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                              THE MESSAGE

[Illustration: Suddenly he sprang upright      _Frontispiece_]




                              THE MESSAGE

                                  BY

                              LOUIS TRACY

         _Author of "The Wings of the Morning," "The Wheel o'
             Fortune," "The Captain of the Kansas," etc._

                _ILLUSTRATED BY JOSEPH CUMMINGS CHASE_


[Illustration: LOGO]


                               New York

                            Edward J. Clode

                               Publisher




                            COPYRIGHT, 1908
                          BY EDWARD J. CLODE

                     _Entered at Stationers' Hall_

               _The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A._




                               CONTENTS


                               CHAPTER I

                                                       PAGE

  DERELICTS                                               1

                              CHAPTER II

  HOW THE MESSAGE WAS DELIVERED                          19

                              CHAPTER III

  WHEREIN A STRONG MAN YIELDS TO CIRCUMSTANCES           36

                              CHAPTER IV

  FIGUERO MAKES A DISCOVERY                              53

                               CHAPTER V

  A MAN AND A STORY--BOTH UNEMOTIONAL                    71

                              CHAPTER VI

  WHEREIN WARDEN SETS A NEW COURSE                       90

                              CHAPTER VII

  TWO WOMEN                                             112

                             CHAPTER VIII

  SHOWING HOW MANY ROADS LEAD THE SAME WAY              131

                              CHAPTER IX

  WARDEN BEGINS HIS ODYSSEY                             150

                               CHAPTER X

  HASSAN'S TOWER--AND THE COLONIAL OFFICE               172

                              CHAPTER XI

  THE BLUE MAN--AND A WHITE                             193

                              CHAPTER XII

  EVELYN HAS UNEXPECTED VISITORS                        215

                             CHAPTER XIII

  EVELYN ENTERS THE FRAY                                234

                              CHAPTER XIV

  THE DRUMS OF OKU                                      258

                              CHAPTER XV

  WHEREIN ONE SURPRISE BEGETS MANY                      279

                              CHAPTER XVI

  A FIVE MINUTES' FIGHT                                 300

                             CHAPTER XVII

  THE SETTLEMENT                                        319




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  Suddenly he sprang upright                 _Frontispiece_

                                                       PAGE

  The presence of Figuero in Cowes was perplexing        49

  The stealthy menace of those evil eyes was startling   84

  There was no mistaking the malice                     183

  He could feel the thrill of terror that shook
      the moullah                                       212

  Peter, you are a wonder                               238

  There was no doubt in his mind that the end had come  304

  Why did you fail to recognize the girl?               328




                             _The Message_




CHAPTER I

DERELICTS


"It's fine!" said Arthur Warden, lowering his binoculars so as to glut
his eyes with the full spectacle. "In fact, it's more than fine, it's
glorious!"

He spoke aloud in his enthusiasm. A stout, elderly man who stood
near--a man with "retired tradesman" writ large on face and
figure--believed that the tall, spare-built yachtsman was praising the
weather.

"Yes, sir," he chortled pompously, "this is a reel August day. _I_ knew
it. Fust thing this morning I tole my missus we was in for a scorcher."

Warden gradually became aware that these ineptitudes were by way
of comment. He turned and read the weather-prophet's label at a
glance. But life was too gracious at that moment, and he was far too
well-disposed toward all men, that he should dream of inflicting a snub.

"That was rather clever of you," he agreed genially. "Now, though the
barometer stood high, I personally was dreading a fog three hours ago."

The portly one gurgled.

"I've got a glass," he announced. "Gev' three pun' ten for it, but
there's a barrowmeter in my bones that's worth a dozen o' them things.
I'll back rheumatiz an' a side o' bacon any day to beat the best glass
ever invented."

All unknowing, here was the touch of genius that makes men listen.
Warden showed his interest.

"A side of bacon!" he repeated.

"Yes, sir. Nothing to ekal it. I was in the trade, so I know wot I'm
talkin' about. And, when you come to think of it, why not? Pig skin
an' salt--one of 'em won't have any truck wi' damp--doesn't want it
an' shows it--an' t'other sucks it up like a calf drinkin' milk. I've
handled bacon in tons, every brand in the market, an' you can't smoke
any of 'em on a muggy day."

"Does your theory account for the old-fashioned notion that pigs can
see the wind?"

The stout man considered the point. It was new to him, and he was a
Conservative.

"I'm better acquent wi' bacon," he said stubbornly.

"So I gather. I was only developing your very original idea, on the
principle that

  "'You may break, you may shatter, the vase if you will,
  But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.'"

The ex-bacon-factor rapped an emphatic stick on the pavement. Though he
hoped some of his friends would see him hob-nobbing "with a swell," he
refused to be made game of.

"Wot 'as scent got to do with it?" he demanded wrathfully.

"Everything. Believe me, pigs have been used as pointers. And consider
the porcine love of flowers. Why, there once was a pig named Maud
because it _would_ come into the garden."

Had Warden laughed he might have given the cue that was lacking. But
his clean-cut, somewhat sallow face did not relax, and an angry man
puffed away from him in a red temper.

He caught scraps of soliloquy.

"A pig named Maud!... Did anybody ever hear the like?... An' becos it
kem into a garden.... Might just as well 'ave called it Maria."

Then Warden, left at peace with the world, devoted himself again to
the exquisite panorama of Cowes on a sunlit Monday of the town's great
week. In front sparkled the waters of the Solent, the Bond Street of
ocean highways. A breath of air from the west rippled over a strong
current sweeping eastward. It merely kissed the emerald plain into
tiny facets. It was so light a breeze that any ordinary sailing craft
would have failed to make headway against the tide, and the gay flags
and bunting of an innumerable pleasure fleet hung sleepily from their
staffs and halyards. Yet it sufficed to bring a covey of white-winged
yachts flying back to Cowes after rounding the East Lepe buoy.
Jackyard topsails and bowsprit spinnakers preened before it. Though
almost imperceptible on shore, it awoke these gorgeous butterflies of
the sea into life and motion. Huge 23-meter cutters, such as _White
Heather II_, _Brynhild_ and _Nyria_, splendid cruisers like _Maoona,
errymaid_, _Shima_, _Creole_, and _Britomart_, swooped grandly into the
midst of the anchored craft as though bent on self-destruction. To the
unskilled eye it seemed a sheer miracle that any of them should emerge
from the chaos of yachts, redwings, launches, motorboats, excursion
steamers, and smaller fry that beset their path. But Cowes is nothing
if not nautical. Those who understood knew that bowsprits and dinghies
of moored yachts would be cleared magically, and even spinnaker booms
topped to avoid lesser obstruction. Those who did not understand--who
heard no syllable of the full and free language that greeted an
inane row-boat essaying an adventurous crossing of the course--gazed
breathlessly at these wondrous argosies, and marveled at their escape
from disaster. Then the white fleet swept past the mouth of the river,
and vanished behind Old Castle Point on the way to far distant buoy or
light-ship that marked the beginning of the homeward run. And that was
all--a brief flight of fairy ships--and Cowes forthwith settled down to
decorous junketing.

Away to the northwest a gathering of gray-hulled monsters had thundered
a royal salute of twenty-one guns, and the smoke-cloud still lay in a
blue film on the Hampshire coast. The _Dreadnought_ was hauling at her
anchors before taking a king and an emperor to witness the prowess of
her gunners. The emperor's private yacht, a half-fledged man-o'-war,
was creeping in the wake of the competing yachts. Perchance her
officers might see more of British gunnery practice than of the racing.

Close at hand a swarm of launches and ships' boats buzzed round the
landing slip of the Royal Yacht Club. The beautiful lawn and gardens
were living parterres of color, for the Castle is a famous rendezvous
of well-dressed women. Parties were assembling for luncheon either in
the clubhouse or on board the palatial vessels in the roads. To the
multitude, yachting at Cowes consists of the blare of a starting-gun,
the brief vision of a cluster of yachts careening under an amazing
press of canvas, and, for the rest, gossip, eating, bridge--with a
picnic or a dance to eke out the afternoon and evening.

Arthur Warden soon turned his back on the social Paradise he was not
privileged to enter. He was resigned to the fact that the breeze
which sent the competitors in the various matches spinning merrily to
Spithead would not move his hired cutter a yard against the tide. So,
having nothing better to do, he sauntered along the promenade toward
the main street. On the way he passed the one-time purveyor of bacon
sitting beside a lady who by long association had grown to resemble him.

"Now I wonder if her name is Maria," he mused.

Drifting with the holiday crowd, he bought some picture postcards, a
box of cigarettes, and a basket of hothouse peaches. Being a dilettante
in some respects, he admired and became the prospective owner of the
fruit before he learned the price. There were four peaches in the
basket, and they cost him ten shillings.

"Ah," he said, as the shopkeeper threw the half sovereign carelessly
into the till, "I see you have catered for Lucullus?"

"I don't think so, sir," said the greengrocer affably. "Where does he
live?"

"He had villas at Tusculum and Neapolis."

"There's no such places in the Isle of Wight, sir."

"Strange! Has not the game-dealer across the street supplied him with
peacocks' tongues?"

The man grinned.

"Somebody's bin gettin' at you, sir," he cried.

"True, very true. Yet, according to Horace, I sup with Lucullus
to-night."

"Horace said that, did he?"

The greengrocer suddenly turned and peered down a stairway.

"Horace!" he yelled, "who's this here Lucullus you've bin gassin'
about?"

A shock-headed boy appeared.

"Loo who?" said he.

Warden departed swiftly.

"My humor does not appeal to Cowes," he reflected. "I have scored two
failures. Having conjured Horace from a coal-cellar let me now confer
with Diogenes in his tub."

Applied to Peter Evans, and his phenomenally small dinghy, the phrase
was a happy enough description of the ex-pilot who owned the _Nancy_.
Evans and his craft had gone out of commission together. Both were
famous in the annals of Channel pilotage, but an accident had deprived
Peter of his left leg, so he earned a livelihood by summer cruising
round the coast, and he was now awaiting his present employer at a quay
in the river Medina.

But Warden's pace slackened again, once he was clear of the fruiterer's
shop. Sailing was out of the question until the breeze freshened. It
was in his mind to bid Peter meet him again at four o'clock. Meanwhile,
he would go to Newport by train, and ramble in Parkhurst Forest for
a couple of hours. Recalling that happy-go-lucky mood in later days
of storm and stress, he tried to piece together the trivial incidents
that were even then conspiring to bring about the great climax of his
life. A pace to left or right, a classical quip at his extravagance in
the matter of the peaches, a slight hampering of free movement because
the Portsmouth ferry-boat happened to be disgorging some hundreds of
sightseers into the main street of West Cowes--each of these things, so
insignificant, so commonplace, helped to bring him to the one spot on
earth where fate, the enchantress, had set her snare in the guise of a
pretty girl.

For it was undeniably a pretty face that was lifted to his when a young
lady, detaching herself from the living torrent that delayed him for a
few seconds on the pavement, appealed for information.

"Will you please tell me how I can ascertain the berth of the yacht
_Sans Souci_?" she asked.

It has been seen that he was glib enough of speech, yet now he was
tongue-tied. In the very instant that the girl put forward her simple
request, his eyes were fixed on the swarthy features of a Portuguese
freebooter known to him as the greatest among the many scoundrels
infesting the hinterland of Nigeria. There was no mistaking the man.
The Panama hat, spotless linen, fashionable suit and glossy boots of
a typical visitor to Cowes certainly offered strong contrast to the
soiled garb of the balked slave-trader whom he had driven out of a
burning and blood-bespattered African village a brief year earlier.
But, on that occasion, Arthur Warden had gazed steadily at Miguel
Figuero along the barrel of a revolver; under such circumstances one
does not forget.

For a little space, then, the Englishman's imagination wandered far
afield. Instinctively he raised his hat as he turned to the girl and
repeated her concluding words.

"The _Sans Souci_, did you say?"

"Yes, a steam-yacht--Mr. Baumgartner's."

She paused. Though Warden was listening now, his wits were still
wool-gathering. His subconscious judgment was weighing Figuero's
motives in coming to England, and, of all places, to Cowes. Of the many
men he had encountered during an active life this inland pirate was
absolutely the last he would expect to meet during Regatta Week in the
Isle of Wight.

The girl, half aware of his obsession, became confused--even a trifle
resentful.

"I am sorry to trouble you," she went on nervously. "I had no idea
there would be such a crowd, and I spoke to you because--because you
looked as if you might know----"

Then he recovered his self-possession, and proceeded to surprise her.

"I _do_ know," he broke in hurriedly. "Pray allow me to apologize. The
sun was in my eyes, and he permits no competition. Against him, even
you would dazzle in vain. To make amends, let me take you to the _Sans
Souci_. She is moored quite close to my cutter, and my dinghy is not
fifty yards distant."

The girl drew back a little. This offer of service was rather too
prompt, while its wording was peculiar, to say the least. She was so
good-looking that young men were apt to place themselves unreservedly
at her disposal without reference to sun, moon, or stars.

"I think I would prefer to hire a boat," she said coldly. "I should
explain that an officer on board the steamer told me I ought to
discover the whereabouts of the yacht before starting, or the boatman
would take me out of my way and overcharge."

"Exactly. That officer's name was Solomon. Now, I propose to take you
straight there for nothing. Come with me as far as the quay. One glance
at Peter will restore the confidence you have lost in me."

Then he smiled, and a woman can interpret a man's smile with almost
uncanny prescience. The whiff of pique blew away, and she temporized.

"Is the _Sans Souci_ a long way out?"

"Nearly a mile. And look! We can eat these while Peter toils."

He opened the paper bag and showed her the peaches. She laughed
lightly. Were she a Frenchwoman she would have said, "But, sir, you are
droll." Being English, she came to the point.

"Where is the quay you speak of?"

"Here. Close at hand."

As they walked off together she discovered out of the corner of her
eye that his glance was searching the thinning mob of her fellow
passengers. She guessed that he had recognized some person unexpectedly.

"Are you sure I am not trespassing on your time?" she demanded.

"Quite sure. When I said the sun was in my eyes I used poetic license.
I meant the West African sun. A man who arrived on your steamer
reminded me of Nigeria--where we--er--became acquainted."

"There! You want to speak to him, of course," and she halted suddenly.

He smiled again, and held out the bag.

"He is a Portuguese gin-trader--and worse. And he is gone. Would you
have me run after him and offer peaches that were meant for you?"

"But that is ridiculous."

"Most certainly."

"I don't mean that. How could you possibly have provided peaches for
me?"

"I don't know. Ask the fairies who arrange these things. Ten minutes
ago I had no more notion of buying fruit than of buying an aeroplane.
Ten minutes ago you and I had never met. Yet here we are, you and I
and the luscious four. And there is Peter, sailing master, cook, and
general factotem of the _Nancy_ cutter. Don't you think Peter's wooden
leg induces trust? He calls it a prop, which suggests both moral and
physical support. By the way, have you ever noticed that wooden-legged
men are invariably fat? And Cæsar vouched for the integrity of fat men."

Though the girl began to find his chatter agreeable, she was secretly
dismayed when she compared the gigantic Peter with the diminutive
dinghy. She had never before seen so broad a man or so small a boat.
But she had grit, and was unwilling to voice her doubt.

"Will it hold us?" she inquired with apparent unconcern.

"Oh, yes. When Peter was a pilot that little craft carried him and his
two mates through many a heavy sea. Don't be afraid. We will put you
safely on board the _Sans Souci_. Now, you sit there and hold the bag.
I'll take my two at once, please, as I find room forrard."

"Not much of a breeze for cruisin', Mr. Warden," grinned Peter,
casting an appreciative eye over the latest addition to the _Nancy's_
muster-roll.

"We're not bound for a cruise, Peter, worse luck," said Warden. "The
young lady wishes to reach that big yacht moored abreast of the cutter.
So give way, O heart of oak! Thou wert christened stone, yet a good
name is rather to be chosen than great riches."

Peter winked solemnly at the fair unknown.

"He do go on, don't he, miss?" he said.

The girl nodded, for ripe peach is an engrossing fruit. She was
enjoying her little adventure. It savored of romance. Already her
slight feeling of nervousness had vanished. In her heart of hearts she
hoped that Mr. Warden might prove to be a friend of the Baumgartners.

Under Peter's powerful strokes the dinghy sped rapidly into the open
waters of the Solent. At that hour there was but slight stir in the
roadstead. Everybody afloat seemed to be eating. Each launch and yacht
they passed held a luncheon party beneath awnings or in a deck saloon.
Through the golden stillness came the pleasant notes of a band playing
in the grounds of the clubhouse. A bugle sounded faint and shrill from
the deck of a distant warship. Sitting in this cockleshell of a craft,
so near the glistening water that one might trail both hands in it,
was vastly agreeable after a long journey by rail and steamer. From
sea level the girl obtained an entirely different picture of Cowes and
the Solent from that glimpsed from the throbbing ferry-boat. The sea
appeared to have risen, the wooded hills and clusters of houses to
have sunk bodily. Already the shore was curiously remote. A sense of
brooding peace fell on her like a mantle. She sighed, and wondered why
she was so content.

Peter's airy summary of his master's habits seemed to have cast a spell
on their tongues. For fully five minutes no one spoke. The wondrous
silence was broken only by the rhythmical clank of the oars, the light
plash of the boat's movement, the strains of a waltz from the Castle
lawn, and the musical laughter of women from the yachts.

Owing to the shortness of the dinghy, and the fact that the girl faced
Warden, with Peter intervening, the two younger people were compelled
to look at each other occasionally. The man saw a sweetly pretty face
dowered with a rare conjunction of myosotis blue eyes and purple
eyelashes, and crowned with a mass of dark brown hair. Accent, manner,
and attire bespoke good breeding. She was dressed well, though simply,
in blue canvas. Being somewhat of an artist, he did not fail to note
that her hat, blouse, gloves and boots, though probably inexpensive,
harmonized in brown tints. She was young, perhaps twenty-two. Guessing
at random, he imagined her the daughter of some country rector, and,
from recent observation of the Baumgartners, eked out by their public
repute, he admitted a certain sentiment of surprise that such blatant
parvenus should be on her visiting list.

For her part, the girl had long since discovered that her
self-appointed guide was an army man. West Africa gave a hint of
foreign service that was borne out by a paleness beneath the tan of
the yachtsman. A regimental mess, too, is a university in itself,
conferring a well-defined tone, a subtle distinctiveness. Each line of
his sinewy frame told of drill, and his rather stern face was eloquent
of one accustomed to command.

These professional hall-marks were not lost on her. She had mixed in
circles where they were recognized. And she was prepared to like him.
In her woman's phrase, she thought it was "nice of him" not to question
her. She was quite sure that if they met again ashore that afternoon he
would leave her the option of renewing or dropping their acquaintance
as she thought fit. Yet, for one so ready of speech after the first
awkward moment outside the steamer pier, it was surprising that he
should now be so taciturn.

When he did address her, he kept strictly to the purpose of their
expedition.

"That is the _San Souci_," he said, pointing to a large white yacht in
the distance. "A splendid vessel. Built on the Clyde, I believe?"

"Ay, three hunnerd tons, an' good for ten knots in any or'nary sea,"
put in Peter.

"You know her, of course?" went on Warden.

"No. I have never before set eyes on her."

"Well, you will enjoy your visit all the more, perhaps. From last
night's indications, you should have plenty of amusement on board."

"Are there many people there, then?"

"I am not sure. The owners gave a big dinner party yesterday. The
launch was coming and going at all hours."

"What is that?" she asked inconsequently, indicating with a glance a
small round object bobbing merrily westward some few yards away.

"It is difficult to say. Looks like a float broken loose from a fishing
net," said Warden.

"No, sir, it ain't that," pronounced Peter. "Nets have corks an' buoys,
an' that ain't neether."

"You may think it absurd," cried the girl, "yet I fancied just now that
I caught a resemblance to a face, a distorted black face; but it has
turned round."

The boatman lay on his oars, and they all looked at the dancing yellow
ball hurrying to the open sea.

"At first sight it suggests a piratical pumpkin," said Warden.

"But I have been watching it quite a long time, and I am certain it
is black on the other side. There! Surely I am not mistaken. And the
people on that yacht have seen it, too."

The girl's face flushed with excitement. The thing had really startled
her, and the two men were ready to agree that it now presented a
mask-like visage, more than half submerged, as it swirled about in
a chance eddy. That some loungers on a yacht close at hand had also
noticed it was made evident by their haste to run down a gangway into a
boat fastened alongside.

"After it, Peter!" cried Warden. "It is the lady's trover by the law
of the high seas. Bend your back for the honor of the _Nancy_. Port a
bit--port. Steady all. Keep her there."

In her eagerness, the girl tried to rise to her feet.

"Sit still, miss," growled Peter, laboring mightily. "Judging by the
position of that other craft, an' from wot I know of Mr. Warden,
there'll be a devil of a bump in 'arf a tick."

"Starboard a point," cooed Warden, on his knees in the bows. "Steady as
she goes."

Suddenly he sprang upright.

"Hard a-starboard!" he shouted, and leaped overboard.

A yell from the opposing boat, a scream from the girl, a sharp crack as
an oar-blade snapped against the sturdy ribs of the dinghy, and the two
boats shot past each other, Peter's prompt obedience to orders having
averted a collision.

"My godfather!" he roared, "'e 'ad to jump for it. But don't you worry,
miss--'e can swim like a herrin'."

Nevertheless, the girl did worry, as her white face and straining eyes
well showed. Peter swung the dinghy about so nimbly that she lost all
sense of direction. It seemed as if the laughing Solent had swallowed
Warden, and she gazed affrightedly on every side but the right one.

"Oh, how could he do it?" she wailed. "I shall never forgive myself--"

Then she heard a deep breath from the water behind her, and she turned
to see Warden, with blood streaming from a gash across his forehead,
swimming easily with one hand. She whisked round and knelt on the seat.

"Quick!" she cried. "Come close. I can hold you."

"Please do not be alarmed on my account," he said coolly. "I fear I
look rather ghastly, but the injury is nothing, a mere glancing blow
from an oar."

Even in her unnerved condition she could not fail to realize that he
was in no desperate plight. But she was very frightened, and grasped
his wrist tenaciously when his fingers rested on the stern rail. Yet,
even under such trying circumstances, she was helpful. Though half
sobbing, and utterly distressed, she dipped her handkerchief in the
water and stooped until she could wash the wound sufficiently to reveal
its extent. He was right. The skin was broken, but the cut had no depth.

"Why did you behave so madly?" she asked with quivering lips.

"It was method, not madness, fair maid," he said, smiling up at her.
"Our opponents had four oars and a light skiff against Peter's two and
a dinghy that is broad as it is long. To equalize the handicap I had to
jump, else you would have lost your trophy. By the way, here it is!"

With his disengaged hand he gave her a smooth, highly polished oval
object which proved to be a good deal larger than it looked when
afloat. The girl threw it into the bottom of the boat without paying
the least heed to it. She was greatly flurried, and, womanlike, wanted
to box Warden's ears for his absurd action.

"You have terrified me out of my wits," she gasped. "Can you manage to
climb on board?"

"That would be difficult--perhaps dangerous. Peter, pull up to the
nearest ship's ladder. Then I can regain my perch forrard."

But Peter was gazing with an extraordinary expression of awe, almost
of fear, at the unusual cause of so much commotion.

"Well, sink me!" he muttered, "if that ain't Ole Nick's own himmidge,
it's his head stoker's. I've never seen anything like it, no, not in
all my born days. My aunt! It's ugly enough to cause a riot."




CHAPTER II

HOW THE MESSAGE WAS DELIVERED


Owing to the return of the rival boat, Peter's agitation passed
unnoticed. A superior person was apologizing for the accident, though
inclined to tax Warden with foolhardiness.

"You have only yourself to blame for that knock on the head, which
might have been far more serious than it is," he said.

"Will you kindly go to--Jericho?" said the man in the water.

The superior person's tone grew more civil when he found that he was
talking to one whom he condescended to regard as an equal.

"Don't you want any assistance?" he inquired.

"No, thanks, unless you will allow me to use your gangway in order to
climb aboard the dinghy."

"By all means. I am sorry the oar caught you. But you annexed the
prize, so I suppose you are satisfied. What was it?"

"A calabash, I fancy. You will see it lying in the boat."

Peter, who was really fascinated by the carved face which drew the
girl's attention in the first instance, suddenly kicked it and turned
it upside down with his wooden leg. The men in the second boat saw only
the glazed yellow rind of an oval gourd, some twelve inches long and
eight or nine in diameter.

"The pot was hardly worth the scurry," laughed one of them.

"If Greeks once strove for a crown of wild olive, why not Englishmen
for a calabash?" said Warden.

There was an element of the ludicrous in the unexpected comment from a
man in his predicament. Every true-born Briton resents any remark that
he does not quite understand, and some among the strangers grinned. The
girl, still holding Warden's wrist as though she feared he would vanish
in the depths if she let go, darted a scornful look at them.

"The truth is that these gentlemen competed because they thought they
were sure to win," she cried.

"It was a fair race, madam," expostulated the leader of the yacht's
boat.

"Y-yes," she admitted. "My presence equalized matters."

As the men were four to two she scored distinctly.

"Give way, Peter," said Warden. "If I laugh I shall swallow more salt
water than is good for me."

He was soon seated astride the bows of the dinghy, which Peter's strong
arms brought quickly alongside the _Sans Souci_. By that time, the
girl's composure was somewhat restored. Warden obviously made so light
of his ducking that she did not allude to it again. As for the gourd,
it rested at her feet, but she seemed to have lost all interest in it.
In truth, she was annoyed with herself for having championed her new
friend's cause, and thus, in a sense, condoned his folly.

It did not occur to her that the _Sans Souci's_ deck was singularly
untenanted, until a gruff voice hailed the occupants of the dinghy from
the top of the gangway.

"Below there," came the cry. "Wotcher want here?"

The girl looked up with a flash of surprise in her expressive face. But
she answered instantly:

"I am Miss Evelyn Dane, and I wish to see Mrs. Baumgartner."

"She's ashore," was the reply.

"Well, I must wait until she returns."

"You can't wait here."

"But that is nonsense. I have come from Oxfordshire at her request."

"It don't matter tuppence where you've come from. No one is allowed
aboard. Them's my orders."

Miss Dane turned bewildered eyes on Warden.

"How can one reason with a surly person like this?" she asked.

"He is incapable of reason--he wants a hiding," said Warden.

A bewhiskered visage of the freak variety glared down at him.

"Does he, you swob," roared the apparition, "an' oo's goin' to give it
'im?"

"_I_ am. Take this lady to the saloon, and come with me to the cutter
yonder. My man will bring you to your bunk in five minutes, or even
less."

"For goodness' sake, Mr. Warden, do not make my ridiculous position
worse," cried the girl, reddening with annoyance. "Mrs. Baumgartner
wrote and urged me to see her without any delay on board this yacht. I
telegraphed her early this morning saying I would be here soon after
midday. What _am_ I to do?"

"If I were you, I would go back to Oxfordshire," he said.

"But I cannot--at least, not until I have spoken to her. I am--poor.
I am practically engaged as companion--another name for governess, I
suspect--to Mrs. Baumgartner's daughter, and I dare not throw away the
chance of obtaining a good situation."

Warden, who was dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, did not
reply at once, and Evelyn Dane, in her distress, little guessed the
irrational conceit that danced in his brain just then. But the presence
of Peter, and the torrent of sarcastic objurgation that flowed from
the guardian of the _Sans Souci_, imposed restraint. It was on the tip
of his tongue to suggest that, under the conditions, it would be a
capital notion if they got married, and took a honeymoon cruise in the
_Nancy_!--Long afterward he wondered what would have been the outcome
of any such fantastic proposal. Would she have listened? At any rate,
it amused him at the time to think that there was little difference
between a lover and a lunatic.

But he contented himself with saying:

"I fear I am rather light-headed to-day, Miss Dane. Let us appeal to
Peter the solid, and draw upon his wide experience. Tell us then, O
pilot, what course shall we shape?"

Peter, rapidly restored to the normal by the familiar language coming
from the rail of the yacht, glanced up.

"If I was you, sir, I'd ax monkey-face there wot time 'is missis was
due aboard. Mebbe the young leddy would find her bearin's then, so to
speak."

"Excellent. Do you hear, Cerberus? When does Mrs. Baumgartner return?"

The watchman, taking thought, decided to suspend his taunts.

"Why didn't you ax me that at fust?" he growled. "I'm on'y obeyin'
orders. Seven o'clock, they said. An' it didn't matter 'oo kem here, if
it was the Pope o' Rome hisself, it's as much as my place is worth to
let him aboard."

"That is final, Miss Dane," said Warden. "There are two alternatives
before you. I can either gag and bind the person who has just spoken,
thus securing by force your admission to the yacht, or I can entertain
you on the _Nancy_ until seven o'clock."

"But I ought to go ashore."

"It is not to be dreamed of, I assure you. Cowes is overrun with
excursionists. You will be much happier with Peter and me, and we are
no mean cooks when put on our mettle."

She yielded disconsolately. Dislike of the _Sans Souci_ and every one
connected with that palatial vessel was already germinating in her
mind. If it were not for the considerations outlined in her brief
statement to Warden she would have caught the next ferry to Portsmouth
and allowed Mrs. Baumgartner to make other provision for her daughter's
companionship, or tuition.

"Give me a call when you are let off the chain," said Warden pleasantly
to the watchman, as the dinghy curved apart from the yacht's side.

The girl  even more deeply. Such behavior was not only
outrageous, but it supplied a safety valve for her own ruffled feelings.

"I wish you would not say such stupid things," she cried vehemently.
"What would happen if that wretched man took you at your word? You
would be mixed up in some horrible brawl, and wholly on my account."

"He will not come, Miss Dane," he said sadly. "Let me explain, however,
that I prodded his thick hide with set purpose. He is alone on the
_Sans Souci_; he blustered because he was afraid we meant to go
aboard, aye or nay. Is it not extraordinary that such a vessel should
be absolutely denuded of owner, guests, servants, and crew? That man
is not a sailor. Unless I am greatly mistaken, he does not belong to
the yacht in any capacity. What does it mean? You may take it from
me that it is unusual, I might almost say phenomenal, for a valuable
steam-yacht in commission to be deserted in that manner."

"But he admitted that 'they,' meaning Mr. and Mrs. Baumgartner, I
suppose, would return early this evening?"

"I am sure he is right in that. But where are the twenty odd domestics
and members of the crew? When Peter and I went ashore at ten o'clock
to-day the _Sans Souci_ was alive with people."

"I only know that Mrs. Baumgartner seems to have been thoughtless where
I am concerned," said the girl, absorbed in her own troubles.

Nevertheless, she brightened considerably when Warden assisted her to
reach the spotless deck of the _Nancy_. By dint of much scrubbing and
polishing, that taut little cutter had no reason to shirk the vivid
sunlight. At the beginning of the cruise she had been fitted with a
new suit of sails and fresh cordage. For the rest, Peter, and Peter's
fourteen-year-old son "Chris," roused now from sound sleep in the cabin
by his father's loud summons, kept brass fittings and woodwork in a
spick-and-span condition that would bear comparison with the best-found
yacht in the roadstead.

Miss Dane was accommodated with a camp chair aft, while Warden dived
into the cabin to change his clothes. The boy, after a wide-eyed stare
at his employer, was about to busy himself with tying up the dinghy,
when Peter bade him be off and see to the stove if he wished to escape
a rope-ending. Chris was hurt. He had not expected such a greeting from
his revered parent; but he disappeared instantly, and Peter imagined
that his offspring was thus prevented from investigating the mystery
of the gourd, which he took good care to leave in the bottom of the
boat.

As for the girl, her mind was occupied to the exclusion of all else by
the strange combination of events that brought her a guest on board
the _Nancy_. She was not so much perturbed by the absence of Mrs.
Baumgartner as by Warden's manifest disapproval of the lady. A railway
return ticket, sufficient money in her purse to pay for a room in a
hotel, and the existence of a friend of her mother's in Portsmouth,
a friend whose good offices might be invoked if necessary, made her
independent. But she did not want to go back defeated to Oxfordshire.
Her father's carelessness had left her practically at the mercy of
a stepmother, who enjoyed the revenue of a fair estate until death.
The settlement was not to the liking of either woman, and Evelyn was
goaded into an endeavor to escape from it by the knowledge that she was
regarded as an interloper in a house that would ultimately come into
her possession if she survived the second Mrs. Dane.

The well-paid appointment offered by the Baumgartners was apparently
an opening sent by the gods. She had been strongly recommended for the
post by a friend, and there seemed to be no reason whatever why it
should not prove an ideal arrangement for both parties. Yet Warden,
unmistakably a gentleman, if rather eccentric in his ways, evidently
did not view the mining magnate's family with favor. That was a
displeasing fact. Though she had no personal experience of the section
of society which dubs itself the "smart set," she gathered that the
Baumgartners belonged to it, and it was a risky undertaking for a young
woman to constitute herself part and parcel of the household of one of
its leading members.

Her somewhat serious reverie was interrupted by the grateful scent
of cooking that came from a hidden region forward. Warden reappeared
in dry clothing. The cut on his forehead was covered with a strip of
sticking plaster. He was bare-headed, and a slight powdering of gray in
his thick black hair made him look more than his age.

"Our glass and china are of the pilot pattern," he explained, placing a
laden tray on the deck, "but we balance deficiencies in these respects
by a high tone in our cuisine. To-day's luncheon consists of grilled
chicken and bacon, followed by meringues and figs, while the claret was
laid down last week in Plymouth."

"I am so hungry that I can almost dispense with the glass and china,"
she admitted. "But won't you let me help? I am quite domesticated."

"What? Would you rob the cook of his glory? You must eat and admire,
and thank the kindly gales that wafted Peter to the Indian Ocean when
he was putting in his sea service, because he learned there how to use
charcoal in the galley instead of an abominable oil lamp."

"I was born in India," she said with delightful irrelevance.

"Ah, were your people in the army?"

"No. My father was in the Indian Marine. But he retired when I was two
years old--soon after my mother's death. I lost him eight years later,
and, having lived thirteen years with a stepmother, I thought it high
time to begin to earn my own living."

She fancied that this brief biography might encourage him to speak of
the Baumgartners, but Warden's conversation did not run on conventional
lines.

"I find your career most interesting," he said. "Now that we know each
other so well I want to hear more of you. Promise that you will write
every month until early December, and report progress in your new
surroundings. Here is my card. A letter to the Universities Club will
always reach me."

She read:--"Captain Arthur Warden, Deputy Commissioner, Nigeria
Protectorate."

"Why must I stop in December?" she asked, with a smile and a quick
glance under her long eyelashes.

"Because I return to Nigeria about that date, and I shall then supply a
new address."

"Dear me! Are we arranging a regular correspondence?"

"Your effusions can be absolutely curt. Just the date and locality, and
the one word 'Happy' or Miserable,' as the case may be."

The arrival of Chris with a grilled chicken created a diversion. Peter
had to be summoned from the galley. He explained sheepishly that he
thought the meal was of a ceremonious character. They feasted regally,
and all went well until the unhappy Chris asked his father if the
vegetable marrow was to be boiled for dinner.

"Wot marrer?" demanded Peter unguardedly.

"The big one in the dinghy."

"By Jove, we have never given a thought to the calabash that created
all the rumpus," cried Warden. "What about that black face you saw on
it, Miss Dane? I didn't notice it afterwards. Did you?"

"No. I was too excited and frightened. Your son might bring it to us
now, Mr. Evans."

"Beggin' your pardon, miss, we'll leave it till you've finished lunch,"
said Peter, regarding Chris with an eye that boded unutterable things.

"But why, most worthy mariner?" demanded Warden.

"'Cos it's the ugliest phiz that ever grew on a <DW65>," was the
astonishing answer. "It gev' me a fair turn, it did, an' I'm a pretty
tough subjec'. It's enough to stop a clock. If the young leddy takes my
advice she'll bid me heave it overboard and let it go to the--well, to
where it rightly belongs."

"It's only an old gourd," exclaimed Evelyn, looking from one to the
other in amused surprise.

"Peter," said Warden, laughing, "you have whetted our curiosity with
rare skill. Come, now. What is the joke?"

"I'm in reel earnest, sir--sink me if I ain't. It's--a terror, that's
wot it is."

"Bless my soul, produce it, and let us examine this calabash of parts."

"Not me!" growled Peter, hauling himself upright with amazing rapidity.
"Believe me, sir, I 'ope you won't 'ave the thing aboard the _Nancy_.
Get forrard, you," he went on, glaring at the open-mouthed Chris.
"Start washin' them plates, an' keep yer silly mouth closed, or you'll
catch somethin' you can't eat."

There could be no doubt that the usually placid and genial-spoken Peter
was greatly perturbed. To avoid further questioning, he stumped off
to his quarters in the fore part of the cutter, and swung himself out
of sight, while the girl endeavored vainly to estimate how he could
squeeze his huge bulk through so small a hatchway.

Warden also stood up.

"After that there is but one course open to us," he said, and drew in
the dinghy's painter until he was able to secure the gourd.

He was on his knees when he lifted it in both hands and turned it
round to ascertain what it was that had so upset his stout friend.
In reviewing his first impressions subsequently, he arrived at the
conclusion that close familiarity with the features of the West
African <DW64> must have blunted his mind to the true significance of
the hideous face that scowled at him from the rounded surface of the
calabash. He paid heed only to the excellence of the artist--none to
the message of undying hatred of every good impulse in mankind that was
conveyed by the frowning brows, the cruel mouth, the beady, snake-like
eyes peeping through narrow slits cut in the outer rind. Were not the
lineaments those of a pure <DW64>, he would have imagined that some
long-forgotten _doyen_ of the Satsuma school had amused himself by
concentrating in a human face all that is grotesque and horrible in the
Japanese notion of a demon. But there was no doubting the identity of
the racial type depicted. Warden could even name the very tribe that
supplied the model. A curious crinkled ring that had formed round the
gourd near the upper part of its egg-shaped circumference suggested the
quoit-shaped ivory ornament worn by the men of Oku. Oku used to be a
plague spot in West Africa. It is little better to-day, but its virus
is dissipated by British rule.

Warden's kindling glance soon detected other important details. The
raised ring, and certain rough protuberances that might have borne
a crude likeness to a man's face when the gourd was in its natural
state, were utilized with almost uncanny ingenuity to lend high relief
to the carving. Indeed, the surface had been but slightly scored with
the artist's knife. Half-lowered eyelids, a suggestion of parted lips
and broad nostrils, some deep creases across the brutish forehead,
and a sinister droop to each corner of the mouth--these deft touches
revealed at once the sculptor's restraint and power. The black skin
was simulated by a smooth and shining lacquer, the ivory ring by a
scraping of the rind that laid bare the yellow pith. No characteristic
was over-accentuated. The work offered a rare instance of the art that
conceals art.

And Warden felt that none but an artist worthy to rank with the elect
could have conceived and carried out this study of some fierce <DW64>
despot. That it was a genuine portrait he did not doubt for a moment.
It seemed to him that in its creation hate and fear had gone hand in
hand with marvelous craftsmanship. The man who exercised such cunning
on the inferior material provided by a rough-coated calabash was not
only inspired by the pride of conscious power but meant to leave an
imperishable record of a savage tyrant in his worst aspect. A great
Italian painter, limning his idea of the Last Judgment, gratified his
spite by placing all his enemies among the legion of the lost. This
unknown master had taken a more subtle revenge. It was possible that
the black chief, had he seen it, would have admired his counterfeit
presentment. It demanded a more cultured intelligence than Oku society
conferred to enable him to appreciate how plainly an evil soul leered
from out a dreadful mask.

In no respect was the truth of the image more convincing than in
the treatment of the eyes. A minute mosaic of chalcedony was used
to portray white and iris and cornea. Small pieces of clear crystal
formed the pupils, and the rays of light glinted from their depths
with an effect that was appalling in its realism. Thus might the eyes
of a cobra sparkle with vindictive fire. They exercised a diabolical
mesmerism. Warden, rapt in his admiration of a genuine work of art,
remained wholly unconscious of their spell till he heard a faint gasp
of horror from the girl.

He turned and looked at her in quick dismay. All the roses had fled
from her cheeks, leaving her wan indeed. Her own fine eyes were
distended with fright. She, like Peter Evans, gave no heed to the
consummate skill of the designer. She was fascinated at once by that
basilisk glare. It thrilled her to the core, threatened her with
immeasurable wrongs, menaced her with the spite of a demon.

"This is the most wonderful thing of its kind I have ever seen," said
Warden eagerly.

Though he was not yet awakened to the magnetic influence exercised by
the vile visage he could not fail to note the girl's consternation. He
thought to reassure her by pointing out the marvelous craft displayed
in its contriving.

"It is amazing in every sense," he went on, bringing the gourd nearer
for her inspection. "Although the calabash is of a variety unknown
in West Africa, the face gives a perfect likeness of an Oku chief.
There is a man in Oku now who might have sat to the sculptor, though
he is far from possessing the power, the tremendous strength, of the
original. Yet it seems to me to be very old. I cannot, for the life of
me----"

A loud crash interrupted him. Chris, removing the remains of the feast,
had gazed for an instant at the astounding object in Warden's hands.
The boy backed away, and tripped over a coil of rope, with disastrous
result to the crockery he was carrying.

Warden's voice, no less than the laugh with which he greeted Chris's
discomfiture, restored the poise of the girl's wits.

"You obtained that for me, did you not?" she cried with a curious
agitation.

"Yes, of course," said he.

"Then give it to me, please."

He was certainly surprised, but passed the gourd to her without further
comment. She half averted her eyes, took it unhesitatingly, and tried
to pitch it into the water. For its size, it was astonishingly light.
Were it as heavy as she imagined, it must have dropped into the Solent
several yards from the vessel. As it was, it flew unexpectedly high,
struck a rope, and fell back on deck, whence it bounded, with the
irregular bounce of a Rugby football, right into Warden's hands again.

"That was a mad trick," he said almost angrily.

"Oh, please, throw it away," she pleaded.

"Throw away a rare and valuable curio! Why?"

"Because it will bring you nothing but ruin and misery. Can you not see
its awful meaning? Throw it away, I implore you!"

"But that would be a crime, the act of a Vandal. It may be the chiefest
treasure of a connoisseur's collection. Would you have me ape some
fanatic Mussulman hammering to atoms a statue by Phidias?"

"There is no beauty in that monstrous thing. It is--bewitched."

"Oh really, Miss Dane--we are in England, in the twentieth century."

