CHAPTER XXIV.RUBY'S DECLARATION.The first thing Jim Crichton did—after he had made a successful return flight to Netheravon—was, on getting five days' special leave, to run up to London and search for Ruby Strode that he might keep his promise to Rupert. He resisted the temptation to pay a flying visit to Blackthorn Farm. Rupert was safe, a thousand miles or more away on his journey. But that made Jim the more anxious not to take the faintest risk.Despard had been suspicious. Despard disliked him, and was in love with Marjorie. Jim had received a letter from her—short, carefully worded. It dealt principally with the doings of Post Bridge and the radium mine. The company would soon be floated, the prospectus was prepared, and, she stated, it was confidently expected that when it came out the capital would be over-subscribed.Jim smiled to himself, for he read between the lines. He had little faith in the venture, perhaps, because he had no faith in Despard, though he hoped for John Dale's sake it would turn out successfully.Soon after reaching London he discovered that his father was in town, and Jim frankly told him the object of his visit—to see Miss Strode and give her a message. Sir Reginald congratulated his son on his flight, but Jim did not dare tell him yet how successful it really had been, nor its real object."I think I'd like to meet this Miss Strode," Sir Reginald said, somewhat to Jim's surprise. "Though, I'm afraid, I still feel convinced of young Dale's guilt, I've never been able to eradicate from my mind the part she played at the trial—the strange outburst when she confessed it was she who altered the cheque. It seems, too, that when the solicitors saw her she said that Mr. Despard could, if he chose, prove the truth of her assertion. Of course, it's very possible that she and Rupert were equally guilty. Perhaps the suggestion came from her.... The woman tempted and the man fell. I'd like to know if Despard did keep anything back at the trial."Jim nodded. "I'll see what I can do. But I should think the kindest thing would be to let Miss Strode forget all about it, if that's possible. Guilty or innocent, she must have been very fond of Rupert."His father's suggestion came as a surprise to him. He had, during the last few weeks, cultivated Despard's acquaintance and seen a great deal more of him than Jim liked. But, as a rule, Sir Reginald never made a mistake in his judgment of men."Supposing Miss Strode could prove that Rupert is innocent, what then?" Jim asked."I don't think she can do that," Sir Reginald said quickly. "I'd like to discover what part she played in the unfortunate business. And perhaps she could enlighten us as to Despard's past history, his character—and so forth."Jim smiled. "You're beginning to feel suspicious of this brilliant company promoter who is playing the Good Samaritan at Blackthorn Farm and trying to feather his own nest at the same time."Sir Reginald did not reply at once, and looking more closely at him, Jim noticed that he looked worried. A heavy frown furrowed his brows. Presently he took Jim's arm and asked him where he was going."Well, my first visit is to the Ingenue Theatre. It seems rather too much to expect that I shall find Miss Strode there, but it's the obvious place to look.""I'll walk with you," Sir Reginald said. "I've something I want to say to you."Jim almost suggested that the best place to talk would be the sitting-room of Sir Reginald's hotel, in which they found themselves. But he refrained. He felt as if he had suddenly changed places with his father, and that it was the older man who wanted to unburden his mind and make a confession. Not until they were in the bustle and turmoil of the streets did Sir Reginald speak."I was talking to my solicitors to-day, and, of course, Mr. Despard's name cropped up.""Why of course?" Jim asked.There was a moment's hesitation before his father replied. "I had instructed my brokers to apply for a rather large number of shares in this—this radium mine when it is floated. I found it necessary to realise certain securities. My solicitors did not seem to have a very good opinion of Mr. Despard. They confessed they did not know much about him. They seemed to think him a man of straw. He has already been connected with one or two companies—rubber and oil, I believe, both of which went into liquidation shortly after they had been promoted. As you know, I'm one of the syndicate of this radium mine.""I don't know anything about the game," Jim admitted. "But I didn't know that Despard had convinced you there was anything but water in the old Blackthorn mine. I'm sure he's a rotter. You're not worried, are you? I mean, he hasn't done you for any amount?""He hasn't done me at all," Sir Reginald replied testily. "He started by forming a little syndicate, and I—but you wouldn't understand. You mustn't forget we had expert opinion, and the reports read so well. If by any chance the venture fails—well, it would hit us rather badly. You must not forget," he added hastily, "that property has been depreciating lately, and that, in consequence, my income has been dwindling, and just when this fellow Despard came along I was looking about for a good investment."Jim laughed and pressed his father's arm. He knew that Sir Reginald had been thinking of his future more than of himself. "The desire for wealth has never troubled me, guv'nor. Love in a cottage sounds sentimental rot, I know; but one's got to live somewhere, and as long as I've got work and the woman I want, a cottage will be good enough for me. Here's the Ingenue Theatre, so you had better leave me now unless you want to lose your reputation!"Sir Reginald laughed. "I understand that the stage-door of a London theatre is a damned sight more respectable than the most fashionable matrimonial office, and that unless a man can produce a marriage licence he don't stand a chance of getting inside nowadays."In answer to Jim's question the doorkeeper told him Miss Strode was playing, and that she generally left the theatre about eleven o'clock. Jim left his card, and said he would return at that hour. He arrived punctually, and had not to wait long before Ruby made her appearance.He had never met her before, and at first he was not impressed. She treated him brusquely, and asked him plainly to state his business. He explained who he was and told her he had brought her a message from a friend. She looked him up and down, and he read mistrust in her eyes."Perhaps you'll walk as far as the end of the street with me," he suggested. She nodded. He told her he was engaged to be married to Rupert Dale's sister. "Can you guess from whom I bring a message?"She started then, and her face grew deadly pale. She hesitated a moment, looking steadily into his face. Then she asked him to call a cab."Do you mind driving back to my flat with me? Yes, I live alone at present, but you needn't bother about the conventions. What people thought and said never troubled me much, and now it doesn't trouble me at all."They scarcely spoke until her flat was reached. Ruby led the way into her sitting-room, mixed a whisky and soda for Jim and made one for herself."Would it shock you if I smoked?" she asked. "I can't help it if it does.""I smoke myself," he replied quietly.He saw a tinge of colour touch her cheeks. She apologised, and handed him the case. "Forgive me; but you're a soldier, aren't you?"Jim nodded."I suppose you think women who earn their living at second-rate theatres, who smoke cigarettes, drink whisky instead of aniseed, and live alone, lose caste, don't you?"He laughed and shook his head. "No. Why should I?""The Ingenue Theatre is largely patronised by the army, the navy, and the House of Lords. I've found that the youthful members of the aristocracy want to marry us, naval men want to amuse us, the army men expect us to amuse them—Aunt Sally up to date, six shies a penny!" She turned her back on him. "Will you tell me your message?""It's from a man called Cotton, John Cotton. You knew him under another name. He left Devonshire a week ago en route for Singapore. He wanted me to tell you that he was safe, that he loved you, and was deeply grateful for all you had done for him."He waited, but Ruby Strode did not move. She still stood with her back to him. It was a long time before he dared break the silence."You understand?" he whispered.Then at last she turned round and stood beside him. The expression on her face had changed. It was no longer hard and cold. Her eyes were tender and beautiful: the eyes of a woman who has loved. She stretched out her hand and Jim took it."You mean that Rupert has really escaped? That there's no chance of his being captured and taken back to prison?"He bowed his head."Who helped him escape? Who got him out of England?""That doesn't matter," Jim replied. "It's enough for you to know that he's safe. He's bound for Singapore, where he'll find work—a man's work, under the British flag. He will, as the Americans say, make good yet."He tried to withdraw his hand, but Ruby held it tightly. "You helped him. I daresay you didn't do it for his sake but for his sister's, the woman you love. But you helped him."Jim did not reply. Bending down Ruby kissed his hand again and again. He snatched it away and turned on his heel."God bless you!" she whispered hoarsely. "Don't go yet, Mr. Crichton. Tell me—tell me that you believe he's innocent?"He looked at her then. And in her eyes he read her secret. If he had had any doubts as to Rupert's innocence they went now."I believe he is innocent. But—why couldn't he prove his innocence? If you did it, unknown to him——""Of course it was unknown to him," she interrupted. "He never suspected for a moment—how could he? That's why I did it. Oh, I was mad at the moment, but I loved him so! His life was in danger. He was going to kill himself. Why won't anyone believe—why can't anyone understand? Ruin, dishonour, faced him. When a woman loves nothing in the world matters but the honour, safety, and life of the man she loves. Being a man you may not have much of an opinion of women—the Lord knows why we love them so! Just as a man will die for his country, just as a soldier will kill, spy, suffer indignities, be tortured, rather than betray his trust, rather than see his country shamed or his flag hauled down, so will a woman do just the same rather than see her man hurt or the flag he carries dishonoured. Oh, I suppose it's only an idea that each fights for—the flag for the soldier, the man for the woman. The flag is his country and its future. The man is her mate and the children he will give her.... Can't you understand? I'm not defending myself; but they wouldn't believe me when I confessed, because they couldn't see why I should do it. The fools!""Surely you didn't think when you did this thing your crime would remain undetected?""A woman doesn't think when the man she loves is in danger. I tell you, if I hadn't found the money for him he would have taken his life. I had to find the money. The cheque was lying on the floor, he had forgotten it. The idea came. I acted on it. I didn't think. It was a crime, I daresay. One day, when you're at war, perhaps, and you capture a spy you'll shoot him. You know he's a brave man and a soldier doing a job you might have been deputed to do for your country. But you'll shoot him. That's a crime in its way, but you'll do it because it's your duty to your flag. If you stopped to reason, to think it out, you wouldn't do it. When I committed my crime I obeyed the orders of my heart—instinct—call it what you will. I wanted to save my man—who was to be the father of my children. That's all I knew or remembered. I didn't save him. It's not too late now—if only they would listen to me, if only they'd believe me.""They will believe you if you can find proof.""The man who can prove it won't speak. I believe he could prove my guilt and Rupert's innocence absolutely if he would speak. Several things have come to my knowledge since the trial. That man is Robert Despard. He has disappeared from London and I can't find him."Ruby was walking up and down the room now, her