CHAPTER IXWARDEN BEGINS HIS ODYSSEYEvelyn’s weekly letter from Scotland usually arrived by the mail–boat due at Ostend about three o’clock in the afternoon. Warden, sitting on theplageamong a cosmopolitan crowd that delighted in its own antics, watched the steamer from Dover picking its way along the coast and into the harbor. He was dining with a friend that evening in one of the big hotels on the sea front. He could call for his letters after he had dressed—meanwhile, he had an hour or more at his disposal, and he was weary of the frolics of Monsieur, Madame et Bébé, and of a great many other people who came under a less domestic category.To kill time, he strolled into the Casino and drank a cup of the decoction which Belgians regard as tea. Then he went to the so–called Club to look at the gamblers. Play did not appeal to him, but he had joined the Cercle Privé because some men he knew went there regularly for baccarat. To–day, to dispel theennuiof existence between meals, a German baron was opening banks of five hundred louis each, and losing or winning money with a bored air. He had just closed one bank successfully, and the table wasset for another, when a young American, bright–eyed, clean–shaven, and pallid, stirred the pulses of both onlookers and players by crying, “Banco!” Even in Ostend one does not often see four hundred pounds won or lost at a single coup. Warden, whose sympathies were against the stolid banker, stood by the side of the younger man until the incident was ended.There was no waiting. The challenger, impassive as a Red Indian, gave a bundle of notes to the croupier, who counted them. The baron dealt the two tableaux, and his adversary stooped and picked up the first.“Huit!” he said, throwing the cards face upwards on the table. He took the second pair.“Neuf!”An excited buzz of talk rose around the board. With a blasé smile, the banker showed his cards—two queens.“Peste!” cried a Frenchman, “toujours on souffre pour les dames!”Some few laughed; the German, more phlegmatic than ever, opened a pocket–book and started a fresh bank for the same amount, while the American collected his stake and winnings. He was stuffing the notes into a pocket when he caught Warden’s glance.“That’s the easiest way of making two thousand dollars I’ve ever struck,” he said.“But you stood to lose the same amount,” said Warden.“Why, yes. The only difference between me and the fellow who puts up with this beastly atmosphereevery day for a month is thathefritters away his money at five or ten dollars a pop, while I hit or miss at the first time of asking.”“You won’t play any more, then?”“No, sir. Me for the tall timbers with the baron’s wad. ‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,’ you know, and I’ve just heard that my best girl has made a date with the other fellow.”He walked away, erect, alert, and self–possessed. Warden strolled to a roulette board.“I wonder if that is true,” he mused.Instinctively his hand went to his pocket, and he staked a louis on 29, the year of his age. Up came 29, and he won thirty–five louis. He was so astonished that he bent over the shoulders of a lady seated near the foot of the table, and began mechanically to draw in the five–hundred franc note and ten gold pieces that were pushed by a croupier’s rake close to his own coin.“But, monsieur,” whispered the lady, who was French, and gave slight heed to convention, “certainly you will follow your luck!”“Why not?” he answered.Knowing that the maximum on a number was nine louis, he was on the point of leaving that amount on 29, when he remembered that Evelyn’s age was twenty. To the surprise of his self–appointed counselor, he told the croupier to transfer the gold to the new number, while the note went on the 19–24transversale. Thus, if he lost, he was still a louis to the good, and the American’s consoling adage was robbed of its sting.The roulette whirred round, the marble danced madly across diamonds and slots. Checking its pace, it hopped, hopped, hopped—into 20—and the Frenchwoman nearly became hysterical. Warden received so much money that he lost count. As a matter of fact, he had won just forty louis less than the cynic of the baccarat table. He deemed the example of the unknown philosopher too good not to be followed, so he gathered his gains and stakes, and left the room.Now, most men would have felt elated at this stroke of luck, but Warden was not. Though it was very pleasant to be richer by nearly three hundred and seventy pounds, he wished heartily that this sudden outburst of the gambling mania had found its genesis in some other topic than the reputed ill fortune of a favored lover. The incident was so astounding that he began to search for its portent. For a few seconds, he saw in his mind’s eye an evil leer on the black face hidden away in theNancy’scabin, and it almost gave him a shock when he recalled the fact that both 29 and 20 were black numbers. But the light and gaiety of the streets soon dispelled these vapors, and he loitered in front of a jeweler’s shop while planning a surprise for his beloved. He had not yet given her a ring. Their tacit engagement was so sudden, and their parting so complete since that never–to–be–forgotten night at Plymouth, that he now fancied, with a certain humorous dismay, that Evelyn might long have been anticipating the receipt of some such token. Well, she should own a ring that he could never have affordedbut for the kindly help of the Casino. There was one in the window marked “D’Occasion—5,000 frs.” It contained three diamonds fit for a queen’s diadem. He wondered whether or not, under the circumstances, one should buy a second–hand ring. Would Evelyn care to wear an article, however valuable, that had once belonged to another woman? At any rate, the stones would require re–setting, and he was not afraid of being swindled in the purchase, because the jeweler evidently regarded this special bargain as a magnet to draw the eyes of passers–by to his stock.Five minutes later, the ring reposed in a case in Warden’s pocket, and he was making for the post–office. But there was no letter from Evelyn. There would have been, were it not locked in Mrs. Laing’s writing–case, and Warden was no wizard that he should guess any such development in the bewildering tumult of events that was even then gathering around him. Nevertheless, the clerk gave him a letter—from the Colonial Office—asking that he should come to London with the least possible delay.Though gratifying to a man eager for recognition in his service, the incidence of the request was annoying. At any other time in his career he would have left Ostend by the night mail. Now he resolved to wait until the morrow’s midday service, and thus secure Evelyn’s missive before his departure. He read between the lines of the brief official message clearly enough. Affairs were growing critical in West Africa. At best, his advice, at worst, his immediate return toduty, was demanded. If the latter, by hook or by crook he would contrive to see Evelyn before he sailed for the south.He telegraphed his change of plans to Evelyn, telling her to write to his flat in London, and asking her to wire saying whether or not a letter wasen routeto Ostend. He bade Peter bring theNancyto Dover and there await orders, and then joined his friend, who was sympathetic when he heard that Warden must leave Ostend next day.“You’ll miss the racing,” he said, “and that is a pity, because I know of one or two good things that would have paid for your holiday.”Warden laughed, and recounted his before–dinner experiences in the Casino.“By gad!” cried the other, “I wish I’d been there. I know that German Johnny—let me see, he has a horse running to–morrow. Here is the programme—third race—Baron von Gröbelstein’s ‘Black Mask.’ Eh, what? Oh, that is the gee–gee’s name right enough, but it hasn’t an earthly.”To cloak his amazement, Warden pretended to be interested in the entries. “Black Mask” was Number Thirteen on the card. He could not help smiling.“I feel rather superstitious to–day,” he said. “Will you back that horse for me?”“Certainly, dear boy. But you are throwing your money away. It’s a fifty to one shot.”“I don’t mind. It is the Casino’s money, anyhow.”“Very well. How much?”Warden’s pocket–book, reduced somewhat in bulk by the visit to the jeweler’s, came in evidence again.“Fifty louis,” he said.“My dear fellow, it’s rank lunacy.”“Believe me, I shall not care tuppence if I lose.”“Oh, all right. Give me your address. I’ll send you a telegram about four o’clock to–morrow. You’ll never see your fifty any more.”Never before in his life had Warden acted the spendthrift, but any surprise he may have felt at his own recklessness was utterly dissipated when he received Rosamund Laing’s letter next morning. Though its tone was studiously gossipy and cheerful, the tidings it contained were unpleasant enough to lend significance to the American’s dictum. Its innuendoes, whether intentional or otherwise—and Warden was suspicious, for he had not forgotten certain traits of Rosamund’s character—assumed a sinister aspect when there was neither letter nor telegram from Evelyn.“My dear Arthur”—wrote this unwelcome correspondent—“I suppose I may address you in that manner after our once close friendship—you will think that marvels are happening when you hear that I am at Lochmerig. The real marvel is, however, that I should have obtained your address. Last evening Billy Thring—do you know him?—by the way, he is now Lord Fairholme, since that sad railway smash at Beckminster yesterday—well, Billy Thring spoke of you. He means to cut you out with your little governess friend. I don’t blame you a bit, forshe is very pretty, but, without telling tales, I would warn you that the man who said that absence makes the heart grow fonder was certainly not a connoisseur in woman’s hearts. Naturally, Fairholme flew south this morning, and that clears off one of your rivals temporarily. Still, there are others. I am only chaffing, of course, and I suppose you were chiefly amusing yourself at Cowes and elsewhere.Mypresence here is easily accounted for—I met the Baumgartners at Madeira last winter; and they invited me to their Scotch shooting. Isn’t B. a funny little man? On the island they used to call him by his initials, I. D. B.—Illicit Diamond Buyer, you know.“Now, why did you leave me to fish out your whereabouts by sheer accident? Naughty! Do write soon, and tell me when I shall see you. Oh, I was nearly forgetting. Recent arrivals included a Herr von Rippenbach and an old acquaintance of yours, Miguel Figuero. Isn’t it odd that they should come here! And a little bird named Evelyn has whispered that the men of Oku are making ju–ju nearer home than the Benuë River. Please keep out of it, for your friends’ sake, and especially for the sake of yours ever sincerely, Rosamund.”“P.S. Send a line, and I shall give you more news. R.”There was hardly a word in that innocent–looking note that was not a barbed shaft. Was it believable that Evelyn Dane, the girl whose eyes shone so divinely while he entrusted to her willing ears his hopes andaspirations, should make him the butt of the ninnies gathered at Lochmerig? Yet, that allusion to the men of Oku inflicted a stab cruel as the thrust of an Oku spear. Who else but Evelyn could have revealed his interest in the visit of the negroes to England? And who was this Billy Thring—whose very name suggested inanity? True, Evelyn had mentioned him as one of the house party. “I find the Honorable One very amusing,” she had said. “He is the clown of our somewhat dull circus.” But there was no suggestion of friendliness other than the ordinary civilities of life under the same roof. Again, why had she not written, nor answered his telegram? He laid no great stress on these minor things. They became important only in the light of Rosamund’s statements.He read and re–read the letter while crossing the Channel. Before Dover was reached he had gone through identically the same thought–process as Evelyn herself two days earlier. He found malevolence in every line of Rosamund’s epistle. It was meant to wound. Its airy comment was distilled poison, its assumed levity the gall of a jealous woman. Were it not for her wholly inexplicable and confusing allusion to the Oku chief’s mission, he could have cast aside with a scornful laugh her sly hints as to Evelyn’s faithlessness. Even then, puzzled and angry though he was, he remained true in his allegiance to his affianced wife.“Why should there not be some devil’s brew where such men as Figuero and Baumgartner foregather?” he asked himself. “It exists, as I well know, andRosamund Laing is just the woman to sip it. I wish now that I had insisted more firmly on Evelyn’s removal from the Baumgartner gang. I was mad not to ask her to marry me at once. We could have managed somehow, and she would have borne the separation for a year or more.”Then it occurred to him that the two hundred pounds’ worth of diamonds in his pocket would almost have furnished a country cottage, and, to crown all, there was the exquisite folly of the bet on a horse that his sporting friend described as a hopeless outsider. His misery was not complete till the memory of another jewel intruded itself—a ruby that had waited two hundred and fifty years for an owner. Certainly, Arthur Warden experienced a most perplexed and soul–tortured journey to London.He drove straight to his flat. Two telegrams awaited him. One must be from Evelyn, of course. She had chosen to send a message there, rather than risk missing him at Ostend. But he was wrong. The first he opened read: “Baumgartner and everybody else have gone. I am coming to London. Staying at Savoy. Rosamund.”His brain was still confused by this strange substitution of one woman for another, when his eyes fell on the contents of the second telegram:“Black Mask won. Took you forties. Congratulations, Dick.”The perplexity in his face attracted the sympathy of the hall porter.“I ‘ope you’ve had no bad news, sir,” said the man.Warden laughed with a harshness that was not good to hear.“No,” he said, “just the reverse. I backed a horse and he has won, at forty to one.”The hall porter, like most of his class, was a sportsman.“Lord love a duck!” he cried, “that’s the sort you read about but seldom see, sir. Where did he run—at Newmarket?”“No, at Ostend.”The man’s hopes of obtaining good “information” diminished, but he was supremely interested.“Wota price!” he exclaimed. “Did you have much on, sir?”“Forty pounds.”“Forty pounds! Then you’ve won sixteen hundred quid!” and each syllable was a crescendo of admiration.Warden threw the telegram on the floor. Though the last twenty–four hours had enriched him by nearly five years’ pay, he was in no mood to greet his good fortune as it deserved.“Yes,” he sighed, “I suppose you are right. Unpack my traps, there’s a good fellow. I am going out, and I want to change my clothes.”The hall porter obeyed, but he would have choked if speech were forbidden. He wanted to know the horse’s name, how the gentleman had come to hear of him, was the money “safe,” and other kindred items that goaded Warden to hidden frenzy. Yet the forcedattention thus demanded was good for him. He described “Black Mask” as “a Tartar of the Ukraine breed,” and drew such a darksome picture of the precautions taken by the “stable” to conceal the animal’s true form that the man regarded him as a veritable fount of racing lore.Such a reputation, once earned, is not easily shaken off. When he went out, the hall porter and the driver of a hansom were in deep converse. He paid the cabman at the Colonial Office, and his mind was busy with other things when he was brought back to earth again.“Beg pardon, sir,” said cabby, “but would you mind tellin’ me the best thing for the Cup.”“What Cup?” demanded Warden testily.“The Liverpool Cup, sir.”“Beer, of course.”He escaped. But the cabman took thought. An eminent brewer’s horse figured in the betting lists, so he drove back at once to interview the hall porter. A joint speculation followed, and two men mourned for many a day that they had not begged or borrowed more money wherewith to win a competence on that amazingly lucky tip.Warden did not expect to find any one at the Colonial Office who would attend to him. The hour was nearly seven, and it is a popular theory that at four o’clock all secretaries and civil servants throw aside the newspapers and other light literature with which they beguile the tedium of official routine. He meant to report hisarrival in London, and learn from a door–keeper what time it would be advisable to call next day.He was hardly prepared, therefore, to be received forthwith by a silver–haired, smooth–spoken gentleman, who asked him to recapitulate the main points of his conversation with the Under Secretary at the Foreign Office.Somewhat mystified, Warden began his recital. After the first two sentences, the official nodded.“Thank you, Captain Warden, I need not trouble you further,” he said. “You see, we are not personally known to each other, and in such an exceedingly delicate matter as this threatened difficulty in Nigeria—wherein knowledge is confined to a very small circle—one has to be careful that one is speaking to the right man.”“Did you think it possible, then, that some stranger might have impersonated me?” demanded Warden, his eyes twinkling at the suggestion.“Quite possible. I have done it myself twice, the first time successfully, the second to the complete satisfaction of our Minister abroad, but hardly to my own, as I had two fingers of my left hand shot off while making a dash for safety.”Certainly, reflected Warden, there were elements in the life of Whitehall that escaped public notice.“We have sent for you because you are wanted at once in West Africa,” went on the other. “Letters to and from the Governor of Northern Nigeria have culminated in a cablegram from the Governor askingthat you should be recalled from furlough. Though you are attached to the southern portion of the Protectorate, his Excellency has the highest appreciation of your tact and ability. He thinks you are the man best fitted to deal with the natives of the disturbed region. It is not proposed that you should return by the ordinary mail service. We assume that the departure of officers and others for Lagos is closely watched at the present crisis. A passage has been secured on a coasting steamer for a mythical personage named Alfred Williams. Initials on baggage or linen, therefore, cannot cause inquiry. Now, theWater Witchsails from Cardiff by Saturday afternoon’s tide, and we would like Mr. Alfred Williams to go on board that morning.”Warden looked blankly at the speaker. It was then Thursday. It left him little more than a day in which to unravel the mystery that enveloped Evelyn and her whereabouts. A bitter rage welled up in his breast, but he controlled his face, and the official attributed his silence to the suddenness of his suggested departure.“I am sorry that your leave should be spoiled in this fashion,” continued the quiet voice. “But it is unavoidable. The thing presses. And I need scarcely tell you that when Government wants a man’s service it is good for the man.”“I shall be on board theWater Witchon Saturday,” said Warden.Perhaps the lack of enthusiasm in his manner was puzzling, but the suave official paid no heed.“And now for your instructions,” he said. “The vessel touches at Cape Coast Castle before going on to Lagos. You will be met there by some officer whom you are acquainted with. He will tell you the exact position of affairs, and what, if any, developments have taken place in the meantime. He will also give you the Governor’s views as to the way in which your experience of the natives can best be utilized. I leave it to you to take the necessary precautions to conceal your movements and identity, and I am authorized to hand you £250 to meet any expenses incidental to your mission. Your passage on theWater Witchis paid for, by the way.”Again the older man failed to understand why the young officer should laugh with the grim humor of one who bids fate do her worst. Certainly, the situation had in it some element of comedy. Gold was being showered on Warden from the skies—promotion and distinction were thrust upon him—yet he was miserable as any man in England that day.“Something on his mind—is it a woman?” mused the shrewd official, and the time came when he remembered the idle fancy.In the freedom of the street Warden soon recovered himself. Not even an all–absorbing passion—rendered more intense by reason of his self–contained nature—could deprive him of the habit of years. In the Colonial Office at the moment lay a letter from the Governor of Southern Nigeria commending him in the highest terms for his cool judgment, resourcefulness,and decision. He showed these qualities now. He hurried to Charing Cross, and despatched three telegrams, one to Evelyn, begging her to communicate with him instantly, a second to his friend in Ostend, thanking him for his kindly offices and requesting that the money should be paid into a named bank, and the third to the Harbor Master at Dover, asking him to inform Peter Evans, of the pilot–cutterNancy, that he must travel to London by the earliest train after arriving from Ostend.Then he went to the Savoy.Rosamund’s telegram had been handed in at Lochmerig the previous night. It occurred to Warden that she must have written it about the time his message to Evelyn was delivered. If so, and it was true that the Baumgartner household had already departed on board theSans Souci, there was an obvious question to be answered.As he anticipated, Mrs. Laing was in the hotel. In fact, she was about to dine in her own room when Warden’s card was brought to her. She hastened to meet him, all smiles and blushes.“How awfully good of you to come so soon!” she cried. “And at just the right hour! I hate eating alone, but I dislike still more being at a table by myself in a big hotel. You can’t have dined. Let us go to the café, and then it doesn’t matter about one’s toilette.”“I don’t wish to disturb your arrangements”—he began, but she was not to be forced into a serious discussion at once.