THE CASE OF THE

KIDNAPPED DUCHESS

and other stories

H Bedford-Jones

2020

Contents

1: A Question of Brains

2: The Case of the Kidnaped Duchess

3: A Personal Problem

4: Down The Coast Of Barbary

5: Three Smart Silks

6: Rendezvous

7: The Second Mate

______________________

1: A Question of Brains

People's Magazine, Feb 1919

"YOU can get away with anything," said Carnahan, laughing his obscene laugh, “if you have brains enough.”

The boat sidled in under the huge mangrove roots with a lunging thrust of the sluggish current. Carnahan was in the bow; now he leaned outward over the gunwale and took up a little slack in the bowline which was made fast to the roots there.

The movement brought him under a shaft of the radiant sunlight which pierced down only at rare intervals through the tangled jungle foliage above. The man squirmed beneath the touch. It burned him as a concentration of light burns beneath a sunglass. It made his profile stand out sharply against the shadowed gloom — a white cameo of bronzed skin, tangled black hair, unshaven jowl, hard and reckless linings.

“You’re right,” purred the silky tones of Winters from the stern. “You and I have the brains, old boy; no doubt of that! The slickest thing ever pulled off south of Singapore, yes, sir! And now it’s all done. Nothing left but drift down to the sea and let the wind take us across the strait, and pick up the schooner under the Peak of Lingga to-morrow, or whenever we get there. Pretty smooth, Carnahan ! We have the brains.”

“Take up that slack aft,” rejoined the other man. “Must ha’ worked loose while we were sleeping.”

Winters bestirred himself from his somnolent posture and uprose. A vagrant shaft of sunlight struck upon him, too; one could almost imagine a thin volute of steam spiraling up from where the white-hot ray touched his skin. The man cursed purringly, and Carnahan echoed the curse from forward, with his obscene laugh.

“Tasting hell already. Winters? Bit o’ blood on your cheek, lad; but leave it be. Don’t wash it off. Must have come from the girl and she’s in the river. Wash it in the boat if you want, but not in the river.”

Winters lifted a hand to his sleep-pink features. Yes, there was blood there, as though a jet of the crimson fluid had spurted across his cheek. Not his own blood.

“What do you mean about not washing it?” he demanded silkily.

Winters was of a finer stripe than his companion; a nervous, lithe, terrible man, very intelligent, and much less coarse than Carnahan, so that the latter assumed a paternal air. Carnahan was intelligent, also, of course, but lacked the fine piercing quality of Winters.

“Any fool knows that it’s bad business to send blood back to blood, in a river like this,” said Carnahan easily. “That’s what the Dyaks say, and those beggars know!”

“You’re a fool yourself,” and Winters laughed. He leaned over the side and caught up a flirt of water in his fist.

Carnahan cursed and attempted to interfere, then fell back with a gloomy scowl.

“All right, my bucko!” he glowered. “Now you’ve done it, you have!”

Winters wiped his cheek on his sleeve and flung a sneer at Carnahan; if the laugh of Carnahan was obscene, the sneer of Winters was a terrific thing deadly and venomous. It changed swiftly to a laugh, however. Leaning forward, Winters took the tarpaulin that covered the great heap amidships of the boat, and stripped away the cover.

Fascinated, the two man stared at the mass of treasure thus revealed. One of the intermittent sunbeams broke down through the leafy shroud overhead and struck athwart the pile. It was a heap that bespoke mad confusion. Ruddy gold, yellow brass, black-struck gilt lacquer on wood, all intermingled; a radiance of confused plunder.

Carnahan had forgotten his scowling thought and now laughed sheepishly. “Lord!” he said abruptly. “We must ha’ been stark mad last night, Winters. Look at the rotten stuff we mixed in!”

“Let’s eat,” suggested Winters. “Then we can jettison the junk and be on our way. Ought to get down to the river’s mouth during the hot hours; no Dutchmen on the river then.”

Carnahan growled in his throat.

“Damn the sleepy Dutchmen! We’ve got brains. You can get away with anything, if you have the brains!”

“Right,” and Winters laughed happily. From the edge of the pile he took a basket and placed it atop of the massed treasure. He produced rice and curry and fish, bread and cakes. Carnahan opened a locker up forward and got out a bottle of native wine.

The two men fell to their meal. A few feet from them, the wide Indragiri sluggishly swung through the lowlands toward the Berhala Straits— a wide, lazy, muddy river, overhung with Sumatran fevers and touching the nostrils with vague jungle evils.

“Don’t you worry,” observed Winters between bites, “no Dutch on the river now. They won’t look for us to be on the river, either.”

Carnahan grunted. “One hell of a trip for us without an awning over this cursed craft! But we got to reach the mouth before afternoon, or the Dutch will set all the Malay villages out to catch us. Watch out for those Malays down at the mouth!”

The two fell to their replenishment again hungrily.

Outside, the river swirled past, steamy hot beneath the pouring sun of noon. An occasional mugger appeared sluggishly and retired in haste to the cooler depths. The hordes of parrots had ceased to flit like jewels through the treetops. The screeching monkeys had disappeared. The sun streamed down in an absolute dead heat— a heat that was like a scorching, searing fog of blinding whiteness. When the basket of food was finished, Carnahan did not drop the debris overside; Carnaftan was no such fool as to send word down-river in that fashion. He rose, instead, and carefully tossed basket, and all up among the tangle of mangrove roots. Then he sat down and pulled out his pipe. Winters was rolling a cigarette. Winters touched a match to the ironwork of the forward thwart, in the fall of a sunbeam, and the match flamed. The two men lighted up, then sighed, and faced their heap of treasure.

Winters, the poetical and imaginative, picked up a brass cup ringed with great Solok rubies, three abreast.

“Queer how these fool natives combine worth and dross,” he observed reflectively. “You got this off the Vishnu altar, didn’t you?”

Carnahan nodded and puffed at his pipe. “Sure. That was when the cross-eyed Brahman butted in and started things.”

Winters inspected a dull red-black blotch across the lower part of the cup, a stain so rich that it came away in little dry flecks from the brass as he touched it. Smiling dryly, he laid aside the cup.

“Let’s get rid of the junk,” he suggested.

Together the two men fell to work, earnestly sweating in the stifling sultriness. They picked through the mass of treasure, jerking out the gold lacquer and tossing it up among the mangroves; they inspected the brass and gold for possible gems before discarding each piece.

Most of the heap, however, was of gold— and one acquainted with the Sumatran temples would have guessed whence the loot had come.

“Must say the old man and the girl treated us white,” observed Carnahan, sucking at his long-dead pipe and surveying a little lacquered box with matter-of-fact appraisal. “Real feather beds, too. The girl must have gone to a Dutch school somewhere.”

“Too had we couldn’t bring her along to help pass the time,” said Winters. “Hello! that’s her box you have there, isn’t it?”

Carnahan nodded and forced open the lacquered lid. “Yes. I got a few things out o’ there while you were dropping her in the river. And that reminds me, you washed off — say, by jings! This was a worth-while haul, eh?”

He shook into his great paw a glittering heap of baubles from the box; goldwork and jade, a few rough diamonds from the hills, some gaudy buckles. The buckles he tossed into the stream. The other things he swept back into the box and handed it to Winters, who casually inspected it, then tossed it on the pile.

“Better wrap the stuff in the tarp,” suggested Carnahan. He looked up with his obscene laugh and a sudden coarse grin.

“Say, d’you know, I was afraid you wouldn’t have nerve for this job. Taking their hospitality and then bleedin’ them, and all that. But you’re all right, pal.”

Winters smiled frostily. “Thanks. I might say I thought you were too much of a bucko sailor to do the job right, too. But everything’s fine. We’ve brains between us!”

“And with brains,” declared Carnahan, solemnly, knocking out his pipe against the gunwale, “you can get away with anything — anything! We’ve done it, ain’t we?”

“Looks that way,” agreed Winters. He stooped over and began to sweep the pile of loot into the tarpaulin.

Five minutes later they shoved cautiously forth from among the mango roots, emerged from their leafy screen into the sluggish current, and ran out their oars. Neither man observed that a spark from Carnahan’s pipe had fallen into the rolled-up sail. They were absorbed in watching the wide reaches of the river and in gingerly expending their inner resistance to the steaming, lurid waves of heat that streamed down upon the yellow water.

It was not until an hour had passed that Winters, at the after thwart, smelled smoke.

ii

IT was three hours after the two had shoved forth from their shelter among the mangrove roots; and now they lay in just another such hidden spot, roots all around them like giant frozen tentacles, and a leafy screen covering them safely.

In those three steaming, torrid hours of midday, sundry things had happened. The sail, upon which they had counted to take them across the Berhala Strait that night, had slowly smoldered, unsuspected, and when discovered too late, the damage was done. The discovery, quite naturally, had been attended with excitement, and this excitement had resulted in further disaster.

Brains cannot prevent accidents of fortune, if one considers them as such and denies any providential interventions. Brains could not prevent the boat drifting on a concealed mugger while the sail was being quenched overside; could not prevent a flirt of the mugger’s tail knocking the boat’s bow strakes into a sieve-like mess.

Being seamen and having brains, the two voyagers had mended matters neatly. The remnants of the sail, together with a fine skill in loading the heavy freight aft and keeping the craft all hunky, had negatived any actual sinking. By dint of sweating effort, the two men had attained their objective at the mouth of the river, and were safely hidden. They perched on the slimy mangrove roots and used their eyes with somber longing.

They had reached the islands that split the Indragiri’s wide delta. Out before them stretched fifty miles of sea, the wide straits rolling under the afternoon sun. One could almost fancy the mighty Peak of Lingga nosing across the horizon, and the brown sails of an island schooner slowly tacking between the peak and Singkep, waiting for the boat which came not, and the men and treasure of her lading.

But it was not at the sea that the two men sat and stared.

“Curse the luck!” growled Carnahan, moodily filling his pipe. “We’ll have to take her, o’ course; and we have to wait until dark to do it; unless we want every Malay proa on his damned coast out after us!”

Winters nodded abstractedly and began to construct a cigarette.

“Oh, sure,” he assented. “This old boat of ours is on her last legs now. Even if we had a sail, she’d never stand it for five minutes. That craft over there looks providential, if you ask my opinion!”

Carnahan grumbled in his throat.

“I don’t want too blamed much Providence mixed up in this here affair,” he stated. “You washin’ that blood off into the rive , that’s what did it! The girl was dropped in the river too, remember. And it was her blood―”

“Oh, give me a match and stop being a fool!” sneered Winters, then broke into a hearty laugh. “We’ll paddle over there, load the loot aboard, and trade boats, eh? They’ll not discover it until morning. By that time we’ll be aboard the schooner and they can chase until hell freezes for all we care.”

Carnahan lighted his pipe and his scowl vanished.

“Yes,” he assented with a sigh of relief. “Yes, we’re all right, I guess. Can’t keep us from failin’ on our feet, eh? Brains, that’s what it is!”

Winters gestured toward the scene at which they were gazing.

“But why the devil is the boat yellow? Stained with turmeric, probably. Know what they’re about, Carnahan?”

The other shook his head. “Some native bobbery. Damn that mugger. Except for his cursed tail, we’d be all right. We’ll have a job trimming ship aboard that craft, pal— this loot weighs like the devil, remember. Hello! That’s baskets of fruit, or I miss my guess! We’ll not starve, eh?”

Winters sniffed the breeze. “It isn’t turmeric,” he said thoughtfully. “Saffron. And that boat’s a model of the big proas the rajahs up the coast use, savvy? A model of a lanchang, and everything complete! Even wooden cannon fore and aft.”

“A good craft for us,” quoth Carnahan complacently.

Facing them, and less than fifty yards distant, was a curving half circle of sandy shore, upon which emerged paths through the jungle. That these paths came from a Malay village around the next bend, was fairly obvious; the village was well out of sight, however, which was fortunate.

Upon the sandy shelvage lay a small but beautiful craft, which had been stained the royal  yellow from mast to keel with saffron, this color being acceptable to devils. The craft was slightly larger than the half-broken whaleboat and was a perfect model in miniature of a lanchang.

She was complete from her two masts, with silken sails, to the galleries fore and aft, where were mounted imitation cannon of wood. While the hidden men watched, parties of Malays brought baskets of flowers and fruits and stowed them aboard, with jars of wine and arrak. Carnahan’s eyes glittered at the raw smell of arrak on the breeze.“Must be some religious business,” said

Winters: “It’s mighty providential for us―”

“Keep Providence out of it,” growled the other irritably.

“You’re too superstitious!” came the cheerful retort. “Now, I’d like to know what that ceremony over there means! It means something big, that’s sure; these Malays don’t built a model proa just for the fun of it. They don’t waste grub and liquor that fashion, either, without something big behind it.”

“Wedding, maybe, or funeral,” suggested Carnahan.

“No. That would be an individual matter, more or less. This is a communal affair. You’ll notice there haven’t been any songs and dances, either; a mournful sort of proceeding all along.”

“Well,” growled Carnahan, “what the hell do we care; anyhow, so long as we get off in that lanchang to-night? What I want to know is this; why ain’t the Dutchmen showed up? There was a government patrol launch up at Rengat agency. Where is it? First thing those fool Dutchmen would do, would be to get down here and try to head us off at the river mouth.”

The two men fell to discussing the matter earnestly, as befitted men whose lives hung upon the decisions involved. All that afternoon they had seen no sign of human life, either white or native, upon the wide reaches of the river, until reaching this spot. And in view of certain incidents which had taken place the previous night, they were warranted in expecting to see the government patrol launch dashing about very busily. They had made all their plans with that launch in view, and it was rather irritating to find that their caution and trouble had been wasted. Thorough workmen dislike to see their pains expended for nothing.

Quite naturally, it did not occur to either of them that there might be any connection between the saffron lanchang there before them, and the nonappearance of the Hollanders.

“What I don’t like,” said Carnahan suddenly, “is the sails on that craft. Silk! Yellow silk! Near as I can tell, they weren’t made for use, either; no reinforcements, and holes cut in the bloomin’ silk for cringles. How long’s that goin’ to last in a breeze?”

“True.” Winter’s eyes narrowed. “No leech linings, no bellybands, not even a fool band! Say, those sails weren’t meant to use, Carnahan— they’ll blow out in a shot! What’ll we do about it?”

“Use our brains,” grunted Carnahan.

“That’s what we got brains for, pal. We’ll use this here tarp; she’s good and stout, see Those silk contraptions will take us out a few knots, anyhow, then we can bend on this tarp for’ard. What’s left of the boat sail we can patch up here and now from our clothes. I got a palm and needle.”

“There’s nobody in sight over there now,” said Winters. “We’d better start in, for any one over there might catch a flap of the canvas between the leaves. Let’s get to work while they’re gone.”

True enough, the strip of beach was now deserted. With much labor, the two men got their brown-holed canvas unlashed from the broken bow of the boat, and hauled it up, spreading it across the tangle of mangrove roots. Carnahan produced palm and needle and line; their rolled-up pea-jackets were produced from the bow, where they had been packed into the seams as makeshift calking, and were cut up into ragged patches to cover the holes in the sail. Winters was a poor hand at sailmaking.

“Lay low!” ejaculated Carnahan suddenly. “Don’t flap the canvas—  they’re coming!”

Quite true. Coming unannounced by any song or drum pulse, a great company of Malays broke from the jungle and filled the sandy strip of shore. They carried two long burdens, which at first could not be clearly seen by the two hidden watchers. After a moment, some of the men seized the yellow lanchang and ran her down into the water.

“Hell!” exploded Carnahan, viciously. “Are we goin’ to lose her?”

“No,” rejoined Winters. “No. She’s anchored there.”

The anchor of the saffron craft was carefully hooked into the stream; she swam securely, scarce a dozen feet from shore, in shallow water. All this was accomplished without a word, which was unnatural. But presently Winters descried an old man, a wizard, who was directing operations.

“These coast Malays are a mixture of Mohammedan and devil worshipers,” he observed. “This is some kind of religious business, sure.”

“A corpse, by jings!” breathed Carnahan.

One of the two burdens was disclosed, as it was borne carefully aboard the lanchang. It was a rattan couch, draped with very handsome silks and adorned with the tassels that frighten devils; and upon it lay a covered object which was evidently a body.

The two white men watched operations with fascinated intentness. Upon them both was the fear that this yellow craft might yet be sent dancing out upon the current, and with it their hopes of salvation. But no such disaster happened. Upon the shore was now set the second burden. This proved to be another rattan couch, decorated like the first very handsomely and covered with pillows. Upon the pillows lay a woman, her face alone visible. She was neither dead nor sleeping, for she seemed to be watching the operations with a calm and unexcited interest.

The old wizard waded out to the lanchang and fumbled beneath the covers of the body. He came back ashore, carefully bearing a long thread; this thread, it was evident, had been attached to the hand of the defunct. The woman on the shore lifted her hand from beneath her silken coverings, and the wizard drew taut the thread, then tied it about her thumb.

“The corpse was their sultan or head-man probably,” ventured Carnahan.

Winters nodded. “Sure. And the woman there is his wife. Maybe she’s got to spend the night that way, tied up to him. Then in the morning they’ll cut him loose and let him go out to sea. That sounds logical, anyhow. What’s the old boy talking — Malay?”

The wizard seemed to be pronouncing incantations. Carnahan growled in disgust.

“Yes, but it’s High Malay, and no white man can fathom that lingo. Hello! They’re off.”

The Malays, one and all, were vanishing back upon the jungle paths. The saffron proa floated alone upon the stream with its burden of the dead, and the thread that ran ashore. And upon her gorgeous couch by the shore, the woman lay unmoving.

iii

DARKNESS was falling quickly upon the island-studded river. The two men perched upon the tangle of mangrove roots could no longer see the details of the shore, although the yellow lanchang still showed as a vague, grayish spot.

“We’re up against it,” said Winters thoughtfully. “One screech from that hag will raise the devil with us, Carnahan.”

The other laughed his obscene laugh. “We’ll settle her quick enough!”

“But, see here. We’d have to bail out this craft before we could row over there, and she’d catch the noise instantly. We’ll have to swim over there, make a careful landing, and get our knives into the woman before she can sing out. Then come over here with the proa; it has oars aboard, because we saw ’em. We can dump the corpse here, set our stuff aboard, and be gone in ten minutes. We’ll have to chance the muggers.”

“They won’t bother us.” Carnahan arose and stripped off his trousers. “You’re right. Brains, that’s what we’ve got! You get her throat and I’ll settle her.”

He slung the lanyard of his knife about his neck.

The two men slung themselves down into the lukewarm, dirty water, efficient and wasting neither words nor actions. They swam without thought for the possible dangers of the river; they swam silently and swiftly, every faculty concentrated upon the business in hand. They gained the shelving shallows and moved forward without splashing, at last gaining -the white beach. Already the stars were beginning to twinkle ghostily, and they flashed faintly, once, as Carnahan’s naked knife rose and fell. It rose again, but this time it did not flash.

“Done,” said Winters under his breath, without emotion, as he relaxed his grip. “Good stroke.”

Carnahan’s obscene laugh echoed at him from across the couch.

“Carry it down and chuck it in, see? The muggers will do the rest. The beggars will fancy that her husband chucked her into the boat and beat it for paradise, see? Good joke, and makes all safe behind us. Using our brains, eh?”

“Excellent notion,” agreed Winters.

“Heave!”

They slid the couch noiselessly into the water and watched it fade away upon the stream, sagging a little at one corner before it was out of sight.

Losing no moment of precious time their thoughts already upon the Peak of Lingga and the schooner which would meet them there in the dawning, they waded to the saffron proa and climbed aboard. They knew where the oars had been placed; a moment later the anchor was in and the proa was moving like a yellow ghost.

“All in all,” commented Carnahan exultantly, “the slickest job ever pulled south o’ Singapore, mate! Easy, there— lay the corpse off here in midstream.”

They bent over the task, and it speaks well for their efficiency that they accomplished it without a single splash. Also, they found their own hidden boat again without unnecessary delay and hauled the lanchang in beside it. They were hungry, and upon exploring the heaped-up baskets they discovered a multitude of good things to eat. Also, there seemed to be a good many personal effects aboard; Winters, puzzling over this, suddenly chanced upon the explanation.

“This is great!” he exclaimed softly, with suppressed delight. “They put all the headman’s stuff aboard with him, Carnahan ! We’ll find some rich pickings in the morning, I’ll warrant! Some of those green jars of camphor, anyhow, and likely a bit of dust.”

“Nothing like having brains to take advantage o’ circumstances,” returned the other complacently. “Here, lend a hand to this tarp and dump the loot aboard the yellow craft!”

They threw the plunder in a heap amidships, transferred their meager belongings, and got aboard their new craft. Shoving out into the current, they drifted seaward and presently managed to get the two silken sails hoisted without noise. The light offshore breeze had come up with evening, and the sails filled. The proa gently heeled and began to sing through the water.

The two men stool on the poop beside the long steering oar. Carnahan had broken out one of the jars of arrak and now drank gingerly of the biting fluid.

“What I’m wonderin’ about,” he said, his tongue loosening, “is these here preaching sharks, talkin’ hell-fire and the like o’ that. What’ve we done upriver? We’ve pulled a slick job, we have!”

“Including a few murders,” put in Winters purringly.

“Sure, but what of it? Here we’re out o’ trouble and layin’ a straight course for the Peak, where the schooner is standin’ by to pick us up. That’s what comes of havin’ brains, mate! All we got to do is to split the loot. All this preacher talk about―”

“You mean,” queried Winters, “that we’ve evaded retribution? Of course. You're dead right there, Carnahan; nothing can touch us now. It’s the poor inefficient fools who slip up somewhere and get caught, and then talk about retribution and hell.”

“Sure,” agreed the other, with his obscene laugh. “If you’ve got brains, you can get away with anything — anything! Ain’t we proved it? Sure!”

iv

UNDER the lee of the long island that lies in the channel between Singkep and the Peak of Lingga, the dirty little trading schooner Island Queen was anchored and pitching slowly to the long swells that came in across the shallows. Two of the Kanakas were peering through the misty dawn, the rest were asleep. By the stern rail lounged Captain Nichols and his mate, both in pajamas, for the morning was hot and steamy.

“No,” observed Nichols, “how do I know what they went ashore for? I didn’t ask no questions; Winter guaranteed the charter if I wasn’t satisfied with results, that’s all. I know their breed, and I wouldn’t take no hand in it, that’s certain!”

“Carnahan had spotted some sort o’ temple he meant to loot, I guess,” said the mate, gazing longingly at the western horizon. “It’ll be easy money for all hands. But what was that you was just say in’ about the yellow proas? I never heard about it before.”

“There’s a hell of a lot you never heard before I’ve noticed, since you signed on with me,” snorted the skipper with heavy sarcasm. “But that— well, most folks don’t know it either, I guess. Y’ see, these coast Malays take a heap o’ stock in superstitious fancies, so when they get the cholera real bad and some o’ their head men come down with it, they fight it in their own fashion.

“Y’ see, they take and build a lanchang on a small scale, large as a whaleboat, sometimes. Then they put the dead man aboard, maybe; or else they put all his stuff aboard, and all the other cholera-infected stuff in the village. They got some sense, that way. Then they lay the boat off shore overnight, and if anybody else is sick they take and put ’em on the shore with strings running to the boat.”