head thrown back, her fists tightly clenched. She looked magnificent, terrible."If I could find him," she cried between her teeth, "I would accuse him of perjury. For he did perjure himself. He came into Rupert's sitting-room just after I had altered the cheque. I was holding it in my hand just underneath my glove, and he saw it there and asked what it was. I believe after I left the room he must have seen the marks on the blotting-pad. Things I had forgotten at the time, things he said, returned to me afterwards when it was too late. He knows, but he won't speak.""Gently, gently," Jim said, taking her arm and making her sit down. "We must help you, my father and I. We'll force Mr. Despard to speak—we must clear Rupert's name if——""There's no if!" she cried."You realise that if we clear him it means that you take his place? You will be sent to prison."She seized his hands and looked into his eyes. "For me, the day I enter prison and he is pardoned, will be the first happy day I shall have known since Rupert was arrested. I love him."CHAPTER XXV.AN EXCITING TIME.Singapore!The chain rattled through the hausehole with a deafening roar, and the great ship swung at anchor in the Roads.A tropical sun beat fiercely down on the awnings, and Rupert Dale, leaning over the rail, gazed shorewards at the great plain framed in cocoanut palms—the Cathedral spire rising white and dazzling out of the green, fan-like leaves. To the left the brown slopes of Fort Canning, crowned with its giant flagstaff and fluttering flags. Round the ship a score or more of sampans tossed and jostled each other in the sparkling sea, their copper-skinned owners—naked to the loins—gesticulating and shouting in a language which sounded harsh and vehement to his unaccustomed ears. A strong, pungent odour of hot spice in which cinnamon predominated filled the air, while kites and eagles wheeled and swooped round him above the dancing waves.Singapore! The gate of mystic, far Cathay! China—Japan—Siam—Borneo! Lovely Java, sea-girt Celebes. The spice islands! Lands of wonder and romance. The great Unknown, his future Home!What a revelation it had been to him—the wonderful voyage. He had never been abroad before, and "foreign parts"—as anywhere out of England was called in Devonshire—were still a closed book.Egypt! The Desert seen from the Suez Canal had impressed him. The Red Sea, with a distant glimpse of Mount Ararat, had brought the Bible story of the Israelite wanderings right before his eyes, for was not that the very "Wilderness" all round him? What was he but a wanderer in a strange land, surrounded by the desert of the sea—the promised land a mere speck on the chart—a tiny island away in the far north-west. The dear homeland, his home which he would never see again.Then the miracle happened. First at Gib, then at Malta, Aden, Colombo, Penang, and now here. All along the vast ocean journey, four weeks long, wherever the great ship touched, there ashore flew the old flag, his flag. There stood his own countrymen on guard beneath its folds. Home? Why, he had brought it with him. There it was ashore now, and there stood his blood brother, white-helmeted, his bayonet flashing in the sun for witness of his birthright.Rupert could hear a band playing somewhere ashore, and as though in answer to his thoughts across the water there floated the heart-swelling strain of "Home, Sweet Home." He listened entranced till the air died away and all was silent. Then came the stirring crash of the National Anthem. He remembered the last time he had heard it. At the Moreton flower-show. It brought back in a flash to him the faint damp scent of moss and roses. That happy summer day. Home and all it stood for was here! It was good to be a Briton and feel this glorious freedom, this great sense of fellowship, of ownership."You will be getting sunstroke if you stand there with your helmet off, Cotton."He started—the spell was broken. His fellow-passenger, a grey-haired, clean-shaven man of fifty, with whom he had struck up a friendship during the voyage, stood behind him with a smile on his kindly face, which was lighted by a pair of keen, grey eyes."It sounds good to us exiles—the old tune—doesn't it? 'What does he know of England who only England knows?' Eh? The chap who wrote that must have known something of our Empire—what? And yet there are millions of fools in the old country this moment who neither know nor care whether the Empire exists or not; while the very bread they eat is bought with the blood of those who created it! Look at that long wharf over there. See those piles of bales? That is cotton pieces from Manchester. See those chests piled under that big shed? Tea—cheap 'Straits' tea—shilling a pound in any little grocer's shop at home! See that steamer loading those sacks, there, that black-funnelled one? That's sago, that the kiddies eat at home.""Wonderful!" Rupert echoed, and then he sighed. He had left the old country—a felon. He had found a new world, a free man!—with his country's flag flying a welcome. And yet——"Do you see that little cruiser over there?" Patterson continued excitedly. "It's hard to realise that she's the only British warship within a thousand miles of this—the most important trade-route in the world. No, that's not a British ship—that big battleship over there is a German, and that other with four big black funnels is a Jap, and the one beyond is a Russian. Bit of a shock, isn't it, when you recognise what a tiny thing the British Navy is compared to the Colonial Empire it has to defend?"Rupert nodded. His head was in a whirl—and his heart. He had reached the end of his journey. He was free! And yet——"By the by, have you decided what you're going to do? My offer is still open. Your mining knowledge would be very useful to me in Borneo, although you haven't got the certificate of the School of Mines. It will be rough work—dangerous work at times, as I told you, for we are going up to the unknown interior where the Head-hunting Muruts live, and you may not see civilisation again for twelve months."Rupert looked him in the face. Patterson was a "white man" he knew. A straight man."I have thought it all over, and I decided last night to accept your offer if you are still willing to take me after you have heard why I am here. I can't explain everything, but what I shall tell you is only what you ought to know. Come down to my cabin and I will tell you who I am."In the saloon of the boat—deserted now—where they had spent so many happy weeks, sharing storm and sunshine, dangers and pleasures, unconsciously growing to know one another, as men ashore never can.A genuine friendship, backed by respect, had been formed between Rupert and Patterson. The former had only just realised what this friendship had done for him.What it meant for him now! He, who had been for so many months a convict, cut off from all communications with his fellows—a mere machine, a cypher! Number 381!Patterson had offered him a job. Work after his own heart. It was only now, at the last moment, that Rupert realised he could not accept it, could not continue the friendship that had commenced, and which meant so much to him, unless he told Patterson whoand what he was!An escaped convict, a felon with a price on his head!A nice companion for this straight, clean Englishman, who proposed to take him, alone, in the vast interior of wild Borneo.To speak, to confess, meant losing his first, only friend. It meant losing the chance of work. It might mean that he would be arrested and sent back to England and prison!But he had to play the game! It is curious how little things affect one at a great crisis of one's life. Rupert had known he would have to leave Patterson and refuse his offer—or else speak and tell him his history, and, sub-consciously, he had decided to say nothing, make some excuse for refusing his offer and just leave Singapore, alone.It was the sight of the Union Jack flying from the shore, the sound of the old English tune, "Home, Sweet Home," that had suddenly turned the scales and made him decide to leave his fate in Patterson's hands.He thought of his father, of little Marjorie, his sister. And last of Ruby, the woman he loved!They would have asked him to play the game.So, over a final drink in the empty saloon, Rupert told his new friend, already his old friend, Jim Patterson, the story of his life, his imprisonment and escape from Dartmoor. He refrained from mentioning any names; he made no attempt to defend himself.When he had finished Patterson ordered another drink, and then lit a cheroot. Having got his "smoke" well under way he rose and held out his hand.Rupert took it hesitatingly. "I'm glad you told me, Cotton," Patterson said. "I rather flatter myself that I'm a judge of character. I knew the moment I saw you that you had a 'history.' I didn't want to know it, but I guess you feel better for having told me. A man who has gone through the fires and has got his fingers burnt is worth twice as much as the fellow who has never fought and blundered, suffered and gone on fighting. Now then, shut down on the past and ... get ashore!""You—you still want me to come with you?" Rupert stammered. "You still trust me?"Patterson laughed. "Now, more than ever."Half an hour later Rupert's bag was put into a long boat with Mr. Patterson's more bulky luggage. There was a choppy sea on and it was not an easy task to get into the boat as it rose and fell at the ship's gangway. At last they pushed off, Patterson sitting beside Rupert in the stern, with their baggage piled in front of them. The six Malays bent to their long, thin paddles with short, jerky strokes, and the light boat flew through the white-topped waves towards the shore beneath the slopes of Fort Canning, where the Union Jack still fluttered a welcome.* * * * *A long canoe cut out of a single giant tree, with a palm leaf awning covering the stern portion, under which two white men inclined on a mat, while eight brawny Malays, sitting crossed-legged with their backs to them, bent their bronze-coloured bodies from which the sweat poured in streams to the regular strokes of their paddles. In the stern, behind the awning, sat the steersman, an old, parchment-faced Dyak with a small white goatee beard, fierce, pig-like eyes, and a broad slit of a mouth which dripped a blood-red juice as he chewed his betelnut quid.He was the guide, an old "Gutta-hunter" who knew this trackless forest, these giant mountains through which the great river flowed three long weeks' journey to the sea. Here, in the far interior, where no white men had been before, it had become a clear, swift stream, with constant rapids, up which the narrow canoe had to be dragged by the crew waist-deep in the rushing white-foamed water as it swirled and tumbled over the jagged rocks.Tropical vegetation hung in thick green masses to the water's edge, while the blacker mass of foliage of colossal trees whose huge trunks shot up a hundred feet or more without a branch, shut in the landscape on every hand."'This is the forest primeval, only more so,'" Patterson quoted gaily, "and, if it wasn't for the leeches, not a bad place after all."These pests hung on every leaf and blade of grass and, with outstretched head, waited the passer-by on whom they instantly fixed, to worm through puttie or breeches, through coat and shirt, until the flesh was reached and the blood-sucking head inserted beneath.For nearly nine months now Patterson and Rupert had been travelling—prospecting and working—in this wild and dangerous region. For Rupert, nine months of keen excitement, which had almost wiped out the dreadful past. But, deep in his heart, was embedded the memory of the woman he still loved; and the memory of his father and the little homestead among the Devonshire moorlands.The one thing he could never forget was that he would, perhaps for ever, remain an exile. Yet he dreamed of returning home one day, of seeing his loved ones again—if only for a few brief hours.The sun was below the mountain tops, and it was almost time to think of selecting a camping-place for the night. Patterson stretched himself and sat