“Is that your final word?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I’m sorry. Excuse me a moment,” said Sevier, getting up hastily. He went out of the dining-room, but returned almost immediately. “I just then caught sight of a man I wanted to speak to,” he explained. “Then I can’t induce you to go shares with us?”
“I’m afraid not, thank you,” replied Elliott
“It’s a fair race for a million, then, and let the best man win! But it seems a fool business for us to cut one another’s throats. We’ve made you the best proposals we can, but we feel that we have prior rights on that cargo, and we’ll fight for it if necessary.”
“We’ll try to meet you half-way,” said Elliott carelessly. “And isn’t it absurd to talk of prior rights when the whole thing is little better than a steal?”
“A steal? Not a bit of it. The ship is sunk outside the three-mile limit in neutral seas. It’s treasure-trove.”
“I’ve been trying to look at it that way myself,” replied Elliott. “But I fancy some government or other would claim it if they heard of it It’s war, then, is it?”
“That’ll come soon enough. Let’s have peace while we can,” Sevier responded, poking at the roast beef, which lay a tepid and soggy mass on his plate. “I must apologize to my guest. I’ve spoiled your dinner for you. It’s stone cold—or as near it as anything ever gets in this country. Let me order some more.”
“No—don’t!” said Elliott, sickening at the thought of food in that reeking atmosphere. “It’s too hot and wet to eat. This climate is getting too much for me.”
“Thinking of trying Africa? Look here, you come around to my place, and I’ll mix you a cold drink, anyway. I found a plant the other day that tastes like mint, and I’ll give you as close an imitation of a Baltimore julep as can be had in China.”
There were half a dozen palanquins waiting about the front of the Club as usual, and Sevier gave the coolies an address which Elliott did not catch. The bearers left Queen’s Road and turned up a street leading to the mountain, which they ascended for several minutes, and finally they stopped in the rain, which was now falling heavily. It was one of the beautiful and shaded streets half-way up the slope, and they were opposite a small bungalow that showed a glimmer of light through drawn rattan shutters.
“This is where Carlton and I have lived for the last fortnight,” said Sevier, getting out. “We can’t afford residences on the Peak, like you—and, Lord! how we have sizzled here!”
He led the way to the door, which he opened with a latch-key, and turned into a large sitting-room, lighted with an oil-lamp. The floor was bare; the room was almost devoid of furniture, containing only a couple of long chairs, a camp-chair, and a plain wooden table. On the table was the remnants of a meal, with a couple of empty ale-bottles. The windows were shut and closely covered with the blinds, and the air of the room was intolerably hot and close.
“Carlton’s been dining by himself to-night,” said Sevier, without appearing to observe the heat. “He’ll be back in a few minutes, and meanwhile we’ll have our drink.”
He produced a bottle from an ice-box, and was crushing some ice, when the door clicked open and shut again. A heavily built man appeared, his white duck clothing hanging limply upon him.
“How are you, old man!” said Sevier, glancing up. “Elliott, this is my friend, Mr. Carlton. He knows all about you.”
Carlton acknowledged the introduction by a nod and a searching glance. He was a dark and heavy-faced man of perhaps forty, with a thick brown moustache over lips that were small and close, and a small cold gray eye.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Elliott. Yes, I’ve heard of you,” he remarked, briefly. He sat down in the vacant cane chair and began to fill a curved briar pipe, which he smoked with much apparent satisfaction.
Sevier presently handed around three glasses crowned with the Chinese herb that tasted like mint. The whole concoction did not taste much like a Southern julep, but it was cooling. “Here’s luck for all of us!” said Sevier, and they drank.
There was a silence for a time, while the heat grew more and more unbearable.
“Why not have a window open?” Elliott inquired, at last. “Don’t you find it hot here?”
“No. Leave them closed,” said Carlton, brusquely.
There was another long silence, while Carlton smoked imperturbably. Elliott began to feel slightly nervous; he scarcely knew why. Every one in the room seemed to be waiting for something.
“Damn the rain!” Sevier suddenly ejaculated with irritation, and Carlton rolled an admonishing eye upon him without speaking. Elliott set down his empty glass and arose.
“Have another drink,” urged Sevier. “Sit down.”
“No, thank you. I must go,” Elliott began.
“No. Sit down!” Carlton gruffly interrupted.
Taken by surprise, Elliott sat down. The rain splashed on the veranda in the silence.
“But I really must go. I have to get to the Peak,” he said again, once more getting up; but Sevier held up a warning hand. Outside was heard the rhythmical grunt of sedan-coolies. There were steps on the veranda. Sevier hurried to the door and opened it, and, to Elliott’s amazement, the missionary appeared in the lamplight, his face streaming with rain and perspiration, while he surveyed the group with an air of apprehension which he endeavoured to cover with dignity.
“You sent for me, I think,—gentlemen—” hesitated Laurie, still standing near the doorway.
Sevier bustled forward, led him in and closed the door. “Yes, yes, certainly. It was mighty good of you to come. Your friend is here already, you see.”
“I didn’t send for you. What did you come here for?” demanded Elliott, his mind becoming clouded with suspicions.
“It was this gentleman,” said the missionary, indicating Carlton with evident distrust. “He ordered me to come here—in terms that I could not well refuse. What do you want me to do?”
“Very little, and nothing hard,” Sevier answered, brightly. He brought another chair from an adjoining room, and placed it beside the table. “Sit down. Will you have a drink? No? Well, we merely want you to tell us what you know of the wreck of theClara McClay.”
Laurie was trembling visibly. “I told you this morning what I know. Do you want me to go over it again?”
“Oh, no. Not that. We want to know where the wreck lies.”
“I told you that I know no more about it than you do,” protested the missionary. “How could I, when I was always in my cabin till she struck, and then adrift in an open boat for a week?”
“That won’t do!” broke in Carlton, stonily. “Out with it!”
“My dear sir, don’t be unreasonable,” Laurie pleaded. “How can I tell you things I know nothing of?”
Carlton looked at him for a moment, and then turned with a nod to Sevier. The young Alabaman produced a long, heavy strap from under the table, and with a movement of incredible celerity he dropped the loop over Laurie’s head and shoulders. In another second he was buckled fast to the back of his chair, before he had comprehended that anything was happening. He gave a shrill cry of alarm as the strap drew tight, however, and Elliott jumped to his feet.
“What do you mean?” he cried. “This is an outrage! Set that man loose instantly.”
He stepped forward to release the strap himself, but Carlton met him. “Don’t be a fool, Elliott,” advised the big man. “Ah! there now, you will have it!”
Elliott had tried to strike, but Carlton gripped him by the wrists like a vise. There was a brief tussle, while the missionary wriggled in the chair, but he could not free himself from that steel grasp.
“See if he’s armed, Sevier,” advised Carlton, coolly, and the Alabaman ran his hands over Elliott’s captive person. There were no weapons.
