All during the afternoon of the day upon which she had first met her husband during his confinement at Dr. Hartmann's, Grace Duvall wandered about the place, looking for him, waiting with growing fears for his appearance. When evening came, and she had failed to find him, she became greatly alarmed. In her excitement, she forgot the word she had agreed to send into Brussels by the boy who drove the delivery wagon, and was just returning to the house when she heard someone calling to her from the drive. She turned and saw that it was the bread boy, who had stopped his cart some little distance from the veranda.
"Mademoiselle," he called, "you have dropped your handkerchief." He pointed with his whip to a white object which lay in the roadway close beside the wheels of the cart. She had not dropped her handkerchief—she knew that it was at that moment tightly clenched in her left hand, but she understood.
"Thank you," she called, and hurried toward him. The boy, meanwhile, had climbed down from the wagon, and picking up the handkerchief, which he had himself secretly dropped, handed it to her, with a polite bow. She felt, as she clutched the bit of linen, that within it lay a note.
"He is here," she said quickly, in an undertone. "The box is safe. It is hidden. They have not yet discovered it. But I am afraid something terrible has happened to Mr. Duvall. Tell them to send help, quick." She turned away, and the boy mounted his box, whistling gayly, and at once drove off.
Grace hurried to her room, to examine the note within the handkerchief. She could hardly wait to see what it contained. The contents were a great disappointment to her. "Leave the house about ten o'clock to-morrow morning," it said. That was all. She had already decided to do this, in order to effect, if possible, her husband's release. So far as the snuff box was concerned, she felt that she did not care whether the doctor discovered it or not, if only she might know that Richard was safe. All during the evening she wandered aimlessly about the house, hoping each minute that she might come upon him, but her search was in vain. Richard Duvall seemed to have vanished completely.
Once she met the doctor, just as she had given up in despair and was returning to her room. He spoke pleasantly enough, asked her how she felt, and showed much concern that she had refused to eat any supper. "You must eat, mademoiselle," he told her. "Have you taken regularly the tonic I prescribed?" She nodded, not considering it necessary to inform him that she had carefully poured it, dose by dose, into the sink. For a moment she thought of asking him what had become of Mr. Brooks, but she feared to rouse his suspicions. "I'm feeling somewhat out of sorts," she said. "I'll be all right in the morning."
"I am gratified to observe," he remarked, as she left him, "that you had no tendency to walk in your sleep last night. I trust the improvement will continue. Good-night." She could not determine whether or not there lay any hidden meaning back of his words. His mirthless smile somehow made her feel uncomfortable.
His words, however, inspired her to form a new plan. She would go to the laboratory that night, if she could by any means escape the vigilance of the woman on guard in the hall, and find out, if possible, whether or not Richard was confined there. From the windows of her room, which faced the rear of the house, she could see plainly the small square brick building in which the laboratory was located. There were lights in the floor on a level with her windows—that, she knew, was the room in which she had seen Hartmann sitting at his desk, on the night of her arrival. But there were, she knew, rooms both above and below this one, and in the latter lay hidden the Ambassador's snuff box. Was Richard confined there, as well? She determined to find out.
The woman who sat on watch in the hall came to her room at half-past ten and looked in to see if she required anything. Grace, who was just getting into bed, told her that she did not, said good-night sleepily, and asked her to turn off the lights. The woman did so, and closing the door softly, retired.
Grace lay in bed a long time, wondering how she could get down the hall, and into the passageway leading to the laboratory, without being observed. There seemed no possible way of accomplishing this, yet she was determined to attempt it. Her thoughts were interrupted by the faint ringing of an electric bell. She knew it was the one in the hall, near where the nurse sat, by which any of the patients, desiring her presence during the night, might summon her to their rooms. Grace slipped out of bed, opened her door the slightest crack, so that she could command a view of the hall, and peered out. She saw the nurse coming toward her with a glass of water in her hand. She disappeared for a moment into a room across the corridor, then reappeared almost at once and resumed her seat at the head of the stairs.
Grace was disappointed. She had been on the point of starting out, when the woman's reappearance prevented her. She crouched on the floor beside her door, waiting until the nurse should again be summoned away.
She waited for hours. She heard the church bells in the city, far off and muffled, booming the hour of midnight. The nurse on the chair yawned and nodded. After what seemed an eternity, she heard one o'clock strike, and then two. The house was shrouded in silence. Her knees were cramped and cold, from contact with the floor; her whole body seemed sore, from the nervous tension of her position. She almost screamed, when the electric bell suddenly rang out again, its sound intensified by the stillness until it seemed as though it must wake everyone in the house.
The nurse rose sleepily, glanced at the indicator on the wall which informed her from which room the summons had come, and started down the corridor toward the west wing of the building. As she passed beyond the circle of light cast by the electric globe in the central hall, Grace pushed her door open and slipped noiselessly out. For a moment she hesitated, saw the woman enter a room midway of the corridor, then flew like the wind toward the door which gave entrance to the passageway leading to the laboratory. Her bare feet made no sound, she gained the door without being discovered, and in an instant had swung it open, and was standing in the long covered way outside. She drew the door to after her noiselessly, then sank upon her knees and listened. In a short while she heard the nurse come shuffling down the corridor, and the creaking of her chair as she sank heavily into it. So far, she felt that she was safe.
She advanced along the corridor with great caution. Her chief fear was that the door of the laboratory might be locked, in which case, she would be unable to proceed further. When she reached it, and felt it yield as she slowly turned the knob, she heaved a sigh of relief. In a moment she was in the laboratory.
The room was unlighted, save for a faint glow which came from a small black box in the center of the floor. She had no idea what this box was, but noticed that heavy wires ran to it, from each side, and that there were several protuberances upon its top, which shone like brass. She did not stop to examine it further, however, but looked about for some means of reaching the room below. The idea of recovering the snuff box had suddenly occurred to her. With that in her possession, Richard, she believed, need no longer hesitate to escape at the first opportunity. He had told her that it was hidden in the room beneath. She ran quickly down the steps which she observed in one corner, feeling a glow of excitement at the daring of her quest.
At the bottom of the stairs she found a narrow little corridor with a heavy door opening on it which she judged led into the room she desired to enter. The corridor was lighted by a single window at the end opposite the staircase, through which came a faint light from without.
She groped about in the semi-darkness until she found the knob of the door and slowly turned it, pressing her weight against the panels. It did not yield. With a sickening feeling of disappointment she realized that it was locked.