up."Where shall we land?" he asked in Malay."I don't know—wherever your honour wishes," the helmsman replied. "Your honour knows best."Before Patterson could reply a huge tree on the right bank, not twenty yards ahead, crashed down right across the stream, its great branches throwing up a column of water, while its dense top was locked in the foliage of the other bank."Murut! Murut!" shouted the Malays. "Turn quick! Quick!"The water swirled beneath the swift strokes of the paddles as they turned the canoe in its own length. A sudden crack with the rending sound of a falling tree caused them to pause with paddles in the air, as another giant of the forest crashed down the stream below them. Instantly a shot rang out from the jungle and the air was filled with yells of "Hoot-ka-Poot," the dread war-cry of the Head-hunting Muruts.Naked figures climbed over the fallen trees that hemmed them in, and musket shots from both banks added to the din, though the bullets whizzed high overhead or harmlessly struck the water.At the first alarm Rupert and Patterson had seized their rifles and opened fire, Patterson shouting orders to keep the canoe in mid-stream."Fire at the men on the tree ahead, Cotton," he said. "We must force a passage up stream.... Good shot!" as a Murut who had reached the middle of the tree threw up his arms and toppled face down into the stream.Two more were lying limp in the tangle of branches and another went splashing and spluttering past the canoe, the swift running current red with his blood. Suddenly the man in the bows leaped up with a shriek that ran high above the noise of the fight, his eyes starting from his head with horror, as he stared at a tiny bamboo shaft that he held in his left hand, while his right plucked convulsively at his side, from which a few drops of blood were oozing. Slowly he sank to his knees, while his fellow paddlemen huddled away from him, muttering the dread words, "Upas, Upas poison! He's hit!"As the cruel poison began to work, the poor fellow's face became livid and his limbs contorted with agony, and soon he lay a knotted and inanimate mass of twisted limbs in the bottom of the canoe.The deadly blow-pipe is the Murut's chief weapon, for guns are few and only obtained where the Arab trader has penetrated to buy "gutta" and other jungle produce. The blow-pipe is about six feet long and is bored with wonderful skill from a perfectly straight piece of seasoned hard wood. Its darts are made from bamboo, thin as a knitting needle, and with a very sharp point, which is nearly cut through, so that it breaks off in the wound before the dart can be withdrawn. A piece of pith that exactly fits the bore of the tube is fixed to the other end of the dart, and so powerful is this primitive weapon that a skilled warrior can blow a dart with extreme accuracy to forty or even fifty yards range.The Malay next Rupert dropped his paddle, which floated away, and when he looked at him he saw a thin line of blood running down his face from a hole in his left temple. He was stone dead, but still squatted in his place. A bullet now broke the steersman's, Unju's, paddle, and the canoe began to drift towards the bank.It had all happened so quickly that they had scarcely time to realise their danger, and it was not till a shower of spears had wounded Unju and killed the other two Malays, that Patterson saw they were almost ashore."Quick, Cotton, paddle for your life!" he shouted, and, seizing a paddle, he tried to turn the bow of the canoe to the stream again.But it was too late, a score of naked forms leapt from the bank and threw themselves upon the canoe, which filled with water, and surrounded by shrieking savages was soon fast wedged in the undergrowth on the wear side.It would have gone hard with the two white men, for a dozen spears were poised against them, when Unju, the Dyack, yelling his war-cry, leapt into the midst of the Muruts, his heavy parang swung by an arm of steel, cleaving through skull and shoulder, breast or back, and sending death and destruction on every side. In a moment he had cleared a circle round the canoe. Suddenly a shot rang out, and Unju collapsed into Rupert's arms, and an instant later a tall native with a Winchester repeating rifle in his hand, stepped from behind a tree, and, signing to the Muruts to keep back, approached the canoe.He wore a short Arab coat, a pair of tight-fitting "sluar," and a small handkerchief turban of stiff gold embroidery round his head. An acquiline nose, two piercing black eyes set very close together, and a small black moustache that covered but did not hide a thin, cruel mouth, showed that the newcomer was not a Murut. He addressed Patterson in Malay with the peculiar drawl of the Brunie noble."Surrender, and the Muruts shall not kill you. Touch not your guns but step up upon the land."He then turned to the Muruts and gave some orders in their own language. Unju had sat up, and Rupert was trying to staunch the bullet wound in his left shoulder. With Patterson's assistance they lifted him from the canoe and laid him against a tree on the river bank. The Muruts were cutting branches of trees and with a few rattans soon constructed a rough litter.What fate awaited them Rupert hardly dared to guess. That their lives had been spared was evidently due to the presence of the Brunie chief, whom they learnt later on was an outlaw and a desperado called Mat Salleh, who, in his young days, had been a pirate and was a native of Suloo, an island of the north coast. Old Unju knew him well by reputation, and seemed to fear him far more than he did the Muruts, whom he really despised. Mat Salleh had obtained a great influence over the Muruts of the interior, who believed him to be invulnerable and possessed with supernatural power.When the litter was ready, Mat Salleh ordered them to march behind it, and surrounded by armed Muruts and preceded by others carrying the gory heads of the poor Malays, they started up a steep mountain track through the gloom of the dark jungle. After about an hour's march they emerged from the forest into a large clearing, where paddy and sweet potatoes were planted. At the top of a conical hill in the centre of the clearing was a high stockade of bamboo enclosing some dozen houses on piles and thatched with palm leaves. As the long procession entered the clearing, a great hubbub arose out in the village. The deep notes of a big war gong mingled with the shrill cries of the women, who poured out of a gateway and danced down towards the approaching warriors. The sun had set and it was nearly dark, though a bright moon lighted up the clearing, throwing the stockade and houses into black relief against the opal sky.Rupert glanced at Patterson. The latter shrugged his shoulders. "We're in for it, I'm afraid, Cotton. Sorry, old man, but while there's life there's hope!"As they entered the stockade flames shot up from a huge fire that had just been lit inside, and the ruddy glow thrown on the bronze figures of the men and the naked bodies of the women who surrounded them, made a scene so weird and eerie that Rupert's blood ran cold with dread of what was about to happen in this devils' cauldron. At one end of the enclosure was a long house with an open verandah about six feet above the ground, against which was placed a single bamboo in which notches had been cut to form steps.By this Mat Salleh and the Murut chiefs mounted, and squatting round a huge jar began to refresh themselves by sucking a reed that was inserted in the top. Similar jars were placed near the fire, and groups of warriors quickly surrounded them. Patterson and Rupert were dragged to the fire, and poor wounded Unju was also dragged there by a horrible old hag, who appeared to be the mistress of the ceremonies. The women now took the heads, still dripping with blood, and began to slowly dance round the fire, chanting a deep song with a high wailing note at the end of each stave. Their long black hair hung straight to their waists, they were naked save for a dark cloth of bark round their loins. The great wooden gong beat time and throbbed on the still night air. Gradually the time became faster, and men and women from the drinking jars joined in the dance. The gory heads were tossed from hand to hand, and it was evident to the unfortunate prisoners that the drink was beginning to inflame the dancers.Spears and parangs flashed in the firelight, and old Unju, who had hitherto remained motionless, stirred uneasily and at last spoke to Patterson in a low voice."Beware, O chief, for they will take our heads presently when their blood is fired by drink."Patterson nodded. "I'm afraid I've given you a poor run for your money, Cotton," he whispered. Rupert smiled. "I'm all right. Glad we're together."At this moment a band of women were seen advancing from the chief's house, leading two youths who were to be initiated as warriors. They each carried a head by the hair and were led into the circle of dancers. The same old hag who had conducted the dance now smeared the youths with blood, shrieking an invocation, to which the crowd replied at intervals with a shout of "Augh!" Next an old warrior stepped forward and broke off their two front teeth with the aid of a stone and a short iron instrument, afterwards filing the stumps off to the gums.This was done to enable the sumpitan or blowpipe to be used with greater facility and is the sign of manhood. More jars of tapi (rice spirit) were broached, and every one gave themselves up to drinking.Patterson whispered to Unju and asked him if he was able to walk, to which the old man replied that he could walk all night if his head remained on his shoulders—about which he expressed some misgivings."Listen," said Patterson, "in a short time the moon will be down. They have put green boughs on the fires to smoke the heads while they drink. It is pitch dark under the stockade, and most of the men are already drunk. If we can crawl one by one to the stockade, without being seen, we can overpower the man at the gate, and, once outside, Unju must guide us to the river. It is a desperate venture, but to remain here is certain death."Unju shook his head. On the whole, he preferred to remain where he was. Their lives were in the hands of fate. To go or stay—it would come to the same thing in the end.Patterson turned impatiently to Rupert. "What do you say? At least we shall be doing something, and, anyway, get a fight for our lives. This inaction is getting on my nerves."Rupert managed to laugh. "It is a bit dull. I almost feel as if I were watching my own head being smoke-dried over that beastly fire."It was agreed that at a signal from Patterson each man should begin to creep towards the stockade, keeping as far apart as possible. If one was discovered and caught the other two were to make a dash for it, trusting to the excitement and drunken confusion to get away.Patterson drew a ring off his finger, a plain gold band, and gave it to Rupert, asking him (in the event of his getting away and Patterson being caught) to give it to a certain person he named and whose address Rupert would find at the National Bank, Singapore."Anything I can do for you, old man, if—if you're unlucky?"Rupert thought for a moment. "There is a girl I love called Ruby Strode. You will probably find her at the Ingenue Theatre, London. Tell her that I understood and appreciated everything she did on my behalf—tell her she was my last thought.""Right-ho," Patterson replied cheerily. "Now, crawl a few feet away and lie low until you hear me whistle twice. Then make for the stockade on your hands and knees. Each man for himself, remember. It's our only chance."Rupert gripped his hand. The next moment he found himself alone. By the faint light of the flames from the fire he could see the hideous, naked figures of the Muruts dancing to and fro, men and women. They reeled, leapt, staggered. The rice spirit was doing its deadly work, and already they were mad with excitement.Suddenly above the noise Rupert heard two long, low whistles. He turned over on his hands and knees. But, as he did so, he heard a wild yell.The