“We don’t want to hurt you, Elliott,” said Sevier, “but I’m afraid we’ll have to strap you up likewise to keep you from hurting yourself. Don’t be frightened. There isn’t going to be any bloodshed, but we’ve got to get the story out of that old fakir by hook or crook.”
Another noose dropped over Elliott’s head, pinioning his arms to his sides. He kicked Carlton on the shins, and fell with the recoil, and before he could regain his feet Carlton was sitting on his chest and Sevier was binding his ankles together. They placed him in a sitting posture against the wall, helpless as a sack.
“It’s so hot that it would be cruel to gag you,” added Sevier, considerately, “but if you yell we’ll have to stuff a handkerchief into your mouth.”
“Yes, keep your mouth shut,” advised Carlton. “Get the battery, Sevier.”
Sevier went into the next room and returned with a box of polished wood, about a foot in diameter, which he placed upon the table. In three more journeys he brought out the six large glass cells of an electric battery, and proceeded to twist their wires together, connecting the terminals with the wooden box.
Elliott, breathless with rage, struggling, and heat, watched these preparations from where he sat, and understood them. The missionary was to be tortured with the current from a strong induction coil. There was some relief in this knowledge, for, he thought, the effects of the current might be unpleasant, but certainly would not be dangerous, not even exactly painful.
Laurie struggled violently when they came to tie his elbows to the arms of the chair, but he was easily overpowered. The ends of the insulated wires terminated in brass strips, and they bound these upon the under side of his wrists.
“All right,” said Carlton, calmly. “Turn it on.”
A rapid buzzing arose from the box, and the missionary’s body was agitated by a strong spasm. His shoulders heaved stiffly, and his whole body strained tensely against the strap across his chest till the leather creaked. But he kept his teeth tight shut.
If the induction coil had been known to the judicial torturers of the middle ages it would certainly have been the favourite method of applying “the question.” Its peculiarity is that without injuring the tissues to the slightest degree, it racks the nerves, breaks down the will, and lacerates the soul itself. But still Laurie remained silent. Under this direct attack he had evidently summoned up the courage that had made him one of the most intrepid of the pioneers of the Cross in heathendom. Sevier shut off the current.
“Are you ready to tell us now?” demanded the adventurer.
“No,” said the missionary, between his teeth.
Elliott admired the old man’s determination, and wondered. He realized that he had not yet seen all the sides of Laurie’s peculiar personality. He tried hard to free himself without being observed, and lacerated his wrists, but could not get a shade of purchase on his bonds.
“A peg stronger this time,” advised Carlton, relighting his pipe.
The contact-breaker buzzed again, and Laurie strained against the strap. His face became livid; the perspiration streamed down his cheeks, and his blue eyes were set in an anguished glare. His whole body twitched frightfully under his bonds, and his heels drummed upon the floor. Elliott looked on in impotent horror.
“Oh, here! I can’t stand this!” said Sevier, averting his eyes.
“Shut off. Now will you talk?” said Carlton.
Laurie made no answer, but lay heavily back, his muscles still twitching. They waited; he gasped spasmodically, but did not speak.
“Again—and a little more current,” commanded Carlton, and Sevier obeyed with a look of disgust. Laurie’s form was torn by a terrible convulsion. His mouth opened and shut, and an inarticulate cry came from his lips. The coil buzzed for almost two minutes.
“Give him a moment,” Carlton said, without emotion. “Now will you tell us? Very well; turn it on again, Sevier.”
“No! no!” gasped the missionary. “I will—tell—you—”
“Good. Speak up.”
Laurie lay back and breathed heavily, and with great gulps. He trembled violently in every muscle, but came slowly back to self-control.
“Are you going to tell us?” Carlton repeated.
“No! Not a word!” the missionary exclaimed, with nervous violence.
Carlton frowned. “Give him the full strength,” he said, curtly.
The full strength was applied, and Laurie’s body stiffened convulsively under its force. To Elliott it seemed that the torture lasted for hours, listening to the vicious buzz of the coil and watching the writhing, white-clad form lashed in the long chair. He struggled in vain to get loose; he shut his eyes, but he could hear the creaking of the strap as Laurie’s body strained against it; and at last he heard the missionary utter a stifled, choking sob—“Ah—ah—ah!”
The noise of the instrument ceased. “Now will you be sensible?” Carlton inquired.
“Yes! yes! No more, for God’s sake!” Laurie moaned, and began to cry with profuse tears.
“Here, have a drink,” said Sevier.
He held a full glass to the old man’s lips, and he drank half a pint of whiskey and water eagerly.
“Where is it, then? What’s the latitude and longitude?” Carlton insisted, eagerly. But Laurie had sunk back and closed his eyes.
“Give him time. He’s worn out with your devilish machine. Cut him loose if you want him to talk,” advised Elliott from the floor.
“Hello, I’d forgotten you, old man,” said Sevier. “Keep cool. It’s all over, and we’ll turn you loose, too, in a minute.”
He took Elliott’s advice, however, and removed the strap. Then he stirred the missionary gently, without effect.
“Why, the man’s asleep!” he exclaimed, bending over him in astonishment.
Laurie had, in fact, fallen instantly into a deep stupor. Carlton soaked a handkerchief in ice-water and applied it to his neck, and the old man revived.
“Give us the address, or you’ll get another dose of the juice,” he commanded.
The missionary winked, and seemed to gather himself together. He stood up shakily, his muscles still quivering.
“It’s Ibo Island, south of the Lazarus Bank,” he said. “It’s latitude south twelve, forty, thirty-seven; longitude thirty-one, eleven, twenty.”
Sevier noted the figures on a scrap of paper. Elliott was amazed at the statement. Had Laurie really known all along? Or was it simply an imaginary address given to save himself from further torture?
“We’ll go there at once,” said Carlton, “and we’ll take you with us. If the stuff’s there, well and good, and we’ll do the handsome thing by you. If it’s not there, we’ve got proof of crooked work against you enough to send you down for ten years’ hard labour, and we’ll hand you over to the English police. Be sure of your figures, if you don’t want to die in prison and have your daughter disgraced.”
Laurie swayed back as if he had received a blow in the face. He stared for one instant at the dark, merciless countenance of the speaker, and suddenly caught up one of the empty beer-bottles from the table and hurled it. Carlton would have been brained if he had not ducked actively, and the missile smashed on the opposite wall.
Laurie instantly seized the other bottle, and charged with a bellow of animal fury, brandishing it as a club. The attack was so astoundingly unexpected that Sevier stood stone-still.
“Keep off!” cried Carlton, dodging round the table. He picked up a long carving-knife from among the supper cutlery, and presented the point like a bayonet. “Keep off!” he commanded again. “You fool! I’ll kill you!”
But Laurie lurched blindly forward, paying no heed. He seemed to thrust himself upon the blade. The breast of his white clothes reddened vividly. He dropped the bottle, stood trembling and rocking for an instant, and fell with a crash upon his back. The knife stood half-buried between his ribs. He quivered a little and lay still.
There was an appalled silence. Every man held his breath, gazing at the prostrate white figure. No one had been prepared for this.
