"Well?"
"It seems there is only one other, and his name is Ricardo Ferail."
"The Greek antiquary?"
"Yes."
Tom recalled the look the Greek had given to Elaine in the dining-saloon, and with an uncomfortable kind of foreboding he said:
"Do you know whether they are acquainted with each other?"
"Not openly, at least."
An odd undefined suspicion flitted through Tom's brain. He got up and looked long and fixedly at his friend, but Wallion's features were inscrutable; he was listlessly staring at the ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. Just then Tom's attention was diverted by a waiter, who handed him a card and disappeared. On the card, and written in a bold round hand, were these words:
"I have ordered our protégée absolute rest for the next few days. Kindest regards.
Augustus N. Corman."
"Damn the doctor!" cried Tom. "I don't like his tone. He and Madame Lorraine keep guard over Elaine as if she had committed some crime. Besides who the deuce is this Madame Lorraine?"