The morning for Mr. Stepney had been doubly disappointing; again and again he drew up an empty line, and at last he flung the tackle into the well of the launch.
"Even the damn fish won't bite," he said, and the humour of his remark cheered him. He was ten miles from the shore, and the blue coast was a dim, ragged line on the horizon. He pulled out a big luncheon basket from the cabin and eyed it with disfavour. It had cost him two hundred francs. He opened the basket, and at the sight of its contents, was inclined to reconsider his earlier view that he had wasted his money, the more so since themaître d'hôtelhad thoughtfully included two quart bottles of champagne.
Mr. Marcus Stepney made a hearty meal, and by the time he had dropped an empty bottle into the sea, he was inclined to take a more cheerful view of life. He threw over the debris of the lunch, pushed the basket under one of the seats of the cabin, pulled up his anchor and started the engines running.
The sky was a brighter blue and the seaheld a finer sparkle, and he was inclined to take a view of even Jean Briggerland, more generous than any he had held.
"Little devil," he smiled reminiscently, as he murmured the words.
He opened the second bottle of champagne in her honour—Mr. Marcus Stepney was usually an abstemious man—and drank solemnly, if not soberly, her health and happiness. As the sun grew warmer he began to feel an unaccountable sleepiness. He was sober enough to know that to fall asleep in the middle of the ocean was to ask for trouble, and he set the bow of theJungle Queenfor the nearest beach, hoping to find a landing place.
He found something better as he skirted the shore. The sea and the weather had scooped out a big hollow under a high cliff, a hollow just big enough to take theJungle Queenand deep and still enough to ensure her a safe anchorage. A rock barrier interposed between the breakers and this deep pool which the waves had hollowed in the stony floor of the ocean. As he dropped his anchor he disturbed a school of fish, and his angling instincts re-awoke. He let down his line over the side, seated himself comfortable in one of the two big basket chairs, and was dozing comfortably....
It was the sound of a shot that woke him. It was followed by another, and a third. Almostimmediately something dropped from the cliff, and fell with a mighty splash into the water.
Marcus was wide awake now, and almost sobered. He peered down into the clear depths, and saw a figure of a woman turning over and over. Then as it floated upwards it came on its back, and he saw the face. Without a moment's hesitation he dived into the water.
He would have been wiser if he had waited until she floated to the surface, for now he found a difficulty in regaining the boat. After a great deal of trouble, he managed to reach into the launch and pull out a rope, which he fastened round the girl's waist and drew tight to a small stanchion. Then he climbed into the boat himself, and pulled her after him.
He thought at first she was dead, but listening intently he heard the beating of her heart, and searched the luncheon basket for a small flask of liqueurs, which Alphonse, the head waiter, had packed. He put the bottle to her lips and poured a small quantity into her mouth. She choked convulsively, and presently opened her eyes.
"You're amongst friends," said Marcus unnecessarily.
She sat up and covered her face with her hands. It all came back to her in a flash, and the horror of it froze her blood.
"What has happened to you?" asked Marcus.
"I don't know exactly," she said faintly. And then: "Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful!"
Marcus Stepney offered her the flask of liqueurs, and when she shook her head, he helped himself liberally.
Lydia was conscious of a pain in her left shoulder. The sleeve was torn, and across the thick of the arm there was an ugly raw weal.
"It looks like a bullet mark to me," said Marcus Stepney, suddenly grave. "I heard a shot. Did somebody shoot at you?"
She nodded.
"Who?"
She tried to frame the word, but no sound came, and then she burst into a fit of weeping.
"Not Jean?" he asked hoarsely.
She shook her head.
"Briggerland?"
She nodded.
"Briggerland!" Mr. Stepney whistled, and as he whistled he shivered. "Let's get out of here," he said. "We shall catch our death of cold. The sun will warm us up."
He started the engines going, and safely navigated the narrow passage to the open sea. He had to get a long way out before he could catch a glimpse of the road, then he saw the car, and a cycling policeman dismounting and bending over something. He put away his telescope and turned to the girl.
"This is bad, Mrs. Meredith," he said. "Thank God I wasn't in it."
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
"I'm taking you out to sea," said Marcus with a little smile. "Don't get scared, Mrs. Meredith. I want to hear that story of yours, and if it is anything like what I fear, then it would be better for you that Briggerland thinks you are dead."