“I never meant to do it!” murmured Carlton, in an awestruck whisper. “He ran on the blade.”
“See if he’s dead,” said Elliott, feeling very sick. Sevier knelt beside the body and lifted a wrist.
“He’s done for, I’m afraid,” he said, turning a pale face back to them.
“Here, let me up,” Elliott demanded. “Let me see him.”
They cut him loose, and Elliott examined the body. The missionary’s work was done. He was dead; the knife must have touched the heart.
“This is a bad business for us all,” muttered Sevier. “What’ll we do with him?”
“Whatever possessed him to break out like that? It was self-defence. He ran right on the point,” Carlton said, still half under his breath.
“Yes; but how’ll we prove it?” Sevier rejoined.
Elliott said nothing. He looked at the dead man, at the crimson stain that was spreading over the whole coat-front, and tried to avoid thinking of Margaret. How could he tell her? Of what could he tell her—for he would have to tell her something.
Sevier poured out half a glass of whiskey and drank it neat. He stood apparently pondering for a few minutes, while all three men stood gazing with strange fascination at the corpse, which regarded the ceiling imperturbably.
“You look sick, Elliott. Take some whiskey,” he suddenly remarked. “Wait, I’ll get another glass.”
He went into the adjoining room for it, and Elliott swallowed the liquor without seeing it, almost without tasting it. He had hardly drunk it when he felt a violent sickness, and sat down. The room seemed to swim and grow faint before his eyes.
“She mustn’t know,” he heard himself murmuring. “I can’t tell her.”
A numb paralysis was creeping over him. He dropped his head on the table beside the battery, and gold, love, and murder faded into blackness.
Years of oblivion seemed to pass over his head. He awoke at intervals to a sense of violent struggles, nightmares of blood and death, and a pervading, terrible nausea. Then new cycles of darkness swept down, interrupted by new dreams of agony.
He came to himself slowly, aching and sick. He was in bed, and he was being rocked gently to and fro. The room was small, with the ceiling close above his head. Light came in through a small round window, and a perpetual vibration jarred the whole place.
As his head slowly cleared, he comprehended that he must be in the stateroom of a steamer, and he imagined indistinctly that he was at sea, and on his way to Hongkong in pursuit of the mate. But there was a dull sense of catastrophe at the back of his head, and all at once he remembered. He had been at Hongkong; he had found Margaret—and the missionary, and the whole tragedy came back to him. What had happened after that? He could remember nothing, and he threw himself out of the lower berth in which he was reposing, and looked through the port light. There was nothing but ocean to be seen.
His hand went instinctively to his waist. Thank heaven! his money-belt was still there, buckled next his body, and he could feel the hard, round sovereigns through the buckskin. His clothes lay on the sofa. He hurried into them, omitting the collar, tie, and shoes, and rushed from the room, with his hair wildly dishevelled.
His room was close to the foot of the stairway, and he dashed up. He found himself on the deck of a great steamship, among dozens of well-dressed passengers who stared at him strangely. A fresh wind was blowing from a cloudy sky; the decks were wet; the ship rolled freely. Far astern there was a dark haze on the horizon, but elsewhere nothing but open water.
“For God’s sake, where am I? What ship’s this?” demanded Elliott distractedly from the nearest passenger.
“What’s the matter? Been seasick?” answered the man, who was lounging against the rail and smoking a pipe. He looked Elliott over with evident amusement.
But Elliott at that moment caught sight of a life buoy lashed upon the deckhouse. It answered his question; it bore the black lettering:
“S. S. PERU. SAN FRANCISCO.”
“S. S. PERU. SAN FRANCISCO.”
He tried to collect his still scattered wits, and wondered if he had boarded that ship while delirious.
“I have been very sick,” he said to his interlocutor. “I was sick before I came aboard, and I’d even forgotten where I was. What time did we sail?”
“At daylight this morning.”
“For San Francisco?”
“Of course. You must have been pretty bad. Has the ship’s doctor seen you?”
“I don’t know,” said Elliott, weakly; and he was all at once seized with another fit of sickness and leaned over the rail, vomiting. When he had recovered a little he clung limply to a stanchion. He must get off this ship in some way; he must get back at once to Hongkong, where Margaret was left helpless.
“Have we dropped the pilot yet?” he asked of the passenger, who was looking on with the amused sympathy which is the best that seasickness can elicit.
“Dropped him three hours ago.”
There was not a minute to lose. Elliott hurried down-stairs again in search of the purser’s office, and burst in unceremoniously.
“What’s this?” he exclaimed. “How do I come on this ship? I didn’t take passage on her. I’ve got no ticket. I must go back to Hongkong.”
“What the devil did you come aboard for, then?” inquired the purser, not unnaturally.
“I don’t know how I got aboard. I woke up just now sick in my berth.”
“You couldn’t have got a berth without a ticket. Say, you’ve been seasick, haven’t you? Hasn’t it knocked out your memory a little? See if you haven’t got a ticket about you somewhere. They haven’t been taken up yet.”
“Certainly I haven’t!” Elliott protested, but he felt through his pockets. In the breast of his coat he came upon a large folded yellow document which, to his utter amazement, proved really to be a ticket from Victoria to San Francisco, in the name of Wingate Elliott.
“I never bought this. I never saw it before!” he cried.
“Let’s see it,” said the purser. “Second cabin. It seems all correct.” He rang a bell. “Ask the chief steward to come here a moment,” he said to the Chinese boy who responded.
“Anyhow,” Elliott insisted, “I’ve got to get off this ship and back to Hongkong, as quick as I can. Don’t you call at Yokohama?”
“We don’t stop anywhere this side of San Francisco.”
The chief steward came in at this moment, and looked at Elliott with a smile of recognition. “Good morning. Feel better, sir?” he inquired.
“This gentleman doesn’t know how he got on board,” said the purser. “His ticket’s all right. Did you see him when he came on?”
“Sure I did,” responded the steward, cheerfully. “I helped to get him to his stateroom. He came aboard last night about eleven o’clock, with a couple of his friends holding him up. You sure had been having a swell time, sir,—no offence. They’d been giving you a little send-off dinner at the Hongkong Club, don’t you remember? The gentlemanly dark young fellow explained it to me, and asked me to have the doctor look in on you when you woke up. How do you feel, sir?”
“Can you tell me when this ticket was bought?” Elliott asked.
The purser looked at it again. “Bought last night. It must have been the last ticket sold for this ship. You were lucky to get passage so late.”
“Shanghaied, by God!” cried Elliott. “Drugged and kidnapped! I’ve got to see the captain. Somebody’ll settle with me for this!”
“You’d better take time to put on a collar and shoes,” the purser advised. “A minute more won’t matter. The captain can’t help you, I’m afraid.”
So it appeared. The commander of thePerulistened sympathetically to what Elliott thought advisable to tell him, but offered no prospect of assistance.
“I don’t see what we can do for you, Mr.—er—Ellis. We don’t stop anywhere, and you can’t expect me to put back to Hongkong.”