“Drawin’ out the cholery, eh?” suggested the mate, with interest.

“Sure, that’s prob’ly the idee. Come morning, they cut the strings and let the boat go out to sea. Incantations and charms and so forth play a big part.”

“But you was talkin’ about a yellow boat!” said the mate.

“Oh, sure. I forgot to say that they always stain the whole caboodle bright yellow. Sometimes they use turmeric, sometimes saffron. But believe me, when any skipper in these here cussed seas lamps one o’ them yellow boats drifting past, he gives it lots o’ seaway.”

“Shouldn’t think the gov’ment would stand for it,” opined the mate.

“They don’t, especially the Dutch, which thinks nothin’ of blowing the bottom out of a cholera junk and drownin’ all aboard, sooner’n get the infection on land. No, them Dutch and others, they waste no time with the yellow proas! They just give ’em a shot or two and down they go. There’s a reward o’ ten florins for information that’ll put a gunboat on the track of them proas, too!”

One of the Kanakas turned with a low, musical call.

“All hands!” bellowed the skipper, rousing suddenly. “Lay for’ard and shake a leg!”

The mate took charge, and the capstan pawls clinked merrily. Having obtained his glasses, the skipper focused upon a glinting object against the western horizon— an object which was just catching the first rays of the rising sun. As the Island Queen slowly stood out into the strait and gathered way, the skipper remained with the glasses glued to his eyes. A startled oath broke from him, then another. He looked away once, glanced at the mate, said a low word to the Kanaka at the wheel.

The schooner began to fall off slightly, toward the north and the passage into Singapore Strait.

“Goin’ to tack down on her?” queried the mate with interest.

“No, I ain’t,” returned the skipper curtly. He was secure in the knowledge that he had the only pair of glasses aboard.

“What? Ain’t that them?”

The skipper fell to gazing again at the glinting object. He saw very clearly that it was a yellow proa, and that the sails which drove it were tattered silk ribbons over a canvas backing, which seemed to have been bent on in a hurry.

And the skipper saw two men standing in the stern, waving.

“No,” said Nichols. “That ain’t anybody that’s goin’ to speak this hooker, you can swear to that! Mr. Jimson, you set a course for Singapore Strait, and you mind them reefs to the east o’ Kundar.”

The mate stared, and scratched his head. His gaze went to the distant craft.

“But you ain’t goin’ off and leave Winters an’ Carnahan!” he uttered in amazement. “Not to mention the stuff they was going to bring―”

The skipper’s lips compressed firmly for an instant.

“Them two ain’t coming,” he returned. “That there is one of them cholera boats, and it’s come straight out from the Indragiri, with this wind. Ain’t that true? Well, if there’s cholera along the Indragiri delta, do you reckon Winters and Carnahan are coming aboard here with it? Not if I know myself!”

The mate perceived that this argument contained flaws, but, having no glasses, he could not well perceive that Winters and Carnahan were trying to wave from the distant craft. The skipper apparently did not perceive it either, for he closed the glasses and pocketed them.

“You would have thought,” said the skipper to himself, as he turned his back on the distant yellow speck and eyed the northern horizon, “you would have thought them two men would ha’ had some brains! But not a speck. No, sir! Not a speck o’ brains between ’em! It’s a ripe shame, that’s what it is. Not a speck o’ brains between ’em!”

______________________

2: The Case of the Kidnaped Duchess

A John Solomon Story

Argosy, 5 Jan 1935

1: Scotland Yard Is Right

CARSON had just finished dressing, in his room in the Engineers Club. That enormous building in Whitehall Court, housing― a dozen residential clubs, was like a rabbit warren until one got the hang of it.

A knock came at his door.

“Note for you, sir. Thank’ee, sir—”

Carson tore open the envelope. It was addressed to him in the neat, copperplate hand of John Solomon. Inside, also in that unmistakable chirography, was a brief message which required no signature:

Urgent. Meet me precisely nine o’clock outside window of tobacco shop south side of Strand at Temple Bar.

Bewildered, Carson read and reread the note in the keenest perplexity. Then he glanced at his watch. Eight-five. Time to get breakfast and keep that appointment, yes, but— Why, the thing was preposterous, absurd! Even for London, where everything strikes an American as absurd.

Carson descended to the office, went to a telephone, and called Solomon’s ship-chandler’s shop in Limehouse. No response. Evidently no one there. He hung up and went into the breakfast room, frowning. He even neglected his morning paper, for once.

On the previous evening he had arranged to meet Solomon here at the club at noon. They were catching an afternoon plane together from Croydon for the Continent, on an errand of which Carson knew little. His chill gray eyes speculative, he recalled Solomon’s exact words in regard to that errand:

“The worst kind of a job, sir. One that you and me together might swing, and ’elp out the most beautiful woman in Europe, Mr. Carson. But it’s a werry dangerous business, sir. That ’ere Duchess o’ Furstein is in a werry bad ’ole, and if we give ’er a ’and it means risking our necks—”

That was all Carson knew. Until now, this crazy note, of all things! If Solomon had wanted to appoint another meeting place, why this involved fashion of doing it?

Carson knew, however, that the little old ship-chandler, with his grotesque appearance and Cockney speech, was an extraordinary person; the most  extraordinary he had ever met. The Limehouse shop was a mere blind. So, apparently, was the man himself. Behind those pudgy, expressionless features, behind those blank blue eyes, lay a brain of lightning rapidity, a personality of amazing resource and power.

This obscure, humble little man was distinctly not what he seemed. In reality, he moved behind the scenes of political power, in a singular fashion. Carson, who had been on the other side for several years and knew a little of alleged diplomacy himself, had been startled by Solomon’s inside knowledge.

“But why the devil didn’t he telephone me ?” Carson asked himself, as he bolted his breakfast. “He does things in his own way, yes, but this looks asinine. He’s got some reason for it, though; that means I’d better keep my brain clear.”

In his brief acquaintance with John Solomon, Carson had acquired a vast respect for the pudgy little man’s mental workings.

Presently he left the club and strode along the Embankment past the Strand underground station, where he cut up to the Strand by way of Essex Street. This brought him to his destination three minutes before nine. Knowing that when Solomon appointed an hour, he meant that hour to the very second, Carson loitered about.

The tobacco shop in question, a chain store, was the only one in the vicinity; no danger of any mistake. At one minute of nine Carson went in, bought some cigarettes, came out again, and stood in front of the window looking at the display of wares, as he lit a cigarette. Nine o’clock; a minute past; another.

Nothing happened.

Suddenly there was a quick, limping step, a panting breath. At the window, but not too close to him, appeared Solomon. Pudgy figure, shabby garments, wisps of gray hair protruding from the edges of a greasy cap— John Solomon, sure enough. Something fell to the sidewalk; a very small leather wallet, flat. “Dang it!” came Solomon’s voice. “Put your foot on it, ’ide it! Move sharp!”

It was not for nothing that this American with the gray eyes, the sharply chiseled features, the alert manner, had been chosen to work with such a man. Carson moved, almost mechanically, covering the little wallet with his foot. At the same moment Solomon turned and hurriedly entered the tobacco shop.

“There he goes! That’s the man— in there, officer!”

Two men came dashing into the shop. One a “bobby” in helmet and uniform, the other a tall, distinguished looking man of forty, in silk topper and morning clothes.

Carson let his handkerchief fall. He stooped quickly, retrieved it, and with it the leather wallet. The latter he slid up his cuff.

ALREADY a crowd was collecting. The traffic officer from the intersection hurried along and held back the curious. Carson loitered at the window. Inside, he could see John Solomon being questioned. He went closer to the door, heard the indignant, whining Cockney voice.

“Wot, me? Why, blime, I don’t know nothin’ about it— I never seen this ’ere bloody toff before!”

“I could swear this is the man who jostled me!” exclaimed the “toff.” “And a moment later I missed my wallet, officer. Search him— I demand it!”

“Sorry, sir; you’ll have to lay a charge against him,” said the officer.

“We can’t search him without his consent, you know, unless—”

“Search me, is it?” cried out Solomon loudly. “All right, search me! Nice way to treat an ’onest workin’-man, I calls it; but go on, search me! Out of ’is ruddy ’ead, that’s wot ’e is. Search me, officer, and get it over with. I ’ave to meet a pal in no time at the pub in Chancery Lyne—”

Carson took the hint.

He edged his way out of the crowd, walked down Fleet Street, and turned left into Chancery Lane. A pub? Yes, there it was. His step quickened. He entered and after securing a seat at a table, ordered an innocuous drink and lit another cigarette.

" So that was it!” he thought with a certain helpless admiration. “The confounded little miracle had me meet him there on the chance. If he didn’t  need me, all right. If he did, I was there— and he sure did. What the devil is he picking pockets for, anyhow?”

He had brought along his morning paper, as yet unread. Now, as he waited, he glanced through its pages. Suddenly the pictured face of a woman caught his careless glance; his eyes widened on it. Lovely, lovely! More than mere passing beauty in that face. Something in it struck at him. He looked to see the caption.

S. A. ALIXE, DUCHESS OF FURSTEIN.

Good Lord! Why— He hurriedly folded over the paper, devoured the news story surrounding the picture. In the prosy fashion of English news stories, this related that among the guests arriving aboard the yacht of Sir Basil Lohancs, the famous industrial magnate of Central Europe, was Alixe, Duchess of Furstein.  The yacht was touching at London to-day, it appeared, in the course of an extended cruise.

“Our readers will remember,” went on the story, “that three years ago the Duchess was forced to abdicate as a result of the social upheaval in Furstein. Then a mere girl, she is now said to be the most beautiful woman in Europe. Unfortunately, she has an aversion for society, being entirely engaged in social welfare work and economic improvements in Palermo, where she inherited the lovely Palazzo di Gonsido. Her Highness is said to have the most remarkable collection of emeralds in existence, which includes those formerly belonging to the Spanish crown.”

Carson grimaced at all this. Emeralds, Sicilian palaces— hm! Didn’t look as though this dame were in any great need of help. No longer a duchess, either, except to the English press, which for obvious reasons held that once a duchess, always a duchess. But good Lord, what a lovely thing she was!

“Yes, sir, werry pretty indeed, but that ’ere picture don’t do ’er justice,” said the voice of Solomon. “And she’s in a werry bad fix, as the old gent said when ’e buried ’is third.”

Carson glanced up at the pudgy little figure which stood beside him, glancing over his shoulder at the newspaper.

“Are you a mind reader, John ?”

“Well, sir, it ain’t werry ’ard to read your mind when you look at that ’ere picture,” and with a wheezy chuckle John Solomon pulled out a chair and sat down at Carson's elbow. “A pint of 'alf and 'alf, miss,” he said to the barmaid, and then got out knife and plug, shredding the black tobacco into his palm.

“You’ve got it safe, sir?” he asked, low-voiced.

“Yes.” Carson regarded him curiously, but made no comment until the drink was brought and they could talk in peace.

“What’s back of all this funny business anyhow. I thought we were leaving for Furstein this afternoon.”

“I never said so,” rejoined Solomon, his placid blue eyes showing nothing except a faint twinkle. “I ’ad a plane chartered to take us to Palermo; but dang it, I was too late. Days too late. I didn’t get ’er message in time, that’s all. And now they’ve got 'er.”

Carson frowned. “Who’s got her? Here’s all about her in the morning paper—”

“I seen that 'ours ago, sir,” and Solomon sighed. “That’s what got me busy, so to speak, and a werry 'ard morning I’ve 'ad, if I do say it as shouldn’t. Dang it! That ’ere Sir Basil almost ’ad me, for a fact. If you ’adn’t been there— well, no matter now. A miss is as good as a mile, I says, and werry true it is.”

“Sir Basil, eh ? Was that the man in the silk hat? Odd!” said Carson. “According to this paper, his yacht doesn’t arrive until to-day.”

“Correct.” Solomon held a match to his old clay pipe and puffed contentedly. “Werry likely 'e ain’t aboard ’er, Mr. Carson. That was ’im, all right. One o’ me men spotted ’im last night. Come by air, ’e did, to meet the yacht. Now let’s ’ave a look at that ’ere wallet, sir. If it’s got the telegram in it, we’ll ’ave a chance to ’elp ’er after all.”

Carson slid the beautiful little wallet from his cuff. Solomon opened it, to disclose a gold monogram inside, and slid from it a folded blue paper and a ten-pound bank note. He opened the paper, then his blue eyes darkened.

“Dang it!”

Carson took the paper, saw that it was a telegram sent from Calais, and was addressed to Sir Basil Lohancs at the Cecil.

The message was a long one and was absolutely incomprehensible.

Solomon puffed at his pipe for a moment.

“Somebody aboard that 'ere yacht sent it from Calais early this morning, before they sailed,” he muttered. “Dang it! Now I’ll ’ave to call on the Foreign Office. They can break down that ’ere cipher in two or three ’ours at most. Werry good.”

With a wheezy sigh, Solomon took the message and sought out a telephone, where he presumably read it off— to whom?

The Foreign Office? Carson was startled. Well though he knew the extent of this little Cockney’s resources, this seemed a bit stiff. After a time, Solomon returned, wiping his rotund visage, and resumed his pipe and chair.

“We’ll ’ave it later, sir. Werry lucky it was as you got me message in time to show up. That ’ere Sir Basil is a-going to think some snatcher copped ’is wallet, and won't get aroused, so to speak. Them ’ere Foreign Office experts is wonderful wi’ ciphers, Mr. Carson. They can’t take a ’and with us, of course, but they’re always glad to give me a bit of ’elp. And if we don’t act quick, that poor girl is dead and damned, just like that.”

“Are you serious?” Carson’s gray eyes were startled.

“Yes, sir; serious is the word, as the old gent said when ’e kissed the ’ousemaid. Sir Basil is the worst scoundrel in Europe, and ’is ruddy friends are the same.”

“But he’s a famous man, John!” exclaimed Carson. “And look at that newspaper— look at the list of people on the yacht! World-famous musicians, nobility—”

“All bluff, just like that.” Solomon swept his pipe in the air. “What makes it bad is that Sir Basil knows she ’as asked me for ’elp. Lucky ’e don’t know me by sight. If I ain’t mistook, ’is errand in London now is to try and get a line on me.”

“Can he do it ?”

Solomon nodded. “There ain’t much ’e can’t do, sir. Money, brains, and no scruples whatever; that’s ’im. What ’e goes after, ’e gets; that’s ’is boast. You see, sir, she was afraid of it. A month ago she asks me for ’elp. I ’ad known ’er father, the last Duke, and I ’ave some of ’er money now, taking care of it for ’er, so to speak. I told ’er : to let me know when the time come. Poor girl, she got off word too late.”

Carson was by this time really alarmed by Solomon’s reference to the Duchess.

“What kind of trouble is she in ?”

“Dang it, we can’t talk ’ere,” said the other irritably. “I don’t like these ’ere questions. Come along; we’ll take a cab ’ome, sir. We can’t do nothing until we find what’s in that ’ere message from Calais, anyhow. And I’ll 'ave to get some men to work down along the docks. If that ’ere yacht don’t come no farther up the river than Tilbury or Greenhithe we’ll ’ave our work cut out for us.”

Paying for their untouched drinks, they left the place and in the Strand caught a cruising taxicab, whose driver went wild with enthusiasm at receiving an address in Limehouse— a long run for a city job.

Once settled in the cab, Solomon relapsed into a brown study, apparently without the slightest intention of doing any talking.

“All right.” Carson caught up the speaking tube. “I’m getting out. I took the job, but I’m not taking any job where I don’t know what’s going on. You and your duchess can go to thunder, for all of me. I’d probably fall in love with her anyhow, from her looks— I never did see a girl who was so attractive. So long. Get somebody else.”

And he ordered the driver to pull in at the curb.

Solomon woke up. “Dang it, ’ave you gone off your ’ead?” he cried out in some agitation.

“No,” said Carson. “You don’t seem to want to tell me what’s wrong with her—”

“Dang it, I don’t know!” said Solomon earnestly.

Carson sniffed. “You don’t know? And you’re holding a lodge of sorrow over her, calling her dead and damned and so forth? Don’t give me any such nonsense.”

“That is the God’s truth, sir!” Solomon exclaimed. “I don’t know, just like that. All I know is it’s something ’orrible. The woman said so when she called me up last night.”

“What woman ?” snapped Carson.

“Why, 'er personal maid, sir. I sent me men to fetch 'er. She ’ad come from Naples by air to find me. That’s why I told you then we 'ad to jump. I ain’t talked with 'er yet. She’s 'ad a collapse. She’s in my ’ouse now, I 'opes, and we’ll 'ave a talk with ’er.”

Carson told the chauffeur to drive on. Then he sank down and regarded Solomon with a grim expression.

“And you’ve gone clear off the handle, turned pickpocket, and scurried around like a chicken with its head off — all on account of something you don't know about?”

“Yes, sir,” said Solomon; but his placid blue eyes twinkled slightly. “I 'ave me own way of doing things, Mr. Carson.”

“So I’m learning,” Carson rejoined tartly. “Under the circumstances, any sane person, it seems to me, would call the police to act. Why not drag in Scotland Yard?”

“So I did, sir, so I did, and a werry black eye was all I got for me pains,” said Solomon. With a wheezy sigh, he produced a sheaf of telegrams. “Look 'ere. I 'ad the Yard get in touch wi' the French police at Calais— but see for yourself, sir.”

These telegrams, none of them more than three hours old, told their own story. John Solomon was right. So far as Scotland Yard was concerned, he had received a very black eye indeed. For, acting upon his plea, the Yard had caused the French police to board Sir Basil’s yacht at Calais that same morning.

They had seen the Duchess of Furstein. And, with great indignation, she had resented their importunity, scoffed at the idea of anything wrong, sent them about their business. The resultant comments to John Solomon from the Yard were polite but frigid.

Carson whistled. “Why, John, this knocks all your cock and bull story plumb in the head.”

“Yes, sir,” said the other morosely. “That’s what Scotland Yard says, sir.”

“And Scotland Yard is right about  it.”

Under his breath John Solomon muttered something about Scotland Yard that was neither frigid nor polite.

2: Journalist Carson.

CARSON turned abruptly to his companion.

“John, didn’t you say that woman should be at your house by now? Well, I telephoned an hour ago, when I got your note. No one answered.”

Solomon gave him a startled look, then caught up the speaking tube and ordered the driver to head in at the curb and wait. They were in a dingy street of Stepney.

“Dang it, I might 'ave knowed it! I’ve 'ad a dozen things on me mind; I’m a-getting old and no mistake,” he muttered. Then he turned and laid his hand on Carson’s knee, and spoke earnestly.

“I’ll ’ave to move werry fast, sir. Mr. Carson, it ain’t often as I goes outside the law, so to speak, but in this ’ere case it’s got to be done. You see for yourself what Scotland Yard ’as to say about it. I don’t pretend to know what ’appened at Calais, or why she turned off them French police like that— "

“Are you going ahead with this thing?” demanded Carson, frowning.

“Yes, sir, I am, just like that. And we’ll ’ave the law dead against us; and if so be as we slip up, there’s no ’elp for it as I can see. English law ain’t to be sneezed at, sir.”

Carson nodded. Pull or no pull, if the laws of England nipped John Solomon, he would be nipped. That’s all there was to it.

“Then we mustn’t slip up, John.”

“You ain’t backing out?”

“Not much. I believe with the Yard that you’re on a false trail, and this whole thing is a lot of hooey. It’s been proven by what happened at Calais. But at the same time, John, if you said black was white I’d put my money on your say-so. Only,” and Carson paused, thinking of that girl’s picture, “I want to know a few things.”

“All right, all right, dang it! There’s a mortal lot I want to know too.” Solomon opened the cab door and prepared to descend. “I’m a-getting out ’ere, sir. If I ain’t mistook, I’ve got work to do in a ’urry. You take this ’ere cab and go to the old ’arbormaster’s ’ouse. Do you know it?”

“Never heard of it.”

“The ’arbor-master ’as brand new offices now in Trinity Square, but this ’ere is the old Port o’ London ’eadquarters. You can still get permits there. I’ll telephone about it from that corner pub yonder. Get general permits to enter the docks, for you and me both. When you get them passes, come back to me shop, sir, and watch your step. There’s mortal bad deviltry afoot, but I’ll know more about it when you show up. Dang it! If they’ve gone and murdered that poor woman—”

“Murdered her? The duchess ”

“No; ’er maid. They’d want to shut ’er mouth. I should ’ave gone after ’er meself instead o’ sending them men o’ mine, but I’ve been busy. Well, sir, good luck, and don’t talk to no strangers.”

With this apparently jocose admonition, Solomon got out and slammed the door. He told the driver to take Carson to the house of the harbormaster, and stamped away. The cab meandered on toward the Thames, through the narrow lanes of Limehouse. It halted abruptly. Carson got out and paid off the driver. Then he lit a cigarette and stood looking around. No need to ask his way here.

He was plunged suddenly into a new world, here in the ancient heart of

Limehouse. He had supposed vaguely that the enormous London docks, the greatest port in the world, were something worth seeing; he had yet to learn the truth of that. But here, in a backwater of the river life, was the central authority of all this vast port system— the house of the harbor-master of the port of London.

T HE huge letters on the curved front of the house told him so. Its wide verandas overlooked the water, a flag flapped gayly above in the dim morning sunlight. All about were crowded old tottering houses half falling toward the ugly graveled beach, warehouses, boat sheds, barges half built, in a confused mass.

Carson paused, taking in the wide sweep of the river. Here, unexpectedly, he had a glimpse of what London docks really meant, for the tide was right and the shipping was all in motion.

The river ran between huge, high banks. A little before, there had been no sign of any docks, but now the enormous gates were swinging, up and down the stream, like unguessed doors opening on fairyland. There behind the walls, there among the houses and factories and warehouses, lay London docks, unseen and unguessed of any who passed by.

Turning into the pleasant building, Carson found few people about; it was still a bit early in the morning. He inquired his way, and presently found himself seated in a most attractive office where a coal fire burned in the grate, and a grizzled man wrote out the passes. Yes, Mr. Solomon had telephoned about them. Unusual, of course, but in his case quite all right.

With the passes in his pocket, Carson emerged again into the dirty, unkempt streets of Limehouse, heading for the shop which served John Solomon there as a blind for his own house behind.

He turned into Reach Road at last, a street of strange foreign peoples, from Hindus to Chinese, ugly grog shops, slatternly rooming houses. Ahead of him loomed his dingy and unwashed destination, a shop over whose door was the sign of John Solomon, chandler.

As Carson approached, this door opened and a man came out. Amazed as he was, Carson instantly checked his pace and halted, ostensibly to light a cigarette. For this man was the same whose pocket Solomon had picked— Sir Basil Lohancs, cane, silk topper and all.

He turned and surveyed the dingy shop with a puzzled frown. A frowzy fellow in the cap and coat of a coster slouched across the street and addressed him, evidently for a match. Sir Basil handed him one. Carson, watching, fancied that a few words passed between them. Then Sir Basil turned away and strode briskly toward Carson, who had now become interested in the contents of a shop window.

Sir Basil halted abruptly.

