The blood still throbbed at his temples. The irony of it, that they should meet again! And on this mission! She was as beautiful as ever. But the lure of her eyes—eyes as purple as moist violets—of her smooth golden skin and lithe body, no longer affected him. All that was in the sepulcher of the past. A memory that was like the taste of stale wine upon the tongue.
"I put a sleeping powder in his wine because what I am going to say is for onlyyourears," she replied.
"And you're called the Swaying Cobra," he mused, more to himself than to the woman, "or did another write that note?"
"I am the Swaying Cobra." A pause. She studied him from under half-lowered lids. "I dance for those I love. I have only venom for those I hate."
The Swaying Cobra! He almost laughed. That was a good symptom, that he could be amused. A pretty viper! Resolving to let her open the subject of his visit, he allowed his eyes to wander about the room.
"Here I cease trying to be an Englishwoman," she said, perceiving his inquisitive look. He did not fail to register the ring of bitterness beneath that assertion. "In Jehelumpore and in Delhi it is different, but here—here I am a Rajputni." Another pause. She laughed, and it was not without a sting. "I know what you are thinking: that you will refuse to work with me because—because of a foolish Anglo-Saxon sentimentalism!"
She waited for him to respond; he did not.
"But why not forget that we ever knew each other—and did we ever really know each other? Why not regard this as an impersonal affair? Individuals do not count where an empire is concerned."
Trent smiled discreetly and held his tongue.
"I bear you no rancor," she went on. "On the contrary, I recognize and respect the qualities that prompted me to select you for this mission—imagination, wits, honor! Yes, for these things I chose you—forgetting that when we last saw each other it was not under the most pleasant circumstances. What is dead is dead."
She fell silent, and he spoke for the first time.
"You've anticipated," he said. "I was sent here to work with you and I intend to. I've already forgot that we ever met before to-night. What is dead is dead."
The woman smiled—but had she known what was in his mind at that moment she might not have been so pleased. However, she did not. And she lay back among the brocaded cushions, quite at ease, her hands clasped behind her head, chin tilted, eyes looking upon him as a cat's eyes look upon the mouse it is about to play with.
All of which did not pass unobserved by Trent, who pictured, instead of a woman lying upon the gold silks with her head lifted, a lithe, beautiful cobra with its black hood raised above the cushions; pictured her thus, and returned her gaze with frankness and a smile that disarmed her.
She clapped her hands and a servant brought wine. "Were you well informed as to the terms of the agreement?" she questioned, handing him a cup of claret-hued liquor.
"I believe so."
"That when you leave this house you are no longer Major Arnold Trent, but another—a well of secrets from which no man can draw, and as mute as the Buddha at Sarnath?"
He demonstrated that he could do so by remaining silent. She resumed:
"And you will do as I direct?"
"To a reasonable extent," he modified.
"To a reasonable extent," she repeated, and nodded. "And if you do not understand a thing, you will trust to my judgment that it is better you do not understand it."
"Then I'm to deliver myself blindfolded?" he put in, remembering Kerth's words of the early evening and glancing involuntarily toward the drugged figure.
"You will be told all that it is consistent to tell." She took a sip of wine and surveyed him. "What is your first question?"
He thrust back the query that came to his tongue and reverted to his conservative tactics. He sat as mute and expressionless as the Buddha at Sarnath. When a moment had passed, she announced:
"You would like to know how I know what I know about the jewels; is it not so?"
"I would like to knowwhatyou know first," he corrected.
She laughed—that laugh that rippled low in her throat.
"What I know is locked away safely until the time is ripe to bring it forth. Meanwhile, I will say this much: the jewels have not left India."
"Then theywill?"
He flashed out the question with the air of a fencer thrusting at a weak point in his opponent's guard. But foil met foil. She replied:
"Did I say so, O wise one? Again your thoughts are as clear as a crystal pool. You say to yourself, 'Such a hoard of jewels cannot be smuggled out of India; she is trying to confuse me.' But nay! The gods of India are many and I swear by all of them that every gem that was stolen, down to the last pearl, can be spirited out of India at any moment it is so desired—and under the very eyes, nay, the protection, of your Secret Service!"
If this statement surprised him, his face did not betray it; he disconcerted her by looking interestedly at the brasslota. His indifference drew fire.
"I said it could be done!" she declared. "Whether it will be is for you to learn. Oh, you do not deceive me! I know you are consumed with curiosity, under that shell of yours! Your Raj, well fed and growing fat with wisdom, thinks it has a clue. Chavigny! The Raj thinks Chavigny is involved!"
She leaned closer; peered intently into his eyes. The illusive fragrance of sandalwood from her hair was not calculated to make him feel any more at ease. But he did not stir nor wink an eyelid under the close scrutiny.
"Chavigny!" she mocked. "Chavigny, the famous thief! Chavigny, whom some silly Secret Service man tracked to Indore—and lost! Chavigny, driven into hiding in Delhi! Pah! Let the Raj search for Chavigny, let it turn Delhi inside out—while we look on and laugh! You—you have imagination! I can guess what is in your mind, for I, too, have imagination! You have pictured a gigantic criminal organization—a gem syndicate, let us say—a flock of jewel vultures who have swooped down and plucked clean the bones of the empire! And perhaps you even think Chavigny the leader, yes?"
She smiled, quite pleased with herself. Then once more she leaned close to him.
"What would you think if I told you there is such a band—an order, we will call it—of jewel vultures who have flown away with riches worth a dozen rajah's ransoms? What would you think? Only"—she paused dramatically—"we will omit Chavigny, for if there be such an order he is not its head nor in it!"
He drew out his smokes; passed them to her. She refused, and he lighted a cigarette and flicked the match through the archway. Then he suggested:
"Aren't all cards to go on the table?"
She smiled wisely. "No, I can play them more effectively one by one," was her retort.
His brain was working swiftly yet carefully. When he had selected his words he uttered them.
"Presuming there is such an order, as you call it, we'll go further and say that you, by some unguessable means, have become a member; and are working with them for the Raj."
She looked her approval. "Presumably"—with a nod. That word was a key to further knowledge.
"Then it would seem logical, if I'm to work with you, for me to be initiated into the mysteries of this order—become a member, in other words."
"Go on," she encouraged.
"So the purpose of this visit, I take it, is for me to learn the 'Open Sesame' of the order."
And having said that much, he realized it was sufficient and relapsed into quiet to let her do the rest of the talking.
"You have already proved that I chose well," she announced. "But before I go on you must give me your word of honor that all I have said and will say, all that occurs until I release you from the promise, will never be repeated—by word or writing."
"I give it," he returned quietly.
She leaned over and deftly drew back the lids from Kerth's eyes; Trent caught a fleeting glimpse of the whites.
"To-morrow you leave Benares," she directed, again assured. "You will take a train in the morning for Bombay and go to an address which I shall give you; and do as I instruct." Her hand slipped under her waist and brought out a long blank envelope. "In this envelope are your instructions. I must have your promise not to read them until you are on the train to Bombay; then destroy them immediately."
He inclined his head and placed the envelope in his pocket.
"You said that when I leave this house I am no longer Major Trent," he reminded.
"You are Robert Tavernake, a jeweller, from London. All that is contained in the instructions."
"Including the name of the order?"—his curiosity escaping him.
For answer she clapped her hands and curtains parted to admit a servant with a black lacquer tray. From the tray she lifted a small box; opened it as the servant padded out.