hag-like woman had seen him. Patterson was discovered, too.A score of writhing, steel-coloured, blood-stained bodies reeled towards them, closed round them, cutting off all chance of escape.Rupert saw Patterson rise to his feet. He followed his example, giving himself up for lost. The flames from the bough-fed fire leaped up brightly for a moment, then died down again, making the night inky-black.CHAPTER XXVI.AN ARGUMENT.Despard sat in the den, as he called it, of his new chambers in Duke Street, London. A shaded electric light shone on his desk. A mass of papers and a private account-book lay before him, a half-smoked Havana cigar was in his mouth, a whisky and soda by his side.The gold travelling clock on the mantelshelf struck the hour. Nine o'clock. Despard pushed back his chair, took a pull at his cigar, sighed, and then, looking at the clock, frowned. Evidently the visitor he expected was not coming.Nearly two years had passed since he successfully floated the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm. For several months his little venture had threatened to sink. It had been more difficult than he supposed to get people to believe in radium. The public wanted something they could see and handle for their money. Radium was a little too elusive.But Despard, for all his faults, was a fighter, especially when he had something for which to fight. He had got two or three people with a small amount of money to believe in him—and in radium. Some of those people had influence. So, after many weary months of working up a slow but steady boom, and by a brilliant system of advertisement, the company had been successfully floated and launched, and the public had come in at first slowly and hesitatingly, but eventually with a rush which was accelerated by an unexpected boom on the Stock Exchange.The one-pound shares in the radium mine, fully paid up, mounted from five shillings to par. From this they suddenly boomed to twenty-five shillings, and then gradually and steadily rose until they were quoted at three pound ten. Sir Reginald Crichton and one or two other members of the original syndicate, though honestly believing in the venture, were surprised. So far, no radium had been extracted from the pitch-blende—though the reports were excellent and full of encouragement. But Crichton expected he would have to wait some years before he got a return for his money.Now, if he chose to sell his shares he knew he might realise a small fortune. But Despard begged him to wait."They'll touch five pounds yet," he said.His nerve, which had never deserted him during the early days of the venture, when people had frankly laughed at the idea of radium being discovered in Devonshire, when there was real danger of utter failure, and rumours of fraud echoed in his ears, now began to fail him.He knew he could trust old Dale, Sir Reginald Crichton, and a few other men who had been nothing more nor less than his dupes. It was his friends in the City, sharks like himself, whom he could not trust. Men who had helped finance the company and boom it; the men who had forced up the price of shares originally when they were worth as many pennies as they were quoted in shillings.Gold had been the god at whose shrine Despard had always worshipped. For he believed that money could purchase anything, even the love of woman.Even the love of the woman he had grown to desire more than any other, more than anything else in the world, save wealth—Marjorie Dale.The frown on Despard's face deepened as the clock ticked cheerfully on and the hands slowly but inexorably pointed to the fleeting minutes. In spite of all opposition, in spite of all the influence he had been able to bring to bear on her father and on Jim's father; in spite of threats and promises she still refused to listen to him or to consider him for one moment as her lover or her future husband.The announcement of her engagement to Lieutenant James Crichton had been made, only to be contradicted by Sir Reginald. Her father had sent her to London to stay with some wealthy friends they had made—through Sir Reginald's introduction and the fame the mine had brought them. He had hoped that a season in the great city would help her to forget and make her more amenable to his wishes.But he did not know his own daughter. It had always been his boast that when a Dale gave his word he never went back on it. Perhaps he forgot that though his daughter was a woman she nevertheless inherited the same proud, obstinate spirit that he and his forefathers possessed.He had almost given her up as hopeless, had frankly told Sir Reginald he could do no more.Society has a conveniently short memory on occasions, and those members of it, who knew the history of the Dales and the story of the convict brother who had escaped from Dartmoor and successfully disappeared from the country, quickly forgot all about him. Those who had not heard asked no questions. Miss Dale was young, rich, beautiful, and apparently well-bred. That was enough. Even Sir Reginald was in his heart of hearts beginning to relent, though, outwardly, he showed no signs of it.But Despard knew this, and it encouraged him to play his last card. A desperate one and a dangerous.That was why he now glanced impatiently at the clock and the frown on his forehead gradually deepened. That morning he had commenced to unload—to sell his shares in the radium mine. He had gone to work cautiously so as not to alarm the public. It was important that no one should know that he was clearing out of the venture until he had realised every penny he possibly could. As soon as the shares began to drop he knew there would be a rush by those behind the scenes to sell. And eventually there would be a scramble by the public to get rid of the shares that he believed were not worth seventy pence, much less seventy shillings. By that time Despard hoped to be out of the country—travelling for his health! And he fondly dreamed that Marjorie Dale would be with him, too. As his wife—or, if she proved obstinate, he intended to try what force would do.He had made up his mind that Jim Crichton should never have her. For he hated him. And he had good reason. Jim had kept his promise to Ruby Strode and had left no stone unturned to try and force Despard to prove Rupert Dale's innocence.But it had been of no avail. Sir Reginald's suspicions of Despard had been lulled to rest again. Money talks, and it had successfully lured the elder man into the comfortable belief that things were best left as they were, and that Rupert Dale, having escaped and apparently been forgotten, his memory was best left in oblivion.The clock on the mantelshelf struck the half-hour. Despard closed his books, folded up his papers and put them away. He had realised a tidy little fortune, and for the moment the frown disappeared and he gave a sigh of satisfaction. To-morrow, he decided, he would warn Sir Reginald to sell; but if Marjorie Dale did not come to his rooms that evening in reply to the letter he had sent her, he would let her father be stranded with a few thousand worthless shares, and the old tin mine at Blackthorn Farm as a reminder of his folly.He had warned Marjorie in the letter he had sent her that unless she came to his rooms that evening to hear what he had to say he would ruin her father, ruin him utterly and irretrievably.He crossed the room and opened the door which led into his bedroom. His trunk was packed, everything was ready to start for the Continent at a moment's notice. It looked now as though that start would be made within twelve hours. For he knew that if Marjorie did not respond to his letter in person, she would either send it to her father or else show it to her lover, Jim, and in that case—in Mr. Despard's own language—"the fat would be in the fire," and the sooner he got out of the country for a few months' change of air the better.He knew Marjorie had no fear for herself. Poverty had no terror for her, and she had shown by her loyalty to her brother that she was ready to face disgrace. But he believed that she would come for her father's sake.Just as the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to ten there was a knock at the front door. Despard started, and a smile flitted across his thin lips.She had come after all!He closed the bedroom door and glanced round the room. There was a little too much light, so he switched off the hanging lamp. He glanced at himself in the mirror, smoothed his hair and straightened his tie.She had come. He knew, as he noiselessly crossed the hall, that she would not leave his rooms until he had obtained her promise to marry him, or, failing that, until he had obtained a promise more certain of fulfilment.His fingers trembled a little as he turned the Chubb lock and opened the door.The woman standing outside entered quickly. Despard closed the door, and, turning, held out his hand."I was afraid you were not coming, Marjorie——""You have made a mistake. I am not Miss Dale. I am Ruby—Ruby Strode."Despard's teeth met in his lip. He repressed an oath. "You—what do you want with me?"He hesitated a moment, then pulled himself together and opened the sitting-room door. Ruby entered and he followed her."Won't you sit down? Have a whisky and soda?"She nodded. "Thanks, I would like a drink."While he mixed it she stared round the room. "I've not been here before. Rather a nice place. You have made a lot of money, haven't you?"She spoke nervously, in short, sharp sentences. Despard realised something was wrong. He wondered what. He looked at her more critically as he handed her the tumbler. She was smartly dressed. Her face looked very white, her eyes large and brilliant. If anything, she was more beautiful than when he had last seen her. She had always attracted him. He remembered how once he had wanted to marry her.And the thought crossed his mind that if Marjorie did not come Ruby Strode would not make a bad travelling companion for an enforced holiday."It's a long time since we've met," he said easily. "Though your friends have been busy on your behalf—or perhaps I should say on behalf of your quondam convict lover."He saw her face grow scarlet for a moment, her eyes flash, then she veiled them, and, shrugging her shoulders, laughed easily."It's about my quondam lover, as you call him, that I've come to see you."Despard yawned, and, taking a fresh cigar, lit it. "How disappointing! I thought you had come to see me for myself alone. You are just as beautiful as ever you were, Ruby."She emptied the glass he had given her, then pulled her chair closer to his and looked at him eagerly."Mr. Despard—Bob—you are rich now and powerful. You've got everything you want in the world.""Not quite," he said, leaning towards her."Nearly everything," she continued. "You've got money, and that buys most things.""Yes," Despard grinned. There was a moment's pause, and again he leaned towards her. "Have you anything you want to sell?"Once more the colour mounted her cheeks."Perhaps," she stammered. "I'll tell you straight out. There's nothing I wouldn't do in order to clear Rupert Dale's name."Despard leaned back and flicked the ash off his cigar. "The same old subject. Gad, one would think you believed I altered the cheque, I'm the guilty person. I've told you and your pal, Jim Crichton, that I can do nothing, that I know nothing."Ruby drew still a little closer to him. In the dimly-lit room she looked exceedingly beautiful. Yes, he admitted that she still fascinated him as she had done a year or two ago."Listen," she whispered. "I know if you had spoken at the trial you would have saved Rupert.""Supposing for the sake of argument that I could have. What then?"
CHAPTER XXIV.
RUBY'S DECLARATION.
The first thing Jim Crichton did—after he had made a successful return flight to Netheravon—was, on getting five days' special leave, to run up to London and search for Ruby Strode that he might keep his promise to Rupert. He resisted the temptation to pay a flying visit to Blackthorn Farm. Rupert was safe, a thousand miles or more away on his journey. But that made Jim the more anxious not to take the faintest risk.
