"Forgive me," said Dreyel, absently thrusting his hands into his pockets, "here it is."
The young man eagerly seized the telegram which read as follows:—
"Victor Dreyel, John Street, 30, Stockholm.
"Toroni has got to know the secret. Watch the wooden doll. Expect me this evening between 8 and 9. E.R."
Murner was puzzled, he read it through once more but failed to grasp its meaning.
"Despatched from Gothenburg this morning," he said; "but who are E.R. and Toroni?"
At the mention of Toroni's name Dreyel set his lips and snatched the paper from Murner.
"Toroni?" he repeated after a pause, "Toroni ... he was the thirteenth."
He clenched his hands and relapsed into silence, and for a few seconds neither spoke. Rain and wind dashed against the window and a few stray, faded leaves gleamed like gold on the wet panes illumined from within. Dreyel was deadly pale, and the next moment he said in a strained voice:
"Don't ask me any more questions now, you will hear all when Maurice Wallion arrives."
He stopped, lost in thought; Murner cast an inquiring look at him. On the careworn face of the aged recluse there lay an expression of stern resolve which inspired the young man with a feeling of respect and reverence, and prevented his breaking the silence.