“Look here, my man,” he exclaimed to Carson, “I wonder if you can tell me anything about the man who keeps that shop yonder—”

His words died, as Carson turned. A sudden light blazed in his dark, powerful eyes.

“Ah!” he said. “I remember you. Yes; you were the man outside that tobacco shop. Following me, are you?”

For an instant Carson was utterly astounded. He was sharply wakened to the truth of Solomon’s words about this man.

Sir Basil had seen him for a moment only, apparently had paid no heed to him there outside the tobacco shop; yet now, at a glance, knew him again. Was this why Solomon had so hastily sent him to the pub in Chancery Lane? All this flashed through his head, even as he smiled, attempting no evasion.

“Yes, I don’t mind admitting it,” he rejoined easily. “Is it any crime to follow you ?”

“It’s an impertinence at least,” said Sir Basil. “And you appear to be quite brazen about it. You know my name ?”

“My dear Sir Basil, you’re an important man in the world, and following important men is my business,” said Carson affably. Long ago he had learned that the best offense to any attack is the unexpected. His easy assurance took the older man aback.

He appraised Carson with one swift glance.

“I fail to follow you, sir,” he said crisply.

Carson chuckled.

“No pun intended, I trust? Come, come. Sir Basil! Sorry I haven’t a card. Carson is the name; Amalgamated Press. You’ll not be too hard on me, I hope ? To tell the truth, I recognized you in the Strand, and followed you here. I’d been on the look¬ out for you, of course. We want to get a story about this yacht of yours— and then there’s this affair of the Strand this morning. Your pocket was picked, I believe?

“Perhaps you’ll do me the honor to give me a few moments. I’m really most anxious to get an interview with one of your guests aboard the yacht, the Duchess Alixe. You saw her picture in the Post this morning, perhaps? Surely you have no antagonism toward the press—”

As he rattled all this off with glib tongue, Carson watched the effect of his words, and was delighted. The angry tension in the other man’s face relaxed. Here all Sir Basil’s questions and suspicions were answered in a very natural and affable manner, even before he had any chance to voice them.

“Hm! Amalgamated Press, eh? I’ve a notion to report your impudence to your general manager, Rothstein.”

Carson grinned. “Good! That’ll give me a step up. Seriously, Sir Basil, I had no intention of annoying you. I’d be only too glad if you’d give us a short statement in regard to present industrial conditions on the Continent, and arrange an interview for me with the Duchess. If you want nothing said about this affair in the Strand, of course I’ll comply with your desires.”

The dark, powerful features cleared. “Very good. Carson, I think, is the name? Come to my rooms at the Ritz this afternoon about three. I’ll have the statement for you, and shall see what can be done about the interview. And now, perhaps, I may be permitted to go on my way alone?”

“By all means; and thank you,” said Carson, laughing.

With a nod Sir Basil strode away down Reach Road, turned the next corner, and was gone.

Hesitating, Carson glanced about for the coster, but there was no sign of that frowzy individual anywhere. After all, he might have been mistaken, probably had been mistaken, in imagining anything between that man and Sir Basil; the fellow might have been begging for money as well as for a light.

None the less, he passed by Solomon’s shop, looked in the windows beyond, then came back and entered the dingy place. A bell tinkled as he stepped in. All about was a litter of cable, anchors, ship’s paint and other supplies. A slender, darkish young man approached; this was Mahmud, who kept the shop.

“Good day, Mr. Carson. Go right on through; you know the way.”

With a nod, Carson threaded a path through the jungle of stuff and gained a door at the rear. This admitted him to a dilapidated little office; a door beyond stood open, and Carson found himself in John Solomon’s actual office.

It was empty.

Before the desk was a swivel chair, on the desk was Solomon’s old clay pipe and a new plug of black tobacco. There was no apparent opening in the room except the one door by which Carson had entered; he was not sure just where the other door lay, behind the magnificence that hid the walls.

In this one room were treasures to make a collector’s mouth water. On the floor was a sixteenth century Ispahan carpet, perfect and glorious.

The walls were entirely overlaid by rare Chinese tapestries of woven silk.

Against these curtains, on tables, on the desk, everywhere in the room, were weapons, jades, vases, jewels of every description, all oriental and all priceless.

One of the tapestries was waved aside. A door opened, and Solomon came into the room.

“Oh, ’ello!” he exclaimed warmly. “So you 'ad a chat with 'im, sir ?”

“Eh ?” Carson started. “How the devil did you know that?”

Solomon chuckled wheezily, took his seat at the desk, and began to whittle tobacco from the plug into his hand.

“I’ve been keepin' me eye on the street, so to speak, Mr. Carson. It pays to keep your eyes open, as the old gent said when ’e kissed the ’ousemaid. A werry sharp man, that ’ere Sir Basil. Think of 'im a-following me ’ere, quick as that!

“But 'e was a-runrring down John Solomon, and ’e run ’im down. Bless ’is black 'eart, ’e don’t know yet as I’m Solomon. What did ’e have to say, sir?”

Carson recounted the conversation. Solomon stuffed his clay pipe, puffed it alight, tipped his chair back, and fastened his mild blue eyes steadily on Carson.

“And I s’pose you think, sir, as ’ow you fooled ’im completely.”

“Naturally. I’ve an appointment for this afternoon at the Ritz—”

“And I went and told you once as 'ow ’e ain't stopping at the Ritz, nor Brown’s, nor nowheres else, but the Cecil. Recognized your face, ’e did. This werry blessed minute, what’s 'e doing? Looking of you up. Finding there ain’t no Carson with the Amalgamated Press. Well, did you get them 'ere passes?”

“Yes.” Carson laid them on the desk. Solomon seized and pocketed them.

“By the way, Sir Basil was in your shop, wasn’t he?”

“And ’e didn’t get no satisfaction out o' Mahmud.”

“When he came out, a man who looked like a coster asked him for a light, came from across the street. I thought some words passed; but after Sir Basil was gone, there was no sign of the coster.”

“That 'ere chap,” said Solomon complacently, “’as been a-watching of the shop for the past 'our. Werry good, Mr. Carson; you’re a-coming on. You  stay with me long enough and you’ll know a lot, as the old gent said when  ’e ’ired the pretty ’ouse-keeper. That ’ere coster ain’t gone away. ’E seen  you come in. No use thinking Sir Basil ain’t on to you now. Ah! Dang it, now we’re a-going to get somewhere!”

The telephone on the desk had rung sharply. Solomon answered.  A faint hint of excitement came into his voice. He seized a pencil and began jotting down notes.

“Thank you werry much, sir. What’s that? Yes, indeed, I’ll keep me ’ands out of ’is affairs; a werry bad customer ’e is.”

He hung up, and chuckled wheezily. “Warned me against Sir Basil, they did.”

“Who did?”

“The Foreign Office, sir. This ’ere is the decoded message.”

Carson seized the sheet of paper thrust at him, examined it hastily. Somewhat to his disappointment, it turned out to be very prosaic:

STEAM STEERING GEAR IN URGENT NEED OVERHAUL AND REPAIRS REQUIRING AT LEAST A DAY. ARRANGE TO BE DONE LONDON OR CANNOT ASSUME RESPONSIBILITY.

DEVRIES, MASTER.

“Eh?” Carson glanced up. “Just what does this mean?”

“What it says, just like that, sir. Devries is the cap’n of the yacht. I’ll ’ear any minute now just where the Nureddin will be docked; that’s ’er name.”

Carson laid down the paper.

“Well, we’re doing a lot of shifting all over the ring,” he said, irritated, “and still I don’t know any more about the whole thing than I did.”

“You’re a-going to learn, sir, and so am I, in a werry few minutes,” Solomon rejoined, placidly puffing at his pipe. “And then we’re a-going to get out of ’ere werry fast. It ain’t ’ealthy. That ’ere Sir Basil ’as got on me nerves, and werry sorry I am to say it. That ’ere man don’t stick at nothing.”

“Nonsense. Are you trying to tell me that a man of his caliber, his wealth and standing, is an arrant scoundrel?”

Solomon grunted. “Worse’n that, 'e is. And ’ow did ’e get ’is wealth, except by bein’ a scoundrel ? But right now. Sir Basil 'as a mortal lot of influence and power, so watch out. Yes, we’ll ’ave to move fast.”

Again the telephone rang. Solomon spoke, listened, and hung up with a grunt.

“Coming into the dock now, she is. Newbegin Overhaul Docks, right close to the old East India docks— and not so far away from ’ere, neither. Oh, ’ello!”

The tapestries swung aside. In the opening appeared, to the astonishment of Carson, an elderly man clad in the white apron of a surgeon, Solomon glanced up.

“Well?”

“She can’t last long,” and the other shook his head. “I’ve injected adrenalin; if you want a word with her, come along. She’ll probably be able to talk in five minutes or so.”

“Mr. Carson, this is Sir ’Enry Macnaughton of Harley Street,” said Solomon, laying his pipe aside and rising. “Werry good of 'im it is to give us a ’and with this ’ere poor female—”

“What!” Carson remembered suddenly. “You mean the woman you spoke about? The maid of Duchess Alixe? Is she here, then?”

“Yes, sir, me men got 'er 'ere after all, but she’s in a werry bad way indeed, ’cause why, somebody else got to ’er afore us.”

The famous Harley Street surgeon swept Carson a keen glance, and a nod.

“Poison,” he said curtly. “Better come along. My assistant has her in charge.”

Carson rose and accompanied them, with a sickish feeling.

3: Caught Beyond Escape.

"WHO got ahead of you? Sir Basil?” muttered Carson, as he passed with Solomon into a corridor that led to the house proper. The pudgy little man nodded gloomily.

“Yes, sir. That ’ere man 'as agents and spies all over. Look what ’appened wi’ that poor woman! In there, she is. That’s ’er ’usband with ’er.”

They paused in a doorway. The surgeon went on to speak with his assistant at the bedside. The woman lying there, a woman of forty, was still unconscious. Standing watching her, eyes unmoving, features rigid, was a grotesque little dried-up man, not over five feet six, shrunken and wizened, but with immense sweeping mustaches. He looked like a gnome dressed in street clothes. He was the head gardener of the duchess, his wife was her maid.

As Solomon murmured in the ear of Carson, upon finding their mistress gone, the pair had gone to Naples, then to London by air. Devoted to their mistress, their sole hope was to find Solomon, whom Duchess Alixe had mentioned more than once to her maid. Reaching here the previous evening by air, they had telephoned him. A car had picked them up at Croydon airport, presumably sent by Solomon, but had taken them to a cheap Italian boarding house where they were told to wait for him.

When Solomon’s men finally ran them down, in the early morning hours, the woman had been poisoned, was unable to talk. Solomon imparted all this in a few brief words, caught the attention of the grotesque fellow, whose name was Merlin, and beckoned. The man approached the doorway and Solomon addressed him in very fair Italian.

"Do you know what your mistress feared?”

"No, signor. My wife did not tell me. It was something about Sir Basil Lohancs. And at that boarding house last night, I heard his name mentioned.” A flash of ferocity came into the shriveled, grotesque face. The big mustaches quivered. “He has done this, he has done it! If I can find him—”

“Never mind.” Solomon brushed him aside, 'the surgeon was beckoning. They all three crossed to the bed. The woman had just opened her eyes; Merlin sank on his knees and caught her hand, with a passionate cry, but she stared up at the others.

“Signor— Signor Solomon!”

"Tell me,” said Solomon. "What Is wrong?”

“The yacht!” cried out the woman, her pallid face flashing into life. " They have a doctor aboard! Vecchini, the poisoner, who escaped from prison. She will die, I tell you— she will die—”

A pitiful whimpering cry of pain was wrenched from her, she quivered spasmodically, and then she relaxed. Her eyes closed. MacNaughton caught up her wrist., A cry broke from Merlin, a storm of sobs as he realized that she was dead. And her story remained untold.

" A serious matter, Solomon,” said the surgeon slowly. “My report, you know—”

“All right. Get ’old of Inspector David o' Scotland Yard,” said Solomon promptly. “You might take this chap Merlin there. Let 'im tell ’is story, then send ’im back ’ere. I’ll take care of ’im. Inspector David can ’andle the matter.”

Carson went back to the office, frowning, agitated by what he had just witnessed. Solomon presently appeared and sat down to the telephone.

He put through a number of calls. Then, with a wheezy sigh, he swung his chair around to face Carson.

“Confound it!” said Carson, meeting the mild blue eyes. “Do you realize that woman might simply have died of ptomaine poisoning?”

“That’s what Sir ’Enry says,” Solomon admitted, holding a match to his pipe. “Only an autopsy can tell for sure. So I expect as ’ow Scotland Yard ain’t a-going to make werry much of the matter, sir.”

“And still you’ve nothing to go on but some hearsay talk. Why, it’s absurd, sir.”

“That ’ere woman died tryin’ to save ’er mistress, Mr. Carson.”

The American drew a deep breath.

“All right. I’ll see it through with you. As for Duchess Alixe—”

“She’s aboard that ’ere yacht, sir,” said Solomon, eyeing him steadily. “The master, Devries, is English; the crew is French and Italian. And she’s a-going to be killed if we don’t ’elp ’er. Do you understand?”

“Certainly, to some extent; but what I understand simply can’t be credited,” Carson rejoined bluntly. “You say that Sir Basil had this poor woman poisoned. She tells us that the duchess is in the hands of some rascals who intend to drug her, poison her, kill her. Do you expect me to believe that a man of Sir Basil’s position and standing would be back of such nonsensical business?”

Solomon appeared irritated.

“It ain’t nonsensical,” he said sharply. “As for standing, Sir Basil ain’t got none, so to speak. Put out o’ the Royal Yacht Club last year, ’e was, for crooked work. Crazy about jewels, ’e is, fair mad about ’em, sir. It’s the main thing in ’is life. Maybe you know ’ow a man like ’im will go after jewels?”

Carson nodded. So this was it! Such a consuming passion, in such a man, would explain many things. He thought again of that dark, powerful face, and realized that this man might indeed stop at nothing.

“What’s that got to do with the Duchess of Furstein?” he demanded.

“Didn’t you read that ’ere newspaper this morning? She ’as the Furstein emeralds, the greatest lot o’ green stones in the world. She ’as plenty o’ money; no reason for 'er to sell them emeralds. To get ’em, Sir Basil would commit murder a ’undred times over, sir. Murder don’t mean nothing to ’im.”

“But to murder a girl, a lovely creature like this duchess—”

“That’s ’is way. Women don’t mean much to ’im, sir. That ’ere man ’as women all over Europe; buys ’em like ’e does jewels, but ’e don’t keep ’em. An animal, Mr. Carson, as ’as shoved 'is bloody way to the top of the ’eap. Jewels is ’is one great passion, so to speak.”

“But,” said Carson slowly, “she must have known what sort of a man he is. How did he get her aboard his yacht? Is she kidnaped?”

“More or less, I expect.” Solomon shook his head. “But that don’t matter. She’s there, and your job is to get aboard and see ’er, and werry sharp about it. I ’ave me own plans for comin’ aboard meself, and I’ll get there later on.”

“But what’ll I do, providing I do get on the yacht?”

Solomon regarded him blankly. “I ain’t got the faintest notion, sir. We can't tell a blessed thing till we see ’er. But I ’ave a letter asking me to ’elp ’er, and that letter may save our necks if we slip up. You see, I knew ’er father well, and was agent for ’im. We’ll ’ave to use our ’eads, just like that. And maybe more than out ’eads, too.”

Pulling at a drawer of his desk, Solomon took out a small Browning and passed it over. Carson pocketed the weapon and frowned slightly.

“No plan, you say ? Do you realize how impossible it is for anyone to get aboard such a craft as that, guarded as she must be at every point?”

“There ain’t nothing impossible, sir, if so be as you ’ave a ’ead,” said Solomon. At this moment the shop door swung open and Mahmud appeared.

“Effendi, a man is here by your command—”

“Show ’im in, dang it!” ordered Solomon rather testily.

A moment later, into the room came a middle-aged man who had the air and dress of a shop foreman. He nodded to Solomon.

“Well, sir, I got here as quick as possible. The works are busy this morning.”

“This ’ere is me friend Mr. Carson,” said Solomon. “Carson, this is Don McCabe, general manager of the Newbegin works. Me and ’im ’ave knowed each other for a long time.”

McCabe nodded to Carson. “A matter of fifteen years, Mr. Solomon.”

“Werry good. That ’ere yacht Nureddin is a-coming into your docks on the tide.”

“Yes; the owner called me on the telephone about her. Her steam steering gear needs an overhaul, I believe.”

“Now, McCabe, you listen sharp,” said Solomon. “There’s a werry bad gang aboard that ’ere yacht, but that ain’t your business. I want you to take Mr. Carson along with you, put dungarees on ’im, and get ’im aboard that yacht. Make your inspection, and report it’ll take the best part o’ four days to fix up that ’ere gear. And if so be as Mr. Carson loses ’imself aboard, you pay no attention.”

McCabe whistled softly. “It’s a good thing I know you to be no crook, Mr. Solomon! But I can’t do such a thing as this. In the first place, the dock police are very strict, and I couldn’t get Mr. Carson into the docks themselves without a pass—”

“We ’ave one,” and Solomon produced the pass in question, handing it to Carson.

McCabe shook his head firmly. “Even so, it can’t be done. If any questions were asked, and it looks to me as though they might be asked, it’s as much as my job is worth.”

“Werry good, McCabe,” said Solmon placidly, and opened one of the desk drawers. He took out two large, fat envelopes, and handed one of them to the visitor.

“There’s a thousand quid in twenty-pound notes. This ’ere is another thousand, to be yours after the work’s done. Is it worth risking your job for or not?”

The man swallowed hard, peered into the envelope, and his eyes bulged. Five thousand dollars there in his hand, and as much more to be earned; it was next to incredible.

“You’re damned right it is,” he replied hoarsely. “But mind, if they know just what’s wrong wi’ the gear and that it won’t take so long—”

“Then make something else wrong,” said Solomon, with a chuckle. He swung back to the desk, and from another drawer produced a small box, which he handed Carson. “Better put on that ’ere false mustache, sir. Then you and ’im slip out the back way. It ain’t far to the works from ’ere. Are you satisfied now, Mr. Carson ?”

“More or less.” Carson smiled slightly. “Do you know everybody in London, John?”

“Well, sir, I ’ave a pretty fair acquaintance,” and Solomon nodded, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “It ain’t knowing people as counts; it’s 'aving them know you. Eh, McCabe?”

“Right you are, sir,” affirmed the latter.

PRESENTLY Carson found himself striding briskly beside McCabe up India Dock Road; and after that, things moved swiftly, with an admirable precision. McCabe was an efficient man.

As by magic, the vast expanses of the docks were open to them, and they plunged into a world unsuspected from the river or from the city, a world walled in and girdled about with precaution. Great basins for anchorage, unending wharfs, godowns, warehouses, shops, drydocks, a strident clangor of life in the heart of London yet utterly alien to it.

Wearing dungarees, a cap, his false mustache, Carson carried a kit of tools and followed McCabe to where a slim white shape was warping in beside an open wharf. As soon as the plank was down and the gangway rigged, McCabe strode aboard. The first officer halted them, heard McCabe’s business, and turned to a seaman at his side.

“Take them to the bridge,” he ordered in French. Carson noted that the men around were apparently Latins.

McCabe followed the seaman closely; Carson lagged, as they headed forward. He would never get another chance like the present moment, he knew. Men were passing and repassing, the decks were in confusion, a hundred things were being done. On the after deck, Carson had glimpsed three men in steamer chairs, watching the docks and being served by a steward in trim uniform.

An open door, a glimpse of steel gratings, of lower darkness— the engineroom hatch. Carson quietly slipped into the opening, waited a moment.

He peered out. McCabe and the guide had disappeared. No one was in sight hereabout. A few seconds later, Carson was back aft at another door. A passage; the saloon lounge opened before him, empty. A stairway at the forward end; he took a chance, descended. Ah! The cabins, spick and span, luxurious.

Carson hesitated, alert, poised. Which way? Any port of refuge, temporarily, would do. Down the passage he observed two large vases of flowers, set outside a door. The quarters of the duchess, no doubt. He approached, came to a side passage— suddenly ducked into it. The door ahead had opened. A woman emerged, humming a light tune. She came past the passage where Carson stood immobile against a wall. He had a glimpse of her face, framed in yellow hair; a young, impetuous, crafty face. The uniform of some sort, perhaps that of a maid. Then she was gone, without seeing him.

A man’s voice was uplifted, close by. Carson started, glanced about. A door was almost at his back. He tried it, looked into the empty cabins, stepped in and closed the door. With a breath of relief, he set down his tool kit.

Here were two luxurious cabins, one a lounge, in which he was, the other with two brass beds. Occupied? No, thank heaven! The closets were empty, no personal effects in sight. A door in the bedroom wall caught his eye. He calculated swiftly; this door must communicate with the adjoining suite.

Excellent! His pulses leaped. Then he had the duchess within reach! He quickly got out of his dungarees, beneath which were his own clothes, hung them in the closet, put the kit of tools with them. The false mustache, he left. The cap went into the closet. He had half-closed the door to the outer lounge cabin. He now approached that in the wall, tried it softly. It was locked; but the key was in the lock. He turned it— and hesitated. The full enormity of his act came sharply into his mind.

It was noon and past. , At an early hour of this same morning, the duchess had angrily repelled the French police. If she did the same thing now, Carson very well knew he would suffer. After all, it looked as though Solomon were on a wild goose chase.

With a shrug, he tried the door, opened it a bare crack, peered into the cabin beyond. Then he was thankful he had made no sound. Back to the door, a man was standing there speaking, not three feet away. Carson, as he softly closed the door again, caught the words.

“—regret, your highness, that I must ask you not to leave this cabin for the present. You are on the side of the ship away from shore; you cannot, therefore, communicate with anyone, and such efforts on your part would only force me to take unpleasant steps.”

“But this is intolerable!” cried a high, clear voice, a woman’s voice. Carson closed the door. He glanced over his shoulder, startled. He was caught beyond escape.

Men were coming into the adjoining cabin, the lounge by which he had entered this suite.

4: "I Suspect Nothing!”

FOR an instant he stood petrified.

“This will do very well,” said a man’s voice in French. “It is unoccupied.”

Steps sounded in the adjacent cabin,  chairs were moved about. Carson  caught the pistol from his pocket. If  they came on into this cabin, he was  lost.

Yet through his brain flashed, in exultation, the brief dialogue he had just overheard ere the door closed. So it was all true, all of it! That was her suite. She was a prisoner there. Solomon had been right!

“Well, why the secrecy?” came the impatient question from the outer cabin. The door was ajar between; every word reached Carson clearly. “Why not talk on deck, Vecchini?”

A man laughed, curtly. “With that steward around ? Nonsense. Sir Basil will be aboard in an hour or less. What explanation am I going to give him?”

“Tell him the truth.”

“Bah! Here, give me one of your cigarettes.”

Carson relaxed, put the pistol out of sight. They were not coming in here, then. And this must be the Italian doctor mentioned by the dying woman.

“Now, Dufour, listen to me,” went on Vecchini. “Excuses do not go with Sir Basil. We had our orders. You became soft-hearted; so, I admit, did I. To drug that beautiful creature, that charming specimen of womanhood, before reaching England— well, I have put off doing it. I have listened to you.”

