curiously, and in that fleeting glance saw that the room was without windows of any kind, and that the walls, smooth and white, contained no openings whatever, except the door by which they had entered. The floor, as he could tell by its feel under his feet, was of cement. The room was bare of furniture, but he perceived a number of boxes and packing cases standing about the walls.
The instant the door was closed, Hartmann sprang at the detective and grasped his two wrists. The latter had always been considered a powerful man, but the arms and shoulders of the doctor were those of a Hercules. "Search him, Mayer," he said, as he pinned Duvall's wrists together in his iron grip.
The man addressed as Mayer at once began a systematic search of Duvall's person. With deft fingers he explored his pockets, felt the linings of his clothing, tore through the contents of his pocketbook. The opera hat had fallen to the floor, in the short struggle which ensued when the detective found himself in Hartmann's grasp. Mayer picked it up, glanced at it carelessly, then threw it angrily into a corner, where it rolled unobserved, into the shadow of a large box.
"There is nothing here," he said, in a voice of keen disappointment. "He must have hidden it elsewhere."
"In his room at the hotel, perhaps—his portmanteau," the doctor said, eagerly, releasing Duvall's hands and throwing him to one side with some violence.
Mayer looked grave. "I have searched everything thoroughly. It is not there."
The doctor muttered an oath. "The other—the old Frenchman?"
"He was arrested to-night on a charge of irregularity in his passport. Nothing discovered. He will be released in the morning."
"Teufel!" The doctor swore excitedly in German. "Then the other one—the one who was in charge of Seltz—he must have it."
"No. He also has been searched, with the same results."
"May I ask what you are looking for?" asked Duvall, calmly.
"You know, well enough, Duvall," exclaimed Mayer, turning on him. "Oh, yes—I know your name. The examination of your baggage showed that. As soon as I wired to London and discovered that the man Seltz had left there last night, I knew how we had been fooled. One of our men saw the snuff box in your possession just before you left the hotel to go to the house of Mr. Phelps. What have you done with it?"
Duvall regarded his questioner calmly. "I do not know what you are talking about, gentlemen. I have no snuff box, nor do I use tobacco in that form. And now, if you have concluded this outrage upon an American citizen, perhaps you will let me return quietly to my hotel. If you do not, I promise you you shall pay heavily for it."
His words, for the moment, seemed to disconcert the two men. Then Mayer laughed, "Nothing but bluff, young man—American bluff. I know who you are. You followed Seltz here from London, and got the snuff box from him by a trick. Now tell us where it is."
The detective smiled. "I do not know what you are talking about," he said, quietly.
Dr. Hartmann growled out an oath. "Take off his things, Mayer. He may have the box in his clothing somewhere—or the heel of his boot. I'll get a dressing-gown, from above." He left the room, and Duvall heard him clanking up the iron staircase.
"If you insist on removing my clothes," he said to Mayer, "I prefer to do so myself." He rapidly stripped off his evening suit and shoes, and threw them upon the floor.
The man gathered them up, feeling each article carefully, and testing the heels of the boots with a knife which he drew from his pocket. He appeared greatly disappointed at not finding the object of his search. Then he again examined Duvall, feeling his person from head to toe with great care. He had just finished when the doctor returned with a long gray woolen dressing gown, which he tossed to the detective.
"He's hidden it somewhere. He hasn't got it with him," Mayer exclaimed, angrily.
"Take him to the small bedroom in the west wing," said the doctor. "We'll get it out of him, before we're through. You can leave the clothes in the laboratory." He cast his eye about the room to see that nothing had been forgotten. Duvall trembled, thinking of the hat lying unseen behind the packing case in the corner. Hartmann, however, did not observe it. Without saying anything further he threw open the door, and they all passed into the little hall.
From there, Duvall was led up the iron staircase to the floor above, and found himself in a large room which he took to be the doctor's laboratory. It was dimly lit by means of a reading-lamp. He had a confused vision of a number of scientific appliances, bulking huge and forbidding in the shadows, and then was conducted through a glass door and along a corridor similar to the one through which he and the doctor had so recently passed on the floor below. He judged, from the direction they were taking, that it was directly above the lower passageway, and led back to the main part of the house.
