"I did, but the fellow got away. Be careful now, I will put on a bandage and fetch the doctor."
"No, don't ... look after the wooden doll first." The wounded man repeated the words over and over again: "The wooden doll ... the wooden doll..."
Wallion took a cushion from the sofa and put it under Dreyel's head; then he closed the window, drew the curtains and casting one more searching look out into the darkness, went back. To pursue the murderer without help would be worse than useless; he was probably already a long way off.
It had all happened with lightning speed and as he relit the lamp Wallion's hands still trembled from the shock. The chimney was still warm.
He looked at the table where lately two wooden figures had stood. There was now only one—the doll belonging to Christian Dreyel was gone. Wallion took up the one he had brought with him and examined it. Victor Dreyel's image was uninjured; the criminal had passed it over as worthless ... but why ... why...?
"The wooden doll," stammered the wounded man who had fallen back again on the cushion. "It is gone ... he has taken it...."
"Yes," answered Wallion with a great effort at restraint, "once more he has had good luck; but try to be calm, the police will soon get hold of him; you must think of yourself now and only rest."
He bent over the huge form and undid its garments; the blood streamed from the gaping wound, and the laboured breathing showed that the lungs had been touched. Wallion stopped the bleeding with a towel dipped in water, and put on a temporary bandage.
"Send for Doctor Moving," said Dreyel, groaning and twisting under Wallion's touch. "It does burn so ... The devil ... but it must be true he knew that ... King Solomon's secret..."
"I will fetch the doctor myself, lie still," said Wallion in a tone of command. He hurried out into the road on his way to the station, but a few yards from the gate he met a barefooted boy of about ten, coming along with a fishing-rod and a few fish. Wallion took out a florin and put it into the boy's hand.