“It seemed absurd, a monstrous thing,” returned Dufour, evidently a Frenchman, in a gloomy voice. “She could not escape; why fill that glorious body with drugs, why ruin one of the most perfect women imaginable with morphia and render her an insensate thing?”

“Because those were our orders. That was why we came aboard here, received our money.”

“What can he do ?”

“Kill us, you fool. Don’t you know he has no heart, no soul, except for those damned glittering stones? They have robbed him of all human emotion.”

The other grunted. “Suppose we open a port in the next cabin. It’s close in here—”

Carson thought of the closet— it was across the room. A chair scraped. Another moment and one of them would be in here. His hand, still on the knob of the door, turned it. Again he opened it slightly. Silence now, except for a stifled sob.

Swiftly, he chanced everything, opened the door, passed through, closed the door again. Then he turned.

There was a startled gasp. One other person in the cabin; a woman, sitting at the table, her eyes widening upon him. The duchess herself— no mistaking that face, the face of a lovely girl, but tenfold more lovely than the newspaper likeness. A door stood open behind her, the passage to a bedroom cabin.

With one swift gesture of reassurance to her, Carson stepped swiftly to this door and closed it. Almost at once, a sharp rap came on the panel. A woman’s voice sounded, calling.

“Madame desires something?”

Carson made a despairing gesture, but the woman at the table understood. She lifted her voice in reply. Her distended, startled eyes did not leave the intruder.

“Nothing. Leave me alone.”

With quick relief, Carson turned, approached her, and smiled.

“My name is Carson, madame; I have come from John Solomon. Thanks— you saved the day splendidly, just now; I was nearly caught. You speak English, I think?”

“Naturally, since my mother was English. Oh, I cannot believe it!” she broke out abruptly. “Where is Mr. Solomon? Here?”

Carson shrugged. “I don’t know where he is. He sent me aboard here to see you if possible. Why on earth did you send the French police packing this morning?”

“The French police?” Astonishment, perplexity, filled her features. “But, my friend, I don’t know what you mean, I assure you—”

“We had the French police come aboard this yacht at Calais, early this morning. You saw them, stated emphatically there was nothing wrong, that you wished no interference.”

She gazed at him steadily for a moment, then her eyes widened. “Oh!” she said slowly. “So that was it! That maid, Therese— yes, I see now. She came in very early and took one of my gowns, my coats— oh, and I remember there were voices outside. The police, eh? Then she saw them, pretended to be me. Yes, she could have done that.”

Carson, startled, saw that she had hit it. The yellow-haired woman he had glimpsed must be this Therese. Probably the Calais police had no picture of the duchess and accepted as true whatever was told them.

“Clever crowd you have aboard here,” said Carver. “Well, if you want help, I’m here. Do you want to get away?”

“Do I want— oh, if you only knew!” she exclaimed. “This terrible ship, these unspeakable men! And Sir Basil the worst of them all—”

“He’ll be along soon,” Carson said. “We’ve no time to lose. If they catch  me aboard here, I’m sunk. Wait; what’s that?”

A noise at the door, a woman’s voice. Therese, no doubt.

Carson saw an open closet door. He darted to it, stepped in, made a gesture of cheerful reassurance to the duchess, and drew the door shut. He could hear nothing.

Splendid girl! No fuss; yet she had been crying when he entered. Sharp as a whip, too. She had seen the explanation of that French police blunder in a flash. No wonder Sir Basil had wanted her safely drugged before the yacht reached England.

Suddenly the door swung open. She stood there, eager, alert, poised for action.

“All right, Mr.— what is the name? Carson, yes. They’ve gone. I’ve locked the door. What am I to do? How can we leave, get ashore, anywhere ?”

Carson, emerging, saw the table set for luncheon with a glitter of silver and glass. He glanced at the cabin ports. Over the outside of each one was a stout iron bar, effectually banishing any thought of escape by that means. Then he recollected the adjoining suite, and his eyes lit up.

“We’ve no time to fool around,” he said rapidly. “I can jump overboard— looks like the only way. You can’t. If you stay here while I make my getaway and bring the police—”

“Wait!” she exclaimed sharply, coming close to him, speaking tensely

but not loud. “You don’t understand. Sir Basil brought me to hear the great pianist, Ludovics, play. It was a lie. He was not aboard at all. I drank some water; it was drugged. I know little of what happened. I was bewildered, stupefied, helpless. They told me to sign papers, give up my emeralds, and I did everything they asked. It was like an evil, monstrous dream. Long before, I had been given warnings that people were after my emeralds. That was why I tried to get word to Mr. Solomon.”

“Well, you’re all right now,” said Carson, with more assurance than he felt.

“But I cannot stay here and let you go,” she went on, desperation in her eyes. “I am in terror of that man, Sir Basil; no, no, we must both go ashore at any cost!”

“All right,” said Carson briskly. “I suppose the officers are in on the game?”

“The captain, of course. Probably the others. I don’t know what they think would happen here in London—”

“Hold on.” Carson swung around and went quickly to the door of the adjoining suite. He gripped the knob, opened it softly. The two men were still there. From the cabin beyond he caught the voice of Vecchini, shrill and petulant.

“It’s true we were soft about her; but we’d better wake up. Why did Sir Basil leave us at Gibraltar and come on here alone? I don’t like it. That marriage ceremony should have ended the whole business! It’s absurd to use drugs on a lovely creature like—”

“You’ve been drinking too much, Vecchini,” came the voice of the Frenchman.

Carson, despite his nervous tension, could not help listening for more. A glance showed him that the girl had caught the words and was listening, sudden wild alarm in her face. Dufour went on speaking.

“Give up the liquor, you fool. You’re a fine one to shrink from drugging a girl, just because she’s pretty.”

“Speak for yourself,” growled Vecchini sulkily. “You started it. We’d better do it before he comes aboard. I tell you, I’m afraid of him!”

Carson could picture the Italian— weak, criminal, yet so impressed by the beauty and fineness of this girl as to be unable to complete his infernal work. But now, with Sir Basil at hand, swift terror had risen in him.

“Bah! Be sensible,” Dufour returned. “She’s his wife. The law can’t touch him or us either. You should know that in England a man can beat his wife, do what he likes; she’s his property. All Englishmen are brutes. Everything was made safe by that ceremony. Even if she makes a fuss later, who’d believe her? You know he came on here to present the proofs of the marriage and the receipts she signed, and get the jewels that are here in London. Come along on deck. Let’s find how long these repairs will keep us here.”

A SCRAPE of chairs, the slam of the outer cabin door. Carson, feeling as though a cold hand had gripped his neck, turned and looked at the Duchess Alixe. She was white as death. Despite the urgency of their case, despite the peril on every side, what he had just heard overbore everything else in Carson’s mind.

“Is it true, what they said?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she said in a low, dead voice. “It was all a trap, of course. Everything is so confused in my mind—”

“Were any of your jewels here in London?”

“Yes. Some of the unset emeralds were being made into a necklace. Other settings were being repaired.”

“Good Lord! I begin to see light,” muttered Carson. “What about the

marriage they mentioned? Was there a marriage?”

She flinched.

“Yes — there was something — I thought I had dreamed it! Therese

laughed at me when I spoke of it. Oh, I tell you I don’t know what happened, I wasn’t myself at all. Marriage! If it— if it were not a dream—”

She lost her poise, broke into almost incoherent phrases, then shrank back in her chair and was silent, motionless. Suddenly anger rose in her eyes, color in her cheeks.

“He would dare they would dare— do such a thing!” she broke out.

“Listen, young lady; keep your head. You need it,” exclaimed Carson. “How much are those emeralds of yours worth, in cash?”

“I don’t know. A million— two million, I think.”

“What, francs?”

"No, no; pounds sterling, of course. There are no emeralds in the world like them. Oh, what does all that matter? You must do something, get me away from here, help me! To think of what they have done, of what I have become—

“All right,” snapped Carson. “Keep quiet. Let me think, will you ?”

He went to the door, listened, found the adjoining suite apparently empty now. The two men had departed. He glanced at the ports there. No bars. Then, fumbling for a cigarette, he lit it and turned. The girl sat with her face in her hands, motionless.

Terror had gripped her, and no wonder. But to Carson had come startled dismay and a full comprehension of everything. Now, for the first time, this apparently absurd affair resolved itself into grim coherency. The melodramatic plot pointing out Sir Basil Lohancs as something like a madman, now showed itself as an unscrupulous but thoroughly shrewd bit of deviltry with a very definite aim.

A million, two million pounds— there was a stake worth playing for! And in jewels, for which Sir Basil had an inordinate passion. A diabolic but perfectly, safe scheme, too.

That marriage altered everything. Even if the girl had been carried off and drugged into signing everything, even if the marriage was in name only. Sir Basil was safe. Who would credit such a story, even did she live to tell it? Sir Basil’s witnesses would brand it a lie. Not that it lay in Sir Basil’s plans to let her do any telling, however.

Something of all this must have passed through the girl’s mind also. Gradually she pulled herself together, until she looked up at Carson, then sprang to her feet.

“Out of here, out of here!” she exclaimed. “Helpless, yes; he will have false evidence, everything. What a fool I was to come aboard here with him! Yet I suspected nothing. Let me get away, help me, and I’ll fight him, fight him, fight him in spite of everything!”

Her eyes shone like stars. She was suddenly alive with anger, with energy.

"Right,” snapped Carson. “Keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake! Let’s go. They have the gangway guarded. Can you swim?”

“Yes. Miles,” she said, tensely alert.

“Fine. Then we’ll swim for it. All we need is to attract police attention, and the fight is on.” Carson spoke jerkily, sharply, aroused to the passage of time. He glanced at her simple woollen sports costume. “You can’t swim in those clothes. Strip— shoes, everything possible ! I have some overalls ; they call ’em dungarees here. Wait a minute.”

He slipped into the adjoining cabins, empty now. Retrieving his dungarees, he came back and tossed them to her.

“Move fast! Get into these. I’ll knock his whole game in the head if you get away now, if we start right in to raise hell with him. Later on, we’d not do so well. Kill you for a million or two million pounds, eh ? You bet he would. Come on into the next cabin when you’re ready.”

He withdrew, puffing at his cigarette, wakened now to action. And, as the door closed, he saw her slipping out of her shoes, catching hurriedly at her dress. She was herself again.

Carson removed his own shoes, stripped to shirt and trousers. The port-hole was open, the round brass-bound glass flung far back; plenty of room for a person to squeeze through. He cursed under his breath at thought of it all. Marriage— probably a legal enough ceremony, even though she were drugged. Money, bribes, could do anything.

He went to the open port, looked out. This was the side of the yacht away from the wharf. There, not three hundred yards away, was anchored a tramp steamer, with two lighters at her gangway, booms and winches at work. Good! If they could make one of those lighters and hold any boat from the yacht until the Thames police came along, all would be well.

Carson felt a touch on the shoulder.

“Oh, hello!” he exclaimed, and turned. “Are you ready—”

To his utter dismay, he found himself looking into the eyes of Sir Basil Lohancs, who stood there within a foot of him. That was all he remembered.

5: Despair His Sole Companion.

TWO men had entered the cabin with Sir Basil. Dufour, whose hand had just struck Carson down, pocketed his slingshot, knelt, and drew the pistol from the pocket of the insensate American. He was a thick-set man, massive in build, with hard, square features. The second man was Devries, master of the yacht, a slim, wiry man of forty.

“Take him away,” said Sir Basil. “Iron him and put him in a cabin for the present. We can turn him over to the police later on a charge of attempted robbery— I’ll determine that when the time comes. Send those gentlemen of the press down here in five minutes.”

The inanimate figure of Carson was lugged out. Sir Basil lit a cigar and glanced from the open port at the tramp steamer and its two lighters. The gardenia at his buttonhole lent his impeccably attired figure a hint of festive gaiety, belied by the powerful lines of his iron features and the smoldering fire in his dark eyes. Then he turned, as the connecting door opened and the Duchess Alixe appeared, now in the blue dungarees. At sight of him, she halted, a paralysis of dismayed recognition gripping her.

“Good day, my dear,” and Sir Basil bowed to her. “A charming costume; but is it not a mere trifle indiscreet? In a moment or two there will be journalists here to receive the news of our wedding. If you will permit me to say so, I should prefer a more conventional dress.”

Horror widened her eyes. She lifted a hand to her lips, checking an instinctive cry. Sir Basil smiled.

“Allow me to point out the unfortunate scandal that would ensue,” he went on suavely, “were you to tell these newspaper men some wildly improbable story— especially in your present costume. You are at perfect liberty to see them, tell them what you like. In such an event, I should naturally be impelled to hush up the matter and have you committed to a private sanitarium for mental cases. In fact, I should be forced to do so. On the other hand, if you will retire to your own cabin, you will be quite unmolested there, and this evening I shall place a motor car at your disposal and allow you to depart with a man named Solomon. I do not know the person, but he is insistent—”

“Are you mad ?” she cried out suddenly. “To do a thing like this, all of it—”

“Quite sane, my dear.” Sir Basil bit at his cigar, with a curt nod. “You are my wife. Make the best of it. Now, take your choice. Do you wish to leave here to-night with this man Solomon, or shall you make a scene here and now?”

She stared wildly at him; then, with a low, choked cry, drew back into her own cabin and slammed the door. Sir Basil, with a quiet laugh, turned the key in the lock. He swung around at hasty footsteps. It was Dr. Vecchini, thin, pallid, with intense black eyes and a pointed black beard.

“Ah, Vecchini!” he exclaimed quickly. “I am pleased with you. It was fortunate that you disregarded my orders to give her a morphia course, for I have changed my plans.”

The pallid face of the Italian lighted up. “Ah! Then you are not angry!”

“On the contrary; but I do not advise you to repeat the experiment of trifling with my orders,” said Sir Basil. “Did you bring the photographs as I requested?”

Vecchini produced a large envelope, from which Sir Basil took a number of photographs, inspecting them with a nod of approval. Captain Devries entered.

“Dufour is bringing the pressmen, sir. Ready?”

“Quite,” and Sir Basil smiled.

He received the half-dozen men who crowded in behind Dufour, in his most charming manner. They were excited, as well they might be; they had been invited to receive a news story of the first magnitude, so far as the London press was concerned. Presently Sir Basil waved aside their eager questions.

“Gentlemen, it is entirely true. Duchess Alixe and I were quietly married aboard this yacht at Palermo. I regret that she is at the moment indisposed after her voyage and cannot receive you. Here are the papers concerning the marriage, which I may say was purely a love match. Here are photographs of us, taken before the ceremony. Doctor Vecchini, who acted as best man, and I are now entirely at your disposal if you have any questions.”

They had; questions entirely discreet and respectful, as befitted the English press. Sir Basil held back nothing, spoke vaguely of future plans, regretted that he and his bride were leaving London at once.

“Certain repairs necessary to the yacht,” he said affably, “have changed our plans. We shall leave this afternoon for Scotland. I think you can pick us up at Glasgow, Devries?”

“Easily, sir,” returned Captain Devries.

The interview ended. Sir Basil went on deck with his guests, saw them off, then turned to a man waiting impatiently.

“Well?” he exclaimed. “What have you learned?”

“Little enough, Sir Basil. The man Carson is an engineer, who has been associated with this Solomon recently. Solomon himself is a person of rather large influence—”

“I know all that,” snapped Sir Basil. “But personally? Did you get a picture?”

“I did, sir―”

Seizing on the picture handed him, Sir Basil uttered an angry exclamation. A glitter came into his eyes; his dark features turned white with fury. This man, born in the Balkans, who had thrust himself into the front rank of industrial success and wealth, held in check behind his impassive demeanor a gusty torrent of human passions.

“That’s the man who picked my pocket— and I let him go! All right. Have you located him?”

“No, Sir Basil. I've a dozen men working on it. He’s not at his shop—”

“Your business is to find him; do it. And no excuses.” Sir Basil turned away. “Vecchini! Come this way.”

The Italian with the pointed beard accompanied him aft, and they took easy chairs beneath the awning there. A steward appeared, but Sir Basil waved him away.

“Now, Vecchini, pay close attention,” he said. “That Carson is a fool; to think that a false mustache— well, never mind. Devries has put him  somewhere, ironed. Look him up and give him a stiff injection that’ll keep him quiet. To-night Devries can turn him over to the police, after you’ve gone.”

“Gone?” echoed Vecchini inquiringly.

“Yes. I must get to the City at once and finish the business that brought me to London. It seems that the yacht must remain here four or five days, so I’ve changed all my plans. At seven o’clock to-night, I’ll have a car here to take you and her away. Arrange with Therese to repeat the drug we gave her at Palermo. The car will take you both to an exclusive sanitarium in Kent, where private mental cases are treated. You’ll remain as her personal physician and see to it that the usual legal phases of the matter are properly covered. Yes or no?”

“Yes, of course,” said the Italian. “How long is she to stay there?”

“Indefinitely; until I send you a change of orders. You’ll receive five hundred pounds a month and all expenses. Therese, by the way, will accompany you.”

“Very well, sir. You may count on me,” said Vecchini, his eyes shining eagerly.

“I’ll return later in the afternoon, perhaps just in time for dinner.” Sir  Basil rose. “That’s all. Ah, Devries!” He turned, as the captain approached. “You don’t know yet how that fellow got aboard?”

“No, sir.”

“You’d better have a care, Devries,” and there was a sinister inflection in his voice. “I don’t welcome incompetence, you know. Another slip, and you’re broke. That’s all.”

When Sir Basil had departed, Doctor Vecchini went to his own cabin. There he spent a few moments in preparing and loading a hypodermic syringe, which he carefully carried out and down the passage. Before one of the cabin doors, an Italian seaman in the uniform of the yacht was standing at ease.

“He is in here, eh?” said the doctor. “Safe?”

The man held up a small key, with a laugh. “Handcuffs, signor. You wish to enter?”

Vecchini nodded. The guard unlocked the door for him and stepped back. Passing in, Vecchini saw the figure of Carson lying on one of the two beds, wrists handcuffed, eyes closed, no doubt still unconscious. At this instant, he caught a shrill whistle from the deck above, an outburst of voices, the swift thudding of feet. His nerves jumped. He laid down the syringe on the vacant bed, then darted back to the door and flung it open.

“What’s happened ?” he demanded.

The guard shrugged in ignorance. Vecchini hastened along the passage to the stairs, and so to the deck above. There he came upon a singular scene.

Near the gangway stood Captain Devries, facing a man who. had just come aboard and who was now firmly held by two of the crew. An elderly, pudgy little man, his rotund features quite expressionless, his mild blue eyes apologetic.

“Yes, sir,” he was saying to Devries. “I ’ave a message for Sir Basil, sir. Personal, it is, and if so be as I can see ’im—”

“You can’t,” snapped Devries, and then glanced at the empty wharf. The visitor had obviously come alone. Devries caught sight of Vecchini, and turned. “Oh, doctor, come here a minute.”

Vecchini complied. Captain Devries extended a photograph to him.

“Here’s a picture of that man Solomon,” he said in a low voice. “No doubt about it, is there?”

Vecchini laughed softly and returned the picture. “None, captain, none.”

Grimly, Captain Devries turned to the pudgy little man.

“All right, you’re going to see Sir Basil,” he said. “But you can’t see him until he returns aboard. And until then you’re going to stay put, my man. What’s your business with him?”

“Well, sir, it ain’t to be made public,” said Solomon apologetically. Devries motioned to his seamen.

“Search him.”

Vecchini, with a grin, turned away and hurried back to his job below.

Gaining the cabin, he found the door again locked. The guard opened it; he was taking no chances whatever. Vecchini went in, closed the door, picked up the syringe, and stepped to the bed where the prisoner lay with eyes closed.

Carson was wearing only shirt and trousers. Leaning forward, Vecchini opened one cuff and turned it back, laying bare the forearm. He took up a bit of skin between finger and thumb, and was on the point of inserting the needle, when something happened.

The bound wrists of the prisoner flew up. The handcuffs, which were of a heavy type, caught Vecchini under his bearded chin and chucked his head back— hard. He lost balance. Next instant Carson’s hands had him around the throat, fingers sinking into the flesh.

The syringe flew through the air and smashed. Vecchini, half lying across the bed, thrashed furiously but vainly. No sound came from him. He tore at Carson’s hands, but the grip of those steel fingers could not be loosened.

Gradually the efforts of the Italian lessened. His face was turning purple. His tongue protruded, his eyes were horrible to see; convulsive gasps of his choked lungs shook his whole body. Then his arms fell and he went limp. Carson relaxed his grip, made sure the man was not shamming, then let him fall beside the bed.

“Done it!”

With the exultant words, Carson came to his feet. Except for a bump on the head, he was quite himself. He looked down at Vecchini.

"A little more, and you’d have got what you deserved,” he muttered. “But I’m no murderer. Trying to give me a shot, eh? Not this trip, thanks. Now, if I had something to take care of that guard—”

He glanced around. Handcuffed wrists are no great impediment to the use of the hands; a grunt of satisfaction broke from him as he perceived, above the washstand, a heavy glass water carafe in its rack. Carson reached it down, gripped it carefully in both hands, and went to the door.

This he kicked lightly, and stood waiting, the carafe poised.

As he had anticipated, the seaman outside threw open the door and entered the cabin.

The carafe crashed down with stunning force. The man pitched forward and lay motionless.

Guessing that this man held the key of his handcuffs, Carson knelt and searched swiftly for it. In his eagerness, he did not observe that the cabin door still stood ajar. Next instant he had found the key he desired. At the man’s waist was belted an automatic pistol. Everything! Freedom, a weapon — he was not going to be taken unawares again! Once rid of these steel bracelets, he would turn the tables with a vengeance.

The key between his teeth, he was trying to work it in the lock of the handcuffs as he knelt, when a sudden tramp of feet startled him. He looked up, saw the open door, and tried to gain his feet— too late.

A sharp order. Devries himself, and two seamen, came bursting in the doorway as Carson tried desperately to get the door shut. Then they had him, holding him helpless; and Carson, sick with futile hope, looked into the passage and saw John Solomon standing there, arms held by two more seamen. Solomon! A prisoner!

Then the door was slammed, cutting off further sight of the passage. Devries, finding that Vecchini was not dead, turned in a cold fury to Carson.

“Handy devil with your hooks, aren’t you? Well, this finishes you, my man. Assault and attempted murder, eh? This guarantees you a nice little stay in prison. Here, hold out your hands— we’ll just make sure of you this time.”

Carson’s handcuffs were released, then snapped on again; this time with his hands about the brass bed-post. He said nothing; talk was useless. Solomon was a prisoner likewise.

Vecchini and the seaman were taken out. Carson, ironed to the bed, was left alone with despair for his sole companion.

6:  Snared!

IT was six thirty that evening when Sir Basil Lohancs returned to his yacht. This time he arrived in a large limousine which, with great care, drew up on the wharf beside the gangway, and remained there.

Captain Devries met the owner and made his report, curtly enough. A gleam of savage joy lit up the dark features of Sir Basil, and he clapped Devries heartily on the shoulder.

“Good, good; better than I had dared hope, Devries. What about the workmen ?”