He laughed indulgently, with the air of an elder brother who had
forgiven her for an exhibition of pettish temper. He held out the
calabash at arm's length and viewed it critically. He saw immediately
that the crown inside the ring was misplaced.

"Hello!" he muttered, "you did some damage, then!"

Closer inspection revealed that the fall had loosened a tightly fitting
lid hitherto concealed by the varnish used as a preservative. He
removed it, and peered within.

"A document!" he announced elatedly. "Perhaps, after all, your
unaccountable frenzy was a blessing in disguise. Now, Miss Dane, we
may learn what you termed its 'awful meaning.' But, for pity's sake,
don't yield to impulse and rend the manuscript. You have cracked his
chiefship's skull--I pray you spare his brains."




CHAPTER III

WHEREIN A STRONG MAN YIELDS TO CIRCUMSTANCES


Curiosity, most potent of the primal instincts, conquered the girl's
fear. As it happened, Warden was still kneeling. He sat back on his
heels, rested the calabash against his knees, and withdrew a strip of
dried skin from its cunningly devised hiding-place. It was so curled
and withered that it crackled beneath his fingers when he tried to
unfold it. Quite without premeditation, he had placed the calabash in
such wise that the <DW64>'s features were hidden, and this fact alone
seemed to give his companion confidence.

"What is it?" she asked, watching his efforts to persuade the twisted
scroll to remain open.

"Parchment, and uncommonly tough and leathery at that."

He did not look up. A queer notion was forming in his mind, and he was
unwishful to meet her eyes just then.

"It looks very old," she said.

"A really respectable antique, I fancy. Have you any pins--four, or
more?"

She produced from a pocket a small hussif with its store of sewing
accessories.

"A genie of the feminine order!" he cried. "I was merely hoping for
a supply of those superfluous pins that used to lurk in my sister's
attire and only revealed their presence when I tried to reduce her to
subjection."

"Oh, you have a sister?"

"Yes--married--husband ranching in Montana."

Meanwhile he was fastening the refractory document to the deck.
With patience, helped by half a dozen pins, he managed to smooth
it sufficiently to permit of detailed scrutiny. The girl, wholly
interested now, knelt beside him. Any observer in a passing boat might
have imagined that they were engaged in some profoundly devotional
exercise. But the planks were hard. Miss Dane, seeing nothing but
wrinkled parchment, yellow with age, and covered with strange scrawls
that seemed to be more a part of the actual material than written on
its surface, soon rose.

"Those hieroglyphics are beyond my ken," she explained.

"They are Arabic," said Warden--"Arabic characters, that is. The words
are Latin--at least to some extent. _Epistola Pauli Hebraicis_ has the
ring of old Rome about it, even if it wears the garb of Mahomet."

He straightened himself suddenly, and shouted for Chris with such
energy that the girl was startled.

Chris popped his head out of the fore hatch, and was told to bring his
father's Bible, for Peter read two of its seven hundred odd pages each
day in the year.

Warden compared book and scroll intently during many minutes. Miss Dane
did not interrupt. She contented herself with a somewhat prolonged
investigation of Warden's face, or so much of it as was visible. Then
she turned away and gazed at the _Sans Souci_. There was a wistful look
in her eyes. Perhaps she wished that circumstances had contrived to
exchange the yacht for the pilot-boat. At any rate, she was glad he had
a sister. If only she had a brother!--just such a one!

At last the man's deep, rather curt voice broke the silence.

"I have solved a part of the puzzle, Miss Dane," he announced. "My
Latinity was severely tried, but the chapter and verse gave me the
English equivalent, and that supplied the key. Some one has that--some
one has written here portions of the 37th and 38th verses of the
eleventh chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews. Our version
runs: 'They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were
slain with the sword ... they wandered in deserts and in mountains,
and in dens and caves of the earth.' The remainder of the text is in
yet another language--Portuguese, I imagine--but my small lore in that
tongue is of no avail. In any case my vocabulary could not possibly
consort with the stately utterances of St. Paul, as it consists mainly
of remarks adapted to the intelligence of a certain type of freebooter
peculiar to the West African hinterland."

"What do you make of it all?" she asked.

"At present--nothing. It is an enigma, until I secure a
Portuguese-English dictionary. Then I shall know more. Judging by
appearances, the message, whatsoever it may be, is complete."

"What sort of skin is that?"

He lifted his eyes slowly. She was conscious of a curious searching
quality in his glance that she had not seen there before.

"It is hard to say," he answered. And, indeed, he spoke the literal
truth, being fully assured that the shriveled parchment pinned to the
deck had once covered the bones of a white man.

"The writing is funny, too," she went on, with charming disregard for
the meaning of words.

"It is pricked in with a needle and Indian ink," he explained. "That
is an indelible method," he continued hurriedly, seeing that she was
striving to recall something that the phrase reminded her of, and here
was a real danger of the suggestive word which had so nearly escaped
his lips being brought to her recollection. "You see, I have been able
to identify the gentleman who served the artist as model," and he
tapped the gourd lightly. "Therefore, I am sure that this comes from
a land where pen and ink were unknown in the days when some unhappy
Christian fashioned such a quaint contrivance to carry his screed."

"Some unhappy Christian!" she repeated. "You mean that some European
probably fell into the hands of West African savages years and years
ago, and took this means of safeguarding a secret?"

"Who can tell?" he answered, picking up the calabash and gazing
steadfastly at the malignant visage thus brought again into the full
glare of the sun. "This fellow can almost speak. If only he could----"

"Oh, don't," wailed the girl. "My very heart stops beating when I
see that dreadful face. Please put it away. If you will not throw it
overboard, or smash it to atoms, at least hide it."

"Sorry," he said gruffly, fitting the loose lid into its place. He
disliked hysterical women, and, greatly to his surprise, Evelyn Dane
seemed to be rather disposed to yield to hysteria.

"The more I examine this thing the more I am bewildered," he went on,
endeavoring to cover his harshness by an assumption of indifference.
"Where in the world did this varnish come from? It has all the gloss
and smooth texture and absence of color that one finds on a genuine
Cremona violin. The man who mixed it must have known the recipe lost
when Antonio Stradivarius died. Are you good at dates?"

The suddenness of the question perplexed her.

"Do you mean the sort of dates that one acquired painfully at school?"
she asked. "If so, I can give you the year of the Battle of Hastings or
the signing of Magna Charta."

"The period of a great artist's career is infinitely more important,"
he broke in. "Stradivarius was at the height of his fame about 1700.
Now, if this is the varnish he and Amati and Guarnerius used, we have a
shadowy clue to guide us in our inquiry."

"Please don't include me in the quest," she said decisively. "I refuse
to have anything to do with it. Leave the matter to me, and that nasty
calabash floats off toward the Atlantic or sinks in the Solent, exactly
as the fates direct. Positively, I am afraid of it."

"I really meant to take it out of your sight when I caught a glint of
the varnish," he pleaded.

But his humility held a spice of sarcasm. Rising, he tucked the gourd
under his coat. He was half-way down the hatch when his glance fell on
the little square of skin on the deck. Already the heat of the sun had
affected it, and two of the pins had given way. He came back.

"I may as well remove the lot while I am about it," he said, stooping
to withdraw the remaining pins.

"Oh, I am not to be frightened by _that_," she cried, with a pout that
was reminiscent of the schoolgirl period.

He laughed, but suppressed the quip that might have afforded some
hidden satisfaction.

"Gourd and document are much of a muchness," he said carelessly.

The parchment curled with unexpected speed, and caught his fingers in
an uncanny grip. Without thinking what he was doing, he shook it off
as though it were a scorpion. Then, flushing a little, he seized it,
and stuffed it into a pocket. Miss Dane missed no item of this by-play.
But she, too, could exercise the art of self-repression, and left
unuttered the words that her heart dictated. Being a methodical person,
she gathered the pins and replaced them in the hussif. She had just
finished when Warden returned.

"You don't mean to say----" he began, but checked himself. After all,
if he harped on the subject, there was some risk that the girl's
intuition might read a good deal of the truth into what she had seen
and heard during the past half-hour. So he changed a protest into a
compliment.

"Economy is the greatest of the domestic virtues. Now, a mere man would
have waited until one of those pins stuck into his foot as he was
crossing the deck for his morning dip, and then he would say things. By
the way, Peter believes the breeze is freshening. Would you care for a
short cruise?"

A delightful color suffused the girl's face. "I feel like lifting my
eyebrows at my own behavior," she said, "but I must admit that I should
enjoy it immensely. Please bring me back here before six o'clock.
I wish to go on board the _Sans Souci_ the moment Mrs. Baumgartner
arrives."

In response to Warden's summons, Peter and Chris appeared on deck. The
_Nancy_ cast off from her buoy, her canvas leaped to the embrace of the
wind, and soon she was slipping through the water at a spanking pace
in the direction of Portsmouth and the anchored fleet, for the cutter
could move when her sails filled.

Thenceforth the talk was nautical. Peter entertained them with details
of the warships or the yachts competing in the various races. Once,
by chance, the conversation veered close to West Africa, when Warden
gave a vivid description of the sensations of the novice who makes his
first landing in a surf-boat. But Peter soon brought them back to the
British Isles by his reminiscences of boarding salt-stained and sooty
tramps in an equinoctial gale off Lundy. No unpleasing incident marred
a perfect afternoon until tea was served, and the cutter ran to her
moorings.

The guardian Gorgon of the _Sans Souci_ watched their return, and it
was evident that his solitary vigil was still unbroken. About half-past
six, when a swarm of yachts were beating up the roads on the turn of
the tide, a steam launch approached the _Sans Souci_ and deposited a
lady and gentleman on the gangway. They were alone. The watchman helped
them to reach the deck, a financial transaction took place between him
and the gentleman, the latter disappeared instantly, and the watchman
descended the ladder with the evident intention of entering the launch.

But he hesitated, and pointed to the _Nancy_, whereupon the lady, to
whom he was speaking, looked fixedly at the cutter and her occupants.

"That is Mrs. Baumgartner, I am sure," said Evelyn eagerly. "Will you
take me across in the dinghy at once? Then, if necessary, I can reach
Portsmouth easily this evening, as I shall have gained half an hour."

She gave no heed to the astounding fact that if these people were
really the yacht-owner and his wife they were absolutely alone on the
vessel. Warden, unwilling to arouse distrust in her mind, bade Peter
draw the dinghy alongside.

"Good-by," he said, extending his hand frankly. "The world is small,
and we shall meet again. Remember, you have promised to write, and, in
the meantime, do not forget that if the _Nancy_ or her crew can offer
you any service we are within hailing distance."

"You are not leaving Cowes to-night, then?"

"No. To-morrow, if the wind serves, we go east, to Brighton and Dover,
and perhaps as far north as Cromer. After that, to Holland. But no
matter where I am, I manage to secure my letters."

Evelyn gave his hand a grateful little pressure. She was not insensible
of the tact that sent Peter as her escort.

"You have been exceedingly good and kind to me," she said. "I shall
never forget this most charming day, and I shall certainly write
to you. Good-by, Chris. Good-by, dear little ship. What a pity--"
she paused and laughed with pretty embarrassment. "I think I was
going to say what a pity it is that these pleasant hours cannot last
longer--they come too rarely in life."

And with that she was gone, though she turned twice during her short
voyage, and waved a hand to the man who was looking at her so steadily
while he leaned against the cutter's mast and smoked in silence.

There could be no doubt that the lady on the _Sans Souci_ was Mrs.
Baumgartner. No sooner did she realize that Miss Dane's arrival was
imminent than she threw up her hands with a Continental affectation of
amazement and ran into the deck cabin. To all seeming, she bade the
launch await further orders. Baumgartner and his wife reappeared, they
indulged in gesticulations to which Warden could readily imagine an
accompaniment of harsh-sounding German, and, evidently as the outcome
of their talk, the launch steamed away.

Warden smiled sourly.

"If those people had committed a murder on board, and were anxious to
sink their victim several fathoms deep before anybody interfered with
them, they could hardly be more excited," he thought. "Perhaps it won't
do my young friend any good if I remain here staring straight at the
yacht."

He busied himself with an unnecessary stowing away of the cutter's
mainsail, but contrived to watch events sufficiently to note that Mrs.
Baumgartner received her guest with voluble courtesy. Baumgartner, a
French-polished edition of the bacon-factor type of man, bustled the
two ladies out of sight, and thenceforth, during more than an hour, the
deck of the _Sans Souci_ was absolutely untenanted.

Twilight was deepening; lights began to twinkle on shore; not a few
careful captains showed riding lamps, although the precaution was yet
needless; launches and ships' boats were cleaving long black furrows in
the slate-blue surface of the Solent as they ferried parties of diners
from shore or yachts--but never a sign of life was there on board the
_Sans Souci_. Peter, undisturbed by speculations anent the future of
the young lady whose presence had brightened the deck of the _Nancy_
during the afternoon, cooked an appetizing supper. He was surprised
when Warden expressed a wish that they should eat without a light. It
did not occur to him that his employer was mounting guard over the
Baumgartners' yacht, and meant to have a clear field of vision while a
shred of daylight remained.

The progress of the meal was rudely broken in on by Peter himself.
Although the placid silence of the night was frequently disturbed
by the flapping of propellers, his sailor's ear caught the stealthy
approach of the one vessel that boded possible danger. Swinging himself
upright he roared:

"Where's that ugly Dutchman a-comin' to? Quick with a light, Chris, or
she'll be on top of us!"

It was the Emperor's cruiser-yacht that had so suddenly upset his
equanimity. Returning to Cowes after convoying the yacht flotilla, she
was now fully a mile away from her usual anchorage. But the _Nancy_ was
safe enough. The imperial yacht stopped at a distance of three cables'
lengths, reversed her engines, let go an anchor, and ran up to the
chain hawser when the hoarse rattle of its first rush had ceased.

Chris lost no time in producing a lantern, and his father slung it in
its proper place.

"It 'ud be just our luck if we wos run down," Warden heard him mutter.
"That <DW65>'s phiz we shipped to-day is enough to sink any decent
craft, blow me, if it ain't!"

Warden, whose vigil had not relaxed for an instant, saw that some
one was hoisting a masthead light on the _Sans Souci_. Her starboard
light followed, and soon the yellow eyes of a row of closed ports
stared at him solemnly across the intervening water. As the principal
living-rooms of such a vessel must certainly be the deck saloons, he
was more than ever puzzled by the eccentric behavior of her owners.
Every other yacht in the roadstead was brilliantly illuminated. The
_Sans Souci_ alone seemed to court secrecy.

It has been seen that, in holiday mood, he was a creature of impulse,
nor did he lack the audacity of prompt decision when it was called
for. He showed both qualities now by hauling the dinghy alongside and
stepping into it.

"Goin' ashore, sir?" cried the surprised Peter.

They kept early hours on board, and Warden's usual habit was to be
asleep by half-past nine when the cutter was at her moorings.

"No. I mean to pay a call. Got a match?"

"Let me take you, sir."

"No need, thanks. I'm bound for the _Sans Souci_. I may be back in five
minutes."

He lit a cigar, cast off, and rowed himself leisurely toward the vessel
which had filled so large a space in his thoughts ever since he met
Evelyn Dane in the street outside the steamer pier. His intent was to
ask for her, to refuse to go away unless he spoke to her, and, when
she appeared, as his well-ordered senses told him would surely be the
case, to frame some idle excuse for the liberty he had taken. She had
talked of returning to Portsmouth that evening, and it might serve
if he expressed his willingness to carry her imaginary luggage from
the quay to the railway station. She was shrewd and tactful. She would
understand, perhaps, that he was anxious for her welfare, and it would
not embarrass her to state whether or not his services were needed.

He was nearing the yacht when the red and green eyes of a launch
gleamed at him as he glanced over his shoulder to take measure of his
direction. There was no other vessel exactly in line with the _Sans
Souci_, and the thought struck him that this might be the messenger of
the gods in so far as they busied themselves with Miss Dane's affairs.
There was no harm in waiting a few minutes, so he altered the dinghy's
course in such wise that the launch, if it were actually bound for the
yacht, must pass quite closely, though he, to all outward seeming, was
in no way concerned with its destination. His guess was justified.
While the tiny steamer was still fifty yards distant, the quick
pulsation of her engines slackened. She drew near, and the figure of a
sailor with a boat-hook in his hands was silhouetted against the last
bright strip of sky in the northwest. She passed, and it demanded all
Arthur Warden's cool nerve to maintain a steady pull at the oars and
smoke the cigar of British complacency when he saw Miguel Figuero and
three men of the tribe of Oku seated in the cushioned space aft.

[Illustration: The presence of Figuero in Cowes was perplexing _Page 49_]

He could not be mistaken. He knew the West African hinterland so well
that he could distinguish the inhabitants of different districts by
facial characteristics slight in themselves but as clearly visible to
the eye of experience as the varying race-marks of a Frenchman and a
Norwegian. Coming thus strangely on the heels of the discovery of that
amazing calabash, the incident was almost stupefying. The presence of
Figuero alone in Cowes was perplexing--the appearance of three Oku
blacks was a real marvel--that all four should be visitors to the _Sans
Souci_ savored of necromancy. But Warden did not hesitate. He made
certain that the strange quartette were being conveyed to the yacht;
he took care to note that their arrival was expected, seeing that
Baumgartner himself came down the gangway with a lantern to light the
way on board; and then he pulled back to the _Nancy_. Ere he reached
her, the launch had gone shoreward again.

"You've changed your mind, sir," was Peter's greeting.

"You were keeping a lookout, then?" said Warden.

"'Ave nothin' else to do, so to speak, sir."

"Well, jump in and take the oars. I shall be with you in a moment."

Warden dived into the small cabin, rummaged in a box, and produced two
revolvers. He examined both weapons carefully under the cutter's light,
and ascertained that they were properly loaded, whereupon one went into
each of the outer pockets of his coat.

"Now take me to the _Sans Souci_, Peter," he said. "When I reach the
gangway, pull off a couple of lengths, and stand by."

"What's doin'?" asked Peter, who was by no means unobservant.

"Nothing, I hope. I may have to talk big, and twelve ounces of lead
lend weight to an argument. But I am puzzled, Peter, and I hate that
condition. You remember our <DW65> friend on the gourd?"

"Remember 'im. Shall I ever forget 'im?"--and the ex-pilot spat.

"Well, three live members of his tribe, and the worst Portuguese
slave-trader and gin-runner now known in West Africa, have just boarded
the _Sans Souci_. I don't consider them fit company for Miss Dane. What
do _you_ say?"

Peter hung on the oars.

"W'y not let Chris come an' look after the dinghy?" he said. "You may
need a friendly hand w'en the band plays."

Warden laughed.

"We are in England, Peter," he replied; but the words had a far less
convincing sound in his ears now than when he protested against Evelyn
Dane's unreasoning detestation of the carved gourd. One of the weapons
in his pockets was actually resting on the crackling skin of a man who
had been flayed alive--and most probably so flayed by ancestors of the
<DW64>s who were on board the _Sans Souci_ at that instant. The thought
strengthened his determination to see and speak to the girl that night.
At all costs he would persevere until she herself assured him that she
had no wish to go ashore. He even made up his mind to persuade her
to return to Portsmouth for the night, and it seemed to him that no
consideration could move him from his purpose.

Whereat Lachesis, she who spins the thread of life, must have smiled.
Short as was the distance to be traversed by the dinghy under the
impetus of Peter Evans's strong arms, the cruel goddess who pays no
regard to human desires had already contrived the warp and weft of
circumstances that would deter even a bolder man than Warden from
thrusting himself unbidden into the queer company gathered on the yacht.

The pilot was pulling straight to the gangway when a large steam launch
whistled an angry warning that he was crossing her bows. He twisted the
dinghy broadside on, and both Warden and he saw two officers in the
uniform of a foreign navy step on to the _Sans Souci_ gangway, where
Baumgartner, bare-headed and obsequious of manner, was standing to
receive them.

The _Nancy's_ boat was so near that her occupants could hear the
millionaire's words distinctly as he greeted the first of his two
latest visitors. He spoke in German, and Peter was none the wiser, but
Warden understood, and his errant fears for Evelyn Dane's welfare were
promptly merged in a very ocean of bewilderment.

"The _Nancy_ for us, Peter," he murmured. "As they say in the States, I
have bitten off more than I can chew. Do you know who that is?"

"Which?--the little one?"

"Yes."

"Mebbe he's the skipper of the Dutchman yonder. That's her launch."

"He is skipper of many Dutchmen. Mr. Baumgartner addressed him as
'emperor.' Give way, Peter. We must watch and eke pray, but there are
affairs afoot--or shall I say afloat--that it behooves not a simple
official in the Nigeria Protectorate to meddle with. God wot! I have
earned a captaincy and a year's leave by serving my country in a humble
capacity. Let me not lose both by an act of _lèse majesté_, and it
would be none else were I to break in on the remarkable conclave now
assembled on board the _Sans Souci_!"




CHAPTER IV

FIGUERO MAKES A DISCOVERY


"You don't mean to say----" gasped Peter.

"I do. And the less notice we attract during the next five minutes the
better I shall be pleased. Bear away to the nearest yacht, and let me
apologize for being late."

So, if there were eyes on board the _Sans Souci_ that paid heed to
aught save the coming of an august visitor, they would have seen
nothing more remarkable than a small boat visiting at least two vessels
in seemingly unsuccessful quest of one among the hundreds of yachts in
the roadstead.

Following a devious route, the dinghy reached the cutter from the port
side. Warden secured a pair of night binoculars, seated himself on the
hatch, and mounted guard over the _Sans Souci_. The cruiser's launch
was still alongside, and the time passed slowly until the two officers
descended the gangway and were borne swiftly in the direction of the
Royal Yacht Club landing-slip. They had been on board three-quarters of
an hour.

There was now so little movement afloat that the pulsation of the screw
could be heard until it was quite near the private pier. Finally it
was dominated by the strains of the Castle band beginning the evening
programme with the "Boulanger March," and Warden smiled as he thought
how singularly inappropriate the lively tune must sound in the ears of
the potentate hurrying shoreward.

The band broke off abruptly; after a brief pause it struck up again.

"The King, Gord bless 'im!" said Peter loyally.

"No. That is not for the King. They are playing _Heil dir im Sieger
Krantz_" said Warden, still peering at the _Sans Souci_.

"Well, it's the fust time I've ever heerd 'Gord save the King' called
_that_," expostulated the pilot.

"Same tune, different words."

Peter sniffed in his scorn.

"They'll be sayin' the Old Hundredth is a Dutch hornpipe next," he
growled.

The Prussian National hymn might have acted as a tocsin to Mr.
Baumgartner, for a light was hoisted forthwith over the poop of the
_Sans Souci_, and Warden discerned the tall forms of the three West
African natives standing near the tubby man who manipulated rope and
pulley. Figuero was not visible at first. Warden began to be annoyed.
Could it be possible that such a social outcast could be left in Evelyn
Dane's company? Developments soon relieved the tension. A launch puffed
up and took away the visitors, Figuero being the last to step on board.
The noisy little vessel was succeeded by two boats filled with sailors
and servants. Within a few minutes the yacht's officers arrived, the
deck saloons were brilliantly illuminated, and the _Sans Souci_ became
a jeweled palace like unto the host of her congeners in the Solent.

By this time Peter was as interested as his employer in the comings and
goings of their neighbors.

"There's more in that than meets the eye, Mr. Warden," he said, rolling
some tobacco between his palms preparatory to filling his pipe.

"Yet a good deal has met our eyes to-night," was the quiet answer.

Peter worked his great hands methodically. He was not a man of many
words; and when he expressed an opinion it was the outcome of calm
deliberation.

"Tell me who them <DW65>s an' the other party wos, an' I'll do some
fair guessin'," he said. "Rum thing, too, that such a gazebo as that
murderous-lookin' swab on the calabash should cross our course just
when it did. Were did it come from--that's wot I want to know. Has
there bin an earthquake? If looks count for anythink, it might have
risen straight up from----"

"Peter," broke in Warden, "I hope Chris is in bed?"

The pilot laughed.

"Time we wos, too, sir. May I ax w'ere his black nibs is stowed?"

"Among my traps. Forget it. I shall send it to London in the morning."

"An' a good job to be rid of it. I've seen some queer fish in the sea,
from bottle-nosed whales an' sharks to dead pigs who 'ad cut their own
throats with their fore feet by swimmin' from a wrecked ship, but never
before 'ave I clapped my peepers on a fizzy-mahog like that."

Twice had an unusually long speech betrayed his irate sentiment. He was
deeply stirred. Warden, smoking and listening in silence, but never
relaxing his vigilant scrutiny of the _Sans Souci_, felt that, in very
truth, there must be some malign influence in the carved head on the
gourd ere it would arouse the intense repugnance of two such different
natures as those of the bluff, good-tempered sailor and the dainty,
well-bred girl who had come so suddenly into his life.

He did not pursue the conversation. Though Evans was quite trustworthy,
there was no need to make him a confidant in matters which might have
the gravest bearing on an already troubled position in West Africa. The
pilot's carefully charged pipe was nearly empty when Warden surprised
him with an abrupt question.

"What time does the first train leave for London in the morning?"

"Round about seven o'clock," he said.

"You ain't thinkin' of chuckin' the cruise, I hope, sir," he went on,
and the dejection in his voice showed that he was prepared for the
worst.

"For a few hours, perhaps a night--that is all."

"So you b'lieve they mean mischief?" growled Peter, jerking a thumb
toward the yacht.

This direct and forcible reasoning was unexpected. Yet any level-headed
man might have reached practically the same conclusions from the
night's happenings. They were clear enough to one versed in most of
the intricacies and pitfalls of West African politics, nor did Warden
endeavor to evade the point.

"I believe that there are people in London who should know what you
and I know," he said slowly. "Anyhow, let us turn in. Miss Evelyn Dane
evidently sleeps on board. Perhaps the morning's light may dispel some
of the vapors that cloud our brains to-night."

The early train from Cowes did not, however, carry Arthur Warden among
the London-bound passengers.

A glimpse of Evelyn on the deck of the _Sans Souci_ altered that
portion of his plans. She waved a pleasant greeting, held up both
hands with the fingers spread widely apart, and nodded her head in
the direction of the town. He took the gesture to mean that she was
going ashore at ten o'clock, and he signaled back the information that
he would precede her at nine. Not until he found himself dawdling on
the quay, killing time as lazily as possible, did the thought obtrude
that he was extraordinarily anxious to meet her again. Of course, it
irritated him. A smart soldier, with small means beyond his pay--with
a foot just planted on the first rung of the administrator's ladder
in a land where life itself is too often the price asked for higher
climbing--he had no business to show any undue desire to cultivate the
acquaintance of young ladies so peculiarly eligible as Evelyn Dane.
He knew this so well that he scoffed at the notion, put two knuckles
between his lips, and emitted a peculiarly shrill and compelling
whistle.

For its special purpose--the summoning of a boy selling newspapers--it
was a sure means toward an end. It drew the boy's attention, even
evoked his envy. But it chanced also to be a krooboy call on the Upper
Niger, and in that capacity it brought a lean, swarthy face to the
window of a bedroom in a quiet hotel overlooking the quay.

Señor Miguel Figuero looked annoyed at first. His dark, prominent eyes
searched the open space for one of the <DW64>s whom he expected to find
there, but his wrathful expression changed to blank incredulity when he
saw Warden. The phase of sheer unbelief did not last long. He darted
out of the room, and rapped sharply on a neighboring door.

"O Loanda, M'Wanga! you fit for get up one-time," he shouted.

Crossing the corridor, he roused another dusky gentleman, Pana by name,
with the same imperative command. Soon the four were gathered at a
window and gazing at Warden.

"Dep'ty Commissioner Brass River lib," whispered the Portuguese
eagerly. "You savvy--him dat was in Oku bush las' year. Him captain
Hausa men. You lib for see him."

"O Figuero," said one of the <DW64>s, seemingly their leader, "I
plenty much savvy. I see him palaver in village."

"S'pose we fit for catch 'im?" suggested another.

"That fool talk here," growled Figuero. "You lib for see him
to-day--then we catch him bush one-time. I hear him give boat-boy
whistle. Stick your eyes on him, you pagans, an' don't you lib for
forget--savvy?"

They grunted agreement. The West African bushman has to depend almost
exclusively on his five senses for continued existence, and there was
little doubt that Arthur Warden would be recognized by each man at
any future date within reason, no matter what uniform he wore, or how
greatly his features might be altered by hardship or fever.

"Why he lib for dis place?" asked Loanda, the chief, who remembered
Warden's part in the suppression of a slave-raid and the punishment
subsequently inflicted on those who aided and abetted it.

"No savvy--yet. I lib for watch--then I savvy," said the Portuguese.

"O Figuero, I fit for chop," murmured Pana, who found little amusement
in gazing idly at an Englishman through a window when there were good
things to eat in the hotel.

"All right. Go an' chop, but remain in room till I come. Then I dash
you one quart gin."

Pana grinned.

"I chop one-time," he said, and, indeed, the three looked as though
they could tackle a roasted sheep comfortably.

Meanwhile, Warden opened his paper and took more interest than usual in
the news. He learned that the emperor dined on board the imperial yacht
and subsequently visited the Castle, being accompanied by Count von
Rippenbach as _aide-de-camp_.

Warden did not pretend to have more than a passing knowledge of foreign
politics, but he noted the name, the Count having undoubtedly been a
party to the conference on the _Sans Souci_.

Another paragraph was of more immediate import, inasmuch as it tended
to solve the mystery of the calabash. It ran:

"The emperor's yacht, after watching the British fleet at gun practice
off Selsey Bill yesterday, returned to the island and followed the
racers during several hours. An alarming incident occurred when
rounding the Foreland. Though a course was laid close in-shore, both
charts and lead showed ten fathoms of water. Suddenly the cruiser
struck. At first it was believed that she had run into some unknown
sandbank formed by a recent gale, but examination revealed that she had
collided with a sunken wreck, invisible even at low-water spring tide.
No damage whatever was done to the stately vessel, which continued the
cruise after a delay of a few minutes.

"A Sandown gentleman, passing the same spot later in his launch, found
some floating wreckage. The pieces he brought ashore are believed to be
parts of a ship dating back at least a couple of centuries, as there
is no record within modern times of any wooden ship foundering in the
locality. The gentleman in question decided to mark the exact spot
with a buoy, and a diver's services will be requisitioned when tide
and weather are suitable, so there is some possibility that a number
of antiques, together with a quantity of very old timber, will be
recovered."

Warden read the item twice. He found that the emperor was not on board
his own yacht at the time. The remainder of the newspaper was dull. He
threw away all but the page referring to Cowes, which he stuffed in a
pocket, and, although he held his nerves under good control, he almost
swore aloud when his fingers touched the roll of skin, whose very
existence he had forgotten for the hour.

The minutes passed slowly until a gig from the _Sans Souci_ deposited
Miss Dane on the wharf.

Not wishing to become known to any of the yacht's people if he could
possibly avoid it, Warden strolled away a little distance as soon as
the boat appeared in the Medina. Figuero, whose eyes had never left him
for an instant since he emitted the telltale whistle, hurried to the
door of the hotel and narrowly escaped being discovered when Warden
turned on his heel.

The Portuguese, an expert tracker in the bush, was out of his element
in Cowes, but he managed to slip out of sight in good time. He was
safer than he imagined. Warden was looking at Evelyn Dane, and she made
a pretty enough picture on this fine summer's day to keep any man's
glance from wandering.

It gave him a subtle sense of joy to note the unfeigned pleasure of her
greeting. Her face mantled with a slight color as she held out her hand.

"I am on my way home," she cried, "but my train does not leave for half
an hour. It is so good of you to wait here. I was dreading that you
might row across to the yacht--not because I did not want to see you
again, but Mr. Baumgartner made such a point of excluding me from any
knowledge of his visitors last night that he would be positively ill if
he guessed I had friends on board the _Nancy_."

"And Mrs. Baumgartner----"

"She is a dear creature, but much in awe where her husband's business
affairs are concerned. She and I passed the evening together. She would
not hear of my departure, but she warned me not to say a word about my
afternoon's adventures. Mr. Baumgartner is of a nervous disposition. I
suppose he thinks all the world is watching him because he is a rich
man."

"There is method in his madness this time," laughed Warden. "Let
me tell you quite candidly that if some one told him my name and
occupation and added the information that I kept a close eye on the
_Sans Souci_ between the hours of 5.30 and 9 P.M. last night, he, being
of plethoric habit, would be in danger of apoplexy."

They were walking to the station. Evelyn, unable to decide whether or
not to take his words seriously, gave him a shy look.

"You knew I was safe on board," she said.

For some reason, the assumption that he was thinking only of her caused
the blood to tingle in Warden's veins.

"That is the nicest thing you could have said," he agreed, and she in
turn felt her heart racing.

"Of course you are very well aware that I did not imagine you might not
be differently occupied," she protested.

"Let us not quarrel about meanings. You were delightfully right. It is
the simple fact that before you were many minutes in the _Sans Souci's_
cabin--by the way, where were you?"

"In Mrs. Baumgartner's state-room."

"Ah. Well--to continue--I was nearly coming to take you away, _vi et
armis_."

"But why?"

"You have no idea whom Mr. Baumgartner was entertaining?"

"None."

"The first person to reach the _Sans Souci_ after yourself was the
Portuguese land-pirate I mentioned to you yesterday. He was accompanied
by three chiefs of the men of Oku. Do you recollect my description of
the mask on the gourd?"

She uttered a startled little cry.

"Are you in earnest?" was all she could find to say.

"I was in deadly earnest about eight o'clock last evening, I assure
you. Had it not been for a most amazing intervention you would
certainly have heard me demanding your instant appearance on deck."

"Then what happened?"

"I must begin by admitting that I was worried about you. I got into the
dinghy, intending to see you on some pretext. A launch containing this
precious gang crossed my bows, and I returned to the _Nancy_ to--to
secure Peter's assistance. We were near the _Sans Souci_ on the second
trip when another launch arrived, and there stepped on board the yacht
a gentleman whose presence assured me that you, at least, were safe
enough. You will credit that element in a strained situation when I
tell you that the latest arrival was the emperor."

"The Emperor!" she almost gasped. "Do you mean----"

"Sh-s-s-h! No names. If walls have ears, we are surrounded by
listeners. But I am not mistaken. I saw him clearly. I heard
Baumgartner's humble greeting. And the really remarkable fact is that
Peter and you and I share a very important state secret."

"I--I don't understand," she said, bewildered.

"Of course you don't. Not many people could guess why the most powerful
monarch on the Continent of Europe should wish to confer with four of
the ripest scoundrels that the West African hinterland can produce.
Nevertheless, it is true."

"Then that is why Mrs. Baumgartner kept me closeted in her state-room
nearly two hours?"

"Yes. By the way, has she engaged you?"

"Yes. She was exceedingly kind. The terms and conditions are most
generous. I rejoin the yacht and meet her daughter at Milford next
Wednesday. Then we go to Scotland for some shooting, and the _Sans
Souci_ returns to Portsmouth to be refitted for a cruise to Madeira and
the Canaries during the winter months. Altogether, she sketched a very
agreeable programme. But you have excited my curiosity almost beyond
bounds by your description of the goings-on last night. My share of
the important state secret you spoke of is very slight. It consists in
being wholly ignorant of it. Can you enlighten me?"

"There is no reason why I should not. It will invest the Baumgartners
with a romantic nimbus which, judging solely from observations, might
otherwise be lacking."

The girl laughed.

"They are pleasant people, but rather commonplace," she said.

"Well, we can talk freely in the train."

"You are not leaving Cowes this morning on my account?"

Perhaps her voice showed a degree of restraint. Though she was
beginning to like Captain Arthur Warden more than she cared to
admit even to herself, he must not be allowed to believe that their
friendship could go to extremes.

"If you don't mind enduring my company as far as Portsmouth, I propose
to inflict it on you," he explained good-humoredly. "Circumstances
compel me to visit London to-day. Chris is now waiting at the station
with my bag. I would have left the island by the first train had I
not been lucky enough to see you earlier and interpret your signal
correctly."

"I only intended to tell you----"

"The time you would come ashore. Exactly. Why are you vexed because we
are fellow-travelers till midday?"

"I am not vexed. I am delighted."

"You expressed your delight with the warmth of an iceberg."

"Now you are angry with me."

"Furious. But please give me your well-balanced opinion. If peaches are
good in the afternoon should they not be better in the morning?"

"I _could_ eat a peach," she admitted.

Figuero, who did not fail to pick up the newspaper thrown aside by
Warden, followed them without any difficulty. When they stopped at a
shop in the main street he took the opportunity to buy a copy of the
torn newspaper. Mingling with a crowd at the station, he saw them enter
a first-class carriage. His acquaintance with the English language was
practically confined to the trader's tongue spoken all along the West
African coast, and he had little knowledge of English ways. But he was
shrewd and tactful, and his keen wits were at their utmost tension.
Hence, he was not at a loss how to act when he found that a ticket
examiner was visiting each compartment. Seizing a chance that presented
itself, he asked the man if he could inform him where the pretty girl
in blue and the tall gentleman in the yachtsman's clothes were going,
and a tip of five shillings unlocked the official lips.

"The lady has a return ticket to Langton, in Oxfordshire, and the
gentleman a single to London," said the man.

Figuero did not trust his memory. He asked the name of the first-named
town again, and how to spell it. Then he wrote something in a note-book
and hurried back to the harbor. It was essential that he should find
out what vessels these two people came from, for the presence of a
Southern Nigeria Deputy Commissioner in Cowes was not a coincidence to
be treated lightly.

Seated in a tiny boat in the harbor was a rotund, jolly-looking
personage of seafaring aspect. He and the boat were there when the
larger craft which brought the girl ashore came to the quay, but
Figuero had taken no notice of Evelyn then, because he had not the
least notion that Warden was awaiting her. Possibly the sailor-like
individual in the small boat could slake his thirst for knowledge.

So he hailed him.

"You lib for know Capt'n Varden?" he asked, with an ingratiating smile
and a hand suggestively feeling for a florin.

"I wot?" said the stout man, poking out a wooden leg as he swung round
to face his questioner.

"You savvy--you know Capt'n Varden, a mister who walk here
one-time--just now--for long minutes."

"There's no one of that name in these parts," replied Peter, who
thought he identified this swarthy-faced inquirer.

"Den p'raps you tell name of young lady--very beautiful young lady--who
lib for here in ship-boat not much time past? She wear blue dress an'
brown hat an' brown boots."

"Oh, everybody knows _her_," grinned Peter. "She's Miss Polly Perkins,
of Paddington Green."

"You write 'im name, an' I dash you two shillin'," said Figuero eagerly.

Peter was about to reply that if any dashing was to be done he could
take a hand in the game himself, but he thought better of it. Taking
the proffered note-book and pencil, he wrote the words laboriously, and
pocketed his reward with an easy conscience.

"When Chris heaves in sight I'll send him back for two pounds of
steak," he communed. "It was honestly earned, an' I figure on the
Captain bein' arf tickled to death when I tell 'im how the Portygee
played me for a sucker."

Figuero hastened to the hotel, saw that his sable friends were well
supplied with gin and cigarettes, bade them lie _perdu_ till he came
back, and made his way to the quay again. Peter was still there,
apparently without occupation.

"You lib for take me to yacht _Sans Souci_ an' I dash you five
shillin'?" he said.

"Right-o, jump in," cried Peter, but he added under his breath, "Sink
me if he don't use a queer lingo, but money talks."

He used all his artifices to get Figuero to discuss his business in
Cowes, but he met a man who could turn aside such conversational arrows
without effort. At any rate, Peter was now sure he was not mistaken
in believing that his fare was the "Portuguese slave-trader and
gin-runner" spoken of by Warden, and he had not failed to notice the
hotel which Figuero had visited so hurriedly.

There was a check at the yacht. Mr. Baumgartner had gone ashore, but
would return for luncheon. So Peter demanded an extra half crown for
the return journey, and met a wondering Chris with a broad smile.

"You're goin' shoppin', sonny," he exclaimed. "I've been earnin' good
money to-day. Sheer off for 'arf an hour, an' I'll tie up the dinghy.
I've got a notion that a pint would be a treat."

Thus it came to pass that while Señor Miguel Figuero was puzzling, even
alarming the millionaire yacht-owner with his broken talk of Captain
Varden, Dep'ty Commissioner and leader of bush expeditions--alarming
him so thoroughly that he never dreamed of associating Miss Evelyn Dane
with the Polly Perkins of Peter's juvenile memories--Arthur Warden
himself was driving in a hansom from Waterloo to the Foreign Office,
and wondering what new phase of existence would open up before him when
his news became known to the men who control the destinies of Outer
Britain.




CHAPTER V

A MAN AND A STORY--BOTH UNEMOTIONAL


Warden, running the gauntlet of doorkeepers and other human watch-dogs,
was finally ushered into the presence of an Under Secretary. To him
he detailed his business, and, lacking neither the perception nor the
modesty that often characterize men of action, he had barely begun to
speak ere he fancied that his recital did not command a tenth part
of the interest it warranted. Few talkers can withstand the apparent
boredom of a hearer, and Warden happened not to be one of the few.
Condensing his account of the proceedings on board the _Sans Souci_ to
the barest summary, he stopped abruptly.

The Under Secretary, leaning back in his chair, rested his elbows on
its comfortable arms, and pressed together the tips of his outspread
fingers. He scrutinized his nails, and seemingly was much troubled
because he had not called in at the manicurist's after lunch.
Nevertheless, being an Under Secretary, he owned suave manners, and the
significance of Warden's docket-like sentences did not escape him.

"Is that all?" he asked, turning his hands and examining their backs
intently.

"Practically all."

There was silence for a while. A clock ticked softly as if to emphasize
the peace that reigned on the park side of Whitehall.

"But you make certain deductions, I take it?" murmured the official.

"I could hardly fail to do that, knowing West Africa as I do," was the
curt answer. Warden was really annoyed with the man. Without wishing
him any positive evil, he wondered how far the Foreign Office cult
would carry such an exquisite through a Bush campaign, with its wasting
fever, its appalling monotony, its pathless wanderings midst foul swamp
and rain-soaked forest--perhaps a month's floundering through quagmire
and jungle with a speedy end under a shower of scrap iron fired from
some bell-mouthed cannon.

"Will you be good enough to favor me with them?" purred the other, now
absorbed in his palms.

"If I had a map--" began Warden, almost contemptuously.