She told the story as far as she knew it and he listened, not interrupting, until she had finished.
"Mordon dead, eh? That's bad. But how on earth are they going to explain it? I suppose," he said with a smile, "you didn't write a letter saying that you were going to run away with the chauffeur?"
She sat up at this.
"I did write a letter," she said slowly. "It wasn't a real letter, it was in a story which Jean was dictating."
She closed her eyes.
"How awful," she said. "I can't believe it even now."
"Tell me about the story," said the man quickly.
"It was a story she was writing for a London magazine, and her wrist hurt, and I wrote it down as she dictated. Only about three pages, but one of the pages was a letter supposed to have been written by the heroine saying thatshe was going away, as she loved somebody who was beneath her socially."
"Good God!" said Marcus, genuinely shocked. "Did Jean do that?"
He seemed absolutely crushed by the realisation of Jean Briggerland's deed, and he did not speak again for a long time.
"I'm glad I know," he said at last.
"Do you really think that all this time she has been trying to kill me?"
He nodded.
"She has used everybody, even me," he said bitterly. "I don't want you to think badly of me, Mrs. Meredith, but I'm going to tell you the truth. I'd provisioned this little yacht to-day for a twelve hundred mile trip, and you were to be my companion."
"I?" she said incredulously.
"It was Jean's idea, really, though I think she must have altered her view, or thought I had forgotten all she suggested. I intended taking you out to sea and keeping you out there until you agreed——" he shook his head. "I don't think I could have done it really," he said, speaking half to himself. "I'm not really built for a conspirator. None of that rough stuff ever appealed to me. Well, I didn't try, anyway."
"No, Mr. Stepney," she said quietly, "and I don't think, if you had, you would have succeeded."
He was in his frankest mood, and startled her later when he told her of his profession, without attempting to excuse or minimise the method by which he earned his livelihood.
"I was in a pretty bad way, and I thought there was easy money coming, and that rather tempted me," he said. "I know you will think I am a despicable cad, but you can't think too badly of me, really."
He surveyed the shore. Ahead of them the green tongue of Cap Martin jutted out into the sea.
"I think I'll take you to Nice," he said. "We'll attract less attention there, and probably I'll be able to get into touch with your old Mr. Jaggs. You've no idea where I can find him? At any rate, I can go to the Villa Casa and discover what sort of a yarn is being told."
"And probably I can get my clothes dry," she said with a little grimace. "I wonder if you know how uncomfortable I am?"
"Pretty well," he said calmly. "Every time I move a new stream of water runs down my back."
It was half-past three in the afternoon when they reached Nice, and Marcus saw the girl safely to an hotel, changed himself and brought the yacht back to Monaco, where Briggerland had seen him.
For two hours Marcus Stepney wrestled withhis love for a girl who was plainly a murderess, and in the end love won. When darkness fell he provisioned theJungle Queen, loaded her with petrol, and heading her out to sea made the swimming cove of Cap Martin. It was to the boat that Jean flew.
"What about my father?" she asked as she stepped aboard.
"I think they've caught him," said Marcus.
"He'll hate prison," said the girl complacently. "Hurry, Marcus, I'd hate it, too!"
Lydia took up her quarters in a quiet hotel in Nice and Mrs. Cole-Mortimer agreed to stay on and chaperon her.
Though she had felt no effects from her terrifying experience on the first day, she found herself a nervous wreck when she woke in the morning, and wisely decided to stay in bed.
Jack, who had expected the relapse, called in a doctor, but Lydia refused to see him. The next day she received the lawyer.
She had only briefly outlined the part which Marcus Stepney had played in her rescue, but she had said enough to make Jack call at Stepney's hotel to thank him in person. Mr. Stepney, however, was not at home—he had not been home all night, but this information his discreet informant did not volunteer. Nor was the disappearance of theJungle Queennoticed for two days. It was Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, in settling up her accounts with Jack, who mentioned the "yacht."
"TheJungle Queen," said Jack, "that's the motor-launch, isn't it? I've seen her lying inthe harbour. I thought she was Stepney's property."
His suspicions aroused, he called again at Stepney's hotel, and this time his inquiry was backed by the presence of a detective. Then it was made known that Mr. Stepney had not been seen since the night of Briggerland's arrest.
"That is where they've gone. Stepney was very keen on the girl, I think," said Jack.
The detective was annoyed.
