Doctor Corman's villa and private asylum lay just outside and to the north of the town. At ten P.M. Wallion and his friends got out of a taxi which drew up a hundred yards from the heavy iron gates of the villa and, as they anticipated a long, tedious wait, they sent the chauffeur home. Their object was to find out who was there and to interfere in case of need only.
"Remember that William Robertson is there," was Wallion's cautious remark; "we must be careful not to bring things to a premature crisis."
They passed by the gates and climbed over a wall protected by shady trees. The night was dark, cloudy, and very still; there seemed no other houses near. They landed in what appeared to be badly kept marshy ground. The villa lay immediately before them, a pretentious, modern stone building on two floors, with a loggia giving on to the grounds, and a spacious lawn in front whence a short drive led to the gates. A faint light burning in a room over the loggia revealed that there were iron bars to the window. With the exception of this feeble illumination there was nothing on this side of the house to indicate that it was inhabited; but Wallion made a noiseless investigation of the other side and discovered lights in two windows on the second floor. These had no bars—merely thick curtains.
"I am thinking of climbing up to that barred window," he whispered, when he again joined Tom, "wait for me here." And before Tom could expostulate Wallion had climbed on to the roof of the loggia, and disappeared from sight. For a few minutes he lay at full length on the zinc roof and listened intently; hearing nothing he stealthily crept up to the window and looked in.
What he saw was nothing less than a whitewashed cell with a single lamp suspended from the ceiling; the furniture consisted of a strong wooden stool, a wooden table, and a wooden bedstead securely fixed to the wall. A man lay on the bed. Wallion recognized him at once, thanks to the photograph in Elaine's locket; the neglected white hair, the emaciated features and the feverish bright eyes had left a deep impression on his mind. He was William Robertson. He lay motionless on his back, his hands clasped under his head. Wallion looked long and pityingly at him through the thick glass. There was nothing in William Robertson's expression to indicate madness; his face wore a look of apathy and calm resignation. The poor man, a prisoner rather than a patient, the object of their search—would he be able to answer the questions put to him? Wallion looked towards the door. It was locked, no doubt. How dark and dismal the house must be! ... Why was Elaine not with her father? He stopped to think, and then crept along the roof as far as the other windows which had no bars, but were now in complete darkness; he gently tried one of them which did not appear to be fastened; it yielded without any noise and he stepped in. The room in which he found himself was small and led into a dimly-lighted passage; he thought he could detect a faint odor of tobacco. Finally, hearing nothing, he crossed the room and looked out into the passage. A lamp hung from the ceiling at the farther end, and he perceived the balustrade of a staircase, and several doors—all shut. He walked along a red carpet to the end of the corridor, and there found that one of the doors, which seemed to be more massive than the rest, was padlocked, but the key was in the lock. Wallion's bump of topography told him that this must be the door of the cell he had seen through the window. Without another moment's hesitation he turned the key and went in. The man on the bed slowly raised himself, but Wallion quickly closed the door and laid a finger on his lips.
"All right, Mr. Robertson," he said with a smile, "don't be alarmed. My name is Wallion. I have come from Sweden and bring a message from Christian Dreyel."
William Robertson looked steadily at him, not with fear, but with an almost childlike curiosity.
"You are welcome, Mr. Wallion," he answered in a voice the strength of which had been sapped long ago, "don't be afraid that I shall make a noise. My daughter has told me all about you and your friend." In a low and hopeless tone he added, "But you have come too late."
"Too late? ... Not a bit of it.... It is never too late for anything," said Wallion soothingly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Your daughter is here safe and sound, and we are going to help you; but time flies, and you must tell me everything quickly, precisely and without reserve. My friend Murner is waiting outside, and no one has the remotest idea that I am here with you."
Robertson wrinkled his brow in a painful effort to understand.