She stood still for a moment, wondering what she should do next. Suddenly she shuddered, and a horrible faintness came over her. From within the room she distinctly heard the slow moaning of someone evidently in great pain. Thoughts of Richard at once rushed through her mind; she flung herself on her knees, in an agony of fear, and sought frantically for the keyhole. At last she found it, and looked into the room. The sight that met her gaze sent her reeling backward. There lay Richard, her husband, upon the floor, his face encircled by a ring of blinding light, by which she could see, with frightful distinctness, the ghastly expression of his features, the lines of agony about his eyes and mouth.
For a moment she beat frantically upon the door, calling to him incoherently. She thought he did not hear her, for he did not turn his head. Then she stopped, frightened at what she had done. Suppose the doctor were to overhear her? Everything would be lost. There was but one chance for Richard now, she felt, and that lay with her. She would leave the house, in the morning, proceed at once to the Minister's, and tell him the whole story. Snuff box or no snuff box, she was determined to rescue her husband from his present situation, if it was not already too late.
For a long time she looked into the room, watching the face, grim and silent in the circle of light. She called to him over and over, softly, telling him of her plans, of her love for him, of her sorrow, but he seemed not to hear. But for the twitching of his face, and the low moans which he uttered from time to time, she might have supposed him dead.
How she got back to her room, she could scarcely have told. She staggered up the stairs into the laboratory, out along the corridor, and at last reached the door leading into the main building. She pushed this silently open, and gazed cautiously into the hall. The nurse sat in her chair, apparently asleep. With the utmost care, Grace managed to enter the hall, and to close the door behind her. Then seeing that the woman was rousing, she determined upon a bold plan. She opened her eyes wide, trying to give them a vacant, staring appearance, and with arms extended started toward the nurse.
The latter rose with an exclamation of alarm, then recognizing the sudden apparition as Grace, came up to her, took her by the arm, and led her back to her room. She sank helplessly upon the bed, and pretended to fall asleep. Whether the woman suspected her or not, she could not tell—she noticed that she locked the door, on leaving the room.
The hours until dawn seemed interminable. She lay in bed, praying that there might yet be time in which to save Richard from Hartmann's machinations. What it was that the latter was doing to him, she could not guess, but the look of agony on Duvall's face told her that his sufferings, from some cause, were very great.
After a long time the day broke, and she dressed and managed to choke down a little breakfast. She kept in her room until long after nine o'clock, not daring to leave the house before ten. Dr. Hartmann came in just as she was preparing to go. She saw him glance quickly toward her hat, as she put it on. "I'm going in to the city, this morning, doctor," she said, carelessly. "There are a few things I must get at one of the shops."
He nodded, as though the matter were quite unimportant. "You had another attack, last night, Miss Ellicott," he said. "I regret that the symptoms have recurred."
"Did I? What did I do?" she inquired, wide-eyed.
"Nothing, luckily. Walked down the corridor a short distance, the nurse tells me. She stopped you before you got very far." He regarded her with his keen professional look. "Strange—you do not appear abnormally nervous. I fear I shall have to begin the hypnotic treatment at once."
She paid but scant attention. If she could accomplish what she hoped, this morning, neither Dr. Hartmann nor his treatments would matter in the least to her. "I am sorry it will be necessary," she said, "but of course you know best."
When she left the grounds, she watched carefully to see if she was being followed, but there was nothing to indicate that such was the case. At the corner below, a small, youngish-looking man turned in behind her. He appeared to have been walking rapidly, but she had no particular reason to believe that he was following her.
She made at once for the center of the town, determined to walk the distance rather than wait to find a cab. On the way she passed several stores, and it occurred to her to stop in at one of them and buy a pair of gloves, to lend color to her excuses. She did so, and was just going out again when she suddenly came face to face with the young man she had thought was following her. "Miss Ellicott," he said, raising his hat, and as his hand was poised before her eyes, she saw on his finger a ring similar to the one which had been given her in Paris by Monsieur Lefevre, on the day of her departure. She colored, started to pass on, then stopped. "Good-morning," she gasped, faintly.
"I'm so glad to see you," he rattled on. "Don't you remember our being introduced, at dinner one night, in Paris. I'm delighted to meet you again. On your way down-town, I suppose?" His remark seemed a question. She answered it at once. "Yes, a little shopping to do, and then I thought of stopping at the house of some friends—the United States Minister," she added, by way of explanation.
The stranger bowed. "May I have the pleasure of accompanying you?" he asked. "I also am going in that direction."
Grace assented, and they went out together. At the door the man summoned a cab. "It is safer," he whispered. "We may be observed."
Once inside the cab, which was a closed one, the young man began to ply Grace with questions. "I am one of Monsieur Lefevre's men," he told her, noting her momentary hesitation. "Be quite frank, please, and tell me everything."
When she had finished her story, he sat in silence for a long time. Then he turned to her with a question which made her think he had suddenly lost his mind. "Has Dr. Hartmann a phonograph in the house?" he inquired.
"A phonograph?" she looked at him curiously.
"Yes—yes." His voice betrayed his excitement. "We must send a message to Mr. Duvall. Your windows overlook the room where he is confined. He may hear it. It is the only way."
"Yes," she said, after a moment's thought. "There is a phonograph in the library—a small one. It is seldom used. But Dr. Hartmann—"
"Listen to me," he interrupted, "and do exactly as I say. Pretend to be ill. Ask Dr. Hartmann's permission to have the instrument moved to your room. Then play the records which I am about to get for you."
She gazed at him, scarcely understanding. "But—" she began.
"Of course you will play other records, as well, but this one you must play often—as often as possible. I do not know that Mr. Duvall will understand what the message is—it is a chance, but we must take it. I myself do not understand it very clearly, but the suggestion comes from Monsieur Lefevre himself. You know him. He has your husband's safety at heart." He leaned out, giving a few rapid instructions to the cabman, and then once more turned to Grace.
"Do not visit the house of the United States Minister. It will be most unwise. As soon as he learns that Mr. Duvall and yourself are at Dr. Hartmann's house as spies, he will of necessity refuse to assist you further. Should he not do so, should he demand Mr. Duvall's release, nothing would be gained, since the snuff box would of necessity be left behind. Dr. Hartmann will not injure your husband—he is too anxious to get possession of the snuff box for that. We will try the phonograph, to-day, and if that means is unsuccessful, we must make an attempt to regain the box, and release your husband by force."