"This is the symbol of the order"—removing a string of beads.
Had Trent felt any hesitancy about plunging into this blind mission it would have vanished at sight of the beads—reddish coral beads, with an oval-shaped pendant overlaid with the silver image of a three-eyed god! The only emotion he displayed was to moisten his lips; but it required all the force he could marshal to check the questions that flooded to his tongue, to mask his surprise and reach with a steady hand for the beads. Despite his control, it seemed for a moment that he would betray his nervousness.
"... the Order of the Falcon," he heard her say. "See—" She inserted her fingernail under the silver band that finished the coral; the pendant opened, like a locket. The interior was silver and a name was engraved upon the back—"Robert Tavernake."
She snapped the oval shut and he took the beads; twisted them carelessly around his fingers, until the deep reddish coral seemed like huge drops of blood welling from his hand. As he caught the significance of the illusion, he looked up quickly and spoke.
"Am I to carry these?"
She nodded.
His thoughts swung back to the oval that lay in his handbag at the hotel.
"Is it customary to have the name engraved—like this?"—with a gesture.
After the words left his mouth he realized he had made an indiscreet move. She looked at him suspiciously, then answered:
"Customary, yes—among those who possess such beads."
He did not fail to grasp the insinuation that her speech bore. He glanced down at the beads in his hand, casually enough; toyed with them; slipped them into his pocket. His heart had not resumed its normal beat, but the tension had eased. He fastened his eyes upon the relaxed figure of Kerth and—
"It will be permissible, I presume," he began, as though the sight of the turbaned head suggested the question, "to take my bearer along?"
Did a smile flicker across her eyes, he wondered, or was it only his fancy? The answer came decisively.
"It is scarcely practicable."
"Why?"—a shade too artlessly.
"Servants have eyes to see and ears to hear."
Something in her tone caused him to wonder if she had penetrated under Kerth's masquerade. All the while he was subconsciously thinking of the mate to the oval in his pocket.
"What harm in taking him to Bombay?" he pursued, conscious that he was losing ground.
Again he could have taken oath that he saw the shadow of a smile in her eyes.
"To Bombay?" she repeated thoughtfully. "No"—slowly—"no, I see no objection. I concede that." But he did not like the manner in which she said it.
"Conditionally, however," she added. "He must leave to-night. When he reaches Bombay let him reserve a room for you at the Taj Mahal—and wait."
Trent was discreet enough to accept her terms without question. His eyes returned to Kerth. He saw him stir slightly, heard a sigh leave his lips. The woman, too, saw and heard.
"He is awakening," she observed. "I shall summon Chandra Lal to guide you back to your hotel."
Again she clapped her hands; again the servant appeared. She spoke to him swiftly, not in English nor Hindustani, but in a tongue Trent did not understand, and the man vanished with a salaam.
Sarojini rose; Trent, too, got up.
"Salaam, Burra Dakktar," she said, lapsing into Hindustani and bringing the visit to an end. "I, the Swaying Cobra—who dance for those I love, but have only venom for those I hate—bid thee farewell until the gods bring us together again. And may that be soon!"
She smiled and contemplated him, once more as a cat contemplating prey; smiled with eyes that spoke mockery as she suffered him to salute her fingers; and the last picture he had of her was as she crossed the golden room and parted the golden curtains, vanishing like a cobra into its lair.
He turned then to Kerth and shook him. The latter was slow to awaken. Lids lifted to reveal rheumy eyes, but as he recognized Trent sleep was wiped away, like a cobweb. His gaze swept the room; he rose unsteadily.
"I am ready, Sahib!" announced Chandra Lal, appearing in the doorway.
Kerth opened his mouth, as if to speak; shut it; shot Trent a cryptic glance.
"Come." This from Trent, laconically.
Thus they left the house of the Swaying Cobra, left it with its vain, old-world atmosphere and its golden room; re-traversed the labyrinth of streets; got into the landau; whirled toward the Cantonment.
Not until they reached the hotel, until Chandra Lal flicked his whip and rolled away into the gloom, did either of the Englishmen speak.
"So you've known her before!" observed Kerth as they approached Trent's room.
Trent said, without surprise: "You heard?"
"Everything.... I'll drop over and find out about the Bombay trains; join you in a moment."
As Kerth moved toward the central building, Trent unlocked the door. After he switched on the light, his first act was to open his bag and insert his hand into the pocket where he had left the piece of coral. His fingers trembled, for he felt that he was questioning for the identity of Manlove's slayer; trembled—and groped in an empty pocket.
For several seconds he stood motionless, trying to adjust himself to the situation. When he came into full sentience, he looked carefully through the bag. He even searched his pockets. But the oval was not to be found.... Some one had entered his room; stolen it. The realization burned like acid into his brain. But if—
His mental inquest was cut short as a knock announced Kerth.
"Message for you," said the latter, extending a telegram.
Trent hastily tore it open; read:
"Party fitting description bought ticket for Mughal Sarai last night.Khansammahat dâk bungalow says she asked questions about you and Manlove. Following up clue. Nothing new. Urqhart."
A sense of disappointment smote him. First Chatterjee; then the oval; now this! A series of blind alleys.
He applied a match to the telegram and watched it burn.
"Train leaves in an hour and a half," Kerth volunteered, taking a seat and staring inquisitively at the ashes as they fluttered to the floor.
"How'd you suspect the wine?" Trent enquired, unbuttoning his tunic.
"It's my business to suspect. I emptied the cup under the divan and, afterwards, expected any minute to see it seeping out. As it is, I'm not sure she didn't smell a mouse. Gad! The way she pulled back my eyelids!"
Trent hung his tunic on a chair. "Don't object if I get comfortable, do you?" he asked. "Rather done up; awake all last night, you know."
Kerth waved his slim hand. "Go ahead; I'll have to pack up shortly." Then, as Trent undressed: "This Sarojini, she's a shrewd one, major, and I don't envy you the task of matching blades with her. However, you gained a point on her to-night. I was rather surprised that she gave in so easily; not so sure, either, that there isn't a trick in it." He laughed easily. "Oh, I'll wager she has a bag of tricks! And do you think she was telling the truth when she said Chavigny has nothing to do with this Order of the Falcon?"
Trent, stripped but for one garment, propped himself against two pillows, pencil and pad in hand.
"I'm sure I don't know," he returned, making a notation. "Pardon me for taking a few notes; 'fraid I'll forget 'em. No, don't go.... About Chavigny: why should she say he isn't, if he is?"
"To confuse you." Kerth drew out a silver cigarette case. "Have a smoke? And what d'you suppose she meant by saying the jewels could be spirited out of India under the protection of the S. S.?" Kerth searched from pocket to pocket for a match. "Have you a light, major?"
Trent's hand moved involuntarily to his side; then he motioned toward his tunic.
"In the pocket."
And he continued to write as Kerth reached into the pocket of his coat. He read the notes he had made:
Who the deuce would want the pendant? Answer: if a name is engraved inside, it would be very valuable to the owner. Yet the fact that the coral was found in M.'s hand doesn't prove conclusively that its owner is the murderer.
Who the deuce would want the pendant? Answer: if a name is engraved inside, it would be very valuable to the owner. Yet the fact that the coral was found in M.'s hand doesn't prove conclusively that its owner is the murderer.
He looked up as Kerth extended a lighted match, took it and held it to his cheroot.