“Couldn’t you transfer me to a west-bound ship if we should meet one?”
“I’m afraid not. We carry the mails, and we’re under contract not to slow down for anything but to save life. I take it that this isn’t a question of saving life.”
“No, but it’s a question of millions. Good heavens! I stand to lose enough to buy this ship three times over.”
“That may be, but I’m afraid I can’t act on it. Cheer up. Things will turn out better than you think. You’ll find thePerua pleasant place for a vacation.”
“Is there any way for me to send a message back to Victoria?”
“Not that I know. Or, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If we run close enough to anything bound for Hongkong to signal her, I’ll give you a chance to throw a bottle overboard with a letter in it. That’s the best I can do for you, and I can’t slow down to do that.”
Elliott chafed with wrath as he left the cabin of the captain, who regarded him with an interest that was obviously unmixed with much credulity. And yet he was obliged to admit that his story was incredible on the face of it, and not helped out by his own haggard and incoherent manner.
He sat down beside the rail, still feeling weak and ill, and yet too angry to care how he felt. Carlton and Sevier had played him a clever trick, almost a stroke of genius. They had put him comfortably out of the way for three weeks, to be landed on the other side of the world, while they sailed away to recover the wrecked treasure, and to escape the investigation when the missionary’s murder should be discovered. With a start of from three weeks to a month they could reasonably hope to have time to plunder theClara McClaywithout interruption.
Still, as Elliott grew cooler, he could not attach much importance to the directions given by Laurie. He still felt convinced that the missionary had known no more than himself. He had made a false confession under the strain of the torture, and his desperation at the prospect of going to the Mozambique Channel clearly indicated its falsity.
But it was of Margaret that he thought, and his heart was wrung. He pictured her waiting all night for her father’s return and for himself. Perhaps she was waiting still, in such an agony of alarm as he dared not imagine, while the body of the missionary was probably floating in the harbour at the foot of the Chinese city. She had no money. She knew no one in Victoria.
Elliott jumped up and paced the deck feverishly. Surely something could be done. China was almost out of sight in the southwest, and he would have given his left hand to have been able to reach that bluish line that was falling away at fifteen knots an hour. And yet, what could he do? He was at sea for almost three weeks.
There was the hope that he might be able to send a message back to Victoria, and he went to the saloon at once to write it, in case an opportunity should present itself. But it was hard to decide what to say. He did not know whether she had learned of her father’s death, but judged it unlikely. Carlton and Sevier must have disposed of the body so that it would not be found for some time. But above all things, Margaret must leave Victoria at once.
“Your father is seriously ill,” he wrote at last. “He is with me. We got aboard this ship by a mistake which I will explain when I see you, and we are bound for San Francisco. You must follow us at once. Take the next steamer. If you will call on the American consul and give him the enclosure, he will arrange for your passage. Don’t delay a day.“Wingate Elliott.“On board S. S.Peru.”
“Your father is seriously ill,” he wrote at last. “He is with me. We got aboard this ship by a mistake which I will explain when I see you, and we are bound for San Francisco. You must follow us at once. Take the next steamer. If you will call on the American consul and give him the enclosure, he will arrange for your passage. Don’t delay a day.
“Wingate Elliott.
“On board S. S.Peru.”
With the letter he enclosed a note to the American consul begging him to furnish Miss Laurie with such money as she might require, and enclosing a promissory note for a hundred dollars. He then obtained an empty beer-bottle from the smoking-room steward and corked up this correspondence tightly, along with a sovereign to reward the finders.
The opportunity came late that afternoon. ThePerupassed a British three-master booming down a fair wind toward the China coast, and the captain was as good as his word. After an exchange of signals, the Britisher lowered a boat, and thePerueven deviated a little from her course to approach it. Elliott cut a life-buoy from the rigging, tied his bottle fast to it and cast it overboard.
The big liner tore past the boat like a locomotive, tossing it high on the wash of her passage. Elliott had not before realized her speed. He ran to the stern, and saw the boatmen fish the precious float from the water.
“You’ll have to pay for that life-belt, you know,” said the second officer, at his shoulder. “You wouldn’t have got it if I’d seen you in time.”
Elliott had to pay for more than the life-belt. He had nothing with him but the clothes he stood in, and he was obliged to purchase a clean shirt, fresh collars, handkerchiefs,—a dozen small articles,—from the stewards, paying sea prices, which differ from land prices according to the needs of the purchaser. Elliott’s need was great, and he felt almost grateful to his kidnappers for having left him his money-belt. He felt certain that it was to Sevier that he owed that.
He was seasick most of the time during the first four days of the voyage, for the first time in his life—the result, he supposed, of the potent drug that Sevier had administered. After that, he rallied, and began to be conscious of the bracing effect of the cool ocean breezes after hot Hongkong. But never did a voyage pass so slowly. He had been impatient in going to Bombay; he had fretted between Bombay and Hongkong, but now he walked the deck almost incessantly, and was always the first to look at the daily record of the ship’s run posted at noon in the saloon. He had never sailed the Pacific before, nor imagined that it was so wide.
But twenty days cannot stretch to infinity, even at sea. ThePeruentered the Golden Gate early in the forenoon on the 9th of August, and Elliott, having no baggage to worry him, hurried at once to the offices of the Eastern Mail Steamship Company.
He waited anxiously while a youthful clerk flipped over the letters and telegrams in the rack, but English honesty was vindicated. There were two brown cable messages for him, and he ripped them open nervously. The first was from Henninger. It had been forwarded from Hongkong, and read:
“Will search. Come Zanzibar immediately.”
This was not what he wanted, but the second proved to be from Margaret, saying:
“Sailing twenty-eighth, steamerImperial.”
Elliott felt as if a mighty weight had been heaved off his breast. Margaret must be then at sea, but her passage would be longer than his own. The ships of the Imperial line called at Yokohama and Honolulu, and on investigation he learned that the steamerImperialwas not due at San Francisco until the last day of August. He had nearly three weeks to wait, but of course he would wait for her. The treasure was a secondary issue just then, and then the question arose of how he was to meet her with the word of her father’s death.
For the actual fact he could feel but little regret. Laurie was not a man for this world; he was too high, or too low, as one pleased to regard it; and as a guardian for his daughter he was totally worthless. Sooner or later open disgrace was certain, and the grief would have been worse to Margaret than her father’s death. It was better that he had died when he did, with his halo untarnished—to his daughter’s eyes at least.
Elliott spent the next days in feverish unrest. He had nothing to do, and could not have done it if he had, and he half-longed for Margaret’s coming and half-dreaded it. He would have to tell her the whole story of the treasure and of the murder. How would she receive it? And would it, or would it not be taking an unfair advantage of her helplessness to tell her that he loved her and wished nothing so much as to protect her for the rest of her life?
He was rapidly becoming worn out by these plans, doubts, and problems, and half-poisoned with the number of secrets and difficulties which he had to keep locked up in his own breast, when a sudden recollection came to him with relief. Bennett was in the city.