As he finished speaking, the cab drew up at a music store. The stranger sprang out, and in a few moments reappeared with a small package in his hand. He handed it to her, then removed his hat and bowed. "I would suggest, mademoiselle, that you return at once, and make use of this as I have directed. If anything further occurs, send word by the delivery boy to-night." He bowed, and walked rapidly down the street.
Grace sadly ordered the cabman to return to Dr. Hartmann's, and then sat back, her mind torn by conflicting emotions. The whole thing seemed inexplicably mysterious and confusing. Here was Richard, her husband, suffering she knew not what agonies at Dr. Hartmann's hands, and these people, who ought to be attempting to liberate him, asked her to play upon the phonograph. She tore open the package which the young man had handed her, and glanced at it eagerly. Its title told her no more than the stranger himself had done. She read it over and over, aimlessly. It wasThe Rosary.
The dull, heavy sleep into which Richard Duvall had fallen, after Dr. Hartmann had left him, was suddenly disturbed by the realization that someone had seized him roughly by the arms. He attempted to rise, struggling instinctively against the two men who, he dimly saw, were bending over him, but his resistance was useless. In a moment the leather straps which encircled his wrists and ankles had been drawn tight, and he felt himself being lifted bodily and deposited on the floor in the center of the room. At first he cried out, cursing his captors loudly, but an instant's reflection showed him how profitless his remonstrances were, and he allowed himself to be bound to the floor in silence. In a moment, Dr. Hartmann—the detective saw that it was he, with Mayer—had switched on the violet light, and he once more felt its blinding radiance upon his face.
Hartmann opened the door. "I shall be back again in a few hours," he said, as he left the room. "I hope that by that time you will have quite recovered your senses."
The detective made no reply. He had definitely made up his mind upon one point: he was not going to purchase his freedom at the expense of his duty. The unfortunate situation in which he now found himself was, he knew very well, entirely his own fault, and his desire to atone for his momentary carelessness made him determined not to accede to Dr. Hartmann's demands. He hoped that his friends outside—Lablanche, Dufrenne, even Grace—might be able to come to his assistance. If he could only know that the snuff box was safe in Monsieur Lefevre's hands, the rest did not matter much.
These thoughts passed through his mind as he lay with closed eyes, his face quivering under the dazzling light which fell upon it. Its intensity was, he thought, greater, if anything, than it had been before, and the irritating effect upon his eyes more pronounced. He did not open his eyes at all, on this occasion, for fear even a momentary exposure would increase their sensitiveness.
Slowly the day passed. He concluded that it was afternoon, when he heard far off a bell striking the hour of two, although it might equally well have been two o'clock in the morning, for all he could tell. There was a faint hum of conversation in the laboratory above him, which convinced him that it was still day.
Presently his ear, acutely sensitive to the slightest noise which might disturb the stillness about him, became aware of a faint sound of music, which seemed to come to him from a long distance off. It was a popular French march, and from a certain quality of the notes he concluded that it was being played upon a phonograph. The strains of the music distracted him, took his mind from the things about him, and as he listened to it, it seemed that the effort of keeping his eyes tightly closed grew sensibly less, the blinding pressure of the unwavering light cone upon his face appreciably easier to bear. He knew that this was but a momentary relief, but he welcomed it eagerly. Lying in this terrifying silence, under the cruel glare of light, had become frightful—he wondered if, after all, his nerves, his mind, could long stand the strain.
The music stopped suddenly. He found himself eagerly hoping that there would be more. In a few moments it began again, and he was listening to the familiar strains ofThe Rosary. He had always liked the song—Grace, too, had been fond of it. He wondered if she could be playing to him, trying to soothe his fast-shattering nerves with music. It pleased him to think that it might be so, although he had no reason to suppose that Grace knew of the torture to which Dr. Hartmann was subjecting him.
After a time, the final strains ofThe Rosarydied away, to be followed by a German march, played by some military band. This, too, he was glad to hear, although he found himself thinking that he preferredThe Rosary. As if in answer to his thoughts, it began again—he found himself repeating the words to himself mechanically, and thinking of Grace.
The music continued for long over an hour. Duvall noted with surprise that while there were many other selections,The Rosarywas played almost every other time. So often, in fact, did its strains break the stillness, that he became annoyed—in his nervous state this constant repetition of the song worried him. After a time he shuddered when he heard it, hoping that each time would be the last. No one but an imbecile, he muttered to himself, could enjoy playing a piece over and over in that aimless fashion. When at last the impromptu concert had ceased, and the silence about him was once more unbroken, he found himself puzzling in vain over the matter, as though it had become of vast importance to him.
After the music ceased, he realized how much it had helped him to endure the two or more hours which had elapsed since Hartmann left him. His real tortures were only just beginning. The constant blaze of light on his face, the ceaseless effort to keep his eyes closed, to turn his head away, in spite of the bonds which prevented it, once more almost frenzied him. He fell to wondering whether Hartmann had been in earnest, when he told him of the qualities of the violet rays. Could they in any way affect his mind? The mere thought stimulated his imagination to such an extent that already he was convinced that his senses were wandering—that his mind was becoming sluggish and dull.
As hour after hour passed, this thought became almost a certainty. His head began again to ache terribly, his eyes seemed to swim in pools of liquid fire. Bright flashes of light darted through his brain, and at times it seemed almost on fire. The pain which the constant effort to turn his head caused, was becoming more acute as each minute passed—he felt constantly on the point of screaming out in terror—begging for release—agreeing to do anything they asked of him. Then with a mighty effort of the will he would calm himself, and closing his eyes tightly once more, determine to endure until the end.
After an interminable period, the sound of the music once more fell upon his troubled brain. This time the strains sounded more distinct and clear. Three times in rapid successionThe Rosarywas played, then sudden silence. He waited in vain for more—dreading the recurrence of the song, yet expecting it, as one expects the continuance of any oft-repeated sound. There was nothing further, however, and once more the silence became like the darkness about him, a grim and positive thing.
Hours later, when his brain reeled endlessly in a blazing redness, and his tortured eyes seemed bursting from their sockets, the cone of violet light vanished as though some silent hand had brushed it aside, and in the reaction he fainted.
He awoke again to find himself lying on the floor, with Hartmann bending over him, feeling his pulse. In a fit of rage, he struck out with his clenched hand, and missing, scrambled to his feet. The room was faintly lit by the single electric globe, and he saw Mayer and Dr. Hartmann confronting him, the latter with a revolver in his hand. Once more he realized the futility of resistance, and sank against a packing box, his hand covering his burning eyes.