“Who said anything about disturbance?” she rattled on. “You could not have met my wishes better if you had guessed them. Now, don’t look so glum. It is not my fault that your pretty governess was ready to flirt with other men, is it? Come and eat, and I shall tell you all about it.”He fell in with her mood. A woman will dare anything when she loves or hates, and he credited Rosamund with excess in both directions. Yet it would be strange, he thought, were she playing some deep game not immediately discernible, if he did not unravel the tangled skein of her deceit.“I got your letter, of course,” he said when they were seated.“Ah, then I guessed correctly. That is why you are disconsolate,” she said, looking at him frankly.“It may be. At present I am chiefly curious. How did you obtain my London address?”“Didn’t you telegraph it?”“To Miss Dane—yes.”“You dear man, what wouldyouhave done if a telegram were brought to a remote place in the Highlands for a lady whom you knew was gone goodness knows where in a yacht?”“Surely it might have been forwarded to her?”“Yes, if you or I, or any other reasonable being, were the addressee. But the Baumgartners gave instructions that everything was to be sent to their London house, which is closed, except for a caretaker. Mrs. Baumgartner herself told me they didnot expect to be in town under a month or six weeks.”“Have they vanished into thin air?”“Something of the kind. They spoke vaguely of a cruise round the Shetlands, but I am sure that was meant as a blind. They wouldn’t take Figuero and von Rippenbach as their sailing companions for the mere fun of the thing, would they?”“Did they offer no excuse to their guests?”“Oh, yes. Billy Thring—sorry, but I must mention him—well, his brother’s death was the ostensible reason. I don’t believe a word of it. I. D. B. is not the man to break up a pleasant house party because one of its members has suffered a bereavement. There is something else going on. I am honestly feminine enough to want to know what it is. I was simply dying of curiosity yesterday when I saw Figuero and the dainty Evelyn in the garden, discussing things with bated breath.”Warden frowned. He could keep a tight rein on his emotions, but this was trying him high.“Would you mind telling me how a man who is dining with a lady can best express polite incredulity at her statements?” he asked.“Very neat,” she retorted, “but in this instance you are the water and I the duck. If you think I am deliberately telling you untruths, why not choose some less exciting topic? How did you like Ostend? I adore it. The people amuse me—they are so naïvely shocking, or shocked, as the case may be. Did yousee that fat Frenchman who struts about in a ridiculously tight and glaring bathing suit?”“Of course you want to talk about Lochmerig,” he said quietly. “Now, Mrs. Laing, it will be wiser to speak in plain language. Evelyn Dane is my promised wife. If possible, I would marry her to–morrow. That is no figure of speech. If she were here now, and the law permitted, I would marry her within the hour. You know me well enough to believe that once my mind is made up I do not change. Well, then, why are you endeavoring to create discord between me and the woman I love?”Rosamund flushed. She had expected him to say something of the kind, but it was none the less disagreeable in the hearing. The fury that convulsed her found a ready outlet in the tears that stood in her beautiful eyes.“It is very unkind of you to blame me,” she half sobbed. “How could I make up all these wicked inventions? I had never even heard the girl’s name before I went to Lochmerig. It was her own foolish tongue that revealed things—about you—and the men of Oku—and—and—what you saw that night at Cowes. She is either very wicked or very thoughtless, Arthur. If you are engaged in some secret business for the Government, and she were really true to you, would she ever have spoken of it to Billy—to Lord Fairholme?”Warden was beaten. He poured out a glass of wine and drank it. He felt that if he spoke at once hisvoice might betray the agony of his soul. Ah, if only he might see Evelyn for five precious minutes! Better go to Africa with his dear idol shattered than carry with him the lingering torture of doubt.“I think you were right when you switched our talk off to Ostend,” he muttered at last. “May I give you a word of advice? Forget what you have just said. It is a dangerous problem—one not to be settled by women’s tongues.”So they left it at that, and when they parted, not without a tacit understanding that they would meet again at the earliest opportunity—for Warden was obliged to be ambiguous in that respect—Rosamund was sure that she had gained some ground in a pitiless struggle. Warden was desperately unhappy. That was her second success. She had won the first move when theSans Soucicarried Evelyn off the field.Early next morning Warden went to a shipping office, and the people there advised him to send a reply–paid telegram to the coast–guard station nearest Lochmerig. He soon received an answer. “TheSans Soucisailed Wednesday, 3p.m.Destination believed Shetlands, but headed southeast by east.”He passed many hours in writing a full statement of everything that had taken place—including copies of Rosamund’s letter and telegram, and a literal record of their conversation in the hotel—and enclosed the ring and the manuscript in a stout linen envelope. When Peter Evans came to him in the evening, he gave him the package and fifty pounds, with explicitdetails as to its safeguarding and the reasons which governed his present decision.“You are to find Miss Dane, no matter what the cost,” he said. “You may hear of her at her home in Oxfordshire, or at this address, where you have my permission to open any letters that arrive during my absence. If you run short of money, or are compelled to take an expensive journey, apply to my bankers. I shall leave full instructions that your requirements are to be met when you explain them. The one thing I want you to do is to deliver this letter into Miss Dane’s own hands.”Peter, somewhat awestricken by Warden’s gravity, yet proud of the trust placed in him, promised obedience.“Never fear, sir,” he said. “If theSans Souciis afloat on the seven seas I’ll get her bearin’s one way or another. Sink me! if I don’t find that gal afore a month, I’ll unship my prop, sell theNancy, an’ go to the wokkus.”In disposing of his belongings, Warden packed the gourd and the parchment among some heavy clothing which was useless in Africa. He told the hall porter exactly which portmanteaus he meant to take with him, but on arriving at Paddington Station at 4.30a.m.on a cold morning, he found the bag containing the gourd and parchment piled with the rest of his goods on the platform.He eyed it resentfully, but yielded.“So you mean to stick to me!” he growled. “You mesmerized that sleepy scoundrel into carrying youdownstairs and depositing you on the roof of my cab. Very well. Let us see the adventure through in company.”He was chatting with the skipper of theWater Witchone day while the ship’s position was being pricked off on the chart.“You are keeping close in to the Spanish coast, Captain,” said the passenger.“Not particularly, Mr. Williams,” was the reply.“But I have always been under the impression that vessels bound for the West Coast headed for the Canaries?”“So they do, if they’re logged for a straight run. It happens this time, however, that my ole tub has to call in at Rabat and Mogador.”“At Rabat!” repeated Mr. Williams, seemingly staggered at the mere mention of the place.“Yes, funny little hole. Ever bin there?”“No.”“Well, p’raps you’ll go ashore. If you do you’ll see the queerest collection of humans you’ve ever set eyes on.”Mr. Williams turned and gazed at the horizon.“I think I’m bewitched,” he muttered.“Wot’s that?”“Odd thing. I’ve been dreaming of Rabat!”The captain grinned.“When you’ve seen it you’ll fancy it’s a nightmare,” he said.CHAPTER XHASSAN’S TOWER—AND THE COLONIAL OFFICEWarden did not find Rabat so intolerable as the captain of theWater Witchled him to believe. Its streets were more regular and cleaner, or less dirty, than those of the average Moorish town. Its people seemed to be devoted to commerce—probably because they are not pure–blooded Moors, but of Jewish descent. That, at least, is the argument advanced by a man from Fez or Tafilat when he wants a heavier dowry with a Rabati bride.From the roadstead, once the troublesome bar was crossed, the town looked attractive. Its white houses were enshrined in pretty gardens. Orchards, vineyards, and olive–groves brightened the landscape. To the north, on the opposite bank of a swift river, cultivated slopes stretched their green and gold to the far–off Zemmur mountains. A picturesque citadel, built by a renegade Englishman in the bad old days, commanded the harbor, and a spacious landing–place showed that the Rabatis opposed no difficulties to the export of their Morocco leather, carpets, Moorish slippers, and pottery.TheWater Witchentered the river soon after dawn,and Warden was assured that she would not be able to clear her shipments until next forenoon at the earliest. He went ashore and was agreeably surprised at finding quite a large number of British and other European merchants’ offices near the quay, while the shields of several Vice–Consuls and Consular Agents bespoke some semblance of law and order.In a word, Rabat looked settled and prosperous. It was utterly out of keeping with the picture conjured up by the tattoo marks made by Domenico Garcia on the skin of Tommaso Rodriguez. Still the Hassan Tower was no myth. It was pointed out to him by an Englishman who had walked to the wharf to watch the landing of the ship’s boat.Pausing only to buy a strong chisel in a native shop, Warden strolled at once in the direction of the tomb. He would neither delay his search for the ruby, nor give much time to it. If he failed to identify the exact spot described in the parchment, or was unable to discover anything after a speedy examination, assuredly he would not spend several hours in tearing ancient masonry to pieces. Since leaving England, Warden had become a different man. Always a good–humored cynic, he was now perilously near the less tolerable condition of cynicism without good humor. Intellect began to govern impulse. Though his brain was wearied with endeavor to find a reasonable explanation of events, he was almost convinced that Evelyn must at least have committed the indiscretion of gossiping about her adventures in the Isle of Wight. If onlyshe had written! His heart kept harping on that! Why had she flown away with her employers without ever a sign that her thoughts were with the man she loved?He wondered if Peter Evans had found her. If so, there would be news at Cape Coast Castle, for he had given his bankers explicit directions, and a member of the firm was a personal friend who would attend to cablegrams and letters.The Hassan Tower stood on a height not far beyond the outermost city wall, Rabat being dignified with two lines of fortifications, built by Christian slaves centuries ago. Indeed, when Warden climbed the hill of which it formed the pinnacle, he realized that it was a landmark shown on a chart he had examined the previous evening. Square and strong, built to defy destruction, and rearing its one hundred and fifty feet of exquisitely fretted stonework from a tangled undergrowth of stunted vegetation, it seemed, in some proud and curiously subtle way, to promise the fulfilment of Domenico Garcia’s bequest.Great marble columns, many erect, but the majority overthrown, indicated the quadrangle of what was meant to be a gigantic mosque. Warden passed quickly through these and other ruins; he caught a hint of an aqueduct, looked into a deep excavation evidently designed as a cistern, and then, with somewhat more rapid pulse–beat, and a certain awed wonderment dominating his mind, made straight for the causeway that led to the “door three cubits from the ground.”To his chagrin, though the inclined plane itself might be ridden by a man on horseback, the arched door was solidly built up.Here was an unforeseen check. It was one thing to be conscious of a cooling of the ardor that vowed the adornment of Evelyn’s fair hand with a “gem of great price,” but it was none the less baffling and exasperating to be at the foot of the tower and meet an apparently insuperable obstacle of this nature. Was he brought to Rabat by the most extraordinary series of events that could well have befallen him, only to find blind fate smiling maliciously? The thought was not to be borne. Somehow, anyhow, that tower must be entered, or the spirit of the hapless Garcia would haunt him for ever.He looked around, thinking his Arabic would serve him in good stead were there a goat–herder or other tender of flocks near at hand. But he was quite alone on the tiny plateau. A couple of great storks which had built their nest on top of the tower looked down at him with wise eyes. Hundreds of pigeons fluttered about the summit or clung to the ridges of fretted stone, while the only window visible above the doorway was a hundred feet from the base.But a soldier knows that every position, however impregnable in front, may be turned from the flanks. Before formulating any method of attack, he decided to survey the stronghold from all points of view, and, because Garcia mentioned the “third window on the left,” he went to the left. On that side there were onlytwo windows, each twenty feet or more above his head, and Warden was nearly six feet in height. Then he reflected that the Portuguese, writing his sorrowful legend “to pleasure that loathly barbarian, M’Wanga, King of Benin,” would surely count from the inside of the tower.On he went, noting each cranny and fissure in the weather–beaten mass, until he reached the opposite side. Here were three windows, and, most gratifying of discoveries, he saw that the Arabs had contrived a means of entry and egress through the center window by scooping away the mortar between the huge blocks of granite used for the foundation story. Débris had accumulated close to the wall in such quantity that the window–sill was not more than fourteen feet from his eyes. To an active, barefooted Moor, with toes and fingers like the talons of a vulture, the climb would present no difficulty whatever. To a man whose nails were well kept, and whose toes would speedily be lacerated if not protected by boots, the scaling of the rough wall was no child’s play. But Warden began to crawl upwards without a moment’s hesitation.He knew that the ascent would be easy compared with the return, while a fall meant the risk of a bad sprain, so he memorized each suitable foothold as he mounted, and often paused to make sure of the deepest niches. It must be confessed that no thought of other danger entered into his calculations. His military training should have made him more wary, but what had either experience or text–book to do with thisquest of a jewel, hidden for safety in a Moorish tomb so many years ago?And he was armed, too, quite sufficiently to account for any prowling thieves who might be tempted to attack a stranger. A service revolver reposed in one pocket, and the chisel in another—but there did not seem to be the remotest probability of human interference; he had not seen a living thing save the birds since he breasted the hill.When his hands rested on the broken stonework of the window he was naturally elated. Soon his eyes drew level with it, and he could peer into the interior. It was all one great apartment, not lofty, though an arched roof gave an impression of height. A staircase led to the upper stories, but it was broken. Desolation reigned supreme. Some startled pigeons flew out with loud clutter of wings at the sight of him. Then he raised himself steadily up, and leaped inside, while the walls echoed the noise of his spring with the hollow sound of sheer emptiness.There was plenty of light, but, after a first hasty glance, he gave no further scrutiny to his surroundings. Were he spying out the land in an enemy’s country, he would have looked at the littered floor to find traces of any recent visitor. Most certainly he would not have begun operations in Garcia’s hiding–place without first visiting the upper rooms. But he was too eager and excited to be prudent. Evelyn seemed to be very near him at that moment. He remembered how her impetuous attempt to throw the calabash into theSolent had led to the discovery of Garcia’s amazing manuscript, and there was the spice of true romance in the fact that now, little more than two months later, he should actually be standing in “the tomb of the infidel buried outside the wall” of Rabat. His fingers itched to be at work. He was spurred by an intense curiosity. He felt that the finding of the ruby would lend credence to an otherwise unbelievable story. It connected Oku and the wild Benuë of two and a half centuries ago with Cowes and the Solent in Regatta Week. It made real the personality of a long–forgotten tyrant, who perchance lived again to–day in one of those three negroes he had seen in Figuero’s company. No wonder, then, that Warden was impatient. Ten seconds after he had reached the interior of the building, he was bent over the “deep crack between the center stones” of the window described by Garcia.There could be no doubting now which window the scribe meant. It stood next to that by which Warden had entered, and, sure enough, just in that place the stones were more than ordinarily wide apart. The word “crack” was ambiguous. It might be applied more accurately to a break in one particular stone, but Warden was no adept in the Portuguese tongue, and the dictionary–maker might be translating “interstice,” or “crevice,” or “division,” when he wrote “crack.” At any rate, the “center stones” were sound, but the mortar between them was partly eaten away, and Warden saw at once that in order to make good his search one of the stones must be prised outbodily. A crowbar would have ended the job in a minute when once the chisel had cut a leverage, but, in the absence of a crowbar, he set to work with the chisel.The mortar became flint–like when the deodorizing influence of the weather ceased to make itself felt. Nevertheless, the amateur house–breaker labored manfully. Half an hour’s persistent chipping and twisting of the tool was rewarded by a sullen loosening of the stone.Then he lifted it out of its bed, and there, nestling between it and its fellow, hidden beneath a layer of dust and feathers, lay a ring!Now, Domenico Garcia spoke of a “ruby,” not of a ring, but it needed no skilled eye to detect the cause of that seeming discrepancy. The ring was a crude affair, made of gold, it is true, but fashioned with rough strength merely to provide a safe means of carrying the great, dark stone held in its claws. Garcia did not waste words. To him the ring was naught, so why mention it?The gold was discolored, of course, and the ruby did not reveal its red splendor until Warden had cleansed it with his handkerchief and breathed on it repeatedly to soften the dirt deposited on its bright facets by thousands of rainstorms. Then it was born again before his eyes. With a thrill of pity rather than gratification he gazed on its new and glowing life. “Friend, I am many marches from Rabat but few from death!” said the man who placed it there, thinkingthat perchance he “might escape.” Now his very bones were as the dust which had shrouded it during all those years, yet the wondrous fire in its heart shone forth as though it had left the lapidary’s bench but yesterday. Warden even smiled sadly when he realized that, no matter how his wooing fared, such a huge gem could never shine on Evelyn Dane’s slim finger. It was large enough to form the centerpiece of some stately necklace or tiara. He knew little about the value of precious stones, but this ruby was the size of a large marble. He had once seen a diamond that weighed twenty–four carats, and the ruby was much the larger of the two. He fancied he had read somewhere that a flawless ruby was of considerably higher intrinsic worth than a diamond of the same dimensions. The diamond he had in mind was priced at three thousand pounds. If, then, this ruby were flawless, its appearance in England would create something of a sensation.And Garcia’s story was true—that was the most astounding part of the business. The magnificent jewel winked and blinked in the sunlight. It might almost be alive, and telling him in plain language that the gods do not lead men into strange paths without just cause.Suddenly he caught a blood–red flash that reminded him of the uncanny gleam in the eyes of the face on the gourd. The thought was disquieting, but he laughed.“I am becoming a mere bundle of nerves,” he saidaloud. “The sooner I get soaked with quinine the fitter I shall be. It must be the malaria in my system that makes me see things. Really, the proper thing to do now is to give that beastly mask to the head ju–ju man at Oku. Then it will be off my hands, and he will own the boss fetish of the whole West Coast.”He was about to pocket the ring when the question of its subsequent disposal occurred to him. It was such a remarkable object that any one who saw it could not fail to question him as to its history. Under existing circumstances, he did not court inquiry in that shape, and the queer notion came that, in all likelihood, its prior owner carried it slung round his neck.