The Under Secretary rose with a certain languid elegance. He was really
tired, having worked at the Macedonian gendarmerie regulations until
three o'clock that morning. High on the wall, behind Warden's chair,
were several long, narrow, mahogany cases, each fitted with a pendent
cord. The Under Secretary pulled one, and a large map of Africa fell
from its cover.

"I am fairly well acquainted with the Protectorate, but now you can
talk to scale," he said, going back to his seat and resuming his
nonchalant attitude.

Warden, still smarting under a sense of the evident insignificance of
Britain beyond the seas in the eyes of its home-dwelling custodians,
spoke brusquely enough.

"On the Benuë river, a tributary of the Niger, four hundred miles
from the coast," he said, "you will find the town of Giré in the Yola
District. You see it is just within the sphere of British influence.
Germany claims the opposite bank. Well, Oku is near Giré. Oku is not on
the map----"

"I put it there myself yesterday," broke in the Under Secretary.

Warden was gifted with keen sight. He swung round and gave the huge
sheet on the wall a closer scrutiny. A great many corrections had been
made on it with pen and ink. They were carried out so neatly that they
resembled the engraved lettering.

For an instant his eyes met those of the Under Secretary; thenceforth a
better understanding reigned.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Since you gave attention to the position
of Oku so recently, I am half inclined to believe that not only my
information but my opinions are forestalled."

"We have been at cross purposes," murmured the tired voice. "You are
Captain Arthur Warden, who commanded the Oku punitive expedition
thirteen months ago. Since early yesterday morning the Colonial Office,
at my request, has been trying to discover your whereabouts--trying in
vain, I gather--or you would have mentioned the fact. I really wished
to consult you with reference to this very topic. It is all the more
gratifying that chance should have led you to be a witness of events
which were surmises on our part, and that your sense of duty should
bring you here at the earliest possible moment."

Warden positively blushed. It was a relief that the Under Secretary was
obviously inclined to visit his manicurist that afternoon rather than
wait till the morrow. Such preoccupation gave him time to recover. But
he devoted no more time to silent theories anent the disgraceful apathy
of the home authorities with reference to West African affairs.

"I cannot insist too strongly on the efforts that are being made by our
neighbors to undermine British influence in that quarter," he said.
"Their traders pander to native excesses and humor their prejudices.
Their pioneers are constantly pushing northward toward the shores
of Lake Tchad. Arms and ammunition are being smuggled across the
boundary at many points. Preparations are quietly in progress for a
transfer of power if ever British authority shows signs of weakening.
Therefore, I draw the worst auguries from the presence in Cowes of a
clever and unscrupulous filibuster like Figuero, especially when he
acts as bear-leader to three disaffected chiefs. Oku, as you know, is
an insignificant place, but it has one supreme attribute that gives
it among the <DW64>s the importance of Mecca in the Mohammedan world.
It is the center of African witchcraft. Its ju-ju men are the most
noted in the whole continent. Their fetish is deadly and irresistible.
They can compass the ruin of tribal leaders who are immeasurably more
wealthy and powerful than any of their own men. I do not pretend to
explain the reason--I can only state the fact--but there can be no
gainsaying the simple truth that if men of Oku place their ban on any
tribe or individual, that tribe or that man is doomed."

"Can you give instances?"

"Yes. As far away as the river Akini, in the Yoruba District"--and
this time Warden did not point to the map, though his words bridged
six hundred miles miles--"there was a quarrel between the up-country
traders and the shippers at Lagos. The merchants in the interior tried
to close the trade routes, but the local chiefs refused to help them.
By some means the traders secured the Oku ban on their side. The Yoruba
natives resisted it.

"By Jove! both they and the factors at Lagos were glad enough to come
to heel when every ounce of stuff was diverted into French Dahomey.
There was no overt act or threat. Oku methods are too clever for
that. The authorities were powerless. Hunger coerced the natives, and
financial loss brought the people on the coast to terms. And this took
place where we were paramount! Heaven only knows what excesses the Oku
fetish has caused in inter-tribal wars. Why, when I attacked them, I
had to break with my own hands every ju-ju token on the road. Not even
our Hausa troops would pass them otherwise."

"They had no ill effect on you, then?" said the other, smiling a little.

"None--at present."

Warden himself was surprised when his lips framed the qualification.
For no assignable cause his mind traveled to the lowering face on the
gourd, then reposing in his portmanteau at Waterloo Station, and he
remembered the curled scrap of tattooed skin in his pocket. He had not
mentioned the calabash to the official. Though it bore curiously on the
visit of the men of Oku to the Isle of Wight, he believed that such a
far-fetched incident would weaken his statements. Since he was inclined
at first to err so greatly in his estimate of the Under Secretary's
knowledge of West African politics, he was now more resolved than
ever not to bring an extravagant toy into a serious discussion. Any
reference to it would be ludicrously out of place. He was beginning to
entertain a deep and abiding respect for the Foreign Office and its
denizens.

The Under Secretary asked a few additional questions before he rose to
fold up the map. Warden took the hint, and was about to depart when he
received an unlooked-for piece of news.

"By the way, it is almost a certainty that Count von Rippenbach
accompanied the Emperor in the visit paid to the _Sans Souci_?" said
the official.

"I assume his identity solely from paragraphs in the newspapers."

"It will interest you to learn that the Count has just returned from
an exploring and hunting trip in the Tuburi region."

Now, Tuburi lies in the no-man's land that separates Lake Tchad from
German West Africa, and Warden met the Under Secretary's bored glance a
second time with quick comprehension.

"I think," went on the quiet voice, "I think it would be well if
you kept the Colonial Office posted as to your movements during
the remainder of your furlough. Personally, I expect no immediate
developments. The Emperor is a busy man. He can only devote half an
hour each year to affairs that affect the Niger. But, keep in touch.
You may be wanted. I am exceedingly obliged to you. One learns so much
from the men who have passed their active lives in lands which one has
never seen except in dreams. I dream here sometimes, in front of that
map--and its companions. Oh, I had almost forgotten. Do you know Mr.
Baumgartner?"

"Only by sight."

"That is useful. It might help if you were to meet him in some
unexpected locality. And his yacht, the _Sans Souci_, you have noted
her main features, such as the exact number of windows in her deck
houses, or the cabin ports fore and aft of the bridge?"

"I watched her closely many hours last night, but I fear I missed those
precise details," laughed Warden. "I shall correct the lapse at the
earliest opportunity."

"That sort of definite fact assists one's judgment. Paint and rig can
be altered, but structural features remain. I recall the case of the
_Sylph_, a foreign cargo-steamer loaded to the funnel with dynamite,
and about to pass Port Said at a time when it was peculiarly important
to the British fleet that the canal should remain open. She resembled a
hundred other disreputable-looking craft of her class, but a lieutenant
on the _Cossack_ had seen her a year earlier at Bombay, and noticed
a dent in the plates on the port bow. His haphazard memory settled
a delicate and complicated discussion in Pekin. Good morning! Don't
forget to send your address."

Standing in Downing Street to light a cigar, Warden glanced up at
the stately building he had just quitted. His views on "red-tape"
officialdom had undergone a rapid change during the past hour. It
was borne in on him that generations of men like himself had come
from the ends of the earth to that storehouse of secrets, and each
was convinced that he alone could reveal the solemn tidings which
might be the forerunner of modern Europe's Battle of Armageddon. And
the Under Secretary was called on to hear every prophet! From such
a standpoint the presence in England of a half-caste Portuguese and
three full-blooded <DW64>s dwindled to insignificance. True, the Under
Secretary had listened, and Warden almost shivered when he realized how
narrow was his escape from committing the grave error of discounting
his hearer's sympathy and measure of comprehension.

It was not his business to ask questions, but he gathered that others
than himself were alive to the dangers that might spring from a
conference between semi-rebellious subjects of Britain in West Africa
and the ruler of a mighty nation pent within cramped confines for
want of colonies. Oddly enough, the bent plates of the dynamite-laden
_Sylph_ suggested a strange connection between the carved gourd and
the strained position of affairs in the Cameroons. He had no manner
of doubt that when the royal yacht crashed into a sunken wreck the
previous day it liberated the calabash, which forthwith drifted into
the Solent, and escaped notice until discovered by Evelyn Dane. Suppose
she had not seen it? All their subsequent actions would have been
affected. He might never have known of the strange gathering on board
the yacht.

"Queer train of circumstances!" he thought. "If only I could use a pen,
what a romance I might contrive with that as a beginning--and this," he
added, when, in searching for a box of matches, his fingers closed on
the crisp roll of skin, "this as the frontispiece."

He hailed a cab. He wanted to open the bag left at the railway terminus
and deposit the gourd with the rest of his belongings in a small flat
hired months ago as a _pied-a-terre_. His stock of cigars needed
replenishing, and the weird document that had just made its presence
felt reminded him that a Portuguese dictionary was lacking. A glance at
his watch showed that he could not reach Cowes until a late hour, so he
resolved to pass the night in town, go to a theatre, and return to the
_Nancy_ next morning.

From Waterloo, therefore, he telegraphed to Peter:

"Remaining here until to-morrow. Keep your weather eye open."

He was sure that his friendly factotum would grasp the full meaning of
the second sentence, but he would have been the most surprised man in
London could he have known that Peter at that moment was plying the
three men of Oku with gin.

An accident brought about a slight variation of his plans. It happened
that no other passenger claimed the attention of the luggage-room clerk
at Waterloo when the portmanteau was unlocked. Warden deposited the
gourd on the zinc counter and groped among his belongings for something
to cover it.

The attendant, who was watching him, uttered a gasping exclamation.

"Good Lord! sir," he cried, "what sort of horrible thing is that?"

It was then that a hitherto undiscovered property in the gourd brought
itself in evidence. No sooner was it placed on a smooth surface than
it promptly wobbled into a half upright position, with the <DW64>'s
face on the upper part. Chance could hardly accomplish this movement.
It was the designer's intent, brought about by concealed weights, and
Warden instantly remembered that the calabash floated much deeper in
the water than would have been the case otherwise. A shaft of sunlight
came through a broken pane in the glass roof, and fell directly on the
scowling apparition.

The effect on the clerk was phenomenal. He grew livid, and backed away
from the counter.

"Well, that's the limit," he muttered. "If I'd ha' known old Hoof an'
Horns was so near to me since I kem on duty I'd 'ave gone sick."

Warden laughed, stuffed the gourd into the portmanteau, and hurried to
the waiting cab. So preoccupied was he with other matters, he had not
realized earlier that under the new conditions he would be in need of
some portion of the bag's contents.

It was no easy task to find a Portuguese-English dictionary. He
tried half a dozen booksellers in vain, but ultimately unearthed a
serviceable volume at a second-hand shop in Charing Cross Road. By the
time he reached his flat, five o'clock, he was desperately hungry,
having eaten nothing since breakfast.

His rooms looked dismal, and an apologetic hall-porter explained
that if the gentleman 'ad on'y sent a wire he'd ha' tidied the place
up a bit. Warden went to a restaurant, dined well, and returned at
half-past six. There was still an hour or more of daylight, so he
began to decipher the unsolved section of the strange manuscript. It
was a longer job than he anticipated. Arabic characters, being largely
phonetic, do not give a literal rendering of European words. Many pages
of the dictionary were searched ere he hit upon the exact rendering of
the blurred phrases. But the quest fascinated him. Before it was ended
he found it necessary to consult an atlas and an encyclopedia.

At last, allowing for a margin of error in his guesses at tenses and
other variants of root words, he completed a translation, and this is
what he had written:

"I, Domenico Garcia, artist and musician in the city of Lisbon, am
justly punished for my sins. Being desperate and needy, I joined in
an attack on the _Santo Espirito_, homeward-bound from the Indies,
and helped in the slaying of all the ship's company. We attacked her
when she left Lisbon on the voyage to Oporto, but a great gale from
the northeast drove us far out to sea, and then the wind veered to
the northwest, and cast us miserably ashore on the African desert. We
abode there many days, and saw no means of succor, so we buried most
of our ill-gotten gains in that unknown place and turned our faces to
the north, thinking to find a Portuguese settlement in the land of the
Moors. We died one by one, some from hunger, some from fever, some
from the ravages of wild beasts. Six out of fifty-four men reached the
town of Rabat in the train of a Moorish merchant. There we were sold
as slaves. Three were dead within a month. We who were left, Tommaso
Rodriguez, Manoel of Serpa and myself, were sent as presents over the
caravan road to that cruel tyrant the black king of Benin. Rodriguez
went mad, and was flayed alive for refusing to worship a heathen god.
This message is written on his skin. Manoel of Serpa was drowned in the
river which these monsters term 'Mother of Waters,' while I, though my
life is preserved by reason of my skill in carving, am utterly bereft
of hope in this world while filled with fear of God's justice in the
next. Christian, you who read these words, for which I have devised
a cunning receptacle that may long survive me, if you would help an
erring brother to regain salvation, go yourself, or send some trusty
person, to the above-named town of Rabat. I hid there a great ruby
which I took from a golden pyx found on board the _Santo Espirito_. It
lies in the Hassan Tower, the tomb of an infidel buried outside the
walls. A causeway leads to the door, which is three cubits from the
ground, and my ruby is in a deep crack between the center stones of the
sill of the third window on the left. I placed it there for safety,
thinking that perchance I might escape and secure it again. Friend, I
am many marches from Rabat but few from death. Find that gem of great
price, and cause masses to be said for my soul in the Cathedral of the
Patriarch at Lisbon. Inscribed by me, the unhappy Domenico Garcia, in
the year 1634, to pleasure that loathly barbarian, M'Wanga, King of
Benin, who holds that writing on a white man's skin is most potent
magic against fever, even while I, the alchemist, am yielding to its
ravages."

The violet-tinted gloom that marks the close of a fine summer's day in
London was filling the room with its shadows when Warden had written
the last words of a fair copy. He lit a cigar, placed an easy chair
so that he might sit with his back to the window, and was about to
analyze the queer document which had fallen into his hands in such an
extraordinary manner when he noticed that the face on the gourd, though
tilted on the table exactly in the same fashion as on the counter of
the luggage-room at Waterloo, appeared to be watching him. Now, no man
of strong nervous power likes to feel startled, and that the stealthy
menace in those evil eyes was startling he did not attempt to deny.
He had not noticed previously that--no matter what the angle--so long
as the eyes were visible they seemed to look fixedly at the beholder.
Thinking that the waning light was deceptive, he sprang up and built
some books into a V-shaped support that enabled him to set the scowling
face in many positions. The varying tests all had the same result. The
snake-like glance followed him everywhere. The very orbs appeared to
turn in the head. In the deepening twilight they seemed to gleam with
a dull fire, and Warden was absolutely forced to reason himself out of
the expectation that soon those brutal lips would open and overwhelm
him with threats.

"Confound you!" he muttered, scarce knowing whether to laugh or fly
into a rage at the foolish fancy that led him to address a carven mask,
"if you looked that way at poor Domenico Garcia it is not surprising
that he should use his comrade's skin as vellum. You black beauty! Are
there any of your breed left in Nigeria, I wonder?"

[Illustration: The stealthy menace of those evil eyes was startling
                                                              _Page_ 84]

It demanded almost an effort to sink into the chair and disregard
the sinister object glaring at him from the table. He picked up the
sheet of note-paper containing the translation and set his mind to its
proper understanding. While intent on the intricacies of cases and
genders--difficulties intensified by the use of archaic phrases and the
Arabic script--he had given but passing thought to the general drift
of the words. True, the reference to a river named "Mother of Waters"
was amazing, because that was the native name for the Benuë, while a
search through the encyclopedia showed that the seaport town of Rabat,
in Morocco, was famous for its ruined monuments. But now, pondering
each sentence, he became alive to their tremendous significance. Their
very simplicity was the best witness to the underlying tragedy. A man
who dismissed the massacre on board the _Santo Espirito_ with the curt
statement that he "helped in the slaying of all the ship's company,"
was not likely to use unnecessary adjectives. "Six out of fifty-four"
was also a summary magnificent in its brevity. Garcia reached the sheer
apex of the direct narrative style when he said that he and Rodriguez,
and Manoel of Serpa, were sent as presents to the King of Benin "over
the caravan route." Those four words covered a journey of 2500 miles
across mountains, deserts, and jungle-covered swamps, where road there
was none, and towns, even the most wretched communities of savages,
were hundreds of miles apart. The track probably led through Bel Abbas,
Taudeni, and Timbuctu, traversing the very heart of the Sahara, a
region so forbidding and inhospitable that even to-day it remains one
of the secret places of the world.

And again, there was a grim humor discoverable in a man who,
concentrating his life's story into so few words, could yet indulge his
mordant wit by writing: "I am many marches from Rabat but few from
death," and even poke a bitter jest at M'Wanga for his fantastic notion
of a specific against backwater fever!

It was a forceful picture that Warden conceived when in his mind's
eye he saw the "artist and musician," and ex-pirate, too, sitting in
the shade of a giant tree near the king's hut, and pricking out with
needle and dyes, on parchment torn from the back of his dead comrade,
the record of those terrible years. He could limn the hollow cheeks,
the wasted frame, the fever-light in the dark eyes, and the melancholy
smile that must have lifted the cloud of suffering for a little while
when the concluding lines were written. Warden knew the scene so
intimately that if he put pencil to paper, and Garcia's long-forgotten
shade were permitted to testify to the accuracy of the sketch, there
could be no reasonable doubt that imagination must have come very near
the truth.

Though the Portuguese did not say as much, it was not hard to guess
that the "cunning receptacle" he had devised for his last manuscript
was the graven image of M'Wanga himself. His artist's eye had caught
the possibilities of the curiously-shaped gourd, and, as he said
in his own way, he had used his "skill in carving" as a means of
preservation--perhaps of securing a certain measure of good treatment.
No doubt the King of Benin, sitting on the state stool in front of his
palace of mats and wattle, was greatly flattered by the portrait. He
would appreciate its realism while missing its subtle irony. In the
circle of subordinate chiefs and witch-doctors surrounding him there
must have been many who hated the white man because he won the royal
favor even for a moment. But they would be wary, and join loudly in the
chorus of praise, for there was a grove near by in which the latest
victims of M'Wanga's wrath fouled the air with their dead bodies.

Garcia's description of the black ruler as "King of Benin" puzzled
Warden at first. Modern Benin was far enough removed from Oku and the
upper reaches of the Benuë to render the title vague and seemingly
mistaken.

Yet Garcia's sparse record already promised an astounding truthfulness.
Warden was quite sure he would discover some contemporary proof of the
loss of the _Santo Espirito_. He believed that any one who visited the
tomb of Hassan beyond the walls of Rabat would find the ruby placed
there nearly one hundred and eighty years ago. Why, then, should the
chronicler err in his allusion to M'Wanga's rank?

M'Wanga's counterfeit answered the unspoken question. Warden happened
to look at the calabash, now hardly visible in the ever-increasing
darkness. But the cruel eyes still glinted at him, and he could almost
discover a sardonic grin on the thick lips.

"By Jove!" he muttered, "When that fellow reigned in Benin his empire
spread as far as his reputation. I have no manner of doubt but he
lived in the interior, where it is healthier than on the coast. Yes,
you man-devil!" he added, leaping excitedly to his feet as a new and
discomforting thought possessed him. "You did mischief enough during
your evil life, and now you have resurrected yourself just in time to
take a silent part in more of the wild doings in which you would have
gloried."

For he was spurred to this sudden outburst by the knowledge that not
only did political trouble loom across the West African sky, but that
he, and he only, was the Christian and friend to whom Domenico Garcia
made his dying appeal. There was a ruby of great price to be won, and
masses to be said in the Cathedral of the Patriarch at Lisbon. Could he
refuse to fulfil the terms of that pathetic bequest? He had nearly six
months of unexpired furlough at disposal, and the Under Secretary did
not appear to have any dread of immediate developments in Nigeria, such
as would demand the recall of officers to their duties. What argument
would convince his own mind that he might justly decline an almost
intolerable legacy?

Well, he would go into the pros and cons of a doubtful problem later.
He was not a rich man, and the journey to Rabat and back would probably
be very expensive. Certainly that ruby would look very well on the
white throat of Evelyn Dane, though people might well wonder how the
wife of a poorly-paid official could afford to wear a "gem of great
price."

The conceit so tickled him that he laughed, laughed all the louder,
perhaps, because he was conscious that the black king of Benin was
scoffing at him maliciously from the table. But the glee died in his
throat when a thunderous double rat-tat shook the outer door of the
flat, and Warden was prepared, for one thrilling instant, to fight a
legion of ghosts and demons if need be. Then his scattered wits told
him that His Majesty's post demanded his appearance. He struck a match,
lighted the gas, and went to the door, where a small boy, who seemed to
be physically incapable of using a knocker with such vehemence, handed
him a telegram.

It was brief and to the point:

"_Sans Souci_ sailed 3 P.M. <DW65>s and friend left for London 6.30.
Thought you would like to know. Peter."




CHAPTER VI

WHEREIN WARDEN SETS A NEW COURSE


Warden's theatre-going that evening resolved itself into a stroll in
the park and an early return to his chambers. Before going out, he had
thrown a towel over the calabash, and told the porter not to touch
anything in the sitting-room. The plan was effective; the man of Oku
created no disturbance.

Oddly enough, the young officer was now beginning to understand the
mesmeric influence which Evelyn Dane and Peter Evans acknowledged
instantly--and with this admission came the consciousness that the
<DW64>'s mask lost its power unless actually in evidence. Hence, none
of the vapors and misty fancies of the preceding hours interfered
with his rest. He slept soundly, rose betimes, and ate a good
breakfast--unfailing signs these of a sound mind in a sound body.

Yet he might have been puzzled if called on to explain why he
deliberately placed the gourd in a sponge-bag, and put it in his
portmanteau before returning to the Isle of Wight. His action was,
perhaps, governed by some sense of the fitness of things. If it were
ordained that the presentment of the dead and gone M'Wanga should
scowl again at the world during a period when the fortunes of his
country were at stake, it was not for Warden to disobey the silent
edict. He was not swayed solely by idle impulse. In bringing the
head to London he meant to please the only people who knew of its
existence; he ignored their wishes now because he felt a tugging at his
heart-strings when his thoughts reverted to the wretched history of
Domenico Garcia. The instant he arrived at this decision it ceased to
trouble his mind further.

Before going to the station he made a few purchases, and, being near
Pall Mall, thought he would secure any letters that might happen to be
at his club. Among others, he found a pressing invitation from Lady
Hilbury asking him to call when in London. Now, he was, in a degree, a
protégé of her ladyship. Her husband was a former governor of Nigeria,
and her friendly assistance had helped, in the first instance, to lift
Warden out of the ruck of youngsters who yearly replete the ranks of
officialdom in West Africa. It was more than probable that Sir Charles
and Lady Hilbury would be out of town, and a note written at their
residence would show that he visited them at the earliest opportunity.

To his surprise, Lady Hilbury was at home, and insisted that he should
stay for luncheon.

Behold, then, Warden installed in a cozy morning-room, exchanging
gossip with his hostess, and his parcels and portmanteau given over to
the butler's care.

He was irrevocably committed to an afternoon train when Lady Hilbury
electrified him with a morsel of news that was as unexpected as any
other shock that had befallen him of late.

"By the way, an old friend of yours is staying with me," she
said--"Mrs. Laing--you knew her better as Rosamund Miller, I fancy?"

Warden schooled his features into a passable imitation of a smile. Mrs.
Laing--the pretty, irresponsible Rosamund Miller--was the last person
he wished to encounter, but he was quick to see the twinkle in Lady
Hilbury's eyes, and he accepted the inevitable.

"I shall be glad to renew the acquaintance," he said. "It was broken
off rather abruptly--at Government House if I remember aright."

"Poor Rosamund! That was her mother's contriving. She never really
liked Laing, but he was what people term 'a good match,' and he has
at least justified that estimate of his worth by dying suddenly and
leaving his widow nearly two hundred thousand pounds."

"A most considerate man," murmured Warden.

"Then you have not forgiven her?"

"Forgive! What a harsh word from your lips. Pray consider. On your own
estimate she owes me two hundred thousand thanks."

"Arthur, I don't like you as a cynic. I am old enough to be your
mother. Indeed, it was my love for your mother that first led me to
take an interest in your welfare, and I should be doing wrong if I hid
from you the fact that it nearly broke Rosamund's heart to throw you
over."

"I trust the lapse of years has healed the fracture," he said.

Lady Hilbury looked at him in silence for a moment. She remembered the
white-faced subaltern who heard, at her hospitable table, that Rosamund
Miller had married a wealthy planter at Madeira--married him suddenly,
within a month after her departure from the coast.

"Is there another woman?" she asked quietly.

"Not single spies but whole battalions. How I have managed to escape
their combined charms all these years is a marvel. Seriously, Lady
Hilbury, you would not have me take a wife to my special swamp, and
I would not care to leave her in England drawing half my pay. All my
little luxuries would vanish at one fell swoop."

"I would like to see you happy, Arthur, and there is always the
possibility of marrying some one who would demand no sacrifices."

"Is Mrs. Laing out?" he inquired.

"Yes. Of course you want to meet her again?"

"I think not. I don't mean to be unkind, but the tender recollections I
cherish are too dear to be replaced by a fresh set."

"That sounds theatrical--a sarcastic line out of some comedy of
manners. If so, you shall have a wider stage than my boudoir. We lunch
at one o'clock. It is 12.45 now, and Rosamund is always punctual."

Warden, though raging at the dilemma, made the best of it.

"How long has Mrs. Laing been a widow?" he said.

"Nearly a year. Evidently your bush campaign shut out the usual sources
of intelligence."

He glanced at his watch.

"I really must catch the three o'clock train to Cowes," he explained.
"I am on Government service, and I suppose it would be quite impossible
to arrange everything in a couple of hours. I am unacquainted with the
formalities, but even a special license demands--"

"How unkind! Arthur, what has happened to you? How you are changed!"

"Never changed where you are concerned, Lady Hilbury!" he cried,
sentiment for once gaining the upper hand--"you, to whom I owe so much!
That, indeed, would be the wintry wind of ingratitude. Now, let me make
amends. My behavior shall be discreet--my decorous sympathy worthy of
a High Church curate. I was staggered for a few seconds, I admit, but
the effects of the blow have passed, and my best excuse is that other
things are perplexing me. I have no secrets from you, you know, so let
me tell you why I am here."

Sure of an interested listener in the wife of an ex-ruler of the great
Niger territory, Warden plunged into an account of recent events.
It was not necessary to mention Evelyn Dane in order to hold her
attention. The first reference to Figuero and the Oku chiefs attained
that end. No mean diplomatist herself, Lady Hilbury understood much
that would perforce be hidden from all save those acquainted with West
Africa.

"You will permit me to tell Charles?" came the eager question when he
had finished.

"Of course. Why not?"

"There are those in the administration who are jealous of his record,"
she said. "Not every one has his tact in dealing with natives. It is
no secret that our relations with the emirs of the interior have been
strained almost to breaking point of late----"

A motor stopped outside the house and a bell rang. Lady Hilbury bent
forward. Her voice sank to a new note of intense conviction.

"You have been given a great opportunity, Arthur. It may come sooner
than you think. Grasp it firmly. Let no man supplant you, and it will
carry you far."

Her ladyship's manner no less than her earnest words told Warden that
there were forces in motion of which he was yet in complete ignorance.
It was sufficiently puzzling to find an Under Secretary so well
informed as to the identity of certain visitors to Cowes, but when a
woman in the position of his hostess--with her wide experience of the
seldom-seen workings of the political machine--went out of her way
to congratulate him on a "great opportunity," he was thrilled with a
sudden elation.

Thus, when his hand closed on that of Rosamund Laing, there was a flush
on his bronzed face, a glint of power and confidence in his eyes, that
might well be misinterpreted by a woman startled almost to the verge of
incoherence.

When she asked where Lady Hilbury was, and if she were alone, the
footman merely announced the fact that a gentleman had called and
would make one of the luncheon party. Rosamund entered the boudoir
with an air of charming impulsiveness practised so sedulously that it
had long ceased to be artificial. For once in her life it abandoned
her. Warden's friendly greeting was such a bolt from the blue that she
faltered, paled and blushed alternately, and actually stammered a few
broken words with the shy diffidence of a schoolgirl.

The phase of embarrassment passed as quickly as it had arisen. Both the
man and the woman were too well-bred to permit the shadows of the past
to darken the present. Lady Hilbury, too, rose to the occasion, and
they were soon chatting with the unrestrained freedom of old and close
acquaintanceship.

Then Warden discovered that the lively impetuous girl who taught him
the first sharp lesson in life's disillusionment had developed into
a beautiful, self-possessed, almost intellectual woman of the world.
She was gowned with that unobtrusive excellence which betokens perfect
taste and a well-lined purse. Certain little hints in her costume
showed that the memory of her late husband did not press too heavily
upon her. The fashionable modiste can lend periodicity to grief, and
Mrs. Laing was passing through the heliotrope stage of widowhood.

Her exquisite complexion was certainly somewhat bewildering to the
untrained glance of the mere male. Warden's recollection, vivid enough
now, painted a dark-skinned, high-<DW52> girl of nineteen, with
expressive features, a mop of black hair, and a pair of brilliant eyes
that alternated between tints of deepest brown and purple.

The eyes remained, though their archness was subdued, but, for the
rest, he saw a neck and forehead of marvelous whiteness, a face of
repose, cheeks and ears of delicate pink, and a waved and plaited mass
of hair of the hue known as Titian red. He found himself comparing her
with Evelyn Dane, whose briar-rose coloring shone through clusters of
delightful little freckles, and, somehow, the contrast was displeasing.

The conventional smile of small talk must have yielded to the strain,
because Rosamund Laing noticed his changed expression.

"Dear me, what have I said now?" she asked. They were seated at table,
at the end of a pleasant meal, and the talk had wandered from recent
doings to a long-forgotten point to point steeple-chase won by Warden
on a horse which Rosamund herself had nominated.

He recovered his wandering wits instantly.

"It is not anything that you have said, Mrs. Laing, but my own
thoughts that are worrying me," he said. "I have been trying to dodge
the unpleasant knowledge that I must gather up my traps and fly to
Waterloo. Lady Hilbury knows that I was _en route_ to the Solent when
I called--and--if I hesitated--which is unbelievable--she prevailed
on me to stay by the overwhelming argument that you would appear
forthwith."

It was the simplest of compliments, but it sufficed. Rosamund
imperilled her fine complexion by blushing again deeply.

"I was indulging in the vain hope that we might see you often, now that
we are all in England," she said.

"Captain Warden has still six months' furlough at his disposal," put
in Lady Hilbury. "He is leaving town on business at the moment, but I
shall take care he returns at the earliest date."

He stood for a moment in a strong light when he was to say good-by.
Mrs. Laing noticed the scar on his forehead.

"Have you had an accident?" she asked, with a note of caressing
tenderness in her voice.

"Nothing to speak of. A slight knock on the head while swimming in the
Solent--that is all."

The door had scarce closed on him when Rosamund turned to her friend.
She spoke slowly, but Lady Hilbury saw that the knuckles of a white
hand holding the back of a chair reddened under the force of the grip.

"I dared not asked him," came the steady words, "but--perhaps you can
tell me--is he unmarried?"

"Yes."

"And free?"

"My dear, I think so."

The younger woman let go the chair. Her hands flew to her face to hide
the tears that started forth unchecked.

"Ah, dear Heaven," she murmured, "if only I could be sure!"

That evening, while the incense of tobacco rose from the deck of the
_Nancy_, Warden learned from Peter the history of the hours immediately
succeeding his departure from Cowes.

It was unutterably annoying to hear that Figuero had seen him in Evelyn
Dane's company, and he deduced a Machiavellian plot from the visit
subsequently paid by the Portuguese to the _Sans Souci_. The journey to
Milford indirectly suggested by the Under Secretary's inquiry anent the
appearance of the yacht now became a fixed purpose from which nothing
would divert him. It seemed to be impossible that Mr. Baumgartner
could fail to recognize the girl's description, since comparison
with Rosamund Laing had shown him that Evelyn was by far the most
beautiful creature in England! He was sure that her life would be made
miserable by suspicion, if, indeed, she had not already received a curt
notification that her services were not required.

Peter's afternoon with the <DW64>s was evidently Gargantuan in its
chief occupation--the consumption of ardent spirits.

"I never did see any crowd 'oo could shift liquor like them," mused
the skipper of the _Nancy_. "It was 'Dash me one bottole, Peter,'
every five minutes if I'd run to it. I stood 'em three, just in your
interests, captain, an' then I turned a pocket inside out, sayin' 'No
more 'oof, savvy?' They savvied right enough. Out goes one chap they
called Wanger----"

"Do you mean to tell me that one of those three men was named M'Wanga?"
broke in Warden, and in the darkness Peter could not see the blank
amazement on his employer's face.

"That's it, sir--funny sort o' click they gev' in front of it. Sink me,
but you do it a treat! Well, 'is nibs comes back with two bottles, an'
we finished the lot afore I began to wonder if I was quite sartin which
of my legs was the wooden one. But, bless yer 'eart, there's no 'arm in
them three <DW65>s. I could live among 'em twenty year an' never 'ave a
wrong word wi' one of em.

"Could you gather any inkling of their business from their talk?"

Peter tamped some half-burned tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with
the head of a nail before replying.

"There was just one thing that struck me as a bit pecooliar, sir," he
said, after a meditative pause. "A joker 'oo tole me 'is name was Pana
seems to be sort o' friendly with a serving-maid in the _Lord Nelson_.
She brought in the bottles I ordered, an' each time Pana tried to catch
'old of 'er. The third time he grabbed her for fair, an' sez: 'You lib
for Benin country w'en I king?' At that one of 'is pals jabbered some
double Dutch, an' they all looked 'ard at me, but I was gazin' into the
bottom of a glass at the time an' they thought I wasn't listenin'. It
never occurred to 'em that I don't swaller with me ears."

"Were you present when Figuero returned?"

"Yes, sir, an' a nasty cur he can be w'en he likes. He called 'em all
the different sorts o' drunken swine he could think of, an' tole me I
was wuss, to go leadin' pore ignorant blacks astray. My godfather! Five
bottles of Ole Tom among three of 'em, an' me, 'oo 'ates the smell o'
gin, tryin' to doctor my poison wi' water! If you'll believe me, sir,
at supper-time I couldn't bring myself to touch the nicest bit o' steak
that ever sizzled on the _Nancy_'s grid."

"When did the _Sans Souci_ sail?"

"Just before I sent you that telegram, sir. Chris saw the <DW65>s an'
the Portygee off by train, an' kem straight back to the dinghy. We
pulled away to the cutter, an' sighted the yacht steamin' west, so
I 'bout ship an' landed Chris near the post-orfis. The butcher 'oo
supplied their meat tole me this mornin' that he was to send his bill
to Plymouth."

Warden, who was wont to take pride in his ability to be absolutely lazy
when on a holiday, suddenly stood up.

"With this breeze we ought to make Plymouth by to-morrow morning?" he
cried.

"Are you in earnest, guv'nor?" demanded the astonished Peter.

"Fully. Bring the cutter past the Needles, and as soon as St. Abb's
Head-light is a-beam you can turn in."

Evans realized that his master meant what he said. Chris, who was in
bed and sound asleep, awoke next morning to find the _Nancy_ abreast
of Star Point. They reached Plymouth in a failing wind about midday,
but Warden's impatient glance searched the magnificent harbor in vain
for the trim outlines of the _Sans Souci_. As the cutter drew near the
inner port both he and Peter knew that they had come on a wild-goose
chase, no matter how assured the Cowes butcher might be of his account
being paid.

It was a gloriously fine day, but Warden's impatience brooked no
interference with his plans. It even seemed to him that the elements
had conspired with his personal ill luck to bring him into this
land-locked estuary and bottle him up there for a week. Strive as best
he might, he could not shake off the impression that he ought to be
acting, and not dawdling about the south coast in this aimless fashion.
He was quite certain that a dead calm had overtaken him, and, with
this irritating because unfounded belief, came a curious suggestion of
calamity in store for the _Nancy_ if he tried to weather the Land's End
_en route_ to Milford Haven.

"Go to Africa!" whispered some mysterious counselor in words that were
audible to an unknown sense. "Go where you are wanted. Lady Hilbury
told you that a great opportunity had presented itself. Seize it! Delay
will be fatal!"

Peter, watching the young officer furtively as he trimmed the cutter to
her anchorage, was much perturbed. Though a true sailorman, he seldom
swore, for his religious connections were deep and sincere, but he did
use anathemas now.

"I wish that d--d Turk's Head 'ad rotted in the sea afore ever it kem
aboard this craft," he muttered. "There's bin nothin' but fuss an'
worry every hour since that bonny lass set her eyes on it. Onless I'm
vastly mistaken it'll bust up the cruise, an' here was Chris an' me
fixed up to the nines for the nex' three months. It's too bad, that it
is"--and the rest of his remarks became unfit for publication.

It would be interesting to learn how far Peter would have fallen from
grace if he were told that the calabash was even then reposing in a
portmanteau, by the side of Warden's bunk. Happily, he was spared the
knowledge. It would come in good time, but was withheld for the present.

Warden, restless as a caged lion, did not, as was his habit, bring a
folding-chair to the shady side of the mainsail and lose himself in
the pages of a book. A purpose in life of some sort became almost an
obsession. Fixing on the _Sans Souci's_ known objective at the extreme
southwestern corner of Wales on the following Wednesday, he suddenly
hit upon the idea of walking across Dartmoor and taking a steamer from
Ilfracombe to Swansea. Once committed to a definite itinerary of that
nature there would be no turning back. He counted on being able to
accomplish the first stage of the journey easily in three days, which
would bring him to Ilfracombe on the Tuesday. The only question that
remained was the uncertainty of the steamship service, and a telegram
to the shipping agents would determine that point in an hour or less.

So Peter brought him ashore in the dinghy, and the message was
despatched, and Warden went for a stroll on the Hoe, of which pleasant
promenade he had hardly traversed a hundred yards when he saw Evelyn
Dane seated there, deeply absorbed in a magazine. A bound of his heart
carried conviction to his incredulous brain. Though the girl's face
was bent and almost hidden by her hat, she offered precisely the same
harmonious picture that had so won his admiration when she sat opposite
to him in the dinghy on that memorable afternoon that now seemed so
remote in the annals of his life.

A few steps nearer, and he could no longer refuse to believe his
eyes. He recalled the exact patterns of a brooch, a marquise ring, an
ornament in her hat. Seating himself, with a rapid movement, quite
close to her, he said softly:

  "More, much more, the heart may feel
  Than the pen may write or the lip reveal."

Evelyn turned with a startled cry. She was conscious that some one
had elected to share her bench; at the first sound of Warden's voice
she was ready to spring up and walk away, without looking at him. Her
bright face crimsoned with delight when she grasped the wonderful fact
that he was actually at her side.

She closed the magazine with a bang, and held out her hand.

"This is indeed a surprise," she cried. "How in the world did you know
I was here?"

"I didn't know," he said, clasping her fingers firmly. "At
least, that cannot be true. My ordinary eat-three-meals-a-day,
keep-away-from-the-fire-and-you won't-get-burned wits informed me that
you were in far-off Oxfordshire, but some kindly monitor from within,
unseen, unheard, yet most worthy of credence, led me here, to your
side--may I say--to your very feet."

Laughing and blushing, and vainly endeavoring to extricate her hand
from his grasp--because truly she began to fear that he was drawing
her towards him--her first uncontrolled action was to glance around
and discover if any passers-by were gazing at them. Instantly she knew
she had made a mistake, and the imprisoned hand was snatched away
emphatically. If anything, this only added to her confusion, for it
bore silent testimony to her knowledge of his loverlike attitude. But
she gallantly essayed to retrieve lost ground.

"I was not an hour at home," she explained volubly, "before Mrs.
Baumgartner telegraphed and afterward wrote an entire change of
arrangements. I am not going to Milford Haven. Miss Beryl Baumgartner
came with some friends to a little place down the coast there, a place
called Salcombe, I think, and the _Sans Souci_ arrived there yesterday.
They all come on to Plymouth this evening, and they wish me to be
ready to go on board about nine o'clock, when we sail for Oban, only
stopping twice on the way to coal."

"Marvelous!" cried Warden. "You reel off amazing statements with the
self-possession of a young lady reciting a Browning poem. No, I shall
not explain what I mean--not yet, at any rate. The glorious fact
prevails that you are free till nine."

"Free!" she repeated, not that she was at a loss to understand him, but
rather to gain time to collect her thoughts.

"Absurd, of course. I mean bound--absolutely bound to me for a
superb vista of--let me see--lunch--long drive in country--tea--more
driving--dinner.--Ah! let us not look beyond the dinner."

"But----"

"But me no buts. I shall butt myself violently against any male person
who dares to lay prior claim to you, while, should the claimant be a
lady, I shall butter her till she relents."

"Still----"

"I suppose I must listen," he complained. "Well, what is the obstacle?"

She hesitated an instant. Then, abandoning pretense--for she, like
Warden had lived through many hours of self-scrutiny since they parted
at Portsmouth--she laughed unconcernedly.

"There is none that I know of," she admitted. "I had never seen
Plymouth, so I traveled here yesterday evening. My belongings are in
the big hotel there. I am a mere excursionist, out for the day. And
now that I have yielded all along the line, I demand my woman's rights.
My presence here is readily explained. What of yours?"

He hailed a passing carriage and directed the man to take them to the
hotel.

"I don't think I can really clear matters up to your satisfaction
unless you permit me to call you Evelyn," he said, daringly irrelevant.

Midsummer madness is infectious--under certain conditions.

"That is odd," she cried, yet there was but feeble protest in her voice.

"To make things even you must call me Arthur."

"How utterly absurd!"

"That is not my fault. The name was given me. I yelled defiance, but I
had to have it, like the measles."

"You know very well----"

"'Pon my honor, Evelyn, the greatest of your many charms is your prompt
sympathy. In those few words you have reconciled me to my lot."

"I think Arthur is rather a nice name," she sighed contentedly. After
all, it was best to humor him, and he was the first man who had ever
won her confidence.

"I ask for more than pity," he said. "Nevertheless, if I would gain
credence I must propound a plain tale. List, then, while I unfold
marvels."

He was a good talker, and he kept her amused and interested, at times
somewhat thrilled, by the recital of his doings in London.

They were in a carriage speeding out into the lovely country westward
of Plymouth when he told her the strange history of Domenico Garcia.
She shivered a little at the gruesome memory of the "parchment" which
she had examined so intently, but she did not interrupt, save for an
occasional question, until he reached that part of his narrative which
ended in the determination of the previous night to sail to Plymouth
forthwith.