In this he soon found that he was correct. A door at the end of the corridor gave entrance to the upper central hall of the main building. He was led off to the right, catching a momentary glimpse of a woman attendant sitting in a chair near the head of the stairs as he passed. In a few moments Hartmann paused before a door, threw it open, and turned on the lights. The detective saw before him a well-furnished bedroom, with two large windows, and another door, which he later found gave entrance to a bathroom. The dark shadows against the night light without showed him at once that the windows were barred.
He turned to the two men. "You do not intend to release me then?" he asked, angrily.
Hartmann laughed. "You will be quite comfortable here, my friend. I am sure that a few days of complete rest will benefit your condition greatly. I imagine your trouble is merely a temporary affliction—a loss of memory, let us say, an inability to recall your name. We'll soon have you all right again. You have only to inform me where you have placed the snuff box which you stole from my messenger this morning, and I shall know that a complete cure has been effected. If your friends are alarmed about you, it will be quite sufficient to tell them that you are in my care. Mr. Phelps, for instance, has complete confidence in my ability. I will make it a point to explain matters to him at once. Just a trifling ailment, a disordered condition of the brain cells. A week should set you right again. If there is anything you wish, the attendants will get it for you. Your clothes will be sent up from the hotel in the morning. Make yourself quite at home, I beg of you."
He turned away, with a sardonic smile, and Duvall heard the key turn in the door as it closed. He glanced at the barred windows, the door, half-open, leading to the bathroom, and realized that there was not the slightest hope of escape. Dr. Hartmann evidently intended to keep him a prisoner until he disclosed the whereabouts of the snuff box. He smiled grimly as he threw himself upon the bed. It seemed likely that his stay would be a long one.
After a time he began to think of Grace. How cleverly she had carried out her part! It was clear that the doctor did not suspect her, or, if he did, was unable to see where his suspicions led. How strange it seemed to realize that she, his wife, lay somewhere under the same roof with him—possibly even in the very next room! But thirty-six hours had passed since their wedding and their sudden and unexpected parting. During that time, he had seen Grace but twice, once, at Hartmann's office, in the morning; the second time, at the Minister's that night. How he had longed to touch her hand, to put his arms about her, to feel his lips on hers. Yet as matters stood, the chances of their seeing each other in the near future seemed particularly remote. He wondered if Hartmann would keep him a prisoner in his room. The morning, of course, would tell. He switched off the lights, got into bed, and after a long time fell into a broken sleep.
It was late in the afternoon, when Dr. Hartmann, through his man Mayer, discovered that Seltz had left London, and should have appeared at his office with the snuff box during the forenoon. A description of Seltz, together with a curious feeling of uneasiness which he felt after the departure of the man who had introduced himself as Mr. Brooks, caused him to conclude that he had been made the victim of a clever trick, and one which only his professional enthusiasm had made possible.
He at once set to work, through Mayer and his men, to locate Brooks. This was done, without difficulty, at the Hotel Metropole. While the doctor followed the latter to the Minister's, firm in his belief that he carried the snuff box with him, Mayer had arranged through certain connections with the Belgian police, to have Dufrenne arrested and placed in confinement over night on a trumped-up charge; Seltz liberated, and Lablanche held on a pretense of being concerned in the theft from the latter of a valuable package. A thorough search of Duvall's baggage—Dufrenne, it seemed, had none—disclosed nothing, except certain documents setting forth that the latter was Richard Duvall, an American citizen. It was these papers, in fact, which Duvall had shown to Mr. Phelps earlier in the day.
There was nothing to indicate to Hartmann that Duvall was acting in the interests of the French secret police, but the doctor suspected it, knowing as he did that the recovery of Monsieur de Grissac's snuff box would become at once a matter of the utmost moment to Lefevre and his men. Curiously enough, his momentary suspicions of Grace had largely disappeared. There was nothing to connect her with Duvall. He did not know that it was she who had opened the door and admitted Seltz to his house earlier in the day—he thought that Duvall had done this himself. Grace's manner, her conduct during the ride in the cab from the Minister's house, had shown him nothing. Still, he felt that she would bear watching and made his plans accordingly.
The sun was shining through the windows of Duvall's room when he awoke the next morning. For a brief space he was unable to recognize his surroundings, then the sequence of events came to him with a rush. He was conscious of a knocking at the door. He sprang up and opened it. Outside stood one of the men attendants whom he had seen the night before, with the portmanteau containing his clothes. The man placed the bag upon a chair, and opened it, then withdrew.