"Thanks"—briefly.
"Do you think," interrogated Kerth, "you could find her lair without a guide?"
Trent smiled. "Hardly."
"I'd take oath that her man, Chandra Lal, led us along the same street twice! Oh, she's a wily one! And the way she had us taken into the room while it was dark!"
He puffed on his cheroot and Trent continued to jot down notes.
"Furthermore," Kerth drawled, "why doesn't she want you to read those instructions until to-morrow? Some catch in it."
Conversation languished, and presently Kerth drew out his watch and observed: "Nearly midnight. I'll have to be moving on."
He rose and extended his hand.
"I'll take a room at a native serai in Bombay—for atmosphere—and meet you at the station. Until then, good luck!"
In the doorway he paused. He looked particularly satanic at that moment, and again Trent was not quite sure that he liked him.
"Bombay, major!" were his parting words. And the door closed behind him.
Trent stared at the blank panels for a moment; then, while he ran his fingers through his hair, he glanced over his notes:
Something queer about this Chavigny. May not belong to Order, but he's not to be overlooked. Last alias was Gilbert Leroux, Kerth said. Kerth is a downy bird. Gilbert Leroux. Names mean nothing. Sarojini took particular pains to empress it upon me that Chavigny isnon compos mentis. Therefore, he isn't. He's something. What? And—Sarojini is a connection of the Nawab of Jehelumpore—the jewels of the Nawab were among those stolen. Find out if she was in Jehelumpore at time of theft.
Something queer about this Chavigny. May not belong to Order, but he's not to be overlooked. Last alias was Gilbert Leroux, Kerth said. Kerth is a downy bird. Gilbert Leroux. Names mean nothing. Sarojini took particular pains to empress it upon me that Chavigny isnon compos mentis. Therefore, he isn't. He's something. What? And—Sarojini is a connection of the Nawab of Jehelumpore—the jewels of the Nawab were among those stolen. Find out if she was in Jehelumpore at time of theft.
Then he tore off the slip of paper, crumpled it and held a corner to his cheroot. When the blaze lapped up to his fingers he let the paper fall to the floor, then swung his feet over the edge of the bed and reached for his tunic. From the inside pocket he removed the long envelope Sarojini Nanjee had given him. It was sealed and its white surface invited inspection. He made a movement to open it; hesitated. Why not? As Kerth suggested, there might be a trick—and he knew only too well that she was not above chicanery. But he did not open it; slipped it under his pillow.
A glance at his wrist-watch. He procured his revolver; snapped open the breech; inspected the cartridges; clicked it shut; placed it beneath the pillow with the envelope. Then he switched off the light and lay with his cheroot's end glowing in the darkness.
The discovery of the symbol of the Order revealed another side to the mystery surrounding Manlove's death, and during the ride back to the hotel he had constructed a new theory—a theory that he reviewed now. The analogy between the Swaying Cobra and the woman of the cobra-bracelet did not escape him. One suggested the other. Surely it was plausible to surmise that Sarojini was the veiled woman, although he was at a loss to find a convincing motive for her presence at Gaya. However, Colonel Urqhart's telegram stated that the woman had made inquiries about him—and what other woman was interested? Further proof was offered by the fact that the mysterious woman left Gaya on the night of the tragedy for Mughal Sarai, the junction for Benares. Finally, there was the coral pendant-stone. Sarojini had called it the "symbol" of the Order; therefore, only a member of that mysterious band was likely to possess it, and had not she admitted she was a member? And the pendant-stone was stolen—evidently for the reason that engraved inside was the name of its owner. Sarojini was in Benares; it was logical to assume, then, that some one in her employ had entered his room and removed the condemning evidence.
But, on the other hand, there were elements to upset this theory. Clues indicated that Manlove was stabbed at the bungalow and carried to the temple-ruins. Could a woman do that? Under the stress of circumstances, yes. But why move the body—unless to hide it? Or had Manlove been mortally wounded at the house and gone of his own volition to the ruins before his death? Possible—but he could conjecture no cause for such action.
And there was Chatterjee. Since the receipt of the telegram telling of his death, Trent was of the opinion that the native knew something about the crime and for that reason was killed. Had Chatterjee gone to the bungalow that night, grief-crazed and believing Trent responsible for his child's death, to administer primitive justice? Had he witnessed the crime and fled? Of course, there was the possibility that Chatterjee's death might have been a coincidence—the termination of a quarrel between him and another native. Yet Trent was not inclined to lay great importance upon this, as he considered, meager explanation and his thoughts returned to the woman.
He could fix the guilt upon neither Sarojini Nanjee nor Chatterjee. Of the two, he least suspected the native. He knew the woman to be unscrupulous—whether to the point of murder he was uncertain. True, it may not have been deliberate murder. She might have gone to the bungalow for (again) a mysterious reason; might have been discovered by Manlove.... But the glove did not exactly fit. Nor had he any concrete reason to believe her the woman of the cobra-bracelet—or to believe the woman of the cobra-bracelet involved. That the latter had worn a heavy veil, surrounded her, in his eyes, with an aura of mystery. This he realized, and gave her the benefit of the doubt.
Nevertheless, the coral pendant linked Sarojini with the crime; suggested that even though she did not actually commit the deed, she was undoubtedly implicated.
All of which did not clear the mystery; instead, bewildered him the more and kept suspicion, like the needle of a compass, wavering between Chatterjee, Sarojini Nanjee, the woman of the cobra-bracelet (if she were not Sarojini) and a person unknown.
His cheroot had burned low, and he got up and flung it away, and made sure the door was secure before he returned to the bed; then he relaxed and lay staring up into the darkness—darkness that was hotter because of the thick mosquito-curtain—until he fell asleep.
Trent returned to consciousness gradually, as a diver rising from the bottom of the sea. He was aware of another presence in the room before he was completely awake, and he strained at the threads of sleep that still entangled him.
The first proof of a presence in the hot, dark void that enclosed him was the sound of repressed breathing. He felt, now at the helm of his faculties, a movement under his pillow—realized it was ahand, a hand that withdrew stealthily, that belonged to a dark figure crouched outside the mosquito-curtain. A turban and shoulders were silhouetted upon the gray rectangle of a window. He sensed eyes upon him, cat-like eyes that saw despite the darkness.
With a stealth that proved that the intruder was no novice, but of the school of thieves that graduate well-nigh perfect adepts in the art of silent movement, the silhouette receded from the bed. Trent realized that in all probability his revolver had been placed beyond reach; attack by surprise was impossible because of the mosquito-curtain. So he lay there, undecided, scarcely breathing; and, after a moment, he let his hand slide slowly, cautiously, toward his pillow.
The silhouette halted; was motionless.
Trent's hand touched the seam of the pillow and pressed underneath. It encountered steel.
The silhouetted turban was moving again—toward the door.
Trent gripped the revolver. He turned on his side noisily and sighed, as though in sleep. At the sounds, the dark figure stepped swiftly to one side of the window, thus vacating the gray rectangle.
Trent waited no longer. He raised the mosquito-curtain and jumped. And the thing he apprehended happened. His head and shoulders became enmeshed in the netting. Cursing his awkwardness, he rent the fabric with a downward sweep of his hand. As he leaped through the opening, he saw the door flung wide, saw the man plunge out.
He pressed the trigger—and it snapped harmlessly.