"If I'd known before we could have intercepted them. We have several destroyers in the harbour at Villafrance. Now I am afraid it is too late."
"Where would they make for?" asked Jack.
The officer shrugged his shoulders.
"God knows," he said. "They could get into Italy or into Spain, possibly Barcelona. I will telegraph the Chief of the Police there."
But the Barcelona police had no information to give. TheJungle Queenhad not been sighted. The weather was calm, the sea smooth, and everything favourable for the escape.
Inquiries elicited the fact that Mr. Stepney had bought large quantities of petrol a few days before his departure, and had augmented his supply the evening he had left. Also he had bought provisions in considerable quantities.
The murder was a week old, and Mr. Briggerland had undergone his preliminary examination, when a wire came through from theSpanish police that a motor-boat answering the description of theJungle Queenhad called at Malaga, had provisioned, refilled, and put out to sea again, before the police authorities, who had a description of the pair, had time to investigate.
"You'll think I have a diseased mind," said Lydia, "but I hope she gets away."
Jack laughed.
"If you had been with her much longer, Lydia, she would have turned you into a first-class criminal," he said. "I hope you do not forget that she has exactly a hundred thousand pounds of yours—in other words, a sixth of your fortune."
Lydia shook her head.
"That is almost a comforting thought," she said. "I know she is what she is, Jack, but her greatest crime is that she was born six hundred years too late. If she had lived in the days of the Italian Renaissance she would have made history."
"Your sympathy is immoral," said Jack. "By the way, Briggerland has been handed over to the Italian authorities. The crime was committed on Italian soil and that saves his head from falling into the basket."
She shuddered.
"What will they do to him?"
"He'll be imprisoned for life," was the reply "and I rather think that's a little worse thanthe guillotine. You say you worry for Jean—I'm rather sorry for old man Briggerland. If he hadn't tried to live up to his daughter he might have been a most respectable member of society."
They were strolling through the quaint, narrow streets of Grasse, and Jack, who knew and loved the town, was showing her sights which made her forget that the Perfumerie Factory, the Mecca of the average tourist, had any existence.
"I suppose I'll have to settle down now," she said with an expression of distaste.
"I suppose you will," said Jack, "and you'll have to settle up, too; your legal expenses are something fierce."
"Why do you say that?" she asked, stopping in her walk and looking at him gravely.
"I am speaking as your mercenary lawyer," said Jack.
"You are trying to put your service on another level," she corrected. "I owe everything I have to you. My fortune is the least of these. I owe you my life three times over."
"Four," he corrected, "and to Marcus Stepney once."
"Why have you done so much for me? Were you interested?" she asked after a pause.
"Very," he replied. "I was interested in you from the moment I saw you step out of Mr. Mordon's taxi into the mud, but I was especially interested in you——"
"When?" she asked.
"When I sat outside your door night after night and discovered you didn't snore," he said shamelessly, and she went red.
"I hope you'll never refer to your old Jaggs's adventures. It was very——"
"What?"
"I was going to say horrid, but I shouldn't be telling the truth," she admitted frankly. "I liked having you there. Poor Mrs. Morgan will be disconsolate when she discovers that we've lost our lodger."
They walked into the cool of the ancient cathedral and sat down.
"There's something very soothing about a church, isn't there?" he whispered. "Look at that gorgeous window. If I were ever rich enough to marry the woman I loved, I should be married in a cathedral like this, full of old tombs and statues and stained glass."
"How rich would you have to be?" she asked.
"As rich as she is."
She bent over toward him, her lips against his ear.
"Tell me how much money you have," shewhispered, "and I'll give away all I have in excess of that amount."
He caught her hand and held it fast, and they sat there before the altar of St. Catherine until the sun went down and the disapproving old woman who acted as the cathedral's caretaker tapped them on the shoulder.
"That is Gibraltar," said Marcus Stepney, pointing ahead to a grey shape that loomed up from the sea.
He was unshaven for he had forgotten to bring his razor and he was pinched with the cold. His overcoat was turned up to his ears, in spite of which he shivered.
Jean did not seem to be affected by the sudden change of temperature. She sat on the top of the cabin, her chin in the palm of her hand, her elbow on her crossed knee.
"You are not going into Gibraltar?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"I think not," he said, "nor to Algeciras. Did you see that fellow on the quay yelling for the craft to come back after we left Malaga? That was a bad sign. I expect the police have instructions to detain this boat, and most of the ports must have been notified."