Duvall proceeded at once to dress. He had just finished when the attendant returned with an elaborate breakfast on a tray. He ate heartily. Evidently the doctor had no intention of starving him. Upon the table he observed his watch and seals, which he had worn with his evening clothes the night before. He looked at the watch and saw, to his astonishment, that it was after nine o'clock.
Now that he was dressed, he wondered what he should do with himself. It did not occur to him that the doctor would do other than keep him confined to his room, yet the man who had brought the breakfast things had not apparently locked the door when he went out.
Without any clear idea of what he intended to do, Duvall went to the door and tried it. To his surprise, he found it unlocked, and in a moment he had passed out into the hall.
The house seemed deserted. Even the attendant who had sat at the head of the stairs the night before was no longer in evidence. He went down to the lower floor without seeing any one. As he passed the door of the doctor's office, on his way to the entrance, he heard it open, and Dr. Hartmann looked out at him with a grim smile. "Ah—going for a stroll, I see, Mr. Duvall," he said, pleasantly enough. "It's a fine morning. I hope you enjoy it."
Duvall made no reply. He appreciated fully that Hartmann was only making fun of him, and realized his helplessness.
Once outside the door, he paused for a moment to drink in the beauty of the morning. Straight ahead of him stretched the driveway which led to the main road. The ornamental iron gate stood invitingly open. He went toward it, unconsciously pondering upon his situation and what he could do, if anything, to escape from it. At the gate he paused, looking about carefully to see whether his movements were observed. There appeared to be no one near him, although along one of the paths to the right of the house, he saw several persons walking, whom he judged to be inmates of the place. One or two others sat on benches among the shrubbery, reading. None of them seemed to take the least interest in his movements.
An empty cab passed slowly, the driver on the lookout for a fare. For a moment the detective thought of escape, his hand came up with a jerk to signal the cabman, then suddenly he let it fall with an exclamation of dismay. He could not escape—he did not dare attempt it, knowing that the snuff box, which had already caused him so much anxiety and trouble, lay in a corner of the room beneath the doctor's laboratory. First he must get that, before he could attempt to escape. He turned slowly back toward the house.
Then suddenly another doubt assailed him. Had not Dr. Hartmann allowed him this liberty merely to see whether or not he would take advantage of it? Would the latter conclude, now that he had failed to do so, that the snuff box was hidden somewhere on the premises? The thought disturbed him greatly.
Still another consideration occurred to him. If he made any attempt to recover the box, would his doing so not show his captors at once that they had overlooked the hat—a chance, indeed, in a thousand? The first move he might make toward the room under the laboratory, would arouse Hartmann's suspicions, a search would be made and the hat and its precious contents discovered.
Certainly he was tied hand and foot. He dared not leave the place, without taking the snuff box with him; he dared not attempt to recover it for fear its hiding place would thereby be disclosed. He was, he suddenly realized, as much a prisoner as though he were locked in a cell. And Grace?
The thought of her caused him to glance about nervously, and in a moment he saw her coming toward him from the direction of the house. She appeared to be looking for him, yet when she saw him, she seemed in doubt as to what to do. Duvall went up to her. "Good-morning, Miss Ellicott," he said, in a voice clearly audible within the house, were any of the windows open. He fancied he detected Hartmann's dark face peering at him from the waiting-room.
"Good-morning, Mr. Brooks," she said, affecting great surprise at seeing him. "You are here still?"
"Oh, yes." His tone was careless, but as he spoke he moved in a direction away from the house, and toward a small bench that stood beside the driveway. "Dr. Hartmann concluded that I needed treatment—I'm afflicted with loss of memory, it seems. Beautiful day, isn't it?"
She murmured some response, waiting for him to speak again. Presently he judged the distance from the house sufficiently great. No one was near enough to possibly overhear them.
"The snuff box is hidden—sewn inside of the false crown of my opera hat," he said, in a low voice. "It is in the room under the doctor's laboratory. He does not know it is there, and I don't dare try to get it, for fear he will find out. If you have a chance—" He paused.
"I understand."
"But be careful—very careful."
"I will." They sat down upon the bench toward which they had been headed. "I had thought of seeing Mr. Phelps to-day, and asking him to have you released."
"It would be useless," he said. "I cannot go without the snuff box."
"Shall I send word to our friends in Brussels?" she asked.
"How can you do that?"
She explained the method, by means of the boy who drove the delivery wagon. He considered the matter carefully. "Let them know that I am here, and why I cannot escape. Tell them that the snuff box is safe—so far. Do not let them know where it is—I trust no one with that—except you, dear."