“Yes, by Jove, and the cord strangled him,” murmured Warden. Nevertheless, not being in the least superstitious, he might have adopted that plan of concealing it if he possessed a stout piece of cord or strong ribbon. But his pockets contained neither one nor the other, and a sharp pang came with the recollection that, in a case of similar need not so long ago, Evelyn’s hussif held a neat coil of tape that would have suited his purpose exactly.Inside his waistcoat, however, was a secret pocket for carrying paper money. It was provided with a flap and a button, and would serve admirably as a hiding–place until he was able to entrust the ruby to a bank for transference to London. So there it went, making a little lump over his heart, and reminding him constantly that Domenico Garcia had not deceived him.He was about to climb down again when his glancefell on the displaced stone. As a tribute to poor Garcia’s memory, he put it back in its bed, and even took the trouble to pour a few handfuls of dust and loose mortar into the joints, so that none might know it had ever been removed. While thus occupied, his attention was momentarily drawn to a pair of storks circling lazily above the tower. He wondered if they were the same placid couple that had watched him earlier. No bird is more wide–awake than the stork, despite its habitual air of sleepy indifference, and Warden fancied that the noise he made must have disturbed the two sentinels on the top of the building.The hill–side was absolutely deserted. Far below nestled the white mass of the town, its long, low, whitewashed rectangles broken only by clumps of trees and an occasional dome or minaret. Near the quay lay theWater Witch. Her cranes were busy, two strings of coolies were rushing back and forth across a broad gangway, and the first mate was directing operations from the bridge. Warden smiled. He had heard the flow of language at the “Chief’s” command when some incident on ship–board demanded the reading of the Riot Act, and he could well imagine the way in which those scampering Arabs were being incited to strenuous effort.ill197There was no mistaking the malicePage183It was peaceful up here in the tower—so cool and remote from the noisy life of the port that he was tempted to linger. But if he would regain the shelter of some café in the town ere the sun became unbearably hot, he must be on the move. So, with a sigh for the unhappy Garcia’s fate, and a farewell glance at the vaulted room which had witnessed that by–gone tragedy, and perhaps many another, he began the descent. Thanks to the precautions taken during the climb, he found no great difficulty in placing his toes in the right niches. He was already below the level of the window, and was halting with both feet wedged into a broader crevice than usual while he changed his hand hold, when something, whether mere intuition or a slight sound, he never afterward knew, caused him to look straight up.Leaning over the top of the ruin, and in a direct line above his head, was a Moor of fantastic appearance. A blue cotton garment of vivid hue seemed to have lent its dye to the man’s face and hair. Had he been soused in a bath of indigo he could not have been colored more completely. Though this extraordinary apparition was fully one hundred and thirty feet above Warden’s head, there was no mistaking the malice that gleamed from the dark eyes gazing down on the Nazarene. Under such conditions thought is quick, and Warden was sure that he had unwittingly invaded the sanctuary of a Mohammedan fanatic. He was minded to whip out the revolver and fire a shot that would at least scare this strange being back into his eyrie. But a British sense of fair play stopped him. The blue man, howsoever wild–looking, had not interfered with or molested him in any way. He himself was the intruder. The fact that he was undeniably startled did not justify the use of a bullet, even for scaring purposes.The best thing to do was to reach the ground as speedily as might be, risking a jump when he was low enough to select a particular stone on which to alight. His dominant feeling at the moment was one of pique that he had failed to interpret correctly the flight of the storks. If the zealot on top of the tower meant mischief it would have been far better to have met him in one of the upper rooms than to be at his mercy while clinging like a fly to the face of the wall.He was within ten feet of the pile of rough stones, and was about to drop on one larger than its fellows—in fact, he was already in the air, having sprung slightly outward, when a crushing blow on his head and left shoulder flung him violently on to the very slab of granite he was aiming for. The shock was so violent that he felt no pain. Consciousness was acute for a fraction of a second. He understood that a heavy stone had fallen or been dropped purposely from the summit of the tower, and that his change of position, helped perhaps by the arched crown of his pith hat, had prevented it from striking directly on top of his head. But that was all. He lay there, with his back propped awkwardly against the tower, staring up at the sky. He saw nothing but the bright dome of heaven. It seemed to be curiously near, and its glowing bounds were closing in on him with the speed of light. Then the veil fell, and there was merciful darkness.Consternation reigned in Rabat next morning. The Captain of theWater Witchbegan the disturbance overnight, but when daylight brought no tidings of the missing Englishman, the British Vice–Consul talked most unfeelingly of a visit by the West Coast Squadron. A worried and anxious Bey, well aware that Morocco had troubles in plenty without Rabat adding to the store, protested that the Nazarene must have been spirited away without human agency. The Bey was not listened to, so he tried honestly to find out what had become of Warden. The only ascertainable facts were that the Giaour had bought a chisel, and was seen going to the tower of Hassan, the way to which was shown to him by one of his own countrymen. The hour was early, soon after sunrise. Since then he had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. The Bey’s myrmidons told how they had searched the Tower, and found that the Giaour had climbed into its interior. He had used the chisel and displaced a stone, apparently without object. But the place was now quite empty, though some one had ground corn and millet recently in an upper chamber.Now, the Bey knew quite well that the Blue Man of El Hamra made the Tower his headquarters when he visited Rabat periodically to collect subscriptions for the Jehad that was to drive every foreigner out of the sacred land of the Moors. But he kept silent on that matter, for he feared the Blue Man even more than the British Fleet. Nevertheless, he caused inquiries to be made, though no one had met the tinted prophet of late.In a country where there are no roads, nor any actualgovernment beyond the sphere of each chief town, official zeal does not travel far. TheWater Witchsailed to Cape Coast Castle, and reported the disappearance of Mr. “Alfred Williams” to an officer who came out to meet her in the Governor’s own surf–boat. A cruiser hastened to Rabat, and trained a gun on the principal palace, whereupon the Bey went aboard in person to explain that none could have made more genuine effort than he to find the lost Nazarene, either dead or alive. And perforce he was believed. Even the British Vice–Consul could not charge him with negligence, though not one word had he said to any European concerning the Blue Man of El Hamra.The cruiser flitted back to Cape Coast Castle, and thence to Lagos, and there was much wonderment in the small circle that knew the truth. Yet no man is indispensable, whether in West Africa or London, and another Deputy Commissioner was gazetted for the special duty of dealing with native unrest in the Benuë River district. The facts were communicated to Whitehall, and an official from the Colonial Office called on an Under Secretary in the Foreign Office to explain why Captain Forbes was acting in the capacity for which Captain Arthur Warden seemed to be so peculiarly fitted.“It is a queer business,” said the Under Secretary. “What do you make of it?”“I believe he was worried about a woman,” began the other.“What? In Rabat?”“No, no, in London. Only this morning I received a letter from a Mrs. Laing, who says she is exceedingly anxious to ascertain Captain Warden’s address. Now, Lady Hilbury wrote two days ago with the same object, and, of course, I returned a polite message to the effect that he was engaged on Government service.”“Mrs. Laing!” mused the Under Secretary. He unlocked a diary, and ran back through its pages. “I thought I remembered the name,” he continued. “She was staying with the Baumgartners at Lochmerig before they went to Hamburg in their yacht.”He was silent for a few seconds. His nails seemed to need instant examination. Apparently satisfied by the scrutiny, he went on:“I rather liked that youngster. He struck me as the sort of man who would go far. Have you replied to Mrs. Laing?”“No.”“Then please ask her to come here next Tuesday about three o’clock. Just quote her letter, and allow it to be assumed that her inquiry concerning Captain Warden may be answered. I hope you don’t mind my stepping in in a matter affecting your Department?”The Colonial man laughed.“My dear fellow,” he said, “I have a whole regiment of lady visitors and correspondents whom I shall gladly hand over to you.”Thus it came to pass that Rosamund’s furs and frills graced the same chair in the Foreign Office that Warden had sat in when he interviewed the Under Secretary.She was charmingly anxious in manner. Though of high rank in the Government, the Under Secretary was young enough to be impressionable; he was clearly a dandy; such men are the easiest to subjugate.“In the first place, Mrs. Laing,” he said, when she explained her earnest wish to communicate at once with Captain Warden, “you will not misunderstand me if I ask what measure of urgency lies behind your business with him. We officials, you know, like to wrap ourselves in a cloak of mystery with red tape trimmings. Yet I promise you I shall match your candor if possible.”“Well—perhaps I ought to begin by saying that—if not exactly engaged—Captain Warden and I are very dear to each other. We were engaged once, years ago. But I was young. I was forced into marriage with another, who is now dead.”Rosamund made this ingenuous confession with the necessary hesitancy and downward eye–glances. The Under Secretary was sympathetic, and delighted, and envious of Captain Warden’s good fortune. There could be no doubt about these things, because he said them.“That being so, I know a good deal of his private affairs,” said Rosamund demurely. “I knew, for instance, that he might be summoned to West Africa at any moment, but he is such a scrupulously precise man where duty is concerned that he would actually go away without telling me anything about it if ordered not to take any one into his confidence.”“Something of the kind has happened,” admitted the Under Secretary.“Ah, then, he really is in Africa, and if I write——?”“I am sorry, but I fear I have misled you. He is not in Nigeria. When last I heard of him he was at Rabat.”“Where is that?” she cried, genuinely surprised.“On the West Coast of Morocco.”“But what is he doing there?”The Under Secretary pressed the tips of his fingers closely together.“It is difficult to say,” he replied.“Surely you will tell me. I have a right to know,” she pleaded. “I understand the position on the Benuë River. I am the daughter of a West African Governor. I am one of the few women in England who can grasp the seriousness of any plot which brings together the men of Oku and the trusted confidant of a meddlesome foreign potentate. Captain Warden was sent to the Protectorate to carry out your instructions, and that is the very reason I wish to write to him. I have news of the utmost importance.”“Connected with the sailing of theSans Soucifrom Hamburg?”The question was so unexpected that Rosamund looked at the Under Secretary with more shrewdness than her fine eyes had displayed hitherto. He was making a little circle of dots with a pencil on a blotting–pad. Neither by voice nor manner did he display any surprise at her reference to the men of Oku.“Yes, that is one of the items,” she said.“And the others?”“But you are telling me nothing,” she pouted.“Forgive me. I hate the necessity that imposes restraint. Now, Mrs. Laing, enlighten me on one point, and I shall acquaint you with such few details of Captain Warden’s recent movements as are in my possession. What interest had he in Rabat?”“I—really—don’t know.”The protest was honest. This fashionable lady was speaking the truth.“Who, in your opinion, might know?” he persisted.Rosamund was not prepared for that. Her mind flew instantly to Evelyn Dane. Of course she would not mention the girl’s name; the mere thought of Evelyn cast a shadow over her mobile face.“I haven’t the faintest notion,” she said.The accompanying smile was forced, and the Under Secretary was not in the least deceived.“Of course, if you cannot tell me why Captain Warden should go ashore at Rabat no one can, I suppose,” and Rosamund caught the pleasing hint of her dominance in all that affected the man she loved.“You keep on referring to this place that I have never before heard of,” she cried. “Is he still at Rabat? I have ascertained that he is not at Lagos, or in Southern Nigeria, because I cabled for information.”“When last I heard of Captain Warden he was at Rabat,” said the Under Secretary. “He is not there now. Indeed, I cannot tell you where he is. If theearth had opened and swallowed him, he could not have disappeared more completely.”Rosamund gasped, and was somewhat inclined to storm, but not another syllable would the Under Secretary add to his amazing statement, though he undertook to communicate with her immediately when news of Warden’s whereabouts reached him. In the meantime, she had to be content with knowledge that was no knowledge, and that only added to her perplexity. On the way to the hotel she stopped her carriage at a map–seller’s and bought a map of Morocco, and a book which revealed many things about Rabat, but no one thing calculated to explain why Warden had gone there.In some sense, the Under Secretary was more puzzled than Rosamund. He turned to his notes and pored over them. One paragraph stood out boldly.“Captain Warden, when at Cowes, met a young lady, Miss Evelyn Dane, engaged as companion to Baumgartner’s daughter. He took her in a dinghy to theSans Souci, and this slight chance led to the discovery that the yacht was in charge of a shore watchman.”The Under Secretary actually rumpled his hair with those immaculate fingers of his.“I am lost in a fog,” he confessed ruefully. “Mrs. Laing isnotengaged to Warden—Lady Hilbury herself told me so only this morning. Warden is the last man alive to discuss Government affairs with Mrs. Laing or any other woman. Why, then, does shepretend that he did the very thing he did not do? And who is this girl, Evelyn Dane, to whom he telegraphed from Ostend and London before sailing in theWater Witch? Cansheshed light on the dark places of Rabat? It is worth trying. TheSans Souciarrives at Madeira to–morrow. I shall instruct some one to call on Evelyn Dane, and find out how far she is mixed up in the wretched muddle. Confound Rabat, and the Benuë, and the men of Oku, and may Baumgartner be blistered! I shall not get a day’s hunting before the frost sets in.”
CHAPTER IXWARDEN BEGINS HIS ODYSSEYEvelyn’s weekly letter from Scotland usually arrived by the mail–boat due at Ostend about three o’clock in the afternoon. Warden, sitting on theplageamong a cosmopolitan crowd that delighted in its own antics, watched the steamer from Dover picking its way along the coast and into the harbor. He was dining with a friend that evening in one of the big hotels on the sea front. He could call for his letters after he had dressed—meanwhile, he had an hour or more at his disposal, and he was weary of the frolics of Monsieur, Madame et Bébé, and of a great many other people who came under a less domestic category.To kill time, he strolled into the Casino and drank a cup of the decoction which Belgians regard as tea. Then he went to the so–called Club to look at the gamblers. Play did not appeal to him, but he had joined the Cercle Privé because some men he knew went there regularly for baccarat. To–day, to dispel theennuiof existence between meals, a German baron was opening banks of five hundred louis each, and losing or winning money with a bored air. He had just closed one bank successfully, and the table wasset for another, when a young American, bright–eyed, clean–shaven, and pallid, stirred the pulses of both onlookers and players by crying, “Banco!” Even in Ostend one does not often see four hundred pounds won or lost at a single coup. Warden, whose sympathies were against the stolid banker, stood by the side of the younger man until the incident was ended.There was no waiting. The challenger, impassive as a Red Indian, gave a bundle of notes to the croupier, who counted them. The baron dealt the two tableaux, and his adversary stooped and picked up the first.“Huit!” he said, throwing the cards face upwards on the table. He took the second pair.“Neuf!”An excited buzz of talk rose around the board. With a blasé smile, the banker showed his cards—two queens.“Peste!” cried a Frenchman, “toujours on souffre pour les dames!”Some few laughed; the German, more phlegmatic than ever, opened a pocket–book and started a fresh bank for the same amount, while the American collected his stake and winnings. He was stuffing the notes into a pocket when he caught Warden’s glance.“That’s the easiest way of making two thousand dollars I’ve ever struck,” he said.“But you stood to lose the same amount,” said Warden.“Why, yes. The only difference between me and the fellow who puts up with this beastly atmosphereevery day for a month is thathefritters away his money at five or ten dollars a pop, while I hit or miss at the first time of asking.”“You won’t play any more, then?”“No, sir. Me for the tall timbers with the baron’s wad. ‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,’ you know, and I’ve just heard that my best girl has made a date with the other fellow.”He walked away, erect, alert, and self–possessed. Warden strolled to a roulette board.“I wonder if that is true,” he mused.Instinctively his hand went to his pocket, and he staked a louis on 29, the year of his age. Up came 29, and he won thirty–five louis. He was so astonished that he bent over the shoulders of a lady seated near the foot of the table, and began mechanically to draw in the five–hundred franc note and ten gold pieces that were pushed by a croupier’s rake close to his own coin.“But, monsieur,” whispered the lady, who was French, and gave slight heed to convention, “certainly you will follow your luck!”“Why not?” he answered.Knowing that the maximum on a number was nine louis, he was on the point of leaving that amount on 29, when he remembered that Evelyn’s age was twenty. To the surprise of his self–appointed counselor, he told the croupier to transfer the gold to the new number, while the note went on the 19–24transversale. Thus, if he lost, he was still a louis to the good, and the American’s consoling adage was robbed of its sting.The roulette whirred round, the marble danced madly across diamonds and slots. Checking its pace, it hopped, hopped, hopped—into 20—and the Frenchwoman nearly became hysterical. Warden received so much money that he lost count. As a matter of fact, he had won just forty louis less than the cynic of the baccarat table. He deemed the example of the unknown philosopher too good not to be followed, so he gathered his gains and stakes, and left the room.Now, most men would have felt elated at this stroke of luck, but Warden was not. Though it was very pleasant to be richer by nearly three hundred and seventy pounds, he wished heartily that this sudden outburst of the gambling mania had found its genesis in some other topic than the reputed ill fortune of a favored lover. The incident was so astounding that he began to search for its portent. For a few seconds, he saw in his mind’s eye an evil leer on the black face hidden away in theNancy’scabin, and it almost gave him a shock when he recalled the fact that both 29 and 20 were black numbers. But the light and gaiety of the streets soon dispelled these vapors, and he loitered in front of a jeweler’s shop while planning a surprise for his beloved. He had not yet given her a ring. Their tacit engagement was so sudden, and their parting so complete since that never–to–be–forgotten night at Plymouth, that he now fancied, with a certain humorous dismay, that Evelyn might long have been anticipating the receipt of some such token. Well, she should own a ring that he could never have affordedbut for the kindly help of the Casino. There was one in the window marked “D’Occasion—5,000 frs.” It contained three diamonds fit for a queen’s diadem. He wondered whether or not, under the circumstances, one should buy a second–hand ring. Would Evelyn care to wear an article, however valuable, that had once belonged to another woman? At any rate, the stones would require re–setting, and he was not afraid of being swindled in the purchase, because the jeweler evidently regarded this special bargain as a magnet to draw the eyes of passers–by to his stock.Five minutes later, the ring reposed in a case in Warden’s pocket, and he was making for the post–office. But there was no letter from Evelyn. There would have been, were it not locked in Mrs. Laing’s writing–case, and Warden was no wizard that he should guess any such development in the bewildering tumult of events that was even then gathering around him. Nevertheless, the clerk gave him a letter—from the Colonial Office—asking that he should come to London with the least possible delay.Though gratifying to a man eager for recognition in his service, the incidence of the request was annoying. At any other time in his career he would have left Ostend by the night mail. Now he resolved to wait until the morrow’s midday service, and thus secure Evelyn’s missive before his departure. He read between the lines of the brief official message clearly enough. Affairs were growing critical in West Africa. At best, his advice, at worst, his immediate return toduty, was demanded. If the latter, by hook or by crook he would contrive to see Evelyn before he sailed for the south.He telegraphed his change of plans to Evelyn, telling her to write to his flat in London, and asking her to wire saying whether or not a letter wasen routeto Ostend. He bade Peter bring theNancyto Dover and there await orders, and then joined his friend, who was sympathetic when he heard that Warden must leave Ostend next day.“You’ll miss the racing,” he said, “and that is a pity, because I know of one or two good things that would have paid for your holiday.”Warden laughed, and recounted his before–dinner experiences in the Casino.“By gad!” cried the other, “I wish I’d been there. I know that German Johnny—let me see, he has a horse running to–morrow. Here is the programme—third race—Baron von Gröbelstein’s ‘Black Mask.’ Eh, what? Oh, that is the gee–gee’s name right enough, but it hasn’t an earthly.”To cloak his amazement, Warden pretended to be interested in the entries. “Black Mask” was Number Thirteen on the card. He could not help smiling.“I feel rather superstitious to–day,” he said. “Will you back that horse for me?”“Certainly, dear boy. But you are throwing your money away. It’s a fifty to one shot.”“I don’t mind. It is the Casino’s money, anyhow.”“Very well. How much?”Warden’s pocket–book, reduced somewhat in bulk by the visit to the jeweler’s, came in evidence again.“Fifty louis,” he said.“My dear fellow, it’s rank lunacy.”“Believe me, I shall not care tuppence if I lose.”“Oh, all right. Give me your address. I’ll send you a telegram about four o’clock to–morrow. You’ll never see your fifty any more.”Never before in his life had Warden acted the spendthrift, but any surprise he may have felt at his own recklessness was utterly dissipated when he received Rosamund Laing’s letter next morning. Though its tone was studiously gossipy and cheerful, the tidings it contained were unpleasant enough to lend significance to the American’s dictum. Its innuendoes, whether intentional or otherwise—and Warden was suspicious, for he had not forgotten certain traits of Rosamund’s character—assumed a sinister aspect when there was neither letter nor telegram from Evelyn.“My dear Arthur”—wrote this unwelcome correspondent—“I suppose I may address you in that manner after our once close friendship—you will think that marvels are happening when you hear that I am at Lochmerig. The real marvel is, however, that I should have obtained your address. Last evening Billy Thring—do you know him?—by the way, he is now Lord Fairholme, since that sad railway smash at Beckminster yesterday—well, Billy Thring spoke of you. He means to cut you out with your little governess friend. I don’t blame you a bit, forshe is very pretty, but, without telling tales, I would warn you that the man who said that absence makes the heart grow fonder was certainly not a connoisseur in woman’s hearts. Naturally, Fairholme flew south this morning, and that clears off one of your rivals temporarily. Still, there are others. I am only chaffing, of course, and I suppose you were chiefly amusing yourself at Cowes and elsewhere.Mypresence here is easily accounted for—I met the Baumgartners at Madeira last winter; and they invited me to their Scotch shooting. Isn’t B. a funny little man? On the island they used to call him by his initials, I. D. B.—Illicit Diamond Buyer, you know.“Now, why did you leave me to fish out your whereabouts by sheer accident? Naughty! Do write soon, and tell me when I shall see you. Oh, I was nearly forgetting. Recent arrivals included a Herr von Rippenbach and an old acquaintance of yours, Miguel Figuero. Isn’t it odd that they should come here! And a little bird named Evelyn has whispered that the men of Oku are making ju–ju nearer home than the Benuë River. Please keep out of it, for your friends’ sake, and especially for the sake of yours ever sincerely, Rosamund.”“P.S. Send a line, and I shall give you more news. R.”There was hardly a word in that innocent–looking note that was not a barbed shaft. Was it believable that Evelyn Dane, the girl whose eyes shone so divinely while he entrusted to her willing ears his hopes andaspirations, should make him the butt of the ninnies gathered at Lochmerig? Yet, that allusion to the men of Oku inflicted a stab cruel as the thrust of an Oku spear. Who else but Evelyn could have revealed his interest in the visit of the negroes to England? And who was this Billy Thring—whose very name suggested inanity? True, Evelyn had mentioned him as one of the house party. “I find the Honorable One very amusing,” she had said. “He is the clown of our somewhat dull circus.” But there was no suggestion of friendliness other than the ordinary civilities of life under the same roof. Again, why had she not written, nor answered his telegram? He laid no great stress on these minor things. They became important only in the light of Rosamund’s statements.He read and re–read the letter while crossing the Channel. Before Dover was reached he had gone through identically the same thought–process as Evelyn herself two days earlier. He found malevolence in every line of Rosamund’s epistle. It was meant to wound. Its airy comment was distilled poison, its assumed levity the gall of a jealous woman. Were it not for her wholly inexplicable and confusing allusion to the Oku chief’s mission, he could have cast aside with a scornful laugh her sly hints as to Evelyn’s faithlessness. Even then, puzzled and angry though he was, he remained true in his allegiance to his affianced wife.“Why should there not be some devil’s brew where such men as Figuero and Baumgartner foregather?” he asked himself. “It exists, as I well know, andRosamund Laing is just the woman to sip it. I wish now that I had insisted more firmly on Evelyn’s removal from the Baumgartner gang. I was mad not to ask her to marry me at once. We could have managed somehow, and she would have borne the separation for a year or more.”Then it occurred to him that the two hundred pounds’ worth of diamonds in his pocket would almost have furnished a country cottage, and, to crown all, there was the exquisite folly of the bet on a horse that his sporting friend described as a hopeless outsider. His misery was not complete till the memory of another jewel intruded itself—a ruby that had waited two hundred and fifty years for an owner. Certainly, Arthur Warden experienced a most perplexed and soul–tortured journey to London.He drove straight to his flat. Two telegrams awaited him. One must be from Evelyn, of course. She had chosen to send a message there, rather than risk missing him at Ostend. But he was wrong. The first he opened read: “Baumgartner and everybody else have gone. I am coming to London. Staying at Savoy. Rosamund.”His brain was still confused by this strange substitution of one woman for another, when his eyes fell on the contents of the second telegram:“Black Mask won. Took you forties. Congratulations, Dick.”The perplexity in his face attracted the sympathy of the hall porter.“I ‘ope you’ve had no bad news, sir,” said the man.Warden laughed with a harshness that was not good to hear.“No,” he said, “just the reverse. I backed a horse and he has won, at forty to one.”The hall porter, like most of his class, was a sportsman.“Lord love a duck!” he cried, “that’s the sort you read about but seldom see, sir. Where did he run—at Newmarket?”“No, at Ostend.”The man’s hopes of obtaining good “information” diminished, but he was supremely interested.“Wota price!” he exclaimed. “Did you have much on, sir?”“Forty pounds.”“Forty pounds! Then you’ve won sixteen hundred quid!” and each syllable was a crescendo of admiration.Warden threw the telegram on the floor. Though the last twenty–four hours had enriched him by nearly five years’ pay, he was in no mood to greet his good fortune as it deserved.“Yes,” he sighed, “I suppose you are right. Unpack my traps, there’s a good fellow. I am going out, and I want to change my clothes.”The hall porter obeyed, but he would have choked if speech were forbidden. He wanted to know the horse’s name, how the gentleman had come to hear of him, was the money “safe,” and other kindred items that goaded Warden to hidden frenzy. Yet the forcedattention thus demanded was good for him. He described “Black Mask” as “a Tartar of the Ukraine breed,” and drew such a darksome picture of the precautions taken by the “stable” to conceal the animal’s true form that the man regarded him as a veritable fount of racing lore.Such a reputation, once earned, is not easily shaken off. When he went out, the hall porter and the driver of a hansom were in deep converse. He paid the cabman at the Colonial Office, and his mind was busy with other things when he was brought back to earth again.“Beg pardon, sir,” said cabby, “but would you mind tellin’ me the best thing for the Cup.”“What Cup?” demanded Warden testily.“The Liverpool Cup, sir.”“Beer, of course.”He escaped. But the cabman took thought. An eminent brewer’s horse figured in the betting lists, so he drove back at once to interview the hall porter. A joint speculation followed, and two men mourned for many a day that they had not begged or borrowed more money wherewith to win a competence on that amazingly lucky tip.Warden did not expect to find any one at the Colonial Office who would attend to him. The hour was nearly seven, and it is a popular theory that at four o’clock all secretaries and civil servants throw aside the newspapers and other light literature with which they beguile the tedium of official routine. He meant to report hisarrival in London, and learn from a door–keeper what time it would be advisable to call next day.He was hardly prepared, therefore, to be received forthwith by a silver–haired, smooth–spoken gentleman, who asked him to recapitulate the main points of his conversation with the Under Secretary at the Foreign Office.Somewhat mystified, Warden began his recital. After the first two sentences, the official nodded.“Thank you, Captain Warden, I need not trouble you further,” he said. “You see, we are not personally known to each other, and in such an exceedingly delicate matter as this threatened difficulty in Nigeria—wherein knowledge is confined to a very small circle—one has to be careful that one is speaking to the right man.”“Did you think it possible, then, that some stranger might have impersonated me?” demanded Warden, his eyes twinkling at the suggestion.“Quite possible. I have done it myself twice, the first time successfully, the second to the complete satisfaction of our Minister abroad, but hardly to my own, as I had two fingers of my left hand shot off while making a dash for safety.”Certainly, reflected Warden, there were elements in the life of Whitehall that escaped public notice.“We have sent for you because you are wanted at once in West Africa,” went on the other. “Letters to and from the Governor of Northern Nigeria have culminated in a cablegram from the Governor askingthat you should be recalled from furlough. Though you are attached to the southern portion of the Protectorate, his Excellency has the highest appreciation of your tact and ability. He thinks you are the man best fitted to deal with the natives of the disturbed region. It is not proposed that you should return by the ordinary mail service. We assume that the departure of officers and others for Lagos is closely watched at the present crisis. A passage has been secured on a coasting steamer for a mythical personage named Alfred Williams. Initials on baggage or linen, therefore, cannot cause inquiry. Now, theWater Witchsails from Cardiff by Saturday afternoon’s tide, and we would like Mr. Alfred Williams to go on board that morning.”Warden looked blankly at the speaker. It was then Thursday. It left him little more than a day in which to unravel the mystery that enveloped Evelyn and her whereabouts. A bitter rage welled up in his breast, but he controlled his face, and the official attributed his silence to the suddenness of his suggested departure.“I am sorry that your leave should be spoiled in this fashion,” continued the quiet voice. “But it is unavoidable. The thing presses. And I need scarcely tell you that when Government wants a man’s service it is good for the man.”“I shall be on board theWater Witchon Saturday,” said Warden.Perhaps the lack of enthusiasm in his manner was puzzling, but the suave official paid no heed.“And now for your instructions,” he said. “The vessel touches at Cape Coast Castle before going on to Lagos. You will be met there by some officer whom you are acquainted with. He will tell you the exact position of affairs, and what, if any, developments have taken place in the meantime. He will also give you the Governor’s views as to the way in which your experience of the natives can best be utilized. I leave it to you to take the necessary precautions to conceal your movements and identity, and I am authorized to hand you £250 to meet any expenses incidental to your mission. Your passage on theWater Witchis paid for, by the way.”Again the older man failed to understand why the young officer should laugh with the grim humor of one who bids fate do her worst. Certainly, the situation had in it some element of comedy. Gold was being showered on Warden from the skies—promotion and distinction were thrust upon him—yet he was miserable as any man in England that day.“Something on his mind—is it a woman?” mused the shrewd official, and the time came when he remembered the idle fancy.In the freedom of the street Warden soon recovered himself. Not even an all–absorbing passion—rendered more intense by reason of his self–contained nature—could deprive him of the habit of years. In the Colonial Office at the moment lay a letter from the Governor of Southern Nigeria commending him in the highest terms for his cool judgment, resourcefulness,and decision. He showed these qualities now. He hurried to Charing Cross, and despatched three telegrams, one to Evelyn, begging her to communicate with him instantly, a second to his friend in Ostend, thanking him for his kindly offices and requesting that the money should be paid into a named bank, and the third to the Harbor Master at Dover, asking him to inform Peter Evans, of the pilot–cutterNancy, that he must travel to London by the earliest train after arriving from Ostend.Then he went to the Savoy.Rosamund’s telegram had been handed in at Lochmerig the previous night. It occurred to Warden that she must have written it about the time his message to Evelyn was delivered. If so, and it was true that the Baumgartner household had already departed on board theSans Souci, there was an obvious question to be answered.As he anticipated, Mrs. Laing was in the hotel. In fact, she was about to dine in her own room when Warden’s card was brought to her. She hastened to meet him, all smiles and blushes.“How awfully good of you to come so soon!” she cried. “And at just the right hour! I hate eating alone, but I dislike still more being at a table by myself in a big hotel. You can’t have dined. Let us go to the café, and then it doesn’t matter about one’s toilette.”“I don’t wish to disturb your arrangements”—he began, but she was not to be forced into a serious discussion at once.“Who said anything about disturbance?” she rattled on. “You could not have met my wishes better if you had guessed them. Now, don’t look so glum. It is not my fault that your pretty governess was ready to flirt with other men, is it? Come and eat, and I shall tell you all about it.”He fell in with her mood. A woman will dare anything when she loves or hates, and he credited Rosamund with excess in both directions. Yet it would be strange, he thought, were she playing some deep game not immediately discernible, if he did not unravel the tangled skein of her deceit.“I got your letter, of course,” he said when they were seated.“Ah, then I guessed correctly. That is why you are disconsolate,” she said, looking at him frankly.“It may be. At present I am chiefly curious. How did you obtain my London address?”“Didn’t you telegraph it?”“To Miss Dane—yes.”“You dear man, what wouldyouhave done if a telegram were brought to a remote place in the Highlands for a lady whom you knew was gone goodness knows where in a yacht?”“Surely it might have been forwarded to her?”“Yes, if you or I, or any other reasonable being, were the addressee. But the Baumgartners gave instructions that everything was to be sent to their London house, which is closed, except for a caretaker. Mrs. Baumgartner herself told me they didnot expect to be in town under a month or six weeks.”“Have they vanished into thin air?”“Something of the kind. They spoke vaguely of a cruise round the Shetlands, but I am sure that was meant as a blind. They wouldn’t take Figuero and von Rippenbach as their sailing companions for the mere fun of the thing, would they?”“Did they offer no excuse to their guests?”“Oh, yes. Billy Thring—sorry, but I must mention him—well, his brother’s death was the ostensible reason. I don’t believe a word of it. I. D. B. is not the man to break up a pleasant house party because one of its members has suffered a bereavement. There is something else going on. I am honestly feminine enough to want to know what it is. I was simply dying of curiosity yesterday when I saw Figuero and the dainty Evelyn in the garden, discussing things with bated breath.”Warden frowned. He could keep a tight rein on his emotions, but this was trying him high.“Would you mind telling me how a man who is dining with a lady can best express polite incredulity at her statements?” he asked.“Very neat,” she retorted, “but in this instance you are the water and I the duck. If you think I am deliberately telling you untruths, why not choose some less exciting topic? How did you like Ostend? I adore it. The people amuse me—they are so naïvely shocking, or shocked, as the case may be. Did yousee that fat Frenchman who struts about in a ridiculously tight and glaring bathing suit?”“Of course you want to talk about Lochmerig,” he said quietly. “Now, Mrs. Laing, it will be wiser to speak in plain language. Evelyn Dane is my promised wife. If possible, I would marry her to–morrow. That is no figure of speech. If she were here now, and the law permitted, I would marry her within the hour. You know me well enough to believe that once my mind is made up I do not change. Well, then, why are you endeavoring to create discord between me and the woman I love?”Rosamund flushed. She had expected him to say something of the kind, but it was none the less disagreeable in the hearing. The fury that convulsed her found a ready outlet in the tears that stood in her beautiful eyes.“It is very unkind of you to blame me,” she half sobbed. “How could I make up all these wicked inventions? I had never even heard the girl’s name before I went to Lochmerig. It was her own foolish tongue that revealed things—about you—and the men of Oku—and—and—what you saw that night at Cowes. She is either very wicked or very thoughtless, Arthur. If you are engaged in some secret business for the Government, and she were really true to you, would she ever have spoken of it to Billy—to Lord Fairholme?”Warden was beaten. He poured out a glass of wine and drank it. He felt that if he spoke at once hisvoice might betray the agony of his soul. Ah, if only he might see Evelyn for five precious minutes! Better go to Africa with his dear idol shattered than carry with him the lingering torture of doubt.“I think you were right when you switched our talk off to Ostend,” he muttered at last. “May I give you a word of advice? Forget what you have just said. It is a dangerous problem—one not to be settled by women’s tongues.”So they left it at that, and when they parted, not without a tacit understanding that they would meet again at the earliest opportunity—for Warden was obliged to be ambiguous in that respect—Rosamund was sure that she had gained some ground in a pitiless struggle. Warden was desperately unhappy. That was her second success. She had won the first move when theSans Soucicarried Evelyn off the field.Early next morning Warden went to a shipping office, and the people there advised him to send a reply–paid telegram to the coast–guard station nearest Lochmerig. He soon received an answer. “TheSans Soucisailed Wednesday, 3p.m.Destination believed Shetlands, but headed southeast by east.”He passed many hours in writing a full statement of everything that had taken place—including copies of Rosamund’s letter and telegram, and a literal record of their conversation in the hotel—and enclosed the ring and the manuscript in a stout linen envelope. When Peter Evans came to him in the evening, he gave him the package and fifty pounds, with explicitdetails as to its safeguarding and the reasons which governed his present decision.“You are to find Miss Dane, no matter what the cost,” he said. “You may hear of her at her home in Oxfordshire, or at this address, where you have my permission to open any letters that arrive during my absence. If you run short of money, or are compelled to take an expensive journey, apply to my bankers. I shall leave full instructions that your requirements are to be met when you explain them. The one thing I want you to do is to deliver this letter into Miss Dane’s own hands.”Peter, somewhat awestricken by Warden’s gravity, yet proud of the trust placed in him, promised obedience.“Never fear, sir,” he said. “If theSans Souciis afloat on the seven seas I’ll get her bearin’s one way or another. Sink me! if I don’t find that gal afore a month, I’ll unship my prop, sell theNancy, an’ go to the wokkus.”In disposing of his belongings, Warden packed the gourd and the parchment among some heavy clothing which was useless in Africa. He told the hall porter exactly which portmanteaus he meant to take with him, but on arriving at Paddington Station at 4.30a.m.on a cold morning, he found the bag containing the gourd and parchment piled with the rest of his goods on the platform.He eyed it resentfully, but yielded.“So you mean to stick to me!” he growled. “You mesmerized that sleepy scoundrel into carrying youdownstairs and depositing you on the roof of my cab. Very well. Let us see the adventure through in company.”He was chatting with the skipper of theWater Witchone day while the ship’s position was being pricked off on the chart.“You are keeping close in to the Spanish coast, Captain,” said the passenger.“Not particularly, Mr. Williams,” was the reply.“But I have always been under the impression that vessels bound for the West Coast headed for the Canaries?”“So they do, if they’re logged for a straight run. It happens this time, however, that my ole tub has to call in at Rabat and Mogador.”“At Rabat!” repeated Mr. Williams, seemingly staggered at the mere mention of the place.“Yes, funny little hole. Ever bin there?”“No.”“Well, p’raps you’ll go ashore. If you do you’ll see the queerest collection of humans you’ve ever set eyes on.”Mr. Williams turned and gazed at the horizon.“I think I’m bewitched,” he muttered.“Wot’s that?”“Odd thing. I’ve been dreaming of Rabat!”The captain grinned.“When you’ve seen it you’ll fancy it’s a nightmare,” he said.