"How long can we run?"
"We've got enough gas and grub to reach Dacca," he said. "That's roughly an eight-days' journey."
"On the African coast?"
He nodded, although she could not see him.
"Where could we get a ship to take us to South America?" she asked, turning round.
"Lisbon," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, we could reach Lisbon, but there are too many steamers about and we're certain to be sighted. We might run across to Las Palmas, most of the South American boats call there, but if I were you I should stick to Europe. Come and take this helm, Jean."
She obeyed without question, and he continued the work which had been interrupted by a late meal, the painting of the boat's hull, a difficult business, involving acrobatics, since it was necessary for him to lean over the side. He had bought the grey paint at Malaga, and happily there was not much surface that required attention. The stumpy mast of theJungle Queenhad already gone overboard—he had sawn it off with great labour the day after they had left Cap Martin.
She watched him with a speculative eye as he worked, and thought he had never looked quite so unattractive as he did with an eight-days' growth of beard, his shirt stained with paint and petrol. His hands were grimy and nobody would have recognised in this scarecrow the elegant habitué of those fashionable resorts which smart society frequents.
Yet she had reason to be grateful to him.His conduct toward her had been irreproachable. Not one word of love had been spoken, nor, until now, had their future plans, for it affected them both, been discussed.
"Suppose we reach South America safely?" she asked. "What happens then, Marcus?"
He looked round from his work in surprise.
"We'll get married," he said quietly, and she laughed.
"And what happens to the present Mrs. Stepney?"
"She has divorced me," said Stepney unexpectedly. "I got the papers the day we left."
"I see," said Jean softly. "We'll get married——" then stopped.
He looked at her and frowned.
"Isn't that your idea, too?" he asked.
"Married? Yes, that's my idea, too. It seems a queer uninteresting way of finishing things, doesn't it, and yet I suppose it isn't."
He had resumed his work and was leaning far over the bow intent upon his labour. Suddenly she spun the wheel round and the launch heeled over to starboard. For a second it seemed that Marcus Stepney could not maintain his balance against that unexpected impetus, but by a superhuman effort he kicked himself back to safety, and stared at her with a blanched face.
"Why did you do that?" he asked hoarsely. "You nearly had me overboard."
"There was a porpoise lying on the surfaceof the sea, asleep, I think," she said quietly. "I'm very sorry, Marcus, but I didn't know that it would throw you off your balance."
He looked round for the sleeping fish but it had disappeared.
"You told me to avoid them, you know," she said apologetically. "Did I really put you in any danger?"
He licked his dry lips, picked up the paint-pot, and threw it into the sea.
"We'll leave this," he said, "until we are beached. You gave me a scare, Jean."
"I'm dreadfully sorry. Come here, and sit by me."
She moved to allow him room, and he sat down by her, taking the wheel from her hand.
On the horizon the high lands of northern Africa were showing their saw-edge outlines.
"That is Morocco," he pointed out to her. "I propose giving Gibraltar a wide berth, and following the coast line to Tangier."
"Tangier wouldn't be a bad place to land if there weren't two of us," he went on. "It is our being together in this yacht that is likely to cause suspicion. You could easily pretend that you'd come over from Gibraltar, and the port authorities there are pretty slack."
"Or if we could land on the coast," he suggested. "There's a good landing, and we could follow the beach down, and turn up inTangier in the morning—all sorts of oddments turn up in Tangier without exciting suspicion."
She was looking out over the sea with a queer expression in her face.
"Morocco!" she said softly. "Morocco—I hadn't thought of that!"
They had a fright soon after. A grey shape came racing out of the darkening east, and Stepney put his helm over as the destroyer smashed past on her way to Gibraltar.
He watched the stern light disappearing, then it suddenly turned and presented its side to them.
"They're looking for us," said Marcus.
The darkness had come down, and he headed straight for the east.
There was no question that the destroyer was on an errand of discovery. A white beam of light shot out from her decks, and began to feel along the sea. And then when they thought it had missed them, it dropped on the boat and held. A second later it missed them and began a search. Presently it lit the little boat, and it did something more—it revealed a thickening of the atmosphere. They were running into a sea fog, one of those thin white fogs that come down in the Mediterranean on windless days. The blinding glare of the searchlight blurred.