"Damn!" he spat out, knowing the weapon had been tampered with.
Again he pressed the trigger; again that absurd click.
Meanwhile the door slammed. The crash awakened him to the fact that the thief was escaping, and he dashed across the room and threw open the door. As he emerged, a figure disappeared behind the far corner.
He rushed in pursuit, his bare feet padding upon the stone flags. At the end of the portico he halted sharply, almost colliding with something in white—a something that appeared, as if by magic, from behind a suddenly opened door; that came to a standstill as abruptly as he, and gasped.
"Oh!"
Words died in Trent's throat. The girl, whom he recognized as she of the bronze hair, wore a long white garment, and her hair fell in heavy braids over her shoulders; her hands were at her throat.
For a moment they stood and stared, both speechless. Then:
"Oh!" she repeated, with a hysterical little laugh. "You frightened me! I woke up and—" She swallowed with difficulty. Her eyes dropped to her nightdress, she threw a significant look toward him and darted into her room.
Not until he heard the key turn in the lock did he remember the very substantial reason for his presence on the portico—and then that reason was nowhere in sight, but was, he surmised, at a safe distance, laughing at the awkwardness of all sahibs in general and one sahib in particular.
His face burning, and not altogether from the heat, he returned to his room. The glowing hands of his wrist-watch pointed to nearly two o'clock.
When he switched on the light it shone on six cartridges lying upon the table—cartridges that deft fingers had removed from his revolver and left to mock him. It was no mystery how the thief had managed to get in, for he knew that entrance could be effected with the aid of a master key, but it did puzzle him that neither his money nor the contents of his bag were touched. He suspected, however, now that he had time to review the affair, that the intruder had not come bent on loot, but after one particular thing—and when he assured himself that that thing was safe under his pillow, he guessed that his awakening had prevented the man from making away with it.
As he held up the envelope, he was once more seized by an impulse to open it. But, as before, he placed the tempting object under the pillow. Then he returned the cartridges to the breech, and, after propping a chair against the door, turned off the light and stretched himself upon the bed.
Again a wave of mystery had lapped up and touched him, and receded without leaving a hint of the power that energized it. He could not suspect Sarojini Nanjee, for he saw no reason why she should have the envelope stolen. Other hands were at work.
But thoughts and questions did not harry him long. He felt certain that he need not fear another intrusion that night, and when drowsiness returned he yielded to it.
The next morning atburra hazri, or "big breakfast," he found himself searching the dining-hall for the bronze-haired girl; but she was not there, nor did she appear during the meal.
When he returned to his room he discovered a letter under the door, and tore it open with quickened interest as he recognized the handwriting and inhaled the delicate fragrance of sandalwood.
GREETINGS!You will no doubt be surprised when I inform you that instead of going to Bombay, you will go to Calcutta. The address of the place to which you are to report is set forth in the packet I gave you, and which you, being a man of honor, have not read ere you receive this. I told you Bombay last night because one can never be sure there are no ears listening, even in one's own house.Your bearer, Rawul Din (who, I assure you, is worthy of the confidence you impose in him) will by this time be on his way to Bombay, which inconvenience to you I regret exceedingly. However, you shall have a servant. One Tambusami, an excellent bearer, will meet you in Calcutta. Regarding your own man, Rawul Din: he is, I am sure, a most obedient servant and will carry out your instructions by waiting in Bombay.Meanwhile, I trust you will have a most pleasant journey and will grow in both wisdom and prosperity.Your humble servant,SAROJINI NANJEE
GREETINGS!
You will no doubt be surprised when I inform you that instead of going to Bombay, you will go to Calcutta. The address of the place to which you are to report is set forth in the packet I gave you, and which you, being a man of honor, have not read ere you receive this. I told you Bombay last night because one can never be sure there are no ears listening, even in one's own house.
Your bearer, Rawul Din (who, I assure you, is worthy of the confidence you impose in him) will by this time be on his way to Bombay, which inconvenience to you I regret exceedingly. However, you shall have a servant. One Tambusami, an excellent bearer, will meet you in Calcutta. Regarding your own man, Rawul Din: he is, I am sure, a most obedient servant and will carry out your instructions by waiting in Bombay.
Meanwhile, I trust you will have a most pleasant journey and will grow in both wisdom and prosperity.
Your humble servant,
SAROJINI NANJEE
When Trent finished reading the letter he smiled. He felt no anger, nor even chagrin; he was amused; he could picture with what satisfaction she penned that missive. She was as full of tricks as a street-juggler, this Swaying Cobra. Whether she discovered Kerth's true identity or only suspected he might act as a listening-post for the Intelligence Department, he did not know; he knew only that Sarojini Nanjee had outwitted the Government in the first move of the game.
The remainder of the morning he spent in making arrangements for his departure. While he was having his luggage removed from his room he saw the bronze-haired girl—a glimpse of white and gold as she crossed the portico. She did not even glance at him.
Two-thirty, with a sun glaring down implacably upon the dusty Cantonment, found him pacing the platform of the railway station. Suddenly he caught a glimmer of bronze, a familiar face among many unfamiliar ones. It may have been the advent of the train, roaring up in a cloud of heat, that made her turn quickly—and it may not. She hurried into a carriage, followed by a porter in a flowered chintz coat.
As the train puffed out, Trent drew from his pocket the envelope Sarojini Nanjee had given him and tore off the end; read the closely written pages; reread them; made a few notes; memorized certain passages, and consigned the packet to ashes. One sentence stood out in his brain, in raised lettering:
... Thursday night to the house of his Excellency the Mandarin Li Kwai Kung, in the Street of the River of the Moon, which is in the Chinese colony at Calcutta.
... Thursday night to the house of his Excellency the Mandarin Li Kwai Kung, in the Street of the River of the Moon, which is in the Chinese colony at Calcutta.
It was Wednesday now.
Calcutta was luxuriating in the amber and blue of a clear day when Trent detrained in the Howrah Station the following morning; detrained as Mr. Robert Tavernake of London, in light gray tweeds, instead of Major Arnold Trent of Gaya, whose military trappings, with his identity, were secreted in a trunk.
As he neared the front arches of the building, with a porter in tow, he was hailed by a drill-clad officer.
"Hello, Trent!" exclaimed the uniformed one, whom he recognized as a former messmate. "Quo vadis, you old mummy?"
Trent, not blind to the fact that he was being eyed by a native in horn-rimmed spectacles and a pink turban, returned the greeting with a polite smile.
"Sorry," he said; "You must be mistaken"—and walked on.
"Crazy?" wondered the surprised officer, "or am I?"
He stared at Trent's gray back and sunburnt neck—and he was not the only one, for at least two others did.
As the porter put Trent's luggage into an automobile, the expected happened: the spectacled, pink-turbaned native approached, beamed upon him and spoke in suave tones, in English.
"You are Tavernake Sahib?"
Trent nodded. "Tambusami?"
The pink turban inclined forward as he salaamed. "I have a communication for the Presence!" he announced, extending an envelope that distilled an unmistakable perfume.
Trent did not open it, but thrust it into his pocket and instructed:
"Get in."
The motor car rolled across the Hoogly and deposited Trent and his involuntarily acquired servant at a hotel off the Maidan. There he dismissed his bearer.
"I sha'n't want you this morning," he told the pink-turbaned Tambusami, resolving to experiment with him.
And the native departed with a most profound salaam.