WARDEN BEGINS HIS ODYSSEY
Evelyn’s weekly letter from Scotland usually arrived by the mail–boat due at Ostend about three o’clock in the afternoon. Warden, sitting on theplageamong a cosmopolitan crowd that delighted in its own antics, watched the steamer from Dover picking its way along the coast and into the harbor. He was dining with a friend that evening in one of the big hotels on the sea front. He could call for his letters after he had dressed—meanwhile, he had an hour or more at his disposal, and he was weary of the frolics of Monsieur, Madame et Bébé, and of a great many other people who came under a less domestic category.
To kill time, he strolled into the Casino and drank a cup of the decoction which Belgians regard as tea. Then he went to the so–called Club to look at the gamblers. Play did not appeal to him, but he had joined the Cercle Privé because some men he knew went there regularly for baccarat. To–day, to dispel theennuiof existence between meals, a German baron was opening banks of five hundred louis each, and losing or winning money with a bored air. He had just closed one bank successfully, and the table wasset for another, when a young American, bright–eyed, clean–shaven, and pallid, stirred the pulses of both onlookers and players by crying, “Banco!” Even in Ostend one does not often see four hundred pounds won or lost at a single coup. Warden, whose sympathies were against the stolid banker, stood by the side of the younger man until the incident was ended.
There was no waiting. The challenger, impassive as a Red Indian, gave a bundle of notes to the croupier, who counted them. The baron dealt the two tableaux, and his adversary stooped and picked up the first.
“Huit!” he said, throwing the cards face upwards on the table. He took the second pair.
“Neuf!”
An excited buzz of talk rose around the board. With a blasé smile, the banker showed his cards—two queens.
“Peste!” cried a Frenchman, “toujours on souffre pour les dames!”
Some few laughed; the German, more phlegmatic than ever, opened a pocket–book and started a fresh bank for the same amount, while the American collected his stake and winnings. He was stuffing the notes into a pocket when he caught Warden’s glance.
“That’s the easiest way of making two thousand dollars I’ve ever struck,” he said.
“But you stood to lose the same amount,” said Warden.
“Why, yes. The only difference between me and the fellow who puts up with this beastly atmosphereevery day for a month is thathefritters away his money at five or ten dollars a pop, while I hit or miss at the first time of asking.”
“You won’t play any more, then?”
“No, sir. Me for the tall timbers with the baron’s wad. ‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,’ you know, and I’ve just heard that my best girl has made a date with the other fellow.”
He walked away, erect, alert, and self–possessed. Warden strolled to a roulette board.
“I wonder if that is true,” he mused.
Instinctively his hand went to his pocket, and he staked a louis on 29, the year of his age. Up came 29, and he won thirty–five louis. He was so astonished that he bent over the shoulders of a lady seated near the foot of the table, and began mechanically to draw in the five–hundred franc note and ten gold pieces that were pushed by a croupier’s rake close to his own coin.
“But, monsieur,” whispered the lady, who was French, and gave slight heed to convention, “certainly you will follow your luck!”
“Why not?” he answered.
Knowing that the maximum on a number was nine louis, he was on the point of leaving that amount on 29, when he remembered that Evelyn’s age was twenty. To the surprise of his self–appointed counselor, he told the croupier to transfer the gold to the new number, while the note went on the 19–24transversale. Thus, if he lost, he was still a louis to the good, and the American’s consoling adage was robbed of its sting.
The roulette whirred round, the marble danced madly across diamonds and slots. Checking its pace, it hopped, hopped, hopped—into 20—and the Frenchwoman nearly became hysterical. Warden received so much money that he lost count. As a matter of fact, he had won just forty louis less than the cynic of the baccarat table. He deemed the example of the unknown philosopher too good not to be followed, so he gathered his gains and stakes, and left the room.
Now, most men would have felt elated at this stroke of luck, but Warden was not. Though it was very pleasant to be richer by nearly three hundred and seventy pounds, he wished heartily that this sudden outburst of the gambling mania had found its genesis in some other topic than the reputed ill fortune of a favored lover. The incident was so astounding that he began to search for its portent. For a few seconds, he saw in his mind’s eye an evil leer on the black face hidden away in theNancy’scabin, and it almost gave him a shock when he recalled the fact that both 29 and 20 were black numbers. But the light and gaiety of the streets soon dispelled these vapors, and he loitered in front of a jeweler’s shop while planning a surprise for his beloved. He had not yet given her a ring. Their tacit engagement was so sudden, and their parting so complete since that never–to–be–forgotten night at Plymouth, that he now fancied, with a certain humorous dismay, that Evelyn might long have been anticipating the receipt of some such token. Well, she should own a ring that he could never have affordedbut for the kindly help of the Casino. There was one in the window marked “D’Occasion—5,000 frs.” It contained three diamonds fit for a queen’s diadem. He wondered whether or not, under the circumstances, one should buy a second–hand ring. Would Evelyn care to wear an article, however valuable, that had once belonged to another woman? At any rate, the stones would require re–setting, and he was not afraid of being swindled in the purchase, because the jeweler evidently regarded this special bargain as a magnet to draw the eyes of passers–by to his stock.
Five minutes later, the ring reposed in a case in Warden’s pocket, and he was making for the post–office. But there was no letter from Evelyn. There would have been, were it not locked in Mrs. Laing’s writing–case, and Warden was no wizard that he should guess any such development in the bewildering tumult of events that was even then gathering around him. Nevertheless, the clerk gave him a letter—from the Colonial Office—asking that he should come to London with the least possible delay.
Though gratifying to a man eager for recognition in his service, the incidence of the request was annoying. At any other time in his career he would have left Ostend by the night mail. Now he resolved to wait until the morrow’s midday service, and thus secure Evelyn’s missive before his departure. He read between the lines of the brief official message clearly enough. Affairs were growing critical in West Africa. At best, his advice, at worst, his immediate return toduty, was demanded. If the latter, by hook or by crook he would contrive to see Evelyn before he sailed for the south.
He telegraphed his change of plans to Evelyn, telling her to write to his flat in London, and asking her to wire saying whether or not a letter wasen routeto Ostend. He bade Peter bring theNancyto Dover and there await orders, and then joined his friend, who was sympathetic when he heard that Warden must leave Ostend next day.
“You’ll miss the racing,” he said, “and that is a pity, because I know of one or two good things that would have paid for your holiday.”
Warden laughed, and recounted his before–dinner experiences in the Casino.
“By gad!” cried the other, “I wish I’d been there. I know that German Johnny—let me see, he has a horse running to–morrow. Here is the programme—third race—Baron von Gröbelstein’s ‘Black Mask.’ Eh, what? Oh, that is the gee–gee’s name right enough, but it hasn’t an earthly.”
To cloak his amazement, Warden pretended to be interested in the entries. “Black Mask” was Number Thirteen on the card. He could not help smiling.
“I feel rather superstitious to–day,” he said. “Will you back that horse for me?”
“Certainly, dear boy. But you are throwing your money away. It’s a fifty to one shot.”
“I don’t mind. It is the Casino’s money, anyhow.”
“Very well. How much?”
Warden’s pocket–book, reduced somewhat in bulk by the visit to the jeweler’s, came in evidence again.
“Fifty louis,” he said.
“My dear fellow, it’s rank lunacy.”
“Believe me, I shall not care tuppence if I lose.”
“Oh, all right. Give me your address. I’ll send you a telegram about four o’clock to–morrow. You’ll never see your fifty any more.”
Never before in his life had Warden acted the spendthrift, but any surprise he may have felt at his own recklessness was utterly dissipated when he received Rosamund Laing’s letter next morning. Though its tone was studiously gossipy and cheerful, the tidings it contained were unpleasant enough to lend significance to the American’s dictum. Its innuendoes, whether intentional or otherwise—and Warden was suspicious, for he had not forgotten certain traits of Rosamund’s character—assumed a sinister aspect when there was neither letter nor telegram from Evelyn.
“My dear Arthur”—wrote this unwelcome correspondent—“I suppose I may address you in that manner after our once close friendship—you will think that marvels are happening when you hear that I am at Lochmerig. The real marvel is, however, that I should have obtained your address. Last evening Billy Thring—do you know him?—by the way, he is now Lord Fairholme, since that sad railway smash at Beckminster yesterday—well, Billy Thring spoke of you. He means to cut you out with your little governess friend. I don’t blame you a bit, forshe is very pretty, but, without telling tales, I would warn you that the man who said that absence makes the heart grow fonder was certainly not a connoisseur in woman’s hearts. Naturally, Fairholme flew south this morning, and that clears off one of your rivals temporarily. Still, there are others. I am only chaffing, of course, and I suppose you were chiefly amusing yourself at Cowes and elsewhere.Mypresence here is easily accounted for—I met the Baumgartners at Madeira last winter; and they invited me to their Scotch shooting. Isn’t B. a funny little man? On the island they used to call him by his initials, I. D. B.—Illicit Diamond Buyer, you know.
“Now, why did you leave me to fish out your whereabouts by sheer accident? Naughty! Do write soon, and tell me when I shall see you. Oh, I was nearly forgetting. Recent arrivals included a Herr von Rippenbach and an old acquaintance of yours, Miguel Figuero. Isn’t it odd that they should come here! And a little bird named Evelyn has whispered that the men of Oku are making ju–ju nearer home than the Benuë River. Please keep out of it, for your friends’ sake, and especially for the sake of yours ever sincerely, Rosamund.”
“P.S. Send a line, and I shall give you more news. R.”
There was hardly a word in that innocent–looking note that was not a barbed shaft. Was it believable that Evelyn Dane, the girl whose eyes shone so divinely while he entrusted to her willing ears his hopes andaspirations, should make him the butt of the ninnies gathered at Lochmerig? Yet, that allusion to the men of Oku inflicted a stab cruel as the thrust of an Oku spear. Who else but Evelyn could have revealed his interest in the visit of the negroes to England? And who was this Billy Thring—whose very name suggested inanity? True, Evelyn had mentioned him as one of the house party. “I find the Honorable One very amusing,” she had said. “He is the clown of our somewhat dull circus.” But there was no suggestion of friendliness other than the ordinary civilities of life under the same roof. Again, why had she not written, nor answered his telegram? He laid no great stress on these minor things. They became important only in the light of Rosamund’s statements.
He read and re–read the letter while crossing the Channel. Before Dover was reached he had gone through identically the same thought–process as Evelyn herself two days earlier. He found malevolence in every line of Rosamund’s epistle. It was meant to wound. Its airy comment was distilled poison, its assumed levity the gall of a jealous woman. Were it not for her wholly inexplicable and confusing allusion to the Oku chief’s mission, he could have cast aside with a scornful laugh her sly hints as to Evelyn’s faithlessness. Even then, puzzled and angry though he was, he remained true in his allegiance to his affianced wife.
“Why should there not be some devil’s brew where such men as Figuero and Baumgartner foregather?” he asked himself. “It exists, as I well know, andRosamund Laing is just the woman to sip it. I wish now that I had insisted more firmly on Evelyn’s removal from the Baumgartner gang. I was mad not to ask her to marry me at once. We could have managed somehow, and she would have borne the separation for a year or more.”
Then it occurred to him that the two hundred pounds’ worth of diamonds in his pocket would almost have furnished a country cottage, and, to crown all, there was the exquisite folly of the bet on a horse that his sporting friend described as a hopeless outsider. His misery was not complete till the memory of another jewel intruded itself—a ruby that had waited two hundred and fifty years for an owner. Certainly, Arthur Warden experienced a most perplexed and soul–tortured journey to London.
He drove straight to his flat. Two telegrams awaited him. One must be from Evelyn, of course. She had chosen to send a message there, rather than risk missing him at Ostend. But he was wrong. The first he opened read: “Baumgartner and everybody else have gone. I am coming to London. Staying at Savoy. Rosamund.”
His brain was still confused by this strange substitution of one woman for another, when his eyes fell on the contents of the second telegram:
“Black Mask won. Took you forties. Congratulations, Dick.”
The perplexity in his face attracted the sympathy of the hall porter.
“I ‘ope you’ve had no bad news, sir,” said the man.
Warden laughed with a harshness that was not good to hear.
“No,” he said, “just the reverse. I backed a horse and he has won, at forty to one.”
The hall porter, like most of his class, was a sportsman.
“Lord love a duck!” he cried, “that’s the sort you read about but seldom see, sir. Where did he run—at Newmarket?”
“No, at Ostend.”
The man’s hopes of obtaining good “information” diminished, but he was supremely interested.
“Wota price!” he exclaimed. “Did you have much on, sir?”
“Forty pounds.”
“Forty pounds! Then you’ve won sixteen hundred quid!” and each syllable was a crescendo of admiration.
Warden threw the telegram on the floor. Though the last twenty–four hours had enriched him by nearly five years’ pay, he was in no mood to greet his good fortune as it deserved.
“Yes,” he sighed, “I suppose you are right. Unpack my traps, there’s a good fellow. I am going out, and I want to change my clothes.”
The hall porter obeyed, but he would have choked if speech were forbidden. He wanted to know the horse’s name, how the gentleman had come to hear of him, was the money “safe,” and other kindred items that goaded Warden to hidden frenzy. Yet the forcedattention thus demanded was good for him. He described “Black Mask” as “a Tartar of the Ukraine breed,” and drew such a darksome picture of the precautions taken by the “stable” to conceal the animal’s true form that the man regarded him as a veritable fount of racing lore.
Such a reputation, once earned, is not easily shaken off. When he went out, the hall porter and the driver of a hansom were in deep converse. He paid the cabman at the Colonial Office, and his mind was busy with other things when he was brought back to earth again.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said cabby, “but would you mind tellin’ me the best thing for the Cup.”
“What Cup?” demanded Warden testily.
“The Liverpool Cup, sir.”
“Beer, of course.”
He escaped. But the cabman took thought. An eminent brewer’s horse figured in the betting lists, so he drove back at once to interview the hall porter. A joint speculation followed, and two men mourned for many a day that they had not begged or borrowed more money wherewith to win a competence on that amazingly lucky tip.
Warden did not expect to find any one at the Colonial Office who would attend to him. The hour was nearly seven, and it is a popular theory that at four o’clock all secretaries and civil servants throw aside the newspapers and other light literature with which they beguile the tedium of official routine. He meant to report hisarrival in London, and learn from a door–keeper what time it would be advisable to call next day.
He was hardly prepared, therefore, to be received forthwith by a silver–haired, smooth–spoken gentleman, who asked him to recapitulate the main points of his conversation with the Under Secretary at the Foreign Office.
Somewhat mystified, Warden began his recital. After the first two sentences, the official nodded.
“Thank you, Captain Warden, I need not trouble you further,” he said. “You see, we are not personally known to each other, and in such an exceedingly delicate matter as this threatened difficulty in Nigeria—wherein knowledge is confined to a very small circle—one has to be careful that one is speaking to the right man.”
“Did you think it possible, then, that some stranger might have impersonated me?” demanded Warden, his eyes twinkling at the suggestion.
“Quite possible. I have done it myself twice, the first time successfully, the second to the complete satisfaction of our Minister abroad, but hardly to my own, as I had two fingers of my left hand shot off while making a dash for safety.”
Certainly, reflected Warden, there were elements in the life of Whitehall that escaped public notice.
“We have sent for you because you are wanted at once in West Africa,” went on the other. “Letters to and from the Governor of Northern Nigeria have culminated in a cablegram from the Governor askingthat you should be recalled from furlough. Though you are attached to the southern portion of the Protectorate, his Excellency has the highest appreciation of your tact and ability. He thinks you are the man best fitted to deal with the natives of the disturbed region. It is not proposed that you should return by the ordinary mail service. We assume that the departure of officers and others for Lagos is closely watched at the present crisis. A passage has been secured on a coasting steamer for a mythical personage named Alfred Williams. Initials on baggage or linen, therefore, cannot cause inquiry. Now, theWater Witchsails from Cardiff by Saturday afternoon’s tide, and we would like Mr. Alfred Williams to go on board that morning.”
Warden looked blankly at the speaker. It was then Thursday. It left him little more than a day in which to unravel the mystery that enveloped Evelyn and her whereabouts. A bitter rage welled up in his breast, but he controlled his face, and the official attributed his silence to the suddenness of his suggested departure.
“I am sorry that your leave should be spoiled in this fashion,” continued the quiet voice. “But it is unavoidable. The thing presses. And I need scarcely tell you that when Government wants a man’s service it is good for the man.”
“I shall be on board theWater Witchon Saturday,” said Warden.
Perhaps the lack of enthusiasm in his manner was puzzling, but the suave official paid no heed.
“And now for your instructions,” he said. “The vessel touches at Cape Coast Castle before going on to Lagos. You will be met there by some officer whom you are acquainted with. He will tell you the exact position of affairs, and what, if any, developments have taken place in the meantime. He will also give you the Governor’s views as to the way in which your experience of the natives can best be utilized. I leave it to you to take the necessary precautions to conceal your movements and identity, and I am authorized to hand you £250 to meet any expenses incidental to your mission. Your passage on theWater Witchis paid for, by the way.”
Again the older man failed to understand why the young officer should laugh with the grim humor of one who bids fate do her worst. Certainly, the situation had in it some element of comedy. Gold was being showered on Warden from the skies—promotion and distinction were thrust upon him—yet he was miserable as any man in England that day.
“Something on his mind—is it a woman?” mused the shrewd official, and the time came when he remembered the idle fancy.
In the freedom of the street Warden soon recovered himself. Not even an all–absorbing passion—rendered more intense by reason of his self–contained nature—could deprive him of the habit of years. In the Colonial Office at the moment lay a letter from the Governor of Southern Nigeria commending him in the highest terms for his cool judgment, resourcefulness,and decision. He showed these qualities now. He hurried to Charing Cross, and despatched three telegrams, one to Evelyn, begging her to communicate with him instantly, a second to his friend in Ostend, thanking him for his kindly offices and requesting that the money should be paid into a named bank, and the third to the Harbor Master at Dover, asking him to inform Peter Evans, of the pilot–cutterNancy, that he must travel to London by the earliest train after arriving from Ostend.