"Bang!"
"That's the gun to signal us to stop," said Marcus between his teeth.
He turned the nose of the boat southward, a hazardous proceeding, for he ran into clear water, and had only just got back into the shelter of the providential fog bank when the white beam came stealthily along the edge of the mist. Presently it died out, and they saw it no more.
"They're looking for us," said Marcus again.
"You said that before," said the girl calmly.
"They've probably warned them at Tangier. We dare not take the boat into the bay," said Stepney, whose nerves were now on edge.
He turned again westward, edging toward the rocky coast of northern Africa. They saw little clusters of lights on the shore, and he tried to remember what towns they were.
"I think that big one is Cutra, the Spanish convict station," he said.
He slowed down the boat, and they felt their way gingerly along the coast line, until the flick and flash of a lighthouse gave them an idea of their position.
"Cape Spartel," he identified the light. "We can land very soon. I was in Morocco for three months, and if I remember rightly the beach is good walking as far as Tangier."
She went into the cabin and changed, and as the nose of theJungle Queenslid gently up the sandy beach she was ready.
He carried her ashore, and set her down, then he pushed off the nose of the boat, and manœuvred it so that the stern was against the beach, resting in three feet of water. He jumped on board, lashed the helm, and started the engines going, then wading back to the shore he stood staring into the gloom as the littleJungle Queenput out to sea.
"That's that," he said grimly. "Now my dear, we've got a ten mile walk before us."
But he had made a slight miscalculation. The distance between himself and Tangier was twenty-five miles, and involved several detours inland into country which was wholly uninhabited, save at that moment it held the camp of Muley Hafiz, who was engaged in negotiation with the Spanish Government for one of those "permanent peaces" which frequently last for years.
Muley Hafiz sat drinking his coffee at midnight, listening to the strains of an ornate gramophone, which stood in a corner of his square tent.
A voice outside the silken fold of his tent greeted him, and he stopped the machine.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Lord, we have captured a man and a woman walking along by the sea."
"They are Riffi people—let them go," said Muley in Arabic. "We are making peace, my man, not war."
"Lord, these are infidels; I think they are English."
Muley Hafiz twisted his trim little beard.
"Bring them," he said.
So they were brought to his presence, a dishevelled man and a girl at the sight of whose face, he gasped.
"My little friend of the Riviera," he said wonderingly, and the smile she gave him was like a ray of sunshine to his heart.
He stood up, a magnificent figure of a man, and she eyed him admiringly.
"I am sorry if my men have frightened you," he said. "You have nothing to fear, madame. I will send my soldiers to escort you to Tangier."
And then he frowned. "Where did you come from?"
She could not lie under the steady glance of those liquid eyes.
"We landed on the shore from a boat. We lost our way," she said.
He nodded.
"You must be she they are seeking," he said. "One of my spies came to me from Tangier to-night, and told me that the Spanish and the French police were waiting to arrest a lady who had committed some crime in France. I cannot believe it is you—or if it is, then I should say the crime was pardonable."
He glanced at Marcus.
"Or perhaps," he said slowly, "it is your companion they desire."
Jean shook her head.
"No, they do not want him," she said, "it is I they want."
He pointed to a cushion.
"Sit down," he said, and followed her example.
Marcus alone remained standing, wondering how this strange situation would develop.
"What will you do? If you go into Tangier I fear I could not protect you, but there is a city in the hills," he waved his hand, "many miles from here, a city where the hills are green, mademoiselle, and where beautiful springs gush out of the ground, and there I am lord."
She drew a long breath.
"I will go to the city of the hills," she said softly, "and this man," she shrugged her shoulders, "I do not care what happens to him," she said, with a smile of amusement at the pallid Marcus.
"Then he shall go to Tangier alone."
But Marcus Stepney did not go alone. For the last two miles of the journey he had carried a bag containing the greater part of five million francs that the girl had brought from the boat. Jean did not remember this until she was on her way to the city of the hills, and by that time money did not interest her.
The following typographical errors in the text were corrected as detailed here.
In the text: "Had she known Mr. Marcus Stepney as well as Jean knew him ... " the name "Joan" was corrected to "Jean."
The words "mud-guard" and "taxi-cab" are inconsistently hyphenated in the original.
In the text: '"Poor soul," said Jack dryly. "but ... "' the period after "dryly" was corrected to a comma.