The latter appeared to be no longer in his former state of sardonic good nature. "Are you ready to tell us what you have done with the box?" he snarled.
Duvall made no reply, and this angered the doctor still further. "I'll give you an hour to think the matter over," he said, furiously. "And if you don't come to terms by that time, you shall stay under the influence of the light until you do." He turned toward the door, followed by Mayer, and in a moment they had left the room.
Duvall, in his pain and distress, realized that something would have to be done at once, within the next hour, in fact, or he would be obliged to give up. Physical torture he could stand, but to lie here silently, under that cruel radiance, and realize that his brain was slowly giving way, he felt he could not endure.
Yet what was there that he could do? The walls of the room, of solid brick, he could not hope to penetrate. The door, of iron, a dozen men could not break through. He forced his shoulder against it, and laughed bitterly as he realized that with all his strength he could not even cause it to give the fraction of an inch. He determined to get the snuff box—to examine it—reckless of his fear of being observed. In a moment he had snatched the opera hat from the corner, torn out the lining, and held the box in his hand.
He paused for a moment, listening intently. Everything about him was still. There were no sounds from the laboratory above. He remembered now that he had not heard Hartmann and his companion ascend the iron stairway. Doubtless they had returned to the main building by means of the lower corridor.
In a moment he had hung the torn opera hat over the knob of the door, to prevent anyone from observing him through the keyhole, and going directly beneath the bracket which held the electric globe, proceeded to examine the box carefully.
The first thought that came to his mind, filled him with a strange feeling of hope. He had no more than glanced at the top of the box when he saw what he had previously failed to observe, that the circle of pearls upon its top formed a rosary, which was completed by the ivory cross in the center. The Rosary! Why had this song been so persistently and continuously played? Was it for him, some message, indeed, intended to show him a way out of his difficulties? Yet if so, to what did it lead? There was a rosary upon the top of the box, it is true, but what of it? Absently he began to count the pearls, hardly realizing what he was doing. One of them, he noted, the one at the very top of the cross, was larger than the others, and he started here, slowly counting around the circumference of the box. His eyes pained him frightfully and twice he lost count and had to begin all over again, but on the third attempt he discovered that the pearls numbered twenty-six. Even yet, the significance of this fact did not occur to him—he began to count the pearls again, mechanically.
Then suddenly, in a flash, the thing came to him. Twenty-six pearls—twenty-six letters in the alphabet. Evidently the box, in some way, formed a cipher, a secret alphabet, which might be used in correspondence, or in the preparation of important documents, yet how—how?
With repressed eagerness he held the box more closely to the light, searching its surface for some further clue. At once he noticed the arrangement of the concentric circles of letters which made up the Latin prayer. The words were so written that each letter stood opposite a pearl, and reading inward from each pearl, there was a row of letters six deep reaching almost to the center of the box. Clearly here were six different ciphers, that is, six circles of twenty-six letters each, any one of which might constitute a working cipher. It was only necessary to call the big pearl at the top "A," and here were six different letters opposite it, any one of which, in a system of cipher writing, might be used as the letterA.
Duvall, however, knew enough about ciphers to know that such an arrangement constituted no cipher at all, in other words, that ciphers so simple, so readily solved, as this, would never be employed in any case where absolute secrecy was imperative. He felt that there was something more to the matter than he had so far discovered.
Suddenly he saw that, just beyond each pearl, was engraved on the ivory rim of the box a number—starting with the large pearl at the top as number one, the circle of numbers ran around the edge of the box until it returned to its starting point, at number twenty-six. In his efforts to see these numbers, which were very small, he gripped the box tightly in his hands to hold it the more steadily toward the rather dim light. In doing so, he suddenly became aware of the fact that the rim or edge of the box, containing the numbers and the circle of pearls, was movable. It fitted so cunningly into the top of the box, that the joint appeared not as a crack or perceptible space, but merely as a fine thin line, apparently a part of the engraving on its surface. Holding the lower part of the box firmly in his left hand, he turned the rim of the top slowly about. At once the purpose of this became apparent. Not only had each pearl, representing a letter of the alphabet, six corresponding values from rim to center, in any one position, but by turning the rim around, twenty-six such positions could be secured, making a total of one hundred and fifty-six different alphabets from which a person desiring to use a cipher might choose.
Again, however, Duvall was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. One hundred and fifty-six different ciphers were no better than a single one, if only one were used. Evidently he had not yet reached the solution of the problem. In employing such a system of ciphers, some combination, precisely similar to the combinations used on the locks of safes, would have to be used. It was absolutely necessary, in order to insure safety, to use not one cipher, but a large number, changing the arrangement of the letters with each line written—even with each word, in order to defy solution. Yet such an arrangement being purely arbitrary, could not well be trusted to memory, for, once forgotten, the translation of the document written, even by the writer himself, would be absolutely impossible. It occurred to him that as there were six different concentric lines of lettering, each constituting in itself a complete cipher, the obvious way to use the box would be to place the pearls in a given position, write six words, using a different alphabet for each word, and then shift the ring of pearls to a new position, and repeat the operation. This, of course, could be done indefinitely, although half a dozen changes would be sufficient to insure a cipher that would absolutely defy solution. Where, however, was the key? That, after all, was the important matter; without it, the snuff box would be as useless to Monsieur de Grissac as it would be to his enemies themselves.
For many minutes Duvall puzzled over the matter, unable to reach any satisfactory conclusion. Then he began to think of the song which had so clearly been repeated, over and over, as a message to him from outside. The words of the refrain began to run aimlessly through his mind, his eyes upon the box. Suddenly he realized that the word cross, in its repetitions, its position as the final word of the song, must have a definite meaning. Before his eyes he saw the cross, so delicately carved as to project scarcely an eighth of an inch above the thin and fragile ivory surface. Instinctively he began to push at it, pressing it this way and that, to discover, if possible, any spring or other means whereby it might be made to turn or lift up. As he did so, his fingers unconsciously pressed upon the large pearl at the top. In a moment the upper surface of the cross slid to one side, disclosing a tiny shallow cavity beneath it, some quarter of an inch in either direction, and no deeper than the thickness of a piece of cardboard. Within this lay a bit of tissue paper, tightly folded.
Duvall drew it carefully out and examined it. Upon it were written six numbers: 12-16-2-8-20-4. There was nothing else upon the paper, but Duvall realized that he held in his hand the key of the cipher.
At once Monsieur de Grissac's agitation, the servant Noël's death, Hartmann's persecution of him, became clear. Evidently there were documents, somewhere, of some nature, which this cipher made intelligible and which, without it, were proof against all attempts to read them. What were these documents? Were they in Hartmann's hands? These questions, he knew, could not be answered now.