Despard had been suspicious. Despard disliked him, and was in love with Marjorie. Jim had received a letter from her—short, carefully worded. It dealt principally with the doings of Post Bridge and the radium mine. The company would soon be floated, the prospectus was prepared, and, she stated, it was confidently expected that when it came out the capital would be over-subscribed.
Jim smiled to himself, for he read between the lines. He had little faith in the venture, perhaps, because he had no faith in Despard, though he hoped for John Dale's sake it would turn out successfully.
Soon after reaching London he discovered that his father was in town, and Jim frankly told him the object of his visit—to see Miss Strode and give her a message. Sir Reginald congratulated his son on his flight, but Jim did not dare tell him yet how successful it really had been, nor its real object.
"I think I'd like to meet this Miss Strode," Sir Reginald said, somewhat to Jim's surprise. "Though, I'm afraid, I still feel convinced of young Dale's guilt, I've never been able to eradicate from my mind the part she played at the trial—the strange outburst when she confessed it was she who altered the cheque. It seems, too, that when the solicitors saw her she said that Mr. Despard could, if he chose, prove the truth of her assertion. Of course, it's very possible that she and Rupert were equally guilty. Perhaps the suggestion came from her.... The woman tempted and the man fell. I'd like to know if Despard did keep anything back at the trial."
Jim nodded. "I'll see what I can do. But I should think the kindest thing would be to let Miss Strode forget all about it, if that's possible. Guilty or innocent, she must have been very fond of Rupert."
His father's suggestion came as a surprise to him. He had, during the last few weeks, cultivated Despard's acquaintance and seen a great deal more of him than Jim liked. But, as a rule, Sir Reginald never made a mistake in his judgment of men.
"Supposing Miss Strode could prove that Rupert is innocent, what then?" Jim asked.
"I don't think she can do that," Sir Reginald said quickly. "I'd like to discover what part she played in the unfortunate business. And perhaps she could enlighten us as to Despard's past history, his character—and so forth."
Jim smiled. "You're beginning to feel suspicious of this brilliant company promoter who is playing the Good Samaritan at Blackthorn Farm and trying to feather his own nest at the same time."
Sir Reginald did not reply at once, and looking more closely at him, Jim noticed that he looked worried. A heavy frown furrowed his brows. Presently he took Jim's arm and asked him where he was going.
"Well, my first visit is to the Ingenue Theatre. It seems rather too much to expect that I shall find Miss Strode there, but it's the obvious place to look."
"I'll walk with you," Sir Reginald said. "I've something I want to say to you."
Jim almost suggested that the best place to talk would be the sitting-room of Sir Reginald's hotel, in which they found themselves. But he refrained. He felt as if he had suddenly changed places with his father, and that it was the older man who wanted to unburden his mind and make a confession. Not until they were in the bustle and turmoil of the streets did Sir Reginald speak.
"I was talking to my solicitors to-day, and, of course, Mr. Despard's name cropped up."
"Why of course?" Jim asked.
There was a moment's hesitation before his father replied. "I had instructed my brokers to apply for a rather large number of shares in this—this radium mine when it is floated. I found it necessary to realise certain securities. My solicitors did not seem to have a very good opinion of Mr. Despard. They confessed they did not know much about him. They seemed to think him a man of straw. He has already been connected with one or two companies—rubber and oil, I believe, both of which went into liquidation shortly after they had been promoted. As you know, I'm one of the syndicate of this radium mine."
"I don't know anything about the game," Jim admitted. "But I didn't know that Despard had convinced you there was anything but water in the old Blackthorn mine. I'm sure he's a rotter. You're not worried, are you? I mean, he hasn't done you for any amount?"
"He hasn't done me at all," Sir Reginald replied testily. "He started by forming a little syndicate, and I—but you wouldn't understand. You mustn't forget we had expert opinion, and the reports read so well. If by any chance the venture fails—well, it would hit us rather badly. You must not forget," he added hastily, "that property has been depreciating lately, and that, in consequence, my income has been dwindling, and just when this fellow Despard came along I was looking about for a good investment."
Jim laughed and pressed his father's arm. He knew that Sir Reginald had been thinking of his future more than of himself. "The desire for wealth has never troubled me, guv'nor. Love in a cottage sounds sentimental rot, I know; but one's got to live somewhere, and as long as I've got work and the woman I want, a cottage will be good enough for me. Here's the Ingenue Theatre, so you had better leave me now unless you want to lose your reputation!"
Sir Reginald laughed. "I understand that the stage-door of a London theatre is a damned sight more respectable than the most fashionable matrimonial office, and that unless a man can produce a marriage licence he don't stand a chance of getting inside nowadays."
In answer to Jim's question the doorkeeper told him Miss Strode was playing, and that she generally left the theatre about eleven o'clock. Jim left his card, and said he would return at that hour. He arrived punctually, and had not to wait long before Ruby made her appearance.
He had never met her before, and at first he was not impressed. She treated him brusquely, and asked him plainly to state his business. He explained who he was and told her he had brought her a message from a friend. She looked him up and down, and he read mistrust in her eyes.
"Perhaps you'll walk as far as the end of the street with me," he suggested. She nodded. He told her he was engaged to be married to Rupert Dale's sister. "Can you guess from whom I bring a message?"
She started then, and her face grew deadly pale. She hesitated a moment, looking steadily into his face. Then she asked him to call a cab.
"Do you mind driving back to my flat with me? Yes, I live alone at present, but you needn't bother about the conventions. What people thought and said never troubled me much, and now it doesn't trouble me at all."
They scarcely spoke until her flat was reached. Ruby led the way into her sitting-room, mixed a whisky and soda for Jim and made one for herself.
"Would it shock you if I smoked?" she asked. "I can't help it if it does."
"I smoke myself," he replied quietly.
He saw a tinge of colour touch her cheeks. She apologised, and handed him the case. "Forgive me; but you're a soldier, aren't you?"
Jim nodded.
"I suppose you think women who earn their living at second-rate theatres, who smoke cigarettes, drink whisky instead of aniseed, and live alone, lose caste, don't you?"
He laughed and shook his head. "No. Why should I?"
"The Ingenue Theatre is largely patronised by the army, the navy, and the House of Lords. I've found that the youthful members of the aristocracy want to marry us, naval men want to amuse us, the army men expect us to amuse them—Aunt Sally up to date, six shies a penny!" She turned her back on him. "Will you tell me your message?"
"It's from a man called Cotton, John Cotton. You knew him under another name. He left Devonshire a week ago en route for Singapore. He wanted me to tell you that he was safe, that he loved you, and was deeply grateful for all you had done for him."
He waited, but Ruby Strode did not move. She still stood with her back to him. It was a long time before he dared break the silence.
"You understand?" he whispered.
Then at last she turned round and stood beside him. The expression on her face had changed. It was no longer hard and cold. Her eyes were tender and beautiful: the eyes of a woman who has loved. She stretched out her hand and Jim took it.
"You mean that Rupert has really escaped? That there's no chance of his being captured and taken back to prison?"
He bowed his head.
"Who helped him escape? Who got him out of England?"
"That doesn't matter," Jim replied. "It's enough for you to know that he's safe. He's bound for Singapore, where he'll find work—a man's work, under the British flag. He will, as the Americans say, make good yet."
He tried to withdraw his hand, but Ruby held it tightly. "You helped him. I daresay you didn't do it for his sake but for his sister's, the woman you love. But you helped him."
Jim did not reply. Bending down Ruby kissed his hand again and again. He snatched it away and turned on his heel.
"God bless you!" she whispered hoarsely. "Don't go yet, Mr. Crichton. Tell me—tell me that you believe he's innocent?"
He looked at her then. And in her eyes he read her secret. If he had had any doubts as to Rupert's innocence they went now.
"I believe he is innocent. But—why couldn't he prove his innocence? If you did it, unknown to him——"
"Of course it was unknown to him," she interrupted. "He never suspected for a moment—how could he? That's why I did it. Oh, I was mad at the moment, but I loved him so! His life was in danger. He was going to kill himself. Why won't anyone believe—why can't anyone understand? Ruin, dishonour, faced him. When a woman loves nothing in the world matters but the honour, safety, and life of the man she loves. Being a man you may not have much of an opinion of women—the Lord knows why we love them so! Just as a man will die for his country, just as a soldier will kill, spy, suffer indignities, be tortured, rather than betray his trust, rather than see his country shamed or his flag hauled down, so will a woman do just the same rather than see her man hurt or the flag he carries dishonoured. Oh, I suppose it's only an idea that each fights for—the flag for the soldier, the man for the woman. The flag is his country and its future. The man is her mate and the children he will give her.... Can't you understand? I'm not defending myself; but they wouldn't believe me when I confessed, because they couldn't see why I should do it. The fools!"
"Surely you didn't think when you did this thing your crime would remain undetected?"
"A woman doesn't think when the man she loves is in danger. I tell you, if I hadn't found the money for him he would have taken his life. I had to find the money. The cheque was lying on the floor, he had forgotten it. The idea came. I acted on it. I didn't think. It was a crime, I daresay. One day, when you're at war, perhaps, and you capture a spy you'll shoot him. You know he's a brave man and a soldier doing a job you might have been deputed to do for your country. But you'll shoot him. That's a crime in its way, but you'll do it because it's your duty to your flag. If you stopped to reason, to think it out, you wouldn't do it. When I committed my crime I obeyed the orders of my heart—instinct—call it what you will. I wanted to save my man—who was to be the father of my children. That's all I knew or remembered. I didn't save him. It's not too late now—if only they would listen to me, if only they'd believe me."
"They will believe you if you can find proof."
"The man who can prove it won't speak. I believe he could prove my guilt and Rupert's innocence absolutely if he would speak. Several things have come to my knowledge since the trial. That man is Robert Despard. He has disappeared from London and I can't find him."
Ruby was walking up and down the room now, her head thrown back, her fists tightly clenched. She looked magnificent, terrible.