"It is all very strange and mysterious," she said at last. "You were
coming to Milford Haven, I gather?"

"Yes."

"And were it not for the impulse that brought me here you would now be
on your way over Dartmoor?"

"That was my fixed intention."

"Was it so very important that you should know all about the _Sans
Souci_?"

"I would have said so to the Under Secretary."

There was a pause. Warden deliberately passed the opening given by
her words. In broad daylight, and whirling rapidly through a village,
it behooved him to be circumspect. Between dinner and nine o'clock he
would contrive other opportunities.

"Lady Hilbury must be very nice," she went on, after a brief silence.

"You will like her immensely when you know her," he could not help
saying, at the same time thanking his stars that he had made no mention
of Rosamund Laing.

There was a further pause. Evelyn fancied that her voice was well under
control when she asked:

"Have you decided to carry out poor Domenico Garcia's last request?"

"Before answering, will you tell me what you would do in my place?"

"I would go to Rabat, if it were in my power, and there were no undue
risk in the undertaking. I don't think I would be happy if I had not
made the effort. Yet, Rabat is a long way from England. Would you be
absent many weeks? Perhaps such a journey would spoil your leave. And
then--things may happen in West Africa. You may be needed there."

"Rabat is a half-way house to Oku, Evelyn," he said. "I am going, of
course, for two reasons. In the first instance, I want to set Garcia's
soul at rest about those masses which, it seems to me, can only be done
by obeying the letter of his instructions. And, secondly, I mean to
secure that ruby."

This time she passed no comment.

He caught her arm and bent closer.

"If I bring it to you in Madeira you will not refuse to accept it?" he
said.

"Now you are talking nonsense," she replied, turning and looking at him
bravely, with steadfast scrutiny.

"No. There would be a condition, of course. With the ruby you must take
the giver."

"Are you asking me to marry you?" she almost whispered.

"Yes."

"After knowing me a few idle hours of three days?"

"I was exactly the same mind the first time I met you. I see no valid
reason why I should change a well-balanced opinion during the next
thirty or forty years."

He felt her arm trembling in his clasp, and a suspicious moisture
glistened in her fine eyes.

"I think, somehow, I know you well enough to believe that you are in
earnest," she faltered. "But let us forget now that you have said those
words. Come to me later--when your work is done--and if you care to
repeat them--I shall--try to answer--as you would wish."

And then, for a few hours, they lived in the Paradise that can be
entered only by lovers.

Not that there were tender passages between them--squeezings, and
pressings and the many phrases of silent languages that mean "I love
you." Neither was formed of the malleable clay that permits such sudden
change of habit. Each dwelt rather in a dream-land--the man hoping it
could be true that this all-pleasing woman could find it possible to
surrender herself to him utterly--the woman becoming more alive each
moment to the astounding consciousness that she loved and was beloved.

Their happiness seemed to be so fantastically complete that they made
no plans for the future. They were wilfully blind to the shoals and
cross currents that must inevitably affect the smooth progress of
that life voyage they would make together. Rather, when they talked,
did they seek to discover more of the past, of their common tastes,
of their friends, of the "little histories" of youth. Thus did they
weld the first slender links of sweet intimacy--those links that are
stronger than fetters of steel in after years--and the hours flew on
golden wings.

Once only did Warden hold Evelyn in his arms--in a farewell embrace
ere she left him to join the yacht. And, when that ecstatic moment had
passed, and the boat which held his new-found mate was vanishing into
the gloom, he awoke to the knowledge that he had much to accomplish
before he might ask her to be his bride.

But he thrust aside gray thought for that night of bliss. He almost
sang aloud as he walked to the quay where Peter was waiting, after
receiving a brief message earlier in the day. He was greeted cheerily.

"I'm main glad to see you again, sir," said the skipper of the _Nancy_.
"Somehows, I had a notion this mornin' that we was goin' to lose you
for good an' all."

Then Warden remembered the inquiry he had sent to Ilfracombe, and
the reply that was surely waiting for him at the post-office, and he
laughed with a quiet joyousness that was good to hear.

"Peter," he said, "you're a first-class pilot, but neither you nor any
other man can look far into the future, eh?"

"No, sir," came the prompt answer, "that's a sea without charts or
soundin's an' full of everlastin' fog. But sometimes one can do a bit
o' guessin', an' that's wot I've bin doin' since Chris tole me he saw
you an' the young leddy a-drivin' in a keb!"




CHAPTER VII

TWO WOMEN


Mr. Isidore David Baumgartner was in a state of high good humor. After
wasting many hundreds of cartridges he had actually shot a driven
grouse. True, the method of slaughter amounted almost to a crime.
Traveling fast and low before the wind, the doomed bird flew straight
toward the butts. Baumgartner closed his eyes, fired both barrels--the
first intentionally, the second from sheer nervousness--and a cloud of
feathers, out of which fell all that was left of legs, wings, and body,
showed how a gallant moorcock had met his fate.

"There's a clean hit for you, Sandy," cried the little man delightedly.
"It's all knack. I knew I could do it, once I got the hang of it."

"Man, but ye stoppit him," replied Sandy, who doled out encouragement
with a sour grin. The shattered carcass lay in full view on a tuft of
heather. Two ounces of shot had riddled it at a distance of ten feet.

"I suppose the second barrel was hardly necessary," said Baumgartner,
more critically.

"It's best to mak' sure," said the sardonic gillie, "but now ye've
got yer 'ee in, as the sayin' is, mebbe ye'll be droppin' ithers, Mr.
Baumgartner."

He held forth the spare gun as a hint. Grouse were plentiful at
Lochmerig, and three other men in the line of shelters were busy.
Baumgartner forthwith excelled himself. Just as a novice at Monte Carlo
may achieve several winning coups in succession, so did fortune favor
one whom nature had not designed as a sportsman. He shot with blind
confidence, and brought down half a dozen birds while they came sailing
over the crest of the hill before a strong breeze that brought them to
close range. That he rendered them for the most part uneatable did not
trouble him in the least. Sport was merely slaying to him; his only
trophies previously were some tame pigeons secured for practice.

So Baumgartner was well content. As he trudged down the brae to
Lochmerig Lodge, discoursing learnedly to his companions anent the
"stopping" qualities of his eighty-guinea pair of guns, his eyes roved
over the beauties of loch and glen, and the day-dream that it would be
well to pass the remainder of his days in this quiet haven cast its
spell on his soul. Rich as he was, he owned no home except a garish
mansion in New York. His career had been meteoric, full of lurid
energy. Beginning with the lust of money, he had followed the beaten
track of his order, and became obsessed with the lust of power. Yet
his ambition needed spurring. Already the tremendous issues involved
in the project which procured him the condescending patronage of an
emperor were revealing their dangers. Here, in Scotland, surrounded
by subservient friends and well-trained servants, he longed for rest.
Lairdship was proving a subtle rival to West African adventure.

Moreover, he was married, and Mrs. Baumgartner was endowed with a will
of her own and a tongue to bear witness thereto. She was learning to
appreciate the easy tolerance of English society, which proved itself
far more accessible than the Four Hundred of New York. Men and women
of recognized social rank and pleasant manners were quite willing
to shoot over the Lochmerig moors, play bridge in the Lodge, cruise
on the _Sans Souci_, and generally live and amuse themselves at the
millionaire's expense. Mrs. Baumgartner was shrewd enough to see that
the gain of a big slice of British territory in West Africa would offer
poor compensation for the loss of the new career which was opening up
an alluring vista to her dazzled gaze. For once, therefore, discord
threatened in the household. In her daughter, too, she found a powerful
ally. A month of close companionship with Evelyn Dane had completely
changed the life-theories of a spoiled and affected girl of eighteen.
Too young as yet to be jealous of Evelyn's greater attractions,
Beryl Baumgartner was alert enough to see that vulgar pertness was
ludicrously inadequate as a means of winning male regard. Luckily,
she became enthusiastically attached to Evelyn from the first hour.
The wonderful faculty of hero-worship had survived the precocity of a
too-indulgent rearing. It was stronger now than mere counsel. Beryl
began to copy her new friend, and at once she began to improve.

It was, therefore, a very dark cloud that lowered over the Baumgartner
sky when a family coach which brought visitors from the ten miles
distant railway deposited at the hospitable door of Lochmerig Lodge,
at one and the same moment, Mrs. Laing, Miguel Figuero, and Count von
Rippenbach. As it happened, the three already knew each other slightly.
They had met in Madeira during the previous winter. Figuero then acted
as bear-leader to the count before he started on the hunting trip in
the Tuburi hinterland which had come to the Under Secretary's knowledge.

It was a surprise to both men when they encountered Mrs. Laing at Perth
Junction. They passed several interesting hours in her company, and
von Rippenbach, who spoke English better than Figuero, was a skilled
cross-examiner. Thus, he soon hit upon a plausible explanation of the
lady's appearance in Inverness-shire. She was one of Mrs. Baumgartner's
social links with England. On his part, as a "distinguished foreigner,"
he would be acceptable in a higher circle than that occupied by his
host, but, when it came to Figuero, Mrs. Laing was puzzled--indeed,
somewhat amused.

The man's record was no secret. Tolerant Madeira did not ask how he
had risen to seeming affluence. It helped him to spend his money, and
was graciously blind to the darker pages of his history--nevertheless,
those pages were an open book to local gossips.

Figuero, a shrewd and level-headed scoundrel, was the most taken aback
of the trio at this unlooked-for meeting. He was aware of the love
passages between Warden and Rosamund Laing; he feared Warden; and
here was the woman whom Warden had once loved crossing his path at an
awkward hour.

The situation might have provided harmless interest for a number of
unimportant people at Lochmerig if Figuero had not recognized Evelyn
Dane the instant he set eyes on her. Straightway the tiny rills of
intrigue and suspicion flowing through the adventurer's brain united
into a torrent.

Seizing the first opportunity that presented itself, he drew
Baumgartner into an unoccupied room, and closed and locked the door.
Before the surprised millionaire could utter a word of protest, the
West African fire-brand began to question him in his own tongue, since
Baumgartner, despite his Teutonic label and semblance, had a Portuguese
mother.

"Why did you fail to recognize the girl I described to you in Cowes?"
he demanded fiercely. "Malediction! Are you mad, that you would risk
our enterprise in this fashion?"

"You must neither address me in that manner nor talk in riddles,"
growled Baumgartner. "What girl? How am I to know one among the ten
thousand girls of a regatta week?"

"Riddles! It is you who are the conundrum, senhor. I tell you that
this Englishman, Captain Warden, a Deputy Commissioner in Nigeria,
is the man we have most to fear, yet you permit one who is probably
his fiancée, and surely in league with him, to live in your house and
spy on the actions of yourself and your friends. What will Count von
Rippenbach think when I tell him? What will the Emperor say, after all
the precautions we took that none should know----"

"Silence!" roared Baumgartner, who could hold his own in matters that
demanded clear thinking and careful guidance. "You are too ready with
some names, Senhor Figuero, yet too sparing of others that may explain
your folly. Of whom are you speaking?"

"Of the young Englishwoman I have just met, of course. I am not good at
catching these strange words, but I mean the good-looking one, the tall
slim girl in white muslin, she with brown hair and Madonna eyes----"

"Do you mean Miss Dane?"

"Yes--that is she. I remember now."

"My daughter's companion! Nonsense!"

"It is true, I tell you. Am I likely to forget a face--and such a face!
Did I not describe her dress? She must have left your yacht just before
Warden met her. And they are lovers. How can I be mistaken? They went
away from Cowes in the same train. I told you her destination. What was
it? I have it written here," and he hurriedly turned over the leaves of
a note-book.

Baumgartner was undoubtedly impressed. Figuero's earnestness was not
to be gainsaid, and he had an unpleasant belief, now he came to recall
the incidents of a busy day, that Evelyn Dane was dressed exactly as
Warden's unknown acquaintance was pictured.

Meanwhile, the Portuguese found the memorandum he sought.

"Here it is," he snapped, all a-quiver with the doubts that threatened
the destruction of his pet scheme of vengeance on the British power
which had stopped the supply of slaves to the Sultan of Bogota.
"Langton in Oxfordshire--that is the place. The railway official
spelt it for me. A boatman told me he knew the girl, and gave me some
outlandish name as being hers. Now I see he was fooling me. What was
his motive? Was he also an emissary of Warden's? Let me assure you,
senhor, this thing begins to look ugly."

Baumgartner's heavy jowl lost some of the ruddy hue of the moors.
Count von Rippenbach had been ready enough to apply the screw when his
quondam confederate showed a degree of hesitancy in falling in with
the proposal he came from London to make, and this latest complication
would strengthen von Rippenbach's hands beyond resistance. Already the
lairdship of Lochmerig was becoming visionary, and the far-off hills of
interior Africa grew more substantial in their dim outlines.

But the millionaire, though he might toady to a Scottish gillie for
a crumb of recognition as a marksman, had not attained his present
position by displaying weakness in face of a crisis.

"I believe you are the victim of a delusion," he said, with some show
of dignity, "but, even if you are right, we gain nothing by yielding
to panic. What if Miss Dane is, as you say, Warden's _belle amie_?
Why should that be harmful? Does it not explain his visit to Cowes?
Indeed, once we are convinced that they know each other, we can turn
the circumstance to our own purpose. I am far from crediting an
insignificant official of the Niger Company with the importance you
seem to attach to him, but, granted he is a hostile influence to be
feared, why not stalk him through an unsuspecting agent?"

"You don't rate him high enough," muttered Figuero. "He can sway those
stupid <DW65>s like no other man in Nigeria. He talks Arabic, and
Hausa, and krooboy palaver as well as I do. He broke the Oku ju-ju when
it was worth a thousand lives to touch a stick or a feather. If Warden
gets wind of our project before we are ready, we will fail, and you
realize what that means to all of us."

A dinner gong came to Baumgartner's aid. He wished to avoid any
discussion on the last point raised by the Portuguese. It bristled with
thorns. Von Rippenbach revealed some of its cactus-like properties
earlier in the evening.

"You and I and the Count will go into other matters fully to-morrow,"
he said. "As for Miss Dane, I shall clear up that difficulty without
delay. Act as though you had never seen her before, and keep your ears
open during dinner."

So it came to pass that Evelyn, who was mightily astonished and
perplexed by the arrival of the two men concerning whom Warden had told
her so much, was still more bewildered when Mr. Baumgartner availed
himself of a lull in the conversation at the dinner-table to say
casually:

"By the way, Miss Dane, is Langton, in Oxfordshire, near your people's
place?"

"Yes," she said, wondering what the question signified.

"I suppose, then, you passed through it on your way home after quitting
the _Sans Souci_ at Cowes?"

"Oh, yes. Langton is our station."

"Ah! What a small world it is! A friend of mine, Mr. James G. Hertz, of
Boston, is staying there now. I suppose you did not chance to meet him?"

"No. Our village is three miles away, and that is a long distance in
the country."

And, in truth, Mr. James G. Hertz, of Boston, who was buried in Boston,
could tell of yet more impassable gulfs.

Rosamund Laing was sitting next to Figuero. She noticed the eager
attention with which he followed this trivial bit of talk, though his
limited knowledge of English rendered most of the lively chatter at the
table unintelligible.

"Were you in Cowes during the regatta week, Senhor Figuero?" she asked.

It was a reasonable deduction from his presence at Lochmerig, but she
little guessed the devilish purpose engendered in that alert brain by
her aimless inquiry. The Portuguese felt that he was at a disadvantage
among the gay throng gathered under Baumgartner's roof. His nimble
wits were dulled by the barrier of language. It put him outside the
pale. Things might be occurring which he ought to know, but which were
hidden from him owing to this drawback. In the beautiful woman by his
side he might find an excellent go-between if only he could command her
interest. Was that old flame quite quenched in her heart, he mused?
She had married a rich man, but had she forgotten--did any woman ever
forget--her first love? He thought not. At any rate, here was an
opening provided by the gods.

"I lib for Cowes one-time, senora," he murmured, "an' I see somet'ing
dere dat I tell you if you not vexed."

"Why should I be vexed?" she said, smiling at the odd expressions,
though she was quite conversant with the _lingua franca_ of the coast.

"You 'member dem Captain Warden?"

"Of course I do."

"An' you keep secret dem t'ing I tell you?"

"Where Captain Warden's affairs are concerned, I shall certainly not
discuss him or them."

Figuero paid no heed to the intentional snub.

"You understan' better w'en I tole you dem secret. You promise not
speak 'im any one?"

"Well--yes."

"He fit for marry dem Mees Dane."

"Don't be idiotic."

Mrs. Laing could not help it. She was so startled that she raised
her voice, and more than one of her neighbors wondered what the
sallow-faced stranger had said that evoked the outburst. Figuero looked
annoyed. He was not prepared for such vehement repudiation of his news.
Fortunately, the Honorable Billy Thring was giving a realistic account
of his failure to secure an heiress during a recent wife-hunting tour
in America--he tried lots of 'em, he explained, but they all said he
must kill off at least one brother and two healthy nephews before they
would risk marryin' a prize dude like him--so Rosamund's emphatic cry
passed almost unheeded amidst the laughter evoked by Thring's exploits.

"You fit for chop," muttered the Portuguese sarcastically. "You fit for
fool palaver. You plenty-much silly woman."

"But what you say cannot be true," she half whispered, and the man's
astute senses warned him that it was dread, not contempt, that drew the
protest from her lips.

"I fit for tell you Warden make wife palaver wid dem girl at Cowes. If
you no b'lieve me, make sof' mouf an' ax Mees Dane."

Then the woman remembered Warden's anxiety to return to the Isle of
Wight. He had not written to her or to Lady Hilbury during the past
month, and this fact, trivial as a pin-prick before, now became a
rankling wound.

"You keep dem secret?" went on Figuero, watching her closely.

"Why did you tell me?" she retorted.

"Coss I no want Warden marry dem girl. Savvy?"

"Do you want to marry her yourself?" she asked, with a bitterness that
showed how deeply she was hurt.

He grinned, and wetted his thin lips with his tongue.

"You t'ink I tired goin' by lone?" he said.

"What is your motive? Why do you choose me as a confidant?"

Figuero suddenly became dense.

"I tell you leetle bit news," he said. "Dat is English custom. W'en we
chop one-time palaver set. But you no say Figuero tole you dem t'ing."

Rosamund did not reply. She endeavored to eat, and entered into
conversation with a man near her. The Honorable Billy was ending his
story.

"So I am still eligible," he was saying. "I went to America full of
hot air, and came back with cold feet. But I learned the language--eh,
what?"

That night, in the drawing-room, Mrs. Laing carried out the opening
move in a campaign she had mapped out for herself. If Figuero's
story were true, she would smite and spare not. If it were untrue,
Evelyn would be the first to deny it, and Rosamund trusted to her own
intuition to discover how far such denial might be credited.

A man who was talking to Evelyn was summoned to a bridge table, and
Rosamund took his place unobtrusively.

"Then you really were on board the Sans Souci at Cowes, Miss Dane?" she
began, with a friendly smile.

"Yes," said Evelyn, at a loss to determine why her brief sojourn in the
Solent should attract such widespread attention.

"And you met Captain Warden there?"

The attack was so direct and unexpected that the younger woman blushed
and flinched from it. Still, she was not to be drawn into admissions
like a frightened child.

"I met several people on the island," she said. "Cowes is a crowded
place during regatta week."

"Oh, come now," purred the smiling Rosamund, "one does not forget a man
of Arthur Warden's type so readily--and after a violent flirtation,
too! You see, I know all about it. Little birds whisper these things.
Arthur did not tell me when he came to see me in town. Of course, he
wouldn't, but there are always kind-hearted people willing enough to
gossip if they think they are annoying one."

There was sufficient innuendo in this brief speech to justify Mrs.
Laing's worst estimate of scandal-mongers. Not one barbed shaft missed
its mark. If words could wound, then Evelyn must have succumbed, but
the injuries they inflict are not always visible, and she kept a stiff
upper lip, though her heart raced in wild tumult.

"The inference is that you are far more interested in Captain Warden's
visits to Cowes than I or any other person can pretend to be," she said
slowly.

She meant the cold-drawn phrase to hurt, and in that she succeeded,
though her own voice sounded in her ears as if it had come from afar.

"Well, perhaps you ought to be told that he and I are engaged," said
Rosamund, stung to a sudden fury of lying. "Don't imagine I bear
malice. You are sweetly pretty, and Arthur is so susceptible! But he
is also rather thoughtless. We were pledged to each other years ago,
but were kept apart by--by a mother's folly. Now I am free, and he came
back to me, though I had to insist that at least a year should elapse
between my husband's death and the announcement of our engagement.
All our friends know our sad story, and would forgive some measure of
haste, but one has to consider the larger circle of the public."

Then, indeed, Evelyn's blood seemed to chill in her veins. The room and
its occupants swam before her eyes, and the pain of repression became
almost unbearable, yet she was resolved to carry off the honors in this
duel unless she fainted.

"I gather that you are warning me against Captain Warden's
thoughtlessness, as you term it?" she said, compelling each word at the
bayonet's point, as it were.

"Oh, I was not speaking seriously, but we can let it go at that."

"And you wish me to understand that you are his promised wife?"

"There, at least, I am most emphatic," and Rosamund laughed, a trifle
shrilly, perhaps, for a woman so well equipped with the armor of
self-conceit.

"I suppose, then, that the late Mr. Laing has been dead a year, as I
form one of that larger circle whose favorable opinion you court?"

For an instant Rosamund's black eyes flashed angrily. She had expected
tears and faltering, not resistance.

"I only meant to do you a good turn, yet on the raw," she sneered.

"Pray do not consider me at all. By your own showing, I have no
grievance--no _locus standi_, as the lawyers say--but, since you
have gone out of your way to give a mere stranger this interesting
information, I wish to be quite sure of the facts. For instance, let us
suppose that I have the honor of Captain Warden's acquaintance--am I at
liberty to write and congratulate him?"

"That would place me in a false position."

"Ah. Is there nothing to be said for me? You spoke of a 'violent
flirtation,' I think. If I may guess at the meaning of a somewhat crude
phrase, it seems to imply a possible exchange of lovers' vows, and one
of the parties might be misled--and suffer."

"We women are the sinners most frequently."

"I do not dispute your authority, Mrs. Laing. I only wish to ascertain
exactly what I am free to say to Captain Warden?"

"Tell him you met me, and that I am well posted in everything that
occurred at Cowes. And, for goodness' sake, let me see his reply. It
will be too killing to read Arthur's verbal wrigglings, because he is
really clever, don't you think?"

Somehow, despite the steely tension of every nerve, Evelyn caught an
undertone of anxiety in the jesting words. Her rival was playing a bold
game. It might end in complete disaster, but, once committed to it,
there was no drawing back.

"The proceedings at Cowes were open to all the world," Evelyn could not
help saying. "Even you, with your long experience, might fail to detect
in them any trace of the thoughtlessness you deplore."

"Then you have met him elsewhere?"

Evelyn, conscious of a tactical blunder,  even more deeply with
annoyance, though again she felt that her tormentor was not so sure of
her ground as she professed to be. Every woman is a born actress, and
Evelyn precipitated a helpful crisis with histrionic skill.

"The whole story is yours, not mine, Mrs. Laing," she said quietly.
"Perhaps, if you apply to your half-caste informant, he may fill in
further details to please you."

At that moment the Honorable Billy Thring intervened. He was one of
those privileged persons who can say anything to anybody without giving
offense, and he broke into the conversation now with his usual frank
inanity.

"I find I've bin lookin' for a faithful spouse in the wrong direction,
Mrs. Laing," he chortled. "Barkin' up the wrong tree, a Chicago girl
called it. What a thorough ass I was to spin that yarn at dinner with
you in the room. Will you be good, an' forget it? Don't say I haven't
got an earthly before the flag falls."

"What in the world are you talking about?" cried Rosamund, turning on
him with the sourest of society smiles.

"It sounds like the beginning of a violent flirtation," said Evelyn,
yielding to the impulse that demanded some redress for the torture she
had endured.

"Right you are, Miss Dane," said Billy. "By gad, that clears the course
quicker than a line of policemen. You see, Mrs. Laing, I really must
marry somebody with sufficient means for both of us. I have expensive
tastes, and my noble dad gave me neither a profession nor an income. So
what is a fellow to do?"

"You flatter me," said Rosamund tartly. "Unfortunately I have just been
telling Miss Dane that I am _hors de concours_, as they put it in the
Paris exhibitions."

"That is the French for 'you never know your luck,' Mr. Thring," cried
Evelyn, with a well-assumed laugh. "Mrs. Laing may change her mind,
too, not for the first time."

Without giving her adversary a chance to retaliate, she darted away to
join Beryl Baumgartner, and soon seized an opportunity to retreat to
her own room. Once safely barricaded behind a locked door, she bowed
before the storm. Flinging herself on her knees by the bedside, she
wept as though her heart would break. It was her first taste of the
bitter cup that is held out to many a girl in her position, and its
gall was not diminished because she still believed that Arthur Warden
loved her. How could she doubt him, when each passing week brought her
a letter couched in the most endearing terms? Only that morning had she
heard from him at Ostend, whither the _Nancy_ had flown after making
a round of the Norfolk Broads. He described his chances of speedy
promotion once the threatened disturbance in West Africa had spent
itself, and, oddly enough, reminded her of his intention to curtail
his furlough so as to permit of a visit to Rabat in a coasting steamer
before going to Madeira on his way to the Protectorate.

Not a word did he say of the Baumgartners, or their queer acquaintances
of the Isle of Wight. It was tacitly agreed between them that Evelyn
should not play the rôle of spy on her employers, and, indeed, until
that very day there was little to report save the utmost kindness at
their hands.

Why, then, it may be urged, did she weep so unrestrainedly? and
only the virgin heart of a woman who loves can answer. She feared
that Rosamund Laing was telling the truth when she spoke of a prior
engagement. She knew that Warden had said nothing at Plymouth of
meeting Rosamund in London, and she was hardly to be blamed for drawing
the most sinister inference from his silence. Did he dread that earlier
entanglement? He was poor, and she was poor; how could he resist the
pleading of one so rich and beautiful as her rival?

In short, poor Evelyn passed a grievous and needlessly tortured hour
before she endeavored to compose herself for sleep, and she was denied
the consolation of knowing that the woman who destroyed her happiness
was pacing another room like a caged tigress, and striving to devise
some means of extricating herself from the morass into which Figuero's
tidings and her own rashness had plunged her.




CHAPTER VIII

SHOWING HOW MANY ROADS LEAD THE SAME WAY


Next day, her mind restored to its customary equipoise, Evelyn thought
she would be acting wisely if she gave Warden some hint of recent
developments. Too proud to ask for an explicit denial of Rosamund
Laing's claim, she saw the absurdity of letting affairs drift until the
hoped-for meeting at Madeira. At first, she thought of resigning her
post as Beryl's companion, and returning to Oxfordshire, but she set
the notion aside as unreasonable and unnecessary. Most certainly Warden
should not be condemned unheard. Without pressing him for a definite
statement with regard to Mrs. Laing, it was a simple matter to put the
present situation before him in such guise that he could not choose
but refer to it. So, after drafting a few sentences, and weighing them
seriously, she incorporated the following in a letter of general import:

"Yesterday we had three new arrivals whose names must appeal to you
powerfully. First, a Mrs. Rosamund Laing came here from London, and
she lost no time in telling me, among other things, that she was aware
of our meeting at Cowes. Her informant, I am sure, was Miguel Figuero,
and you will be even more astonished to learn that he and Count von
Rippenbach turned up by the same train as Mrs. Laing. The latter, by
the way, said that you called on her at Lady Hilbury's when in London.
Is that true? There are some hidden forces in motion at Lochmerig
which I do not understand. Mr. Baumgartner tackled me openly at dinner
with regard to my journey from Cowes to Oxfordshire. We know from
Peter that Figuero saw us together that morning, and your Portuguese
friend evidently recognized me at once. But Mr. Baumgartner's pointed
reference to Langton as my destination was rather puzzling. How does
it strike you? I expect my news will prove rather in the nature of a
thunderbolt, and that is usually a very striking article. I assure you
I am somewhat shaken myself. Mrs. Laing's personal attributes remind
one of those galvanic batteries you see at fairs in the country--the
more you try to endure her magnetic influence, the greater your
collapse."

Before sealing the envelope, she re-read Warden's latest letter. She
even read it aloud, and the straightforward, honest, loving words
assumed a new significance. Then she turned to her own effusion, and
viewed it critically. To her surprise, she detected a jarring, somewhat
cynical, note in those passages which she regarded as all-important.
To her judgment, events in the near future would follow a well-defined
course. Her lover would say whether or not he had met Mrs. Laing in
London, and give the clearest reasons for his omission of her name from
the subsequent recital of his adventures. Evelyn would count the hours
until that reply reached her hands. Perhaps Mrs. Laing's curiosity
anent Warden's skill in "wriggling" would then be sated. She might even
give an exhibition of the wriggler's art in her own behalf.

Evelyn refused to admit now that she had ever yielded to doubt or
anxiety. The hysterical outburst of last night was natural, perhaps,
under the circumstances, but quite nonsensical. Even Warden himself
must be made to believe that Mrs. Laing was only indulging an exuberant
sense of humor in claiming his fealty. Meaning, therefore, to tone
down any apparent asperity in the paragraph referring to the three
newcomers, she added a few lines beneath her signature.

"The Men of Oku have not yet appeared. I am longing to see them. They
are really the most picturesque villains in the piece. I am just going
for a stroll by the side of the loch, and I shall not be a little bit
alarmed if I find a decorated calabash sailing in with the tide."

There is nothing new in the fact that the most important item in a
woman's letter is often contained in a postscript, but never did the
writer of a harmless and gossipy missive achieve such amazing results
as Evelyn Dane brought to pass by the words she scribbled hurriedly
after the magic letters "P.S."

For others than Evelyn Dane were taking thought that morning.
Baumgartner, von Rippenbach, and Figuero--locked in the library, and
seated round a small table drawn well away from the door--were settling
the final details of a scheme that aimed at nothing less than a very
grave alteration in the political map of the world, while Rosamund
Laing was planning an enterprise which should have an equally marked
effect in the minor sphere of her own affairs.

Yet the fortunes of these five people gathered at Lochmerig, and of
many millions in other parts of the earth, were absolutely controlled
by one of those trivial conditions which appear to be so ludicrously
out of proportion with ultimate achievement.

Baumgartner, being a rich man, objected to delay where his interests
were concerned. Refusing to await the tardy coming of a country
postman, he kept a groom in the village to which the mails were brought
by train, and it was this man's duty to ride in each day with the
post-bag for Lochmerig Lodge and return some hours later with the first
out-going budget. The house letters were dropped into a box in the
entrance hall, and a notice intimated that the time of clearance was at
noon. To an unscrupulous woman, such an arrangement offered the means
to do ill deeds that makes ill deeds done. Rosamund, ready to dare
anything now to save herself from contumely, actually set out to find
Evelyn and taunt her into an admission that she had written to Warden.

"Miss Dane is not in the house, madam," said the London footman on duty
at the door. "She went out some time since--in that direction," and he
pointed toward the glistening firth that brought the North Sea into
the heart of Inverness.

Mrs. Laing pouted prettily.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed. "I do hope she has not forgotten to write. I
shall never find her in time. _Did_ you happen to notice if she posted
a letter?"

The footman sought inspiration by stroking his chin.

"Yes, madam," he announced, after a pause. "I'm almost certain Miss
Dane went to the box. Yes, I'm sure of it."

Madam was very much obliged, and tipped him half-a-crown, informing him
with a most charming smile that she did not on any account wish Miss
Dane to believe that she was suspected of forgetfulness. It was then
some few minutes after eleven, and this gracious lady was sympathetic
enough to inquire if the footman did not become very tired of remaining
on duty so many hours in one place.

"Oh, it's nothing compared with London, ma'am," said he. "Here we have
sunshine--if the weather is fine--an' fresh air all the time. I only
came on duty at nine o'clock, an' I go off at 11.30 for the first
servants' dinner."

Mrs. Laing was talking to Billy Thring in the hall when the postman
groom came to clear the letter-box. She darted forward with that
irresistible smile of hers.

"I'm so glad I happened to be standing here," she exclaimed. "I have
just remembered that I have stupidly left out of a letter the very
thing I most wanted to say. It would never have occurred to me if I
hadn't seen you. The letter is addressed to Captain Warden. May I have
it?"

The man was Baumgartner's servant. He had never before set eyes on
Mrs. Laing, but he knew the Honorable Billy quite well, so he raised
no objection to this smartly dressed lady's eager search for her
incomplete letter. Though her hands fumbled somewhat, she soon picked
it out.

"Here it is!" she cried delightedly, "this one--Captain Arthur Warden,
Poste Restante, Ostend. Now, that will save me a heap of trouble. It
_was_ so nice of you to come in at the right moment. You have saved me
a lot of trouble."

The groom grinned as he pocketed half-a-crown. Some ladies were easy
pleased, to be sure. Even Billy Thring, experienced hunter of gilded
brides, was bewildered by Mrs. Laing's excited manner.

"Seems to me I've made a killin'," he mused when she gushed herself
away. "I s'pose old Baumgartner can be relied on. He is all there as a
rule when he talks dollars an' cents, but he's a perfect rotter every
other way. By gad, I'll kid him into wearin' kilts before the end of
the month."

The notion tickled him. He lit a cigarette and strolled out through the
open door. A glorious sweep of moorland and forest spread beyond the
loch, whose wavelets lapped the verges of the sloping lawn and gardens.
A little to the left the _Sans Souci_ lay at her moorings. A steam
launch was tied to a neat landing-stage. A string of horses and moor
ponies returning from exercise crossed a level pasture at the head
of the loch. The letter-carrying groom was clattering down the broad
carriage drive toward the distant station, and a couple of gardeners
were cutting and rolling the green carpet of grass in front of the
house.

"He talks of buyin' this property," communed the Honorable Billy, who
was thirty-five and had never earned a penny in his life. "Can't be ten
years older than me, though he looks sixty, bein' podgy. Now, why can't
I have a stroke of luck an' rake in a stack? Then I might have a cut-in
for the giddy widow."

Evelyn's trim figure emerged from a tree-shrouded path. She walked with
a lithe elegance that pleased Mr. Thring's sporting eye.

"Or marry a girl like _that_," he added. The wild improbability of ever
achieving any part of this fascinating programme brought a petulant
frown to his handsome, vacuous face.

He strode up to one of the gardeners, a red-whiskered Caledonian, stern
and wild.

"Where the devil is everybody?" he yawned. "No shootin', no yachtin',
not a soul in the billiard-room--where's the bloomin' crowd?"

The dour Scot looked at him pityingly.

"Aiblins some are i' bed," he said, "an' there's ithers wha ocht to be
i' bed."

"Bully for you, Rob Roy," cried Thring, who never objected to being
scored off. "Aiblins some people are cuttin' grass wha ocht to be under
it, because they don't know they're alive, eh what?"

"Man, but ye're shairp the day," retorted the gardener. "Whiles I'm
thinkin' there's a guid pig-jobber lost in you, Maister Thring."

"Pig-jobber, you cateran! Why pigs?"

"Have ye no heerd tell that fowk a bit saft i' the heid have a
wonderfu' way wi' animals, an' pigs are always a fine mairket."

"A bit heavy, McToddy. Trem yer whuskers an' change yer trousies for a
kelt, an' mebbe ye'll crack a joke wi' less deeficulty."

The under-gardener chortled, for the Honorable Billy could imitate the
Scots dialect with an unction that was decidedly mirth-provoking.

"Ma name's no McToddy," began the other.

"Well, then, McWhusky. I ken the noo from yer rid neb that there's
michty little watter in yer composition."

Snorting defiance, but not daring to pour forth the wrath that boiled
up in him, the man pushed a mowing-machine savagely across the lawn.

"Routed!" smiled Billy. "Bannockburn is avenged!"

"What is amusing you, Mr. Thring?" asked Evelyn, who had walked over
the grass unheard.

"I have just discovered my lost vocation," he said. "I am a buffoon,
Miss Dane, an idle jester. The only difference between me and a
music-hall comedian is that my humor is not remunerative."

"Why, when I left you last night you were on the verge of proposing to
Mrs. Laing, a most serious undertaking."

"Jolly nice woman, Mrs. Laing. No nonsense about her. We've bin
together the last half hour, an' I'm under the starter's orders, at any
rate."

"Why not go in and win?" demanded Evelyn, taking a kindly interest in
the Honorable one's matrimonial prospects. If he and Mrs. Laing made a
match of it, that would provide a very agreeable close to a disquieting
incident.

"I'm afraid it'll only be to make the runnin' for some other Johnny,"
sighed he. "I was gettin' along like a house a-fire, when all at once
she remembered she hadn't said what she wanted to say in a letter to
a Captain somebody at Ostend, an' off she waltzed to her room. She's
probably writin' sweet nothings to him now. Same old story--Billy
Thring left at the post. Gad, that's funny! See it, eh, what?"

Thring was so amused by his own wit that he did not notice the
expression of pain and fear that drove the brightness from Evelyn's
face. But she herself was conscious of it, and looked away lest he
should peer into her eyes, and wonder. So Mrs. Laing was writing to
Arthur! She knew his address! How strange, how unutterably strange,
that he had not once mentioned her name! The girl, as in a dream,
affected to be watching a boy, the son of the village post-mistress,
coming up the avenue. For the sake of hearing her own voice in such
commonplace words as she might dare to utter, she drew her companion's
attention.

"Here is our telegraph messenger," she said.

Thring glanced at his watch.

"It's for me," he announced. "There's a chap at Newmarket who is the
champion loser-finder of the world, an' I'm one of his victims. This is
Leger day, an' if you wait a moment I'll put you onto a stiff 'un, sure
thing. Then you must turn bookmaker at lunch, and win gloves right and
left--in pairs, in fact. I'll stand your losses if my prophet has gone
mad an' sent a winner."

The boy made straight for him, and commenced to unfasten the pouch
slung to his belt.

"See? I told you," laughed Billy, opening the message.

Evelyn hardly understood him. She was grateful for the high spirits
that prevented him from paying any heed to the tears trembling under
her drooping eyelashes. Despite her brave resolve to disregard Rosamund
Laing's unbelievable story, a whole legion of doubts and terrors now
trooped in on her. She asked herself how she could endure to live in
the same house as her rival, for five long days, until Arthur's answer
came. Would he receive the two letters by the same post? Could there be
any real foundation for her rival's boast? The thought made her sick at
heart. Fighting down her dread, she turned to Thring hoping to find a
momentary oblivion in listening to his cheerful nonsense.

She found oblivion, indeed, but not in the shape she anticipated.
Shading his eyes with one hand and holding the telegram in the other,
her companion was gazing at it in a dazed way. His cheeks were
bloodless, the hand gripping the scrap of flimsy paper shook as though
he were seized with ague, his whole attitude was that of a man who had
received an overwhelming shock.

"Mr. Thring!" she cried, startled beyond measure, "what has happened?"

"My God!" he wailed, with the tingling note of agony in his voice that
comes most clearly from one whose lips are formed for laughter. "My
God! And I was jesting about them only last night!"

"Oh, what is it?" she cried again, catching his arm because he swayed
like one about to faint.

"Read!" he murmured. "Fairholme an' the two boys! May Heaven forgive
me! To think that I should have said it last night of all nights!"

Evelyn took the telegram from his palsied fingers, and this is what she
read:

"With deepest regret I have to inform you that the Earl of Fairholme
and his two sons were killed in the collision at Beckminster Junction
last evening. Their private saloon was being shunted when the down
express crashed into it. Letters found on his lordship's body gave me
your address. Every one here joins in profound sympathy. Please wire
instructions. James Thwaite."

Scarce knowing what she said, and still clinging desperately to the
stricken man at her side, Evelyn whispered:

"Are they your relatives?"

And the answer came brokenly.

"Don't you know? That's Ferdy and my nephews! And two such boys!
Straight an' tall an' handsome. Good Lord! was that the only way?"

Then she realized the horror of it. The crushed society butterfly, who
was like to fall to the ground but for her support, was now Earl of
Fairholme. Calling Brown to her aid, they led him inside the house. The
butler, impelled to disobey his master's strict injunctions, knocked at
the library door, and told Baumgartner what had happened.

Von Rippenbach heard. He was a callous person, to whom the death of
three Englishmen was of very slight consideration.

"The very thing!" he murmured. "Now you have your excuse. You can empty
the place in twenty-four hours."

Rosamund Laing, whose white brows wore unseemly furrows, was writing
and thinking in her own room when a maid brought her the news. Before
her on the table was Evelyn's letter, and the sharp-eyed Scotch lassie
saw that the lady nearly upset the inkstand in her haste to cover
something with the blotting-pad. Rosamund was shocked, of course.
Finding that Thring was leaving for the south almost immediately, she
then and there wrote a sweetly sympathetic note, and had it taken to
him.

"By the way," she said before the maid went out, "have you seen Mr.
Figuero recently? I mean the dark-skinned man who came here yesterday."

Yes, he had just left the library with the master and another
gentleman. Rosamund rose at once. If she were not greatly mistaken,
Evelyn's harmless-looking postscript had given her a clue to the
mystery of Figuero's presence in Baumgartner's house. She knew her West
Africa, and the bad repute of Oku was one of her clearest memories.
Yet she turned back at the door, took Evelyn's letter from her pocket,
copied a portion of it, and locked the original in her jewel case.

The luncheon-gong sounded as she descended the stairs, so perforce
she postponed the interview she promised herself with the Portuguese.
And, for the success of her deep-laid schemes, it was as well.
Sometimes there comes to the aid of evil-doers a fiend who contrives
opportunities where human forethought would fail. Rosamund, embarked
on a well-nigh desperate enterprise, suddenly found the way smoothed
by Baumgartner's wholly unexpected announcement that business
considerations compelled him to leave Lochmerig forthwith.

"My wife and I would have tried to arrange matters satisfactorily for
our guests," he said, "but the gloom cast on our pleasant party by the
unhappy tidings received this morning by one of our number renders
it almost impossible for any of us to enjoy the remainder of a most
memorable and delightful sojourn in Scotland."

He delivered himself of other platitudes, but Mrs. Baumgartner's
dejected air and Beryl's sulky silence showed plainly enough that the
millionaire's fiat was unalterable. Polite murmurs of agreement veiled
the chagrin of people who had a fortnight or more thrown on their
hands without any prior arrangements. The meal was a solemn function.
Everybody was glad when it ended.

Rosamund met Figuero in the hall.