Immediately the question rose in his mind: What should he do next? By destroying the tiny slip of paper, he could render the snuff box valueless. Without the key, no one could use it with success. But, the key once destroyed, how could Monsieur de Grissac himself read the documents, for the preparing of which it had been utilized? Possibly, if Hartmann had such documents, they were but copies, obtained through the corruption of some clerk, while the originals remained in De Grissac's possession. For these reasons he dared not destroy the cipher, at least until all other means of escape had been exhausted. Then he realized, in a flash, that if he proposed to utilize the return of the snuff box as a means of obtaining his freedom, he could not hope to do so, if the key was removed. Doubtless Hartmann knew of its existence. In some way he had learned, possibly through the murdered man Noël, that the box contained such a key, and would examine it, and satisfy himself that it had not been removed, before he would allow him to leave the place. This would inevitably result in his being searched, and the key, concealed about his person, found. He stood in an agony of doubt, wondering which alternative he should take.
His reflections were rudely disturbed by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside the door. In a moment he had replaced the tiny bit of paper in the recess beneath the cross, slid the latter back into place, and thrust the box beneath a mass of straw which lay on top of the packing case against which he had been leaning. Then he turned toward the door and had barely time to hurl the opera hat into a dark corner, when the door opened, and Hartmann appeared on the threshold.
It was not until early in the afternoon that Grace was able to accomplish anything toward carrying out the instructions which young Lablanche had given her with respect to the phonograph. On her return to Dr. Hartmann's from her expedition to Brussels, she went at once to her room, and locked the record which Lablanche had given her in her trunk. There was nothing to be done now, until after luncheon.
When the meal was over, she asked one of the attendants, who seemed to be a sort of housekeeper, or head nurse, if there would be any objection to her taking the phonograph, which was a small and rather cheap affair, to her room. She wished to amuse herself, she explained, playing over some of the records.
The woman regarded her curiously for a moment, but as there seemed nothing out of the way in the request, she assented, with the caution, however, that she should not use the instrument except during the day. "Some of our patients are very nervous," she explained. "It might annoy them, if they were sleeping. Of course, if there are any complaints, you will not continue."
Grace got one of the nurses to carry the instrument to her room, and selected several records from those which she found in a cabinet on which it stood. There were several American records—she took all of these, and some others selected at random.
She did not play The Rosary at once, but made use of one of the other records. The horn of the instrument she directed toward the open window. When she had finished the first air, and adjusted her own record upon the plate of the machine, she felt afraid that it might at once be recognized as strange and new, but apparently no one paid any attention to it.
She continued her playing as long as she dared without running the risk of attracting undue attention. When at last she stopped, she felt as though she never wanted to hear the strains of The Rosary again.
After dinner, she determined to disregard the suggestion of the housekeeper to confine her playing to the daytime, and moving the machine somewhat nearer the window, played the song over three times in rapid succession. She had just begun to rewind the clockwork for a fourth time when there was a loud knocking at the door, and Dr. Hartmann entered hastily in response to her rather frightened "Come in."
He was scowling fiercely, and took no pains to conceal the fact that he was angry. "Miss Ellicott," he growled, "we cannot possibly permit you to play the instrument any longer. It annoys the other patients. I am surprised that my housekeeper did not inform you so at once. Several have already complained. I shall have to take it back to the library." He gathered up the instrument and started toward the door, then seemed for a moment to regret his brusqueness. "You will pardon me, I know, but it is quite out of the question. Good-evening." In a moment he had gone.
Grace sat down and burst into tears. It was not the taking away of the phonograph which distressed her—she felt that if anything could be accomplished by its use, it had already been done—but the hopelessness of the whole situation.
Nearly eighteen hours had elapsed, since she had stolen, half-fainting, from the sight of Richard's white and agonized face. Even Lablanche's assurances that Hartmann would do her husband no serious injury, failed to comfort her. The whole affair of the phonograph seemed trivial and useless. What message could the words of this song give him—what in fact could they mean to anyone, except a message of hopeless love?
When the hour for going to bed had come, she threw herself, without undressing, on the bed, and lay sleepless, in the darkened room. The vision of Richard, as she had seen him, his face within the circle of light, the night before, tortured her incessantly. It seemed somehow so wrong, so cowardly of her, to lie here in comfort doing nothing to aid him who, in name at least, was united to her forever, and in love was more dear to her than her own soul. She could not sleep, and presently rose and sat at the window, her elbows resting upon the sill, gazing hungrily out at the little square brick building where she knew Richard lay confined.
The hours of the night dragged along on leaden feet. Once she heard the closing of a door, and the sound of footsteps echoing faintly upon the cement floor of the lower corridor. Within the laboratory all seemed dark. Evidently the doctor was not there. Then she heard, through her half-opened door, noises of persons walking in the lower hallway of the main building and after that the sharp closing of a door. She concluded that Hartmann had gone into his office.
The woman on duty in the hall sat in her chair, reading and yawning. After a time, Grace heard the faint ringing of her bell, and the woman, after consulting the indicator, began to descend the stairs with a surprised look upon her face. It seemed like a providential opportunity. She slipped quietly through the doorway and sped as swiftly as she could down the hall.
She reached the door opening into the corridor, without hearing or seeing anything to cause her alarm, and passed through it unseen. As she closed it behind her, she fancied she heard someone walking quickly along the corridor beneath. The passageway in which she stood was in reality nothing but a covered bridge, a few feet wide, built for the sole purpose of providing a means of passing to the laboratory from the second floor of the main building. Beneath it, a similar passageway connected the ground floors of the two buildings.
She realized that anyone in the corridor beneath her could readily hear her footsteps on the wooden floor above, and stood, hesitating, just inside the door, waiting until they should have passed. In a few moments, the sounds below ceased, and silence again reigned.
With great timidity and caution, she began to walk toward the laboratory door. In the center of the corridor, and half way down its length, a single electric lamp shed a dim light on her path. She realized that if, by chance, anyone should be within the darkened laboratory, they could readily see her approaching, and therefore assumed once more the manner and bearing of a person walking in their sleep. She had passed the light in the middle of the corridor, and was nearing the darkened laboratory door, when suddenly she heard a faint click, and almost at once the laboratory was brilliantly illuminated.