"If I could find him," she cried between her teeth, "I would accuse him of perjury. For he did perjure himself. He came into Rupert's sitting-room just after I had altered the cheque. I was holding it in my hand just underneath my glove, and he saw it there and asked what it was. I believe after I left the room he must have seen the marks on the blotting-pad. Things I had forgotten at the time, things he said, returned to me afterwards when it was too late. He knows, but he won't speak."
"Gently, gently," Jim said, taking her arm and making her sit down. "We must help you, my father and I. We'll force Mr. Despard to speak—we must clear Rupert's name if——"
"There's no if!" she cried.
"You realise that if we clear him it means that you take his place? You will be sent to prison."
She seized his hands and looked into his eyes. "For me, the day I enter prison and he is pardoned, will be the first happy day I shall have known since Rupert was arrested. I love him."
CHAPTER XXV.
AN EXCITING TIME.
Singapore!
The chain rattled through the hausehole with a deafening roar, and the great ship swung at anchor in the Roads.
A tropical sun beat fiercely down on the awnings, and Rupert Dale, leaning over the rail, gazed shorewards at the great plain framed in cocoanut palms—the Cathedral spire rising white and dazzling out of the green, fan-like leaves. To the left the brown slopes of Fort Canning, crowned with its giant flagstaff and fluttering flags. Round the ship a score or more of sampans tossed and jostled each other in the sparkling sea, their copper-skinned owners—naked to the loins—gesticulating and shouting in a language which sounded harsh and vehement to his unaccustomed ears. A strong, pungent odour of hot spice in which cinnamon predominated filled the air, while kites and eagles wheeled and swooped round him above the dancing waves.
Singapore! The gate of mystic, far Cathay! China—Japan—Siam—Borneo! Lovely Java, sea-girt Celebes. The spice islands! Lands of wonder and romance. The great Unknown, his future Home!
What a revelation it had been to him—the wonderful voyage. He had never been abroad before, and "foreign parts"—as anywhere out of England was called in Devonshire—were still a closed book.
Egypt! The Desert seen from the Suez Canal had impressed him. The Red Sea, with a distant glimpse of Mount Ararat, had brought the Bible story of the Israelite wanderings right before his eyes, for was not that the very "Wilderness" all round him? What was he but a wanderer in a strange land, surrounded by the desert of the sea—the promised land a mere speck on the chart—a tiny island away in the far north-west. The dear homeland, his home which he would never see again.
Then the miracle happened. First at Gib, then at Malta, Aden, Colombo, Penang, and now here. All along the vast ocean journey, four weeks long, wherever the great ship touched, there ashore flew the old flag, his flag. There stood his own countrymen on guard beneath its folds. Home? Why, he had brought it with him. There it was ashore now, and there stood his blood brother, white-helmeted, his bayonet flashing in the sun for witness of his birthright.
Rupert could hear a band playing somewhere ashore, and as though in answer to his thoughts across the water there floated the heart-swelling strain of "Home, Sweet Home." He listened entranced till the air died away and all was silent. Then came the stirring crash of the National Anthem. He remembered the last time he had heard it. At the Moreton flower-show. It brought back in a flash to him the faint damp scent of moss and roses. That happy summer day. Home and all it stood for was here! It was good to be a Briton and feel this glorious freedom, this great sense of fellowship, of ownership.
"You will be getting sunstroke if you stand there with your helmet off, Cotton."
He started—the spell was broken. His fellow-passenger, a grey-haired, clean-shaven man of fifty, with whom he had struck up a friendship during the voyage, stood behind him with a smile on his kindly face, which was lighted by a pair of keen, grey eyes.
"It sounds good to us exiles—the old tune—doesn't it? 'What does he know of England who only England knows?' Eh? The chap who wrote that must have known something of our Empire—what? And yet there are millions of fools in the old country this moment who neither know nor care whether the Empire exists or not; while the very bread they eat is bought with the blood of those who created it! Look at that long wharf over there. See those piles of bales? That is cotton pieces from Manchester. See those chests piled under that big shed? Tea—cheap 'Straits' tea—shilling a pound in any little grocer's shop at home! See that steamer loading those sacks, there, that black-funnelled one? That's sago, that the kiddies eat at home."
"Wonderful!" Rupert echoed, and then he sighed. He had left the old country—a felon. He had found a new world, a free man!—with his country's flag flying a welcome. And yet——
"Do you see that little cruiser over there?" Patterson continued excitedly. "It's hard to realise that she's the only British warship within a thousand miles of this—the most important trade-route in the world. No, that's not a British ship—that big battleship over there is a German, and that other with four big black funnels is a Jap, and the one beyond is a Russian. Bit of a shock, isn't it, when you recognise what a tiny thing the British Navy is compared to the Colonial Empire it has to defend?"
Rupert nodded. His head was in a whirl—and his heart. He had reached the end of his journey. He was free! And yet——
"By the by, have you decided what you're going to do? My offer is still open. Your mining knowledge would be very useful to me in Borneo, although you haven't got the certificate of the School of Mines. It will be rough work—dangerous work at times, as I told you, for we are going up to the unknown interior where the Head-hunting Muruts live, and you may not see civilisation again for twelve months."
Rupert looked him in the face. Patterson was a "white man" he knew. A straight man.
"I have thought it all over, and I decided last night to accept your offer if you are still willing to take me after you have heard why I am here. I can't explain everything, but what I shall tell you is only what you ought to know. Come down to my cabin and I will tell you who I am."
In the saloon of the boat—deserted now—where they had spent so many happy weeks, sharing storm and sunshine, dangers and pleasures, unconsciously growing to know one another, as men ashore never can.
A genuine friendship, backed by respect, had been formed between Rupert and Patterson. The former had only just realised what this friendship had done for him.
What it meant for him now! He, who had been for so many months a convict, cut off from all communications with his fellows—a mere machine, a cypher! Number 381!
Patterson had offered him a job. Work after his own heart. It was only now, at the last moment, that Rupert realised he could not accept it, could not continue the friendship that had commenced, and which meant so much to him, unless he told Patterson whoand what he was!
An escaped convict, a felon with a price on his head!
A nice companion for this straight, clean Englishman, who proposed to take him, alone, in the vast interior of wild Borneo.
To speak, to confess, meant losing his first, only friend. It meant losing the chance of work. It might mean that he would be arrested and sent back to England and prison!
But he had to play the game! It is curious how little things affect one at a great crisis of one's life. Rupert had known he would have to leave Patterson and refuse his offer—or else speak and tell him his history, and, sub-consciously, he had decided to say nothing, make some excuse for refusing his offer and just leave Singapore, alone.
It was the sight of the Union Jack flying from the shore, the sound of the old English tune, "Home, Sweet Home," that had suddenly turned the scales and made him decide to leave his fate in Patterson's hands.
He thought of his father, of little Marjorie, his sister. And last of Ruby, the woman he loved!
They would have asked him to play the game.
So, over a final drink in the empty saloon, Rupert told his new friend, already his old friend, Jim Patterson, the story of his life, his imprisonment and escape from Dartmoor. He refrained from mentioning any names; he made no attempt to defend himself.
When he had finished Patterson ordered another drink, and then lit a cheroot. Having got his "smoke" well under way he rose and held out his hand.
Rupert took it hesitatingly. "I'm glad you told me, Cotton," Patterson said. "I rather flatter myself that I'm a judge of character. I knew the moment I saw you that you had a 'history.' I didn't want to know it, but I guess you feel better for having told me. A man who has gone through the fires and has got his fingers burnt is worth twice as much as the fellow who has never fought and blundered, suffered and gone on fighting. Now then, shut down on the past and ... get ashore!"
"You—you still want me to come with you?" Rupert stammered. "You still trust me?"
Patterson laughed. "Now, more than ever."
Half an hour later Rupert's bag was put into a long boat with Mr. Patterson's more bulky luggage. There was a choppy sea on and it was not an easy task to get into the boat as it rose and fell at the ship's gangway. At last they pushed off, Patterson sitting beside Rupert in the stern, with their baggage piled in front of them. The six Malays bent to their long, thin paddles with short, jerky strokes, and the light boat flew through the white-topped waves towards the shore beneath the slopes of Fort Canning, where the Union Jack still fluttered a welcome.
* * * * *
A long canoe cut out of a single giant tree, with a palm leaf awning covering the stern portion, under which two white men inclined on a mat, while eight brawny Malays, sitting crossed-legged with their backs to them, bent their bronze-coloured bodies from which the sweat poured in streams to the regular strokes of their paddles. In the stern, behind the awning, sat the steersman, an old, parchment-faced Dyak with a small white goatee beard, fierce, pig-like eyes, and a broad slit of a mouth which dripped a blood-red juice as he chewed his betelnut quid.
He was the guide, an old "Gutta-hunter" who knew this trackless forest, these giant mountains through which the great river flowed three long weeks' journey to the sea. Here, in the far interior, where no white men had been before, it had become a clear, swift stream, with constant rapids, up which the narrow canoe had to be dragged by the crew waist-deep in the rushing white-foamed water as it swirled and tumbled over the jagged rocks.
Tropical vegetation hung in thick green masses to the water's edge, while the blacker mass of foliage of colossal trees whose huge trunks shot up a hundred feet or more without a branch, shut in the landscape on every hand.
"'This is the forest primeval, only more so,'" Patterson quoted gaily, "and, if it wasn't for the leeches, not a bad place after all."
These pests hung on every leaf and blade of grass and, with outstretched head, waited the passer-by on whom they instantly fixed, to worm through puttie or breeches, through coat and shirt, until the flesh was reached and the blood-sucking head inserted beneath.
For nearly nine months now Patterson and Rupert had been travelling—prospecting and working—in this wild and dangerous region. For Rupert, nine months of keen excitement, which had almost wiped out the dreadful past. But, deep in his heart, was embedded the memory of the woman he still loved; and the memory of his father and the little homestead among the Devonshire moorlands.