“They’ve cleared off long ago, sir. I tried to have night shifts put on, to get the work done sooner, but for some reason it was impossible. Five days we’ll have to lie here, I’m afraid.”

“No matter,” said Sir Basil triumphantly. “It’ll fit in all the better, as things are now. Where’s Vecchini ? Not too badly hurt, I trust?”

“He should be all right now. I’ve sent for him, sir. Do you want to see the two men?”

“Not yet; later. We’ll get Vecchini off with my wife, first thing. Ah, here we are.”

Vecchini appeared, pale and shaken; he had been a very sick man, and had not repeated his attempt to give Carson an injection. He could do it now, he said, if desired; but Sir Basil, rubbing his hands, merely laughed.

“No, no, let it go now. We’ll turn over both men to the police as soon as you’re out of the way with her. Come along.”

With Vecchini, he went to the suite of the Duchess Alixe. There the woman Therese opened the door, smiling.

“She drank the tea, sir,” said Therese calmly. “She’s all ready to go, I think.”

She was, indeed. Duchess Alixe looked up at them as they entered her cabin; her gaze was blank, stupid, she did not know them. She moved mechanically and obeyed orders listlessly, without protest.

“Pack at once, get off in five minutes,” said Sir Basil. “The driver of the car has full instructions.”

Under his eye, it was done. He himself escorted the duchess on deck and to the waiting car, treating her with a scrupulous politeness as though she were indeed his wife— as she was in fact. Vecchini and Therese got in with her, the luggage was disposed, and the driver saluted Sir Basil as he started the engine.

When the car had gone, Sir Basil turned to Devries.

"And now for the prisoners,” he said. “Better fetch them into the saloon, and have them well guarded. Send a man to the night watchman’s office on the wharf, and have him telephone for the police to take two men in charge. I’ll lay criminal charges against them.”

Five minutes later Carson was marched out of his cabin, handcuffed, and in the large, brilliantly lighted saloon found Solomon awaiting him, under guard. Sir Basil, with Devries and the bulky Frenchman, Du four, beside him, sat at a table. Beyond a brief nod, Solomon took no apparent notice of Carson, but fastened his placid blue gaze on Sir Basil.

The latter regarded his two prisoners affably, but in his dark eyes lurked a flame.

"You fools,” he said with bland contempt, “I hope you’ve learned a lesson. Solomon, you and your man here are to be prosecuted for assault, attempted murder, and any other charges that I can file. That is precisely all you’ll get out of pitting yourself against me.”

“Yes, sir,” responded Solomon mildly, even apologetically. “But if I might make so bold, Sir Basil, I’ve been workin’ on me statement of accounts with you. And ’ere they are, sir, all shipshape and Bristol fashion. If you’d be so good as to cast your eye over it—”

He held out a little red notebook. At a gesture from Sir Basil, one of the guards took it and laid it on the table.

“Your accounts with me, indeed! A fine impertinence—”

Contemptuously, Sir Basil picked up the little book and ruffled through its pages. Some entry caught his eye; he frowned, looked more closely. His eye flashed. His dark features became livid with anger. He dashed the notebook to the floor and leaped to his feet.

“You insufferable ass!” he cried furiously. “How dare you— how dare you! My wife has left the yacht, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” returned Solomon. “I thought as ’ow she would, sir, if you ’ad to lay up ’ere for several days.”

Carson started slightly, looked at Solomon; something in that wheezy voice, in those words, drew his attention.

Sir Basil rapped out an oath expressing his furious wrath.

“What do you mean? Confound you, Solomon— what do you mean?”

“Why, sir, it's all werry simple,” returned Solomon. “You see, I’ve ’ad me men watching for any car leaving the wharf, just like that. By this time, I expects as ’ow they’ve stopped that ’ere car wi’ the duchess and ’ave took ’er out—”

“Bah! You can’t dare interfere with my wife, you fool. What is it, eh?”

Sir Basil turned, as one of the yacht’s officers entered and came to him, speaking in a low voice. “Oh, indeed! From Palermo, you say? With a message— Well, show the fellow in. Yes,  at once. It may be important.”

CARSON glanced at John Solomon, and caught a peculiar look from those mild blue eyes, a look that hinted of some inner astonishment, even excitement. Then he turned as a man was led into the cabin, and walked forward to the table where Sir Basil sat.

For this man was the queer little gnome-like Merlin, huge mustaches and all, the husband of the woman who had given her life to save her mistress.

Crushing his hat in his hands, Merlin advanced, his eyes fastened on Sir Basil. He spoke in Italian.

“Good evening, excellency. You do not remember me?”

“I do not,” snapped Sir Basil, regarding him curiously. “You have a message for me ?”

“Yes, excellency.”

“Well, deliver it. Whom is it from?”

“From my wife, excellency. Who was poisoned last night at your orders—”

“What?”

Sir Basil’s eyes widened. He half started to his feet, but he was too slow.

From the hands of the little Sicilian fell the twisted hat. In its place was a pistol. The shots rang out, two of them, a third. Sir Basil half turned, clutched at his throat, and fell back into his chair.

Like a flash, the killer darted for the entrance. He did not make it. The pistol of Captain Devries exploded. The Sicilian fell like a rabbit shot in mid-course.  He rolled over and over, then lay quiet. The pistol, escaping his grasp, slid almost to Carson’s feet.

Pandemonium filled the cabin, men came rushing in. Solomon and Carson were shoved into a corner and held  there, guarded. Sir Basil had dropped into his chair, head and arms lying  across the table. Du four lifted his head, let it down again with a hoarse word.

“Dead!”

Carson glanced dazedly at the pistol on the carpet.

He lifted startled eyes to meet the blankly impassive gaze of John Solomon.

“That pistol!” he exclaimed. “It’s like the little Browning you gave me, John. What do you know about this  business? What was written in that little red notebook?”

“Why, sir,” said Solomon placidly, quite ignoring the rushing figures, the excited voices all around, “that’s something as a good many people would like to know, but I ain’t never told, ’cause why, nobody would believe me if I told the truth—”

“Did you plan this murder?”

"I don’t know nothing about it,” said Solomon blankly and in an innocent sort of way.

Then his face changed and a wheezy sigh of satisfaction escaped him. Into  the cabin had walked two police officers, and a sudden silence fell. Abruptly everything was changed.

A new and greater hand had taken charge here, of ship and men both, a hand strong and powerful.

Later, handcuffs removed but still under guard, Carson turned to his  companion.

“And we’re still going to jail, are we?”

“I’m werry much afraid as ’ow we  are, Mr. Carson,” said Solomon, sucking contentedly at his clay pipe. “This ’ere Sir Basil laid a trap and  fell into it ’is own self. It’s the duchess  as will ’ave everything now— she’s ’is wife and no mistake. And a werry fine  widow she’ll make, too. As soon as she  comes to ’erself, she’ll back up our  story and this ’ole blessed thing will  be cleaned up. You'll notice them ’ere  police are 'olding every man aboard  'ere. But we may ’ave to spend part o’  the night in jail all the same.

“Yes, sir. Cheap at the price, and dirt cheap too, as the old gent said when  ’e buried 'is second. You know what them Arab friends o’ mine say: What  is written is written, and no man can understand the ways of Allah!”

Which, so far as John Solomon was  concerned, closed the case of the kidnaped duchess. But as for Carson— well, who could know the most beautiful woman in Europe and not love her?

And she had not only beauty, but intelligence and poise and grace— which leaves little to be desired.

______________________

3: A Personal Problem

All-Story Cavalier Weekly, July 11, 1914

"ALL the island’s up at the commissioner’s to-night— he always gets a bale of ice up from Auckland on steamer day. You were surprised to find me here, eh?”

“So-so.” The fat man wiped his face and poured another drink. “You’re a damned ironic brute, Cranshaw! How was I to know that the John Smith, our Raratonga agent, was yourself? You have nerve. I always said you had nerve.”

The long, lean man looked across the table, inspecting his guest curiously. He had looked forward to the coming of the firm’s junior partner, but Hobson did not know it.

His thin lips crisped ironically as he squirted soda into his glass.

“Well, what are you going to do about it? Come, Hobson, let’s not mince words. You had me driven out of Auckland; you took over my stock in the company; you married Agnes, and you’ve grown fat. I fancy you’re punished enough— you needn’t look at me like that, man! Avarua is good enough for me.”

Hobson was indubitably nervous. He had shaven before coming ashore, but his fat jowl was dusky again. He perspired freely, and as he mopped his face he shot uneasy glances at the other man from deep-set black eyes.

An overlarge diamond flashed on his fat hand, and another glittered in his tie.

“You’re a sly dog, Cranshaw, a sly dog,” he muttered, then his voice took on vigor. “What do you mean, anyway? You needn’t think that because your bally bungalow is out here at the edge of town you can threaten me. I won’t stand for it. I’ll discharge you— I’ll show you up before the commissioner—”

“Hold on, man! Great Heavens, don’t you see that I’m in your power?” Cranshaw leaned over the table, his face anxious, pleading.

But behind the anxiety in his gray eyes there was a hard coldness, quickly veiled.

“I’m not threatening you, Hobson— it’s the other way around. I’m satisfied, here in Avarua; I’m the company’s agent, no one knows who I used to be, I’ve a good salary. Come, don’t bear malice! The old life is forgotten, so let the dead bury their dead. Don’t be hard on me, old man! I know you didn’t treat me square, but you married Agnes— I was beaten, and that’s an end to it. Now I’m contented and prospering here. You won’t give me away, will you? You won’t discharge me, send me down into hell a second time?”

Hobson took a cheroot from, the table and lit it. His flash of apprehension had vanished altogether.

“No,” he returned slowly, judicially. As he was inspecting the diamond on his finger he did not notice the hard gray eyes across the table. “No, Cranshaw. I didn’t treat you right, I’ll admit, but bygones are bygones. As you say, you’re in my power. I never quite believed you stole that money myself.”

A burst of terrible irony ripped through the mask of Cranshaw’s lean face but it was gone instantly.

Hobson glanced up with complacent, cunning frankness.

“I misunderstood you, I guess,” he went on heavily. “To tell the truth, I half expected you had got me here to— to—”

He paused, licking his lips. Cranshaw broke out into a loud, ringing laugh.

“Nonsense, man! Come, drink up and shake hands on it all— if you bear no malice we’ll cry quits, eh? No, things have turned out for the best, far as I’m concerned. And so you’ll not bear hard on me, old man? You’ll just forget who I used to be?”

Hobson’s little leering eyes cleared of their suspicion and something very like a sigh of relief shook his fat chest. Their glasses clinked together.

“Here’s how!”

The personal problem, it seemed, was closed finally and forever.

There followed an hour of labor over the table, since it was the junior partner’s first “whirl around the circuit” of the islands; previously he had lived a cunning and contented existence in Auckland, far from savages and resident commissioners.

Cranshaw, however, had looked forward to his coming for some little time.

“You’d better stay ashore for the night,” stated the resident agent, when the reports had been cleared up and balanced properly. “There’s quite a surf running, and it’ll be hard to get a whale boat, since all the natives are feasting. Steamer day’s a great occasion here, you know.”

“I’m not fond of insects,” and as Hobson reached for the siphon his eyes flitted around uneasily. “I’ve heard stories about these islands.”

“You look apoplectic, too,” mused Cranshaw. For an instant that odd, bitterly cruel light shot through his gray eyes. “Nonsense, man! That’s all talk. Of course, there are a few cockroaches and such, but there’s nothing dangerous. Absolutely no scorpions, and the centipedes don’t kill. That’s all talk. See here, I’ve two cots laid up in my sleeping-room— finest mosquito curtains in the island. Better stop, and it’ll save coming ashore in the morning.”

Hobson glanced through the door that his host flung open, and the sight of the wide, clean sleeping-room with its two draped beds evidently decided him.

“All right,” he nodded.

“Better finish this bottle,” suggested Cranshaw easily. He himself drank little.

“Come out to the steamer to-morrow,” said Hobson, a half hour later, as they rose. “I’d like to show you— show you Agnes’s picture— an’ the baby’s.”

“Thanks,” returned Cranshaw.

But his long, lean face seemed to quiver a trifle, and as he ushered his guest into the sleeping-room his gray eyes were baleful. That speech had been sheer venom, for Hobson was not drunk; he had merely forgotten for the moment his intense fear of Cranshaw.

Once ensconced with their mosquito curtains, the two men exchanged a few words before dropping off to sleep, then the darkness was broken only by the rasping snore of Hobson.

Curiously enough, Cranshaw’s breathing seemed hardly audible.

For Avarua, the night was a cool one. The bungalow was at the edge of town, and the roar of the surf thundered dully from the outer reefs in unbroken cadences.

Suddenly, and without the slightest warning, a horrible scream echoed out from the veranda— shrilled up and off, and seemed to die softly in the distance.

“My God!” Hobson’s voice rang out. “What’s that?”

“Mor kiri-kiri,” returned Cranshaw sleepily.

“What’s that?”

“A flying fox— for heaven’s sake shut up and go to sleep!”

Cranshaw did not sleep himself, however, for he lay motionless with his hand on an electric torch, and chuckled slightly as he listened to the irregular, panting breathing of the other man.

Slowly through the surf-mutter there pierced other sounds— slight, thin, bird-like sounds, as though innumerable watches were ticking in the room. Hobson’s breathing sounded rather flurried, and Cranshaw’s thin lips parted in a grim smile as he stared up into the darkness.

Peculiar though the ticking sounds were, they were presently overborne by a still more peculiar sound— one which no human brain could define, without experience.

It was a ghostly tapping, tapping, tapping that seemed to come from the floor; a clicking, irregular, metallic tapping. It ceased with uncanny suddenness.

“I say, are you awake?”

Hobson’s voice sounded stifled, hoarse.

“Cranshaw! Wake up!”

“Eh? What’s the matter?”

Cranshaw spoke very sleepily, and smiled to himself.

“There’s something on my curtains !”

“Shake it off and go to sleep.”

A soft flurry of mosquito curtains, a subdued crash, and then a scuttling and tapping that once more ended abruptly. A gasp from Hobson.

“I say, the bally thing’s back!” he cried. “For God’s sake help me out, Cranshaw!”

“It’s only a hermit crab wandered in, you fool. Wait— now take a look and give him a good fling off.”

Cranshaw’s arm protruded from his curtains, and he snapped the electric torch. He had no need where to look, for he had been expecting this visit from the junior partner for some time.

Hobson gripped his curtains in desperate haste and again shook off the thing that was climbing. He looked out, saw the hideous, bristly object clatter away on its spider-legs, and fell back with a subdued groan.

“Damn this place!”

Again silence and darkness fell upon the room, and again the noises of the night slowly seeped through the surf-thunder.

Outside the veranda the crabs were scuttling and clicking and rustling, scavenging with resistless vigor and great enthusiasm. A thin, far burst of song came from the government accommodation house, where the bulk of the steamer’s passengers were gathered in jovial celebration.

Then through all the muffled night there again began to pierce that insistent watch-like ticking. Not as of one watch, but as of a thousand it was, steady and irregular and very thin. Occasionally a quite distinct crunch would echo through, as though some one had stepped on a beetle; only there was no one to step.

Once or twice there came a soft “flop” on the floor; whatever had fallen must have fallen from the ceiling.

The sounds were not exactly pleasant, especially to a fevered imagination. They might mean anything from ghosts to dragons.

And over all, slurring the staccato harmony of the ticking, was an almost inaudible soft scurrying— like innumerable feathers or hairy legs running about.

It was a weird symphony, a symphony of lesser noises, of louder silences, a symphony whose eldritch orchestration produced hideousness.

There was no discord. Over the crescendo and diminuendo of the ticking swept that soft horror of nearly inaudible sound, shot through by the louder crunches; there were other sounds also that could not be defined by human ears, but all blended into a terrible harmony, the more terrible because produced by darkness and rife with suggestion.

“I say, old man,” Hobson’s voice rose in a thick discord that ruined the symphonic whispers utterly, “what’s all this bally rustling, eh?”

Cranshaw waited a little, smiling into the blackness, inscrutable.

“I say, Cranshaw! Let’s have a drink, old man!”

“You ’wake again?” Cranshaw’s voice bubbled out sleepily. “What’s the matter?”

“I want a drink, that’s all,” came the half-shamed answer.

“No more whisky in the house— we finished up the last of it to-night. Go to sleep and quit your infernal nonsense.”

“You’re sure there’re no poisonous things around?”

Cranshaw did not answer. The other repeated the question, his voice beginning insensibly to climb with the last words.

This time Cranshaw replied, but took no immediate heed of the question itself.

“Say, Hobson, I’ve just been thinking about something. You remember that mess I got into down at Auckland? I heard the other day that it was you who stole that money yourself. That’s true, isn’t it?”

The other held silence for a moment, until the ghastly symphony protruded into his brain.

“I— I wanted Agnes,” came the hoarse words.

Cranshaw smiled to himself.

“Thank God you got her, Hobson— since she wanted money, it seems. By the way, you were quite right in thinking that I got you here to-night in order to pay you out.”

“Eh? What’s that?”

Hobson’s voice leaped from the darkness, vivid with a horrible fear, pulsating and lingering under the roof weirdly.

Cranshaw spoke after a moment; his words were cold and sharp and quite impersonal.

“Hobson, you were a fool to imagine that I would ever forget or forgive. You had me snared for your own crime; you broke me; you got the girl I wanted; you became the junior partner in my place. I became John Smith, came to Raratonga, settled here and waited. I knew you would come sooner or later.”

He paused, smiling inscrutably at the darkness.

Hobson was breathing stertorously, and there was another and queerer sound— like a fat man licking his lips in fear. The darkness intensified everything.

“I was in two minds, Hobson. I had a notion to take you out to the reefs for a swim. You don’t know it, but there are interesting things out there in the warm water— bubbly eels, spiny leper-fishes with every spine deadly poison, sting-rays, devil-fish, plenty, plenty snake and shark. But I decided against that, for I knew you had imagination. So I brought you here instead.”

Cranshaw still smiled into the blackness above him, lying motionless as he talked. He had no need to switch on the light to guess at the shaking mosquito curtains of the other bed, the pasty-faced man who clutched at them, the horrible fascination with which Hobson followed his every word.

“Now, my dear fellow,” he went on, his voice acridly smooth, “I want you to take a little look around. Then—”

“For God’s sake, Cranshaw!” burst forth the frenzied tones of the other man, shrill and smitten with hysteria. “I’ll give up everything— I’ll sign a confession and give you Agnes— I’ll make it all right if you—”

“Shut your mouth— and look!” snapped Cranshaw, and the words fairly crackled through the room as he shoved his arm and swept the place with light.

The light was blinding, merciless, leaving every inch of the room clean-cut and distinct, disclosing the whole fearful secret of the hidden orchestration.

About the floor and walls and ceiling were poised cockroaches— South Sea cockroaches, as large as mice or larger, with great waving feather-feelers. They flitted hither and thither by the hundred— moving masses of hideousness, making as they went that ticking which furnished forth the body of the night’s symphony.

And here and there, flashing away from the light more quickly than the light could follow, or flopping from ceiling to floor as the light swept up, were things that looked like sausages. Only when they moved, when the fearsome hidden red legs flashed out in all their horror, could one recognize centipedes.

Yet these were not the most horrible nor the swiftest.

For heedless of the light, the occasional crunches swept up above the body of the symphony as the electric ray disclosed the hordes of cockroaches to their enemies. Great brown shapes darted here and there, back and forth, by the dozen; huge brown hairy things as large as a plate— hunting spiders— leaping on their pray, crunching once, and leaping forward anew.

The room was a wriggling horror in that moment, and when Cranshaw clicked off the light that triumphant “crunch— crunch— crunch!” was rising in a finale that drowned out the rest of the symphony— and shattered suddenly at his voice.

“Better not step out on the floor, Hobson— I saw a couple of those spiders on your curtains. I’ll take my chances, but you’ll stay here. If they get under your curtains you’re gone, remember— any one of those things means certain death. As I say, I’ll take my chances, because I’m going to leave you here.”

He calmly threw aside his curtains, reached out for his slippers, dumped the wriggling things out of them, and rose. Seizing a spray at hand, he sent a shower of boracic acid over the floor and calmly went to the door.

There he paused, with a cold laugh, to listen to the frenzied cries and promises and curses and prayers of the man who dared not leave his cot— and with that Cranshaw slammed the door,

“Damned coward!” he muttered, opening the tantalus on the veranda and pouring himself a drink. “He’ll be fool enough to believe me, and be afraid to try rushing from the room— the damned coward! And precisely at two o’clock apoplexy or heart-failure will take him off, and Agnes collects the insurance. Well, I’m satisfied to call quits.”

And the soda shot hissing into the glass.

______________________

4: Down The Coast Of Barbary

All-Story, October 21, 1922.

i

“Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee say

What manner of man art thou?”

IN THE GROUNDS of a villa outside Algiers, in the year 1730, two men were sitting on a low stone garden seat beneath an orange tree.

“A horse’s head?” said Patrick Spence, and frowned. “With no inscription?”

“It needs none.”

Dr. Shaw peered at the bronze coin in his hand, brushing the fresh earth from it lovingly.

As his spade and the dirt on his strong brown forearms testified, Spence had been at work in the garden when the coin turned up. He drew at his pipe with the quiet satisfaction of one who has labored hard.

He had the piercing, far-seeing eyes of a sailor.

Dr. Shaw had walked from the city. He wore a camel-hair burnoose, which kept the intense sunlight from his lean, spare frame; he was a tall man, erect and muscular. One sensed something sweet and kindly in his smile as he regarded the coin.

“This horse’s head is inscription enough, Patrick,” he mused. “It shows the coin to be of Punic times. I have not a few of them. You will recall the lines:

“Locus in urbe fuit media, laetissimus umbra,

Quo primum jactati undis—”

The younger man broke in upon the sonorously rolling lines with a laugh.

“No, no, doctor! The little Latin I ever knew was forgot in the vortex of navigation. You Oxford men always seem ready to spout Greek and Latinity— but we haven’t time for much of that in America. And you’d better take off that burnoose or you’ll sweat to death before you know it. ”

Absent-mindedly, Dr. Shaw loosened his garment. His eyes lifted to the sea.

“A sweet spot, Patrick!”

The American nodded. Well outside the tottering walls of Algiers, along the pleasant northern hill-slopes, the white blaze of sunlight was here broken by gardens and villas bordering a winding road. The scent of orange-flowers clustered thickly, the flashing red of pomegranates glimmered among the greenery; here were groves and fountains, flowers and running brooks, in sharp contrast to the squalid heat and crowded city streets.

“Something like this had Virgilius in mind,” observed Shaw, “when he spoke of the old Corycian gardener and his wondrous fruit! By the way”— he glanced at his burnoose— “this garment is most interesting, Patrick! It must have been shaped after the cloak of the little god Telesphorus, straight about the neck, with a Hippocrates’s sleeve for cowl. It answers, I take it, to the pallium, or the cucullus of the Gauls, mentioned by Martial, or to the cloaks wherein the Israelites folded up their kneading troughs, as do the Moors to this day—”

The younger man leaped to his feet.

“Hello!” he cried sharply. “Shaw, something’s happened! Here’s one of the consulate Negroes on the run!”