The tenderness of his voice thrilled her. She longed to grasp his hand—to tell him of the love which filled her heart. Suddenly he spoke, quickly, warningly. "Be careful," he said. "We are being watched. That man Mayer is observing us with an opera glass, from a window of the house. Don't look at me that way. I shall leave you now. Let us meet during the afternoon." He rose, bowed to her carelessly, and strolled back toward the house, leaving her disconsolate upon the bench.
He entered the hall aimlessly, not knowing what to do next. The situation was one which taxed his resources to the utmost. No case that he had encountered in his whole experience offered the slightest suggestion whereby he might hope to effect a solution of his present difficulties. Courage, resource, ingenuity seemed alike useless. He was helpless.
Dr. Hartmann appeared in the hall as he entered it. "Come in, Mr. Duvall," he said, holding open the door of the office. "Suppose we have a little chat."
For a moment the detective hesitated, then decided to meet the doctor's good nature in kind. "By all means," he replied. "You owe me some explanation of your conduct in keeping me here."
"Keeping you here, Mr. Duvall? Surely you are mistaken. The gate is open." He waved his hand toward the lawn.
"I have no desire to run away, like a criminal, Dr. Hartmann. When I go, I shall go in a dignified way, and take my belongings with me."
"Your belongings!" The doctor seemed impressed with the remark. "So you have the snuff box hidden somewhere among them, have you?"
Duvall began a hasty denial, but the doctor cut him short. "Absurd, Mr. Duvall," he exclaimed. "You would leave here quickly enough, if you could take the box with you. But where you have concealed it, I confess I cannot imagine. I have examined your things with the utmost care. It is not among them, of that I am certain. I gave you your liberty this morning, to see whether or not you would attempt to escape. Had you done so I should have known that the box was concealed somewhere in the city, or else in the hands of your confederates. Now I am convinced that it is here. I thought at one time that you might have given it to Miss Ellicott—I have an idea that there is something between you, although of that I am by no means certain. But I know that she hasn't it, for her belongings were searched with equal care, last night, while she slept. The thing is a mystery to me, Mr. Duvall, and I compliment you upon your ingenuity. Had you been as wise, yesterday, as you were clever, you would have left Brussels before I discovered the trick you had played on me. Why you did not do so—why you foolishly remained to dine at the house of Mr. Phelps, I confess I cannot see. It is beyond me. But all that is beside the case. You have the snuff box—at least you know where it is. Are you going to turn it over to me, or must I force you to do so?"
Duvall listened to the doctor with an impassive face. "I know nothing about any snuff box," he returned, with a show of anger. "You are wasting your time, Dr. Hartmann. I have nothing more to say on the subject." He turned his back and gazed moodily out across the lawn.
Hartmann regarded him with a scowl of anger. "I give you until to-night, Mr. Duvall, to do as I ask. After that, I shall be compelled to force you to do so."
The detective shrugged his shoulders and turned to the door. "You use strong words, my friend. If any harm comes to me, my government will know how to deal with you." His threat did not seem to alarm the doctor particularly. "Do not forget, Mr. Duvall," he said, with an evil smile, "that while I know how to cure mental disorders, I also know how to create them. Good-morning."
The grave threat in his words filled Duvall with uneasiness. What did Hartmann mean? Did he propose to feed him with drugs, cunningly concealed in his food, which would steal away his senses, and leave him a babbling child? The thought was terrifying. Yet he had until to-night. He decided to return to his room and think, hoping thus to evolve some plan which might prove a solution of his difficulties. In the afternoon he would communicate it to Grace, and she, in return, could send word to Dufrenne, so that the latter might coöperate with him.
He found everything in his room as he had left it, and, seating himself by the window, was soon plunged in deep thought. The arrival of one of the attendants with his luncheon some two hours later woke him from a maze of profitless scheming. The problem was as yet still unsolved.
After luncheon, he decided to go down and have a talk with Grace. By keeping away from the house, and walking through the shrubbery, he hoped to be able to talk with her more freely. Much to his surprise, he found the door of his room once more locked. He sat down with a feeling of utter helplessness. The net was beginning to close about him.
Dinner was brought in at seven, and with it a small bottle of claret. He made an excellent meal, in spite of his unhappy reflections. The claret proved a welcome addition to it. On the tray was also a cigar. Decidedly the doctor was thoughtful, he reflected grimly.