A half hour later, over breakfast, Trent read the note from Sarojini Nanjee. It wished him welcome to Calcutta and urged him to listen well when he visited his Excellency the Mandarin Li Kwai Kung—"who lives in that very poetic Street of the River of the Moon," as she put it. "I regret that it will be impossible for me to see you in Calcutta," she concluded. "Meanwhile, I trust you will find Tambusami an excellent bearer."
"Hmm," he thought, "if she won't be able to see me in Calcutta, where the deuce will she see me?"
Then he turned his attention to the "Daily Indian News," perused the closely-set columns while he finished his meal, and, after breakfast, set out for a stroll. He moved north along Chowringhee, past green-grown gardens, and into a quarter where the streets swam in intense white sunlight and men and women of every caste and color pressed close to the flanks of harnessed beasts. It did not disturb him in the least when a backward glance showed him a pink turban following at a discreet distance; he smiled. When he had filled his pipe, he turned toward the riverfront. He felt rather in the mood for a tramp, so he increased his pace—strode on. He reached the Hoogly Bridge; followed Harrison Road. After an hour of steady walking he of the pink turban showed signs of weakening. Trent, perspiring freely yet not uncomfortable, suddenly plunged into a side street, made a series of turns and came out, eventually, near the Secretariat—without the pink turban. There he encountered the officer he had met in the Howrah Station earlier that morning.
"Hello, Ayrton," was Trent's genial greeting. "Sorry I couldn't speak to you this morning—but too many ears were listening."
"So!" commented the officer, wisely. "You're doingthatnow!" He shook his head with assumed gravity. "Government's gone mad—madder 'n a March hare!" A laugh. "I suppose you're shadowing Ghandi!"
Trent grinned and made an inconsequential remark.
"Here permanently?" he queried.
"End of my life, I daresay," was the gloomy reply.
"You can do me a favor, then"—thus Trent. "I've a uniform I want to rid myself of temporarily; don't object if I send it around for you to keep?... Thanks."
They chatted for a few minutes; then the officer entered one of the buildings facing the square, and Trent returned to his hotel.
He arrived hot and perspiring, and sat down upon the veranda to wait. And before long the pink turban appeared in the street below. Their glances met and Trent motioned to him.
"Why did you follow me?" he demanded, as Tambusami, sweat flowing from every pore of his brown face, salaamed.
"My orders, O Presence!"
"Whose orders?"
"The Presence knows!"
Trent thought a moment. Then: "I object to it."
Tambusami smiled broadly. "But, O Presence, it is for your good that I follow—to protect you!"
And knowing it was useless to tell him he lied, the Englishman dismissed him curtly.
Trent spent an idle afternoon. He did not leave the hotel, for he feared that he would encounter other acquaintances, as he had met Ayrton, and with Tambusami tracking him it might make more insecure his position. To be sure, Sarojini Nanjee knew he was Arnold Trent—but did Tambusami?
As he lay sprawled across his bed, enjoying the inactivity and listening abstractedly to the sounds from the street, a recollection of the bronze-haired girl insinuated itself into his thoughts. Subconsciously, he wondered why the remembrance of her came to him. He hadn't seen her since she entered the carriage at Benares Cantonment; didn't know whether she left the train along the route or in Calcutta. Queer that this girl should have crossed the border of mere observation. Yet, had he analyzed it, he would have known the reason. The world, that is, the great firmament of existence around his immediate sphere, was to him a scroll of faces. Now and then some countenance was lifted from the multitude—a swift glimpse of eyes in the dusk, eyes he would never see again, and for many nights afterward, when he sat alone with his pipe and the stars, he would spin webs of glamour. A quixotic person, this Trent.... The girl, then, was one of the lifted faces. Skin of old ivory hue, he mused, and hair—now, just what color was it? His imagination supplied a simile. Golden, with little flickerings of auburn—like firelight on bronze. The figure rather pleased him. Firelight on bronze. A contrast to Sarojini Nanjee. One the jungle orchid, blossom of purple shadows; the other ... well, the type one liked to picture at a piano in a dusk-deepened room, with hands gleaming pale as moonlight....
Sentimentalism, he concluded. And dropped off to sleep.
Dusk had fallen when he awakened. He dressed quickly and went below. Tambusami was nowhere in sight; however, he suspected his shadow was not far away. Doubtless the native knew of his appointment in the Chinese quarter, but he determined if possible not to have him at his heels. To this end he took an automobile part of the way, by a roundabout route; then, certain he had eluded his tracker, set out on foot to finish the journey.
An intense vitality lived in every line of his body as he swung along crowded streets, a tall, trim figure in white linens, smoking a cheroot with the air of a globe-trotter trickling through the evening swarm for no other purpose than to absorb atmosphere, instead of a man approaching an uncertain venture.
Native Calcutta was airing itself after a hot day, and a film of color and life unreeled in the early night. He passed two sailors from a British man-o'-war, younger by ten years than himself, clean-clipped chaps. The sight of them brought back the old dream—freedom and the quest for fabulous isles. He rather envied that pair, irresponsibly young. Always there, this dream, lurking in the subconscious, eager for some incident to draw it into the conscious.
From the thronged bazaars he turned into a quarter that was no less crowded, but with people of a different sort. It was as though he had descended into another world, a planet of dirt and filth and sin—sin in its nakedness, as only Asiatic cities know how to strip it of its glamour. A foul artery fed with the virus of the East—beings whose faces were mottles of yellow and brown and chocolate black upon the mephitic gloom. A woman in satin trousers ran out of a balconied house and clutched his arm, whispering an entreaty; she cursed him in bastard English when he thrust her away. Something of psychic consciousness came to him from the street, as though fanned into momentary being were the sparks of old evil.... Babylon and Rome, and the perished cities of the Nile....
Once clear of this humanity-clogged artery with its aura of ancient sin, he found himself in the quieter, though scarcely cleaner, Chinese quarter. Jews, Parsees and Chinamen; black and gilt signs; open doors that, like dragon-mouths, expelled the mingled odors ofsamshuand soy, of cassia and joss-sticks and opium; an atmosphere that transported Trent to the picturesquely wicked towns of the Straits Settlements.
The Street of the River of the Moon belied its name; it was no more than an alley and it slunk in the shadows of unpretentious houses. Its lights were dim, many-colored globes afloat on warm darkness; it was as mysterious as the numerous slant-eyed yellow men who came and went so soundlessly in its shifting dusks. After several inquiries Trent located the residence of his Excellency the Mandarin Li Kwai Kung—a dark, colonnaded pile. He jerked the leather strap that hung from a panel of the door; heard a muffled tinkle, the padding of feet. The door opened wide enough to permit a yellow face to peer out.
"Tell his Excellency that Mr. Tavernake is here," Trent instructed.
The door closed quickly; again the padding of feet. After a moment the yellow face reappeared. This time the door opened sufficiently for Trent to see a house-boy in a slop-shop suit and a black skull-cap.
"His Excellency sends greetings and bids you enter his dwelling," announced the house-boy.
The door closed behind Trent. He was in a hall where adong, swinging from brass chains, kindled an orange flame against the semi-darkness, where a stale-sweet scent clung to the air and gloom varnished everything.
The house-boy took his shoes and gave him straw sandals, afterward leading him through a series of doors to a corridor where the rich, stupefying odor of opium saturated the atmosphere. A sliding door was pushed back—a black door inlaid with characters in glistening nacre—and Trent stepped into a dimly illuminated area.