A man became visible running along the road. He was a black man. His nearly naked skin glistened with sweat. Panting, he turned in at the gate and came to them with a hasty salutation. He addressed Shaw in a chatter of Arabic.

“Bless my soul!”

The good doctor turned. He acted as interpreter, chaplain, and general factotum to the English consulate.

“They want me at once— I know not what has happened! Patrick, remain here, if you will. I am most anxious to have those specimen roots from Egypt laid under the soil before the sun withers them, if it be not imposing on your—”

“It’s the least I can do,” said Patrick Spence. “I’ll be glad to keep busy. Don’t forget the tobacco you promised to bring me! Be sure to get Virginia leaf from that shop next the consulate. All the others sell only Turkish, and I like not the stuff.”

The Rev. Thomas Shaw, D.D., F. R. S., fellow of Queen’s College, Oxford, strode away hastily with the Negro. He turned to wave his hand, then vanished from sight.

Patrick Spence knocked out his pipe and leisurely refilled it. He strolled down to the open gates, where the bale of Egyptian roots had been left by a muleteer, and smiled to himself at thought of his friend.

“A rare man enough,” he mused. “Except when the classics fasten on his tongue, he has no more of the parson about him than I have. Lord knows that’s little enough, at present!”

He stood between the open gates and looked out at the sea, in sight over the winding road. A wistful hunger grew in his eyes at sight of a speck of white far out.

“I’d like to be aboard her and heading for Boston town. But here I am, penniless and dependent upon a consul’s charity— hello! We have strangers among us, it seems!”

Coming toward him along the road were two riders, and the gray eyes of Spence dwelt curiously upon them. He knew that these must be new arrivals in Algiers. Attracted first by their remarkable costumes, it was their faces which finally drew the keen interest of the American.

The man was robed in a burnoose of snowy white. Against this, about his neck, hung a most amazing thing— the glorious collar of the Golden Fleece, a jewel worn by kings alone! The woman beside him wore a silken dress of apricot hue; a huge sun-hat shaded her head.

The man’s face was, or had been, extremely handsome. Once it had been full and rotund. Now it was thin and gaunt, lined with folds of empty skin, half hidden by a mustache and goatee of grayish black. Suffering lay in that face, and strange inward pain.

The black eyes that blazed like jewels held weird fires in their depths; they fascinated Spence, repelled him. No common man, this, who wore that collar of the Fleece! A prince at the least!

The woman— well, once she, too, had been handsome. Her face was tired, her eyes weary. In her gaze, Spence read things that moved him to pity; yet he knew that he liked her.

Following this pair, well in the rear, appeared a company of horsemen, in the gay robes of Moroccan Moors. Spence did not care to be spat upon as a Christian, and was about to withdraw when he saw the lady rein in her horse, smiling at him.

He saluted, sailor fashion, and the horseman inclined his head; slight as was that gesture, it was filled with a high courtesy.

“Good morning, sir,” said the man, in English. “You certainly have a superb view here.”

“Few compare with it,” was the quiet reply of Spence. “Only one can surpass it— the view of one’s own home shores.”

The lady turned her face away, as though the words had burned her. The man looked at Spence from those remarkable eyes that flamed like living gems.

“Ah!” he said. “You are an Englishman?”

“I am from Boston, in America,” and Spence smiled. “Since I was born there, I take some pride in calling myself an American.”

The other plucked at his goatee, a thin smile in his jaded features.

“I congratulate you, sir, who have found for yourself a new country. It argues well for your capabilities. I have made the effort more than once without success; yet men are accustomed to speak well of my mental quality.”

“That could not remain in doubt,” said Spence, “after a moment of converse with you.”

At this compliment the lady smiled, leaned over in her saddle, and spoke under her breath. The horseman smiled again; yet in his eyes lay an indefinable torment.

“I do not easily forget so kindly a speech from so courteous a gentleman,” he said. “If you ever come into Morocco, señor American, pray consider me your friend and debtor.”

He inclined his head again and passed on. After them spurred the Moors.

Two or three, officers of the Algerian garrison, flung Spence a word of greeting. So, then, that strange couple had come from Morocco! A Spaniard, doubtless; he had said, “Señor.”

Spence remained at the gate, smoking, musing, forgetting the bale of herbs. In a whole month no English ship had come to set him on his way home again. His own stout Boston ship had been crippled by Tunisian corsairs, smashed by hurricanes, sunk.

His ship and all he owned were gone— the savings of ten years swept away. His men were gone. Alone, he had been picked up by an English frigate and landed here at Algiers. At thirty he was facing life anew, empty handed. It galled him sorely to depend on charity.

Thanks to Shaw and good Edward Holden, the consul, Patrick Spence found Algiers friendly, for Englishmen were highly favored here. Yet how to get on home again?

As he stood thus musing, he was aware of a man walking toward him. He recognized a Moor who occupied the adjoining villa, which belonged to the Bey of Algiers. Who he was, Spence had not the least idea. He was tall, athletic, of severely ascetic features, thinly bearded; his eyes were deep and somber.

As he came, his gaze was fastened on Spence. In one hand he carried a box of leather, a foot long, six inches wide and deep, fastened with strips of brass.

“I seek you,” he said abruptly. “You are El Capitan Spence?”

From the man’s face, voice, bearing, Spence instantly knew that this was no common man.

“I am, señor,” he answered in Spanish. “May I offer you hospitality—”

“There is no time.” The Moor flung a quick glance around, then his eyes fastened upon Spence again. “Know you who I am?”

“No, señor.”

“I am Mulai Ali the Idrisi— like yourself, a fugitive. Know you a man named Ripperda?”

Spence shook his head. A sardonic smile touched the bearded dips of the Moor.

“Then you are better off than I. Now, I know your story, and I bring you a message from the astrologer of Arzew.”

“A message— for me?” Spence did not hide his astonishment.

“Aye, I know what manner of man you are; from the stars, I know that your fate is twined with mine. You are to be trusted. Do you believe in the stars?”

“When they guide my ship, yes,” said Spence. “As arbiters of destiny— decidedly no.”

“But I do,” said the other. “Señor, the stars have linked us together. Do you wish to make money— large sums?”

Spence eyed him shrewdly.

“Not enough to deny my religion.”

The Moor broke into a laugh.

“Ah, I have no love for renegades. Now listen. I need a friend at once— one whom I can trust; if this box remains in my hands an hour longer it spells my death.

“When I was last at Oran, the astrologer of Arzew told me about you. Your fate lies with mine. You are the one man I can trust. If you will give me your help and friendship, I offer you three things: of money, as much as you desire; of power, more than you dream; and for a wife, the most wonderful woman in the world.”

Patrick Spence thought he was dreaming. Yet he would have been a poor seaman had he not been able to think swiftly. This blunt speech, this haste, showed a crisis. He seized it.

“I do not sell my friendship,” he answered, “either for money or power. As for a wife, I desire none.”

The Moor stared at him.

“You refuse my offer?”

“Yes. If my help will avail you, I give it freely— but I will not sell it.”

“By Allah, you are a man!” The dark eyes flashed suddenly. “Will you go to Morocco with me? Think well! The stars have promised me success. Perhaps your friend, Dr. Shaw, will go also. Yet death may lie ahead. Will you go?”

Spence shrugged.

“Yes, I will go.”

“Good! Take this box and guard it. And here is the message from the astrologer: Beware of a man who wears a black burnoose. Adios!”

Mulai Ali hastily thrust into Spence’s hands the box and a folded paper. Then he turned abruptly and strode away at a rapid pace, unusual in a Moor. Spence stared after his figure in bewildered amazement, then knocked out his pipe and pocketed it.

“What the devil!” he exclaimed whimsically. “A man wearing the Golden Fleece offers me hospitality in Morocco. Then comes this chap, who seems to know all about me, and offers me a job! And who’s this astrologer person?”

He opened the paper and started. English characters met his eye.

To Captain Spence of Boston:

Mulai Ali has told me of you, as have others. You may trust him absolutely. I have persuaded him that you can help him— because I need your help. I am a slave.

If he makes promises, he can fulfil them, Tell the consul at Algiers that I have woven a net to catch Ripperda. If you be the true man I think you, then come with Mulai Ali and help me.

This note was unsigned.

“Ripperda! Who is the fellow?” mused Patrick Spence, frowning. “And I am to beware of a man who wears a black burnoose— plague take it all! Am I mad or dreaming?”

He filled his pipe again. He had been long enough in Algiers to know that the place was a hotbed of intrigue. Spanish armies were holding Oran against the Moors and the land was in turmoil. It was not so strange that he, a Christian, should have been picked on as trustworthy.

Yet, oddly enough, he found his thoughts dwelling not so much upon this astrologer, who was a slave, nor upon the Moor, who was a fugitive, as upon that man who wore the Golden Fleece. He was surely some great man— yet he craved a kind word, a compliment, as a hungry dog craves a bone! Who was he?

The sun went westering. Later came Thomas Shaw to the villa again, and with him, to spend the night, the consul, Edward Holden.

And they brought an explanation to Patrick Spence— an amazing explanation.

ii

“Hardy he was, and wys to undertake;

With many a tempest hadde his berd ben shake.”

THE THREE MEN, after hearing Spence’s story, sat drinking coffee and discussing it.

“Arzew,” said the divine, “is the ancient Arsenaria, twenty miles east of Oran. Since the Spanish siege, the Moorish provincial government is located at Arzew, under a proper Turkish rascal named Hassan Bey. Of this astrologer I never heard. Eh, Ned?”

Holden shook his head.

“Zounds! I wish I knew what net is spread for that cursed Ripperda!”

“But who is my man of the Golden Fleece?” demanded Patrick Spence.

“We come to that,” said Dr. Shaw. “Most men are mad upon some point; you upon ships; I upon old ruins; Mulai Ali, like many Moors, upon the stars. This Mulai Ali is of the Idrisi blood, Morocco’s royal line. His cousin is the sherif. He has been in hiding here—”

“But my man of the Golden Fleece—”

“Ah! That man, Patrick, is more than a little mad. He landed this morning, and departs tonight. Because of his coming I was so hastily summoned— all the consulates are in turmoil! Unless he goes the way of all flesh soon, that man will set the world by the ears—”

“But who is he?” cried Spence testily.

“The politest man in Europe. Born a Roman Catholic baron of Holland, he became a Protestant in order to go to Madrid as ambassador. At Madrid he again shifted religions, and his allegiance likewise. He became a Spaniard. He destroyed Alberoni, became a duke, a minister, then absolute ruler of Spain! It was he, the most astute politician since Richelieu, who handled the Vienna treaty. But regard the maggot of madness in his brain, Patrick!

“In a moment of reverse, this man lost his head. He deserted his family, fled with a Castilian girl, and finally came to Morocco a fugitive. Again he changed his faith. He was made a pasha, then prime minister of Morocco— and now rules that country as he ruled Spain. His errand here is to form a coalition of the Barbary States against Christendom; his name is William Lewis de Ripperda.”

Spence started. “Ripperda! What connection has he with Mulai Ali, then?”

Both men shook their heads.

“We know not, Captain Spence,” said the consul. “We do know that, unless we destroy Ripperda, this Ripperda will destroy Spain and Christendom! His ability—”

There was a knock at the door. A slave entered, gave Holden a low message. Holden, looking astonished, nodded. Into the room came a cloaked and hooded figure. The man stood silent until the door had closed, then uncovered his face; he was Mulai Ali.

“Señores! I must speak swiftly.” He lifted a warning hand. “You know Ripperda is here?”

The consul nodded in puzzled silence. The Moor spoke with harsh, driving energy.

“Captain Spence has told you of the box I gave him? A month ago Ripperda sent me that box. In it were things he obtained through his agents in Spain— documents relating to the old Moorish kings of Seville and Granada, certain of their relics, and copies of treaties which Spain has made with other nations.

“Knowing that I was of the Idrisi blood, Ripperda proposed to set me on the throne of Morocco, by aid of these relics and my own power, and then to publish the Spanish treaties. Their publication would make Spain isolated, hated by her neighbors, distrusted. Ripperda hopes to unite the Barbary States and Egypt, means to conquer Spain again for the Moors—”

“This is madness!” exclaimed the consul.

“The madness of a great man and a great traitor. Now, finding himself more secure in Morocco than he had thought, the dog has betrayed me. I must flee or be slain. Ripperda commands the Moslem armies before Oran; the Dey dare not offend him. Do you wish to destroy this man Ripperda?”

The consul frowned, but Dr. Shaw disregarded the frown and spoke curtly.

“Yes.”

“Then go to Morocco with me, by way of Tlemcen and the caravan route.”

Mulai Ali spoke rapidly, excitedly.

“The Dey will provide an escort. I must go to Arzew in disguise, and shall meet you there. Hassan Bey, who commands at Arzew, is my friend.

“You are Christians; I can trust you. Once at Udjde, over the Moroccan frontier, I am safe. The Governor of Udjde is my kinsman and supports me. All Morocco will rise for me; the Sherif Abdallah is much hated. Speak quickly! Will you go or not?”

“I will go, for one,” spoke up Spence eagerly. “Why do you wish our company?”

“Because you are true men. And through you I can make treaties with England; also, I need your advice and help. If I win, Ripperda is overthrown!”

“I will go,” said Dr. Shaw quietly.

“Good! Tomorrow the Dey will give you safe conduct, and an escort of Spahis. I meet you at Arzew, if Allah wills! And bring the casket, and beware of a black burnoose.”

With a brief salute he turned and was gone in haste.

The three men regarded one another in silence. Spence was smiling, the consul frowned gravely, Dr. Shaw was lost in abstracted thought.

“Zounds!” said Holden suddenly. “This is madness! Why do you go, gentlemen?”

“Because I want to see the ruins and Roman remains in the west,” said Dr. Shaw. “I shall find much of interest. We must carefully compare Ptolemy and Abulfeda as we journey, Patrick! Besides, we go the errands of Christendom, if you want a better reason.”

“And I,” said Spence with a shrug, “because my fortune drifts that way, Mr. Holden. I am curious about that astrologer of Arzew; and I like this Moor! He is a real man.”

The consul laughed shortly. “Have your own way. Pray heaven you bear luck with you— this Ripperda will menace all Europe if he be not pulled down!”

Spence, remembering that dark and tormented man, could well agree with such an assertion.

The situation seethed with intrigue. Ripperda was the actual ruler of Morocco. The Dey of Algiers, now allied with him, was furtively helping Mulai Ali. The bey was a sly fox. The Spaniards were tightly besieged in Oran. At sea, the Moorish fleet was supreme, under Admiral Perez. This renegade Carthusian, Ripperda’s one actual friend in the world, was a great seaman.

It was typical of Ripperda that he should first intrigue to put Mulai Ali on the throne, then should turn against his puppet. Such madness had already ruined Ripperda in two countries.

With morning the three men went into the city. Holden and Shaw set off to interview the bey. Patrick Spence and a consulate guard went to the market to buy native garments.

Not far from the slave mart Spence halted before an open-fronted shop where an old Moor sat smoking a water pipe. Down the narrow street surged natives, soldiers, arrogant Spahis and Janissaries, horses and camels, shouting and disputing. The clamor was deafening. Spence let the Negro bargain for the clothes he wanted.

Suddenly he became aware of a man in a black burnoose watching him. Remembering the warning of Mulai Ali, he turned; but the man was gone. Spence had a memory of a twisted face that was marked by a purplish birthmark about the right eye.

“Devil take it!” muttered Spence. “I’ll suspect every black burnoose, unless I get myself in hand! That fellow was only staring at a Christian.”

Upon returning to the consulate he had come within a few hundred feet of his destination; he was passing a low-arched doorway carved with the hand which spells the name of Allah. From the shadowed depths two figures darted out, plunged bodily upon him. Spence fell backward, the two men on top of him; as he fell, he glimpsed that twisted face with the birthmark.

He crashed down. A knife clashed on the stone beside his ear, but already his long arms were busy. He jerked one man over his head, heaved, twisted himself. He pulled clear, rolled over, and leaped to his feet in time to meet the rush of the man in the black burnoose. Spence drove his fist into the misshapen features, and the man reeled away.

At this instant the consulate Negro dashed up, scimitar bared. A dozen other men converged on the scene. The two assassins paused not, but took to their heels, with a crowd streaming after them. Two minutes later, Patrick Spence was safe in the consulate.

He told Dr. Shaw of the incident, but the worthy divine related it to Holden in the light of an attempted robbery. Shaw feared lest the consul forbid the journey as too dangerous, and was taking no chances. So the matter was passed off without great comment.

That night, the safe conduct having been provided, Dr. Shaw and Patrick Spence packed up. The consul provided them with letters of credit upon a Jew of Mequinez, while Shaw lingered lovingly over his rapier, maps and instruments— particularly the latter.

“This brass quadrant,” he discoursed, “I had from Mr. Professor Bradley at Wanstead. It is so well graduated that I can even distinguish the division upon the limb to at least one-twelfth part of a degree. And this compass hath the needle well touched—”

The good divine seemed quite oblivious to the fact that he was entering an almost unknown land, measuring wits against the most unscrupulous man of the age. Yet Dr. Shaw, as Spence knew well, was a shrewd comrade, reliable to the full, and quite able to use his sword as effectively as his instruments.

At dawn Spence wakened to the shrill cries of muezzins, lifting into the gray morning, calling the faithful to prayer. From all around they came; from the grand mosque, El Khebir, from the Mosque of Hassan, from the Zaouia, from the palace mosque, and others.

And in the courtyard the escort of twenty Spahis knelt at prayer, their gorgeous uniforms glittering in the new sunlight.

iii

“He cheats the stars, and they him, and both cheat fools, ’tis all one to me!”

SPENCE, with the leather box sewn in canvas and lashed at his saddle, rode westward with his friend and their escort. He was agreeably amazed by the ease and comfort of their journey, which followed the Chelif Valley road to Arzew.

Under the auspices of the swaggering Spahis, the guest house in each town was commandeered. In order to avoid the war zone about Oran, the route lay from Arzew to Tlemcen, thence to Fez by the ancient route of caravans and armies.

On the morning of the day they neared Arzew, Mulai Ali joined them. He rode toward their party, superbly mounted on a white Arab bearing the circle-bar brand of the Beni Rashid tribe. He was dressed in the richest of pale green and pink silks. From the gold-twisted fillet at his brow to the red Moroccan boots, he looked the chieftain. He was alone.

“Well met, Señores!”

He greeted Spence and Dr. Shaw in Spanish.

“All is safe?”

“All is safe,” said Spence, knowing that the query referred to the leather box.

“You ride like a king,” said the divine, perplexed, “yet we thought to find you in danger and disguised! What means it, Mulai Ali?”

“A good omen!” The Moor laughed. “Ripperda has not yet rejoined the army before Oran. Hassan Bey has made me welcome at Arzew. Before Ripperda learns I am there, I shall be gone. After leaving Arzew we must push hard for the south.”

“Then,” said Dr. Shaw, “you aim to enter Morocco by the back door and seize the throne while Ripperda and the army lie before Oran?”

“Exactly.” Mulai Ali lifted his hand and pointed. “Here comes Hassan Bey to meet you!”

Arzew opened before them, with its extensive groves, its rocky precipices, its ruins. A dust cloud upon the road resolved itself into a hundred horsemen headed by Hassan Bey— a hard-fighting old Turk whose wine-frosted nose showed small regard for religious precepts.

With a great firing of guns and clamor, the parties met. Escorted by this guard of honor, Spence and Dr. Shaw entered the town. The bey had made ready quarters for them in the kasbah, or citadel, and received them with an entertainment that was lavish. The feast lasted far into the night.

In the morning Spence wakened to find Mulai Ali present. The Moor and Dr. Shaw were engaged in a discussion of religious points, which ended when the worthy divine sallied forth to inspect the ruins and make notes. Mulai Ali remained while Spence broke his fast.

“Well,” asked the Moor, “and did you see the man in the black burnoose?”

Spence looked up sharply and described the attempted murder. “Who is the man, then?”

“His name is Gholam Mahmoud. He was once a Janissary; he is now one of Ripperda’s bodyguard of renegades. We shall probably find him ahead of us on the road.”

“H-m! You seem little concerned,” said Spence with a shrewd glance.

“The event is in the hands of God, the compassionate! I saw the astrologer last night, and go this morning to receive my horoscope.”

“Good! This astrologer is a slave, eh? An old man? And English?”

Mulai Ali smiled in a singular fashion.

“Yes, captured by Hassan from an English ship, and kept here secretly. Hassan is afraid of the astrologer, yet refuses to sell the slave to me. I have need of the stars to guide me, and should like to have the slave in our company, if possible.”

“Oh!” Spence studied the other man, and chuckled. “You will aid him to escape, then?”

“After I have eaten the salt of Hassan?” The Moor gestured in dissent. “I could not do this. Of course, a Christian has no scruples, and might manage it.”

Spence broke into a laugh.

“Certainly, I have no scruples! Let us be frank, Mulai Ali. You want me to steal this astrologer for you?”

“Let us ask the stars about it,” said the other evasively.

Clearly, the Moor would not speak frankly; yet eagerness struggled against gloom in his eyes. The man was strongly tempted, thus to split hairs with his religious scruples.

“I will attend to it,” said Spence curtly. “When can we see the astrologer?”

“Now.” A curious smile stole into the bearded features. “You are ready?”

Spence nodded, rose, and followed.

They descended to the kasbah courtyard, where their Spahis and the garrison Janissaries were fraternizing. Hence, Mulai Ali passed into the gardens adjoining, the guards saluting him respectfully. They came to a square, commodious tower of stone, centered in a small grove of pomegranates.

Before the doorway of this tower squatted a huge black eunuch, half asleep, across his knees the glistening blade of a broad scimitar. Sighting them, he sprang up and saluted Mulai Ali, then loosened the bar of the door and stood aside. Plainly, Mulai Ali had unquestioned access to Hassan’s astrologer.

“After you, señor,” said the Moor.

Spence found himself in a well-lighted room, hung with gorgeous stuffs. Upon a stone stairway to the right appeared an old hag, who addressed them in Spanish.

“It is too early, señores—”

“Say that Mulai Ali the Idrisi is here,” spoke up the Moor curtly. “And with him a Christian, who seeks guidance from the stars. Hasten, slave!”

Mumbling imprecations, the hag scuttled up the stairs. In a moment she was back again and beckoning them to follow.

They entered a chamber which had evidently been long occupied by gentry of the same profession. A stuffed crocodile, moth-eaten and musty, hung on wires from the ceiling; about the room were skulls, stuffed birds, instruments inherited from the Moors of elder years.

Above a curtained doorway hung a handsome pentacle of brass; beside it was the Arabic nine-squared diagram, the Haraz al Mabarak— a very ornate piece of work in wood, the ciphers inlaid with silver.

The astrologer appealed suddenly before them.

If he had stared before, now Spence stared with twofold amazement. No doddering old man was this astrologer— no man at all— but a woman, wearing a white burnoose. As he stared at her, so she stared at him, her eyes wide; dark eyes, set in a face that was suddenly white. Her hands gripped the curtain beside her in a tense grasp.