By the light which suddenly flashed upon her, she saw two figures standing in the open door of the laboratory, watching her intently. One of these figures was Dr. Hartmann, the other the tall blond man she had seen with him in the laboratory several nights before. But it was not the sudden appearance of the two watching figures which caused her heart to sink, and a cold perspiration to break out upon her forehead. The sudden rush of light upon the floor of the passageway had shown her something else—something far more strange and terrifying. As her gaze swept ahead, she saw that, for a space of some four or five feet, in front of the laboratory door, the wooden planking which constituted the floor of the passageway had been removed, and instead of the solid foot-way there yawned blackly an impassable opening, through which, in another moment, she would plunge headlong to the concrete floor of the corridor beneath.
The sight filled her with dismay. She realized at once why Hartmann and his companion stood there watching her—why the section of flooring had been removed. He had evidently become suspicious of her movements, the night before, and had laid this trap to test her. If she was in truth walking in her sleep, she would, she supposed, walk fearlessly into the yawning gap before—if her somnambulism was a sham, a trick, she would hesitate, and her fraud be discovered.
She did not know what to do, as step by step she approached that black and gaping hole. If she kept up her pretense, if she had sufficient courage to go ahead, of what would it avail Richard or Monsieur Lefevre, should she maintain her assumed character at the expense of a broken leg, or neck? On the other hand, to halt, to hold back, would be to destroy at once all chance of her being of any further service to her husband, and that, too, at a time when he most sorely needed her.
These considerations flashed through her brain with the speed of light itself. She had scarcely taken half a dozen steps before she found herself upon the brink of the opening, and realized that the next step, if she took it, might be her last.
Then she suddenly collapsed. The effort was too great—she sank helplessly upon the floor, her face buried in her arms, her whole body shaking with the force of her sobbing.
In an instant Hartmann had sprung across the opening and grasped her by the wrist, while his companion was engaged in rapidly replacing over the gap the section of flooring which had been removed. Within a few moments the passageway was as it had been before, and the doctor was dragging her roughly into the laboratory.
She did not cry out—there was no one from whom she could expect aid. She drew herself up and faced her captor with dry eyes and a face calm, though pale. "What do you mean, Dr. Hartmann," she demanded, steadily, "by treating me in this way?"
He forced her into a chair. "Sit down, young woman," he said, gruffly. "I have a few questions to ask you."
She did so, without protest, summoning to her aid all her powers of resistance and will. He should get nothing from her, she determined.
"Why have you come into my house," he presently asked, glaring at her in anger, "under pretense of desiring medical treatment? What is it you want here?"
She made no reply, gazing at him steadily—fearlessly.
"What is this man Duvall to you?" he shouted. "Tell me, or it will be the worse for you both."
Again she faced him, refusing to answer. Her resistance made him furious. "Your silence will profit you nothing," he went on. "You can do no further harm here, for I know your purpose. You are working with him—you are a detective—a spy, as he is. You pretend to be a somnambulist in order to carry out your ends. I suspected you long ago. Now I know. This man has robbed me of something that I am determined to have. What he has done with it—where it is concealed, I do not know, but I mean to have it—be sure of that. If you know—you had better confess, if you have any regard for his welfare."
His words, his brutal manner, brought the tears to her eyes. She realized that she had but to say a few words, to save Richard from she knew not what fate, yet equally she knew that she could not say them—that he would not want her to say them. In her agitation she took a handkerchief from her dress and pressed it to her eyes.
The man Mayer had been regarding her in silence throughout the whole scene. Suddenly he stepped forward and snatched the handkerchief from her hand. His quick eyes had detected a monogram in one corner of the bit of cambric, and with an air of triumph he held it beneath the light, examining it closely.
Hartmann came to him. "What is it, Mayer?" he asked, eagerly.
His assistant extended the handkerchief to him. Grace realized with a sinking heart that it was one of several she had herself embroidered during the weeks preceding her marriage. With what pride, she reflected, she had worked over the G and D, lovingly intertwined in one corner. "His wife!" she heard Hartmann cry, with a harsh laugh. "That explains everything. That was why he did not leave Brussels at once—he was waiting for her—he would not go without her." He turned to Grace with a new expression on his face. "So you are his wife, eh? Very well. Now we shall see whether or not you will tell me what I want to know. Your husband is confined in the room below us. This"—he indicated the small black box with wires attached—"is a device which I have constructed for producing certain light rays—light rays which have a marvelous power, both for curing, and producing disease. Look!" He held his powerful hand before her eyes. "This is what they did to me, before I discovered how to control them." She saw, stretching across the back of his hand and wrist, a broad red patch, like the scar remaining after a burn. "Now come here." He seized her by the wrist and dragged her toward the apparatus at the center of the room. "Look—in there." He indicated a short brass tube which rose from the center of the box, resembling the eyepiece of a microscope. "Look!"
Grace bent over and applied her eye to the brass tube, then shrank back with an exclamation of horror. "Richard!" she screamed, then turned on Hartmann with the fury of a tigress. "Let him go—let him go—I say, or I will—" She realized her helplessness—the futility of her threats, and fell into the chair in a paroxysm of sobbing. Through the brass tube, and the powerful lens which focused the light rays upon the space below, she had seen Richard's face, white and drawn, within a disk of blinding light, and apparently so near to her that she could have reached out and touched it. In her momentary glance, she noted his reddened eyes, the tears which coursed from beneath their lids, the agony which distorted his countenance.
"Now will you tell me what I ask?" cried Hartmann, triumphantly.
Still she made no reply. Her heart was breaking, her suffering at the knowledge of his suffering made her faint and weak, but even now she could not bring herself to break the trust which Monsieur Lefevre had placed in her. She sat huddled up in the chair, shaking from head to foot with sobs.
Hartmann saw that her resistance was as yet unbroken. "Take her arm, Mayer," he called out, as he seized her by one wrist. "Come along now. We'll see if a closer view will have any effect." He snatched up a broad leather strap from a shelf along the wall, then, with Mayer's assistance, half-led, half dragged her to the iron stairway in the corner. In a few moments they had paused before the door of the room where the detective lay confined. Hartmann threw it open and pushed Grace inside, while he and Mayer followed, closing the door behind them.
For a moment Grace was dazzled by the brightness of the light cone, and the darkness of the remainder of the room. Then seeing Richard lying helpless on the floor before her, she threw herself to her knees, put her arms about his neck, and covered his face with kisses. "My darling—my poor boy!" she cried, as she bent over him, her shoulders shutting off from his tortured face the blinding rays of the light. "What have they done to you?"