A lamp with a yellow shade hung by invisible means from an invisible ceiling, casting a pyramid of ochre light upon a figure that squatted on silken cushions beneath it—a figure arrayed in a loose yellow garment and the embroidered boots of a mandarin's undress. He was grossly obese, with drooping gray mustaches and oblique, beady eyes—a grotesque effigy made more unreal by the incense that floated up from a brazier at his side and wreathed bluish spirals on the dead air around him. Trent received an impression of sheeny hangings beyond the radius of the lamp; vases and gold-embroidered screens—a web of shadows, with, in its center, this gorged yellow spider.
His Excellency rose with visible effort, smiled blandly and shook his own hands within his brocaded sleeves.
"You will do me the honor to be seated?" he enquired, gesturing toward a pile of cushions opposite him. "My house is flattered that one of such fame should lighten it with his presence."
Trent waited for his host to be seated, knowing this to be a custom, then dropped cross-legged on the cushions. Followed the usual exchange of lilied words, of felicitations and compliments. Afterward, Li Kwai Kung struck a gong and a little rice-powdered, red-lipped girl appeared from behind the dusky screens, like a figure out of one of Pan Chih Yu's poems, and set a brass basin filled with scented water before Trent. When he had washed his hands the basin was removed. More lilied words, more felicitations and compliments. Then, a few minutes later, the first course of the meal was served.
"Ch'ing chih fan," said the mandarin graciously—by which he invited Trent to eat.
Bamboo shoots, rice-cakes and honey; roast duck flavored with soy, seeds of lotus in syrup; prawns, sweetmeats, nuts and tea made fragrant with petals of jasmine. A very celestial meal. They talked as they ate, and if his Excellency clung to the custom of balancing food on his chop sticks and thrusting it unexpectedly into his guest's mouth, as an act of courtesy, he refrained from doing so on this occasion. Trent grew anxious to have the formalities over with. He knew he was undergoing a test; upon the success of this interview, he imagined, depended his future safety.
When the meal was finished, Li Kwai Kung asked:
"Will you join me with a pipe?... No?"
A ring of the gong brought the serving-maid with cigars. His Excellency declined to smoke tobacco; instead he spoke to the girl in his own tongue and she vanished, to reappear presently with the requisites of an opium smoker—a lighted lamp on a tray, a blue jar containing poppy-treacle, and a metal pipe. The jar, Trent observed, was a piece of blue porcelain of the Sung period.
Then, after the manner of the East, which is to say, obliquely, his Excellency approached the subject of Trent's visit.
"There are certain necessary precautions," he began, while the girl twisted a black gummy substance about a needle and held it over the lamp, "before we enter into any discussion."
Trent opened his shirt and revealed a coral pendant chased with silver, lying against his skin. Li Kwai Kung nodded.
"And if I say, 'It is a wise man who holds his tongue in the presence of knaves,'" pursued the mandarin, "what would be your comment?"
"I would reply with the ancient wisdom of Lao Tzü—'By many words wit is exhausted; it is better to preserve a mien.'"
Li Kwai Kung nodded again. "Hao," he grunted—and his guest did not know that was a signal for the house-boy, armed with a revolver, to retire from behind one of the many screens.
"It is needless, I am sure," the Oriental resumed, "for me to caution you, who are about to start on a journey to the dwelling-place ofHe-whose-wisdom-is-as-a-lamp-filled-with-much-oil, that the discreet man questions himself, a fool others. You will tread the path of discretion, I know, for I perceive that the light of intelligence burns with much brightness in your brain."
A pause. Trent studied the blue porcelain jar. Li Kwai Kung took the metal pipe from the girl and inhaled; bluish vapor welled from his nostrils, half-obscuring his countenance.
"The arm of the Order is long and powerful, like Mother Yangtze, and its eyes are as many as the stars." Their glances met; no expression was mirrored in either face. "Yours is a great work to do," continued his Excellency, sinking deeper among the cushions and expelling smoke. "The Order will reward the faithful; they shall flourish as the willow-branch. The first step of your journey to the City of the Falcon will be taken shortly—and what sage was it that said, 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step'?"
The obese effigy smiled, pleased with his knowledge, and Trent felt that each word had its own hidden significance. Curiosity pricked him, like a needle flashing back and forth across the loom of thought. But he smoked his cigar and stared at the blue jar as if he had nothing weightier than the Sung porcelain upon his mind.
"As a man climbs a mountain by terraces, so will you travel to the city where dwells the Falcon, he who guides the workings of the Order," Li Kwai Kung went on. "There, having attained the summit, you will—er—see light. The next terrace of your journey is Burma."
He withdrew an object from under the cushions and Trent looked upon a packet wrapped in white silk. The mandarin, placing his pipe in a bowl at his side, rested a contemplative gaze upon the silken wrapping.
"Passage for Rangoon has been booked for you on theManchester, which leaves day after to-morrow. Here"—indicating the packet—"are all necessary papers. When you reach Rangoon you will take a train, as soon as convenient, for Myitkyina, where you will go to the shop of Da-yak, the Tibetan, and identify yourself by showing the symbol of the Order. He will furnish you with ahu-chao, or, as you would say, a passport, to a—er—higher terrace."
He handed the packet to the Englishman, who placed it in his pocket. Trent's thoughts were revolving about what he had just heard—revolving and reaching no end. Myitkyina. Upper Burma. Were the jewels in Burma? But why Burma? How were they taken there? "Under the protection of your Secret Service," Sarojini Nanjee had said. Were they hidden somewhere in the hills? Myitkyina. He tried to visualize a map; failed.... This City of the Falcon: in Burma? And the Falcon? Who was he? White or Oriental?... Groping—groping in the dark—a purposeless circle. At least, this Order was no small one.
"I believe there are no further instructions to deliver," he heard Li Kwai Kung say. "Regarding the trivial matter of your—er—incidentals, I presume you have been told to keep an account and submit it at the proper time?... No?... Then do so, as it is the wish of the Order that you suffer no personal expenses.... Stay,"—as Trent made a move to leave—"it would be ungracious for me to allow so honorable a guest to depart without further hospitality!"
The little Chinese maid brought liquor—a sort ofarakthat, despite his Excellency's comment that it was a draught of the gods, tasted like sweetened vinegar to Trent. As the Englishman sipped the wine he continued to mull over what Li Kwai Kung had told him. The formidableness of the Order amazed him, troubled him not a little. This Falcon had a nest in Calcutta and Myitkyina. Where else? What of his brood? Why not, he mused, report what he knew to the Intelligence Department; let them swoop down upon these two nests; thus avoid any treachery that Sarojini might contemplate? An idea that he instantly dismissed, for to act prematurely was to invite defeat. He was under orders—and he had given his word of honor. Seek the root of the vine, the seed from which the Order flowered; then exterminate it.
Trent saw by his wrist-watch that it was nearly ten o'clock when he finally rose to take his leave. Li Kwai Kung lifted his corpulent person with an effort and repeated the ceremony of vigorously shaking his own hands.
"A sage once said, 'A man's actions are the mirrors of his heart,'" was his parting remark. "And, verily, I have looked into your heart!" (Which, Trent reflected later, was a rather cryptic compliment.) "May you flourish in wisdom and wealth, as the blossoms of the almond tree flourish after the snows have melted and run down from the Yunnan-fu!"