“We are here, señorita,” said Mulai Ali courteously. “I have told my friend, Captain Spence, that you are the most wonderful woman in the world. If my horoscope is finished, the fact will soon be proved to his satisfaction.”

The astrologer trembled slightly, then forced herself to speak.

“I have it here— if you will be seated—”

Spence controlled himself to silence, bowed, and seated himself.

Upon him was dumb amazement as the woman came forward. Woman? Nay, but a girl, and no Moor, either, but English! Despite the suspense, the emotion, that had gripped her, she was now completely mistress of herself. And she was beautiful, Spence realized; not with the coldly perfect lines of classic beauty, but with character that made for personality. Dark eyes, dark hair, a sweetly girlish face— and an astrologer withal! Here was a marvel!

“I have written it in Castilian,” she was saying, giving Mulai Ali a scroll, which evidently held the horoscope. “You may study it at leisure— and it may be unpleasant.”

“Allah controls all,” said the Moor impassively. “Will my enterprise succeed?”

“It may. You are ruled by Taurus, which augurs well, though Mars and Scorpio have a strong influence. Tell me, señor! If you abandon this enterprise, you will live long and happily, a man of wealth, but holding no position or rank. Will you abandon it?”

A flash lighted the eyes of the Moor.

“And if I hold to it?”

“Then you will not live long— ten years, at a venture. They will be crowded with great events: wars, conquests, triumphs! Your fortune will increase to the end. You will sit upon a throne. But the end— ah! I know not the customs of your country; but it is cruel.”

A harsh laugh broke from Mulai Ali.

“But I know them. Well, then— I have to choose between a long life of obscurity or a short life of greatness, at the end of which I shall be sawn asunder or burned to death by the Spaniards. Is that it?”

The girl inclined her head gravely.

“That is it.”

“By Allah, ten years is enough for any man! I have chosen. Now, señorita, this is the Captain Spence of whom we have spoken. Speak quickly, lest Hassan suspect that we remain overlong with you.”

The girl turned to Spence, her eyes alight. “You will help me?” she said. “I am English. I was traveling to Venice with my father, a student of astronomy, when the pirates captured me. Him they killed— since then I have struggled against disaster—”

“Madam, I am wholly at your service,” said Spence quietly. “Your name?”

“Elizabeth Parks.”

“Then, Mistress Betty, have no more fear!” Spence laughed with assumed lightness. “You shall go with us into Morocco, if that be possible. Can you trust any here?”

“None,” she said, her lips atremble. “There was talk of the bey’s harem— but I knew enough of the stars to make him fear me. It was my only chance. I managed to avert danger—”

“Fear not,” said Spence. “We must depart now, but you shall hear from us. I take the responsibility on my own shoulders, Mulai Ali. You agree?”

“Very well.”

The Moor made a gesture.

“You trust us, señorita?”

The girl smiled suddenly. “Have I not read of you in the stars?”

Spence brought her fingers to his lips, and with smiling assurance, departed, her eyes haunting him. He followed Mulai Ali to the garden, then, at a word, walked off among the trees and left the Moor talking with the black eunuch.

This amazing and unexpected meeting had overwhelmed him. He could realize how this quick-witted and desperate girl had seized one slim hope of escaping the harem, how she had worked upon the besotted and superstitious Hassan Bey until he feared her more than he desired her.

“By Heavens, what a woman!” thought Spence.

He turned as the Moor came toward him.

“Well, señor, what think you of the bride I promised?”

“I do not steal brides, Mulai Ali. I help her, because she is a woman. I desire no wife, however.”

“You might do worse,” said the other. “I have arranged with that eunuch, her sole guard. He will leave her with us and accompany us into Morocco.”

“Can you trust him?”

The Moor smiled.

“He would rather be chief eunuch of a Sultan’s harem than a slave in Arzew.”

Spence studied the Moor.

“You seem confident, my friend! Yet you have no army. Ripperda’s assassins are seeking you—”

“Allah rules all things; who would dispute the ways of God? If a thing is ordained, it will come to pass.

“Besides,” added Mulai Ali dryly, “I am not without friends. Do you fear to accompany me, who go alone to seek a throne?”

“Fear?” Spence laughed, and put out his hand. “Luck be with you, and my aid!”

“Good. You and the astrologer must leave here tonight and ride ahead. We follow in the morning— you must warn Dr. Shaw to be ready. Come and give your orders.”

He led the way to the courtyard, summoned two of the Spahis, and ordered them to do as Spence commanded. The American issued curt orders, which the Moor affirmed with a nod.

If the Spahis were surprised, they made no comment, their obedience to Mulai Ali was implicit. Spence fancied that they, too, looked forward to high commands in El Magrib when Mulai Ali won his venture.

“If you’ll instruct that black eunuch what to do,” said Spence to the Moor, “you may then leave all to me and dismiss the affair as settled. I know no Arabic, and I fancy the eunuch has no Spanish.”

Mulai Ali nodded his assent, and departed.

Spence returned to his quarters and waited until Dr. Shaw returned. Then he informed the divine as to their divided journey. He said nothing about Mistress Betty; not that he doubted the hearty cooperation of his friend, but Shaw rather fancied his character of envoy, and would be spared by ignorance a good deal of worry.

“You can leave early in the morning, doctor?” he concluded.

“Certainly. I have carefully copied the inscription on the hypogeum, and there is little else to tempt me. Why are you thus going ahead, Patrick? I like it not.”

Spence chuckled. “Private affairs,” he said cheerfully. “Hassan is giving a feast tonight; kindly make no remark upon my disappearance, but get off early in the morning with Mulai Ali. Ride swiftly to Tlemcen. We’ll meet there. Believe me, it is better that you know nothing of my errand just yet.”

“Very well, very well,” assented Shaw, not without a sigh. “But, Patrick, if there is anything forward that smacks of fighting, I pray you not to let my cloth prevent me from having some share! I am an excellent hand with the rapier, as you know—”

Spence clapped him on the shoulder.

“Cheer up, Shaw! I promise that you’ll have fighting in plenty before you ever see Algiers again! And now give me a spare flint or two for my pistols, and I’ll ask no more.”

iv

“Methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is perfect gallows.”

THAT NIGHT Hassan Bey, in honor of his guests, held high revel. There was no lack of wine, since the Turks paid small heed to Islamic prohibition. Further, there were entertainments by companies of dancing women, both of the town and desert, and by magicians of the Aissoua tribe. An hour before midnight the scene waxed riotous, for Hassan Bey and his captains were roaring drunk.

It was then that Patrick Spence quietly departed.

At his quarters he secured his few belongings, cloaked himself in a dark burnoose, and left the kasbah. He entered the gardens, found the guards in drunken slumber, and encountered no one until he came near the square tower of the astrologer. Then a dark shape arose before him, the starlight glittered on a naked blade, and he recognized the distorted shape of Yimnah, the eunuch.

Spence threw back the cowl of his burnoose, and the eunuch gestured toward the tower. A voice reached him.

“Captain Spence? Thank Heaven! I was afraid you could not get away—”

“Let us go at once, Mistress Betty! May I have your hand?”

He bowed over her hand, guided her to the waiting eunuch, and led the way from the gardens. Near the entrance he spoke again to the girl, quietly.

“We must ride to Tlemcen at once, and there meet Mulai Ali and our party. Do you speak any Arabic?”

“Enough to get along with,” said the girl quietly.

Outside the kasbah, in the shadow of its high turreted walls, the starlight shone on the waiting Spahis and horses. From the girl came a deep sigh of relaxation.

“It seems a dream,” she murmured. “To leave thus, unhindered, unquestioned.”

“Let us assign the honor to Providence, and make the most of it,” said Spence. “Now, mount quickly! We must be far from here when the muezzin mounts again to the minaret!”

The Spahis brought up the horses. Spence aided the girl into the high saddle, lashed behind her the small bundle she had fetched, adjusted her burnoose, and sprang to his own beast. Yimnah was already mounted.

All five walked their horses from the shadow of the citadel, put the beasts at a canter, and swept away from the unwalled city to the southwest. No common steeds were these, but blooded barbs, the finest in Hassan’s stables, calmly appropriated by the Spahis.

Hour after hour through the night they rode, past the long sandy salt pits and. the lake of Sibka, through silent and dark villages, along lonely wastes. Spence talked with the girl as they rode, telling his own story and touching upon their errand.

“It is a mad errand,” he concluded, “yet Mulai Ali is a kingly man and may succeed.”

“His horoscope truly reads him into a throne,” said Mistress Betty. “Do not laugh at me! This business is not all charlatanry, although I have shamed the astronomer’s art with my wiles. I knew of your presence in Algiers, through gossip, and set out to effect my rescue. Was that selfish? Perhaps. And yet—”

“No, not selfish; it was wholly admirable!” exclaimed Spence. “We ride south; you are free; Mulai Ali goes to friends and a throne; Shaw goes to pull down Ripperda— and all by a woman’s wit! I am humble before you.”

So they rode until the stars were paling into the false dawn. Then one of the Spahis called softly in his own tongue. Mistress Betty heard the words, and translated.

“He says that some one is riding hard on the road behind us!”

Spence drew rein.

“Forward! No protest, dear lady— forward, all of you!”

The party swept on, disappeared along the dim road. Spence waited. Presently he caught the hard beat of hoofs and sighted a vague figure. With a hail he sent his beast out into the center of the road. The onsweeping rider uttered a sharp, harsh cry, then a musket roared out and Spence heard the bullet as it whined past his head.

His ready pistol made instant reply. The other horse plunged; the rider fell headlong and lay motionless. Spence dismounted and fell to searching the man.

He was rewarded by a folded paper in the knotted pouch-end of the worsted girdle. Finding nothing more. Spence bound the Moor and left him.

He struck into a gallop after his own party, and within twenty minutes had come up with them. Then, not pausing, he pushed them on at all speed, for time was precious in the extreme.

When the true dawn glimmered into daylight, they halted beside a rivulet to water and refresh the horses. Here Spence inspected the paper he had captured. It was a note written in Arabic, and neither the girl nor Yimnah could read it, so he called in the Spahis. From their reading, Mistress Betty translated the note. It was unsigned, and was addressed simply to Gholam Mahmoud. It read:

The hawk is at Arzew and rides south. Catch him this side Udjde or his talons will be plunged into El Magrib. Slay him. Lay the snare at the Cisterns, with Allah’s help!

“Ah!” exclaimed Mistress Betty eagerly. “By ‘the hawk’ is meant Mulai Ali— this must be from a spy! They know he is coming! The Cisterns is a place west of Tlemcen on the highway.”

“And Gholam Mahmoud, he of the twisted face, is ahead,” said Spence. “Well, forewarned is forearmed! How far have we come?”

“Nearly halfway.” She pointed ahead. “There is the Maila River; beyond, the Sharf el Graab, or Raven Crag— that high pinnacle of rock. At the river I shall show you a famous place.”

Thankful that she seemed cheerful, even gay, Spence called to horse. They rode on.

Within ten minutes they halted at the river ford. Here the high banks were gullied to a depth of fifteen feet; a dense growth of trees concealed the river and opposite bank. The girl turned to Spence with a glow in her eyes, pointing to the sandy beach and ford.

“I used to read in an old French book,” she said, “how, when the Spaniards were catching the great pirate Barbarossa, they pursued him to a river, where he scattered all his treasure, hoping in that way to delay them.

“I even remember the words: ‘Il laissoit couler de tems en tems de l’or et de l’argent par le chemin.’ This is the very place, where we are standing! It was here that he strewed his gold and silver—”

The words died suddenly on her lips. The Spahis also had been speaking of Barbarossa, for this place was famous in legend; they were now silent, staring. Spence looked up swiftly.

A rough, boisterous voice had risen ahead— a voice that sang in reckless gayety; a Spanish voice, twanging out the vowels with peasant whine. Some one was approaching from the other side of the ford. Spence looked at the Spahis, made a swift gesture. They wheeled their horses and vanished among the trees.

The voice of the singer came closer. The eunuch, Yimnah, baring his scimitar, slipped from the saddle and glided forward to the masking trees. Then he was back, his thick lips chattering words of fear, his limbs trembling.

“He says it is the ghost of Barbarossa,” said Mistress Betty.

Spence chuckled.

“Wait here, then.”

His musket ready, he urged the horse forward into the gully. Here he waited, motionless, looking at the man splashing and singing as he made his way across the shallows.

A big and burly man he was. The ruffianly face bore a spade beard and two enormous mustaches, all of flaming red, matching his long hair. Not until the horse plunged at the bank did the man see Spence sitting there above him. He clapped hand to sword— a long blade at his hip. Spence threw back his cowl, and the man cried out in surprise:

“Ha! A Christian!”

“No blustering, señor,” said Spence sternly. “Your name and errand.”

The glittering eyes drove to right and left as the bushes crackled. He saw that he was ambushed, and a sudden laugh burst from his lips. No Moor, this, but a Spaniard.

“Well met, caballero!” he cried jovially. “My name is Lazaro de Polan, though in some parts I am known as Barbarroja. I am a soldier by trade; can teach you tricks with saber or espadon, scimitar or brackmard, Italian blade or rapier of Toledo— near which holy city is Polan, my birthplace. My errand is to seek employment wherever it may be found.”

“You are a renegade?” queried Spence.

The glittering eyes flamed at him, then laughed.

“Ha! I was captured by the Moors, caballero, saved my head by a less essential sacrifice, became an officer in their army, and made enough money to purchase my freedom. I am now seeking service as a guard or guide, for I know all the roads. Hire me, caballero! All the army knows me, and I can be of much service to you.”

Spence regarded the man. There were many renegades, and this Barbarroja was more than a mere braggart, or he would not be traveling alone in Christian garb. The fellow could be useful in a dozen capacities, particularly if he were well known among the Moors.

“Done. I am Captain Spence, with safe conduct from the Dey of Algiers. Journey with us to Tlemcen. If you are no liar, I shall talk wages with you there. Is that agreeable?”

“Perfectly, señor Capitan!” Barbarroja gestured grandly in assent.

“And I do not care to answer questions.”

“Nor I to ask, caballero!”

With a shrug, the renegade turned his horse to the ford again.

Spence called up his party. On the farther bank Barbarroja waited, his glittering eyes scrutinizing them, then he waved his wide hat and set out in the van. Spence sent the two Spahis to bear the fellow company, and rode beside Mistress Betty, telling her how he had engaged the man. To his surprise, the girl frowned thoughtfully.

“There are evil men on the roads.” she said. “I misdoubt me that this renegade—”

“You fear him!” said Spence. “Then I shall dismiss the fellow at once.”

“No, no!” she said hastily. “It would be silly, for there was no reason behind my words. Doubtless he is as honest as another, and may be useful, for he seems a stout fellow.”

So Patrick Spence, thinking more of the girl beside him than of the red-bearded ruffian ahead, rode on to the south and felt well pleased with fate.

v

“Wert thou the devil, and wor’st it on thy horn, it should be challenged!”

AFTER NIGHTFALL the party rode into Tlemcen, a great circuit of ruins inclosing a small walled space, perched disconsolately amid remnants of forgotten kingdoms. Barbarroja undertook to lead them to a quiet tavern, where they would meet no unpleasant questioning.

A cunning rogue was this, and evidently known to the city guards, whom he passed with a friendly hail. He led them through filthy, narrow streets, and near the ruinous mosque of El Haloui, knocked at a small doorway. A cautious wicket opened, and presently the door was swung ajar by a greasy fellow whom Spence took for a Levantine renegade.

The place proved decent enough. For Mistress Betty was secured in an upstairs chamber; a room opening from this, with a balcony overlooking the street, served Spence and Yimnah. A third room sufficed Barbarroja and the Spahis. Returning from his inspection, Spence joined the party below.

Leaving the three men to unsaddle he led the girl and Yimnah up the narrow stairs that ascended from the courtyard. The host waited at the head of the stairs to light them.

As they came to the upper gallery encircling the courtyard Mistress Betty stumbled. She caught the arm of Spence to save herself, but the cowl of her burnoose was jerked away, revealing in the lantern-light her features. And, in the shadows behind their host, Spence caught sight of another face turned upon them— a ghastly face, twisted awry, with a purple birthmark like a patch over the right eye.

A startled oath broke from Spence. He dashed the greasy host aside and leaped forward; adroitly, the Levantine tripped him. As he fell he saw that face fade into the darkness.

Regaining his feet he hurled himself into the obscurity. From ahead he heard running feet, then the slam of a door. Realizing that his pursuit was folly, Spence returned to the Levantine, took the man by the throat, and shook him savagely.

“Lead me to that man, Gholam Mahmoud!” he cried, hoarse with anger. “Quickly!”

The Levantine blurted out that he knew nothing of such a man, there were many in the tavern, how should he know which was meant? He knew no such name. Mistress Betty, who had caught up the fallen lantern, interposed.

“We are in no position to seek trouble, Captain Spence. I pray you, let this matter drop, at least until our friends arrive!”

Spence released the host.

“You are right,” he said. “Yet that man was watching us, and saw your face when you stumbled. However, let it be!”

Disposing the girl in her quarters, Spence joined Yimnah in the outer chamber and wearily flung himself on his pallet.

He could swear that he had seen the face of Gholam Mahmoud, the confidential agent of Ripperda, the man against whom Mulai Ali had warned him. Spence knew he had not erred. As he thought of how those distorted, coldly lustful features had peered at the face of Mistress Betty, those predatory and malignant features, the American gripped his nails into his palms with impotent rage. But finally he slept.

In the thin grayness of morning Spence wakened to lie drowsily, eyes half closed. The drone of Yimnah’s snores filled the room. Through this drone pierced a thin nasal cry from the minaret of the nearby mosque. “Come ye to prayer! Come ye to salvation! Devotion is better than sleep—”

“Here am I at thy call, oh, God!” muttered the eunuch, and stirred to his prayers.

Spence rose, slipped on his shoes. He went to the balcony that overhung the street, opened the lattice, and stepped outside for a breath of the morning air, tipped with mountain frost.

As he stood thus, drinking deeply into his lungs the keen air, he heard the creak of the tavern door from below. He glanced idly downward, wondering who was astir at this hour of prayer. He sighted a figure— and started suddenly. A black burnoose! As though drawn by the slight movement above, the figure looked upward. From Spence broke a savage cry.

“Ha, devil!”

He was only ten feet above the street level, and unhesitatingly bestrode the balcony. The rotten wood crashed away beneath him, yet he alighted on his feet and flung himself at Gholam Mahmoud. The latter, however, had already taken warning and was gone.

Darting back into the doorway the man slipped through and slammed the door in the face of Spence. The American burst it open ere it could be bolted, and dashed into the courtyard. He saw the renegade ahead of him, leaping for the staircase.

Sure of his prey, Spence gave no heed to the men around, but drove after Gholam Mahmoud. The latter reached the stairs slightly in the lead, took them two at a leap. Near the top he hurled a pistol under his arm; the heavy weapon struck Spence in the breast and threw him out of his stride for an instant.

Aided by this respite the renegade gained the gallery and took to his heels. Pursuer and pursued were silent, for death lay between them. Three strides in the lead, Gholam Mahmoud sprang into a doorway, slammed the door, shot the bolt home.

With a curse, Spence gathered momentum and hurled himself bodily at the wood. The door splintered visibly. Drawing back, he flung forward again. With a rending crash, the door was carried off its hinges, and Spence went staggering into the room beyond. He found it empty.

Ahead Spence descried another door, through which the renegade must have gone. He did not pause, but flung himself bodily at it, and struck the door with all his weight in the blow. Where he had expected resistance he found none.

The door drove open, lightly and freely. This unlooked-for give threw Spence off balance, sent him reeling into the room beyond. Something struck him a crashing blow behind the ear, and he fell in a limp heap— unaware even who had struck him.

“Neatly taken on the wing!” Barbarroja stepped forward, viewed the senseless figure complacently, and twirled his immense mustache. “There was a proper blow! Hold! Not so fast—”

He whirled suddenly, caught the arm of Gholam Mahmoud, stayed the dagger thrust meant for the unconscious Spence.

The two men glared into each other’s eyes for an instant.

“He is mine!” snarled Gholam Mahmoud.

“Not at all,” retorted Barbarroja coolly. “He is mine, and I am entirely ready to enforce the claim with three inches of steel in your ribs, caballero! I do not want the fool killed, just yet. Suit yourself whether we are to talk profitably, or to fight!”

The other calmed himself by an effort. Barbarroja released him.

“Now let us bind and gag him, wrap his head in a cloth, and throw him in the next room. Then we may talk in peace.”

“He is a devil!” snapped Gholam Mahmoud.

The other twirled his mustache and laughed.

“I am something of a devil myself, as my master, the Sherif Abdallah, is aware. You and your master, Pasha Ripperda, are devils twain; but there are many ranks of devils, no less than of angels. So look to it! Now let us attend to him, and then have our talk.”

Spence disposed of, Barbarroja whirled jauntily upon the sulky Gholam Mahmoud.

“You have desired to see me? I am here. My master, the sherif, is in Fez. Your master, Pasha Ripperda, is somewhere up north like a lion on the prowl. Let us talk, and make history!”

Gholam Mahmoud scowled. Stripped of his black burnoose, this white man with the Persian name showed himself to be a bony man of huge strength. His naked arms were in full sight. To an intelligent eye one of those arms betrayed a terrible and significant thing.

Upon the right arm was boldly tattooed the figure of a dolphin!

In that design showed the whole history of the man— his birth, education, achievements, his past and present! To all the Moslem world, this symbol spoke louder than letters of gold.

It told that this man was born a Christian, made captive in youth, and educated in the schools of the Janissaries; that so great was his ability as to win place in the Thirty-first Orta, or cohort, stationed around the Sultan. This entire body were the picked men of Islam, and upon the right arm of each man was tattooed the insignia of their cohort— the proudest token of the Sultan’s army, the dolphin crest!

This man stood and scowled at Barbarroja, his twisted features malignant.

“We might work together,” he said. “We have heard of each other. I am on business of my master, Ripperda; you are on business of the sherif. Does our business lie with the same man?”

“It does,” affirmed Barbarroja. “Your Ripperda has burned his fingers with Mulai Ali, eh? And perhaps your master wants to regain a certain little box of leather?”

At this Gholam Mahmoud started.

“Ah! Does the sherif know about that casket?”

Barbarroja grinned.

“No, but I do! What use informing the sherif of everything? I shall take the casket to him—”

“What, you have it?”

“No, no, but I have it under my thumb. Come, let us be frank. Will your Ripperda Pasha pay well for the casket, caballero? I need money. Come, speak frankly! Let us join forces.”

“Good,” said Gholam Mahmoud. “My orders are to kill Mulai Ali before he reaches Udjde, and to regain the box of leather. Ripperda will destroy Mulai Ali utterly.”

“Having changed his mind”— Barbarroja chuckled— “our affairs coincide, caballero! My master, the sherif, is particular about keeping his seat on the throne. So, then! You wish to kill Mulai Ali because Ripperda has changed his mind; I wish to kill Mulai Ali because the sherif has not changed his mind. Is that plain?”

“Plain as your beard.” The other smiled sourly. “This Captain Spence—”

“Is my affair; leave him to me.” Barbarroja yawned. “He will join Mulai Ali later, perhaps tonight. Now, shall we work together or not?”

