"Do you see him?" he whispered.
"No," replied Wallion who, by this time, had jumped out of the window and was standing in the high grass waiting. "You stay there, I'll go after him."
The mysterious shadow had gone past the window from left to right and Wallion carefully took the same direction. Having gone about a dozen steps he stopped to listen; the grass under his feet rustled like silk and he thought he heard a similar rustle a little way off, near the maple trees which sheltered the house on the north. He strained his eyes, but could distinguish nothing, and all was quiet again. Then he suddenly saw before him footprints in the still wet grass ... He started ... The shape of these footprints reminded him of the one he had seen on the chair in Dreyel's studio. That the "Invisible One" had gone this way there was no longer any doubt. The wild beast was near, prowling after his prey, and following him up unalarmed by the hunter. Maurice Wallion crept close to the wall where the path was clear and sprang noiselessly to the corner, half expecting a collision, but a cold shiver ran down his back as he looked ahead; for on the north side of the house there was a door evidently leading to the kitchen, and that door stood wide open ... the ruffian had forced his way into the house. For a moment Wallion was seized with desperate anger. Perhaps the door had not been properly locked. What a mistake, what an unpardonable blunder! He had a vision of Christian Dreyel alone in the room in the dark with the two wooden figures waiting ... for what...?
Wallion uttered a shrill cry of warning and rushed through the open door like a whirlwind. "Look out!" he screamed, "the assassin has got in!"
He ran along a short passage, opened a door and found himself in the front hall. On the right he noticed the door by which Christian Dreyel had let him in. He burst it open and rushed in with his Browning cocked. The window was still open and the curtains waved gently in the breeze, but Christian Dreyel had disappeared!
"Where are you?" he cried. There was no answer; but he thought he heard a faint sound under the window; in three bounds he was there, and stumbling over something soft he fell forward against the window frame.
A stooping, thin, nimble figure was running from tree to tree in the garden and, without more ado, Wallion pulled the trigger and fired. The apparition vanished. He lighted a match and looked down on the ground. He half expected what he saw, but could not repress an exclamation of horror and pity at what the burning match revealed. The object over which he had stumbled proved to be Christian Dreyel's right arm, the man lay motionless on his back under the window, his double-barrelled gun a short distance away. When Wallion raised him up he saw a stream of blood dyeing his shirt red on the left side and found a freely bleeding wound immediately under the collar bone. Dreyel opened his eyes and looked vacantly round.
"The wooden doll," he whispered, "the shadow came up to the table, I saw him ... he stabbed me..."
He pulled himself up into a sitting posture and laid his hands on his breast; it was wet with blood.
"Who fired?" he asked quite confused.