Then he went to the Savoy.
Rosamund’s telegram had been handed in at Lochmerig the previous night. It occurred to Warden that she must have written it about the time his message to Evelyn was delivered. If so, and it was true that the Baumgartner household had already departed on board theSans Souci, there was an obvious question to be answered.
As he anticipated, Mrs. Laing was in the hotel. In fact, she was about to dine in her own room when Warden’s card was brought to her. She hastened to meet him, all smiles and blushes.
“How awfully good of you to come so soon!” she cried. “And at just the right hour! I hate eating alone, but I dislike still more being at a table by myself in a big hotel. You can’t have dined. Let us go to the café, and then it doesn’t matter about one’s toilette.”
“I don’t wish to disturb your arrangements”—he began, but she was not to be forced into a serious discussion at once.
“Who said anything about disturbance?” she rattled on. “You could not have met my wishes better if you had guessed them. Now, don’t look so glum. It is not my fault that your pretty governess was ready to flirt with other men, is it? Come and eat, and I shall tell you all about it.”
He fell in with her mood. A woman will dare anything when she loves or hates, and he credited Rosamund with excess in both directions. Yet it would be strange, he thought, were she playing some deep game not immediately discernible, if he did not unravel the tangled skein of her deceit.
“I got your letter, of course,” he said when they were seated.
“Ah, then I guessed correctly. That is why you are disconsolate,” she said, looking at him frankly.
“It may be. At present I am chiefly curious. How did you obtain my London address?”
“Didn’t you telegraph it?”
“To Miss Dane—yes.”
“You dear man, what wouldyouhave done if a telegram were brought to a remote place in the Highlands for a lady whom you knew was gone goodness knows where in a yacht?”
“Surely it might have been forwarded to her?”
“Yes, if you or I, or any other reasonable being, were the addressee. But the Baumgartners gave instructions that everything was to be sent to their London house, which is closed, except for a caretaker. Mrs. Baumgartner herself told me they didnot expect to be in town under a month or six weeks.”
“Have they vanished into thin air?”
“Something of the kind. They spoke vaguely of a cruise round the Shetlands, but I am sure that was meant as a blind. They wouldn’t take Figuero and von Rippenbach as their sailing companions for the mere fun of the thing, would they?”
“Did they offer no excuse to their guests?”
“Oh, yes. Billy Thring—sorry, but I must mention him—well, his brother’s death was the ostensible reason. I don’t believe a word of it. I. D. B. is not the man to break up a pleasant house party because one of its members has suffered a bereavement. There is something else going on. I am honestly feminine enough to want to know what it is. I was simply dying of curiosity yesterday when I saw Figuero and the dainty Evelyn in the garden, discussing things with bated breath.”
Warden frowned. He could keep a tight rein on his emotions, but this was trying him high.
“Would you mind telling me how a man who is dining with a lady can best express polite incredulity at her statements?” he asked.
“Very neat,” she retorted, “but in this instance you are the water and I the duck. If you think I am deliberately telling you untruths, why not choose some less exciting topic? How did you like Ostend? I adore it. The people amuse me—they are so naïvely shocking, or shocked, as the case may be. Did yousee that fat Frenchman who struts about in a ridiculously tight and glaring bathing suit?”
“Of course you want to talk about Lochmerig,” he said quietly. “Now, Mrs. Laing, it will be wiser to speak in plain language. Evelyn Dane is my promised wife. If possible, I would marry her to–morrow. That is no figure of speech. If she were here now, and the law permitted, I would marry her within the hour. You know me well enough to believe that once my mind is made up I do not change. Well, then, why are you endeavoring to create discord between me and the woman I love?”
Rosamund flushed. She had expected him to say something of the kind, but it was none the less disagreeable in the hearing. The fury that convulsed her found a ready outlet in the tears that stood in her beautiful eyes.
“It is very unkind of you to blame me,” she half sobbed. “How could I make up all these wicked inventions? I had never even heard the girl’s name before I went to Lochmerig. It was her own foolish tongue that revealed things—about you—and the men of Oku—and—and—what you saw that night at Cowes. She is either very wicked or very thoughtless, Arthur. If you are engaged in some secret business for the Government, and she were really true to you, would she ever have spoken of it to Billy—to Lord Fairholme?”
Warden was beaten. He poured out a glass of wine and drank it. He felt that if he spoke at once hisvoice might betray the agony of his soul. Ah, if only he might see Evelyn for five precious minutes! Better go to Africa with his dear idol shattered than carry with him the lingering torture of doubt.
“I think you were right when you switched our talk off to Ostend,” he muttered at last. “May I give you a word of advice? Forget what you have just said. It is a dangerous problem—one not to be settled by women’s tongues.”
So they left it at that, and when they parted, not without a tacit understanding that they would meet again at the earliest opportunity—for Warden was obliged to be ambiguous in that respect—Rosamund was sure that she had gained some ground in a pitiless struggle. Warden was desperately unhappy. That was her second success. She had won the first move when theSans Soucicarried Evelyn off the field.
Early next morning Warden went to a shipping office, and the people there advised him to send a reply–paid telegram to the coast–guard station nearest Lochmerig. He soon received an answer. “TheSans Soucisailed Wednesday, 3p.m.Destination believed Shetlands, but headed southeast by east.”
He passed many hours in writing a full statement of everything that had taken place—including copies of Rosamund’s letter and telegram, and a literal record of their conversation in the hotel—and enclosed the ring and the manuscript in a stout linen envelope. When Peter Evans came to him in the evening, he gave him the package and fifty pounds, with explicitdetails as to its safeguarding and the reasons which governed his present decision.
“You are to find Miss Dane, no matter what the cost,” he said. “You may hear of her at her home in Oxfordshire, or at this address, where you have my permission to open any letters that arrive during my absence. If you run short of money, or are compelled to take an expensive journey, apply to my bankers. I shall leave full instructions that your requirements are to be met when you explain them. The one thing I want you to do is to deliver this letter into Miss Dane’s own hands.”
Peter, somewhat awestricken by Warden’s gravity, yet proud of the trust placed in him, promised obedience.
“Never fear, sir,” he said. “If theSans Souciis afloat on the seven seas I’ll get her bearin’s one way or another. Sink me! if I don’t find that gal afore a month, I’ll unship my prop, sell theNancy, an’ go to the wokkus.”
In disposing of his belongings, Warden packed the gourd and the parchment among some heavy clothing which was useless in Africa. He told the hall porter exactly which portmanteaus he meant to take with him, but on arriving at Paddington Station at 4.30a.m.on a cold morning, he found the bag containing the gourd and parchment piled with the rest of his goods on the platform.
He eyed it resentfully, but yielded.
“So you mean to stick to me!” he growled. “You mesmerized that sleepy scoundrel into carrying youdownstairs and depositing you on the roof of my cab. Very well. Let us see the adventure through in company.”
He was chatting with the skipper of theWater Witchone day while the ship’s position was being pricked off on the chart.
“You are keeping close in to the Spanish coast, Captain,” said the passenger.
“Not particularly, Mr. Williams,” was the reply.
“But I have always been under the impression that vessels bound for the West Coast headed for the Canaries?”
“So they do, if they’re logged for a straight run. It happens this time, however, that my ole tub has to call in at Rabat and Mogador.”
“At Rabat!” repeated Mr. Williams, seemingly staggered at the mere mention of the place.
“Yes, funny little hole. Ever bin there?”
“No.”
“Well, p’raps you’ll go ashore. If you do you’ll see the queerest collection of humans you’ve ever set eyes on.”
Mr. Williams turned and gazed at the horizon.
“I think I’m bewitched,” he muttered.
“Wot’s that?”
“Odd thing. I’ve been dreaming of Rabat!”
The captain grinned.
“When you’ve seen it you’ll fancy it’s a nightmare,” he said.
CHAPTER XHASSAN’S TOWER—AND THE COLONIAL OFFICEWarden did not find Rabat so intolerable as the captain of theWater Witchled him to believe. Its streets were more regular and cleaner, or less dirty, than those of the average Moorish town. Its people seemed to be devoted to commerce—probably because they are not pure–blooded Moors, but of Jewish descent. That, at least, is the argument advanced by a man from Fez or Tafilat when he wants a heavier dowry with a Rabati bride.From the roadstead, once the troublesome bar was crossed, the town looked attractive. Its white houses were enshrined in pretty gardens. Orchards, vineyards, and olive–groves brightened the landscape. To the north, on the opposite bank of a swift river, cultivated slopes stretched their green and gold to the far–off Zemmur mountains. A picturesque citadel, built by a renegade Englishman in the bad old days, commanded the harbor, and a spacious landing–place showed that the Rabatis opposed no difficulties to the export of their Morocco leather, carpets, Moorish slippers, and pottery.TheWater Witchentered the river soon after dawn,and Warden was assured that she would not be able to clear her shipments until next forenoon at the earliest. He went ashore and was agreeably surprised at finding quite a large number of British and other European merchants’ offices near the quay, while the shields of several Vice–Consuls and Consular Agents bespoke some semblance of law and order.In a word, Rabat looked settled and prosperous. It was utterly out of keeping with the picture conjured up by the tattoo marks made by Domenico Garcia on the skin of Tommaso Rodriguez. Still the Hassan Tower was no myth. It was pointed out to him by an Englishman who had walked to the wharf to watch the landing of the ship’s boat.Pausing only to buy a strong chisel in a native shop, Warden strolled at once in the direction of the tomb. He would neither delay his search for the ruby, nor give much time to it. If he failed to identify the exact spot described in the parchment, or was unable to discover anything after a speedy examination, assuredly he would not spend several hours in tearing ancient masonry to pieces. Since leaving England, Warden had become a different man. Always a good–humored cynic, he was now perilously near the less tolerable condition of cynicism without good humor. Intellect began to govern impulse. Though his brain was wearied with endeavor to find a reasonable explanation of events, he was almost convinced that Evelyn must at least have committed the indiscretion of gossiping about her adventures in the Isle of Wight. If onlyshe had written! His heart kept harping on that! Why had she flown away with her employers without ever a sign that her thoughts were with the man she loved?He wondered if Peter Evans had found her. If so, there would be news at Cape Coast Castle, for he had given his bankers explicit directions, and a member of the firm was a personal friend who would attend to cablegrams and letters.The Hassan Tower stood on a height not far beyond the outermost city wall, Rabat being dignified with two lines of fortifications, built by Christian slaves centuries ago. Indeed, when Warden climbed the hill of which it formed the pinnacle, he realized that it was a landmark shown on a chart he had examined the previous evening. Square and strong, built to defy destruction, and rearing its one hundred and fifty feet of exquisitely fretted stonework from a tangled undergrowth of stunted vegetation, it seemed, in some proud and curiously subtle way, to promise the fulfilment of Domenico Garcia’s bequest.Great marble columns, many erect, but the majority overthrown, indicated the quadrangle of what was meant to be a gigantic mosque. Warden passed quickly through these and other ruins; he caught a hint of an aqueduct, looked into a deep excavation evidently designed as a cistern, and then, with somewhat more rapid pulse–beat, and a certain awed wonderment dominating his mind, made straight for the causeway that led to the “door three cubits from the ground.”To his chagrin, though the inclined plane itself might be ridden by a man on horseback, the arched door was solidly built up.Here was an unforeseen check. It was one thing to be conscious of a cooling of the ardor that vowed the adornment of Evelyn’s fair hand with a “gem of great price,” but it was none the less baffling and exasperating to be at the foot of the tower and meet an apparently insuperable obstacle of this nature. Was he brought to Rabat by the most extraordinary series of events that could well have befallen him, only to find blind fate smiling maliciously? The thought was not to be borne. Somehow, anyhow, that tower must be entered, or the spirit of the hapless Garcia would haunt him for ever.He looked around, thinking his Arabic would serve him in good stead were there a goat–herder or other tender of flocks near at hand. But he was quite alone on the tiny plateau. A couple of great storks which had built their nest on top of the tower looked down at him with wise eyes. Hundreds of pigeons fluttered about the summit or clung to the ridges of fretted stone, while the only window visible above the doorway was a hundred feet from the base.But a soldier knows that every position, however impregnable in front, may be turned from the flanks. Before formulating any method of attack, he decided to survey the stronghold from all points of view, and, because Garcia mentioned the “third window on the left,” he went to the left. On that side there were onlytwo windows, each twenty feet or more above his head, and Warden was nearly six feet in height. Then he reflected that the Portuguese, writing his sorrowful legend “to pleasure that loathly barbarian, M’Wanga, King of Benin,” would surely count from the inside of the tower.On he went, noting each cranny and fissure in the weather–beaten mass, until he reached the opposite side. Here were three windows, and, most gratifying of discoveries, he saw that the Arabs had contrived a means of entry and egress through the center window by scooping away the mortar between the huge blocks of granite used for the foundation story. Débris had accumulated close to the wall in such quantity that the window–sill was not more than fourteen feet from his eyes. To an active, barefooted Moor, with toes and fingers like the talons of a vulture, the climb would present no difficulty whatever. To a man whose nails were well kept, and whose toes would speedily be lacerated if not protected by boots, the scaling of the rough wall was no child’s play. But Warden began to crawl upwards without a moment’s hesitation.He knew that the ascent would be easy compared with the return, while a fall meant the risk of a bad sprain, so he memorized each suitable foothold as he mounted, and often paused to make sure of the deepest niches. It must be confessed that no thought of other danger entered into his calculations. His military training should have made him more wary, but what had either experience or text–book to do with thisquest of a jewel, hidden for safety in a Moorish tomb so many years ago?And he was armed, too, quite sufficiently to account for any prowling thieves who might be tempted to attack a stranger. A service revolver reposed in one pocket, and the chisel in another—but there did not seem to be the remotest probability of human interference; he had not seen a living thing save the birds since he breasted the hill.When his hands rested on the broken stonework of the window he was naturally elated. Soon his eyes drew level with it, and he could peer into the interior. It was all one great apartment, not lofty, though an arched roof gave an impression of height. A staircase led to the upper stories, but it was broken. Desolation reigned supreme. Some startled pigeons flew out with loud clutter of wings at the sight of him. Then he raised himself steadily up, and leaped inside, while the walls echoed the noise of his spring with the hollow sound of sheer emptiness.There was plenty of light, but, after a first hasty glance, he gave no further scrutiny to his surroundings. Were he spying out the land in an enemy’s country, he would have looked at the littered floor to find traces of any recent visitor. Most certainly he would not have begun operations in Garcia’s hiding–place without first visiting the upper rooms. But he was too eager and excited to be prudent. Evelyn seemed to be very near him at that moment. He remembered how her impetuous attempt to throw the calabash into theSolent had led to the discovery of Garcia’s amazing manuscript, and there was the spice of true romance in the fact that now, little more than two months later, he should actually be standing in “the tomb of the infidel buried outside the wall” of Rabat. His fingers itched to be at work. He was spurred by an intense curiosity. He felt that the finding of the ruby would lend credence to an otherwise unbelievable story. It connected Oku and the wild Benuë of two and a half centuries ago with Cowes and the Solent in Regatta Week. It made real the personality of a long–forgotten tyrant, who perchance lived again to–day in one of those three negroes he had seen in Figuero’s company. No wonder, then, that Warden was impatient. Ten seconds after he had reached the interior of the building, he was bent over the “deep crack between the center stones” of the window described by Garcia.There could be no doubting now which window the scribe meant. It stood next to that by which Warden had entered, and, sure enough, just in that place the stones were more than ordinarily wide apart. The word “crack” was ambiguous. It might be applied more accurately to a break in one particular stone, but Warden was no adept in the Portuguese tongue, and the dictionary–maker might be translating “interstice,” or “crevice,” or “division,” when he wrote “crack.” At any rate, the “center stones” were sound, but the mortar between them was partly eaten away, and Warden saw at once that in order to make good his search one of the stones must be prised outbodily. A crowbar would have ended the job in a minute when once the chisel had cut a leverage, but, in the absence of a crowbar, he set to work with the chisel.The mortar became flint–like when the deodorizing influence of the weather ceased to make itself felt. Nevertheless, the amateur house–breaker labored manfully. Half an hour’s persistent chipping and twisting of the tool was rewarded by a sullen loosening of the stone.Then he lifted it out of its bed, and there, nestling between it and its fellow, hidden beneath a layer of dust and feathers, lay a ring!Now, Domenico Garcia spoke of a “ruby,” not of a ring, but it needed no skilled eye to detect the cause of that seeming discrepancy. The ring was a crude affair, made of gold, it is true, but fashioned with rough strength merely to provide a safe means of carrying the great, dark stone held in its claws. Garcia did not waste words. To him the ring was naught, so why mention it?The gold was discolored, of course, and the ruby did not reveal its red splendor until Warden had cleansed it with his handkerchief and breathed on it repeatedly to soften the dirt deposited on its bright facets by thousands of rainstorms. Then it was born again before his eyes. With a thrill of pity rather than gratification he gazed on its new and glowing life. “Friend, I am many marches from Rabat but few from death!” said the man who placed it there, thinkingthat perchance he “might escape.” Now his very bones were as the dust which had shrouded it during all those years, yet the wondrous fire in its heart shone forth as though it had left the lapidary’s bench but yesterday. Warden even smiled sadly when he realized that, no matter how his wooing fared, such a huge gem could never shine on Evelyn Dane’s slim finger. It was large enough to form the centerpiece of some stately necklace or tiara. He knew little about the value of precious stones, but this ruby was the size of a large marble. He had once seen a diamond that weighed twenty–four carats, and the ruby was much the larger of the two. He fancied he had read somewhere that a flawless ruby was of considerably higher intrinsic worth than a diamond of the same dimensions. The diamond he had in mind was priced at three thousand pounds. If, then, this ruby were flawless, its appearance in England would create something of a sensation.And Garcia’s story was true—that was the most astounding part of the business. The magnificent jewel winked and blinked in the sunlight. It might almost be alive, and telling him in plain language that the gods do not lead men into strange paths without just cause.Suddenly he caught a blood–red flash that reminded him of the uncanny gleam in the eyes of the face on the gourd. The thought was disquieting, but he laughed.“I am becoming a mere bundle of nerves,” he saidaloud. “The sooner I get soaked with quinine the fitter I shall be. It must be the malaria in my system that makes me see things. Really, the proper thing to do now is to give that beastly mask to the head ju–ju man at Oku. Then it will be off my hands, and he will own the boss fetish of the whole West Coast.”He was about to pocket the ring when the question of its subsequent disposal occurred to him. It was such a remarkable object that any one who saw it could not fail to question him as to its history. Under existing circumstances, he did not court inquiry in that shape, and the queer notion came that, in all likelihood, its prior owner carried it slung round his neck.