"I am going to the village," she said. "Will you walk there with me?"

He caught the veiled meaning of the glance, and agreed instantly. When
they were clear of the house, she commenced the attack.

"Why are you and Count von Rippenbach and three men of Oku in England?"
she asked.

She did not look at Figuero. There was no need. He waited a few seconds
too long before he laughed.

"You make joke," he said.

"Do I? It will be no joke for you when Captain Warden informs the
Government, if he has not done that already."

"Why you say dem t'ing?" he growled, and she was fully aware of the
menace in his voice.

"You told me what you were pleased to consider a secret last night.
Very well, I am willing to trade. Captain Warden knows what you are
doing. He probably guesses every item of the business you and the Count
were discussing so long and earnestly with Mr. Baumgartner in the
library before lunch. Oh, please don't interrupt"--for Figuero, driven
beyond the bounds of self-control, was using words better left to the
Portuguese tongue in which they were uttered--"I am not concerned with
your plots. They never come to anything, you know. If either Count von
Rippenbach or Mr. Baumgartner had your history at their finger's ends
as I have, they would drop you like a hot cinder. Yet, I am ready to
bargain. Help me, and I will keep my information to myself."

"What you want, den?"

She glanced at him, and was surprised to see that his face was livid,
almost green with rage and perplexity. It must be a grave matter--this
jumble of hints in Evelyn's letter.

"Can you read English?" she asked, after a pause.

"Yes, leetle piece--better as I can make palaver."

"Read that then."

She handed him the copy of that part of the fateful letter that alluded
to himself and his affairs. He puzzled it out, word by word.

"Where him lib for?" he demanded.

"That was written by Miss Dane and intended for Captain Warden. I came
by it, no matter how, and I mean to make use of it in some way."

With a rapid movement, he stuffed the sheet of note-paper into a pocket.

"I keep dem letter," he announced.

"Certainly. It is only a copy. Savvy? I have the real one safely put
away."

Figuero swallowed something. His thin lips were bloodless, and his
tongue moistened them with the quick darting action of a snake.
Rosamund, who was really somewhat afraid, trusted to the daylight
and the fact that they were traversing an open road, with cottages
scattered through the glen.

"You cannot humbug me," she went on, "but I want to assure you again
that I am no enemy of yours. Now, listen. I mean to marry Captain
Warden, but I have reason to believe that he is engaged, promised, to
Miss Dane. I am trying to stop that, to break it off. Can you help?"

"You ask hard t'ing--in dis place. In Africa, we get Oku man make
ju-ju."

She shuddered. The cold malevolence in his words recalled stories she
had heard of those who had died with unaccountable suddenness when "Oku
man make ju-ju."

"I don't mean that," she cried vehemently. "Tell me what is taking
place, and how it will affect Captain Warden. Then I can twist events
to my own purpose. I can warn him, perhaps prove myself his friend.
Above all--where are you going to-morrow? Mr. Baumgartner sails in the
_Sans Souci_, I hear. Does Miss Dane go with him, or is she to be sent
away because she is aware of your plans?"

Figuero did not answer during a whole minute.

He saw light, dimly, but growing more distinct each instant. Warden
was a deadly personality in the field against him, and his active
interference was now assured beyond cavil. But, with two women as
foils, both beautiful, and one exceedingly well equipped with money,
there was still a chance of circumventing the only man he feared.

"You steal dem letter?" he said unexpectedly.

"At any rate, it has not gone to Captain Warden," was the acid reply.

"An' you write 'im. What you say?"

"Oh, nothing that affects the case."

"You tole him me here?"

"No. That can wait," which statement, as shall be seen, was strictly
untrue.

"Well, den, dem yacht lib for--for somewheres to-morrow. Dem girl, Mees
Dane, go wid me. You tole him dat t'ing as you say las' night. I make
wife palaver to dem girl."

"What good will that do?" she said. "In a week, ten days, he will hear
from her again."

"No. I take dem letter. You gib me Captain Warden writin', an' I keep
eye for dat. Savvy?"

"But can you carry out what you promised?"

"Two, t'ree months, yes. After dem yacht lib for Madeira, no. P'raps
dem girl be wife den."

Rosamund's dark eyes narrowed to two tiny slits. If Figuero could
really keep Warden and Evelyn apart during so long a period, the
utterly hopeless project on which she had embarked in a moment of
jealous rage might become feasible. Of course, the suggestion that he
would marry Evelyn was preposterous, but there was no reason why she
should hurt his pride by telling him so. Her heart throbbed madly,
while her active brain debated the pros and cons of the all-important
question--should she post the letter already written? Yes. It was the
outcome of her earliest thought. She would follow it up with another
in different strain. The two would be vastly more convincing than one,
and the dates would have a significance that no mere contriving could
impart.

By this time they were at the post-office, from which mails were
dispatched by a later train than that caught by the groom. Rosamund
dropped her letter in the box. She was quite pale with suppressed
excitement. Her boats were burnt. She heard the fall of the envelope
into the receptacle, and the appalling notion possessed her that the
sound resembled the fall of earth on a coffin. She breathed heavily,
and pressed a hand to her bosom. Figuero was watching her.

"Now you done dem t'ing," he said, "you dash me some money."

She started. Did he mean to levy blackmail for his services?

"Why?" she asked, summoning all her strength of character to meet his
gaze without flinching.

"Me buy present for dem girl. If I make wife palaver dat cost many
dollar."

"I am not buying your help. You trade with me one thing for the other.
If you refuse, I write to the Government about the men of Oku."

The Portuguese laughed more naturally than she had yet heard him. If
his arch-enemy, Arthur Warden, was well acquainted with the mission he
and the chiefs had undertaken, this pretty and passionate woman counted
for very little in the scale against him.

"You dash me one hunner' poun'," he said cheerfully. "Jus' dat, no
mo'. If you say 'no,' dem girl no lib for yacht. Mr. Baumgartner say go
one-time. Me tell 'im take dem girl--savvy?"

Mrs. Laing savvied. She gave him thirty pounds--all she could spare
from her purse--and promised to send the balance to an address in
London. He was fully satisfied. He was sure she would not fail him.
When he needed further supplies she would pay willingly. In an intrigue
based on such lines Miguel Figuero was an adept.




CHAPTER IX

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 the _plage_ among 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 the _ennui_ of 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 was set 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 atmosphere every day for a month is that _he_
fritters 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 19-24 _transversale_. 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 the _Nancy's_ cabin, 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 afforded
but 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 to duty, 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 was _en route_ to Ostend. He bade Peter bring the _Nancy_
to 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, for she 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. _My_ presence 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
and aspirations, 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 <DW64>s 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, and Rosamund 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.

"_Wot_ a 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 forced attention 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 his arrival 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 asking that
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, the _Water Witch_ sails
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 the _Water Witch_ on 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 the _Water Witch_ is 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-cutter _Nancy_, 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 the _Sans 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 would _you_ have 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 did not 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 you see 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 his voice 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 the _Sans Souci_ carried
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. "The _Sans
Souci_ sailed Wednesday, 3 P.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 explicit details 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 the _Sans Souci_ is 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 the _Nancy_, 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 4.30 A.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 you downstairs 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 the _Water Witch_ one 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 X

HASSAN'S TOWER--AND THE COLONIAL OFFICE


Warden did not find Rabat so intolerable as the captain of the
_Water Witch_ led 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 <DW72>s
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.

The _Water Witch_ entered 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 only she 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 only two 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 this
quest 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 the Solent 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 <DW64>s 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 out bodily. 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, thinking that
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 said aloud. "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 glance fell 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 the _Water 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.

[Illustration: There was no mistaking the malice             _Page 183_]

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  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 the _Water
Witch_ began the disturbance over night, 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 actual government
beyond the sphere of each chief town, official zeal does not travel
far. The _Water Witch_ sailed 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 the _Sans Souci_ from 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 the earth 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 the _Sans 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 is _not_
engaged 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 she pretend 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 the _Water Witch_?
Can _she_ shed light on the dark places of Rabat? It is worth trying.
The _Sans Souci_ arrives 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 XI

THE BLUE MAN--AND A WHITE


When Warden came to his senses he found himself lying in impenetrable
darkness. A half-formed belief that he was blind impelled him to put
his hands to his face. Then he awoke to realities. His wrists were
bound tightly, movement was painful and almost impossible, yet he
seemed to be strapped to something that moved. By using his eyelids
he soon succeeded in convincing himself that his eyes were uninjured,
but the cold sweat of fear induced by that first horrible suspicion
revived him more speedily than any stimulant. Straining his cramped
limbs to test both his bonds and his injuries, he was not long in
reaching a fairly accurate estimate of a disastrous plight. His head
and left shoulder were stiff and sore, and he believed he had been
rendered unconscious by a blow that caused a slight concussion of the
brain. There was a bitter taste in his mouth which he recognized as
poppy-juice, a preparation of opium widely used in Northern Africa as a
soothing tonic. This, in itself, was somewhat reassuring. It suggested
a crude effort to revive him. Again, though tied hand and foot, he was
lying comfortably, and the irregular swaying motion which puzzled his
waking thoughts was quickly explained by the shuffling of sandals and
the occasional grunting comments of the men who carried the palanquin,
or litter, in which he was pent.

But how account for the darkness? Turn and twist as he would, there
was no glimmer of light, and the most closely-woven fabric that ever
left a loom could not altogether shut out the rays of the tropical sun
rising over Morocco when last he saw its beams. Then a gust of cool air
blew in on his clammy cheek through a slit in the litter-cloth, and the
astounding knowledge that it was already night was forced on him. Now,
he was almost certain that he suffered from no injury grave enough to
entail fifteen or twenty hours of complete insensibility, and the only
reasonable conclusion was that he had been drugged.

That was a displeasing explanation of the taste of poppy-juice, but
he felt too sick and weary to care very much what strange hazard had
brought him to his present state. It sufficed that he was a captive,
that the _Water Witch_ would sail without him, that he would be
discredited in his service for missing an appointment of the utmost
importance. These ills were obvious. No matter what other misfortunes
the immediate future might have in store, his visit to Hassan's Tower
had proved unlucky in all save its direct object, the recovery of the
ruby.

Perhaps even that slight recompense for these positive evils had been
taken from him. His revolver was gone, and the chisel, as he could
determine by rolling a little from side to side. Probably his pockets
were emptied long since. He tried to raise his body ever so slightly,
but failed, yet he fancied he could feel the pressure of the ring
against his ribs. And in fact it was still in his possession, for those
who had robbed him, though they unfastened his waistcoat to learn if he
wore a money-belt, had missed the hidden pocket. He was deadly tired.
The nauseating drug with which he had been dosed was still powerful
enough to render him almost incapable of reasoned thought. After
the effects of the first thrill of restored vitality had passed, he
listened idly to the pattering feet and muttered talk of his bearers.
Then he resigned himself to fate, and fell asleep.

When next he awoke he was still in the palanquin. But the curtains were
drawn apart, it was daylight, and a Moor was unfastening his bonds. The
man spoke to him in a jargon that was incomprehensible. Warden sat up.
He felt cold and stiff, and a twinge of pain in his shoulder drew from
him a stifled exclamation in English.

The Moor spoke again. This time it was dimly discernible that he was
asking in execrable French if Monsieur wished to eat and drink.

Warden answered him in the same language.

"Why am I here?" he said, glancing round a rough camp pitched in the
shade of a grove of tall trees.

"You must address the ever-to-be-honored Nila Moullah.[1] I am only a
servant," was the reply.

"I am not French," began Warden, "I am an Englishman."

The man growled an oath in Arabic, and repeated the request about food.
It was useless to question him.

"What is on the menu?" said Warden, with a wry smile.

He was not to be starved, it seemed. Perhaps some explanation of his
present predicament would soon be forthcoming. At any rate, his wits
would be clearer after a meal. He had eaten nothing during twenty-four
hours at the lowest reckoning. He saw now that a new day was well
advanced. The trees opposed a dense screen to the sun, but that
luminary was high in the heavens, and he was sure he had not dreamed
of the night journey in the palanquin. A dozen Moors, all armed to the
teeth, lolled on the grass or sat on the gnarled roots of trees in
the glade that sheltered the bivouac. At some little distance there
was a palanquin similar to his own, save that its trappings were more
gaudy, and the bearer-poles were painted a bright blue. The curtains
were closed, but the color of the paint, added to the title of the
moullah to whom the Moor referred him for information, accentuated
a notion slowly taking shape in his brain. He had not forgotten the
extraordinary being who gazed at him so threateningly from the top of
the tower. It was a fair assumption that the man had dropped a stone
on him at the very instant he took the downward leap that would have
secured his safety. Was he a prisoner in the hands of this fanatic?
And for what purpose was he brought into the interior?

That he was far away from the coast was determined by many signs. The
keen, invigorating mountain air, the hardy types of trees and shrubs,
the absence of the myriads of insects that would have made a grove on
the plains a place of anything but rest at that hour--these things were
an open book to one accustomed to life in the jungle. He reflected
bitterly that if he had practised the first rudiments of the scout's
art the previous day, he would now, in all likelihood, be on board the
steamer. Then he remembered the ring, and pressed a hand to his breast
while ostensibly rubbing his injured shoulder. Yes, it was there--the
one article left him. Watch, money, revolver, even a handkerchief and a
box of matches, were stolen, but the ring remained. He wondered dully
how the Blue Priest would have accounted for the piece of tattooed
skin--with its Arabic-Latin quotation from the Epistle of St. Paul to
the Hebrews and its Portuguese announcement of the secret hoard of
Hassan's Tower--if it had happened to be in his pocket. But it reposed
in a portmanteau in his cabin, together with the canvas bag containing
the gourd. When he was missed, would the skipper examine his baggage to
discover some clue to his identity? If so, that weather-beaten tar's
remarks when he looked at the face of M'Wanga, one-time king of Benin,
would be interesting.

The Moor came back with a dish of pillau, chicken stewed with rice. It
was exceedingly appetizing. Some coarse bread and a bowl of goat's milk
completed a meal that was almost sumptuous. He ate heartily, and his
spirits rose with each mouthful. The nondescript warriors who formed
his escort paid little heed to him, even when he rose and stretched his
limbs in a stroll round the palanquin. A man unacquainted with native
ways might have drawn a favorable augury from their indifference--not
so Warden, to whom it gave sure proof that his escape was deemed
impossible.

At a little distance was a larger gathering, mainly servants and
coolies. Here, too, were tethered some camels and hill ponies. The
strength and equipment of the party betokened a much more serious
purpose than the capture of a stray European; yet he seemed to be the
only prisoner; the others were Moors, Arabs, and <DW64>s, the soldiers
and hangers-on of a fighting caravan.

A croaking voice from behind the curtains of the gaily caparisoned
palanquin suddenly brought the armed Moors to their feet. One of them,
who spoke good French, bade Warden come nearer, the litter-cloth was
thrust aside, and the blue man of the Hassan Tower was revealed.
Huddled up at the back of the cramped conveyance, he looked more
like a strange beast than a man. If his appearance was forbidding
when seen in Warden's upward glance from the base of the tower, it
was positively repulsive at this nearer and more leisurely point of
view. The dye applied to skin and hair gave him a grotesque, almost
maniacal aspect. His elfin locks were matted. His face and limbs had
a peculiarly dead aspect, since the blue pigment had dried in dull
scales that counterfeited the leathery surface of a mummy's body. The
sunken black eyes, gleaming out of bloodshot sockets, alone told of
life. He reminded Warden of some cannibal ju-ju man from the trackless
swamps of Nigeria. That such a loathsome creature should command the
fearful respect of several distinguished-looking Mohammedans would be
inconceivable were it not for the hush that fell on them when they
heard his voice, and the alacrity with which they obeyed his order to
produce the Giaour.

Now, the singular fact that the two men who had spoken to him used the
French language was not lost on Warden. It argued that they and their
companions hailed from the Sahara border rather than the coast. If
that were so, his capture was a fantastic mistake. They could have no
possible grievance against him. A germ of hope sprang up in his heart,
but the Nila Moullah soon destroyed it.

"Bid the Frank do homage," he grunted in Arabic.

"Kneel!" said the interpreter.

"I am rather stiff in the joints," said Warden, speaking composedly,
"but I shall be glad to sit down and talk with the distinguished
moullah if that is agreeable to him."

He squatted on the ground, but two men seized him roughly and tried
to force him to his knees. He resisted with a mad fury that was
more creditable to his pluck than to his intelligence--yet there are
indignities that cannot be borne, and this was one. Though handicapped
by a crippled shoulder and the enervating effect of the drug, though
he was grappled with before he could rise--and the Moors were men of
bone and sinew--he fought so fiercely that both of his assailants
were prostrate at the same time as himself. A coward's blow ended the
unequal tussle. A heavy whip cut him ferociously across the eyes, and
half-blinded him, and he was flung violently face downward in front of
the Blue Man, who muttered:

"Let the Kaffir dog lie there till he learns obedience."

Thinking he was subdued, the Moors relaxed their grip. Then Warden
sprang to his feet. If death were at hand, in dying he would at
least rid tortured humanity of an oppressor. But the Nila Moullah
seemed to guess his thought, and shrieked to his guards that they
should hold fast the Nazarene. They pinioned his arms again, and the
French-speaking Moor asked him why he had dared to disturb a place made
holy by the presence of the moullah.

Nearly incoherent with pain and anger, Warden managed to answer that he
had done harm to none, that he was not even a resident in Rabat, having
landed at the port little more than an hour before he visited the Tower.

"Ah, he is not one of the accursed brood at Rabat? So much the better!
They will fall like ripe pears at the time of plucking," snarled the
occupant of the litter.

Since the words were Arabic, Warden understood, but the instinct of
self-preservation bade him conceal the fact. Nevertheless, he forced
his lips to utter a dignified protest.

"I am an Englishman," he said, "and my disappearance will be reported.
Inquiry will be made--it is known that I went to the Hassan Tower--and
your large caravan cannot travel without exciting comment. You will
certainly be pursued and attacked, whether I am living or dead. Yet I
am not vindictive. Set me free, bring me back to Rabat in time to join
my ship, and I shall lodge no complaint against you, nor claim my money
and other belongings."

"What sayeth the unbeliever?" demanded the moullah.

He was told, with fair accuracy, and seemed to find humor in Warden's
words.

"Slaves do not parley with their masters," he announced, grinning
vindictively at his captive. "Tie him in the litter. If he speaks, gag
him. To-morrow he can carry a load with the rest."

It needed all of Warden's philosophy to keep him from going mad during
that dreadful journey across Morocco. The Nila Moullah's orders were
literally obeyed. After the second day's march, when sixty miles of
hilly country intervened between Rabat and the caravan, the Englishman
was deprived of his palanquin and became a beast of burden. Still, he
lived, and was fed, and he prayed that he might retain his reason. The
belief that he knew no Arabic enabled him to gather some scraps of
information. The Blue Priest of El Hamra was preaching a new jehad,
but, unlike others of his kidney, he was a born organizer. Instead of
stirring up a minor rebellion which would be snuffed out either by the
Sultan of Morocco or by one of the European powers, he was gradually
making himself known throughout the length and breadth of the land.
In his own stronghold of Lektawa, on the very confines of the Great
Desert, he was building up an army of fanatics. Meanwhile, his repute
was such that he levied heavy contributions in money and kind on the
more fertile seaboard provinces. When the time was propitious he would
descend on Morocco, enslave or kill every Christian, loot every port,
and establish himself another Mahomet. Till then, he was content to
pose as a saint.

Such a programme is nothing new in the Mussulman world. Since the
inspired camel-driver of Mecca was rapt half-way to Paradise in his
coffin, nearly five hundred mahdis have each and all claimed to be the
one, true, and much-predicted "holy man" destined to lead Islam to
complete victory over Christendom.

These impostors are infinitely worse than a pestilence. They resemble
it in their unexpected outbursts and phenomenal areas of activity, but
they scourge Moslemin mankind with a virulence unknown to cholera or
small-pox. It was Warden's grievous misfortune that he had blundered
into Hassan's Tower while the Blue Man of El Hamra was meditating an
attack on the purse of the faithful of Rabat, and the chance thus
offered of securing a Christian captive to grace the prophet's return
to Lektawa was too tempting to be neglected.

Fate oft chooses her victims with savage recklessness, but Warden felt,
as he crossed the Atlas Mountains by way of the Beni Musa pass, that
some influence more far-seeing than fate was leading him along the path
trodden by Domenico Garcia after the ruby was hidden in the tower. He
had no manner of doubt that the Portuguese artist and pirate was taken
into the heart of Africa by this very route. The belief sustained him
in those too frequent moments when sheer weariness of spirit whispered
of self-destruction. He refused to end his sufferings in that way. If
rabid fanaticism could sway a whole Mohammedan race, he, at least,
placed his trust in a higher and holier creed. Not till grim death
bade him lay down his arms would he abandon the struggle. Never a
day passed that he did not plan a means of escape, but every scheme
promised failure, and he did not mean to fail, for failure meant death.
So he trudged on manfully, his only friend a stalwart <DW64> who spoke
the Hausa language, and ever the road led to the southeast--to the
desert--to the great unknown land.

His boots gave out; his clothes were torn to rags; he was compelled
to adopt the garments and many of the habits of those with whom
his lot was cast. But he kept the ruby safe, for none thought of
searching him now, and he was given a certain measure of liberty once
the Atlas range was passed. Towns and villages became more scattered.
The country was so wild that any attempt to travel by other road than
the long-established caravan track would mean easy re-capture. To go
back was equally impossible. Every community in the Nila Moullah's own
territory was gratified by the spectacle of a Giaour among the Mahdi's
train. The people would crowd round him, and jeer at him, for no better
cause than that he was one of the hated white race. Many of them had
never before seen a white man, but that did not count--they cursed him
roundly for the sake of the legends they had heard of the arrogance
with which the Prophet's followers were treated by Nazarenes in their
own lands.

Warden bore this contumely with infinite patience. He knew that the
desert folk were repaying some of the wrongs their ancestors had
endured from generations of Portuguese and Spanish freebooters. But at
least he laid to heart the knowledge that he could never return by the
way he had come unless he were still a slave. He would be recognized
instantly, and clubbed to death like a mad dog.

Despite his hardships, he was soon restored to perfect health. The
winter season, such as it is in the Sahara, was approaching. The air
was invigorating, and the rough food, mainly grains and fruit, was
wholesome and nutritious. Yet, when Lektawa was reached, his case
looked desperate indeed. Day followed day, and week followed week,
without any prospect of relief, and he became more and more a mere
appanage of the Nila Moullah's household. It was just when hope itself
was yielding to numb despair that the sought-for opportunity presented
itself. It came like a meteor falling from the midnight sky, and
Warden, ever on the watch, was ready to avail himself of the light it
shed on his dark calvary.

Some Mohammedan festival had led to a good deal of revelry and
gormandizing when Warden, at the close of a tiring day, found his <DW64>
friend sitting at the door of his hut in an attitude of deep dejection.

"What has happened?" he asked.

The man, moved by the familiar accents of his native tongue, gave
way to tears. His plaint was common enough in communities ruled by a
truculent savage of the moullah's type. His daughter, a finely-built
girl of fifteen, had been spoken of by some parasite, and she was
summoned forthwith to the despot's seraglio. Now, the <DW64>, who
belonged to one of the numerous Hausa tribes, while ready enough to
enlist under the prophet's banner, was far from gratified by the
prospect of becoming his holiness' father-in-law. A doubtful privilege
at the best, it was shared by many, and a goodly number had been
beheaded to prevent further unpleasantness when the lady failed to
recognize the moullah's attractiveness as a husband. Moreover, the
Hausa girl herself rebelled against her lot, and was nearly wild with
terror at the thought of it. Warden could hear her sobbing inside
the hut, while her father muttered his anger to one whom he knew
instinctively he might trust.

Somehow, Warden felt that his chance had come. He dared all in the next
instant.

"Were in I your place," he said, "that dog should never claim my
daughter. I would kill him first."

The Hausa shivered with anxiety. What would be his fate if others were
aware that he even listened to those bold words without denouncing the
man who uttered them.

"You know him not, Seyyid," he said, and the fact that he used the
word for "master" to a slave showed how deeply he was stirred. "He is
invulnerable and far-seeing. He reads men's thoughts; he can kill with
a look. Even you, a Nazarene, could not resist him."

"That is what he tells the fools who choose to believe him. I was made
a prisoner because a stone struck me insensible. If he is so powerful,
why did he hide me in a litter until he was far from Rabat? Now attend
to me, Beni Kalli. I shall save you and your daughter if you do exactly
as I bid you."

The man raised his eyes. Here was a new tone in the Christian who
had endured insult and blows with meekness, except on that solitary
occasion when the Blue Priest ordered him to kneel before him.

"Speak, Seyyid. At least I shall not betray you," he muttered.

"You must get me some Arab clothing which I can put on in your hut
when it is dark. Then I shall take your daughter to the moullah's
house. At that hour he will be alone in an inner room, and the fact
that I bring the girl will procure me admission----"

"But you will be discovered at once. How should a man be an Arab who
speaks no Arabic?"

"Do I not?" laughed Warden, going off instantly into the sonorous
language of the desert. "I can accomplish that and more, Beni Kalli, if
you follow my plan."

The Hausa sprang to his feet in amazement.

"Master!" he cried, "you know Arabic better than I, who have lived here
many years."

He thought the Nazarene was a wizard. Thenceforth he was ready to fall
in with any proposal he made.

Warden's scheme was feasible. Beni Kalli, afraid to be skeptical,
yet only half convinced at first, quickly saw that its very daring
commended it. Moreover, time pressed. He must either sacrifice his
daughter or adopt some such heroic alternative as that suggested by
one whom he already recognized as a leader of men. Immediate decision
was called for. To defy the Nila Moullah's will meant simply that the
malcontent would be beheaded forthwith.

"I am between the lion and his prey," said Beni Kalli valiantly. "So I
face the lion. Have it as you will, Seyyid. I am at your command."

His proverb was well chosen. Never did people in dire straits adopt
bolder strategy than that which Warden had in mind. He had often
weighed it and found it practicable, but hitherto it had proved
impossible owing to the secrecy with which the prophet surrounded
his daily life. When traveling, the Blue Man usually remained in his
litter. At Lektawa he gave audience unseen. None could gain admission
to his compound without stating their business and revealing their
identity; he lived alone and hidden, like a spider in the dark recesses
of his murderous web. Now that safeguard, previously unsurmountable,
vanished by reason of the girl's presence. For the rest, Warden relied
not only on his own audacity, but on the assured cowardliness of a
crafty tyrant.

There is an hour in the desert--the hour following sunset--when night
wraps the earth in blackness as in a pall. It is due to the rapid fall
in temperature and the resultant condensation of surface moisture taken
up by the air. But it soon passes. If there is a moon, the landscape
becomes a radiant etching in black and silver; even when the moon is
absent, the light of the stars makes traveling safe. Therefore, the
time at Warden's disposal was limited. So many shrewd eyes watched the
Nila Moullah's dwelling that if success were to attend the _coup_ it
must be carried out during the forty minutes of darkness.

And there was much to be done in that brief period. As soon as the
rapidly advancing gloom permitted, Warden and the girl crossed the open
space in the center of which stood the moullah's abode. The Englishman
was so bronzed by exposure to the elements that the hood of a burnous
was scarcely needed to conceal his face. The young negress, a comely
statue of ebony draped in white cotton, was so terror-stricken that she
offered the most serious obstacle to Warden's project. But that could
not be helped. He depended on her to draw those ferret eyes off himself
for the one precious moment he needed. After that, he trusted utterly
to his own resources.

There was no trouble at the entrance to the compound. The guards were
Moors recruited from the seaboard provinces, well-paid hirelings whom
the Blue Man could safely order to kill any obnoxious members of his
own tribe. Were they Arabs, they might have suspected Warden's accent,
but the patois they used was almost unintelligible among the desert
folk. So Warden spoke with a harsh distinctness.

"Go, one of you," he said, "and tell the glorious successor of the
Prophet that the daughter of Beni Kalli awaits his pleasure."

The chief man among the guards came forward and peered at them. His
glance fell on the shrinking form by the side of this stalwart Bedâwi.

"'Tis well," he said. "Even now the Holy One asked why she tarried. Who
art thou, brother?"

"What, then, must the renowned son of Mahmoud suffer further delay?"
cried Warden, even more loudly.

He risked a good deal, because some true Arab might be within earshot,
and there are gutturals in the nomadic language of Northern Africa that
no European throat can reproduce.

But his fearlessness was justified. A snarling voice reached them where
they stood.

"Bring the girl hither," it growled, and the two were allowed to pass
instantly.

Warden's heart throbbed a little faster as he half dragged the cowering
negress across the courtyard. She knew what was going to happen, and
had been coached as to her behavior, but she was only a child, and
her fear was great for her father and herself. She could not believe
that this gaunt Christian, the man whom she had seen working daily
among the Nila Moullah's slaves, could really accomplish the task he
had undertaken. So she whimpered with fright, and would have run back
shrieking if Warden had not caught her arm and whispered a few words of
encouragement.

The prophet's habit of concealing himself as much as possible from
his adherents was now more helpful than a hundred armed men. He was
supposed to pass day and night in meditation. None had ever seen him
eat or sleep. To carry out this pose he seldom appeared from behind the
thick mats which veiled the front of the room he occupied.

A lamp was burning within. When Warden lifted a corner of one of
the mats, he saw a grotesque and ghoulish-looking figure seated
cross-legged on a praying-carpet. Two red-rimmed, glittering black eyes
gazed fixedly at him, and a hand sought under a cushion for a weapon,
since none dared to pass that screen without direct instructions.
Warden turned quickly, and pushed the girl forward.

"Beni Kalli was slow in fulfilling your wishes, O worthy of honor,"
he exclaimed, bowing low yet advancing the while, and never relaxing
his grip on the unhappy negress. Her manifest reluctance explained his
action. The Blue Man appreciated the rough ways of an Arab.

"There are means to make him speedy," he chuckled, rising.

That was what Warden wanted. In raising himself, the moullah was
momentarily off his guard. In the next instant he was lying with his
face on the floor; a strong hand was across his mouth pulling his head
back until his neck was almost dislocated, while the blade of a sharp
knife rested most suggestively across his throat.

"Turn the lamp low," said Warden to the girl. His voice was quiet and
reassuring, but she was so completely unnerved that she nearly put out
the light, which would have been awkward. Happily, she avoided that
blunder.

"Now listen, you dog!" muttered Warden, slightly relieving the tension
on the Blue Man's spinal column. "Do as I bid, and I shall spare your
life. Say but a word, utter the least cry, save as I direct, and your
head will leave your miserable body. Do you understand, _sug_?"

He used the concluding epithet purposely. It is more opprobrious in
Arabic than its English equivalent "cur." It showed how fully he was
the victor in this unexpected strife, and he emphasized the warning
with a more decided pressure of the sharp blade in the region of the
jugular vein. The moullah could not have been more at his mercy were he
manacled. He was flat on the ground, sprawling with arms and legs like
some ugly frog, and Warden's right knee was jammed in the small of his
back. There was naught to be done but yield, and, when permitted to
speak, he murmured humbly that he would obey.

"Say 'Seyyid,' you swine!" said the Englishman.

"Seyyid!" gurgled the other.

"Pay heed, then," continued Warden, with a grim earnestness that left
no doubt in his hearer's mind that he would not hesitate to slit a
throat if need be. "The least alteration of my commands shall forfeit
thy life. Call the leader of the guard, and tell him to summon hither
Beni Kalli, who is to be admitted alone and without question. Tell him
also to bring into the compound the three best camels you possess, with
store of food and water for a journey. Beni Kalli is to come at once,
and the camels are to be ready within ten minutes. Shout now--he will
hear thee."

Thus far, the conditions did not sound onerous, and the Blue Man
complied with them to the fraction of a syllable. An anxious,
heart-searching five minutes followed. Warden did not fail to impress
on the quaking wretch in his grasp that he was receiving more clemency
than he deserved, and warned him sternly against ever again treating a
European with contumely. He could feel the thrill of mortal terror that
shook the moullah when he learnt the identity of his assailant.

It was good that the tyrant should know what fear was, yet the time
passed with leaden feet until Beni Kalli, more than doubting that the
Seyyid's scheme had failed, lifted a mat and thrust an awestricken
countenance within. The girl uttered a cry of relief at the sight of
her father, but Warden silenced her with a word.

[Illustration: He could feel the thrill of terror that shook the moullah
                                                              _Page_ 212]

He nodded to the Hausa, who immediately began to tie the moullah's legs
and arms with leather thongs, using the wholly baffling slave-knot,
which must be cut ere its victim can be freed. Soon the whining plaint
of camels roused from their accustomed sleeping-place was audible. The
animals were led into the courtyard, and their attendants received the
dreaded moullah's exceedingly curt order that they were to be handed
over to Beni Kalli, his daughter, and the Arab, Abdul ben Izzuf, for a
journey which they were taking on his business.

And that was the last word the Blue Man of El Hamra ever uttered.
Warden, it is true, kept his promise, and left him gagged and bound,
unable to move or utter a cry, but otherwise uninjured. He lay there
all night and all the following day, and his views concerning Nazarenes
must have been most unedifying. After sunset it occurred to some one
that even a prophet might fall ill. One who was in some sense his
confidant and disciple volunteered to look behind the screen, when he
could obtain no answer to his repeated requests for an audience. He was
greatly shocked at seeing his revered teacher's plight. In fact, he
thought the moullah was dead. Most amazing thing of all, the famous
blue robe had vanished. Its disappearance suggested that the time was
ripe for the advent of a new prophet, and he proclaimed loudly that the
Nila Moullah had been slain in a combat with the devil. To make sure,
being of decisive habit, he planted a dagger firmly between the Blue
Man's shoulder-blades. Although the corpse was warm when the guards
came running at his outcry, none dared touch the body of one who had
wrestled with Satan. It was evident at least that the disciple could
not have trussed his spiritual guide so thoroughly in a few seconds,
and the theory of diabolic agency was confirmed thereby.

Affairs became lively in Lektawa for a week or two. Several would-be
prophets died suddenly before order was restored and a new régime was
firmly established. It was no man's affair to discover what had become
of the Nazarene slave or Beni Kalli and his daughter, so no effort
was put forth toward that end. Had the fugitives known the outcome of
their bold deed they might have spared themselves much anxiety. But
that could not be. They fled along the caravan route that crosses the
Western Sahara, and looked ever for the dust of a pursuing kafila. The
Blue Man of El Hamra was in their thoughts, waking or dreaming, and
many a league separated them from Lektawa ere their fear abated and
they gave heed to the troubles that lay in front rather than to the
vengeance that might be rushing on them from the rear.




CHAPTER XII

EVELYN HAS UNEXPECTED VISITORS


On a moonlit night in January, Evelyn Dane was sitting in the veranda
of the big English-looking hotel which has brought more than a hint
of Brighton to the sea front of Las Palmas, Gran Canaria. A dance was
in progress within, and the jingle of a polka mixed curiously with
the continuous roar of a heavy surf. But Evelyn was in no mood for
dancing. While she was dressing for dinner that evening the boom of a
gun from the harbor announced the arrival of a foreign warship. Soon
afterward she learned the ship's name, and from that moment she was
on the tip-toe of expectation, for the captain of H. M. second-class
cruiser _Valiant_ supplied the one remaining link between her present
embittered life and the rose- romance of a day at Plymouth.

Two months earlier, Captain Mortimer came to her in Funchal, Madeira,
with a message that thrilled her with hope. The Foreign Office had
requested him, he said, to forward any information she could give which
might help to explain why Captain Warden should vanish so mysteriously
at Rabat.

The inquiry was a private one. She must mention it to none, but it was
deemed so important by the authorities in Whitehall that the _Valiant_
was sent specially to Madeira to make it. There was not much that she
could tell him. Her sole knowledge of Rabat was gleaned from Domenico
Garcia's message. She remembered the text with sufficient accuracy--but
what a queer jumble of fact and fable it sounded! Even she herself,
though she had actually seen the carved gourd bobbing about in the
Solent, fancied now that the tattooed parchment supplied a far-fetched
excuse for Warden's disappearance.

Nevertheless, the sailor's words had driven some of the hardness out
of her heart. She was beginning to think that Mrs. Laing's story was
true--that Warden was really her rival's promised husband--that he
had not dared even to write again when he knew that Rosamund was at
Lockmerig. But when this courtly officer assured her that Captain
Warden had undoubtedly sailed for West Africa two days after the
_Sans Souci_ quitted the lock, she realized that, in some respects,
her doubts were unwarranted. It was amazing that her lover had not
announced his departure, but the ways of Governments are strange, and
his fall from grace was by no means so great as she had been forced
to believe. And then her tiny bit of blue sky was darkened by a new
cloud. Although the captain of the _Valiant_, out of sheer kindliness,
concealed the sinister outcome of Warden's visit to the Morocco town,
his very reticence induced anxiety. He was greatly interested in
Garcia's allusion to Hassan's Tower, listened carefully to Evelyn's
story of the gourd, and, before departing, asked her to let him know
at Lagos if she left Madeira. That was all. She had been eight weeks
in Las Palmas without ever a word of her lover. The gloom in her soul
deepened ever, until the clamor of the cruiser's salute awoke the
echoes.

Hence, Evelyn was one of the few people in the capital city of the
Canary Islands who could supply a reason for the presence of the
_Valiant_ other than the need of fresh supplies of a vessel on the
West African station. Nor was she wrong in the assumption that Captain
Mortimer might call on her without delay. She had been seated not many
minutes in the veranda, and had successfully held at bay only two of
the half-dozen Spanish officers who wished to dance with her, when the
sailor himself approached, and lifted his cap with a pleasant smile.

"You remember me, Miss Dane?" he began.

"Yes. I knew the _Valiant_ had arrived, and I felt so sure you would
look me up that I have refused all invitations to the ballroom."

An expression of surprise flitted across the man's frank face.
Evidently, he had placed Evelyn in another and higher category than the
flippant young ladies who dominate the winter society of Madeira and
Gran Canaria. To his thinking, when last he interviewed her, Warden,
the man to whom she was engaged, was undoubtedly dead. By this time,
even a heedless girl might have suspected the truth, and he was not
prepared to find Warden's sweetheart so obviously indifferent to his
fate as to plunge into all the gaiety of the Las Palmas season.

He knew nothing of the agony of suspense, the poison of doubt, the
self-humiliation and passionate despair of those dreary weeks, nor did
he appreciate her position in the Baumgartner household. But he was
hurt, and his manner proved it. Men who are called on at times to face
death in their country's service like to believe that their women-folk
are eager for news of them. So Mortimer was disappointed in Evelyn.

"I fear I shall be regarded as an intruder by some of the young
gentlemen I see pirouetting inside," he said. "But I shall not
detain you long. I promised to let you know if any further news was
forthcoming as to Captain Warden's whereabouts. When we met at Funchal
I feared the worst. Now I have good reason to believe he is alive."

She leaped to her feet. Her cheeks blanched, but those blue eyes of
hers blazed with sudden fire.

"You have heard of him? You know where he is?" she gasped, all a-quiver
with excitement.

The sailor was mystified. Nevertheless, her manifest interest almost
brought back the sympathetic note to his voice--almost, but not quite,
and she was aware of the altered tone.

"You are asking too much," he said with a little laugh. "Africa does
not yield her secrets so readily, I assure you. Still, I have a rather
complicated yarn for you. Shall we sit here, or would you care for
a stroll in the garden? I take it we are less likely to be disturbed
there."

Now it was Evelyn's turn to be puzzled.

It was no disloyalty to the memory of one who once had been her lover,
but the absolute necessity of chaperoning Beryl Baumgartner during her
mother's indisposition that made dancing a possibility that night.

"The garden by all means," she agreed, trying hard to restrain her
agitation. So they walked among the dusty palms and oleanders, and
Captain Mortimer told her something of the strange doings of the Blue
Man of El Hamra.

When the _Valiant_ paid her second visit to Rabat, the Bey was
inclined to be communicative. As a matter of fact, the news of the
Nila Moullah's disastrous fight with the Evil One spread so rapidly
that it reached the seaboard within a fortnight, whereas the prophet's
journey in the reverse direction took three weeks. Other items filtered
through the Atlas passes, and finally there came a man who was actually
in Lektawa at the time of the dread combat. He it was who first gave
definite assurance that Warden lived. When the new ruler of that
disturbed city had slain every individual overtly opposed to him, and
the remaining inhabitants were meditating on the divine right of kings,
it occurred to someone that the Nazarene and Beni Kalli were missing.
A caravan from Bel Abbas reported that a European in Arab clothing,
accompanied by a Hausa soldier and a negress, had ridden in there
from the north, and was recruiting a kafila to go on to Taudeni and
Timbuktu. The Frank had plenty of gold-dust in quills, both he and the
Hausa were well armed, he spoke Arabic like a native, and claimed to
be the special protégé of the Blue Man of El Hamra, who had carried
benevolence to the point of giving him his own particular wrap of blue
cotton, which was exhibited to the faithful, not so much for worship,
but as a guarantee of good faith.

It was noticed, too, that the knife used by Satan in destroying the
Nila Moullah resembled one that was wont to hang at the girdle of his
successor, so the deduction was reasonable, provided the deducer were
sufficiently far away from Lektawa, that the flight of the Christian
and his accomplices had something in common with the moullah's death
and the establishment of the new régime.

This, and more, the Bey of Rabat discreetly told to the captain of
the warship. It was clear enough, in some senses, but it left Evelyn
greatly bewildered.

"These names of people and places are so much Greek to me," she cried.
"What is the outcome of it all? Is Captain Warden marching across
Africa?"

Mortimer was prepared for that question. He unfolded a map, and they
pored over it together. Small as the type was in which many of the
towns were shown, the bright moonlight would have permitted the names
to be read. But that was unnecessary. The sailor knew exactly where to
point while he explained matters.

"Here is Rabat," he said, "and here, beyond the mountain chain,
Lektawa. Now, there appears to be little doubt that Captain Warden was
the European encountered at Bel Abbas, and I am inclined to believe
the north-bound caravan's account of his proceedings there. A long way
south, at the very verge of a tremendous stretch of desert, we come to
Timbuktu. The obvious inference is that he adopted the Sahara route as
safer than the journey across Morocco, and headed that way in order to
reach Nigeria, the place where his duty lies."

"Can he do it? Dare I even hope that he will pass unharmed through
thousands of miles of wild country inhabited only by savages?"