The one thing he could never forget was that he would, perhaps for ever, remain an exile. Yet he dreamed of returning home one day, of seeing his loved ones again—if only for a few brief hours.
The sun was below the mountain tops, and it was almost time to think of selecting a camping-place for the night. Patterson stretched himself and sat up.
"Where shall we land?" he asked in Malay.
"I don't know—wherever your honour wishes," the helmsman replied. "Your honour knows best."
Before Patterson could reply a huge tree on the right bank, not twenty yards ahead, crashed down right across the stream, its great branches throwing up a column of water, while its dense top was locked in the foliage of the other bank.
"Murut! Murut!" shouted the Malays. "Turn quick! Quick!"
The water swirled beneath the swift strokes of the paddles as they turned the canoe in its own length. A sudden crack with the rending sound of a falling tree caused them to pause with paddles in the air, as another giant of the forest crashed down the stream below them. Instantly a shot rang out from the jungle and the air was filled with yells of "Hoot-ka-Poot," the dread war-cry of the Head-hunting Muruts.
Naked figures climbed over the fallen trees that hemmed them in, and musket shots from both banks added to the din, though the bullets whizzed high overhead or harmlessly struck the water.
At the first alarm Rupert and Patterson had seized their rifles and opened fire, Patterson shouting orders to keep the canoe in mid-stream.
"Fire at the men on the tree ahead, Cotton," he said. "We must force a passage up stream.... Good shot!" as a Murut who had reached the middle of the tree threw up his arms and toppled face down into the stream.
Two more were lying limp in the tangle of branches and another went splashing and spluttering past the canoe, the swift running current red with his blood. Suddenly the man in the bows leaped up with a shriek that ran high above the noise of the fight, his eyes starting from his head with horror, as he stared at a tiny bamboo shaft that he held in his left hand, while his right plucked convulsively at his side, from which a few drops of blood were oozing. Slowly he sank to his knees, while his fellow paddlemen huddled away from him, muttering the dread words, "Upas, Upas poison! He's hit!"
As the cruel poison began to work, the poor fellow's face became livid and his limbs contorted with agony, and soon he lay a knotted and inanimate mass of twisted limbs in the bottom of the canoe.
The deadly blow-pipe is the Murut's chief weapon, for guns are few and only obtained where the Arab trader has penetrated to buy "gutta" and other jungle produce. The blow-pipe is about six feet long and is bored with wonderful skill from a perfectly straight piece of seasoned hard wood. Its darts are made from bamboo, thin as a knitting needle, and with a very sharp point, which is nearly cut through, so that it breaks off in the wound before the dart can be withdrawn. A piece of pith that exactly fits the bore of the tube is fixed to the other end of the dart, and so powerful is this primitive weapon that a skilled warrior can blow a dart with extreme accuracy to forty or even fifty yards range.
The Malay next Rupert dropped his paddle, which floated away, and when he looked at him he saw a thin line of blood running down his face from a hole in his left temple. He was stone dead, but still squatted in his place. A bullet now broke the steersman's, Unju's, paddle, and the canoe began to drift towards the bank.
It had all happened so quickly that they had scarcely time to realise their danger, and it was not till a shower of spears had wounded Unju and killed the other two Malays, that Patterson saw they were almost ashore.
"Quick, Cotton, paddle for your life!" he shouted, and, seizing a paddle, he tried to turn the bow of the canoe to the stream again.
But it was too late, a score of naked forms leapt from the bank and threw themselves upon the canoe, which filled with water, and surrounded by shrieking savages was soon fast wedged in the undergrowth on the wear side.
It would have gone hard with the two white men, for a dozen spears were poised against them, when Unju, the Dyack, yelling his war-cry, leapt into the midst of the Muruts, his heavy parang swung by an arm of steel, cleaving through skull and shoulder, breast or back, and sending death and destruction on every side. In a moment he had cleared a circle round the canoe. Suddenly a shot rang out, and Unju collapsed into Rupert's arms, and an instant later a tall native with a Winchester repeating rifle in his hand, stepped from behind a tree, and, signing to the Muruts to keep back, approached the canoe.
He wore a short Arab coat, a pair of tight-fitting "sluar," and a small handkerchief turban of stiff gold embroidery round his head. An acquiline nose, two piercing black eyes set very close together, and a small black moustache that covered but did not hide a thin, cruel mouth, showed that the newcomer was not a Murut. He addressed Patterson in Malay with the peculiar drawl of the Brunie noble.
"Surrender, and the Muruts shall not kill you. Touch not your guns but step up upon the land."
He then turned to the Muruts and gave some orders in their own language. Unju had sat up, and Rupert was trying to staunch the bullet wound in his left shoulder. With Patterson's assistance they lifted him from the canoe and laid him against a tree on the river bank. The Muruts were cutting branches of trees and with a few rattans soon constructed a rough litter.
What fate awaited them Rupert hardly dared to guess. That their lives had been spared was evidently due to the presence of the Brunie chief, whom they learnt later on was an outlaw and a desperado called Mat Salleh, who, in his young days, had been a pirate and was a native of Suloo, an island of the north coast. Old Unju knew him well by reputation, and seemed to fear him far more than he did the Muruts, whom he really despised. Mat Salleh had obtained a great influence over the Muruts of the interior, who believed him to be invulnerable and possessed with supernatural power.
When the litter was ready, Mat Salleh ordered them to march behind it, and surrounded by armed Muruts and preceded by others carrying the gory heads of the poor Malays, they started up a steep mountain track through the gloom of the dark jungle. After about an hour's march they emerged from the forest into a large clearing, where paddy and sweet potatoes were planted. At the top of a conical hill in the centre of the clearing was a high stockade of bamboo enclosing some dozen houses on piles and thatched with palm leaves. As the long procession entered the clearing, a great hubbub arose out in the village. The deep notes of a big war gong mingled with the shrill cries of the women, who poured out of a gateway and danced down towards the approaching warriors. The sun had set and it was nearly dark, though a bright moon lighted up the clearing, throwing the stockade and houses into black relief against the opal sky.
Rupert glanced at Patterson. The latter shrugged his shoulders. "We're in for it, I'm afraid, Cotton. Sorry, old man, but while there's life there's hope!"
As they entered the stockade flames shot up from a huge fire that had just been lit inside, and the ruddy glow thrown on the bronze figures of the men and the naked bodies of the women who surrounded them, made a scene so weird and eerie that Rupert's blood ran cold with dread of what was about to happen in this devils' cauldron. At one end of the enclosure was a long house with an open verandah about six feet above the ground, against which was placed a single bamboo in which notches had been cut to form steps.
By this Mat Salleh and the Murut chiefs mounted, and squatting round a huge jar began to refresh themselves by sucking a reed that was inserted in the top. Similar jars were placed near the fire, and groups of warriors quickly surrounded them. Patterson and Rupert were dragged to the fire, and poor wounded Unju was also dragged there by a horrible old hag, who appeared to be the mistress of the ceremonies. The women now took the heads, still dripping with blood, and began to slowly dance round the fire, chanting a deep song with a high wailing note at the end of each stave. Their long black hair hung straight to their waists, they were naked save for a dark cloth of bark round their loins. The great wooden gong beat time and throbbed on the still night air. Gradually the time became faster, and men and women from the drinking jars joined in the dance. The gory heads were tossed from hand to hand, and it was evident to the unfortunate prisoners that the drink was beginning to inflame the dancers.
Spears and parangs flashed in the firelight, and old Unju, who had hitherto remained motionless, stirred uneasily and at last spoke to Patterson in a low voice.
"Beware, O chief, for they will take our heads presently when their blood is fired by drink."
Patterson nodded. "I'm afraid I've given you a poor run for your money, Cotton," he whispered. Rupert smiled. "I'm all right. Glad we're together."
At this moment a band of women were seen advancing from the chief's house, leading two youths who were to be initiated as warriors. They each carried a head by the hair and were led into the circle of dancers. The same old hag who had conducted the dance now smeared the youths with blood, shrieking an invocation, to which the crowd replied at intervals with a shout of "Augh!" Next an old warrior stepped forward and broke off their two front teeth with the aid of a stone and a short iron instrument, afterwards filing the stumps off to the gums.
This was done to enable the sumpitan or blowpipe to be used with greater facility and is the sign of manhood. More jars of tapi (rice spirit) were broached, and every one gave themselves up to drinking.
Patterson whispered to Unju and asked him if he was able to walk, to which the old man replied that he could walk all night if his head remained on his shoulders—about which he expressed some misgivings.
"Listen," said Patterson, "in a short time the moon will be down. They have put green boughs on the fires to smoke the heads while they drink. It is pitch dark under the stockade, and most of the men are already drunk. If we can crawl one by one to the stockade, without being seen, we can overpower the man at the gate, and, once outside, Unju must guide us to the river. It is a desperate venture, but to remain here is certain death."
Unju shook his head. On the whole, he preferred to remain where he was. Their lives were in the hands of fate. To go or stay—it would come to the same thing in the end.
Patterson turned impatiently to Rupert. "What do you say? At least we shall be doing something, and, anyway, get a fight for our lives. This inaction is getting on my nerves."
Rupert managed to laugh. "It is a bit dull. I almost feel as if I were watching my own head being smoke-dried over that beastly fire."
It was agreed that at a signal from Patterson each man should begin to creep towards the stockade, keeping as far apart as possible. If one was discovered and caught the other two were to make a dash for it, trusting to the excitement and drunken confusion to get away.
Patterson drew a ring off his finger, a plain gold band, and gave it to Rupert, asking him (in the event of his getting away and Patterson being caught) to give it to a certain person he named and whose address Rupert would find at the National Bank, Singapore.
"Anything I can do for you, old man, if—if you're unlucky?"
Rupert thought for a moment. "There is a girl I love called Ruby Strode. You will probably find her at the Ingenue Theatre, London. Tell her that I understood and appreciated everything she did on my behalf—tell her she was my last thought."
"Right-ho," Patterson replied cheerily. "Now, crawl a few feet away and lie low until you hear me whistle twice. Then make for the stockade on your hands and knees. Each man for himself, remember. It's our only chance."