“Yes, by Jove, and the cord strangled him,” murmured Warden. Nevertheless, not being in the least superstitious, he might have adopted that plan of concealing it if he possessed a stout piece of cord or strong ribbon. But his pockets contained neither one nor the other, and a sharp pang came with the recollection that, in a case of similar need not so long ago, Evelyn’s hussif held a neat coil of tape that would have suited his purpose exactly.Inside his waistcoat, however, was a secret pocket for carrying paper money. It was provided with a flap and a button, and would serve admirably as a hiding–place until he was able to entrust the ruby to a bank for transference to London. So there it went, making a little lump over his heart, and reminding him constantly that Domenico Garcia had not deceived him.He was about to climb down again when his glancefell on the displaced stone. As a tribute to poor Garcia’s memory, he put it back in its bed, and even took the trouble to pour a few handfuls of dust and loose mortar into the joints, so that none might know it had ever been removed. While thus occupied, his attention was momentarily drawn to a pair of storks circling lazily above the tower. He wondered if they were the same placid couple that had watched him earlier. No bird is more wide–awake than the stork, despite its habitual air of sleepy indifference, and Warden fancied that the noise he made must have disturbed the two sentinels on the top of the building.The hill–side was absolutely deserted. Far below nestled the white mass of the town, its long, low, whitewashed rectangles broken only by clumps of trees and an occasional dome or minaret. Near the quay lay theWater Witch. Her cranes were busy, two strings of coolies were rushing back and forth across a broad gangway, and the first mate was directing operations from the bridge. Warden smiled. He had heard the flow of language at the “Chief’s” command when some incident on ship–board demanded the reading of the Riot Act, and he could well imagine the way in which those scampering Arabs were being incited to strenuous effort.ill197There was no mistaking the malicePage183It was peaceful up here in the tower—so cool and remote from the noisy life of the port that he was tempted to linger. But if he would regain the shelter of some café in the town ere the sun became unbearably hot, he must be on the move. So, with a sigh for the unhappy Garcia’s fate, and a farewell glance at the vaulted room which had witnessed that by–gone tragedy, and perhaps many another, he began the descent. Thanks to the precautions taken during the climb, he found no great difficulty in placing his toes in the right niches. He was already below the level of the window, and was halting with both feet wedged into a broader crevice than usual while he changed his hand hold, when something, whether mere intuition or a slight sound, he never afterward knew, caused him to look straight up.Leaning over the top of the ruin, and in a direct line above his head, was a Moor of fantastic appearance. A blue cotton garment of vivid hue seemed to have lent its dye to the man’s face and hair. Had he been soused in a bath of indigo he could not have been colored more completely. Though this extraordinary apparition was fully one hundred and thirty feet above Warden’s head, there was no mistaking the malice that gleamed from the dark eyes gazing down on the Nazarene. Under such conditions thought is quick, and Warden was sure that he had unwittingly invaded the sanctuary of a Mohammedan fanatic. He was minded to whip out the revolver and fire a shot that would at least scare this strange being back into his eyrie. But a British sense of fair play stopped him. The blue man, howsoever wild–looking, had not interfered with or molested him in any way. He himself was the intruder. The fact that he was undeniably startled did not justify the use of a bullet, even for scaring purposes.The best thing to do was to reach the ground as speedily as might be, risking a jump when he was low enough to select a particular stone on which to alight. His dominant feeling at the moment was one of pique that he had failed to interpret correctly the flight of the storks. If the zealot on top of the tower meant mischief it would have been far better to have met him in one of the upper rooms than to be at his mercy while clinging like a fly to the face of the wall.He was within ten feet of the pile of rough stones, and was about to drop on one larger than its fellows—in fact, he was already in the air, having sprung slightly outward, when a crushing blow on his head and left shoulder flung him violently on to the very slab of granite he was aiming for. The shock was so violent that he felt no pain. Consciousness was acute for a fraction of a second. He understood that a heavy stone had fallen or been dropped purposely from the summit of the tower, and that his change of position, helped perhaps by the arched crown of his pith hat, had prevented it from striking directly on top of his head. But that was all. He lay there, with his back propped awkwardly against the tower, staring up at the sky. He saw nothing but the bright dome of heaven. It seemed to be curiously near, and its glowing bounds were closing in on him with the speed of light. Then the veil fell, and there was merciful darkness.Consternation reigned in Rabat next morning. The Captain of theWater Witchbegan the disturbance overnight, but when daylight brought no tidings of the missing Englishman, the British Vice–Consul talked most unfeelingly of a visit by the West Coast Squadron. A worried and anxious Bey, well aware that Morocco had troubles in plenty without Rabat adding to the store, protested that the Nazarene must have been spirited away without human agency. The Bey was not listened to, so he tried honestly to find out what had become of Warden. The only ascertainable facts were that the Giaour had bought a chisel, and was seen going to the tower of Hassan, the way to which was shown to him by one of his own countrymen. The hour was early, soon after sunrise. Since then he had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. The Bey’s myrmidons told how they had searched the Tower, and found that the Giaour had climbed into its interior. He had used the chisel and displaced a stone, apparently without object. But the place was now quite empty, though some one had ground corn and millet recently in an upper chamber.Now, the Bey knew quite well that the Blue Man of El Hamra made the Tower his headquarters when he visited Rabat periodically to collect subscriptions for the Jehad that was to drive every foreigner out of the sacred land of the Moors. But he kept silent on that matter, for he feared the Blue Man even more than the British Fleet. Nevertheless, he caused inquiries to be made, though no one had met the tinted prophet of late.In a country where there are no roads, nor any actualgovernment beyond the sphere of each chief town, official zeal does not travel far. TheWater Witchsailed to Cape Coast Castle, and reported the disappearance of Mr. “Alfred Williams” to an officer who came out to meet her in the Governor’s own surf–boat. A cruiser hastened to Rabat, and trained a gun on the principal palace, whereupon the Bey went aboard in person to explain that none could have made more genuine effort than he to find the lost Nazarene, either dead or alive. And perforce he was believed. Even the British Vice–Consul could not charge him with negligence, though not one word had he said to any European concerning the Blue Man of El Hamra.The cruiser flitted back to Cape Coast Castle, and thence to Lagos, and there was much wonderment in the small circle that knew the truth. Yet no man is indispensable, whether in West Africa or London, and another Deputy Commissioner was gazetted for the special duty of dealing with native unrest in the Benuë River district. The facts were communicated to Whitehall, and an official from the Colonial Office called on an Under Secretary in the Foreign Office to explain why Captain Forbes was acting in the capacity for which Captain Arthur Warden seemed to be so peculiarly fitted.“It is a queer business,” said the Under Secretary. “What do you make of it?”“I believe he was worried about a woman,” began the other.“What? In Rabat?”“No, no, in London. Only this morning I received a letter from a Mrs. Laing, who says she is exceedingly anxious to ascertain Captain Warden’s address. Now, Lady Hilbury wrote two days ago with the same object, and, of course, I returned a polite message to the effect that he was engaged on Government service.”“Mrs. Laing!” mused the Under Secretary. He unlocked a diary, and ran back through its pages. “I thought I remembered the name,” he continued. “She was staying with the Baumgartners at Lochmerig before they went to Hamburg in their yacht.”He was silent for a few seconds. His nails seemed to need instant examination. Apparently satisfied by the scrutiny, he went on:“I rather liked that youngster. He struck me as the sort of man who would go far. Have you replied to Mrs. Laing?”“No.”“Then please ask her to come here next Tuesday about three o’clock. Just quote her letter, and allow it to be assumed that her inquiry concerning Captain Warden may be answered. I hope you don’t mind my stepping in in a matter affecting your Department?”The Colonial man laughed.“My dear fellow,” he said, “I have a whole regiment of lady visitors and correspondents whom I shall gladly hand over to you.”Thus it came to pass that Rosamund’s furs and frills graced the same chair in the Foreign Office that Warden had sat in when he interviewed the Under Secretary.She was charmingly anxious in manner. Though of high rank in the Government, the Under Secretary was young enough to be impressionable; he was clearly a dandy; such men are the easiest to subjugate.“In the first place, Mrs. Laing,” he said, when she explained her earnest wish to communicate at once with Captain Warden, “you will not misunderstand me if I ask what measure of urgency lies behind your business with him. We officials, you know, like to wrap ourselves in a cloak of mystery with red tape trimmings. Yet I promise you I shall match your candor if possible.”“Well—perhaps I ought to begin by saying that—if not exactly engaged—Captain Warden and I are very dear to each other. We were engaged once, years ago. But I was young. I was forced into marriage with another, who is now dead.”Rosamund made this ingenuous confession with the necessary hesitancy and downward eye–glances. The Under Secretary was sympathetic, and delighted, and envious of Captain Warden’s good fortune. There could be no doubt about these things, because he said them.“That being so, I know a good deal of his private affairs,” said Rosamund demurely. “I knew, for instance, that he might be summoned to West Africa at any moment, but he is such a scrupulously precise man where duty is concerned that he would actually go away without telling me anything about it if ordered not to take any one into his confidence.”“Something of the kind has happened,” admitted the Under Secretary.“Ah, then, he really is in Africa, and if I write——?”“I am sorry, but I fear I have misled you. He is not in Nigeria. When last I heard of him he was at Rabat.”“Where is that?” she cried, genuinely surprised.“On the West Coast of Morocco.”“But what is he doing there?”The Under Secretary pressed the tips of his fingers closely together.“It is difficult to say,” he replied.“Surely you will tell me. I have a right to know,” she pleaded. “I understand the position on the Benuë River. I am the daughter of a West African Governor. I am one of the few women in England who can grasp the seriousness of any plot which brings together the men of Oku and the trusted confidant of a meddlesome foreign potentate. Captain Warden was sent to the Protectorate to carry out your instructions, and that is the very reason I wish to write to him. I have news of the utmost importance.”“Connected with the sailing of theSans Soucifrom Hamburg?”The question was so unexpected that Rosamund looked at the Under Secretary with more shrewdness than her fine eyes had displayed hitherto. He was making a little circle of dots with a pencil on a blotting–pad. Neither by voice nor manner did he display any surprise at her reference to the men of Oku.“Yes, that is one of the items,” she said.“And the others?”“But you are telling me nothing,” she pouted.“Forgive me. I hate the necessity that imposes restraint. Now, Mrs. Laing, enlighten me on one point, and I shall acquaint you with such few details of Captain Warden’s recent movements as are in my possession. What interest had he in Rabat?”“I—really—don’t know.”The protest was honest. This fashionable lady was speaking the truth.“Who, in your opinion, might know?” he persisted.Rosamund was not prepared for that. Her mind flew instantly to Evelyn Dane. Of course she would not mention the girl’s name; the mere thought of Evelyn cast a shadow over her mobile face.“I haven’t the faintest notion,” she said.The accompanying smile was forced, and the Under Secretary was not in the least deceived.“Of course, if you cannot tell me why Captain Warden should go ashore at Rabat no one can, I suppose,” and Rosamund caught the pleasing hint of her dominance in all that affected the man she loved.“You keep on referring to this place that I have never before heard of,” she cried. “Is he still at Rabat? I have ascertained that he is not at Lagos, or in Southern Nigeria, because I cabled for information.”“When last I heard of Captain Warden he was at Rabat,” said the Under Secretary. “He is not there now. Indeed, I cannot tell you where he is. If theearth had opened and swallowed him, he could not have disappeared more completely.”Rosamund gasped, and was somewhat inclined to storm, but not another syllable would the Under Secretary add to his amazing statement, though he undertook to communicate with her immediately when news of Warden’s whereabouts reached him. In the meantime, she had to be content with knowledge that was no knowledge, and that only added to her perplexity. On the way to the hotel she stopped her carriage at a map–seller’s and bought a map of Morocco, and a book which revealed many things about Rabat, but no one thing calculated to explain why Warden had gone there.In some sense, the Under Secretary was more puzzled than Rosamund. He turned to his notes and pored over them. One paragraph stood out boldly.“Captain Warden, when at Cowes, met a young lady, Miss Evelyn Dane, engaged as companion to Baumgartner’s daughter. He took her in a dinghy to theSans Souci, and this slight chance led to the discovery that the yacht was in charge of a shore watchman.”The Under Secretary actually rumpled his hair with those immaculate fingers of his.“I am lost in a fog,” he confessed ruefully. “Mrs. Laing isnotengaged to Warden—Lady Hilbury herself told me so only this morning. Warden is the last man alive to discuss Government affairs with Mrs. Laing or any other woman. Why, then, does shepretend that he did the very thing he did not do? And who is this girl, Evelyn Dane, to whom he telegraphed from Ostend and London before sailing in theWater Witch? Cansheshed light on the dark places of Rabat? It is worth trying. TheSans Souciarrives at Madeira to–morrow. I shall instruct some one to call on Evelyn Dane, and find out how far she is mixed up in the wretched muddle. Confound Rabat, and the Benuë, and the men of Oku, and may Baumgartner be blistered! I shall not get a day’s hunting before the frost sets in.”
HASSAN’S TOWER—AND THE COLONIAL OFFICE
Warden did not find Rabat so intolerable as the captain of theWater Witchled him to believe. Its streets were more regular and cleaner, or less dirty, than those of the average Moorish town. Its people seemed to be devoted to commerce—probably because they are not pure–blooded Moors, but of Jewish descent. That, at least, is the argument advanced by a man from Fez or Tafilat when he wants a heavier dowry with a Rabati bride.
From the roadstead, once the troublesome bar was crossed, the town looked attractive. Its white houses were enshrined in pretty gardens. Orchards, vineyards, and olive–groves brightened the landscape. To the north, on the opposite bank of a swift river, cultivated slopes stretched their green and gold to the far–off Zemmur mountains. A picturesque citadel, built by a renegade Englishman in the bad old days, commanded the harbor, and a spacious landing–place showed that the Rabatis opposed no difficulties to the export of their Morocco leather, carpets, Moorish slippers, and pottery.
TheWater Witchentered the river soon after dawn,and Warden was assured that she would not be able to clear her shipments until next forenoon at the earliest. He went ashore and was agreeably surprised at finding quite a large number of British and other European merchants’ offices near the quay, while the shields of several Vice–Consuls and Consular Agents bespoke some semblance of law and order.
In a word, Rabat looked settled and prosperous. It was utterly out of keeping with the picture conjured up by the tattoo marks made by Domenico Garcia on the skin of Tommaso Rodriguez. Still the Hassan Tower was no myth. It was pointed out to him by an Englishman who had walked to the wharf to watch the landing of the ship’s boat.
Pausing only to buy a strong chisel in a native shop, Warden strolled at once in the direction of the tomb. He would neither delay his search for the ruby, nor give much time to it. If he failed to identify the exact spot described in the parchment, or was unable to discover anything after a speedy examination, assuredly he would not spend several hours in tearing ancient masonry to pieces. Since leaving England, Warden had become a different man. Always a good–humored cynic, he was now perilously near the less tolerable condition of cynicism without good humor. Intellect began to govern impulse. Though his brain was wearied with endeavor to find a reasonable explanation of events, he was almost convinced that Evelyn must at least have committed the indiscretion of gossiping about her adventures in the Isle of Wight. If onlyshe had written! His heart kept harping on that! Why had she flown away with her employers without ever a sign that her thoughts were with the man she loved?
He wondered if Peter Evans had found her. If so, there would be news at Cape Coast Castle, for he had given his bankers explicit directions, and a member of the firm was a personal friend who would attend to cablegrams and letters.
The Hassan Tower stood on a height not far beyond the outermost city wall, Rabat being dignified with two lines of fortifications, built by Christian slaves centuries ago. Indeed, when Warden climbed the hill of which it formed the pinnacle, he realized that it was a landmark shown on a chart he had examined the previous evening. Square and strong, built to defy destruction, and rearing its one hundred and fifty feet of exquisitely fretted stonework from a tangled undergrowth of stunted vegetation, it seemed, in some proud and curiously subtle way, to promise the fulfilment of Domenico Garcia’s bequest.
Great marble columns, many erect, but the majority overthrown, indicated the quadrangle of what was meant to be a gigantic mosque. Warden passed quickly through these and other ruins; he caught a hint of an aqueduct, looked into a deep excavation evidently designed as a cistern, and then, with somewhat more rapid pulse–beat, and a certain awed wonderment dominating his mind, made straight for the causeway that led to the “door three cubits from the ground.”
To his chagrin, though the inclined plane itself might be ridden by a man on horseback, the arched door was solidly built up.
Here was an unforeseen check. It was one thing to be conscious of a cooling of the ardor that vowed the adornment of Evelyn’s fair hand with a “gem of great price,” but it was none the less baffling and exasperating to be at the foot of the tower and meet an apparently insuperable obstacle of this nature. Was he brought to Rabat by the most extraordinary series of events that could well have befallen him, only to find blind fate smiling maliciously? The thought was not to be borne. Somehow, anyhow, that tower must be entered, or the spirit of the hapless Garcia would haunt him for ever.
He looked around, thinking his Arabic would serve him in good stead were there a goat–herder or other tender of flocks near at hand. But he was quite alone on the tiny plateau. A couple of great storks which had built their nest on top of the tower looked down at him with wise eyes. Hundreds of pigeons fluttered about the summit or clung to the ridges of fretted stone, while the only window visible above the doorway was a hundred feet from the base.
But a soldier knows that every position, however impregnable in front, may be turned from the flanks. Before formulating any method of attack, he decided to survey the stronghold from all points of view, and, because Garcia mentioned the “third window on the left,” he went to the left. On that side there were onlytwo windows, each twenty feet or more above his head, and Warden was nearly six feet in height. Then he reflected that the Portuguese, writing his sorrowful legend “to pleasure that loathly barbarian, M’Wanga, King of Benin,” would surely count from the inside of the tower.
On he went, noting each cranny and fissure in the weather–beaten mass, until he reached the opposite side. Here were three windows, and, most gratifying of discoveries, he saw that the Arabs had contrived a means of entry and egress through the center window by scooping away the mortar between the huge blocks of granite used for the foundation story. Débris had accumulated close to the wall in such quantity that the window–sill was not more than fourteen feet from his eyes. To an active, barefooted Moor, with toes and fingers like the talons of a vulture, the climb would present no difficulty whatever. To a man whose nails were well kept, and whose toes would speedily be lacerated if not protected by boots, the scaling of the rough wall was no child’s play. But Warden began to crawl upwards without a moment’s hesitation.