Her voice broke, and the sailor saw that her eyes were filled with
tears. More perplexed than ever, he tried to dispel her foreboding,
though none knew better than he the perils Warden would have to
encounter.

"Steady, Miss Dane," he said cheerily. "He jumped the worst fence when
he got away from Lektawa with money and supplies. The fact that he made
Bel Abbas vouches for his ability to take the rest of the trip, and he
will be on the Niger River long before he reaches the thousand-mile
limit. Once there, he is practically in British territory. To put
it plainly, two months ago I didn't think his chance of being alive
amounted to a row of beans, whereas to-day I am confident he will pull
through."

"So you did not tell me everything at Funchal? Are you keeping back the
less pleasing facts now?"

"No. On my honor, I have given you the whole budget."

"When will it be known whether or not--he has--arrived in Nigeria?"

"Ah, that depends on so many circumstances. It is six hundred miles
from Bel Abbas to the Niger, and--there may be difficulties. May I ask
you a personal question, Miss Dane? Are you Captain Warden's fiancée?"

"I--I thought so," sobbed Evelyn.

"You thought so? Didn't you know?"

There was a moment of tense silence. Then Evelyn swept the tears from
her eyes with a splendid confidence. The moonbeams spread a silvery
riband across the dark Atlantic toward the horizon. Beyond that magic
path lay Africa, and her heart had bridged the void ere she answered.

"Yes," she said proudly. "I know! Never again shall doubt find room in
my mind. Oh, Captain Mortimer, if only I might tell you what I have
suffered during these horrible months, when never a word came from him,
and another woman lost no opportunity of taunting me with the lie that
she was his promised wife!"

"You are speaking of Mrs. Laing, I suppose?"

For an instant Evelyn did not appreciate the significance of that
marvelously accurate guess. Then she turned and looked at him in
wonderment.

"Why do you mention her?" she cried, almost hysterically.

The sailor smiled, though his face showed some degree of confusion.

"I have done it now, so I may as well make a clean breast of it. But,
mind you, I am revealing official secrets, so please forget what I am
telling you. Mrs. Laing went to the Foreign Office, and claimed to be
engaged to Warden. For some reason--perhaps some one there had seen
_you_--she was not believed, and that is why I was sent to you at
Funchal. At any rate, they seem to know all about you in Whitehall."

"But only yesterday Mrs. Laing pretended that Arthur--that Captain
Warden had written to her, saying he was engaged on a secret mission
for the Government."

"You can take it from me he did nothing of the sort. Outside the
department, no one knew where he had gone or what he was doing. He even
passed under an alias on board the _Water Witch_. There--I didn't mean
to tell you that. I am but a poor diplomatist, I fear. And that reminds
me: I must hark back to my errand. Why has Mrs. Laing come here?"

Evelyn lifted her head defiantly. Mortimer had blundered into the worst
possible line of inquiry.

"She has told me repeatedly that she is in Las Palmas in order to meet
Captain Warden when he returns from the Oku territory."

The man glanced around to be sure they were not overheard.

"That, at least, is untrue, because he is not there. Owing to his
absence, another deputy commissioner is appointed. I expect Mrs.
Laing's talkativeness does not extend to her relations with Miguel
Figuero?"

"Ah, how I loathe that man! He--pestered me with his attentions at
Hamburg, and Trouville, and Arcachon, and Biarritz. He was either on
board the yacht or visited us at each port of call. But it is only fair
to admit," she added, "that he seemed rather to avoid Mrs. Laing."

"I have reason to believe that they are acting in collusion," said
Mortimer dryly. "How long do you remain on the island, Miss Dane?"

"There was some talk the other day of our return."

"What, all of you?"

"Yes. Mrs. Baumgartner wishes to pass the spring in the Riviera, and
her husband says he has important business at Frankfort in February, so
he will leave us at Nice while he attends to it."

"Do you go in the yacht?"

"I suppose so. She is there--in the harbor."

"Yes. The _Sans Souci_ does not travel far without my knowledge. You
changed your crew at Hamburg, I believe?"

"Yes, all our Englishmen were sent home. Mr. Baumgartner said that
Germans were cheaper and more obedient."

"What was your opinion of the new crew?"

"I didn't like them at first, as I had to bother my wits in talking
German if I wished to speak to any of them, but they are a very
superior set of men."

"You carry a good many hands for a small vessel?"

"Well, yes. Even I thought that."

"Did you ship a large quantity of heavy stores at Hamburg?"

"I don't know. We were in a hotel there five or six days, and never
visited the yacht during that time."

"Of course, Miss Dane, if you should be asked why I called, we are
old friends, eh? I hope I may claim that privilege apart from other
considerations?"

"You have been most kind, Captain Mortimer. I cannot tell you what a
load of care you have taken from me. Now, I must go to the ballroom and
see that none of those romantic Spaniards has run off with my charge."

"Who is that?" he inquired.

"Beryl Baumgartner. I am her companion, you know. Though I am only
three years older than Beryl, I am credited with so much more gravity
that her mother trusts her to me absolutely."

"Is Mrs. Laing there?"

"She was dancing with the Commandante when I came out."

He laughed.

"I shall probably see you again to-morrow evening," he said. "Some of
my officers will be ashore, and I may be dining here."

He took his leave with a cordiality that was in marked contrast to his
earlier frigid manner, but Evelyn had long since forgotten her surprise
at his momentary curtness.

The extraordinary tidings of Warden's adventures in Morocco absorbed
her mind to the exclusion of all else. She wanted to study a map, to
follow his wanderings in spirit, to weave fantasies about his track
across the desert with all the ardor of reawakened love. How could she
ever have doubted him? She was brave enough to flout Rosamund Laing's
first attempt to undermine her trust--why had she yielded to the strain
during these later days of weary waiting? She was sure it was not so
with her lover. Some time, quite soon, there would be a letter or a
cablegram announcing his safe arrival at some weirdly named British
station in Northern Nigeria. She must learn the map of West Africa by
heart. Perhaps her friend, Captain Mortimer, might tell her from what
town she might expect to receive the earliest news.

But Evelyn's humble light-heartedness was destined not to survive the
next ten minutes. Looking in at the ballroom, she saw Beryl waltzing
with a Canario fruit-grower, a youthful Spaniard of immense wealth who
owned a large part of the island. While crossing the hall with intent
to find the manager, and get the loan of an atlas, she almost ran into
the arms of Lord Fairholme, who was standing there, talking to Mrs.
Laing.

"By gad, Miss Dane, it's just like bein' in Lochmerig," he cried. "Here
we are again, you know--the same old circus. Couldn't stand the British
climate, so I fled here, per Spanish packet, as the Post Office says."

"I am delighted to see you again," she began, but Mrs. Laing broke in
breathlessly.

"They've just finished that waltz, Lord Fairholme. Shall we make up a
set for the Lancers?"

"Well--er--no," he said lamely. "You see, I'm not dancing just now."

Rosamund flushed with annoyance. Her rudeness to Evelyn had caused her
to forget Fairholme's bereavement.

"Pray forgive me," she cried. "How thoughtless I was! Who was the man
you were conversing with so deeply in the garden, Miss Dane?"

"A friend, an officer on board one of the ships in the harbor. Are you
making a long stay in Las Palmas, Lord Fairholme?"

The good-natured little peer was conscious that the two women were at
daggers drawn, and the younger one could evidently match her senior in
contemptuous indifference.

"Dunno yet," he grinned. "It depends on how Mrs. Laing and you treat
me. Judgin' by the giddy throng in the ballroom, I'm afraid I shall
figure again in the 'also ran' class."

"Miss Dane is free. I can vouch for that," laughed Rosamund.

But Evelyn's answering smile was more genuine.

"Mrs. Laing's statements are invariably inaccurate where I am
concerned," she said. "If your matrimonial choice rests between her
and me, Lord Fairholme, it is only fair that I should tell you I have
promised to marry Captain Arthur Warden, of the Nigeria Protectorate,
when next he returns to England."

"Captain Arthur Warden!" gasped the earl, who, despite his habitual air
of buffoonery, could remember some things exceedingly well.

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"Er--not exactly. I've heard his name."

Rosamund, scarcely prepared for this turning of the tables, instantly
recalled the unpleasant fact that Billy Thring was by her side in the
hall at Lochmerig when she purloined Evelyn's letter. He looked at
her now fixedly, as the color in her face rose and fell with telltale
confusion. For once, she was unable to force a retort. She almost
feared that Fairholme would blurt forth some reference to the letter.

"I was under a different impression," she managed to say. "But I am
sure our private affairs are not of vital interest to Lord Fairholme."

"Where is old I. D. B.?" put in the man, anxious to restore harmony.
"Shootin' wild duck by moonlight, eh, what?"

Evelyn resumed her quest of the manager. She had not failed to notice
Rosamund Laing's unaccountable embarrassment, but she attributed it to
their personal feud, and imagined that her rival was furiously annoyed
by her outspokenness. It was fortunate, in some respects, that the
incident was fresh in her mind. She was soon to be enlightened.

She borrowed an atlas, and was studying the ominously vague details
of the interior of Northwest Africa, when a maid-servant came to her
room. With some difficulty, for Evelyn knew very little Spanish, the
girl made her understand that _un muchado Ingles_ wished to see her.
An English boy! Who could it be at that hour? The few English children
visiting the island were in bed long since, or ought to be, if they
were not. Closing the atlas, she followed the _criada_ downstairs. In
the doorway, trying to make out the English of a gigantic hall-porter,
was a sturdy youth dressed in sailor fashion. She recognized him at
the first glance, but some instinct warned her not to cry aloud her
astonishment.

Hurrying forward, she caught him by the arm.

"Chris!" she whispered, "is it really you?"

His chubby face creased with joy at the sight of her.

"Yes, miss, it's me right enough," he said. "Can you come with me to
father? He's orfly anxious ter see yer, miss."

"Where is he?"

"Out there in the road, miss, standin' orf an' on till I heave in
sight. He wouldn't show up at the hotel, miss, 'cause 'is wooden leg
sort o' makes folk stare at 'im, an' he don't want too many people ter
know 'e kem 'ere to find you."

"Came to find me--all the way from England? Who sent him?"

They were in the roadway now, and walking fast in the direction of the
alameda, or public gardens, where a military band plays each evening
for the inhabitants of Las Palmas.

"Bless yer 'eart, miss, we've done a lot more'n come from England,"
said Chris. "We've followed yer to Scotland, an' Germany, an' France,
an' Madeira. But father'll tell you all about it. My eye, wasn't' e
pleased w'en our steamer rounded the mole an' 'e sighted the _San
Sowsy_. 'Lord love a duck, Chris,' sez 'e, 'there she is at last. Oo'll
say now that Peter Evans 'asn't done as he was tole'!"

Evelyn, in her excitement, still held the boy's arm. He felt that she
was trembling, though her voice was calm.

"Chris," she repeated, "who sent you?"

"Cap'n Warden, miss. But there! It's dad's yarn. You must 'ave it from
'im, from chapter one to finis."

Though on the brink of tears--for she was overwrought--the girl could
not help smiling.

"You are becoming quite literary," she said.

"That's the way I read a book if it's any good, miss,--a book like 'The
Scalp Hunters' or 'Nick of the Woods'--every word, from beginnin' to
end. There 'e is--that's father--on the seat under the tree. I s'pose
'e's tired. It was a long tramp through the dust from the quay."

Peter received her joyously.

"Sink me!" he cried, "but it's a cure for sore eyes ter see you at
last, miss. It _is_ you, isn't it?"

He was not content until he had looked her full in the face in the
moonlight.

"You're a bit thinner," he commented. "People can say wot they like,
but Ole England's hard to beat for fresh air an' sound vittals. Chris
an' me would ha' starved on that tub of a mail-boat if we 'adn't palled
in with the Scotch engineer, who med 'em cook some plain food. Hello!
You're bin cryin'? Now, wot the----"

"Peter," said Evelyn brokenly, "for Heaven's sake, if you have news of
Captain Warden tell me what it is."

The ex-pilot produced a frayed and soiled parcel from a pocket.

"There you are, miss," he cried triumphantly. "I've done it! 'Find Miss
Dane, no matter wot it costs'--them's my sailin' orders from the cap'n.
'Deliver this letter into Miss Dane's own 'ands.' Right again!--as
per code! Now, miss, if I was you, I'd just open that there envelope
an' see wot 'e sez. Then, mebbe, I can fill in a bit. I tole 'im I'd
find you within a month, but I couldn't! Nobody could unless he was a
bird, an' a jolly good flier at that. W'y, I've follered you pretty
well round the compass. An' my godfather!--'aven't you covered up yer
tracks!"

The first thing Evelyn's trembling fingers withdrew from the package
was the jeweler's case containing the ring. When the diamonds flashed
in the moonlight she uttered a choking cry and her lips trembled
pitifully. So this was Arthur Warden's answer to Rosamund Laing's
jibes! Without hesitation, without waiting to read a word of the many
pages of manuscript that accompanied it, she slipped it on to the
engagement finger of her left hand. It did not fit. It was far too
large. But what did that matter? Its glories might await her scrutiny
another time. Just then she wanted to assure herself that she had
gone back to her allegiance before she was vouchsafed a syllable of
explanation. It was humility, not pride, that governed her action.

Peter, however, did not regard the glittering ring with such
self-effacement. His prominent eyes bulged with surprise, and he
gripped his son's shoulder emphatically.

"Tell you wot, Chris," he whispered hoarsely. "If we'd ha' known wot
was in that billy-doo we'd not ha' slep' so sound o' nights!"

"Not while we was in furrin parts, father."

"Not in any parts, me lad. Them sort o' sparks'll get you a knife under
your ribs anywhere. Now, if I was Miss Dane, I'd turn it into money,
quick. But she won't, mark my words. She'll just twiddle it round, an'
shove in a hairpin w'en there's a chandelier handy, an' lean on 'er
elbow w'en the light shines on the port bow--all to make the other
wimmen green with envy."

Though Evelyn was deep in her letter--though her brows were knitted and
her little hands clenched as the full measure of Rosamund's perfidy was
revealed to her, she could not help overhearing Peter's stage aside.
For a second her eyes were raised from the stupefying record, and they
blazed with a light that surpassed the fire in the diamonds.

"You are right, Peter," she cried, and her voice sounded shrilly in her
own ears. "One woman, at least, shall see my ring, even though envy
were to kill her."




CHAPTER XIII

EVELYN ENTERS THE FRAY


Only a woman can fathom another woman's mind. A man tries to think
logically; a woman throws logic to the winds, and reads her opponent's
tactics by intuition. Though Warden was not wholly devoid of suspicion
of Rosamund's disinterestedness when he penned the plain statement
which Evelyn now skimmed through by the light of the Las Palmas moon,
he little dreamed that he was framing a damning indictment of one who
claimed to be his friend. But Evelyn extracted from every line the
hidden truth. A gentlewoman to her finger-tips, her loathing of Mrs.
Laing's despicable tactics was so overpowering for a while that she
could only vent her scorn and contempt by little gasps and sobs of
indignation.

Her lover's account of events at Ostend and in London was transparently
honest. She saw now that by some clever and unscrupulous device his
letters and telegrams had been withheld. The burking of her own
letters, sent with unfailing regularity until outraged pride bade her
cease, was equally clear. But how had their common enemy achieved these
results? Why did Mrs. Laing flush and look guilty when Lord Fairholme
recognized Warden's name half an hour ago? Well, she would ask the
genial little nobleman for an explanation. He would be candid, she was
sure; perhaps he might help to illumine some of the dark places of the
last four months.

Peter Evans, watching her eyes as they devoured page after page, winked
solemnly at Chris, but held his peace until the letter was restored to
its envelope. Then he felt that his innings had come.

"Well, miss," he remarked quietly, "does that round off everything in
ship-shape style?"

For answer, she put both hands on his shoulders, and looked into his
weather-beaten face.

"Peter," she said, "I can never repay you for what you have done.
Captain Warden tells me he had faith in you, and indeed you have
justified his confidence. But how did you and Chris manage to travel
all this long way to find me? What has it cost you? I have not much
money at my command here----"

"Money, miss? Did the Cap'n say nothink about it?"

"No."

"Just like 'im. There never _was_ a more free-handed gent than 'im.
Funny thing, ain't it, that the wrong people are bloomin' millionaires.
I s'pose that's w'y they 'ave it--coss they stick to it. Lord love a
duck, ther's bin no trouble about _money_! He did some tricks at the
Casino----"

"Yes, yes, he has told me that."

"Well, w'en 'e gives me that there packidge, 'e forks out fifty quid,
an' says, 'Peter, if you want more, go to my bank.' But fifty golden
suvrins is a small fortin to a sailorman--I've known the time it 'ud
keep me an' my missus an' Chris for a year--an' I wasn't flingin' it
about for bookin' clerks an' pursers to pick up, neether. We 'ad to dig
a bit out o' the bank w'en this trip showed up, but afore that Chris
an' me worked our passidge to Scotland, an' Hamburg, an' as far south
as Bordeaux."

"You went to Scotland? Why?"

"Afore the Cap'n left Lunnon 'e 'ad a telegram from the coas-tguard to
say the _San Sowsy_ headed sou'east by east from Lochmerig, an' them
ain't the sailin' directions for the Shetlands, or they wasn't w'en
I was at sea. It seemed to me some old salt thereabouts might help a
bit--fishermen keep a pretty close eye on passin' craft, miss--so off
we goes. I shipped as extra hand on the _Inverkeld_, bound from London
to Aberdeen, an' Chris was stooard in the engineers' mess. Sure enough,
I lights on a Montrose herrin'-boat as 'ad seen the yacht bearin' away
in the line for Hamburg, I follered, on a tramp from Newcastle, but I
was a week late. You see, my orders was 'into her own 'ands, Peter.'"

"Oh, you are a dear!"

"Well, mebbe. I've bin called most things in me time, miss. But it's
spinnin' a tremenjous long yarn to go over all the ground. Wot I want
to ax you now is this--wot stopped Cap'n Warden from gettin' your
letters?"

"Ah, Peter! a wicked woman, I am afraid."

"D'ye 'ear, Chris?" and Peter turned solemnly to his son. "Wot did I
tell yer? You see, miss," he went on, "I looked in at the Lodge, an'
med friends with a servant or two, an' it kem out that Mrs. Laing
collared a telegram addressed to you. 'Was it himportant?' sez one
chap. 'Reel himportant,' sez I, 'it was from 'er young man.' Beg
pardon, miss, but that's the way we talks among ourselves. 'Oo is he?'
sez the other fellow. 'Captain Warden,' sez I. 'Not Captain Arthur
Warden, of Ostend?' sez 'e. 'The very man,' sez I. 'Dash my eyes,' sez
'e, 'that's queer. Mrs. Laing wanted a letter out of the box one day
w'en I was goin' to the post, an' that's the very name as was on it.
Wot's 'is little game? Is 'e a-playin' up to both of 'em?' 'Young man,'
sez I, 'you don't know 'im. 'E's the straightest gentleman as ever
wore shoe-leather.' I axed 'im w'en the incident occurred, as they say
in the noospapers, an' 'e tole me it was just arter Mrs. Laing kem to
Lochmerig. In fact, 'e wouldn't ha' known 'oo she was if she 'adn't bin
standin' in the 'all talkin' to--to--wot's 'is name, Chris?"

"Lord Fairholme?" broke in Evelyn.

"No, miss, that wasn't it--not in the same street."

"Billy Thring?"

"Tally! I've got it all logged up in my cabin. I wasn't sartin I'd see
you to-night, or I'd ha' brought the book. That's 'im--Billy Thring--it
sounds familiar like, if he's a swell, but that's wot they called 'im
at Lochmerig."

"Peter, you are a wonder. You have found out the one thing I wanted to
know."

"Excuse me, miss, but you're a bit of a wonder yourself. If that was
the on'y missin' link, w'y didn't you write to me, care o' the Pilots'
Office, Cardiff? I could ha' put you straight within a week. Any ship's
skipper would ha' guessed my address, if you tole 'im about the _Nancy_
an' gev 'im my name."

"I fear I am very much to blame," said Evelyn contritely. "But you
hardly realize yet how I have been victimized. Now I must go. It is
very late. Where are you staying?"

"Chris an' me will turn in with our engineer friend on board the _Cid_.
At least that's wot I call the old tub, but these Spanish jokers make
it into _Thith_. Did y' ever 'ear anythink funnier'n that?"

She laughed blithely, arranged an early hour to meet the two at the
mole next day, and sped back to the hotel. She wanted to read that
thrice-precious letter again. Seen in the moonlight, it seemed to be
fantastic, unreal. The words danced before her eyes. Her brain had only
half grasped its extraordinary meanings.

[Illustration: Peter, you are a wonder                       _Page_ 238]

In the privacy of her own room she should go through it slowly,
weighing its bewildering revelations, taking to her very heart the
outspoken, manly sentences that assured her of Warden's devotion, and
planning with new zest the means whereby she might circumvent her
enemies and his. Warden had been deceived even more grossly than she
herself. His faithful record of Rosamund's malicious innuendoes during
the dinner at the Savoy Hotel gave ample proof of that. It was quite
true she had talked with Figuero in the garden at Lochmerig. The man
naturally interested her; his manner of speech was quaint, and he told
her strange things about the country in which the whole of her lover's
active career might be passed. Was that a crime? And how shameful that
any woman should write such a wicked untruth as to say that she had
gossiped to Thring and others about the men of Oku! Of course, Mrs.
Laing had obtained her information from the stolen letter. Evelyn
remembered perfectly well the unfortunate postscript in which she
alluded to the <DW64>s and the calabash. She meant only to soften the
harshness of her comments on Rosamund and the two foreigners, but it
was obvious now that she could have written nothing more harmful to
Warden's mission.

And then, with a sudden horror that made her white to the lips, she
realized what it meant--that Warden had never received her letter, that
Rosamund had adroitly availed herself of the details it contained, and
that her lover had gone to Africa with a lurking doubt in his heart of
the one woman in the world whom he trusted. Did he think her really the
base creature she was depicted? Oh, it was intolerable! She would never
forgive Mrs. Laing--no, never! Her rival had stooped to a meanness that
could not be borne--she must be punished, with a vengeance at once
swift and merciless.

All this was very un-Christian, and wholly unlike the delightfully shy
yet lovable girl to whom Warden lost his heart during the midsummer
madness of Cowes and Plymouth, but Evelyn was stirred to the depths of
a passionate nature; not for the first time in Las Palmas, she cried
herself to sleep.

She awoke in a better frame of mind, though still determined to bring
Mrs. Laing to her knees at the first opportunity. Keeping the tryst
with Peter, she took him fully into her confidence. He was able to
supply many minor items of information that fitted the pieces of the
puzzle more accurately together. He did not know what had become of
Warden, but Evelyn made no scruple of telling him the facts within her
knowledge.

She recked little of Government secrets and the byways of Imperial
politics. The ex-pilot and his sturdy offspring were now the only
witnesses of her good faith. Perhaps they might meet Warden in England
before he was able to communicate with her. In that event, she wanted
Peter to be in a position to do for her lover what he had done for her,
and disabuse Warden's mind of the cloud of lies by which it had been
darkened.

Father and son were returning at once by the out-going mail steamer.
She pressed Peter to accept what little money she could spare, but he
would not take a penny.

"No, miss," he said, with emphatic head-shaking. "There's some shot
left in the locker yet, an' me an' the Cap'n will 'ave a reckonin'
w'en he comes 'ome. If I'm short of a pound or two afore I get the
_Nancy_ in commission this spring, I'll ax that gentleman at the bank
for it. P'raps you'll write 'im a line, an' say I've kep' me contract."

She had to be content with that. Were it practicable, she would have
gone back to England in the same steamer. Here, in Las Palmas, she
felt so utterly unbefriended. Though thousands of miles nearer Africa
than in England, she seemed to be more thousands of miles removed from
the chance of receiving a letter or a cablegram. True, she possessed
a very useful acquaintance in the commander of the _Valiant_, but she
could hardly expect one of His Majesty's cruisers to fly to and fro in
the East Atlantic in order to keep her conversant with developments
in Nigeria. Peter, however, undertook to call at the Colonial Office,
while she would cable him her address after the lapse of a fortnight.
Then, if there was any news of Warden, he would communicate with her.

At luncheon she had her first meeting with Mrs. Laing since the arrival
of that epoch-marking letter. A special menu was ordered, and the table
was gay with flowers, for the Baumgartners dearly loved a lord, and
were resolved to make the most of their friendly relations with the
Earl of Fairholme.

Mr. Baumgartner looked worried and preoccupied. The coming of the mail
which meant so much to Evelyn perhaps had its importance for him also.
At any rate, he left the entertainment of his guests largely to his
wife, until a sharp clash of wits rudely dispelled his reverie.

Beryl Baumgartner was the unconscious agent that brought about an
unforeseen crisis. Her restless eyes speedily caught the glint of
diamonds on Evelyn's left hand, and she cried ecstatically:

"Oh, Evelyn, what a lovely ring! Where did you get it?"

Each woman at the table was on the _qui vive_ instantly. In a place
like Las Palmas the mere mention of a diamond ring in connection with
a young and pretty girl suggests that one more infatuated male has
voluntarily removed his name from the list of eligibles.

Evelyn, having stilled the volcano that raged over night, might have
allowed the opportunity to pass if she had not happened to catch the
mocking smile on Rosamund's face when the nature of the ring became
self-evident. That steeled her intent.

"It is my engagement ring," she said quietly.

"What?" shrieked Beryl, to whom this was news indeed. "Who is he?"

"You do not know him, dear, but his name is Captain Warden. He is at
present in West Africa, somewhere near the Benuë River."

"And did he send it to you?"

"Yes. I received it only last night. It would have reached me four
months ago, had not Mrs. Laing stolen one of my letters--perhaps others
as well--and that naturally led to some confusion."

There was a moment of stupefied silence at the table. Everybody seemed
to be stricken dumb. Rosamund, crimson with anger, could only mutter:

"What insolence!"

"It is an unpleasant thing to say, but it is true," said Evelyn,
discussing her rival's transgression in the most matter-of-fact tone,
though she was conscious of a queer tingling at the roots of her hair,
and she hardly recognized the sound of her own voice.

Baumgartner felt it imperative to stop what threatened to develop into
a scandal.

"Miss Dane, you are making a serious charge against a lady of the
highest repute," he said, in his best chairman-of-the-company style.

"I mean it, every word," cried Evelyn, a trifle more vehemently. "Lord
Fairholme, am I speaking the truth or not?" she demanded, suddenly
wheeling round on the inoffensive peer.

"Really--er--really----" he spluttered, for once too bewildered to grin.

"Please tell Mr. Baumgartner what happened in the hall at Lochmerig
when Mrs. Laing asked the postman to give her a letter addressed to
Captain Arthur Warden, at Ostend. You were present. It was my letter
she obtained. Perhaps she has it yet if her boxes were searched."

Here was no timid girl striving vainly to bolster up a false
accusation, but a fiery young goddess impeaching an erring mortal. The
atmosphere was electrical; Beryl Baumgartner said afterwards that she
felt pins and needles attacking her at all points!

"I'm awfully sorry, Miss Dane, but I gave very little attention to the
incident," said Fairholme, partly recovering himself.

"But you remembered Captain Warden's name last night? Was it not at
Lochmerig that you heard it, and from Mrs. Laing?"

"Well--yes, but, you know, Mrs. Laing might have written to him."

"She did, after obtaining the address from my letter and reading what I
wrote."

Then she turned on Rosamund with magnificent disdain.

"Shall I give you a copy of your letter? Captain Warden has sent it to
me."

Sheer fury enabled Rosamund to regain her self-control.

"Your foolish attack on me is disproved out of your own mouth," she
said, striving desperately to speak with her accustomed nonchalance.
"Captain Warden has not written to you since I saw him in London. He
is in Africa, it is true, but he has never been heard of after going
ashore at Rabat fully three months ago. How can you pretend that
you received a letter from him last night? My authority is an Under
Secretary of State. Pray, who is yours?"

Under other conditions, Evelyn might have been warned by the imperious
command to "hold her tongue" that Baumgartner telegraphed to his wife
when that good lady was minded to interfere. But no consideration
would stop her now. The memory of all she had suffered through the
machinations of one evilly disposed woman upset her calm judgment.
In other respects, she acted with a restraint that was worthy of a
first-rate actress; people at the next table might have thought she was
discussing the weather. Taking Warden's letter from her pocket, she
handed it to Lord Fairholme.

"I cited you as a witness," she said. "Will you now act as a judge?
Read that, and tell my friends which of us two is speaking truly."

Despite his self-supposed shortcomings, Fairholme was a gentleman.
Instinctively he believed Evelyn, but he shrank from the duty she
entrusted to him.

"Oh, I say," he bleated, "hasn't this thing gone a bit too far already?
Is it worth all the beastly fuss? There may be a mistake somewhere,
you know. I'm sure, Miss Dane, nobody doubts your statement where this
lucky chap Warden is concerned, an', on the other hand, don't you know,
Mrs. Laing may have a perfectly fair explanation of the other business.
So let it go at that, eh, what?"

"May I act as arbitrator?" said Baumgartner. "If I glance through your
letter, Miss Dane, I may discover a means of settlement."

Something in his tone, some hint of a crafty purpose behind the
smooth-spoken words, beat through the haze of wrath and grief that
clouded Evelyn's mind. She could trust Fairholme with her lover's
letter, but not Baumgartner. To reveal to him what Warden had said
about Mrs. Laing's extraordinarily accurate knowledge of proceedings
in the Solent and affairs in Nigeria would be tantamount to betraying
her lover's faith.

With splendid calmness she took the letter from the table and replaced
it in her pocket.

"No, thank you, Mr. Baumgartner," she said, "if Lord Fairholme declines
to help me, nobody else can take his place. I appealed to him because
he is aware that Mrs. Laing induced your groom to unlock the post-box
and hand her my letter. The proof of my words lies here. It is for him
to say whether or not he is satisfied he saw Mrs. Laing commit a theft."

Fairholme shook his head. He was not lacking in pluck, and his
artificial humor was only the veneer of an honest nature, but he
surprised a look in Rosamund's eyes that startled him. She was pale
now, ashen pale. She uttered no word, but continued to glower at Evelyn
with a suppressed malevolence that was more threatening than the mere
rage of a detected trickster.

His lordship evidently thought it high time Baumgartner or his wife
exercised their authority.

"Don't you think this matter has gone quite far enough?" he asked,
glancing from one to the other, and avoiding the eyes of either Evelyn
or Mrs. Laing.

"Yes," said Baumgartner, speaking with a pomposity that contrasted
sharply with his prompt offer to supplant Fairholme as judge. "This
absurd dispute about a purely private affair must end at once. I and
my family are going to Europe by the next mail steamer----"

"Isadore!" gasped his wife.

"Father, you can't mean it!" cried Beryl, who, at the lowest
calculation, had made arrangements for a good three weeks' further
frivolity at Las Palmas.

"Unfortunately, I am quite in earnest."

The financier looked it. Despite his magisterial air, his puffy face
was drawn and haggard, and he had the aspect of a man who needed rest
and sleep.

"You will accompany us, of course, Miss Dane," he went on, speaking
slowly, as though he were groping for the best way out of a difficulty.
"Your quarrel with Mrs. Laing can be much more easily adjusted in
England than here. I hope, therefore, we shall be spared further
bickering during our brief stay in the Canaries."

"But, father dear," put in his daughter, "you said we were going home
on the yacht, and calling at Gibraltar and Algiers."

"I have changed my plans," he retorted curtly, and that was all he
would say on the subject.

Evelyn left the table at the earliest moment. When too late, she
regretted the impulse that led her to declare open war against Mrs.
Laing. But it was done now. Those words "theft" and "steal" were
irrevocable. She had retreated to a nook in the garden where a dense
clump of tropical trees and shrubs gave shelter from the sun, and
was trying to discover if she had imperilled the success of Warden's
mission by any unguarded phrase, when Lord Fairholme came to her.

"May I sit down here a few minutes?" he asked. "I want to try to
understand things."

"I should be sorry to test your lordship's capacity so greatly,"
she said. She had not yet forgiven him for not taking her part. She
was young; her world was tumbling about her ears; she believed that
everybody ought to stand aghast at Rosamund's wickedness.

"Oh, come now, that's a bit severe, isn't it?" grinned Fairholme. "You
don't make allowances for the ruffled feelin's of a poor fellow who has
just had his image battered----"

"Will you please tell me what you are talking about?"

"Eh--beg pardon, I meant idol shattered. Silly mistake, eh, what?"

Evelyn's lips relaxed in a smile. There was no resisting "Billy" when
(in his own phrase) he was goin' strong.

"I fear you all thought me very rude," she said, with a pathetic little
gesture of helplessness. "But what was I to do?--listen in silence to
fresh insults?"

"I think you did the only possible thing."

"Then why did you refuse to bear out my statement?"

"There were reasons. May I see that letter now?"

"Have you come of your own accord?" she asked.

Evelyn fighting for the man she loved was a very different girl from
the proud, disdainful Evelyn who, twenty-four hours earlier, would
have endured almost any infliction rather than flout her adversary in
a public dining-room. She credited Rosamund with the adoption of any
petty device to gain her ends, and felt that Fairholme was just the man
to be used as a stalking-horse.

"No," he said, "or rather, yes--and no. I am anxious to know the truth,
but Baumgartner suggested that I ought to accept your offer of reading
the evidence. Don't you see, he has to consider the future a bit."

"In what way?"

"Well, if Mrs. Laing stole a letter in his house, she--it's a jolly
hard thing to say--but she must be warned off."

Baumgartner as a guardian of morals was a new conception. Evelyn
felt that a more powerful foe than Rosamund was in the field. Her
unimportant romance had suddenly widened out into the world-domain
of politics. She must decide quickly and decide right. In that vital
moment she realized that her postscript to the Lochmerig letter might
have consequences far beyond their effect on Warden's fortunes and her
own.

"Lord Fairholme," she said, turning so that she could watch the
slightest change in the expression of his face, "does Mr. Baumgartner
strike you as a man who would go out of his way to interfere in a
dispute between two women?"

"Not unless there was money in it," said Fairholme cheerfully.

"Then why is he showing such interest now in a matter which he
deliberately closed at luncheon?"

"I gave you his explanation. Even Baumgartner likes to associate with
people of good character."

"No, that is not the reason. Mr. Baumgartner is engaged at this moment
in a plot against British dominion in West Africa. You see that
cruiser in the harbor? Well, she is here to watch the _Sans Souci_.
You yourself heard to-day that our party is going to Europe by the
mail steamer. Why, when the _Sans Souci_ is at our disposal? I will
tell you. The British authorities believe that the yacht will help,
or further in some way, a native rising in Southern Nigeria. Now, the
letter in my possession, read by any one who could extract its inner
meaning, would yield a valuable clue to the amount of information at
the disposal of the home government. If you, without knowing this,
answered Mr. Baumgartner's questions as to its contents, you would be
doing the gravest injury to Great Britain."

"By gad!" exclaimed Fairholme.

"You can easily assure yourself that I am not exaggerating the facts.
Here is the letter. Read it, and remember what I have told you."

Fairholme pursed his lips and bent his brows in deep mental effort. He
held the letter in his hand unopened during this unusual and seemingly
painful process. Then he gave it back to Evelyn.

"No, Miss Dane," he said emphatically. "I'm far too candid an ass to
be laden with state secrets. Now, if you wouldn't mind just pickin'
out the bits that refer to Mrs. Laing, an' skippin' all the political
part, I'll be able to bounce old Baumgartner for all he's worth."

"But I cannot. It is the political part which proves that my letter was
stolen."

"Same thing! Change the names. Turn West Africa into Newmarket, an'
call the Emperor Lord Rosebery."

"The Emperor," said Evelyn, surprised at Fairholme's chance shot.

"He's in it, I guess. He has his finger in every pie, an' some of 'em
have bin jolly hot. Now, go ahead. If it's at all awkward, leave me to
fill in a bit about the Ditch Mile an' the Epsom gradients that will
bamboozle Baumgartner."

Evelyn did her best. Fairholme was delighted with Warden's description
of the baccarat and roulette incidents, but his face lengthened when
he heard Rosamund's allusions to himself. Once, Evelyn forgot his
stipulation, and spoke of the "men of Oku."

"Oku," broke in Fairholme, "where is that?"

"It is a savage native state in West Africa. That is the one name you
must not remember, Lord Fairholme."

He did not interrupt again till she had finished reading. Then she
told him how Peter Evans had brought her the ring and the letter; and,
finding him sympathetic, she explained the extraordinary chance that
led to Warden's capture by a Mohammedan fanatic at Rabat.

"Funny thing!" he said, when she had made an end. "That chap Figuero
joined my steamer at Lisbon."

"He is not here?" cried Evelyn, genuinely startled, for she feared
Figuero.

"Yes, he is. I fancy he's on board the _Sans Souci_. I didn't speak to
him; I have a notion that he didn't recognize me under my new name. We
also picked up a number of German officers at the same port, but they
left us at Funchal, where another ship took them on to the Cameroons.
That is German West Africa, isn't it?"

"I believe so. My geographical knowledge of this part of the world is
of the vaguest. It dates chiefly from last night."

"When the naval Johnny was showing you the map, I suppose?"

"But how do you know that?" she demanded, and another wave of surprise
flooded her face with color.

"Mrs. Laing and I watched you for quite a time--the watchin' was
involuntary on my part, but she wouldn't come away from the veranda,
an' now I know why. You will observe, Miss Dane, that I have bin the
goat all through the proceedin's."

"I can hardly say that."

"No, you wouldn't. But it's true. The only bit of luck I've had is that
I am saved the painful necessity of bein' refused as a husband by Mrs.
Laing. I came here to ask her to marry me."

"Oh, I am so sorry----" began Evelyn, but Fairholme's cackling laugh
checked her.

"Why sorry? You've done me a good turn, twice over, an' if I can do you
one, just ask. In the first place, she would probably have said 'No,'
and in the second, where should I have been if she said 'Yes.' In the
soup, eh, what?"

Lord Fairholme seemed to pride himself on his narrow escape, and gave
Evelyn the credit of rescuing him. She protested that if she had known
he was really bent on marrying Mrs. Laing she would neither have
attacked the latter in his presence nor called on him to bear out her
statements. But he refused to admit that she had conferred other than a
favor on him, and repeated his desire to serve her if the opportunity
offered. It came quickly.

That night, when Evelyn was sound asleep, her room was entered and
Warden's letter taken. It lay with the ring and some other trinkets on
a dressing-table. The door was locked and bolted, but the window was
wide open to admit the sea breeze, and, although the room was on the
third floor, and therefore some forty feet or more above the ground
level, it was impossible that the thief could have entered it except
through the window. That the letter alone was the objective was shown
by the fact that the exceedingly valuable ring was left untouched.
There was almost a hint of malicious humor in the discrimination
exercised. An ordinary criminal, though bribed to procure a document of
great importance to some other person, would certainly have made away
with any jewelry that was lying handy. In this instance, there seemed
to be an unspoken warning to the girl that she was powerless in the
toils that surrounded her.

At first, she suspected Rosamund of complicity in this new theft,
but when she asked herself who had most to gain from the perusal of
the letter, suspicion pointed, not to Rosamund, who could guess its
contents with fair accuracy, but to Baumgartner and his associates,
who were evidently more afraid of one man than of the armed might of
Britain.

In the height of her distress her employer came to her.

"We have decided to return by the Portuguese mail from Madeira," he
said, "and in order to catch the next steamer we shall sail in the
_Sans Souci_ to-night. Would it be convenient for you to go aboard the
yacht this afternoon?"

"But what action am I to take with regard to my stolen letter?" she
demanded. "You heard what I said to Mrs. Laing. That letter is my
evidence against her."

"It may have blown out of your window. There is generally a strong
breeze just before dawn. At any rate, it is better lost. Such disputes
are useless."

"But it was of the utmost importance in other ways."

"Young ladies' love-letters always are," he gurgled with forced
laughter. "Still, if it really has gone, you can hardly propose to
remain in Las Palmas on the off chance that it may be recovered."

She felt that she was trapped, but for what purpose it was hard to
imagine. Lord Fairholme had told her already that Baumgartner was very
much annoyed with him for failing to remember what Warden had written,
and it was now beyond doubt that the _Sans Souci's_ voyage to Funchal
was a blind for some ulterior object.

In her dilemma, she thought of Mortimer. When Baumgartner went away,
she hurried out of the hotel and drove straight to the harbor. A boat
brought her to the _Valiant_; the commander himself met her at the
gangway, and escorted her to his cabin.

"Sorry I couldn't call last evening Miss Dane," he said, "but I was
detained on board unexpectedly. Things are happening, I hear."

"Yes. Figuero is here, and we leave on the yacht for Funchal to-night."

He smiled.

"Is that the dodge?" he exclaimed. "Of course, I was posted in the
movements of the Portuguese and his friends, but the trip to Madeira is
clever. What has caused the change of programme?"

She told him, and he banged a clenched fist emphatically on a table
which a steward had just arranged for tea.

"For once, I can find it in my heart to wish you were a man," he cried.
"A steamer starts for Lagos within two hours, and it would be a fine
thing if the Nigeria administration heard your story from your own
lips. Of course, I can write, but it is difficult to put on paper one's
guesses and surmises at the trickery that is going on."

The words were scarcely uttered ere a wild notion leaped into Evelyn's
brain. Why should she not go to Lagos? She might be able to clear
away some of the doubts and misgivings that must have gathered around
Warden's name. Above all else, if there was news of him, it would
surely reach the officials there long before it became known in England.

"If I were a man," she said tremulously, "would you pay my passage on
that ship?"

"Of course. You would be traveling on Government service."

"Then I shall go. Please arrange matters for me, and send some one to
take me on board."

"Do you mean it?" he cried.

"Yes."

"By Jove, Miss Dane, you astonish me more each time I see you. But how
about the Baumgartners?"

"I shall simply write a note resigning my situation. It is a mere
question of doing that to-day or three weeks hence. But I shall not
tell them why I am leaving their service so suddenly."

"Baumgartner will find out. Unless I am much mistaken, it will worry
him. Now, you are sure you intend to take this trip?"

"Quite certain."

"Very well. I shall give myself the pleasure of calling for you at
three o'clock."

Evelyn packed her boxes as speedily as possible. Counting her money,
she found she had only twenty-five pounds. But there was that new
treasure, the ring. How better could she use it than in furthering the
interests of the man she loved? She wondered if Lord Fairholme would
lend her fifty pounds on its security? A note brought him to her room,
and she explained briefly that she meant to visit Lagos, and might need
more funds than she had at her command.