Trent inclined his head gravely. "And may the Green Gods grant you the Twelve Desires!" he returned.
The house-boy appeared; his Excellency sank among his cushions, like a spider retiring to its gossamer web; and Trent was led back through the series of doors to the outer portal, where he exchanged the straw sandals for his shoes, and left the colonnaded residence—left a world of mystery for a world of noise and heat, of odorous reality and pale lanterns that reflected upon yellow faces and sloe-dark eyes.
He was a short distance beyond the mouth of the alleyway when a gharry rolled by. He started to call after it—an impulse born dead. It was not late; he would walk. Motion accelerated his thoughts. And he wanted to think.
As he strode along the street, fragments of the obese mandarin's conversation slid into his brain and receded, like waves gently insinuating themselves upon a beach. Casually (he had turned into a narrow highway of balconies, of swinging signs and Chinese scrolls) he noticed a white woman on the opposite side of the street—only noticed her, for he knew the type that haunted this quarter. He would have expelled her instantly from his mind had not she moved from the shadow into a band of light that extended beyond a doorway; had not he seen her pause and draw away, as from a plague, as a Chinaman slunk past. The glow fell upon a face of old ivory hue, upon hair as bronze as the lettering upon the black scroll above her wide-brimmed hat.
He drew a quick breath.
The girl evidently recognized him as he recognized her, for she darted out of the band of light and to his side. Dark eyes looked into his from under the brim of her hat. She smiled, half with fright, half ashamed.
"I—I've been very foolish," she said, much after the manner of a truant child. "Please take me out of this dreadful place!"
Trent did not speak immediately; grasped her arm; looked about; hailed a dilapidated carriage that was rattling by. As it came to a halt he said "Get in!" much after the manner of a stern parent.
She smiled again, that same half-frightened, half-ashamed smile, and obeyed.
Thus she of the bronze hair stepped from Trent's world-scroll into a sphere of more intimate association.
The girl was the first to speak.
"Really, I don't know what to say. I hope you don't think—"
"I think as you do," he interposed, "that you've been very foolish."
She laughed tremulously. A voice as soft as a gentle monsoon rain—a voice that slurred over its words. Wisps of hair were burnished by passing lights; her throat shone palely. Only the eyes were in the shadow—dark eyes, deep with mystery and a promise of revelations.... Old ivory and bronze. A picture of soft tones and colors.
"My brother would—well, I hardly know what hewoulddo if he knew about this!"
"Your brother's in the city?"—conscious of a lingering strain.
She shook her head. "I'm alone, or I wouldn't have done what I did to-night—or what I'm doing now. It was brazen of me to come up to you as I did, but I was frightened—terribly!" Then, with that nervous little laugh, she added, "But it wasn't as though I were approaching a totally strange person, for—for I believe you were at the hotel in Benares."
Trent remembered his uniform and that now he was Tavernake—remembered divers things. He decided quickly.
"You must be mistaken about having seen me at Benares; but I've a brother there—in the Army. Perhaps you saw him. He passed through the city to-day."
"Oh! Perhaps so!"—this rather frigidly. "What a striking likeness!" He felt her eyes upon him—those dark eyes. A moment passed before she said: "I must explain why I'm here, at this hour. Of course it will seem foolish to you, but I'm a tourist, and I wanted to see Calcutta's Chinese colony at night—oh, it had to be night, because I knew everything would be tawdry and ugly in daylight!"
It didn't seem at all foolish to him, only indiscreet.
"I hired a registered guide. He was to show me the temple of—of Kwan-te, I believe. Anyhow, he assured me it would be perfectly safe—and, knowing that it wasn't, but rather enjoying the idea, I went. But I didn't see the temple. There was a street fight between some Chinese and Brahmins—Chinese and Brahminsdofight, don't they? In the confusion my guide disappeared. Perhaps he joined in or ran—I suspect the latter. I was so frightened when I found myself alone—and I—well, I walked a short distance—and then—then I saw you."
He realized he ought to say something to fill in the gap that followed, but he was not a man given to much conversation and for the time nothing suggested itself. Finally:
"I hope you've learned a lesson"—grimly.
She laughed, and the nervous note had gone from her voice. Again he thought of cool monsoon showers.
"I'm afraid I'm incorrigible! Now that I'm safe, I think I really enjoyed it. Being a man, you'll disapprove."
"Thoroughly," he responded.
Conversation lagged for a brief spell. The girl took it up.
"You see, Mr.—"
She stopped and he supplied:
"Tavernake—Robert Tavernake."
"I forgot we hadn't been introduced. My name is Dana Charteris. I was going to say that this is like a fairy tale to me—some 'Arabian Nights' story. Since I was a child I've wanted to travel—to see Aladdin's palace and Sinbad's islands—and now I'm doing it. I lived in a town called Bayou Latouche, in Louisiana, U. S. A., and, you know, Bayou Latouche scarcely prepares one for this!"—with a gesture. "It reminds me of carnival in New Orleans."
"You've not been disillusioned?"
"In India? No."
"Of course you have visited Agra."
"No, I haven't seen the Taj. It's a frightful confession to make, isn't it?"
He reflected upon the question and decided:
"It's rather jolly to find some one who's traveled in India without seeing the Taj. Sort of different. But I forgot to ask where you wanted to go. For some reason I took it for granted that you're staying at the Grand."
"That's almost clairvoyant; I am stopping there."
When he had instructed thegharry-wallah, she asked:
"You don't live in Calcutta?"
Making conversation, he thought.
"My home is the world." Then, specifically, "I live in London. I represent a diamond firm."
Before she spoke he knew quite well what she was going to say.
"Jewels always fascinate me. Isn't it frightful about the gems that were stolen?"
"Rather," was the close-mouthed reply.
"Just fancy losing all those jewels!" she went on. "My brother said they are worth millions orlakhsandlakhsof rupees, to be proper. I suppose it's the work of this Chavigny who's reported to be at large. You've heard of him, haven't you?"
He answered in the affirmative and, inwardly, expressed relief that they were nearing the end of the ride.
"I can't ever thank you enough," she told him as they left the gharry and entered the hotel.
In the better light he saw her eyes for the first time and explored a new dimension of strength and dignity. He felt as though he looked into the rich glow of autumn forests, spaces of warmth and color and spirit—an initiation into the sense of discovery and lofty exhilaration that Balboa must have known when he gazed upon the shining expanse of an unknown sea. It was a glimpse into some high arcanum—to him new, but to the world as ancient as the tale of Cana of Galilee.
"I hope I'll see you before I leave," she said in a way that would have made it impossible for him to misunderstand, had he been inclined to do so. "Good night."
He watched her go.... And when he reached his room and examined the silk-wrapped papers Li Kwai Kung had given him, she persisted in cleaving through his thoughts, in appearing from the pages before him and distracting him; and after a few minutes he re-wrapped the packet and placed it in his trunk.
Long after he plunged the room into darkness he lay thinking—thinking of Kerth in Bombay, of his Excellency Li Kwai Kung sitting in his shadowy room, like a yellow-bellied spider, and of the Order of the Falcon. TheManchesterwas to sail Saturday; it was Thursday now. Two days, an interlude; then the Bay, Rangoon and—
But would he seeherbefore he left?