Shortly after dinner he began to feel strangely drowsy. For a time he resisted the feeling—fought against it, but his eyelids seemed weighted with lead. Try as he would, he could not keep his eyes open. He threw up the window, gasping at the fresh air, but it had little effect. He rushed to the door, tried it, found it locked as he had expected, then groped toward the bed and fell heavily upon it, drunk with sleep. "It must have been the wine," he muttered to himself, and in another moment his muscles relaxed and he lay unconscious.
When Richard Duvall once more opened his eyes, he saw nothing but a blinding glare of light, that hurt and bewildered him with its singular and brilliant intensity. He closed his eyes again at once, unable to bear the irritation which was thus caused him. It was not exactly pain that he felt, but an intense discomfort, such as one experiences when looking directly at the brilliant rays of the sun.
After a few moments spent in futile attempts to cover his eyes with his hands, only to discover that his arms were tightly bound, he thought to secure relief by turning his face to one side, so that his vision might seek the soft darkness which seemed to lie on every side of him. In this effort he was equally unsuccessful. His head, his neck, his whole body, were rigid, immovable. He could not stir an inch in any direction.
He spent a long time in useless speculation upon the meaning of the remarkable situation in which he now found himself. He felt no pain, no discomfort, except that which the brilliance of the light above him caused. He determined at length once more to open his eyes, in order to discover if possible its source.
Even when his eyes were closed, he could see that the strange light burnt upon them. In a way it rendered his eyelids translucent—he was conscious of a dull pulsing redness through which shot a network of lines of fire. He opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, and looked upward. From some point above him, in what he judged must be the ceiling of the room, extended a beam of violet white light, cutting sharply through the darkness like the rays of a searchlight. At the opening in the ceiling through which it came, this beam was in diameter not more than two inches, but as it extended downward, it widened, taking the form of a long, thin, truncated cone, so that its width, where it impinged upon his face, was perhaps equal to twice that of a man's hand.
The darkness of the room about him made the beam of light seem a tangible, material thing. Its brilliance was unwavering—it extended from the ceiling to the surface of his face with the solidity, almost, of some huge, glittering icicle. He felt as though, were his hands but free, he could brush it aside, fling it off bodily into the darkness.
The effort of looking directly at the source of the light made his eyes smart with pain, but he found that by half-closing them, he could look off into the darkness, through the brilliant cone. In the pathway of its rays danced and tumbled innumerable dust specks—he knew then but for their presence, to afford the light a reflecting surface, its rays would be invisible to him.
In color the light was not yellow, like sunlight, but had a cold violet-blue quality, more nearly resembling moonlight. Its intensity, as well as the shape of the light cone, made him conclude that it was being focused through a powerful lens, or projected by means of a brilliant reflector.
He could imagine no possible reason for the situation in which he found himself. What the purpose of the beam of light was; why it thus focused upon his upturned face, he could not guess. He thought about it for many minutes, his eyes closed, his head straining restlessly toward the soft outer darkness. Presently there flashed into his mind Dr. Hartmann's words at their last meeting: "While I know how to cure mental disorders, I also know how to create them." The thought made him shudder. Was this, then, the explanation of his predicament? Somewhere he had read, not long before, a newspaper account of the investigations of certain Italian scientists, concerning the effect of the violet and ultra-violet light rays upon the cells of the brain. He could not recollect just what the conclusions had been, but he did remember that the newspaper article spoke of the popular superstition that moonlight could cause insanity. He knew Hartmann to be a scientist of vast ability and resource, and realized that back of the elaborate preparations he had evidently made must lie some sinister purpose.
For what seemed an eternity he lay thinking, unable to come to any rational conclusion. The distressing effect of the light rays increased, rather than diminished, as his nerves became more and more unstrung. It seemed, even with, his eyes closed, that he could feel theweightof the cone of light upon his face. The desire to escape from its searching glare became well-nigh irresistible. How long would this torture continue? He began to feel intensely tired and worn out and realized that could he but shut out the blinding brilliancy which enveloped him, he would sink exhausted to sleep. Sleep! He could no more sleep, under the present conditions, than he could fly to the moon. Then there came to his mind a recollection of a form of torture practised among the Chinese, the prevention of sleep. Prisoners, he had read, were confined in a cage, in brilliant sunlight, and prevented from sleeping by being prodded from without with spears. At the expiration of a week, he had read, the victim goes raving mad. Was this, then, Hartmann's intention?