Or, at least, he should be here. According to the arrangement he was to go to San Francisco as soon as he could leave the hospital in St. Louis, and surely his broken bones must have mended long ago. He was to have wired his address to Henninger, and probably he had done so, but Henninger was far away, and the fact would not help Elliott to find his former travelling companion.
He dropped a note to Bennett, however, in the city general delivery, and also wrote to him in care of the hospital, on the chance that the letter would be forwarded. Two days passed; it was evident that the former letter had not reached him, and it would be necessary to wait till an answer could arrive from St. Louis.
Elliott waited, feeling that he had merely added another uncertainty to his already plentiful store of them. He waited for ten days, and then as he entered the lobby of his hotel he saw a man leaning over the desk to speak to the clerk, and his back looked somehow familiar.
Elliott stepped up to the man, and touched his shoulder.
“Bennett! Is this you?”
The man turned with a start. It was indeed the adventurer, but dressed in a style indicating almost unrecognizable prosperity. He stared at Elliott for a moment, and then gripped him with both hands, emitting an explosively inarticulate ejaculation.
“By thunder!” he cried. “I couldn’t place you. I never saw you in a boiled shirt before. Let’s get out of this. I never was so glad to see a man in my life.”
He stepped out of the line and they left the hotel. As soon as they were in the street he clutched Elliott’s arm.
“Have you got it?” he demanded, under his breath.
Elliott laughed a little wearily. “No, we haven’t got it. I’ve given up thinking that we ever will, though Henninger has just wired me that he’s going to search the whole Mozambique Channel.”
“Isn’t Henninger with you?”
“No, he’s in Zanzibar, and the other fellows are strung out all along the East Africa coast. It’s a long story, and there’s not much comfort in it, but let’s go over to the park and I’ll tell you.”
“Start it as we walk along. Man, I’ve been hungering and thirsting for some news from that job.”
So on the street Elliott began the story, of the great game in Nashville that had financed the expedition, of the voyages of the party, and of his own adventures on the train in Bombay and Hongkong. He finished it on a park bench, with the killing of the missionary, and the high-class form of “shanghaing,” of which he had himself been the victim. Of Margaret he judged it best to say nothing.
Bennett listened feverishly, interrupting the story with impatient questions. When Elliott had finished he sat in meditation for a couple of minutes.
“Henninger is right,” he pronounced at last. “The only thing now is to search the channel. Are you sure the address your old missionary gave was a fake?”
“I can’t believe it was anything else. Why else would he have risked killing rather than have it tested?”
“It looks so. His directions must have been somewhere near the right spot, though; I’ve been looking at maps. Anyhow, I’ll know the island again when I see it.”
“The wreck will mark it, won’t it?”
“The wreck has probably broken up and sunk out of sight by this time. That’s a point in our favour, for the worst danger is from the coast traders and Arab riffraff. Let’s start right away for Zanzibar, by the next steamer.”
“I can’t leave for a week or so,” Elliott confessed, and he explained his reasons for delay.
“I don’t like any women in this thing. This is strictly a man’s game,” commented Bennett.
“Oh, Miss Laurie won’t be in it. But I wired her to come here, and I’ve got to meet her. Why, she thinks her father is alive and here with me.”
“Yes, I suppose you’ve got to wait,” said Bennett, and was silent for several seconds. “But, damn it! this is awful!” he exploded, suddenly. “Every minute counts. Henninger’ll be waiting for us. That other gang must be half-way there by now, and when they don’t find the wreck on Ibo Island they’ll look somewhere else. They’ve got three weeks’ start of us, with ten thousand miles less to go.”
“They won’t find anything,” Elliott attempted, soothingly.
“How do you know they won’t? They’ve got as good a chance as we, haven’t they? Better, by thunder! Besides, there are all sorts of Arab and Berber craft sailing up and down the channel. It seems to me you’ve done nothing all through but waste time.”
“If you’re not satisfied with my ways, you’d better go and join Henninger by yourself,” said Elliott, growing irritated. “You can count me out of it. I’m staying here for the present.”
Bennett looked for a moment as if inclined to take Elliott at his word, and then his face relaxed and he began to laugh.
“Don’t be an idiot, you old jay!” he exclaimed, finally. “Of course I’ll wait for you. You waited for me in St. Louis, didn’t you? Only—well, I’ve been waiting now for four months, and it’s getting on my nerves.”
“Have you been here all that time?”
“Oh, no. The first month I spent in the hospital, where you had the pleasure of seeing me wrapped in splints. But as soon as I got out I made a bee-line for the Pacific coast. I left a forwarding address at the hospital, and I expected to have you fellows wire me. I’ve written to every point I could think of to catch some of you.”
“Got any money?”
“You bet I have. I got—what do you think?—eight hundred dollars out of the railroad for my wounds and bruises. I asked for two thousand and got eight hundred. I had to give half of it to my lawyer, though,” he added, regretfully. “Then, a couple of weeks ago, a fellow put me on to a good thing at the race-track out here. It was at five to one. I plunged a hundred on it, and she staggered home by a nose. He’s going to give me another good tip on Saturday—get-away day, you know, and a long shot.”
“Don’t you touch it,” said Elliott. “We’ll need all your spare cash. I’ve got none too much myself, and we’ve got a long way to go.”
The prospect of all the weary miles of sea and land that he must still travel on the treasure hunt, in fact, had come to oppress him. He had already all but encircled the globe, and he sickened at the thought of another month-long voyage. He was tired, mortally tired, of stewards, and saloon tables, and smoking-rooms, and he told himself that if he ever found himself once more in some silent, sunshiny American village he would contentedly vegetate there like a plant for the rest of his days.
But before that he would have to think of how to meet Margaret, who would be there in a week, and of some words to prepare her for the final explanation. This week passed as swiftly as the two first had slowly. He spent it in lounging about uneasily, and in long conferences with Bennett, and on the afternoon of the twenty-ninth he heard that theImperialhad been sighted. She was, in fact, then entering the harbour.
But he was still without a speech prepared when the gangplank was opened, and the flood of passengers began to pour down. He saw Margaret, and waved his hand, but even from a distance he was shocked at her pallor, and startled by the fact that she was wearing complete black. He waited for her outside the customs enclosure.
“You see I’ve come. I hoped you would meet me,” she said.
“Of course I would meet you,” he protested, unsteadily, dreading the expected inquiry for her father. On a nearer view her face was even more drawn and haggard than he had thought; she looked as if she had not slept for a week, but she had met him with a brave smile.
“I know all about it,” she added.
“All? What?” stammered Elliott.
“Everything. They found my father’s body the day after I got your letter. It was in an empty house. I saw him buried in Happy Valley.”
“Margaret, I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t dare—”
“Oh, yes, I know; it was kind of you. And oh! I was so glad to get away from that awful city. But for your letter I think I should have died. I thought at first that you had deserted us, and I was all alone. That night of waiting—can I ever forget it! The consul and his wife were very kind—but I was all alone.” Her voice was choking, and she was trying hard to keep the sobs down.