"Well, that beats the band," he said. "Mrs. Laing is going there too."

"Not on to-day's steamer?" she protested, for it seemed that an unkind
fate was conspiring against her.

"Sure thing! Heard her tellin' Beryl an hour ago."

Though Evelyn wished heartily that her rival had chosen any other
route of the many which lead from Las Palmas, her resolution remained
unaltered. But there was another thrill in store for her.

"Tell you what, Miss Dane," said Fairholme, "I don't think you ought to
tackle an expedition of this sort single-handed. You may want some one
to pull you out of a tight place--what price me as a puller-out? I'm a
pretty useless sort of chap in most things, but there is no reason why
I shouldn't try to do my country a good turn once in a way. Let me go
with you, and then you'll have no need to worry about coin."

"You are really very kind," she faltered, "but--but----"

"You are afraid of Mrs. Laing again," he grinned. "Don't worry yourself
about her, dear girl. Not even Mrs. Grundy can growl at me for bein'
your fellow-passenger. I'm mixed up in this business, an', by Jove,
I mean to see it through. Look here, can't you adopt me as a sort of
elder brother, an' make it 'Billy' an' 'Evelyn,' an' that sort of
thing--eh, what?"




CHAPTER XIV

THE DRUMS OF OKU


Evelyn, ferried across the harbor by a boat's crew from the warship,
boarded the _Estremadura_ in almost regal state. The vessel's cabin
accommodation was poor, but the English girl was given of its best. Not
every day does a small West African trader receive a passenger under
the escort of a peer of the realm and a Captain in the Royal Navy. It
was an interesting moment when Rosamund Laing, accompanied by Figuero,
came alongside. The Portuguese made off at once, but the lady, when
it was too late to retreat, affected a blank indifference to Evelyn's
presence that showed how conscious she was of it. She seldom appeared
on deck, ate each meal in the seclusion of her cabin, and spoke no
word, even to Lord Fairholme. On arriving at Lagos she hurried from the
ship, and Evelyn breathed a sigh of relief as she watched her enemy go
ashore.

She did not carry her dislike of Mrs. Laing to the point of imagining
her to be in active co-operation with the plotters against British
supremacy in that quarter of the world. It was far more probable that
a rich woman who drew some part of her revenues from factories on the
coast might be combining business with the desire to obtain news of
Warden at first hand. At any rate, the girl fondly hoped they might
never meet again, and she trusted to the strength of her own story,
supplemented by a letter from Captain Mortimer to the Governor, to
place her beyond the reach of misrepresentation.

But her troubles, instead of diminishing, became even more pronounced
when she called at Government House. Both she and Lord Fairholme were
entirely ignorant of local conditions. Neither of them knew that Lagos,
though the chief West African port, and practically the only safe
harbor on the Guinea Coast, was the capital of an administration quite
separate from that of North and of South Nigeria. To reach Old Calabar,
the headquarters of Warden's service, they must take a long journey
down the coast and penetrate some forty miles into the Niger delta.
Captain Mortimer, in all probability, thought she was aware of this
vital distinction, but, at the outset, Evelyn almost felt that she had
undertaken a useless task.

Her manifest distress at an unpleasing discovery won her the sympathy
of the deputy Governor of Lagos, his chief having crossed from the
island to the mainland only the day before. But sympathy could not
altogether cloak a skepticism that was galling in the extreme. He
was fully acquainted with the position of affairs in the sister
protectorate, he said. He appreciated Captain Mortimer's motives in
wishing to acquaint the Government of Nigeria with certain curious
circumstances which might or might not be connected with tribal
uneasiness in the Benuë River districts, but the fact remained that all
was quiet now in that region.

"Owing to Captain Warden's unfortunate disappearance," he went on,
"another commissioner visited Oku. He found matters there in a fairly
settled state. The people were cultivating their lands with greater
assiduity than such semi-cannibals usually display, and this is a sure
sign of content in a West African community. Indeed, Captain Forbes
is now about to return to headquarters. A few companies of Hausa
constabulary, who were moved to more convenient centers in case a
strong column was required for an expedition to the Benuë, are going
back to their original cantonments. The incident is ended."

The official tone was blandly disconcerting. Evelyn was aware that
the deputy Governor looked on her somewhat in the light of a runaway
schoolgirl, who had no reason whatever to bother her pretty head about
the business of a prosperous and thriving colony.

"You seem to imply that the Home authorities acted in a panic," she
said, wondering if it were really true that Warden and the men he had
seen in London were laboring under a delusion.

"No. They misread the motives of the Nigeria administration in
curtailing Captain Warden's furlough--that is all. There undoubtedly
were rumors of some border disturbances. The people in that region
hinted that the Oku men were arranging what they term a Long Ju-ju.
There was also a trading activity on the part of our neighbors
that gave rise to unpleasant suspicions. To be forewarned is to be
forearmed, and His Excellency the Governor regarded Captain Warden as
the man who could best deal with and remove any causes of discontent.
Within the last two months, however, all unfavorable symptoms have
vanished, and Oku is now as quiet as Old Calabar, or Lagos itself."

"I am glad of it," she said earnestly. "It is far from my wish to
figure as a messenger of strife. May I revert to a more personal
matter? If Captain Warden has succeeded in crossing the Sahara, when
and where may I reasonably expect to hear of him?"

The deputy Governor stroked his chin. He was a kind-hearted man, and
circumstances had prepared him for that question.

"It is hard to say," he answered, "Assuming he reaches Timbuktu in
safety, he can follow that course of the Upper Niger, through what is
known as the Dahomey hinterland, until he arrives at Ilo, the first
town in the British sphere of influence in that direction. Thence
to the sea, at this season, the river is navigable. If he makes for
Lagos--having been ordered here in the first instance--he might strike
overland from Jebbu to the railhead at Ibadan, but if he sticks to the
river and goes to his own headquarters, by remaining here you should
obtain telegraphic information of his arrival at a town called Lokoja,
situated at the junction of the Niger and the Benuë."

He paused. His brief review conveyed no hint to his hearer of the
tremendous difficulties any man must overcome ere he reached the
comparative civilization of the telegraph, and he flinched from the
task of enlightening her.

"Is it quite certain," he asked, "that Captain Warden went ashore at
Rabat?"

The astonishment in Evelyn's face was almost sufficient answer.

"Unless every one in some Government department in London has gone mad,
it is quite certain," she cried. "Did not an officer from Nigeria go to
meet him at Cape Coast Castle, and is it not evident that he went to
Hassan's Tower to obtain the ruby I have told you of?"

The official smiled. He had effectually distracted her thoughts from
the far more embarrassing topic of Warden's chances of reaching Nigeria
alive.

"One learns to distrust circumstantial evidence, Miss Dane. Have you
heard that the passenger on the _Water Witch_ was known as Mr. Alfred
Williams? Yes? Well, we do not know Captain Warden. We have no means
here of identifying the baggage landed by the captain of the _Water
Witch_ when he reported the Rabat incident. Could you recognize any of
Captain Warden's belongings?"

"No," said Evelyn blankly--"that is, I fear not."

"You mentioned a gourd. I have not seen the thing myself, but one of my
assistants says that a most remarkable object of that nature was found
in one of the missing man's boxes."

"Ah, I should know that anywhere," and she shuddered at the
recollection of the evil face whose appearance had so strangely
synchronized with the stormy events of her recent life.

"Well, have you any objection to examining the gourd now? If it is the
undoubted article you picked up in the Solent, it goes far to prove
that Captain Warden did really take passage on the _Water Witch_."

"I cannot imagine how you can think otherwise," she declared. "Of
course it was he!"

"There is no harm in making sure," he said, having already decided to
entrust to his wife the trying duty of making known to this charming
girl the almost certain fact that her lover was long since dead.

The calabash was brought and taken from its canvas wrapper. Oddly
enough, mildew had formed on its bright lacquer, and the sheen of the
mosaic eyes was dulled. It had lost some of its artistic power, and was
far from being the terrifying creation that scared her so badly when
first she saw it on the deck of the _Nancy_.

"Yes, that is it," she said. "You see, this crown is really a lid, and
the piece of vellum, or parchment, was hidden inside. It is not there
now, yet it is more than likely that Captain Warden kept them both
together."

The servant who had brought the calabash was sent back to search for
the tattooed skin. He soon returned with it, and the deputy Governor
examined the two curios with manifest interest.

"It is not native work," he said. "I have never seen anything just like
it, even in museums at home."

Moved by an impulse which she could never afterwards explain, Evelyn
asked if both the gourd and the parchment might be given to her.

"They are really mine," she explained sadly. "Captain Warden asked
me to accept the carved head, as it was I who discovered it. But I
was afraid of it then. Now, I should be pleased to have it in my
possession. It brought us together in the first instance. Perhaps it
may do the same thing a second time."

"Nigeria is the home of the ju-ju--may this fetish prove a lucky one!"
said the official gravely. "Take it, by all means, Miss Dane, but let
no native see it, or you will attract a notoriety that I am sure you
would dislike. Meanwhile, I shall telegraph to Old Calabar asking for
news, though I should certainly have heard if Warden had turned up
already."

That same afternoon the deputy Governor's wife called on Evelyn, and
invited her to come and stay at her house, urging that she would find
residence in a private family vastly preferable to the hotel in which
she had passed the previous night. For fully three weeks she lived
with this most friendly and hospitable lady. By degrees, as they
became more intimate, her new acquaintance gathered the threads of the
unusual story in which the girl figured so prominently. Similarly, as
Evelyn gained more knowledge of African affairs, she could not help
but discover that it would be nothing less than a miracle if Warden
ever reached Nigeria. The difficulties facing even a well-equipped
expedition on the desert route were so great that all but the most
enthusiastic explorers shrank from them. How, then, could one white
man, accompanied by a solitary Hausa, hope to overcome them? The deputy
Governor scouted the idea that Warden could raise a caravan at Bel
Abbas. He was dubious about the incidents reported from Lektawa, but
he made no secret of the utter improbability that Warden would have
the means of buying camels and hiring men for the dangerous journey
outlined by Captain Mortimer. And, to complete Evelyn's dismay, the
Southern Nigeria administration sent the most positive assurances that
Warden had not been heard of in the upper river districts.

She learned incidentally that Mrs. Laing had gone to Lokoja in a river
steamer. Her hostess believed that Rosamund had found out the latest
version of Warden's adventures, and cherished a faint hope that even
yet she might forestall Evelyn. No small consideration would take her
so far into the interior, especially as the journey was both risky and
useless.

"But that need not trouble you at all, my dear," said her outspoken
friend. "If Captain Warden lives, you can rest assured that my husband
will hear of him long before Mrs. Laing hears. I am afraid that if news
comes at all, it will reach us in the form of a native rumor that a
white man died of fever away up there beyond the hills. It is always
fever--never a spear thrust or a quantity of powdered glass mixed
with a man's food. The natives are loyal enough to each other in that
respect. Even when they know the truth, it is almost impossible to get
them to tell it."

So now it was death, and not life, that was talked of, and Evelyn lived
on in dry-eyed misery until Fairholme hinted one day that she ought to
return home, as the climate was beginning to affect her health.

There were not lacking indications that the merry-souled little peer
had quickly reconciled himself to the loss of Mrs. Laing. He was the
most popular man in Lagos, and he hardly ever visited Evelyn when he
did not assure her that he was "havin' a giddy time with the dear
girls." Yet she knew that he was only waiting until the last hope of
Warden's escape from the desert must be abandoned. When that hour came,
and she was prepared to take ship for England, Fairholme would ask her
to marry him.

The belief became an obsession. To get away from it, to cut herself
wholly adrift from painful associations, she offered her help to
an American Baptist missionary and his wife who were going up the
Benuë. They tried to dissuade her, pointing out the hardships and
positive dangers of the undertaking and the humdrum nature of the
nursing, teaching, and doctoring that constituted the lot of a medical
missionary in West Africa. Finally, they consented, but stipulated that
she should give her new career a six months' trial.

Fairholme protested, and stormed, and was only prevented from proposing
on the spot by Evelyn's placid statement that no matter what the future
might decide, she should not be happy unless she had visited the
little-known land to which her lover had given the best years of his
life.

The reference to Warden effectually sealed his lips. He hastened to the
club, asked a man to dine with him, drank the larger part of a bottle
of champagne, and mournfully informed his friends that he had never
enjoyed a moment's real fun since he ceased to be hard up.

So Evelyn said good-by to the hospitable people who entertained her
at Lagos, and made the long voyage up the great river that perplexed
mankind during so many centuries. Even yet its whole course has not
been surveyed, and it has important tributaries that are unknown beyond
their confluence with the main stream. But the river steamer followed
the established trade route through Old Calabar and Asabao and Idah
to Lokoja; thence a steam launch took the small party of Europeans up
the Benuë to Ibi, and they completed the journey in a roofed boat of
shallow draft manned by krooboys.

The girl seemed now to have left behind the cares and troubles of
the outer world. Busying herself with the daily life of the mission
compound--once a stockaded trading-station and noted center for the
distribution of gin, but now a peaceful hive of simple tuition and
industry--she soon experienced a calm sense of duty accomplished that
had certainly been denied her in the Baumgartner household. At Lagos
she had received one letter from Beryl, who complained bitterly of her
"desertion." A police patrol-boat brought her a letter from home, in
which her stepmother expressed the strongest disapproval of her new
departure as announced by a hurried note sent from Lagos. And that was
all. The links that bound her with England were completely snapped.
She might almost be the kidnapped Domenico Garcia, of whom she thought
occasionally when some chance aspect of a <DW64>'s face startled her by
its close resemblance to the black mask on the calabash.

Mindful of the Lagos official's warning, she never showed the carved
head to any one. Not even Mr. and Mrs. Hume, the mission couple, knew
that it was in her possession.

She had been nearly two months in Kadana, as the group of houses and
huts in the clearing by the side of the yellow Benuë was called, when
an apparently trivial incident upset the placid routine of the mission.
One evening, just before sunset, a ju-ju man, fearsomely bedaubed,
and decked with an amazing headdress and skirt of scarlet feathers,
came into the native section of the compound. He cut off the head of
an unhappy fowl that he carried with him, sprinkled its warm blood in
a circle on the ground, chanted some hoarse incantation, and vanished
into the bush.

The white people saw him from a distance. They happened to be standing
on the veranda of an old factory used as a schoolhouse and dwelling,
and Mr. Hume was greatly annoyed by the witch-doctor's visit.

"This will unsettle every native for a week or two," he said, eying
the man's antics with evident disfavor. "Those fellows are a far
more enduring curse to Africa than the gin traffic. Governments can
legislate gin out of existence, but they cannot touch ju-ju."

"We are doing something in that direction here," said Evelyn, glancing
over her shoulder at the rows of woolly-headed little black figures in
the class-room.

"Yes, we are educating the children, but their parents will undo
to-night all that we have accomplished since our return. Look at
Bambuk. He has mixed with Europeans during the past ten years, yet he
is white with terror."

It was an odd phrase to use with regard to a <DW64>, but it was quite
accurate. Bambuk, interpreter, head servant, and factotum-in-chief to
the mission, who was peering through the doorway at the proceedings of
the ju-ju man, showed every sign of alarm when he saw the fowl-killing
ceremony. His ebony face, usually shining and jovial looking, became
livid and drawn. His eyes glistened like those of a frightened animal.

Turning for a second to make sure that the children were not listening,
he drew near and whispered:

"Oku man make war ju-ju. Him say all black people lib for bush, or dem
King of Oku nail ebery one to tree w'en he burn mission."

Bambuk could speak far better English than that. The fact that he had
reverted so thoroughly to the jargon of the krooboy proved the extent
of his fear.

Hume affected to make light of the witch-doctor and his threats.

"Go and tell him to stop his nonsense", he said. "Say I have a bale of
cotton here which I brought especially from Lagos as a present for King
M'Wanga."

But before Bambuk could descend the broad flight of steps leading from
the veranda, the fetish performance was at an end and its chief actor
had rushed off among the trees.

Evelyn felt a chill run through her body, though the air was hot and
vapor-laden.

"Is M'Wagna the name of the King of Oku?" she asked.

"I believe so. I have been absent nearly eight months, as you are
aware, but I haven't heard of any change in the local dynasty."

"Do you think it likely that he has ever visited England?"

"Most improbable," said Hume. "He is an absolute savage. I have seen
him only once, and I should be sorry to think that my life depended on
his good will. But why did you imagine he might have been in England?"

"Because a native of that name came there with two others last August."

"We have been visited by ju-ju men before, Charles," put in Mrs. Hume.

"Yes. Generally they come begging for something they want--usually
drugs--which they pretend to concoct themselves out of a snake's liver
or the gizzard of a bird. Don't lay too much stress on Bambuk's fright.
He is a chicken-hearted fellow at the best. If there is really any
likelihood of a native disturbance I shall send him with you and Miss
Dane down the river----"

"I shall not go without you, dear," said Mrs. Hume.

"Nor I--unless both of you come," answered Evelyn.

Hume laughed constrainedly.

"You will both obey orders, I hope," he said, but he did not urge the
matter further at the moment.

They were eating their evening meal when the distant tapping of a drum
caught their ears. It was not the rhythmical beating of a tom-tom by
some musically-inclined bushman. It much more closely resembled the
dot and dash code of the Morse alphabet, or that variant of it which
Private Thomas Atkins, in a spasm of genius, christened "Umty-iddy."
Heard in the stillness of the forest, with not a breath of air stirring
the leaves of the tallest trees, and even the tawny river murmuring
in so low a note that it was inaudible from the mission-house, this
irregular drum-beating had a depressing, almost a sinister effect.
It jarred on the nerves. It suggested the unseen and therefore the
terrible. At all costs they must find out what it signified.

Bambuk was summoned. He was even more distraught than during the
fetish performance of two hours earlier.

"Dem Oku drum play Custom tune," he explained. "Dem Custom mean----"

"Do you savvy what they are saying?" broke in Hume sharply. He did not
imagine that his wife had discussed the habits of native potentates
with her youthful helper, and even she herself did not know the full
extent of the excesses, the sheer lust of bloodshed, hidden under a
harmless-sounding word.

"Savvy plenty. Dem drum made of monkey-skin--p'haps other kind of
skin--an' dem ju-ju man say: 'Come, come! Make sharp dem knife! Come!
Load dem gun! Come, den, come! Dem ribber (river) run red wid blood!'
Den dey nail some men to tree an' make dance."

The missionary did not check his assistant's recital. It was best that
the women should at least understand the peril in which they were
placed. The compound held not more than fifty able-bodied men, and
the only arms they possessed were native weapons. Hume's influence
depended wholly on his skill in treating the ailments of the people
and his patience in teaching their children not only the rudiments
of English but the simpler forms of handicraft. His experience as
an African missioner was not of long standing, but from the outset
he had consistently refused to own any firearm more deadly than a
shotgun. Hitherto he had regarded the Upper Benuë region as a settled
and fairly prosperous one. His cherished day-dream was that before
he died he might see the pioneer settlement at Kadana transmuted into
a well-equipped college and training school, whence Christianity and
science might spread their light throughout that part of Africa. It
shocked him now to think that all his work might be submerged under
a wave of fanaticism, yet he clung to the hope that the warlike
preparations of the men of Oku might mean nothing more serious than a
tribal quarrel. This had happened once before, and he stepped in as
arbitrator. By a liberal distribution of presents, including the whole
of the mission stock of wine and brandy, he sent away both parties
highly gratified with both his award and his method of arriving at it.

"There are war-drums beating in more than one place," said Evelyn, who
was listening in silence to the spasmodic tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap,
that voiced the dirge translated by Bambuk.

"Ah, you have hit on my unspoken thought," cried Hume. "Come, now,
Bambuk, are you not enlarging your story somewhat? Two chiefs make
war-palaver; isn't that the explanation?"

"Dem Oku drum," repeated the native, "all Oku drum. Dey call for Custom
to-night."

"What exactly _is_ Custom, Charles?" said Mrs. Hume.

"Unfortunately, it means in this instance an offering of human
sacrifice."

He saw no help for it. They must know, sooner or later, and his soul
turned sick at the thought of his wife and this gentle girl who
had thrown in her lot with theirs falling into the clutches of the
fetish-maddened bushmen. Each minute he grew more assured that some
unusual movement was taking place among the surrounding tribes. Even
to his untutored ear there was a marked similarity in the drumming,
and he determined that the two women should go down the river in the
mission canoe as soon as the moon rose. A crew of eight men could take
them to the nearest constabulary post, and within twenty-four hours a
steam launch would bring back an armed body of Hausas officered by an
Englishman. Till then, he would trust to Providence for the safety of
the people under his care. That he himself could desert the mission
never entered his mind. Not only would the settlement break up in
direst confusion the moment his back was turned, but the society's
houses and stores would be looted and destroyed, and the work of years
swept away in a single night.

He was considering what excuse would serve to get the women on board
the canoe, when the splash of paddles close at hand stirred all four to
sudden excitement. It was Bambuk who read instantly the meaning of this
unexpected sound. He rushed out, yelling words that proved how soon the
veneer of civilization can wear off the West African <DW64>. Soon he
came back, looking sick with fear.

"Dem dam pagan <DW65> make off in dem canoe," he almost screamed. "Dey
savvy plenty too much bushman lib. We all be killed one-time."

Even Evelyn, new to the country and its ways, realized what this meant.
The river was their only highway. There were native tracks in plenty
through the dense forest, but to march along any one of them while
a hostile force was lying across every path was to court immediate
disaster. By running away from a peril which was only passive as yet,
they made it active. On the river they might escape; in the bush they
could not travel a mile except on native sufferance.

Hume tried bravely to minimize the force of this unlooked-for blow.
It was true the fugitives might be expected to carry the alarm to the
police post, but until the following night it was quite impossible for
succor to reach Kadana. And now they must all stand or fall by the
mission.

"I did not think any of our men would be such cowards," he said with
quiet sadness. "Let us go and pacify the others. When all is said and
done, we have harmed no one in Oku territory, but given relief to many
who were in pain. I still believe that this scare is unwarranted, and
our presence among our people will tend to calm them."

A minute later he was sorry he had not gone alone. Every hut in the
compound was empty. Nearly two hundred men, women, and children had
fled into the bush, preferring to obey the order of the ju-ju man
rather than defy him by remaining in the mission. Bambuk had not
been taken into their confidence because he was originally a Foulah
Mohammedan. The colony at Kadana was precisely what Bambuk had called
its members in his rage, for the Mohammedan <DW64> looks down upon his
"pagan" brethren with supreme contempt. In a crisis such as that which
now threatened to engulf the mission, these nice distinctions of class
and creed are apt to spring into startling prominence.

Hume faced the situation gallantly.

"Another illusion shattered," he sighed. "Most certainly I did not
expect that all my people would desert me at the first hint of danger.
But we must make the best of it. Even now I cannot believe that the
king of Oku--if it really is he who has created this disturbance--can
contemplate an attack on Europeans. He has many faults, but he is not
a fool, and he knows quite well how swift and complete would be his
punishment if he interfered with us."

Mrs. Hume accepted her husband's views, and tried to look at matters
with the same optimism. Evelyn, curiously enough, was better informed
than even their native companion as to the serious nature of the
outbreak. She was convinced that Warden's theory was correct. Some
stronger influence than a mere tribal _émeute_ lay behind those
horrible drumbeats. The authorities had been completely hoodwinked. In
her heart of hearts she feared that Kadana shared its deadly peril that
night with many a stronger trading-post and station down the river.

Bambuk, quieting down from his earlier paroxysms of fear, seemed to
await his certain doom with a dignified fatalism. Even when he heard
the thud of paddles on the sluggish waters of the river he announced
the fact laconically.

"Bush man lib!" he muttered.

Perhaps the white faces blanched somewhat, and hearts beat a trifle
faster, but Hume alone spoke.

"Where?" he asked.

"On ribber--in dem war canoe."

They strained their ears, and soon caught the measured plashing. Then
Mrs Hume began to weep. Evelyn knelt by her side in mute sympathy. She
was too dazed to find relief in tears. For the moment she seemed to
be passing through a torturing dream from which she would soon awake.
Hume, who had gone to the door, came to his wife.

"Don't cry, Mary," he said. "That does no good--and--it breaks my
heart. I have not abandoned hope. God can save us even yet. Be not
afraid of them that kill the body, and after that have no more that
they can do."

His voice was strong and self-reliant. Even Bambuk glanced at him with
a kind of awe, and thought, it may be, that the creed he had tried
dimly to understand was nobler than the mere stoicism that was the
natural outcome of his own fantastic beliefs. The <DW64> was stupid with
terror, or he could not have failed to distinguish the steady hum of an
engine running at half speed.

And so they waited, while the thud of the paddles came nearer, until at
last the bow of a heavy craft crashed into the foliage overhanging the
bank, and they were rapt into a heaven of relief by hearing an English
voice.

"Hello, there!" it shouted. "Is this the Kadana Mission?"

Mrs. Hume straightway fainted, but Evelyn was there to tend her, and
Hume rushed down to the landing-place. The gleam of a moon rising
over some low hills was beginning to make luminous the river mist. He
was able dimly to note the difference between the pith hats of two
Europeans and the smart round caps of a number of Hausa policemen. And,
though a man of peace, he found the glint of rifle barrels singularly
comforting.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Well," said he who had spoken in the first instance, "I am Lieutenant
Colville of the constabulary, but I have brought with me the Earl of
Fairholme. Have you a lady named Dane, Miss Evelyn Dane, staying with
you?"

Hume, who wanted to fall on his knees and offer thanks to Providence,
managed to say that Evelyn Dane was certainly at Kadana at that moment.

"Ah, that's the ticket!" said another voice. "I suppose you can put us
up for the night? Any sort of shake-down will do, so long as we get
away from this beastly river. Sleepin' on board gives one the jim-jams,
eh, what?"




CHAPTER XV

WHEREIN ONE SURPRISE BEGETS MANY


Colville leaped ashore. Without appearing to hurry, he was quickly by
Hume's side and asking in an undertone:

"Why has this war-drumming started? I heard it an hour ago down stream.
Our engine was not running well, so the men got the paddles to work and
we cracked on at top speed."

"I do not know," said the missionary, who was more anxious at the
moment to reassure the women than to answer questions.

"But is there any bush fighting going on? Everything was reported to be
all right when I left Ibi."

"May heaven be praised that you were prompted to visit us! My wife,
Miss Dane, our interpreter and myself--four out of two hundred--alone
remain in the mission. Some of our people stole the canoe and made off,
and every other native in the compound has gone into the bush. When we
heard your paddles just now we thought that the war canoes of the King
of Oku were approaching. But please come with me to the house. The mere
sight of your uniform will show the ladies that our danger is at an
end."

Colville was young, but he was old in experience. He had also learned
the exceeding wisdom of repressing opinions that were not called for.

"Wait a few seconds," he said. "Here is Lord Fairholme. But for his
urgent wish to visit Miss Dane, we should not have been in Kadana
to-night. Hello! Who the dev--what canoe is that?"

Even while he was speaking, another craft shot out from the dense layer
of mist that hid the surface of the river. Though the trees on the
opposite bank were clearly visible in the ever-spreading moonlight,
the Benuë itself was invisible. A Hausa sergeant challenged from the
launch, and the reply came in his own tongue. A small native boat,
propelled by two paddles, grated on a strip of shingle, and an Arab and
a <DW64> stepped ashore.

By this time, Fairholme had joined Colville and had been introduced
to Hume. The Arab, hardly waiting an instant for a response to a curt
inquiry, stalked towards them. He was a tall man, gaunt but wiry, and
he carried himself with the listless air of one barely convalescent
after a severe illness.

But there was no trace of listlessness in his voice. He singled out
Colville immediately as the officer in charge of the party, and
addressed him in the Hausa language.

"You would better bring your men ashore, run the launch as far up the
bank as possible, and barricade yourself in the strongest building
available," he said. "The men of Oku are out. Three of their war
canoes are stationed at the bend in the river and their occupants are
armed with Mannlicher rifles. Escape that way is impossible. Your only
chance is to hold this post as long as Allah permits. I shall try to
pass the blockading canoes and reach Ibi, though I fear it will be too
late."

Colville hardly knew at which he was most amazed, the commanding tone
of this haggard son of the desert or the astounding news he brought.

"Say, then, hadji," he cried, half ironically, "What plague has broken
out in Oku that the whole line of the Benuë should be threatened."

"The chief plague is that of blindness among officers who fail to see
the pits dug for them by crafty natives," was the stern answer. "I
speak truly, young master. You have half an hour, at best an hour, in
which to make preparations."

"But these war canoes you speak of--they are not at the bend; I have
just come up stream."

"They passed but now. You did not see them for the mist. I accompanied
them."

"Why did I not hear them?"

"They drifted down quietly lest they should arouse the mission."

"And yet you came here? Why?"

"To warn the mission people. Hurry, I pray you, and waste no time in
useless talk."

"Oh, I say, Colville," broke in Fairholme who understood no word of
this dialogue and wondered why the English officer should permit an
Arab to detain him, "can't Mr. Hume take me to Miss Dane? If she is as
sick of this rotten river as I am she'll be jolly glad to see me."

"Certainly," said Colville. "I shall follow you soon. This chap seems
to be able to explain matters, so I must remain here a few minutes."

Hume, eager to get away, led Fairholme in the direction of the house.
The young soldier felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder, and an English
voice whispered:

"Colville, don't you know me?"

They were standing in a cleared space where the moonbeams gave some
degree of light. The Arab had pushed back his burnous, revealing
a worn, handsome face, tanned brown with exposure. Though the
characteristic traits of his supposed race are the heavy lip, and the
hawk-like nose, this man was straight-nosed and thin-lipped. He was
cadaverous enough, but no Arab.

Colville did more than gaze, he actually gaped at the other. There was
no mistaking the cultured accent of an English gentleman, and yet--the
thing could not be; he fancied he was bewitched.

"My dear Jimmie, have I changed so much, then, since last we played
snooker together in the club?"

"Well, I'm blessed!" muttered Colville, or to be candid, he used the
subaltern's variant of the phrase.

"You soon will be if you don't do as I tell you," came the emphatic
assurance. "But before I go, for I must give the people at Ibi a
chance--though it is a thousand to one I shall be too late--who is the
lady your friend inquired about?"

Colville wanted to say so much that he found but few words. He could
only gasp:

"My dear Warden--didn't you hear?"

"I heard her name, of course, but it cannot be a lady of the same name
in whom I was once interested. Still, it is an odd thing it should be
mentioned to-night, and in this place. Who is she?"

"Oh, d----n it all!" groaned Colville, "how could any poor devil guess
he was in for this sort of stew when he started from Ibi yesterday!"

"I assure you we are wasting precious time, Jimmie. Perhaps it is my
fault, but the question was a natural one under the circumstances. Tell
your men it is all right, or they may want to prevent my departure;
they understand those drums, you know. My only hope of success in case
I am stopped at the bend is to keep up the pretense that I am a special
envoy from the emirs in the interior. Some day, if we win through this
business, I shall have a fine yarn for you. Good-by!"

"But look here, old chap, I can't let you slip away like that. Confound
it! I don't know what to say, but the plain truth is best, perhaps. The
girl you were engaged to, Miss Evelyn Dane, is inside the mission-house
now, this minute, and the man I brought from Ibi is the Earl of
Fairholme. He told me all about you on the way up. He's a decent sort,
and he is wild over Miss Dane. But it is only fair to add----"

A series of blood-curdling yells and a volley of musketry that lit the
bush with spurts of flame put an abrupt end to Colville's qualifying
sentence. He was so taken aback by the extraordinary coincidence that
Warden should arrive at Kadana almost at the same instant as the man
who had come there with the avowed intent of taking Evelyn Dane home to
England as his wife, that for one bemused second he failed to grasp the
imminence or extent of the native onslaught.

It was otherwise with Warden. Though his brain might well have reeled
at the words he had just heard from a brother officer's lips, the
incessant watchfulness demanded by the life of the past five months
had created in him a second nature. While his heart asked tumultuous
questions and found no answer to any of them, his head dictated the
steps that must be taken if they were to offer any sort of organized
defense.

"Company! Attention!" he shouted. "Four men remain with the launch,
keep steam up and shove off from the bank; all others follow to the
mission. Double--March! Beni Kalli, run the canoe ashore and come!"

The loud command, proceeding apparently from their leader, though not
in their leader's voice, was promptly obeyed by the Hausas. They came
running across the clearing, loading their rifles and fixing bayonets
as they ran.

"Now, Colville, take hold!" said Warden coolly. "I'm afraid I startled
you out of your wits, but they're your men, not mine."

The younger man needed no second bidding. Glad of the night that hid
the scarlet in his face, he told the small squad to surround the
mission-house. They would be less visible beneath the veranda than on
it. Hume and Fairholme with two women in white dresses had rushed out
at the first sound of firing, and they were painfully distinct in the
light that came from a large lamp inside the room at the back.

"Shout to them to get inside, close the doors, and extinguish all
lights," said Warden, keeping close to Colville during the combined
rush to gain the obscurity afforded by the heavy beams that supported
the upper story.

Colville obeyed. He was honestly glad that a stronger man had taken
control. His knowledge of the country told him that a most serious and
far-spread rebellion was in progress. Rifles, not gas-pipe guns, were
in the hands of a tribe famed for its fighting qualities. He had a
dozen men, not counting the four in the launch, to meet the onset of as
many thousands. He did not fear death, for he had faced it many times,
but it was one thing to enter on a definite campaign, no matter what
the odds, and quite another to find himself plunged into a seemingly
hopeless fight in a time of profound peace, and at the close of an
exhausting journey undertaken to oblige a sporting British peer.

He had to bellow his instructions twice before the alarmed occupants
of the mission-house quitted the veranda. The sound of his own voice
was helpful; it steadied him. It was in his natural tone that he
growled to Warden:

"Fairholme admits that he is an ass, rather boasts of it, in fact, but
I thought Hume would have more sense than to let the women stand there
offering a clear target."

"They are safe enough yet," was the reply. "Their rooms face the river;
the attack is coming from the bush."

"Wouldn't it be better to take to the river at once?"

"No, that means certain death. There are three canoes, and each has a
Nordenfeldt mounted in its bows."

"Good Lord, man, a Nordenfeldt!"

"Yes, and M'Wanga has a dozen 12-pounders in two batteries at Oku.
Not that they will ever be of much use to him. I took care of that.
But I failed utterly to get on board the canoes. They were moored in
mid-stream, guarded day and night, and the guns were sheeted. Moreover,
I have been out of gear nearly six weeks. This is a big business,
Colville. How is it no one knew of what was going on?"

"There were rumors, but they died down. Forbes----"

"Did they send Forbes in my place?"

"Yes."

"That explains it. He is a capital fellow in an office. To ask him to
unravel an Oku plot was to set a bat catching sparrows by daylight."

They had plenty of time to discuss matters thus coolly. No West
African fighting-man would demean himself by delivering an assault
on an enemy's position without a preliminary hubbub of yells and
wild shooting. It is different when he is the defender. Then he will
lie close as a partridge till the precise moment that his usually
antiquated guns can most effectually belch forth a destroying blast of
nails, iron scraps, pebbles, and broken glass and pottery.

But the seconds passed, and the minutes, and no horde of demoniac
figures poured across the open compound. The shooting was incessant,
yet no bullet struck the house, though not even an indifferent native
marksmen could well avoid hitting a big building in which all the
living-rooms were on the same floor as the veranda. The lower part of
the structure served as a store.

The Hausa soldier-policemen, picked men of the West African Regiment,
were trained not to fire without orders. They were far too few in
number to line the stockade, which enclosed a space fully two acres in
extent. In any case, the defense it afforded was worse than useless.
The gates were jammed open by a year's growth of herbage. In some
instances, a passage had been made by the simple expedient of removing
a whole section. It would demand many hours of labor by a hundred men
to put the palisade in a serviceable condition. Hume's effort was to
establish a mission, not a fort, in this jungle outpost.

The Hausa sergeant was puzzled in more ways than one. He heard his
officer talking English to an Arab, he heard the unmistakable crackling
of rifles fully equal to those with which he and the others were armed,
and he was unable to account for the delay in the attack.

Enjoining on his men the necessity of keeping well within the shadow,
he crept along close to the wall until he stood by Colville's side.
He was about to ask permission to make a reconnaissance, and thus
force the enemy to reveal themselves, when an incident almost without
precedent in bush warfare took place.

The indiscriminate firing stopped, the wild-beast noises died away into
absolute silence, and a strip of white cotton suddenly became visible
in one of the many gaps in the stockade. It was held stationary for a
moment, then a native warrior stepped boldly forth into the moonlight.
His magnificent physique was enhanced by the war trappings that decked
his head, breast, and loins, and he strode forward with the lithe
movements of a man in perfect training. When he entered the compound,
it was seen that he carried a white flag on a lance. He meant to
parley, and such a departure from the savage methods of a semi-cannibal
tribe was hitherto unheard of. Usually, an unprotected party of
Europeans, whether missionaries or traders, are butchered without mercy
if found within the zone of tribal foray.

"By gad," muttered Colville, "they're going to offer terms!"

"I think I can guess what the terms will be," said Warden. "There's a
woman in the case, Jimmie--something new in a bush campaign, eh?"

The subaltern did not understand the curious undertone of grim irony in
the remark; but he was aware of it and made no reply. The black warrior
had halted. His wonderfully developed sense of hearing warned him that
some one not in the house was speaking, and the voices could come from
no other place than the gloomy recess beneath the veranda.

"O Hume!" he cried loudly. "I fit for palaver."

Colville half expected that Warden would answer for Hume. He was
mistaken. His senior leaned back against the wall of the store,
and folded his arms with the air of a man who meant to abide by a
settlement in whose discussion he can take no part.

The <DW64>, though trusting to his vague conception of a code of honor
that he associated with fighting against white men, came no nearer.

"O Hume!" he cried again, "open dem door one-time, an' hear what I fit
for say."

In the strange hush succeeding the frenzied uproar that announced the
presence of a host of armed natives, the envoy's words were clearly
audible to the five people in the upper rooms. Hume came out, followed
by Bambuk.

"Who are you and what do you want?" said the missionary. "Why do you
come to me at night, and threaten the lives of my friends and myself in
this manner?"

"I done tell you if Bambuk lib. I no fit for long palaver."

At this, the interpreter leaned over the rail of the veranda.

"You are Loanda, I think?" he said, using the vernacular.

"Yes," was the reply. "Tell the white man that the lives of himself
and his wife will be spared, and they will be taken in safety to the
frontier, if the English girl now in their house is handed over to us
at once. She, too, will be well treated. One whom she knows, Miguel
Figuero, awaits her at Oku. He is our friend, so she need have no fear.
I, Loanda, say it, and that which I say is done."

Bambuk translated this astounding request literally. Evelyn heard every
word, and she alone grasped their terrible import. She appeared in the
doorway, white-faced, with eyes that terror had made almost distraught.

"Miguel Figuero!" repeated the bewildered Hume. "Isn't that the name of
the Portuguese rascal you have told us of, Miss Dane?"

"Yes," she said, and her voice was tense with the effort to keep it
from breaking. "He is in league with the men of Oku. I knew it, and
Captain Warden warned the authorities at home about him, but no one
here would listen. Oh, Mr. Hume, it is a dreadful thing to say, but
rather than fall into that man's power I would kill myself."

"You surely don't imagine that we would agree to those terms, do you?"

Hume was almost indignant, but Evelyn flung herself on her knees and
lifted her clasped hands in agony to the star-studded sky.

"What else can I do?" she wailed. "My life is broken. I have nothing
left to live for. If I refuse this offer of peace, it means that all
your lives are forfeit--yours and your wife's, and Lord Fairholme's,
and those of the officer and men who came here in the launch from Ibi.
Tell him I agree. I will go to this man. But make the chief promise to
spare you and the others. I must know first that you are safe. Then--O
God, pardon me!--then--I----"

"My dear girl--which of us would purchase a few more hours of life at
such a price?"

"But you do not understand," she blazed forth. "If the death of one can
save many why shouldn't the one die? We can't hope to resist these men;
there are thousands of them. And unless I fall by my own hand, they may
capture me unharmed after you have given your lives uselessly in my
defense. Oh, pity me and pray for me, but do not let me be responsible
for the slaughter of the few friends I possess in the world!"

She could no longer restrain her tears. The dark blue dome that
typified the heaven to which she looked for mercy was blotted out of
sight. She cowered as though from a blow, and wept pitifully. Then a
voice rang out from the compound directly in front of where she knelt.
As the opening syllables reached her ears, though she understood no
word that was uttered, her surcharged brain harbored a new dread, for
the man who was speaking spoke in Warden's voice--Warden, whom she had
learned to regard as dead these months past. Of course, grief and fear
had driven her mad! She swept away the tears that blurred her vision,
and peered through the rails of the veranda, but she saw only a cloaked
Arab who had stepped forth into the moonlight, and was now addressing
stern warnings to the amazed Loanda. And fantasy played her distracted
senses another strange trick. The face of the native chief was plainly
visible. She watched its expression change from sheer wonderment to
baffled rage, and it seemed to her that it was not Loanda who glowered
at the Arab who harangued him, but the scowling mask carved on the
gourd by Domenico Garcia.

Oh, yes, she was truly mad. She realized it herself, but the others
would never suspect it. Then the persistence of the notion brought
relief to her aching heart. A kindly delirium might carry her through
the ordeal that lay before her. She no longer feared insanity, rather
did she welcome it, and now was her chance to act while she was brave
and would not flinch from that which she conceived was her duty.

But why was that tall Arab still talking in Warden's voice, and why
did the stalwart savage seem to threaten him with furious gesture?
Even while she was gazing between the wooden bars of the railing, she
saw Loanda grasp his spear menacingly, whereupon the Arab laughed--how
like it was to Warden's laugh of good-natured raillery!--and a couple
of Hausa soldiers appeared, with rifles held suggestively, as men hold
shotguns when they expect a rabbit to scuttle out of a spinney.

Again, being still under the spell of that sudden lunacy, she heard
the Arab say in English, and more amazingly than ever in Warden's very
tones:

"Now, Jimmie! Four paces to the front in open order--every man--quick!"

An English officer and several soldiers came out into the open. After
one glance of sheer astonishment, the Oku chief turned and stalked away
towards the bush. He did not deign to hurry, but his lithe springy gait
soon carried him into the somber shadows. The dramatic silence that
followed was broken by the man in an officer's uniform.

"By gad, Warden, you did that splendidly," he said. "I should never
have thought of it. Do you think it will work?"