Whatever the man did, he knew he would adopt only such methods as would involve him in no damaging consequences. He might be kept in his present situation until insanity ensued, and Hartmann with his reputation as a physician, a scientist, could calmly deny any story he might tell, putting it down to the wanderings of a disordered brain. He realized the cunning of the man, his care to use no physical violence. Should he, Duvall, under the strain of the torture which he realized lay before him, consent to disclose the whereabouts of the ivory snuff box, in return for his liberty, what could he do, in retaliation? Hartmann would calmly deny his story, and would doubtless produce witnesses, such as Mayer, to prove that the detective came to him for treatment for some slight mental disorder, some lapse of memory and that the exposure to the light rays had been but part of his usual treatment. Clearly the doctor had covered his tracks most successfully.
Throughout all these torturing thoughts, the figure of Grace came and went unceasingly. What would she do—what could she do, to aid him? He had warned her not to ask Mr. Phelps to take any steps looking to his release. He realized that were Hartmann to appear now, and give him his freedom, he would not dare to accept it. That the doctor might do this very thing was his greatest fear. If he should insist upon his leaving the place, what could he do, then, to recover Monsieur de Grissac's snuff box? He prayed fervently that Dufrenne and his companions might in some way work out a plan to set matters right.
Presently he fell to thinking of the snuff box, and its safety. How fortunate it seemed, that the doctor and his man Mayer had overlooked the opera hat. He wondered if they had thought of it since? It was clear that they had not, else he would no longer be kept a prisoner. What was the room beneath the laboratory used for? Its appearance had suggested that it was not used at all—a mere lumber-room, a place for storing boxes and crates. And then there flashed into his mind the thought, where was he now? From the apparent distance of the ceiling, as shown by the beam of light, he concluded that he was lying on the floor, a conclusion which the hardness and coldness of the surface beneath him amply proved. Evidently it was a floor of stone, or cement, not one of wood. A certain sense of familiarity in his surroundings came over him. The faint radiance which was diffused about him by the light cone showed the walls before and on either side of him to be of uniform blackness, unrelieved by any suggestion of windows. He strove with all his power to pierce the shadowy gloom, to come upon some point of recognition, but the darkness baffled him.
In one corner a huge shadow, bulking formless against the wall, suggested the packing case behind which his opera hat had been tossed by Mayer during the search the night before. The thought thrilled him with renewed hope. What more likely place, after all, for Hartmann's deviltries than this silent room beneath the laboratory? If he was lying there now, and chance of escape should come, he might even yet be able to take the missing snuff box with him.
The hours dragged interminably. He was conscious of a keen feeling of pain, a smarting irritation, in his eyes, which caused tiny streams of moisture to trickle beneath their lids and roll unheeded down his cheeks. The muscles of his neck became sore and swollen, from his incessant though useless effort to turn aside his head. A dull pain began to shoot insistently through his temples, and his limbs became numb and cold. The desire to escape from the relentless brilliance of the light cone became unbearable; he felt as though, if relief did not soon come, he would shriek out in a madness of terror. Then the hopelessness of doing so became apparent, and he nerved himself with all the power of his will to endure the ever-increasing torture. Yet this torture was, he knew, largely mental—the actual pain was by no means unbearable; it was only the dull, insistent pounding of the light rays upon his eyes, his brain, from which he longed to escape. With closed eyes and tensely drawn nerves, he waited, watching the endless play of the tracery of light in the dull redness of his eyelids.
The sudden sharp rattle of a key in the door, followed by the turning of the knob, told him that someone was entering the room. He had a momentary vision of a patch of light, yellow against the surrounding blackness, which disappeared almost instantly as the door was closed. Then he was conscious of a shadowy form beside him, and heard the smooth, modulated tones of Dr. Hartmann's voice.
"Well, Mr. Duvall," he said, "how goes the treatment? Memory any better this morning?"
He made no reply. The mockery in the doctor's voice roused him to sudden and bitter anger.