Grace had remained upon her knees beside the prostrate figure of her husband but a moment, when she was torn away by Hartmann and his assistant, and before she realized their intention, the former had slipped about her waist the broad leather strap he had brought from the room above, and was busy securing it to an iron staple fixed in the wall at one side of the room. Then he stood back and surveyed the scene with a smile of satisfaction.
"You see, Mayer," he observed, grimly, "my purpose. The wife sees the husband's suffering. If he refuses to speak, she will speak. One or the other will tell us what we want to know, of that you may be sure. Let us leave them to talk matters over." He and his man at once left the room, and in a few moments Grace heard their footsteps upon the floor of the laboratory above.
"Richard," she cried, softly, "are you suffering very much?"
"Never mind, dear," he said, trying vainly to turn his head so that he might see her. "What has happened—why have they brought you here?"
She told him her story, brokenly, with many sobs. "I could not help it, Richard," she moaned. "I did my best. I could not help their finding out everything."
"I know it, dear. You have done all you could. Is there any news from outside?"
"None. They told me to play the phonograph to send you a message. Did you hear it?"
"Yes, I heard, and understood."
"Understood? Then you know something—you have some hope?"
"I do not know. It may be, although I cannot see what to do now. I dare not tell you more than that—these scoundrels are undoubtedly listening in the room above."
"Richard, what is that light? What is it they mean to do to you? Dr. Hartmann showed me his hand—it was all scarred and burned. He said it came from that." She looked toward the glowing cone of light with bitter anger.
"I do not know—exactly. I am not sure. The agony of the thing is very great—it burns into my eyes—into my brain. Hartmann says it will produce insanity. I do not know whether this is true or not. I begin to feel that perhaps it may be—not that the light itself can produce it, but that inability to sleep, pain, nervous exhaustion, the constant glare and brilliance before my eyes—those things might cause a man to go insane, if they were kept up long enough."
"But—he—he will not dare to do that."
Duvall groaned, striving in vain to turn his head to one side. "He intends to keep me here, until I tell him where he can find the snuff box," he gasped.
"Richard!" Grace fairly screamed out his name. "Then you must tell—youmust! You cannot let yourself go mad—not even for Monsieur Lefevre."
"I shall not tell—no matter what comes," he replied.
"ThenIwill. I refuse to let you suffer like this. I can't do it, I won't. If you do not speak, I shall. Oh, my God! Don't you see—I love you—I love you so—what do I care about this foolish snuff box? I want you—you—and Iwon'tlet them take you away from me."
"Grace, you shall not tell them."
"I will."
"I forbid it."
"I cannot help it, Richard. I am ready to disobey you—if I must, to save your life. Even if you turn from me—afterward—I cannot help it. I refuse to let them go ahead with this thing."
He groaned in desperation. "Please—please—my girl—listen to me. You must not speak. We must think of our duty to those who have trusted us. Wait, I implore you. Don't do this!"
"I will. I have a duty to you which is greater than my duty to them. Dr. Hartmann!" she screamed. "I will tell everything—everything." She collapsed against the wall and sobbed as though her heart would break.
In a few moments they heard Hartmann and Mayer descending the steps, and the door was thrown open.
"Ah, so you have come to your senses, have you?" the doctor cried. "Well, what have you to say?"
Grace raised her head. "If I tell you where the ivory snuff box is hidden," she said, "will you let my husband go?"
"Yes. Your husband, and yourself, and the rat we've just caught sneaking around outside. He's up in the laboratory now. You can all take yourselves off as quickly as you like, when once the snuff box is in my hands. Now speak."
"First, let my husband up."
Hartmann went to the wall, and switching off the violet rays, turned on the electric lamp, then nodded to Mayer. "Unbind him," he said.
Duvall staggered to his feet, half-blinded. As he did so, Hartmann turned to Grace. "Speak!" he commanded. "We are wasting time."
Before Grace could reply, Duvall turned to her.
"I forbid you," he cried. "If you do this thing, I will never see you again as long as I live. You are destroying my honor. I refuse to let you do it. Stop!"
The girl hesitated, and Hartmann swore a great oath. "Take her out of here, Mayer," he cried. "She'll never speak, as long as her husband is present to dissuade her. Up with her to the laboratory. She'll talk there, quick enough."
"No!" Duvall staggered toward her. "You shall not." His movements were slow and uncertain, due to the blinding pain in his eyes, and his stiffened, nerve-racked limbs. Hartmann pushed him aside angrily. "Be quiet," he growled. "Let the woman alone."
Meanwhile Hartmann's companion had torn away the strap which bound Grace to the wall and was leading her to the door. Her husband's efforts to detain her, weak and uncertain, were easily frustrated by Hartmann. In a few moments the door had swung shut upon the detective, and she was being led up the steps to the room above.
Here she fell into a chair, and looking about, saw huddled on a couch in the far corner of the room a little, bent old man, who sat with his white head bowed upon his breast, his hands tied behind his back. Hartmann went over to him and unfastened his bonds. "You will be happier in a moment, my friend," he laughed. "This lady is going to set you free."
Dufrenne—for it was he—sprang to his feet. "How?" he demanded. "How?" As he spoke, he crossed the room, his eyes gleaming, and faced Grace as she sat in the chair.
"Wait and see, old man," said Hartmann, roughly. "Stand aside, please." He pushed Dufrenne impatiently away. "Now, young woman, where is the ivory snuff box?"
Grace raised her head to reply, when the little old Frenchman turned to her, pale with anger. "No!" he shouted, starting forward. "You shall not do this thing. Would you be a traitor to France!"
Grace looked at him and shuddered. His face was quivering with emotion—his eyes burned with piercing brightness, he seemed about to spring at her, in his rage. In a moment Hartmann had turned on him. "Be quiet!" he roared. "I want no interference from you. Mayer!" He pointed a trembling forefinger at the old Frenchman. "Take this fellow away."
Mayer took Dufrenne by the arm and twisted it cruelly. "No nonsense, now!" he growled, thrusting the old man toward the couch upon which he had been sitting. "Hold your tongue, or it will be worse for you." Dufrenne resisted him as best he could, but his age and feebleness rendered him helpless. He sank upon the couch, with tears of anger starting to his eyes.
Grace dared not look at him. The enormity of the thing she was about to do appalled her. Yet there was Richard, her husband; Richard, whom she loved with all her soul, in the room below, facing madness, death. The love she felt for him overmastered all other considerations. She turned to Hartmann with quivering face. "The box is in the room below," she cried, in a voice shaking with emotion.