He knew that the ascent would be easy compared with the return, while a fall meant the risk of a bad sprain, so he memorized each suitable foothold as he mounted, and often paused to make sure of the deepest niches. It must be confessed that no thought of other danger entered into his calculations. His military training should have made him more wary, but what had either experience or text–book to do with thisquest of a jewel, hidden for safety in a Moorish tomb so many years ago?
And he was armed, too, quite sufficiently to account for any prowling thieves who might be tempted to attack a stranger. A service revolver reposed in one pocket, and the chisel in another—but there did not seem to be the remotest probability of human interference; he had not seen a living thing save the birds since he breasted the hill.
When his hands rested on the broken stonework of the window he was naturally elated. Soon his eyes drew level with it, and he could peer into the interior. It was all one great apartment, not lofty, though an arched roof gave an impression of height. A staircase led to the upper stories, but it was broken. Desolation reigned supreme. Some startled pigeons flew out with loud clutter of wings at the sight of him. Then he raised himself steadily up, and leaped inside, while the walls echoed the noise of his spring with the hollow sound of sheer emptiness.
There was plenty of light, but, after a first hasty glance, he gave no further scrutiny to his surroundings. Were he spying out the land in an enemy’s country, he would have looked at the littered floor to find traces of any recent visitor. Most certainly he would not have begun operations in Garcia’s hiding–place without first visiting the upper rooms. But he was too eager and excited to be prudent. Evelyn seemed to be very near him at that moment. He remembered how her impetuous attempt to throw the calabash into theSolent had led to the discovery of Garcia’s amazing manuscript, and there was the spice of true romance in the fact that now, little more than two months later, he should actually be standing in “the tomb of the infidel buried outside the wall” of Rabat. His fingers itched to be at work. He was spurred by an intense curiosity. He felt that the finding of the ruby would lend credence to an otherwise unbelievable story. It connected Oku and the wild Benuë of two and a half centuries ago with Cowes and the Solent in Regatta Week. It made real the personality of a long–forgotten tyrant, who perchance lived again to–day in one of those three negroes he had seen in Figuero’s company. No wonder, then, that Warden was impatient. Ten seconds after he had reached the interior of the building, he was bent over the “deep crack between the center stones” of the window described by Garcia.
There could be no doubting now which window the scribe meant. It stood next to that by which Warden had entered, and, sure enough, just in that place the stones were more than ordinarily wide apart. The word “crack” was ambiguous. It might be applied more accurately to a break in one particular stone, but Warden was no adept in the Portuguese tongue, and the dictionary–maker might be translating “interstice,” or “crevice,” or “division,” when he wrote “crack.” At any rate, the “center stones” were sound, but the mortar between them was partly eaten away, and Warden saw at once that in order to make good his search one of the stones must be prised outbodily. A crowbar would have ended the job in a minute when once the chisel had cut a leverage, but, in the absence of a crowbar, he set to work with the chisel.
The mortar became flint–like when the deodorizing influence of the weather ceased to make itself felt. Nevertheless, the amateur house–breaker labored manfully. Half an hour’s persistent chipping and twisting of the tool was rewarded by a sullen loosening of the stone.
Then he lifted it out of its bed, and there, nestling between it and its fellow, hidden beneath a layer of dust and feathers, lay a ring!
Now, Domenico Garcia spoke of a “ruby,” not of a ring, but it needed no skilled eye to detect the cause of that seeming discrepancy. The ring was a crude affair, made of gold, it is true, but fashioned with rough strength merely to provide a safe means of carrying the great, dark stone held in its claws. Garcia did not waste words. To him the ring was naught, so why mention it?
The gold was discolored, of course, and the ruby did not reveal its red splendor until Warden had cleansed it with his handkerchief and breathed on it repeatedly to soften the dirt deposited on its bright facets by thousands of rainstorms. Then it was born again before his eyes. With a thrill of pity rather than gratification he gazed on its new and glowing life. “Friend, I am many marches from Rabat but few from death!” said the man who placed it there, thinkingthat perchance he “might escape.” Now his very bones were as the dust which had shrouded it during all those years, yet the wondrous fire in its heart shone forth as though it had left the lapidary’s bench but yesterday. Warden even smiled sadly when he realized that, no matter how his wooing fared, such a huge gem could never shine on Evelyn Dane’s slim finger. It was large enough to form the centerpiece of some stately necklace or tiara. He knew little about the value of precious stones, but this ruby was the size of a large marble. He had once seen a diamond that weighed twenty–four carats, and the ruby was much the larger of the two. He fancied he had read somewhere that a flawless ruby was of considerably higher intrinsic worth than a diamond of the same dimensions. The diamond he had in mind was priced at three thousand pounds. If, then, this ruby were flawless, its appearance in England would create something of a sensation.
And Garcia’s story was true—that was the most astounding part of the business. The magnificent jewel winked and blinked in the sunlight. It might almost be alive, and telling him in plain language that the gods do not lead men into strange paths without just cause.
Suddenly he caught a blood–red flash that reminded him of the uncanny gleam in the eyes of the face on the gourd. The thought was disquieting, but he laughed.
“I am becoming a mere bundle of nerves,” he saidaloud. “The sooner I get soaked with quinine the fitter I shall be. It must be the malaria in my system that makes me see things. Really, the proper thing to do now is to give that beastly mask to the head ju–ju man at Oku. Then it will be off my hands, and he will own the boss fetish of the whole West Coast.”
He was about to pocket the ring when the question of its subsequent disposal occurred to him. It was such a remarkable object that any one who saw it could not fail to question him as to its history. Under existing circumstances, he did not court inquiry in that shape, and the queer notion came that, in all likelihood, its prior owner carried it slung round his neck.
“Yes, by Jove, and the cord strangled him,” murmured Warden. Nevertheless, not being in the least superstitious, he might have adopted that plan of concealing it if he possessed a stout piece of cord or strong ribbon. But his pockets contained neither one nor the other, and a sharp pang came with the recollection that, in a case of similar need not so long ago, Evelyn’s hussif held a neat coil of tape that would have suited his purpose exactly.
Inside his waistcoat, however, was a secret pocket for carrying paper money. It was provided with a flap and a button, and would serve admirably as a hiding–place until he was able to entrust the ruby to a bank for transference to London. So there it went, making a little lump over his heart, and reminding him constantly that Domenico Garcia had not deceived him.
He was about to climb down again when his glancefell on the displaced stone. As a tribute to poor Garcia’s memory, he put it back in its bed, and even took the trouble to pour a few handfuls of dust and loose mortar into the joints, so that none might know it had ever been removed. While thus occupied, his attention was momentarily drawn to a pair of storks circling lazily above the tower. He wondered if they were the same placid couple that had watched him earlier. No bird is more wide–awake than the stork, despite its habitual air of sleepy indifference, and Warden fancied that the noise he made must have disturbed the two sentinels on the top of the building.
The hill–side was absolutely deserted. Far below nestled the white mass of the town, its long, low, whitewashed rectangles broken only by clumps of trees and an occasional dome or minaret. Near the quay lay theWater Witch. Her cranes were busy, two strings of coolies were rushing back and forth across a broad gangway, and the first mate was directing operations from the bridge. Warden smiled. He had heard the flow of language at the “Chief’s” command when some incident on ship–board demanded the reading of the Riot Act, and he could well imagine the way in which those scampering Arabs were being incited to strenuous effort.
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There was no mistaking the malicePage183
There was no mistaking the malicePage183
There was no mistaking the malice
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It was peaceful up here in the tower—so cool and remote from the noisy life of the port that he was tempted to linger. But if he would regain the shelter of some café in the town ere the sun became unbearably hot, he must be on the move. So, with a sigh for the unhappy Garcia’s fate, and a farewell glance at the vaulted room which had witnessed that by–gone tragedy, and perhaps many another, he began the descent. Thanks to the precautions taken during the climb, he found no great difficulty in placing his toes in the right niches. He was already below the level of the window, and was halting with both feet wedged into a broader crevice than usual while he changed his hand hold, when something, whether mere intuition or a slight sound, he never afterward knew, caused him to look straight up.
Leaning over the top of the ruin, and in a direct line above his head, was a Moor of fantastic appearance. A blue cotton garment of vivid hue seemed to have lent its dye to the man’s face and hair. Had he been soused in a bath of indigo he could not have been colored more completely. Though this extraordinary apparition was fully one hundred and thirty feet above Warden’s head, there was no mistaking the malice that gleamed from the dark eyes gazing down on the Nazarene. Under such conditions thought is quick, and Warden was sure that he had unwittingly invaded the sanctuary of a Mohammedan fanatic. He was minded to whip out the revolver and fire a shot that would at least scare this strange being back into his eyrie. But a British sense of fair play stopped him. The blue man, howsoever wild–looking, had not interfered with or molested him in any way. He himself was the intruder. The fact that he was undeniably startled did not justify the use of a bullet, even for scaring purposes.The best thing to do was to reach the ground as speedily as might be, risking a jump when he was low enough to select a particular stone on which to alight. His dominant feeling at the moment was one of pique that he had failed to interpret correctly the flight of the storks. If the zealot on top of the tower meant mischief it would have been far better to have met him in one of the upper rooms than to be at his mercy while clinging like a fly to the face of the wall.
He was within ten feet of the pile of rough stones, and was about to drop on one larger than its fellows—in fact, he was already in the air, having sprung slightly outward, when a crushing blow on his head and left shoulder flung him violently on to the very slab of granite he was aiming for. The shock was so violent that he felt no pain. Consciousness was acute for a fraction of a second. He understood that a heavy stone had fallen or been dropped purposely from the summit of the tower, and that his change of position, helped perhaps by the arched crown of his pith hat, had prevented it from striking directly on top of his head. But that was all. He lay there, with his back propped awkwardly against the tower, staring up at the sky. He saw nothing but the bright dome of heaven. It seemed to be curiously near, and its glowing bounds were closing in on him with the speed of light. Then the veil fell, and there was merciful darkness.
Consternation reigned in Rabat next morning. The Captain of theWater Witchbegan the disturbance overnight, but when daylight brought no tidings of the missing Englishman, the British Vice–Consul talked most unfeelingly of a visit by the West Coast Squadron. A worried and anxious Bey, well aware that Morocco had troubles in plenty without Rabat adding to the store, protested that the Nazarene must have been spirited away without human agency. The Bey was not listened to, so he tried honestly to find out what had become of Warden. The only ascertainable facts were that the Giaour had bought a chisel, and was seen going to the tower of Hassan, the way to which was shown to him by one of his own countrymen. The hour was early, soon after sunrise. Since then he had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. The Bey’s myrmidons told how they had searched the Tower, and found that the Giaour had climbed into its interior. He had used the chisel and displaced a stone, apparently without object. But the place was now quite empty, though some one had ground corn and millet recently in an upper chamber.
Now, the Bey knew quite well that the Blue Man of El Hamra made the Tower his headquarters when he visited Rabat periodically to collect subscriptions for the Jehad that was to drive every foreigner out of the sacred land of the Moors. But he kept silent on that matter, for he feared the Blue Man even more than the British Fleet. Nevertheless, he caused inquiries to be made, though no one had met the tinted prophet of late.
In a country where there are no roads, nor any actualgovernment beyond the sphere of each chief town, official zeal does not travel far. TheWater Witchsailed to Cape Coast Castle, and reported the disappearance of Mr. “Alfred Williams” to an officer who came out to meet her in the Governor’s own surf–boat. A cruiser hastened to Rabat, and trained a gun on the principal palace, whereupon the Bey went aboard in person to explain that none could have made more genuine effort than he to find the lost Nazarene, either dead or alive. And perforce he was believed. Even the British Vice–Consul could not charge him with negligence, though not one word had he said to any European concerning the Blue Man of El Hamra.
The cruiser flitted back to Cape Coast Castle, and thence to Lagos, and there was much wonderment in the small circle that knew the truth. Yet no man is indispensable, whether in West Africa or London, and another Deputy Commissioner was gazetted for the special duty of dealing with native unrest in the Benuë River district. The facts were communicated to Whitehall, and an official from the Colonial Office called on an Under Secretary in the Foreign Office to explain why Captain Forbes was acting in the capacity for which Captain Arthur Warden seemed to be so peculiarly fitted.
“It is a queer business,” said the Under Secretary. “What do you make of it?”
“I believe he was worried about a woman,” began the other.
“What? In Rabat?”
“No, no, in London. Only this morning I received a letter from a Mrs. Laing, who says she is exceedingly anxious to ascertain Captain Warden’s address. Now, Lady Hilbury wrote two days ago with the same object, and, of course, I returned a polite message to the effect that he was engaged on Government service.”
“Mrs. Laing!” mused the Under Secretary. He unlocked a diary, and ran back through its pages. “I thought I remembered the name,” he continued. “She was staying with the Baumgartners at Lochmerig before they went to Hamburg in their yacht.”
He was silent for a few seconds. His nails seemed to need instant examination. Apparently satisfied by the scrutiny, he went on:
“I rather liked that youngster. He struck me as the sort of man who would go far. Have you replied to Mrs. Laing?”
“No.”
“Then please ask her to come here next Tuesday about three o’clock. Just quote her letter, and allow it to be assumed that her inquiry concerning Captain Warden may be answered. I hope you don’t mind my stepping in in a matter affecting your Department?”
The Colonial man laughed.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “I have a whole regiment of lady visitors and correspondents whom I shall gladly hand over to you.”
Thus it came to pass that Rosamund’s furs and frills graced the same chair in the Foreign Office that Warden had sat in when he interviewed the Under Secretary.She was charmingly anxious in manner. Though of high rank in the Government, the Under Secretary was young enough to be impressionable; he was clearly a dandy; such men are the easiest to subjugate.
“In the first place, Mrs. Laing,” he said, when she explained her earnest wish to communicate at once with Captain Warden, “you will not misunderstand me if I ask what measure of urgency lies behind your business with him. We officials, you know, like to wrap ourselves in a cloak of mystery with red tape trimmings. Yet I promise you I shall match your candor if possible.”
“Well—perhaps I ought to begin by saying that—if not exactly engaged—Captain Warden and I are very dear to each other. We were engaged once, years ago. But I was young. I was forced into marriage with another, who is now dead.”
Rosamund made this ingenuous confession with the necessary hesitancy and downward eye–glances. The Under Secretary was sympathetic, and delighted, and envious of Captain Warden’s good fortune. There could be no doubt about these things, because he said them.
“That being so, I know a good deal of his private affairs,” said Rosamund demurely. “I knew, for instance, that he might be summoned to West Africa at any moment, but he is such a scrupulously precise man where duty is concerned that he would actually go away without telling me anything about it if ordered not to take any one into his confidence.”
“Something of the kind has happened,” admitted the Under Secretary.
“Ah, then, he really is in Africa, and if I write——?”
“I am sorry, but I fear I have misled you. He is not in Nigeria. When last I heard of him he was at Rabat.”
“Where is that?” she cried, genuinely surprised.
“On the West Coast of Morocco.”
“But what is he doing there?”
The Under Secretary pressed the tips of his fingers closely together.
“It is difficult to say,” he replied.
“Surely you will tell me. I have a right to know,” she pleaded. “I understand the position on the Benuë River. I am the daughter of a West African Governor. I am one of the few women in England who can grasp the seriousness of any plot which brings together the men of Oku and the trusted confidant of a meddlesome foreign potentate. Captain Warden was sent to the Protectorate to carry out your instructions, and that is the very reason I wish to write to him. I have news of the utmost importance.”
“Connected with the sailing of theSans Soucifrom Hamburg?”
The question was so unexpected that Rosamund looked at the Under Secretary with more shrewdness than her fine eyes had displayed hitherto. He was making a little circle of dots with a pencil on a blotting–pad. Neither by voice nor manner did he display any surprise at her reference to the men of Oku.
“Yes, that is one of the items,” she said.
“And the others?”
“But you are telling me nothing,” she pouted.
“Forgive me. I hate the necessity that imposes restraint. Now, Mrs. Laing, enlighten me on one point, and I shall acquaint you with such few details of Captain Warden’s recent movements as are in my possession. What interest had he in Rabat?”
“I—really—don’t know.”
The protest was honest. This fashionable lady was speaking the truth.
“Who, in your opinion, might know?” he persisted.
Rosamund was not prepared for that. Her mind flew instantly to Evelyn Dane. Of course she would not mention the girl’s name; the mere thought of Evelyn cast a shadow over her mobile face.
“I haven’t the faintest notion,” she said.
The accompanying smile was forced, and the Under Secretary was not in the least deceived.
“Of course, if you cannot tell me why Captain Warden should go ashore at Rabat no one can, I suppose,” and Rosamund caught the pleasing hint of her dominance in all that affected the man she loved.
“You keep on referring to this place that I have never before heard of,” she cried. “Is he still at Rabat? I have ascertained that he is not at Lagos, or in Southern Nigeria, because I cabled for information.”
“When last I heard of Captain Warden he was at Rabat,” said the Under Secretary. “He is not there now. Indeed, I cannot tell you where he is. If theearth had opened and swallowed him, he could not have disappeared more completely.”
Rosamund gasped, and was somewhat inclined to storm, but not another syllable would the Under Secretary add to his amazing statement, though he undertook to communicate with her immediately when news of Warden’s whereabouts reached him. In the meantime, she had to be content with knowledge that was no knowledge, and that only added to her perplexity. On the way to the hotel she stopped her carriage at a map–seller’s and bought a map of Morocco, and a book which revealed many things about Rabat, but no one thing calculated to explain why Warden had gone there.
In some sense, the Under Secretary was more puzzled than Rosamund. He turned to his notes and pored over them. One paragraph stood out boldly.
“Captain Warden, when at Cowes, met a young lady, Miss Evelyn Dane, engaged as companion to Baumgartner’s daughter. He took her in a dinghy to theSans Souci, and this slight chance led to the discovery that the yacht was in charge of a shore watchman.”
The Under Secretary actually rumpled his hair with those immaculate fingers of his.
“I am lost in a fog,” he confessed ruefully. “Mrs. Laing isnotengaged to Warden—Lady Hilbury herself told me so only this morning. Warden is the last man alive to discuss Government affairs with Mrs. Laing or any other woman. Why, then, does shepretend that he did the very thing he did not do? And who is this girl, Evelyn Dane, to whom he telegraphed from Ostend and London before sailing in theWater Witch? Cansheshed light on the dark places of Rabat? It is worth trying. TheSans Souciarrives at Madeira to–morrow. I shall instruct some one to call on Evelyn Dane, and find out how far she is mixed up in the wretched muddle. Confound Rabat, and the Benuë, and the men of Oku, and may Baumgartner be blistered! I shall not get a day’s hunting before the frost sets in.”