"I'm trying a new modification of the light treatment upon you," Hartmann went on, with a jarring laugh. "Dr. Mentone, of Milan, has great hopes of it. Wonderful thing, these violet rays! Have you read of their use in sterilizing milk? No? The subject would interest you. How is your mind this morning? Somewhat irritated, no doubt. Well, well, that will soon wear off. You've only been under the treatment six hours. Scarcely long enough to produce much effect. We'll make it ten, the next time. It is necessary to increase gradually, in order not to superinduce insanity." He went to a switch on the wall and pressed it, and instantly the cone of light disappeared. Another movement, and the room Was flooded with the yellow glow of an electric lamp, which seemed dingy and wan, compared with the cold brilliance which it displaced.
The dispelling of darkness brought to Duvall's brain a rush of sensations, among which the knowledge that he was once more in the lumber-room beneath the laboratory stood forth with overwhelming prominence. He glanced at Hartmann with reddened eyes. "Let me up, damn you!" he shouted.
The doctor bent over him, his face smiling. "Just a moment, Mr. Duvall. Have a little patience." He began to unbuckle several straps, and presently stood back, with a wave of his hand. "Get up," he said.
The detective's swollen muscles, his stiffened limbs, still retained the sensation of being bound; he scarcely realized that his bonds had been removed. Painfully he crawled to his feet, and stood before the doctor, blinking, trying to collect his faculties. On the floor lay a number of broad leather straps, secured to iron rings which had been let into the cement floor.
His first thought was to make a quick rush at his captor, and after overpowering him, secure the snuff box and dash from the place. His eyes must have shown something of his intention, for Hartmann, stepping back a pace, drew his right hand from his pocket. It contained an ugly-looking magazine pistol. "Don't attempt anything rash, Mr. Duvall. It would be useless. Even should you succeed in disposing of me, which I hardly think possible, you could not get away from my man Mayer, who is waiting in the corridor outside. Enough of this nonsense," he went on, scowling. "I mean to be quite frank with you, my friend. I intend to subject you to this device of mine—" he waved his hand toward the opening in the ceiling—"until you disclose the whereabouts of the snuff box. I know it is somewhere near at hand, either here or in Brussels, for your two assistants, whom I have had released, have been hanging about the place all the morning. If the violet rays have no other effect, they will at least prevent you from sleeping, and my experience shows that loss of sleep, if persisted in, will shatter the best set of nerves on earth. You know what the effect is, for six hours. The next time, as I said some little while ago, we shall try ten—and after that, longer periods, until the process becomes continuous. I am giving you these brief respites, at first, because I have not the least wish to drive you mad—all I ask is the snuff box which you took from my messenger Seltz. Give it up, and you can go at your convenience. But I must have it—even if I am obliged to drive you to the limit. I advise you to save yourself much suffering, and give it to me now."
The detective drew back his arm—his fist clenched. The impulse to drive it into Hartmann's face was overpowering. He turned abruptly on his heel, and made no reply.
Hartmann waited for a moment, then seeing that his prisoner was not disposed to answer, went toward the door. "Max," he called, opening it, "bring in the tray." The attendant at once entered with a waiter containing food, which he placed on a box near the door. "Is that all?" he asked. Hartmann nodded and the man withdrew.
"Think the matter over, Mr. Duvall," the doctor remarked, as he stepped across the threshold of the door. "I shall call upon you again, later in the day."
Duvall waited until the door had been closed and locked, and the doctor's footsteps had died away up the iron staircase. He heard them for a moment, on the floor of the room above, then all was quiet.
In a moment the detective had stepped to the large box in the corner, behind which lay, he believed, the discarded opera hat. At a glance, he saw that it was still there. He was about to stoop and pick it up, when a sudden fear swept over him. Suppose he was being watched. The doctor was in the room above. The presence in the room of the beam of light showed clearly that there must be an opening in the ceiling, into the laboratory. For all he knew, Hartmann might be observing his every movement. He stopped in his attempt to pick up the hat, and pretended to be greatly interested in the box and its contents. After making a careful examination of the labels upon it, he strolled carelessly back to the other side of the room, and ate the breakfast which the attendant had left. He supposed it to be breakfast, although he had no realization of the time. In a moment he felt for his watch, and found that it was still in his pocket. When he consulted it, however, he saw at once that it had run down.
After his meal, he began to feel terribly tired and sleepy. At first he fought off the feeling, realizing that his only hope of freedom lay in keeping awake, with all his senses alert. Then he thought of the nerve-racking hours through which he had just passed; the many more which were likely to follow, and decided that he must have rest at any cost. He threw himself upon the floor, his head pillowed upon his arm, and was soon sleeping the deep sleep which follows utter exhaustion.