“Don’t cry, for heaven’s sake,—dear,” said Elliott, in deep trouble. “The worst is over now. I’ll see that everything is right. Just depend on me.”
“I suppose the worst is over,” she said, drying her eyes. “But I feel as if it were only beginning. How can I live? My whole life feels at an end, somehow. But I will try to be strong. I was brave in Hongkong, when I had everything to do—but now. Never mind, I will be brave again, as my poor father was, and as he would want me to be.”
“That’s right. Here’s your hotel. There’s a good room engaged for you, and you’ll find they’ll make you very comfortable. Ask for everything you want,” said Elliott.
“You must tell me first all you know about father’s death.”
Elliott shuddered. “Not to-day. You’re tired out; you must be. I’ll tell you to-morrow.”
“No. Now—at once,” she said, impatiently. “I can’t sleep till I know it all. Then I’ll never ask you to speak of it again.”
Elliott, thus cornered, told her somewhat baldly the story of how the missionary had been decoyed to the house on the slope of the mountain, and how he had met his death. He touched lightly on the torture, and said nothing of the treasure. The latter was too long a story.
“They stabbed him because he would not tell them something that they believed he knew. In reality he knew nothing of it. I think it was really by accident that he was wounded. I do not believe that they intended to do more than frighten him.”
“And you saw it all?”
“I was lying tied hand and foot on the floor. They drugged me afterward and put me on a ship for San Francisco.”
“What was it that they wanted him to tell them?”
“It was a business matter,” Elliott said, hastily. “Something that he knew nothing about, but they thought he did. I don’t quite understand the details of it myself.”
He had feared a terrible scene, but Margaret took the story courageously.
“What became of the—the murderers?” she asked, after a silence.
“I have no idea. Did you hear of any one being arrested?”
“No. There was an inquest—but no one arrested, at least before I left.” She was twisting her handkerchief into shreds between her fingers. “Thank you,” she said, suddenly, trying to smile again. “It was kind of you to tell me. You have been so good to me! Now—now, please go!”
Elliott fled from the hotel, immeasurably relieved that it was over. The next day, he said to himself, he would send her back to her aunt in Nebraska, where she would probably wish to go, and he himself would sail with Bennett for Africa. When he returned it would be with his share of the great treasure. He felt the need of it now; he wanted it more than ever—not for his own sake, but for Margaret’s.
Next morning, when he called on Margaret, she made no reference to her father. She was very pale and evidently dispirited, and he took her out driving. She attempted to talk on casual topics, but with indifferent success, and she did not speak of leaving San Francisco.
It was the same on the next day, and the next. Margaret no longer cared either to drive or to walk. She received Elliott in her sitting-room at the hotel when he came to see her. She was listless, languid, paler than ever. As she was, in a manner, his guest, he could not well suggest to her that she return to Lincoln, but he saw clearly that she would be ill unless she were given a change of scene, and something to divert her mind. San Francisco still was too suggestive of Hongkong, and he noticed that she shrunk painfully from the sight of a Chinaman. She must leave the city, he thought; but perhaps she did not have even enough money for her ticket to Lincoln.
After long pondering, he broached the matter on the fourth day.
“If you’d like to go back to your aunt at Lincoln, Margaret,” he said, “I know a fellow here in the Union Pacific office, and I can get you transportation without its costing you a cent.”
“Don’t you know?” she answered. “My aunt is dead. She died shortly after you left Lincoln. She was caught out in that storm that found us at Salt Lake—do you remember it?—and took cold, and died of pneumonia. I have no one in the world now. That was the chief reason why I went to Hongkong.”
“No, you never told me that,” said Elliott, startled, and worried. He would have liked to say what he felt that, under the circumstances, he had no right to say; he had trouble to restrain it; he wanted to relieve her at once from all her material troubles.
“And this brings me to what I should have said long ago,” she went on. “I am—it’s humiliating to confess it—but I have no money. All I had I spent in Hongkong. I want to get work here. I’m strong; I can do anything. Have you any idea where I could try?”
Elliott started with horror; the confession wrenched his heart. But it occurred to him that he could subsidize some one to take music lessons from her.
“Why, yes,” he said. “I’m glad you spoke of it. I know one girl here, at least, who wants music lessons. She’ll pay well for them, too—four or five dollars an hour.”
“Oh!” gasped Margaret. “Do they pay such prices in California? But they will want something extraordinary.”
“No, you’ll do splendidly,” Elliott assured her. “Then I have to go away myself,—on that hunt for the easy millions I spoke of in Hongkong.”
“And you never told me just what it was,” said Margaret. “But, before you go, I want you to tell me just what it was that those men wanted my father to tell them.”
Elliott reflected. “Yes, I might as well tell you,” he said, slowly. “It is mixed up with my own venture, too. I cut the story short the other day, for fear of hurting you too much.” And for the third time Elliott told the story of the wrecked gold-ship, and of his own efforts in the chase.
“They killed him because he would not tell where the wreck was?” she soliloquized, when he had finished.
“He could not tell them what he knew nothing of.”
“But my father did know where that ship was wrecked,” she said, looking him full in the face.
“What? Impossible!” cried Elliott, staggered.
“He knew where it was wrecked. That man who was in the boat with him—the mate—told him before he died, and gave him the exact position, with the latitude and longitude. My father told me of it. He had planned to go there sometime and see if anything could be recovered from the wreck. I found the map, with the place marked, among his papers. But he thought that no one else knew of it.”
Elliott, still half-dazed, reflected that the missionary had not ceased to astonish him, even after death.
“He intended to give you a share of it. Do you remember that I once said that he might be able to do something great for you?”
“Well, in that case,” said Elliott, trying to focus this new aspect of events, “did he tell those fellows the right place? If he did, it’s too late to look.”
“Did he tell them anything?”
“He said the wreck was on Ibo Island, latitude and longitude something. I supposed that he said it merely to save himself—the first place he could think of. Do you remember where the exact spot was?”
“No. But I have the map in my trunk.”
“Would you mind getting it? Of course,” he added, “you’ll have an equal share in whatever we get out of it. But if you really know the right spot there isn’t a minute to lose.”
She sat without moving, however. “Come and see me this afternoon,” she said, finally. “I want to think it over.”
Elliott was astonished at this request. Surely she could not distrust him, though unquestionably it was her secret. He reflected dubiously that there is never any knowing what a woman will decide to do with a delicate case.
“You said that one of your friends—one of your partners—was in the city,” she said, as he left. “Please bring him with you this afternoon. I think it would be right.”
More bewildered than ever, Elliott went away to find Bennett, who was able to throw no light on his perplexity. But they returned together to the hotel at three o’clock, where Margaret received them with a manner which was more animated than in the forenoon.
“This is the map,” she said, holding up a folded piece of paper, spotted and stained. “I have just been looking at it again. What place did you say my father told them?”
“Ibo Island, latitude south twelve, forty something. I forget the longitude,” replied Elliott. “Do you think that’s it?”