"Mon Dieu—mon Dieu!" she heard Dufrenne gasp, as he started from the couch. "You have ruined us all."
Hartmann and Mayer gazed at each other incredulously. "Impossible!" the former gasped. "Impossible!" Then he turned to Grace. "Girl, are you telling me the truth?"
She nodded, bowing her head upon her hands. She could not trust herself to speak.
"Where? Where in that room could it be hidden? Tell me!" he shook her angrily by the arm. "Haven't we wasted enough time over this thing?"
Still she made no reply. Now that she had told them, a sudden revulsion swept over her. She hated herself for what she had done, hated Hartmann, hated Monsieur Lefevre for placing her in this cruel situation.
Hartmann dragged her roughly to her feet. "If the box is in the room below, come with me and find it."
He hurried her toward the staircase. "Come along, Mayer," he called over his shoulder. "Bring that fellow with you. It won't be safe to leave him." As she descended the steps, Grace heard the other two close behind her. The Frenchman staggered along like a man in a daze, offering no resistance.
When they burst into the room in which Duvall was confined, they found the latter standing beneath the electric lamp, a look of determination upon his face. He regarded them steadily, in spite of his reddened and burning eyes.
Hartmann paid little attention to him. He was too greatly interested in the movements of Grace. "Now," he said, "where is it? You say the snuff box is here—in this room. Find it."
She hesitated, looking at her husband pitifully. What would he think of her? Would he, too, regard her as a traitor, a weak and contemptible creature, forever barred from love and respect, false to her duty, her honor? His face told her nothing. He was regarding her impassively. She remembered now that he had said that he would never see her again if she disobeyed him. Then she turned away, her mind made up. She would save him, come what might. He had told her that the box was hidden in an opera hat, in one corner of the room. She glanced about quickly, trying to discover its whereabouts in one of the dark corners.
Duvall saw her intention. He took a step forward, and addressed Hartmann. "You have forced this girl, through her love for me, to betray a great trust. I prefer that, if anyone here is to become a traitor, it shall be myself." He thrust his hand into the pocket of his coat, and extended a round white object toward the astonished doctor. "Here is the snuff box."
Dufrenne, for the moment left unguarded by Mayer, sprang forward with a fierce cry. "No—no—no!" he screamed. "You shall not—you shall not."
"Out of my way!" exclaimed the doctor, brushing the old man aside as easily as though the latter had been a child. With eager hands he took the box, and going to the light, bent over it. As he saw the pearls, the cross, his face lit up with delight. "This is it, Mayer. Just as the valet described it." He gave the ring of pearls a swift turn, then pressed immediately upon the larger one of the circle and slid the top of the ivory cross to one side. Duvall, who was watching him with interest, concluded that from some source, probably through Monsieur de Grissac's dead servant, Dr. Hartmann had learned thoroughly the secret of the box.
With a cry of satisfaction the latter drew out from the tiny recess the slip of folded paper, glanced at the row of numbers written upon it, then passed it over to Mayer. The latter nodded his head. "Now we are all right," he muttered. "This is easily worth a million francs."
"Money doesn't measure its value, my friend," the doctor remarked, gravely, as he replaced the slip of paper beneath the cross and put the box carefully into his pocket.
During these few moments, Dufrenne had been observing the doctor with bulging eyes. Suddenly he turned on the detective. "May the good God curse you and your woman for this," he cried, hoarsely, "until the day of your death. May He turn all men against you, and make your name a despised and dishonored one forever. You have been false to your duty—false to France. You are a traitor, a contemptible dog of a traitor, and you deserve to die." His whole body shook with passion as he poured the fury of his wrath upon the man before him.
Duvall sank weakly against the packing case behind him. Suffering, lack of sleep and food, the burning pain in his eyes and brain, threatened to overcome him. "Let me alone," he gasped. "I am so tired, so very tired!" He almost fell as he uttered the words and indeed would have done so had Grace not gone quickly up to him and passed her arm lovingly about his shoulders. Turning to Dufrenne, she regarded him with a look of defiance. "He is not guilty!" she cried. "It is I—I!—who have been false. I made him do it—I made him do it. Go away, and tell the others what you please. I know that my husband has done his best." She fell to soothing him, kissing him upon his hot forehead, his burning cheeks.
Dufrenne looked at Dr. Hartmann, who was regarding the scene before him with impatience. "Do I understand, monsieur," he asked, in a ghastly voice, "that I am free to leave this place?"
"Yes. Out with you. I could hold you for trespass upon my grounds, for attempting to break into my house, but I don't want to be bothered with you. Go!" He went to the door and held it open. "Mayer," he said, "show this fellow the road. And as for you"—he turned to Duvall and his wife—"get away from here, and from Brussels, as soon as you like. I advise you not to stay in the town. I rather think that, through the evidence of Seltz, I can make it slightly uncomfortable for you. Tell what story you please. I have done you no injury. You came here of your own free will—you could have escaped and you would not. As for the light—" He laughed harshly. "An ordinary arc, focused on your eyes with a powerful lens. It would probably have blinded you, in time, and if it kept you awake long enough, you would no doubt have gone mad, but so far you are not hurt much. I can swear that it is part of my new treatment for a disordered mental state. My man here will agree with me. What are you going to do about it? How are you going to explain your robbery of Seltz in my office, the deception your wife has practised upon me and upon the United States Minister? And above all, now that I have the secret I desired, I am quite willing to have a cast made of the snuff box and return it to you, but I fancy that neither Monsieur de Grissac nor my friend Lefevre will want to have the matter made public in the courts. You'd better leave here quietly and take the first steamer to America. I don't fancy you'll find a very flattering reception awaiting you in Paris." He turned to the door. "Come, I'll have your belongings put on a cab, and be glad to be rid of you." He paused beside the doorway, waiting.
Grace turned to her husband. "Come, Richard," she said. "Let us go."
He made no reply, but followed her blindly. His spirits seemed broken, he walked like a man in a heavy sleep.
It was just dawn when, half an hour later, Richard Duvall and his wife drove silently through the ghostly streets of Brussels toward the railway station. The detective did not speak. He sat silent, plunged in a deep stupor. Grace, her heart breaking, held one of his hands, and with white face, gazed helplessly out of the window at the city, just waking to another day. To all these people the dawn came with some measure of hope, of happiness, but to her, and to her husband, now once more beginning their honeymoon, the future seemed full of bitterness and despair. She shivered in the cold morning air, and the tears she could not repress stole unheeded down her cheeks.