How long he lay there he did not know. The sickness, the nausea, passed from him by slow degrees. He gingerly felt his head, finding that the skin was unbroken; a lump had already risen. His senses were still aswim when at length he rose to his feet.
The Frenchman was senseless, but was probably in no danger. Inspecting the man, Dennis remembered to have seen him entering the adjoining room that same evening. But what could have been the motive of this amazing assault by an utter stranger, a fellow lodger with whom he had never exchanged a word? It did not appear to be robbery, for Dumont was well-dressed. The rugged features of Tom Dennis grew hard and harsh as he gazed down, remembering the man's words. The chloroform had not been intended merely to knock him out; it had been intended to kill him! Why?
Stooping, he ran swiftly through the contents of Dumont's pockets. He found an automatic, the bluejack which had struck him and a thin keen knife. He found a wad of yellow-backed bills, which he stuck into his own pocket with a chuckle. He found no letters, nothing else at all—except an envelope such as is issued at railroad ticket offices. In this envelope were two tickets—one the return half of a Vancouver-to-Chicago ticket, the other a one-way ticket from Chicago to Vancouver; and with them was the Pullman ticket calling for a compartment. The date was of this very day, the train that upon which Dennis himself was leaving! In the envelope, also, were two small brass keys.
Dropping into a chair, Tom Dennis frowned over these clues. Could the man have some connection with Ericksen—coming as he had from Vancouver, and being about to return there? Perhaps. Dennis suspected Ericksen, had suspected him from the first. But there was no obvious connection; there was no link of direct accusation. Had Ericksen been behind this assault?
Manifestly this assassin had two tickets so that he could occupy a compartment alone. Why? For what purpose? At this thought Dennis went to his door, passed into the hall and went directly to the next door—that of Dumont's room. He found the room quite empty. Upon the bed was a small valise, but it contained nothing except linen and articles of travel.
"Blamed if I can account for it!" muttered Dennis, returning to his own room. "This fellow meant to bury me; that's certain. I'll keep his money as fair loot. About his two tickets and—hm! I'd better keep them too, and occupy that compartment occasionally. There may be something in it which will give me a clue. I'll do it."
He glanced at his watch, suddenly conscious that time had been passing. He was aghast to find that it was eight o'clock—and the train left at eight-thirty!
With a hasty ejaculation he caught up his suitcase, crammed it shut and after a last glance at the recumbent assassin turned out the light and ran downstairs to the hall telephone. He was too late to call for Florence now; she must catch a taxi to the station!
His first thought was to order a taxicab for himself; then he called up the school where Florence had been teaching. There ensued five minutes—a frantic five minutes—of delay before a cool woman's voice informed him that Miss Hathaway had departed some time before; a gentleman had called for her.
Dennis demanded a description of the man, and recognized Ericksen.