Rupert gripped his hand. The next moment he found himself alone. By the faint light of the flames from the fire he could see the hideous, naked figures of the Muruts dancing to and fro, men and women. They reeled, leapt, staggered. The rice spirit was doing its deadly work, and already they were mad with excitement.
Suddenly above the noise Rupert heard two long, low whistles. He turned over on his hands and knees. But, as he did so, he heard a wild yell.
The hag-like woman had seen him. Patterson was discovered, too.
A score of writhing, steel-coloured, blood-stained bodies reeled towards them, closed round them, cutting off all chance of escape.
Rupert saw Patterson rise to his feet. He followed his example, giving himself up for lost. The flames from the bough-fed fire leaped up brightly for a moment, then died down again, making the night inky-black.
CHAPTER XXVI.
AN ARGUMENT.
Despard sat in the den, as he called it, of his new chambers in Duke Street, London. A shaded electric light shone on his desk. A mass of papers and a private account-book lay before him, a half-smoked Havana cigar was in his mouth, a whisky and soda by his side.
The gold travelling clock on the mantelshelf struck the hour. Nine o'clock. Despard pushed back his chair, took a pull at his cigar, sighed, and then, looking at the clock, frowned. Evidently the visitor he expected was not coming.
Nearly two years had passed since he successfully floated the radium mine at Blackthorn Farm. For several months his little venture had threatened to sink. It had been more difficult than he supposed to get people to believe in radium. The public wanted something they could see and handle for their money. Radium was a little too elusive.
But Despard, for all his faults, was a fighter, especially when he had something for which to fight. He had got two or three people with a small amount of money to believe in him—and in radium. Some of those people had influence. So, after many weary months of working up a slow but steady boom, and by a brilliant system of advertisement, the company had been successfully floated and launched, and the public had come in at first slowly and hesitatingly, but eventually with a rush which was accelerated by an unexpected boom on the Stock Exchange.
The one-pound shares in the radium mine, fully paid up, mounted from five shillings to par. From this they suddenly boomed to twenty-five shillings, and then gradually and steadily rose until they were quoted at three pound ten. Sir Reginald Crichton and one or two other members of the original syndicate, though honestly believing in the venture, were surprised. So far, no radium had been extracted from the pitch-blende—though the reports were excellent and full of encouragement. But Crichton expected he would have to wait some years before he got a return for his money.
Now, if he chose to sell his shares he knew he might realise a small fortune. But Despard begged him to wait.
"They'll touch five pounds yet," he said.
His nerve, which had never deserted him during the early days of the venture, when people had frankly laughed at the idea of radium being discovered in Devonshire, when there was real danger of utter failure, and rumours of fraud echoed in his ears, now began to fail him.
He knew he could trust old Dale, Sir Reginald Crichton, and a few other men who had been nothing more nor less than his dupes. It was his friends in the City, sharks like himself, whom he could not trust. Men who had helped finance the company and boom it; the men who had forced up the price of shares originally when they were worth as many pennies as they were quoted in shillings.
Gold had been the god at whose shrine Despard had always worshipped. For he believed that money could purchase anything, even the love of woman.
Even the love of the woman he had grown to desire more than any other, more than anything else in the world, save wealth—Marjorie Dale.
The frown on Despard's face deepened as the clock ticked cheerfully on and the hands slowly but inexorably pointed to the fleeting minutes. In spite of all opposition, in spite of all the influence he had been able to bring to bear on her father and on Jim's father; in spite of threats and promises she still refused to listen to him or to consider him for one moment as her lover or her future husband.
The announcement of her engagement to Lieutenant James Crichton had been made, only to be contradicted by Sir Reginald. Her father had sent her to London to stay with some wealthy friends they had made—through Sir Reginald's introduction and the fame the mine had brought them. He had hoped that a season in the great city would help her to forget and make her more amenable to his wishes.
But he did not know his own daughter. It had always been his boast that when a Dale gave his word he never went back on it. Perhaps he forgot that though his daughter was a woman she nevertheless inherited the same proud, obstinate spirit that he and his forefathers possessed.
He had almost given her up as hopeless, had frankly told Sir Reginald he could do no more.
Society has a conveniently short memory on occasions, and those members of it, who knew the history of the Dales and the story of the convict brother who had escaped from Dartmoor and successfully disappeared from the country, quickly forgot all about him. Those who had not heard asked no questions. Miss Dale was young, rich, beautiful, and apparently well-bred. That was enough. Even Sir Reginald was in his heart of hearts beginning to relent, though, outwardly, he showed no signs of it.
But Despard knew this, and it encouraged him to play his last card. A desperate one and a dangerous.
That was why he now glanced impatiently at the clock and the frown on his forehead gradually deepened. That morning he had commenced to unload—to sell his shares in the radium mine. He had gone to work cautiously so as not to alarm the public. It was important that no one should know that he was clearing out of the venture until he had realised every penny he possibly could. As soon as the shares began to drop he knew there would be a rush by those behind the scenes to sell. And eventually there would be a scramble by the public to get rid of the shares that he believed were not worth seventy pence, much less seventy shillings. By that time Despard hoped to be out of the country—travelling for his health! And he fondly dreamed that Marjorie Dale would be with him, too. As his wife—or, if she proved obstinate, he intended to try what force would do.
He had made up his mind that Jim Crichton should never have her. For he hated him. And he had good reason. Jim had kept his promise to Ruby Strode and had left no stone unturned to try and force Despard to prove Rupert Dale's innocence.
But it had been of no avail. Sir Reginald's suspicions of Despard had been lulled to rest again. Money talks, and it had successfully lured the elder man into the comfortable belief that things were best left as they were, and that Rupert Dale, having escaped and apparently been forgotten, his memory was best left in oblivion.
The clock on the mantelshelf struck the half-hour. Despard closed his books, folded up his papers and put them away. He had realised a tidy little fortune, and for the moment the frown disappeared and he gave a sigh of satisfaction. To-morrow, he decided, he would warn Sir Reginald to sell; but if Marjorie Dale did not come to his rooms that evening in reply to the letter he had sent her, he would let her father be stranded with a few thousand worthless shares, and the old tin mine at Blackthorn Farm as a reminder of his folly.
He had warned Marjorie in the letter he had sent her that unless she came to his rooms that evening to hear what he had to say he would ruin her father, ruin him utterly and irretrievably.
He crossed the room and opened the door which led into his bedroom. His trunk was packed, everything was ready to start for the Continent at a moment's notice. It looked now as though that start would be made within twelve hours. For he knew that if Marjorie did not respond to his letter in person, she would either send it to her father or else show it to her lover, Jim, and in that case—in Mr. Despard's own language—"the fat would be in the fire," and the sooner he got out of the country for a few months' change of air the better.
He knew Marjorie had no fear for herself. Poverty had no terror for her, and she had shown by her loyalty to her brother that she was ready to face disgrace. But he believed that she would come for her father's sake.
Just as the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to ten there was a knock at the front door. Despard started, and a smile flitted across his thin lips.
She had come after all!
He closed the bedroom door and glanced round the room. There was a little too much light, so he switched off the hanging lamp. He glanced at himself in the mirror, smoothed his hair and straightened his tie.
She had come. He knew, as he noiselessly crossed the hall, that she would not leave his rooms until he had obtained her promise to marry him, or, failing that, until he had obtained a promise more certain of fulfilment.
His fingers trembled a little as he turned the Chubb lock and opened the door.
The woman standing outside entered quickly. Despard closed the door, and, turning, held out his hand.
"I was afraid you were not coming, Marjorie——"
"You have made a mistake. I am not Miss Dale. I am Ruby—Ruby Strode."
Despard's teeth met in his lip. He repressed an oath. "You—what do you want with me?"
He hesitated a moment, then pulled himself together and opened the sitting-room door. Ruby entered and he followed her.
"Won't you sit down? Have a whisky and soda?"
She nodded. "Thanks, I would like a drink."
While he mixed it she stared round the room. "I've not been here before. Rather a nice place. You have made a lot of money, haven't you?"
She spoke nervously, in short, sharp sentences. Despard realised something was wrong. He wondered what. He looked at her more critically as he handed her the tumbler. She was smartly dressed. Her face looked very white, her eyes large and brilliant. If anything, she was more beautiful than when he had last seen her. She had always attracted him. He remembered how once he had wanted to marry her.
And the thought crossed his mind that if Marjorie did not come Ruby Strode would not make a bad travelling companion for an enforced holiday.
"It's a long time since we've met," he said easily. "Though your friends have been busy on your behalf—or perhaps I should say on behalf of your quondam convict lover."
He saw her face grow scarlet for a moment, her eyes flash, then she veiled them, and, shrugging her shoulders, laughed easily.
"It's about my quondam lover, as you call him, that I've come to see you."
Despard yawned, and, taking a fresh cigar, lit it. "How disappointing! I thought you had come to see me for myself alone. You are just as beautiful as ever you were, Ruby."
She emptied the glass he had given her, then pulled her chair closer to his and looked at him eagerly.
"Mr. Despard—Bob—you are rich now and powerful. You've got everything you want in the world."
"Not quite," he said, leaning towards her.
"Nearly everything," she continued. "You've got money, and that buys most things."
"Yes," Despard grinned. There was a moment's pause, and again he leaned towards her. "Have you anything you want to sell?"
Once more the colour mounted her cheeks.
"Perhaps," she stammered. "I'll tell you straight out. There's nothing I wouldn't do in order to clear Rupert Dale's name."
Despard leaned back and flicked the ash off his cigar. "The same old subject. Gad, one would think you believed I altered the cheque, I'm the guilty person. I've told you and your pal, Jim Crichton, that I can do nothing, that I know nothing."
Ruby drew still a little closer to him. In the dimly-lit room she looked exceedingly beautiful. Yes, he admitted that she still fascinated him as she had done a year or two ago.
"Listen," she whispered. "I know if you had spoken at the trial you would have saved Rupert."
"Supposing for the sake of argument that I could have. What then?"