She consulted the map again.
“No. It isn’t Ibo Island, and it isn’t latitude twelve, forty, at all. It’s nearly a hundred miles south of that, I should think. It must be nearly two hundred miles from Ibo Island.”
“I thought he wasn’t telling the truth,” said Elliott, tactlessly.
“No,” the girl flashed back. “He died with an untruth on his lips for my sake. He thought I might still profit by this gold. Tell me,” she went on, after a nervous pause, “have those other men any right to it?”
“No more than we have.”
“Does the treasure belong to any one? I mean, will it be defrauding any one if we take it?”
“Apparently not. It’s treasure-trove. But where is it?”
She folded the map and stowed it inside her blouse. “I’ll take you to it,” she said.
“You?” exclaimed Elliott. “You couldn’t.”
“You can’t find it without my help, it seems. I will give you this map when our boat is out of sight of land—the boat in which we go to find the wreck. You will have to take me with you.”
Bennett looked closely at the girl, and smiled quietly.
“But, great heavens! you don’t know what you’re asking,” cried Elliott. “You don’t know what sort of a rough crew we’ll ship. It may come to fighting.”
“I’m not afraid. And you know I can shoot.”
“It’s simply out of the question,” Elliott said, decisively. “You must stay here or go back to Lincoln. You’ll give us the map, and we’ll bring back your share for you. You can trust us, I hope?”
“It isn’t that I’m afraid. But I have no friends now nor money. No one knows anything of me; what does it matter what I do? And I can’t stay here. I think I should die if I had to stay in San Francisco. I must do something—I don’t care what. Oh, set it down as a girl’s foolish freak—anything you like!” she exclaimed, passionately. “But I go with your expedition, or it goes without the map.”
Elliott looked helplessly at Bennett, who said nothing. Then a new idea struck him.
“But we’re too late anyhow. Those other fellows have a month’s start, and they will certainly search all the islands within two or three hundred miles.”
“I was thinking of that,” said Bennett. “I don’t see why Miss Laurie shouldn’t go with us if she’s determined to do it. But the time? Let’s figure it out.”
“I’m afraid it’s hopeless,” said Elliott. “It’s three weeks from here to Hongkong.”
“Well, let’s see. Suppose they sailed within a day or two after you did. It’s about two weeks to Bombay. They’ll have trouble in getting a steamer for the East African coast, because there isn’t any regular service. They’re certain to be delayed there for ten days or two weeks, and when they do sail it will be on a slow ship, because there isn’t anything else in those waters. It’ll take them over a month to get to Zanzibar.”
“They may be there by this time, then,” remarked Elliott.
“Well, suppose they are. It’ll take them nearly a month to fit out their expedition, hire a vessel, get a crew, divers and diving-suits, and they’ll be three or four days in sailing to Ibo Island. They’ll spend a day or two there, and then they’ll begin to look elsewhere. If the right place is over two hundred miles away, it’ll take them two or three weeks to get to it. They can’t reasonably get to theClara McClayin less than six to seven weeks from to-day.”
“But it will take us the same six or seven weeks to get there, not speaking of the distance from here to Hongkong,” Elliott objected.
“Yes, if we go that way. But rail travel is quicker than land, and we’re only five days from New York.”
“By Jove! I see,” cried Elliott, catching the idea.
“New York to London is seven days, if we make the right connections. London to Durban is about seventeen days, isn’t it? It’ll take a few more days to get to Delagoa Bay, and say another week to sail up the channel to the wreck. Total about five weeks. It gives us a margin of about one week. We’ll wire Henninger at once to get his outfit ready at Delagoa Bay, and we’ll sail the moment we get there.”
“There’s just a chance, I do believe,” exclaimed Elliott. “But why not start our expedition from Zanzibar? It’s nearer.”
“So it is, and that’s why Sevier will choose it. We don’t want to meet him there or anywhere else.”
“Suppose we meet his gang at the wreck?”
“We must beat them off.”
“Yes, there’s a chance—a fighting chance, after all,” said Elliott, getting up and beginning to walk about restlessly. “That is, if Miss Laurie will be reasonable,” looking at her imploringly.
“I am perfectly reasonable.”
“You’ll give us the steering directions, then?”
“Not till we are on board, at Delagoa Bay. Come, we’ll argue the question as we go. There’s no time to lose now. Can we get a train to-night?”
“The Overland leaves at seven o’clock,” said Bennett. “It’s as she says. There’s no time to talk. We’ve got just the narrowest margin now, and our only chance is in knowing exactly where to go when we sail from Africa.”
“I’ll be ready at six,” said Margaret, decisively. “We’ll talk it all over on the train.”
Before the train left Elliott cabled again to Henninger, this time using the usual code for abbreviation’s sake:
“Found what we wanted. Am coming with Bennett. Have expedition ready at Delagoa Bay, not Zanzibar. Buy arms. Wire American Line, New York.”
He also telegraphed to New York for berths on the Southampton steamer sailing on the eighth day from that time. He reserved three berths, though he was resolved that only two should be used. “She may as well come on to Chicago,” he reflected, “or even to New York. The East is a better place than the West to leave her.” But somewhere on the cross-continent journey he intended to convince her of the folly of her resolution.
But somehow he did not feel equal to the endeavour at present, so he established Margaret comfortably in a chair-car, and went to smoke with Bennett.
“This is a nice state of things,” he said, biting a cigar irritably in two. “Why didn’t you back me up? I thought you were against having women in a man’s game.”
“So I am,” replied Bennett, who did not appear dissatisfied. “But I never argue with a woman when she’s made up her mind. Give her time and she’ll change it herself. Miss Laurie will give us the map all right, and if she won’t—”
“Then she’ll have to go with us.”
“No. We can take it”
“Take it? Do you mean by force?”
“Yes, if necessary. Of course we’ll give her a square divvy.”
“By heavens, Bennett!” said Elliott, “if you ever try to lay a hand on that girl I’ll shoot you. Yes, I will. So there’s your plan of robbing her, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it. That map’s her own, and I’m here to see that she does as she likes with it.”
“All right; have it your own way,” said Bennett, easily. “I don’t care a twopenny hang if she does sail with us. She seems to be a sensible sort of girl who wouldn’t bother. It was you who kicked about it.”
“I know it was, and you’ll see that I’ll convince her yet,” replied Elliott, gloomily. After a long pause, “What do you think of her?” he demanded, almost uncontrollably.
“Oh, I don’t know,” responded Bennett, between puffs. “Regular Western type, isn’t she? Sensible, nice girl, I guess. I didn’t see much in her.”
Elliott stared in amazement at such lack of penetration, threw down his cigar, and went back to the car where Margaret was settled with a heap of magazines, which she was not reading. Bennett meanwhile smiled thoughtfully at the approaching foot-hills with the air of a man for whom life has no more surprises.
