"There's one thing that perplexes me," presently said Wallion, "to judge from appearances the girl must have come up from Gothenburg by the morning train; but people don't generally travel without luggage or with empty hands."
Tom smote his forehead with his hand.
"Good Heavens!" he cried, "her satchel!" he drew the black satchel from the papers under which he had concealed it.
Wallion nodded approval, and said complacently:
"That may help to clear up a lot."
The little bag had only the ordinary fastening; seeing Tom hesitate, Wallion took it from him and forthwith emptied the contents on the table. A lace handkerchief, a small silver purse containing Swedish money, various "vanity" articles, and lastly a hundred-dollar note, nothing more.
"Is that all?" asked Tom, when Wallion had finished; but with a curiously absent manner the journalist once more examined the satchel.
"No, that is not all," he said at last, hurriedly taking out another object and setting it on the table, "there is that."
"The wooden doll," ejaculated Tom, and a cold wave seemed to pass over him; vague but horrible thoughts floated through his brain. He saw before him a figure carved in hard, brown wood, eight inches high, representing a man in slouch hat, sweater, cartridge belt and high lace-up boots; but on more minute inspection he breathed a sigh of relief, the little figure bore a distinct resemblance to the one which had stood on Dreyel's shelf, but it was not the same.
"This is another," he said, taking it up; "but I say, I do believe ... it is an exact likeness of Victor Dreyel."