"For to-night, perhaps. One never knows just how the native mind will
look at a thing. It gave Loanda a positive shock when he was really
convinced that a British officer was not only present at most of
M'Wanga's war palavers, but had thrown out of gear every field gun in
his precious battery. He would not tell me where M'Wanga is now, but I
hardly think they will attack us in earnest before consulting him."

"I am inclined to believe you have knocked the bottom out of the whole
bally business," said Colville jubilantly. "They are scared to death of
you, Warden. You are the first man who had the opportunity to bust up
the Oku ju-ju, and, by Jove, didn't you take it?"

But Colville was wrong. The weird hoot of an owl came from the bush, a
drum tapped out a signal, and instantly the forest became alive with
vivid jets of light. The <DW64>s had begun their fusillade again,
and this time they meant to kill, not to frighten. Bullets whistled
past the house, imbedded themselves in the stout timbers, tore huge
splinters from beams, and hurled shingles from the roof. It seemed to
be a miracle that every person in or near the building was not struck
instantly, but the opening volley sent the Hausas to cover beneath the
veranda, where they were told to lie flat on the ground behind the
protecting supports. To reply to the enemy's fire would be merely a
waste of precious ammunition, and the men carried only a small quantity
in their bandoliers. The time to fire was when every shot would be
effective. Rarely will untrained savages press home an attack when
their foremost warriors fall. The Hausas, <DW64>s themselves, had been
taught this in many a bush skirmish, and they had absolute confidence
in their white leaders, for, by this time, the rumor had gone round
that the man in Arab clothing was the well-known deputy commissioner
of the Brass River, under whom some of them had fought in the sister
protectorate.

Hume, who was cool as any soldier, seized Evelyn's arm the instant
that the first bullet crashed into the woodwork. Fairholme, too, who
had recovered from the stupefying suddenness of what was, to him, a
wholly unexpected sequel to a wearisome trip up a fever-laden river,
ran forward to help, and the two men half carried the girl to the
protection of the house.

But she had no thought of danger. Though it was dark inside the main
living-room, she held them fast when they would have released her, and
tried to read their very souls by a look.

"Did you hear?" she gasped. "That man--the Arab--who is he?... The
other called him Warden.... Why should he do that?... Was it not cruel
of him?... And why, why, did it seem to me that I heard Arthur's voice?"

"Calm yourself, Miss Dane," said the missionary quietly. "Providence at
times adopts means not within mortal ken. I could not follow what was
said to Loanda, but Bambuk tells me that, by some astounding chance,
Captain Arthur Warden has not only crossed a large part of Africa, but
has lived many weeks in Oku itself, and is now taking measures which
will, I trust, by God's mercy, secure our safety."

A queer choking cry came from the girl's parched throat.

"Then I am not mad?" she murmured. "He is really there! And he heard
what I said--when--when I offered to go to Figuero?"

"Yes, of course he heard. It seemed to me it was on your account that
he made himself known to the chief. But I do not yet understand exactly
what happened. I only know that when first he spoke to Colville he used
Arabic."

"Yes, by gad," put in Fairholme, finding an opening at last. "I thought
he was a beastly native, an' I cut in like a bloomin' ass. Just my
usual luck, Evelyn. The favorite got up in the last stride an' pipped
the outsider by a short head, eh, what?"

The earl's happy-go-lucky method of expressing himself was singularly
out of tune with his surroundings. Hume had closed the door, and
the windows were already shuttered, so the darkness was now that of
Pharaoh's Egypt when Moses stretched forth his hand towards heaven.
From without came the incessant crackling of musketry, and the maniacal
howlings of <DW64>s inspiring each other for the ultimate hand-to-hand
fight; within, one heard the hysterical sobbing of Mrs. Hume, the
mutterings of the Foulah servant, and the patter of small débris from
walls and roof as the building shook under the sledge-hammer blows of
bullets traveling at a high velocity. Luckily, as Warden had pointed
out, the front of the mission-house faced the river, and there was no
firing from that quarter as yet. The veranda was approached by a double
staircase which mounted from each side and met at a small landing,
whence half a dozen steps led to the level of the upper floor. As both
sections of the stairs projected beyond the line of the building, their
comparatively thin boards were being constantly ripped and split by
the leaden missiles that hurtled in from both flanks.

It was spinning a coin with death for any one to descend either to
right or left, yet that is what Evelyn did when Lord Fairholme's
bizarre explanation brought her back to the world which she had already
quitted in imagination. Owing to the tomb-like blackness of the room,
neither man was aware of her intent until the door was opened and she
was speeding down the shattered stairs.

In her white dress she was a most conspicuous object. A pent-house
roof shielded the stairs from sun and rain, but the moment she emerged
into the moonlit compound she resembled some ethereal creature sent
by the gods to still the wretched strife waged by foolish men. And,
spirit-like, she passed unscathed through the hissing and biting rain
of lead. She had but one thought, and it fluttered tremulously from her
lips.

"Arthur!" she wailed, "Arthur! I am here!"

And again, "Arthur! Come to me! Why don't you speak?... It is I,
Evelyn.... Where are you? Oh, Arthur dear, answer me."

Warden was lying by Colville's side behind a main pillar at an angle of
the house when he heard the girl's rapt cry. Turning on an elbow, he
saw her flitting past. He was up in an instant. Without spoken word he
leaped out and clasped her in his arms.

Colville rose too.

"Oh, good Lord!" he muttered, "they will both be killed!"

But fate had chosen for Warden a strange path to a woman's love, and
the fickle goddess shielded him now when he, all a-quiver with the
thrill of holding Evelyn in his arms, clasped her tightly and ran with
her up the rickety stairs. Even as he hurried to place her in shelter
the bushmen had seen the white-robed apparition and concentrated their
fire in that direction. Bullets spat against the ground, crashed
through the flimsy wooden structure, and pierced their clothing many
times--but neither was injured. A few seconds after she had passed
through the door Evelyn was carried back again. But it was a fitting
outcome of the madness that had fallen on the quiet mission-station
that she should be blithely heedless of the mortal peril which both
she and her lover had escaped. Even while death was missing them by a
hair's breadth, she began to tell Warden in broken phrases how she had
never faltered in her belief that he would one day be restored to her,
and that she had come to Africa and the Benuë strong in the conviction
that they would meet there and nowhere else in the wide world.

All of this, and more, was delightfully inaccurate, but Evelyn believed
it and the man who listened believed it, and love was more potent than
cold reason, so cold reason was barred out among the shrieking hail of
lead that had failed to secure its victims.

Yet their idyll was soon cut short. A red glare became visible through
the chinks of door and windows, and Warden knew what it meant.

"They have set fire to the native huts," he said. "They want to
see where our men are stationed before they try a rush. I must go,
sweetheart. Kiss me! If it is good-by, I shall die content, for I have
passed through much tribulation ere this divine moment was vouchsafed."

Not for all the gold in Africa would she prove herself unworthy of him
in that supreme moment.

"Go, then!" she said. "Whether in life or death we shall not be
separated again."

Warden was at the door when some one sprang after him. In the growing
light of the burning buildings he recognized Colville's companion in
the launch.

"I suppose I can count for one in the scrum," said the stranger.
"Evelyn promised to be my sister, old chap, an' before we all go under
I'll d----n well down a <DW65> or two for the sake of the family. Can
you spare a gun? I'm a good man at driven birds, an' these black jokers
are several sizes bigger than blackcock--eh, what?"




CHAPTER XVI

A FIVE MINUTES' FIGHT


Fairholme was soon equipped with a rifle. He was crouching behind
a wooden pillar close to Warden and Colville, when a Hausa who had
incautiously exposed himself uttered a queer cough and pitched forward
on his face, shot through the lungs. The earl took the man's gun and
bandolier, but noticed that none of the others were firing, though a
number of black forms were dimly visible through the murk created by
the smoke of the blazing huts.

Warden was watching him.

"You will soon get busy," he said. "They are preparing for a rush. Pick
out the leaders, the fellows wearing the gaudiest feathers, or carrying
a leopard-skin slung across their shoulders."

"You're a funny lookin' bird yourself," chuckled Fairholme. "What price
you for the Kingdom Come stakes when the <DW65>s spot you? Every black
son of a gun will want to add you to the bag."

"That's right, Warden," put in Colville anxiously. "Chuck away that
burnous, and stick on poor Toomba's cap. Fairholme can pull it in with
the clearing-rod."

"No," said Warden. "My Arab's livery has served me in good stead
thus far. I shall not abandon it until I can borrow the togs of
civilization, if ever I need them. Hello, here they come!"

A slackening in the fusillade and a terrific outburst of yells showed
that the enemy were breaking cover in force. In an instant the compound
seemed to become alive with armed <DW64>s, many of whom had already
discarded their modern rifles for the more familiar matchet and spear.

Colville shouted something in the Hausa tongue, and his men, all
but two, leaped to their feet. Firing with deadly accuracy at such
a short range, they brought down a score of the foremost savages.
Fairholme, imbued with the traditions of European warfare, naturally
expected that the attack would be pressed home, so he set his teeth and
resolved to enter the next world with a royal bodyguard. Remembering
Warden's instructions, he looked only for the most gorgeously decorated
warriors, and found three including Loanda himself. Warden, who had
secured the rifle of the second wounded Hausa, saw the earl bowl over
a ju-ju man at sixty yards, no mean shooting at night in an atmosphere
rapidly becoming smoke-laden.

"Well done, brother-in-law!" he cried, and in the throes of that deadly
strife those two began a friendship not to be severed on this side of
the great boundary. As the house was attacked simultaneously on three
sides, Colville ran around it to tell each member of his tiny force
to fall back on the staircase when hard pressed. The instruction was
given not a second too soon. Trusting to their great numbers, the men
of Oku came on boldly. They were first-rate soldiers in their own
way, they anticipated an easy victory, and they were filled with the
frenzied desire to use steel rather than lead. That is the bushman's
temperament; killing loses half its ferocious joy if he cannot "paint"
his weapon. This sheer lust of blood now served the little garrison in
good stead. True, it exposed them to the combined onslaught of hundreds
of sinewy <DW64>s, but it saved them from the speedy extermination
that must have been their lot were their assailants content to shoot
them down at close quarters. In less than a minute after the stockade
was passed by the enemy, Warden, Colville, Fairholme, Beni Kalli--who
used an adze he stumbled across in the doorway of the store--the Hausa
sergeant, and seven of the rank and file--twelve men all told--were in
a half circle around the foot of the stairs, plying rifle and bayonet
on a wall of black humanity. The very strength of the attacking force
placed it at a disadvantage. The men in front were hindered by those
who surged up in ever-increasing waves from the rear. Every shot fired
by the defenders effected losses out of all proportion to the general
run of wounds inflicted by musketry even in a hand-to-hand engagement.
Though the wretched warriors who bore the brunt of the assault might
have escaped bullet or butt or bayonet thrust, there was no dodging
the withering blasts of powder which blinded and scorched them, and
smote their naked limbs with strange buffets. The eerie yells of those
who thought the mission had already fallen mingled with the screams
of the wounded and the groans of the dying. The place reeked like a
slaughter-house, and the corpses of those who were killed outright, or
the maimed and writhing men who had sustained injuries which rendered
them incapable of crawling out of that packed space, formed a veritable
rampart around the defenders.

At this stage the loss of a skilled leader like Loanda made itself felt
among his followers. He would either have set fire to the unprotected
rear of the building or drawn off a part of his force and renewed the
shooting from a flank. Any such diversion by a tithe of the warriors
engaged would render the position immediately untenable by the three
white men and the Hausas. When, at last, the flanking maneuver was
attempted by half a dozen <DW64>s who had extricated themselves
unharmed from the press beneath the overhanging roof of the stairs,
the disastrous effect of their strategy showed what might have been
accomplished but for the smallness of their number. Colville fell,
and the Hausa sergeant, and two men. A bullet plowed through Warden's
hair, and another ripped Fairholme's coat and shirt, and grazed his
breast, and these casualties resulted before the few men attempting the
enfilade had fired two rounds per rifle.

Warden, alive to a danger that promised instant collapse, slung
Colville across his shoulder and gave the order that the few who
remained alive should fall back, still fighting steadily, until they
had mounted the double stairs and gained the veranda.

There was no doubt in his mind that the end had come. His surprise had
failed. He had hoped that the unexpected presence of the Hausas and a
party of white people might damp the ardor of the men of Oku, who had
looked forward to securing an easy prey in the mission, and who could
not possibly have anticipated a stubborn resistance by troops whom they
had learned to fear. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred his belief
would have been justified. That there was an exception now arose from
the fact that the tribal witch-doctors had made much of the modern arms
which the tribesmen possessed.

"You have the white man's fetish," they declared. "Hitherto our ju-ju
has not prevailed against them. To-day you are invulnerable."

Under European leaders this mistaken logic would not have caused a
reversion to the method of combined attack so dear to the native
warrior. Loanda and some of his lieutenants had already displayed their
shrewdness by harping constantly on the necessity of depending more on
the rifle and less on spear or matchet. They would never have permitted
an advance in force if they were not certain of their ability to
overpower the weak detachment of Hausas at the first rush. In a sense,
it was Evelyn's presence which brought about this decision. Their
Portuguese ally had made such a point of her capture uninjured that
they wished to gratify him, while there were other forcible reasons why
they should not waste too many hours on the siege of a paltry place
like the mission station.

[Illustration: There was no doubt in his mind that the end had come
                                                             _Page 304_]

Though the struggle thus far was short and sharp, the unhappy people
within the walls were only too conscious of its developments. To their
strained senses it seemed that at any moment the door must be burst
open and they swept into the clutches of merciless savages. They could
not tell who was living or dead. The incessant shooting and the howls
and agonized cries of the <DW64>s drowned all other sounds. Evelyn
thought she heard Warden addressing some order to the Hausas, but she
could not be sure. Hume, in whom the man was rapidly supplanting the
missioner, wished to take a personal share in the defense, but his wife
clung to him in an agony of terror, and implored him not to leave her.
While trying to soothe the distracted woman he reflected that he would
probably prove more of a hindrance than otherwise in the fighting line.
If he used a gun at all it must be as a cudgel, for he did not even
understand the mechanism of the breech-block.

Bambuk, though a Mohammedan and a Foulah, was no longer a fighting man.
He had waxed fat and prosperous, and he waited now for death with the
fatalism he had displayed ever since he knew for certain that the men
of Oku were bent on looting Kadana.

Evelyn, leaning against the door, with every faculty on the alert for
the slightest indication of Warden's welfare, nevertheless let her mind
stray in the most bewildering manner. She was devoid of fear. If given
her choice, she would be out there in the thick of the struggle, using
her puny strength on behalf of the man she loved. Instead, she was
condemned to inaction. The intolerable darkness became oppressive, and
her memory flew back through time and space to the sunlit day when she
sat with Warden and Peter Evans in the little dinghy of the _Nancy_,
and saw the grim face of the Oku chief dancing about on the blue waters
of the Solent.

What a trivial incident it was in some respects--yet what a mighty
upheaval it portended! No matter in what direction her whirling
thoughts took her, the carved calabash seemed to be mixed up with
events in a way that was hardly credible. It brought her and Warden
together. That chance meeting on a summer morning gave them a bond
of interest which quickly strengthened into affection and love. Then
it led them into the intricacies of a political plot, sent Warden to
London, caused him to encounter Mrs. Laing, with all the heartache and
misery that resulted therefrom, and cast him ashore at Rabat to become
a slave and a desert wanderer. She herself had been equally its sport.
Her knowledge of the men of Oku alone induced Figuero and Baumgartner
to conspire against her. If she had never seen the gourd it was more
than probable that she would never have gazed on the Benuë River. And
how persistently that weird creation of Domenico Garcia's skill had
clung to either Warden or herself. It was not to be shaken off. Even
now, when they were on the very threshold of death, it was lying there
in her room, shrouded in a canvas case. She could almost see its evil
scowl everlastingly threatening mankind.

Though a fresh outburst of firing startled her highly strung nerves she
felt somewhat of a thrill of supernatural awe at the fancy that the
carved image of the by-gone King of Benin had forced its way back to
the actual locality in which its human prototype had ruled millions of
those very men who were now clamoring for the lives of herself and her
companions.

It was a strange notion, and it dominated her for a moment to the
exclusion of all else. Could it be possible that there were subtle
forces at work of whose existence she was wholly unaware? Had these
unhappy blacks some power at command which was denied to those who
lorded it over them? Of late she had read a good deal concerning the
supposed origin of Obi rites in West African fetish-worship. She had
never seen a real ju-ju man until that afternoon, but his appearance
and antics were sufficiently striking to create a vivid impression
quite apart from the tragic sequel to his incantation. The queer belief
that the calabash was in some degree responsible for the bloodshed
going on within a few feet of where she stood so took hold of her that
she found the continued darkness unbearable.

"Mr. Hume," she said, forcing her parched lips to utter the words,
"don't you think the lamp might be lit now? It cannot make much
difference. We are nearing the end."

For reply Hume struck a match, and applied it to the wick. The
comfortable and spacious room suddenly assumed its familiar guise. It
looked quiet and home-like. The turmoil raging beneath seemed to be
absurdly incongruous--a horrible dream rather than a dread reality.

Yet the lamp was hardly well alight ere Warden's voice came from the
veranda.

"Open the door, Hume!" he cried. "Colville is wounded!"

Evelyn, owing to her nearness, flung wide the door before the
missionary could reach it. Warden stood there, ghastly to behold, but
still apparently free from any grave injury. His left arm encircled
Colville's limp body, and in his right hand was a gun-barrel from which
the stock had been broken off. In his Arab costume, travel-soiled
and blood-stained, he looked the incarnation of fearsome war, while
the seemingly lifeless form he carried added a note of horror to his
appalling aspect.

But when he saw Evelyn he actually smiled. She caught the tender look
in his eyes through the mask of blood and dirt and perspiration.

"I fear it is all up with us, sweetheart," he said. "I don't think
Colville is dead, but it is only a matter of seconds for him and the
rest of us. Have you a revolver? Give me that lamp. It may help a
little. Under this low roof we cannot distinguish friend from foe."

He spoke so gently, with such well-balanced modulation, that he might
have been standing at the door of some peaceful villa overlooking the
Thames, with no more serious purport in his words than to light the way
for a guest. But a rush and a furious melee on the stairs showed what
manner of guest might be expected, and that ominous question anent a
revolver was not lost on Evelyn. Hume took Colville into his arms, and
Warden, without waiting for the lamp, turned to reinforce the five men
who now held the enemy at bay.

The girl, with a Berserk courage worthy of her ancestry, snatched up
the lamp and ran with it to the veranda. Attached to a pillar at the
head of the stairs was a bracket on which a light was placed each night
in the rainy season to attract the insects that would otherwise invade
the house. She put the lamp there, and stole one awestricken glance
at the furious conflict raging on both sides of the lower landing. A
bullet, fired from a muzzle-loader, sang past her face. She almost
wished that a truer aim had found heart or brain, because then she
would be spared the affrighting alternative suggested by Warden. If she
did not die by her own hand, would the men of Oku kill her? She feared
they would not!

For an instant the rays of the lamp enabled the defense to beat back
the first surge of what must surely be the final and successful
assault. A gigantic native, whom she did not know--but who was swinging
an adze in fine style by Warden's side, turned and gazed at her. It was
Beni Kalli, Warden's <DW64> companion in the escape from Lektawa, and
now his most devoted henchman. He had seldom seen a white woman, and
never one in any way resembling Evelyn. To his untutored mind, she was
a spirit.

"Now, may Allah be praised!" he cried joyfully, "we shall whip these
dogs of pagans back to their swamp, for mine eyes have seen one of the
lily maids who tend the Prophet's flock in Paradise."

Warden, who thought his gigantic retainer had gone fey, looked around
and found that Evelyn was immediately behind him, though on a slightly
higher level. She was standing in a most perilous position. There was
a space of at least three feet between the lower edge of the main
roof and the slight scantling that protected the staircase from the
tremendous rainstorms of the tropics, and any one standing a little
way back from the house could not fail to see her. He forgot the
heartbroken advice he had just given her. He realized only that the
woman he loved was in mortal peril.

"Go back!" he shouted. "For God's sake, go in and bolt the door! You
will be shot from the compound!"

A <DW64> leaped round the corner of the stairs and struck at him with
a matchet. Beni Kalli was just in time to parry the blow. Then the
adze whirled, and buried itself in the man's skull. Before it could
be withdrawn a spear darted up viciously, but Warden's broken rifle
diverted the thrust and a Hausa got his bayonet home. Nevertheless, a
dozen more <DW64>s were forcing their way up on both sides. Fairholme,
valiant little aristocrat, was borne down and fell, utterly exhausted,
at Evelyn's feet. A Hausa was shot through the head and dropped across
Fairholme's body. Three men, Warden, Beni Kalli, and a Hausa, now alone
held at bay the human wolves who saw victory within their grasp.

Evelyn refused to re-enter the house. She meant to die there by her
lover's side. Why did not merciful death come quickly? It would be
better if she passed before him. She breathed a prayer that God would
vouchsafe this grace, for her woman's heart revolted from the thought
that she should see him killed. In a very trance of hope that her wish
might be granted, she looked into the moonlit compound and stretched
out her arms pitifully, for she well knew that while Warden lived no
kindly spear or native sword would free her soul for that eternal
meeting.

But the men of Oku were running, running for their lives and throwing
away their cherished rifles, lest they should not be able to run fast
enough. Through the drifting smoke of the burning huts and the haze
now spreading up the bank from the river, she saw little squads of
dark-clothed Hausas rushing in pursuit of the flying blacks. Greatest
marvel of all, scattered among the Hausas were a number of British
sailors. There was no mistaking their uniforms or the exceeding zest
with which they entered into the last phase of a first-rate fight.

When the wondrous fact that succor was at hand penetrated the ecstasy
of that mute appeal to death, she did not cry it aloud to Warden. Not
only would she imperil both him and his two companions by distracting
their attention from the cut-and-thrust combat on the stairs, but, sad
to relate of a tender-hearted girl, she found a delirious satisfaction
in watching the sweep of gun-barrel and adze and the wicked plunging of
the Hausa bayonet. Why should not these ravening beasts be punished?
What harm had she or any one in the mission done them that they should
howl so frantically for their blood?

But she prayed--oh, how she prayed!--that the relieving force would
hurry. She could not tell that officers and men of the white contingent
were astounded by the spectacle of a slight, girlish figure, robed in
muslin and seemingly in no fear of her life, standing under the bright
rays of a lamp on the veranda of the beleaguered mission-house. It
did not occur to her that they would see her; and, simply because she
was there, they by no means expected to find a desperate fight being
waged in the narrow space of the staircase. But they soon woke up to
the facts when the foremost man came near enough to discover the black
figures wedged in both gangways.

"Come on!" he yelled. "This is what we're looking for!"

"No shooting, boys!" roared a jubilant naval lieutenant. "Bayonets
only! Dig 'em out!"

And dug out they were, in a manner not prescribed by the drill book,
until the passages were clear, and the newcomers were marveling at
the way in which the mission-house was held, and Warden was free to
lay aside that useful gun-barrel and stoop to lift the dead Hausa off
Fairholme's almost breathless body.

The officer, who was first up the stairs, looked round for some one in
authority. He saw an Arab and a girl supporting a white man between
them. To his profound amazement, he heard the Arab say:

"He is all right, dear. Those cuts are superficial, just like my own.
But he is thoroughly spent. I am almost at the end of my own tether,
though I was hard as nails till that wretched fever bowled me over in
Oku."

"But, Arthur darling," he was even more astounded at hearing from the
girl's lips, "where have the troops come from? What special decree of
Providence brought them to our rescue?"

"Here is some one who can tell us?" said Warden, looking at the
lieutenant, while he placed Fairholme on a chair in the living-room.

"May I ask who you are?" demanded the sailor, finding his tongue but
slowly.

"My name is Warden, Captain Arthur Warden, of the Southern Nigeria
Protectorate--and yours?"

"Warden! Are you in earnest?"

"Never more so. Won't you follow my example?"

"Oh, I'm Bellairs, of the _Valiant_."

"Did Captain Mortimer send you?" cried Evelyn, who was mightily afraid
that the moment she spoke she would burst into tears.

"Well--yes. You are Miss Dane, I suppose? And this is Lord Fairholme.
Is poor Colville gone?"

"Not very far," said a weak voice from an inner room. "My collar-bone
is broken and I've lost chips off several sections, but I'll be able to
shove along with my arm in a sling."

"Has anybody got any liquor?" murmured another weak voice from a chair.
"I don't care what it is--even water. I've got a thirst I wouldn't sell
for a pony."

Hume, who had fallen on his knees when he heard the strange voices,
and looked out to find that the battle was ended, rose and went to a
cupboard.

"I have here two quarts of champagne which I meant to keep for cases
of serious illness," he said. "I don't think any of us will ever be so
near death again until the scythe-bearer comes and will not be denied,
so if any of you gentlemen are expert at opening these bottles--"

Fairholme recovered instantly.

"Hand one here," he gasped. "I'm a double blue at drawin' corks and
emptyin' a bottle of bubbly."

Hume, who had lighted a second lamp, produced some glasses. Then he
glanced at a clock.

"Can it be possible that all this dreadful business has lasted only
four minutes?" he asked.

"Four minutes!" cried the sailor. "Why, we heard firing in this
direction nearly twenty minutes ago!"

"That was the first round, when the blacks tried to frighten us into
submission," said Warden. "But, now that I come to think of it, the
scrap itself cannot have occupied many seconds more than your estimate,
Hume."

"Do you mean to tell me that you five accounted for that heap of----"

He stopped and looked at Evelyn and Mrs. Hume. The latter was striving
to dry her eyes while she sipped some of the wine. Poor lady! She was
not cast in the heroic mold, nor had she ever pretended to be.

"There were more than five of us," explained Warden sadly. "Eleven of
Colville's Hausas are down."

"Some of them can only be wounded," said Evelyn. "Let us go and attend
to them."

"Better not, Miss Dane," interposed the sailor hastily. He had seen
things in the compound which rendered it advisable for the women to
remain indoors until the river crocodiles had claimed their tribute. "I
will tell some of my men to look after them," he explained, "and our
surgeon will soon be here. Just now he is busy on board the launches."

"What? Have you been engaged, too?" asked Warden.

"By Jove, we dropped in for the biggest surprise I ever heard of. Just
fancy being blazed at with Nordenfeldts by <DW65>s! Luckily for us, we
came on them unawares, and two of the canoes were headed up-stream. The
row that was going on here stopped them from hearing the engines, or I
must candidly confess that if they had been ready for us they might
have sunk the flotilla before we came within striking distance. As it
was, they got in a few rounds that raked a couple of boats fore and
aft, before we got busy with a Gatling. I suppose you didn't catch the
racket on account of the dust up here."

"But why in the name of wonder, are you here at all?" demanded Warden.

"Well, my ship reported that a yacht called the _Sans Souci_ had landed
a lot of arms and ammunition in a creek in neighboring territories.
That made the authorities think a bit. But one of your fellows who
accompanied us told me that the real scare came when a Mrs. Laing--she
knows you, Warden, and she had been living some weeks at Lokoja--was
seized with blackwater fever. She was pretty bad, so she sent for the
Commissioner to put her affairs in order. Among other things, she
warned him that some Portuguese scoundrel was undoubtedly planning a
rising at Oku, and indeed all along the line of the Benuë and right
through Southern Nigeria. There had been some rather curious ju-ju
performances recently in a few of the seaboard districts, so it was
decided to send a strong column up the Benuë to investigate matters.
We dropped detachments of Hausas at every station we passed, and had
intended halting some miles below here to-night, when we heard the
drums going in the bush. Your Hausa man--Hudson his name is--urged us
to push on this far. Jolly good job we did."

"Has Mrs. Laing recovered?" asked Evelyn fearfully. The sailor
hesitated a moment. He seemed to leave something unsaid.

"Oh, no. She went under in a day. Sad thing. I have never met her. An
awfully nice woman, Hudson says."

"I am sorry," sobbed Evelyn. "She was too young to die, and she has not
had much happiness in her life."

"Let there be no more talk of death--I am weary of it," said Warden
cheerily, and he broke off into Arabic.

"What sayest thou, Beni Kalli? Hast seen enough of the black camel
since we left Lektawa together?"

"Verily, Seyyid," grinned the native. "I thought you and I should mount
him in company to-night."

"Can you do me the exceeding favor of lending me a suit of clothes?"
said Warden, seeing that Bellairs was about his own height.

"Certainly. Come down to my launch. We ought to hold a council of war,
I think. By the way, I suppose the ladies will not stir out of this
room till your return."

"No," said Evelyn promptly. "We shall prepare supper, but if you keep
Captain Warden more than half an hour I shall come for him."

"You must remain here, sweetheart," said the grim-looking Arab. "There
is a lot to be done outside. Be sure I shall join you without delay.
Come along, Bellairs, and rummage your kit--there's a good chap."

As they crossed the compound together, the sailor appeared to make up
his mind to discharge a disagreeable duty.

"By the way," he said, "I hope I am not mixing matters absurdly, but
are you the Warden that Mrs. Laing was once engaged to?"

"Yes--more than ten years ago. What of it?"

"Well, she has left you everything she possessed--a regular pile,
somebody told me."

"On condition that I do not marry Evelyn Dane, I suppose?" said Warden,
who treated the sailor's astonishing announcement as though the receipt
of a thumping legacy were an every-day affair.

"I haven't heard anything of a fly in the amber," said Bellairs.
"Hudson knows all about it--he will be able to tell you."

But Warden had no word to say to Hudson concerning Rosamund Laing or
her bequest. His mind was too full of the greater wonder that Evelyn
and he should meet on the Benuë; that it had fallen to him to snatch
her from the clutches of the men of Oku.




CHAPTER XVII

THE SETTLEMENT


When Warden found that the expedition consisted of a hundred sailors
and over three hundred Hausas, he was anxious that an advance should
be made on Oku at once. The town lay in a bush clearing on high land
overlooking the Benuë, not many miles distant from the mission station.
He argued that he and Beni Kalli could guide the troops by the bush
paths, and that an attack carried out at dawn would demoralize an enemy
already shaken by an unforeseen repulse at Kadana.

Every one admitted that he was right from the military point of view;
but Hudson, the political officer accompanying the column, shirked the
responsibility of taking a step that implied the existence of a tribal
war. He argued that while they were fully justified in driving off the
assailants of the mission and in demanding the punishment of those
engaged in it, together with the fullest compensation for loss of life
and property, yet they had no proof that the King of Oku sanctioned the
raid.

"When he refuses our terms," he said, "we shall destroy his town and
depose him if he escapes with his life. Under the circumstances, I
cannot sanction a forward movement until negotiations have failed."

Bellairs, of course, had to take his orders from the administration,
and Warden had no power to over-ride the man whom the Government had
deputed to visit Oku. He knew that Loanda, second only in importance to
M'Wanga, was among the slain. He had seen M'Wanga himself exercising
his savage warriors day after day and taking care that they were taught
how to handle the modern weapons to which they were unaccustomed. He
was aware of the exact date named for the rising, and was prevented
only by several weeks' delirium of fever from stealing off down
stream in good time to warn the authorities. But he was not in his
own territory, for the Benuë runs through Northern Nigeria while he
was attached to the Southern Protectorate, and, above all, he was a
soldier, to whom obedience was the first duty. So he refrained from
weakening Hudson's position by demonstrating how mistaken was the
decision arrived at. He even hoped that, in some mysterious way,
matters might be adjusted without further slaughter.

The proper course to adopt was to strike hard and promptly. Failing
that, he trusted to the strange workings of the native mind to bring
about a peaceful settlement. Though strong in spirit he was broken in
body. He had done in five months that which a few men had taken years
to accomplish, while the majority of those who essayed the task had
failed, and paid the penalty of failure by dying.

When the officers of the expedition gathered in the mission that night
and listened to his story, their minds went back to the days of Mungo
Park, and Clapperton, and Lander, and Barth, and the rest of the famous
band of explorers who had traversed the wilds of the West African
hinterland during the close of the eighteenth and the early years of
the nineteenth centuries.

Nothing to equal Warden's journey had been done of recent years. It
stood alone, a record of almost unexampled fortitude and endurance.

He would never have reached the upper waters of the Niger were it not
for the blue cotton wrap taken from the Prophet of El Hamra when that
unamiable person was left bound and gagged at Lektawa. So deeply had
the Blue Man's repute penetrated into the desert that among Mohammedan
tribes the mere sight of his robe was more powerful than an armed
escort. In a hasty search through the Prophet's apartment, Warden
found his own revolver, two Remington repeating rifles with a supply
of cartridges, and a stock of gold dust in quills, the most portable
form of desert currency. The blue rag supplied moral, the arms and gold
material aid, but the tremendous journey still remained an undertaking
fraught with every possible danger. Not until the small party reached
Timbuktu could they regard themselves as possessing even a moderate
chance of ultimate success. In that city Beni Kalli left his daughter
with relatives. No consideration would part him from the Seyyid. Here
was a master worth serving, one who never thought only of himself, but
who was ready at any moment to risk life or limb in aid of those who
were faithful to his interests. Moreover, he showed rare sport, and
Beni Kalli was a born adventurer.

So the pair came down the Niger, and, when Warden learned that matters
were quiet at Oku, he formed the daring plan of preserving his
incognito even from the British officials at towns in the more settled
regions. He fancied that by maintaining his pose as an Arab fire-brand
he might venture to enter Oku itself. He had spoken nothing but Arabic
during so many months that he was now far more glib in the language
than many genuine Arabs who could not boast his experience of diverse
tribes and varying dialects. He deemed it best to let none know of his
scheme. The slightest hint that he had crossed the Sahara would quickly
find its way to Oku, and it was his safeguard throughout that the Mahdi
of the Atlas had sent him to carry the fiery torch of Islam to the
remotest strongholds of the faith. Oku was frankly pagan, its people
cannibals when occasion served, but between them and far-off Morocco
lay the strong link of hatred of the white man's rule.

Evelyn listened in silence while her lover discoursed. Her eyes shone
and her lips were parted. More than once, when some deft hint conveyed
to her that his thoughts dwelt ever with her, a tender little smile
told him that she understood.

Colville, who insisted on joining them when the surgeon had dressed
his injuries--for a ricochetting bullet had torn a jagged wound in
his shoulder as well as broken his collar-bone--had heard from Lagos
something of the gourd. He asked Warden what had become of it.

"It is among my belongings at Lagos," he said. "At least, I hope so.
The skipper of the _Water Witch_ was a decent sort of fellow----"

"It is here," said Evelyn quietly.

"Here!"

Half a dozen voices cried in concert, but she was looking at Warden.

"You gave it to me at Cowes?" she went on.

"Yes, I did, but----"

"But I refused it. Well, when they told me at Lagos that you were
surely lost in the desert, I asked for it. I--I--almost believed it
would bring us together again."

"Let's have a look at it," chimed in Fairholme.

She was strangely reluctant at first, and her unwillingness to produce
that sinister carving was not to be wondered at, for she had seen
sufficient of the men of Oku during the past few hours to disturb her
dreams for many a year. But Warden joined in the chorus of persuasion,
and she brought the canvas bag from her room.

"Please open it," she said to her lover. "I dare not. Though I confess
to an uncanny confidence in its power, I am still afraid of it."

He drew forth the calabash with a sudden movement, hoping to startle
some of the onlookers by the extraordinary vitality of Domenico
Garcia's masterpiece, but Evelyn alone was affected, and she uttered a
cry of dismay.

"It is ruined!" she exclaimed. "The moist heat has destroyed the
lacquer! Even the eyes have gone. Oh, Arthur, please do throw it away
this time. The thing is dead!"

In her excitement she had used exactly the right phrase. The man of
Oku was dead, in fact decomposed. His face had melted away, his mosaic
eyes had fallen out, the mocking smile worthy of a triumphant demon had
faded from his thick lips. In truth, the mask on the gourd was a mere
travesty of its former self.

Warden was quite as bewildered as the girl.

"Well," he cried, "that is really the most amazing coincidence I have
ever known. It knocks any of my adventures into a cocked hat. Just
think of it--this thing lived, I tell you. It was a superb creature
of genius. It must have been found two hundred years ago when some
Portuguese or Spaniards looted Benin. It was brought to England only to
be lost in a sailing ship that foundered on the east side of the Isle
of Wight. After passing a couple of centuries under the sea, it bobbed
up serenely one day last August, disturbed from its resting-place when
the Emperor's yacht struck the sunken wreck. I firmly believe it was
made within a few miles of this very place, yet it survived through the
ages until the hour when the Oku power is broken for ever, and now
it is destroyed. Did you ever hear anything like it? Surely this is a
thing not dreamed of in our philosophy."

None but Evelyn among those present could share his opinion. It was
impossible for any one who had not seen the calabash on the deck of the
_Nancy_ to picture the malign fascination of that graven face.

But Warden was convinced of his theory. To please his lady, he bade
Beni Kalli take the gourd and throw it on the smoldering embers of
the mission huts. And so ended the pilgrimage of the grim contrivance
fashioned by Domenico Garcia to carry his story to the world that had
forgotten him. It perished in the ashes of the old Kadana, on the site
where a new enterprise would soon mark the practical inception of
Hume's day-dream.

Nor was the hour far distant when all in that room remembered Warden's
emphatic words. Next day came messengers from the King of Oku. His
majesty deplored the excesses caused by the evil counsels of certain
professors of ju-ju. These men, difficult to control, were aided and
abetted by a notorious Portuguese half-caste, one Miguel Figuero to
wit, who had helped the Oku rebels by importing arms from foreign
territory and generally disturbing the peace of the kingdom.

"I have now dealt with Figuero and the others," said M'Wanga through
his envoys. "They will trouble the land no further."

He meant that he had nailed them to trees as a guarantee of good
faith, when, in the small hours of the morning, he grew fully
assured that his guns were useless, his river flotilla captured,
and his army broken up. Unfortunately for the success of his sudden
conversion to British notions of law and order, that which was only
a minor disturbance in a native state assumed the gravest political
significance when a number of troops of a foreign power crossed the
border at various points with the avowed object of restoring peace to a
province in which the armed might of Britain was set at nought.

The strongest party of these unlooked-for allies marched on Oku. Its
commandant, Count von Rippenbach, seemed to be intensely surprised
when he found the city in the grip of a British column, and its king a
prisoner awaiting trial by court-martial. He was not only surprised,
but intensely chagrined, and was so unwilling to return to his own
territory that there were "alarums and excursions" in various centers
of diplomacy before he swallowed his wrath, invited the British
officers to a farewell dinner, and marched back to the Cameroons.
M'Wanga was found guilty of murder and high treason, and was duly
hanged in front of his own residence. Pana, the third of the <DW64>
visitors to Cowes, was banished to St. Vincent, and the clearance among
the witch-doctors which Lord Fairholme so ably initiated was carried a
good deal further.

Among the effects of the arch-plotter Figuero were found documents of
such highly inflammable nature that they were promptly interned in
the deepest dungeons of the Record Office. But some of his belongings
had a more direct interest than state papers for the two people with
whose fortunes he was so curiously bound up. Warden came across another
copy of the very page of the newspaper he bought at Cowes wherein
was described the accident to the imperial yacht. In the same packet
were an extract from Evelyn's stolen letter, in Rosamund Laing's
handwriting, several complete letters written to him by the girl
herself after leaving Lochmerig, and his own long letter delivered to
her in Las Palmas by Peter Evans.

It amused him afterwards to enclose these _pièces de conviction_ and
the scrap of tattooed skin with the full report he was asked to send
to the Colonial Office, and there is reason to believe that an Under
Secretary for Foreign Affairs borrowed the said report for perusal, and
took it with him to wile away the tedious hours of a week-end at the
seaside ordered by his doctor.

Warden and Evelyn were married at Old Calabar, with Colville as best
man and the Earl of Fairholme _in loco parentis_. The bride's dress
was merely a confection of white muslin, but she wore a ruby brooch,
roughly contrived by a native jeweler, that would have evoked the envy
of many a royal dame. The finest wedding present to the happy pair was
the bequest of Rosamund Laing's estate. Poor woman! she had fenced
in her gift with no restrictions. Indeed, in her will she hinted at
remorse, for she expressed the hope that Arthur Warden would be happy
with the woman of his choice.

No one--least of all those acquainted with West Africa--will be
surprised to learn that Warden resigned his commission when the affairs
of Oku were settled. His first care was to visit Lisbon, and insure
that the name of Domenico Garcia should never again be forgotten in the
memorial services for the dead, while every year, in August, a special
mass is sung in the Cathedral of the Patriarch for the "repose of the
soul" of the ill-fated artist. Two years later, Evelyn and he were on
board the _Nancy_, running into Falmouth before a lively breeze, when
Peter Evans pointed to a steam yacht.

"There's the old _San Sowsy_," he said.

Evelyn instantly turned her binoculars that way.

"You are mistaken, Peter," she cried. "The Baumgartners sold her before
they went to South America. She is like the _Sans Souci_, but that
vessel's name is _Rover_."

"Beggin' your pardon, mum, but us pilots never troubles about a craft's
name. W'y, I've known 'em to be re-christened w'en they was on'y fit
for the extry insurance of a castaway. That's the _San Sowsy_ right
enough. Chris, there's a picter postcard of 'er in my locker. Fetch it,
an' we'll run close alongside."

"By Jove, you went to a yacht's agent to get that card for me when I
forgot to note the _Sans Souci's_ exact lines, although I was asked by
the Under Secretary to observe them carefully," said Warden.

[Illustration: Why did you fail to recognize the girl?      _Page 116_]

"That's it, sir. It's an old sayin' an' a true one--Keep a thing ten
years an' it'll come in useful at larst."

"Fancy you forgetting anything, Arthur!" cried his wife. "You are the
one man in the world whom I should never have suspected of missing an
item like that--it might have been so important."

"Some places have a phenomenal effect on the memory, my dear. I went to
Plymouth with the special object of jotting down all the _Sans Souci's_
features, but I took a stroll on the Hoe, and my mind at once became
utterly obtuse to every consideration save one."

"Oh, don't be silly! How could I guess you would bring Peter's postcard
in evidence against me?"

But she blushed most delightfully, so the recollection of that evening
at Plymouth must have been very pleasant, and present happiness is apt
to shed its golden light on the days that are past.


                                THE END




                               FOOTNOTE:

[1] Pronounced "Neela Mool-la," and meaning literally, "Blue Priest."




                          TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:


--Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Message, by Louis Tracy

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