There was plenty of time now to argue the question of Margaret’s accompanying the expedition, and Elliott argued it. The girl did little more than listen, sometimes smiling at the floods of polemic that were poured upon her all the way across the foot-hills, through the gorges and tunnels and trestles of the mountains, and down the slope to the desert. She would listen, but she would not discuss. She would talk of any other subject but that one. It seemed to Elliott’s watchful eye, however, that she was becoming a little more cheerful, that she was beginning to recuperate a little from the terrible strain of her experiences, and he said, mentally, that it was perhaps a good thing, after all, that she should go as far as New York.
Bennett absolutely refused to assist him, and remained for the most part in the smoking-car while the train skated down the eastern slope and roared out upon the great desert. At Ogden Elliott noted with satisfaction that they were maintaining schedule time. At Denver they were only an hour late. The country was becoming level, so that there were no topographical obstacles to speed.
“This is my country!” exclaimed Margaret. She was watching the gray-green rolling plain slowly revolve upon the middle distance. A couple of horsemen in wide hats and chaparejos were loping across it half a mile away. “How I should like to get off, get a horse, and just tear across those plains!”
“Do it, for goodness’ sake,” said Elliott. “We’ll be in Kansas City to-morrow, and you can wait there or in Lincoln till we come back with your share of the plunder.”
“No, I’ve something else to think of. Are we going to catch the steamer, do you think?”
“You are not,” Elliott retorted.
She smiled rather wearily, trying to see the cow-punchers, who were out of sight.
“How on earth can I convince you of your foolishness? You seem to have no idea of the rough sort of a trip it will be, nor the gang of cutthroats we may ship for a crew. Why, you don’t even know what sort of men my partners are.”
“I suppose they’re like you and Mr. Bennett. I’m not afraid of them, nor of anything else.”
“But can’t you trust us—can’t you trust me?—to look after your interests?”
“You know it isn’t that,” cried Margaret. “It’s unkind of you to put it that way. Oh, don’t harass me!” she appealed. “I am wretched enough as it is. Don’t you see that I have to do something to keep myself from thinking?”
Against such an argument a man is always defenceless, and Elliott abandoned the attack, baffled again. But he was not the less determined that she should not leave America, and he reserved himself for a final struggle at New York.
They arrived at Omaha on Thursday night, and on the following morning they were in Chicago. They had just thirty-five minutes for a hurried breakfast and a brief walk up and down the vast, smoky platform before they left for Buffalo. It was almost the last stage of the land journey.
“We’ll make it without a hitch,” said Bennett, cheerfully. “This is better than the way I raced across the continent before on this job. Do you remember that?”
But they missed connections at Buffalo for the first time on the transcontinental journey, and were obliged to wait for several hours for the New York express. But Buffalo was left behind that night, and on the next morning they arrived at Jersey City, and crossed the ferry. New York harbour, sparkling in the mild September sunshine, seemed to congratulate them. It was Sunday morning, and there was plenty of time, for theSt. Pauldid not sail till Monday noon.
Margaret went to a quiet, but expensive hotel, which Elliott selected for her, while he lodged himself with Bennett at the same house where the party had made rendezvous with Sullivan four months ago. The place looked the same as ever, and it was hard to realize that he had circled the globe since that time, and it was not pleasant to remember that he did not seem to be appreciably nearer the lost treasure. However, they had a definite clue at last,—or, rather, Margaret had one. It was now only a question of time, and of obtaining this clue from its possessor, who must go no further eastward.
At the offices of the American Line, Elliott found a cablegram from Henninger awaiting him. It read:
“Wire directions. Dangerous to wait.”
Elliott showed this message to Margaret. “This settles it, you see,” he said. “Henninger probably has his expedition all ready to sail, and we’ll all have to stay here till the work is done.”
“Are you going to stay, too?” she interrogated.
“Well,” Elliott hesitated, having no such intention. “I guess Bennett and I will go on, though I don’t expect we can get there in time to join the boys before they sail. But you’ll stay here, of course. Would you rather stay in New York, or go into the country?”
“I’m going to South Africa,” remarked Margaret, looking out the window.
“You’ve gone just as far as you are going.”
“I haven’t. You need me. Now, don’t rehearse all your arguments to me; I’ve heard them all, and they’re all sound. But I know the one you are thinking of, but daren’t mention—that it would be unladylike and not respectable for me to go.”
Elliott laughed. “I must confess that that argument hadn’t entered my mind.”
“Then I’m not going to give up what I want to do, just because I happen to be a girl. I expect I’d be as useful as any one of your party. I’m strong; and I can outride you and outshoot you, as you know very well. Do you think I care what any one will say? Nobody in the world takes interest in me enough to say anything. Do you want me to remind myself again that I have no money? I’ve been living on you; I know it. But I can endure that because I shall soon be able to pay back every cent, but I’m not going to sit here and wait till you come back from your adventures and give me what you think my secret is worth. I’m going to share in it all, whatever comes—fortune or fighting. There’s nobody in the world now who cares whether I live or die, or—what’s more important, I suppose—whether I’m ladylike or not.”
“How about me?” said Elliott. He hesitated, and then plunged desperately ahead. “Margaret, you’ve said that before, and I can’t stand your feeling like that. Look here, I may as well tell you now: all that gold is nothing to me in comparison with your unhappiness or danger. Let me look after you and think of you; you’ll find me better than nobody. I’m asking you to marry me, Margaret.”
He felt at once conscious of having blundered, but it was too late.
“Oh, how dare you!” she flashed. She jumped up, and stood vibrating in every nerve. “Do you think that I would marry you because you pity me? Perhaps you thought that I was trying to work on your feelings, so that you had to say that to me! Don’t be afraid; I’m not going to accept you. I’m not going to South Africa merely to be in your society. I suppose you thought that! How dared you?”
She sank down on the sofa again and burst into passionate sobbing, with her face buried in the cushions.
“Margaret—” ventured Elliott, approaching her.
“Go away!” she cried, lifting a face in which the eyes still blazed behind the tears. “I will go with you—I will—now more than ever—but I’ll never speak to you!”
Elliott went away as he was ordered, sore and angry at Margaret, at himself. He could not understand how she could so have misconceived him. He felt almost disposed to let her go her own way and take her own chances; and yet he felt that he must be always at her side to see that she suffered nothing. He walked over to Broadway, inwardly fuming, and stopped at a cable agency, where he sent another message to Henninger:
“Can’t wire clue. Am bringing it. Be ready at Delagoa.”
He had considerable trepidation in calling for Margaret the next morning, but he found her cold and calm. Her pallor had returned, and she looked as if she had not slept.
“Are you still determined to go?” he asked.
“Certainly.”
“It’s time to go, then. The ship sails at noon. There’s a cab down-stairs for you.”
Her valise was already packed and strapped; so was her small steamer trunk, and she had nothing to do but put on her hat. She had been expecting him, and in half an hour they were on board the great liner, and had been shown their staterooms. Bennett was waiting for them at the wharf, and the big ship swung majestically from her moorings and moved down the bay, past the rugged sierra skyline of brick and granite that had stimulated Elliott’s fancy when he last sailed from this port on the apparently endless trail of gold.