Morning and a hint of coolness caressing the air. Sampans and other craft rocked and crooned in the murky Hoogly. Gauzy streamers of smoke floated over the jute-mills of Howrah. Sunshine drenched the modern buildings of Dalhousie Square and Government Row; submerged the myriad bazaars and shops in yellow liquor; crept into the room where Trent was sleeping and aroused him with an impelling finger.
He dressed and went to breakfast. When he left the dining-hall his attention was arrested by a black straw hat with a sheaf of cornflowers and ripe yellow wheat about the crown. A tendril of hair glowed against the somber brim. She was talking with a native, an itinerant merchant; a string of beads hung from her white fingers. Trent approached from behind and spoke.
"He's asking entirely too much for those stones, Miss Charteris."
She turned, smiling. He felt the same warmth in her brown eyes as on the previous night.
"You always appear at the psychological moment—or rather," she interpolated, "this time at the financial moment."
She returned the beads to the merchant, who took no pains to hide his displeasure at Trent's interposition.
"I'm really glad you appeared—for a purely selfish reason. I want to buy some things to send home, and I know if I go alone I'll be cheated outrageously. I wonder if you'd care to go with me? However, I suppose that, man-like, you detest shopping with a woman."
"I don't object at all," he said.
"And you really haven't any business engagements?"
"I'm free until to-morrow."
"Oh, you're leaving Calcutta then?"
"Yes."
"So am I"—with a smile.
She raised a silk parasol of pongee-color as they left the hotel, and the sun reflected a rich glow through the fine texture.
"You see," she explained, "I taught music at Bayou Latouche and I promised my pupils I'd send them each a remembrance from India."
He might have known she was a musician. There was a depth of conception in her that was lyrical, a somber yet thrillingly-alive tone, of which her eyes were the pinnacle-expression.Andante appassionato.Queerly, that term came to him. His mental portrait of the day before blended in with actuality: White hands brushing the keys in a dusk-varnished room; nothing heavy, some old song, redolent of recollections....
"Is this your first trip to India?" he heard her asking. The clamor of Chowringhee was in his ears, but her voice rang clearly through the sounds, an unbroken thread in the tangle of city streets.
"No. Mother India called me when I was a boy. I used to hunt with my father." That was true; for some reason he detested lying to her.
"Hunting! Tiger?"
He nodded.
"Is it true," she queried, "that there are mystics who walk in the jungles with animals—who belong to a sort of brotherhood of the wild and understand tiger and python and cobra?"
"The jungle has her own secrets," was his reply; "things that white men will never know."
"I heard a man," she resumed, "a converted Brahmin priest, lecture in New Orleans. He told of his boyhood; of the magic lore of the 'Mahabarata' and the 'Ramayana'; and of a time when an old priest—he called him aSaddhu—took him into the jungle at night, and he heard the many animal-sounds—the voices of the jungle. He said that once green eyes peered at them, so close that he could hear the quick breathing of the beast, and the old priest only looked into the eyes—oh, he described that look as so potent and unafraid!—and soon the eyes disappeared. I've always remembered that. Since then I've wanted tofeelthe jungle—and the power of will that can soothe a great animal. Yet I suppose Mother India, as you call her, is suspicious of us foreigners who try to pry into her secrets. And yet"—the brown eyes were filled with reflections—"perhaps she has a right to be resentful, for men have maligned and misrepresented her so, credited her with false mysticism, withMahatmasand cults of which she isn't guilty." Then she laughed—a little ripple that broke the smooth spell. "I—an outsider—talk as if I were intimate with India! Although sometimes I do feel that I must have known India before; a haunting familiarity. That's why I came—to see if my visions were aright." Again the rippling laugh. "But I'm sure you'll think me an Annie Besant, incognito, if I talk on like this!"
"Not at all"—smiling. "I'm interested."
"But you should tell me of India; for you've hunted in her forests and wild places. Oh, it must be wonderful to know the world!"
"Well, I'd scarcely say I know the world," he corrected; "only a few Indian and Persian cities—and some of the more southern watering-places of Asia. I was stationed for a while at Singapore."
"Stationed? You mean in the interest of your firm—or were you in the Army then, like your brother?"
"In the Army," he answered, again experiencing that insurrection against falsehood.
"I see," she commented. A wistful sigh. "I think I should have been a man. Penang, Shanghai and Zanzibar, those cities with such thrillingly wicked names, fascinate me; Tibet and inner China, all the far places, call. There's something pagan and magnificent about it—a sort of broken thread in me that matches the tapestry of it all. Oh, I'm sure I should have been a man! I know if I were, I'd be an explorer and hunt among the ruins of the Phœnicians and the Incas, and those other remnants of ancient civilizations."
Her words brought a tightening of the cords in his throat. Another who dreamed of the fabulous isles! But, for a reason he did not analyze, he could not place her in the picture she painted. Always, to him, the music-room—white hands in the dusk.
"But I'll have my fling," she continued; "only in a mild degree. My brother's home is in Burma. I'm going to live with him, and we plan to slip off every now and then. A trip to Malaya or Borneo or Java—I've heard so much of the beauty of Batavia—or up the other way to Siam. Siam! Isn't the very name magic? Bejewelled dancers and emerald Buddhas and theaters where they pantomime ancient tales!... I'm not a reformist in the least, but there's one sort of 'uplift work' I'd love to do—a 'purpose in life,' as some call it. I'd like to visit the far places and return home and lecture to those whose boundaries are their own yards, and try to make them understand that on the other side of the world there are civilizations so much mellower than their own, and doctrines of existence that have nothing to do with mints and stock exchanges!"
Her voice was an expression of the high arcanum that he had glimpsed in her eyes. Here was a woman who possessed the rare triumvirate of flesh and mind and soul; whose gifts to men were other than brief summer passions and earthly donations. He felt that it was irreverent when he asked if he might smoke. As he touched a match to his cheroot, she went on:
"Oh, the West knows so little about the East, and the East so little about the West, that it isn't strange that one misunderstands the other.... But I'm boring you with this talk," she broke off irrelevantly.
"Won't you go on?"—earnestly.
She smiled. "It's impertinence for me to tamper with mysteries that I haven't explored. No,"—still smiling—"I'm going back to my ken—to Siamese dancers and pantomime shows. And that reminds me, is it safe to go to a native theater? I'd feel as if I'd missed part of Calcutta if I didn't see a Bengali performance."
"I wouldn't advise you to go alone." This soberly. "Too, if you don't understand the language, it would prove rather dry entertainment."
Another smile. "Why must a woman have such narrow man-made boundaries? If you hint that it's dangerous, then you'll intrigue me the more."
A recollection of the Chinese quarter flashed through him.
"If you insist on going," he said, and he, too, was smiling, "I daresay nothing can stop you—and the best possible thing for me to do is to offer my guardianship."
"It really wouldn't be stealing your time? Oh, it would be splendid!... But you're leading me by all these shops. Shall we go in here?"
It was an epochal morning for Trent. After the tension of the past few days, he craved relaxation. This recess had a warmth and exhilarating intimacy that was a stimulus to him, and he luxuriated in it, listening attentively as the girl talked—talk that revealed little brilliant flashes of her nature—and drinking in the study of rich tints that her face and hair presented in the straw-colored light beneath her sunshade. He had the feeling of a seaman in port, a boyish thrill at the freedom from restraint; a few hours shore leave, then the sea again. He entirely forgot his substantial shadow until they returned to the hotel. The sight of the pink turban whipped him back into tension.