“Yes,” said Gholam Mahmoud curtly. “And what gain we by this mutual good will? How burns your end of the candle? Speak up!”

Gholam Mahmoud smiled evilly. “I need no money. I will take the woman in your party.”

“Oh, dios de mi alma, but I understand now! You wish her?”

“Exactly. Who is she?”

“Devil take me if I know. Since she is not the wife of Spence she must be the daughter of Shaw, the English envoy. Well, take her, if you like! But where do I come in by this door of good luck?”

“Milk Ripperda,” said Gholam Mahmoud brusquely. “Kill Mulai Ali and the others, take the woman and the box. Let my master, Ripperda, ransom the box, eh? Money to you, woman to me.”

“Por dios, it is agreed!” thundered Barbarroja grandly. “Upon the word of a caballero! How to do the work? I have the sherif’s seal and no lack of men to obey me. Do you set the trap, and I will lead the partridges into it.”

They conferred together.

An hour later Barbarroja strolled into the other room, humming a gay air. He affected to be seeking some lost article, muttering about it between snatches of his song, and cursing the Moors for thieves. He stumbled over a prostrate form in the corner, and swore.

“Here is another of the drunken dogs— by the saints! If these are not the boots of the Captain Spence— holy mother! The valiant captain trussed and gagged like a goose—”

With a monstrous show of surprise he cut Spence loose. His amazement was so unbounded that Spence broke into a harsh laugh as he rose.

“Did you never see a bound man before, fool? Listen! Have you seen a man here— a man with a twisted face, marked at birth over the right eye?”

“Aye!” Redbeard scratched his nose. “I saw such a one half an hour ago— he was just leaving the inn, mounted on a good horse, too—”

Spence swore, perceiving that black burnoose had escaped him. He hastened back to the rooms he had quitted, rubbing his sore wrists and feeling anything but joyful. He found the canvas-covered box intact with his saddlery.

It would not have pleased him to know how Barbarroja was laughing at the moment. This redbeard much enjoyed his little joke, and fancied himself a fellow of infinite wit, a fancy which was destined to work him some ill before long.

vi

“It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will.”

SPENCE at once sent Barbarroja and a Spahi on the back trail to meet Dr. Shaw. He himself spent most of the day resting or talking with Mistress Betty. He could not restrain his admiration for the way in which she had controlled her fate.

Her father had taught her to draw a horoscope with some skill. When he spoke of getting his own drawn, however, she laughed and looked at him for a moment.

“Are you serious, my dear captain?”

“Middling so,” acknowledged Spence whimsically. “If the future can be read—”

“Your future, sir, can better be lead in your face than in the stars— a future of much calm strength, of firmness, of self-mastery. But tell me! How long do we remain here?”

“Until we get word from Shaw and Mulai Ali. We shall meet them outside town. We dare not linger here in Tlemcen, lest messengers from Hassan Bey raise the pursuit after us. And I have found that Gholam Mahmoud has indeed been here.”

He said nothing of his misadventure, lest he alarm her, but recounted what Barbarroja had said about seeing the former Janissary. The girl frowned over this.

“We are in a strange vortex of intrigue,” she mused. “Mulai Ali, if he reaches Morocco, can gain the throne; the present sherif is hated by the whole land, for he is a mere tool in the hand of Ripperda. This renegade grandee of Spain must be a snaky sort of man!”

“He has qualities,” admitted Spence, and told of his meeting with the famous Ripperda. “From the note we captured we can guess that this Gholam Mahmoud means to assassinate Mulai Ali, if possible. I find that from here we must go to Udjde, passing the Cisterns on the way. We may have trouble there, but we shall have to see what Mulai Ali decides.”

It was afternoon when the messengers returned. Barbarroja bowed grandly to the girl, twirled his mustache, and delivered himself of his report. Mulai Ali and his party were waiting outside the city for Spence. The American turned to the girl.

“How soon can you leave?”

“Now.” Smiling she reached for her white burnoose.

“Then I’ll have the horses saddled at once.”

Fifteen minutes later they rode out of Tlemcen by the north gate, unquestioned.

For an hour they cantered easily through a fertile champaign, more than once meeting parties of soldiery, wild, uncouth, mountaineers of the west, who exchanged a sulky marhaba with Barbarroja and passed on. At length they came to their companions, who were camped in a grove of trees beside a rivulet.

Dr. Shaw came forth to meet them, anxiety and delight in his countenance. Laughing, Spence swung from the saddle, and then presented his astonished friend to Mistress Betty.

“Dr. Shaw is entirely unaware of your story,” he concluded, “so I shall leave him with you for explanations while I speak with our leader.”

He swung off to join Mulai Ali. Looking back, he saw the divine helping Mistress Betty to dismount, and chuckled at the expression on his friend’s face.

Mulai Ali was sucking at a water pipe that bubbled and hissed like a lading camel under a wide tree. Spence made a brief report of their journey, and handed over the note which he had captured.

The somber eyes of Mulai Ali glowed hotly at hearing of Gholam Mahmoud, and burned again as they read the note. Spence lighted his pipe from the perfumed bowl of the chibouk.

“Great is God, and infinite; God, God, and God, the compassionate!” exclaimed Mulai Ali after a little silence. “He ordereth all things; the ways of men are plain before him.”

“True enough,” said Spence. “I suppose you left Arzew before our flight was discovered?”

Mulai Ali nodded.

“Although, as Allah knows, I had nothing to do with the escape of his astrologer, Hassan will suspect and send after us. We must ride on. We cannot avoid the Cisterns if we are to reach Udjde. Since we cannot go back, we must go forward.”

The Moor was silent again, evidently pondering some plan. At length Mulai Ali smiled.

“Here is the situation. This accursed Gholam Mahmoud will ambush me at the Cisterns, being charged with my death. Let him do it, and Allah upon him. Where Ripperda is no man knows; he is like a flea— he may be in Tlemcen tomorrow! But the danger is directed against me. You and the others have nothing to fear. The ambush will not be set against you.

“Therefore, all of you ride forward, taking Barbarroja and two of the Spahis. Ride to Udjde; the governor is my kinsman, and I will give you a letter to him. Tell him that I shall remain at the Cisterns, awaiting help from him. The Spahis will go with me, following you slowly. There are ancient ruins at the Cisterns, and we can easily defend ourselves there until help comes from Udjde. You understand?” Spence nodded. This plan assured Mistress Betty a modicum of risk, and suited him well.

“The leather box is safe?”

“Yes. Will you not take and keep it yourself, now—”

“No! The relics of the Moorish kings in that box will swing every chieftain in Morocco behind me. The copies of secret Spanish treaties are invaluable. The casket is safer with you; the stars declare that your fate and that of the astrologer are bound up with mine. It is evident that Allah, who alone knoweth all things, has so ordained the matter.”

“Very well,” Spence nodded. “Write your letter, and I’ll tell the others of the plan.”

He rejoined Dr. Shaw and the maid, whom he found seated beneath a tree in earnest discussion. They listened in silence to Mulai Ali’s plan, and Shaw nodded quick assent.

“A good plan, Patrick! It assures little risk to any of us. We shall start at once.”

“Then I shall go and thank Mulai Ali for his kindness,” said the girl, and rising, departed.

Spence met the eyes of Dr. Shaw, and smiled.

“I suppose you’re going to rake me over the coals for my imprudence, doctor?”

“Tut, tut, Patrick! You did exactly right, my boy! Do you know she is a most amazing young woman? I was just expounding to her my theory in regard to the eurodydon of Saint Paul’s history, as opposed to the Vulgate reading; as you know, Saint Luke was present—”

“My dear doctor,” intervened Spence, “you must give me your views on that point later. At present you had best gird up your loins and get ready. Our business makes us set out at once and ride hard to Udjde. Suppose you get Mulai Ali’s letter, while I rouse the men.”

Dr. Shaw sighed and obeyed placidly.

Spence found Barbarroja relating, with huge gusto, horrible tales of the Beni Snouss and other desert tribes through whose country they must pass later; the credulous Spahis listened agape, swallowing all his fancies. Spence angrily ordered him to saddle up.

“We are to ride ahead of the others. You will guide us. Two of the Spahis go also. Hasten!”

He turned to saddle his own horse, and did not observe that Barbarroja gazed after him with fallen jaw, as though completely taken aback by this information.

Within twenty minutes the start was made— Spence and Barbarroja leading, Shaw and Mistress Betty following, the two Spahis bringing up the rear with Yimnah. The party would reach the Cisterns some time that night.

Spence had no talk with Dr. Shaw until later. He noted that Barbarroja had lost his bold and jaunty air, seemed silent and uneasy, and often pawed his huge beard as though in deep thought; nor did the man respond to conversation. Spence thought little of it.

At the halt for sunset prayer, in which all save the three Christians joined, Dr. Shaw drew his horse alongside that of Spence.

“Patrick, I am told by Mistress Elizabeth that when you engaged this ruffianly red-beard, you told him you would discuss wages with him at Tlemcen. What agreement reached you?”

“Eh? Why, none! I forgot it.”

Shaw shook his head.

“That looks bad, my son! If the man were what he seemed— well, well, let be. I gather that we reach the Cisterns tonight, and halt until morning?”

“No halts,” said Spence curtly. “We must save Mulai Ali’s neck, and that means hard riding. It’s only fifty miles to Udjde, our horses are in good condition, and we must push on.”

“But stop a few moments at the Cisterns,” pleaded the doctor anxiously. “I have heard of notable inscriptions there, on a pillar near the wells. The moon will be at the full tonight, and I can copy it in a few moments.”

Smiling, Spence agreed. So small a boon, which meant so much to Shaw, could not be denied.

After the prayer and a brief repast, they went on again at a brisk pace. An hour after nightfall the moon rose, full and glorious, lightening all the cold countryside with silver brilliance. Muffled against the cold, the party pressed their horses vigorously.

It lacked an hour of midnight when they approached El Joube, or the Cisterns.

There was no native village here; only a bleak hillside, covered with ancient ruins, where two brackish wells supplied water for travelers. The moon was at her zenith. The place, with its white marbles and broken columns, and jackals howling afar, was the very epitome of desolation. Spence sighed in relief when he saw that the camping ground was empty. Evidently they were ahead of any ambush. Mulai Ali might have come with them after all.

“No unsaddling!” ordered Spence. “We stop for food and water, then on again. May I spread cloaks on the ground for you, Mistress Betty?”

Shaw, forgetting all else, was already scrambling away amid the ruins.

Spence laid out his burnoose for the girl, fed his horse, and joined her with dates and couscous. Presently he lighted his pipe, and was getting it to draw when he heard the voice of Shaw from the tumbled ruins, excitement in its tone.

“Patrick! Come here at once and see what I have found!”

Laughing, Spence essayed to find the divine. This was no small matter, but, after circling a huge cistern, and stumbling over heaps of ruins, he came upon Shaw. The latter was seated before a broken pillar, notebook in one hand, sword in other; with the rapier he was scratching lichens from an inscription— the use to which he most often put the weapon. Dr. Shaw looked up excitedly.

“Patrick! Let me read you this remarkable inscription:

“Q. POMPEIO CN. F. QVIRIT. CLEMENTI

PA— DIIVR EX TESTAMENTO.

Q. POMPEIO F. QVIR. ROGATI FRATRIS SUI

POMPEIA A. P. MABRA POSVIT.”

“Does that suggest nothing to you, Patrick? Does it betray no significance?”

Spence laughed. “Only that somebody wasted a lot of time. What’s the big find, doctor?”

“Man, man! Do you not realize that this broken inscription refers to the grandson and great-grandson of Pompey himself? Finding them buried here beneath us, what a force and beauty are lent to the sublime epigram of Martial! Think of them being entombed here.”

“I’m cold,” said the practical Spence. “I’m thinking a lot more of ourselves than of Pompey’s family. If you’ve finished copying those letters, suppose we move on.”

“I forgot!”

The other rose.

“Patrick, I saw some men watching me from behind those stones— I said nothing of it, lest they interrupt before I had copied the words.”

Spence stifled a curse.

“Come along, then! We’ve done enough talking— hello! Who’s this?”

A swaggering figure approached them at this instant. It was Barbarroja, one hand at his hilt, the other twirling his mustaches. Beyond, Spence saw that Mistress Betty and the others were already mounting. Yimnah was lying down, drinking from the well.

“A word with you, señores!” exclaimed Barbarroja. “I have an offer to make you.”

“Confound you!” snapped Spence. “What are you talking about?”

“Why, truce! Terms, capitulation, armistice! In a word, peace or war!”

“Are you mad?” demanded Dr. Shaw, peering at the renegade. Barbarroja chuckled.

“Not quite, señor. Listen! There is a company of men hidden here. At a call from me, they will attack. Now let us speak together— terms! My friend, who captains those hidden men, desires the person of the lady yonder. Now, how much is she worth to you? A word, and I can get you away from here without molestation.”

“Villain!” cried Dr. Shaw, and hurled himself forward.

So unexpected was his attack, that Barbarroja was taken unawares. The amazed Spence saw his companion twine both hands in the flaming beard and jerk the ruffian forward. A wild howl of pain broke from the renegade, to be quenched in a groan as the lusty divine kicked him amidships and stretched him senseless on the stones.

“That’s the way to deal with such gentry!” panted Shaw. “Now, to horse, Patrick!”

From the Spahis broke a shout of warning. A spattering of musket fire leaped from the hillside; men shouted, a ring of dark figures appeared, closing on the party. Spence and Dr. Shaw ran forward, trying to gain the horses.

“Ride, Shaw!” shouted Spence. “Ride with Mistress Betty and send aid! They’ve got us.”

The ring of figures closed in upon them. Steel flashed in the moonlight.

vii

“An honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails.”

THE SHOTS set the blooded, sensitive horses to plunging madly. One of the Spahis caught the bridle of Mistress Betty and spurred away with her, the other, his horse slain, leaped into the empty saddle of Barbarroja and galloped after his comrade.

Shaw was mounted, but two men were stabbing at him, a third had gripped his bridle rein. Yimnah was caught afoot. Spence missed his horse, which shied away; the two beasts were careering madly around, headed from the road and finding no outlet from the ruins.

Spence cut down the first man who sprang at him, and shouted again at the divine:

“Spur for it, Shaw! After her! Spur!”

“He who takes the sword,” quoth the doctor, neatly putting his rapier through one of his assailants, “shall even perish by the same.” And the thin blade split the throat of the man at his rein. “Farewell, Patrick! Woe is me that I must leave you.”

His voice was lost as he thundered away.

Spence conjectured that a score of men must have fallen upon them. He himself was ringed in against a block of marble, which secured his back. He pistoled two of the men before him, seized his sword again, and they recoiled momentarily from his attack.

A wide blade flamed in the moonlight. The hoarse, inarticulate rage scream of Yimnah rent the night like a paean of horror. The monstrous figure of the eunuch, streaming blood from a dozen wounds, rushed through the assailants, striking to right and left in blind fury. They opened before him, fell back from Spence, shrieked that this was no man, but some jinni of the mountains Yimnah leaped on them, struck and struck again, screaming.

“Fools!” cracked out a voice in Spanish.

A musket flashed near the voice. There died Yimnah, the wide blade sweeping out from his hand and clashing on the stones.

At this instant Spence leaped out suddenly as one of the horses plunged past; he caught the beast in mid-career, dragged himself into the high saddle. That harsh, crackling voice electrified him; it was the voice of Gholam Mahmoud. Now he perceived the man’s figure, off to one side, and directed the plunging horse toward it.

“Assassin!” he shouted. “This time you shall not escape.”

Another musket shot rang out. Spence felt a shock— and darkness came upon him. He bowed forward, his body supported by the huge Moorish saddle, his fingers twined into the mane of the horse. The frantic beast dashed away into the night with whirlwind hoofs.

Gholam Mahmoud leaped forward, raving like a maniac. To insure against discovery of the ambush, his horses had been left a quarter mile distant; pursuit was impossible. While Gholam Mahmoud cursed, Barbarroja came groaning to the scene, holding his hurt stomach.

“Ha, thou bitch wolf’s fool!” cried the furious red-beard. “Why did you not await the signal?”

“You were too cursed long in giving it,” snarled Gholam Mahmoud. “Now the woman is gone.”

“A murrain on you and your woman!” shouted Barbarroja. “Now Spence is escaped, and Mulai Ali not come. Pot-head that you are— only one eunuch bagged, and half our men down!”

“Devil take you, get the horses and after them!”

“After them yourself,” growled Barbarroja. “I stay here to kill Mulai Ali when he comes.”

Ten minutes later Gholam Mahmoud rode away toward Udjde— alone.

When Patrick Spence came to his senses his horse was following a cattle track in a long and narrow valley. Where he was, Spence had not the least idea; he was completely lost. He had caught his own horse, and behind the saddle were provisions, water-skin, and the covered box belonging to Mulai Ali.

For a space he rode confusedly, until a twinge of pain recalled him to memory. He drew rein, found himself bareheaded, and discovered a slight wound along the scalp above his left ear. He made shift to wash the wound with water from his bottle.

“The devil!” he exclaimed suddenly. Realization smote him full force, left him appalled and bewildered. Why, Barbarroja must have been in league with Gholam Mahmoud all the time. He must have expected to lead Mulai Ali into that ambush; and, too, must have had some share in Gholam Mahmoud’s work in Tlemcen.

“And I never suspected, when he found me trussed up and appeared so amazed,” thought Spence, dumfounded. “Well, Master Red-beard, just wait a bit. I’ll have a word with you in time.”

Presumably, Shaw and the girl had escaped with the Spahis. They would reach Udjde and send help to Mulai Ali. Thus the assassins had gained nothing, and Spence considered his own case as he rode onward again.

He was lost, sure enough. So far as he could tell, he was among a series of long, barren hills; the valley stretched interminably, and seemed uninhabited, yet he knew that this cattle track must lead somewhere. He let the horse take its head.

The hours dragged until the moonlight was gone. Still Spence perceived no sign of life among the bare hills. With darkness, he halted, hobbled the horse, and lay down to sleep until dawn, hopeless of wandering on through the obscurity.

With dawn he found the horse muzzling him for food. Stiffly he gained his saddle and sent the Arab onward. As the sun rose to warm them, Spence noticed that the beast quickened its pace; ten minutes later he made out a low group of trees, and the dull walls of a mud-thatched building in an elbow of the valley.

Renewing the priming of his musket, he rode forward. Not until he drew near the trees and shouted did he discern any sign of life. Then a misshapen old man came forth from the hut and peered at him, chattering Arabic volubly.

“Do you speak Spanish?” demanded Spence. “Or English?”

The hunchback started, and drew back. “Be you an Englishman, sir?” he quavered.

“Eh?” Spence started. “You’re not?”

“God love ye, sir; God love ye!” broke out the ancient. “Out o’ the stirrup and welcome to ye! It’s two year and more since I’ve had a bit of English speech. A bonny bit o’ flesh under ye, sir! God love ye, what a bonny creature it is.”

“You’re English?” said the astonished Spence, as he dismounted. “I need feed for the horse more than for myself.”

“God love ye, an honest man thinks for his beastie first. Come in, and lead the horse after ye, sir. ’Tis like entertaining a prince to have a horse o’ that blood under my roof! True Njed quarter strain, I’ll warrant. Come in, sir, and welcome!”

Feeling as though in a dream, Spence entered the hut, a clean place, where the old man dwelt alone. A queer chap, this hunchback, with his wisps of gray hair, his tattered garb, his bleary old eyes and palsied hands.

His name, the man would not tell; but he chattered out his story. Indeed, his thought was all for the horse rather than for Spence. A cutpurse in Bristol, he had been jailed, taken into the navy with other criminals, and was aboard a sloop captured by Algerines. For thirty years he had been a slave. A natural liking for horses had made him the manager of an outlying herd of the animals which were bred hereabouts.

“Fifteen hands, and full o’ the haunches,” he mumbled, lovingly stroking the Arab’s coat. “God love ye, didst ever see a finer slope o’ the shoulder than this? And saddle-backed! Just the touch o’ wiry springs, no weakness. What a head it is now, what a taper down from the brows! God love ye, sir, this beastie could drink from a pint pot and to spare! And the legs, twisted wi’ sinew, but clean as a whistle, and the ear like a thorn— God love ye, this beastie must be out o’ the bey’s stables at Arzew! Not the bey himself has a horse o’ Njed strain, but Hassan had two o’ them. Ye bain’t a slave on the escape, sir?”

Spence laughed.

“No. You’re right about the horse, gran’ther; it’s from the bey’s stable.”

He told briefly that he had been attacked by robbers at the Cisterns, and was lost. The ancient mumbled in amazement, but answered Spencer’s queries as to his road to Udjde.

“The Cisterns? God love ye, it’s far away from here! Follow the vale and ’twill bring ye out on the river a few mile ahead. There ye’ll find the river road from Udjde to the sea coast. Turn south to Udjde, or north to Adjerud, a tiny bit of a port that the Moors use.

“For a fine gentleman like you ’tis no journey at all! Sunset will see ye safe with lackeys and servants, and sojers, too, belike! God love ye, sir, ’tis no ride at all. Now wait ye here till I get some fresh tomatoes from the garden—”

The ancient shuffled away.

Within an hour Spence had breakfasted and mounted again. Spence forced money on the old man, and with a final “God love ye!” ringing in his ears, he rode away down the valley.

“A grotesque blessing, yet why not?” he reflected. “I’ve met worse hospitality in Christian lands. God rest you, old man, renegade or not!”

He saw no living creature on his way, though mile after mile slipped past. Udjde, he knew, was fifty miles from the coast. The “river road” was doubtless one that ran north to the port of Adjerud, for the maritime Moors were not fond of being cut off from the sea.

Shortly after noon Spence found that the valley was insensibly disappearing, and presently saw a river line of trees in the distance. In no long while he came to a wide but shallow stream, crossed it easily, and on the farther side found himself actually upon the road of which the old hunchback had told him.

He noted, too, a cloud of dust coming toward him from the north, betokening other riders on the road to Udjde. Since he had a straight story to tell and naught to fear, he waited, meaning to join them and ask protection as far as Udjde. He perceived that no caravan was approaching, but a group of horsemen, perhaps a detachment going to join the army.

Then, as he watched, the curiosity of Spence changed to incredulous amazement. Here were a score of horsemen, brilliantly garbed, and amid the foremost rode one clad in a plain white burnoose. Against this white burnoose, at the throat, was a glitter— there could be only one man in all the world with the effrontery to display the collar of the Golden Fleece against the garb of a renegade.

It was Ripperda beyond question. Ripperda, and with him his bodyguard of renegades— and riding to Udjde!

viii

“I’ll learn to conjure and raise devils, but I’ll see some issue of my spiteful execrations!”

Doctor Shaw did not regain control of his terrified horse until he pounded up alongside the two Spahis, who held between them the reins of Mistress Betty.

Vainly had she ordered them to return and fight, vainly threatened them, vainly entreating them, all but swearing at them in an agony of supplication. They, dour, bearded Turks, shrugged their shoulders and pricked westward. So when Shaw came up with the three, and the girl saw that he was alone, she turned upon him fiercely.

“Where is Captain Spence?”

“When I left he was still fighting.”

The divine gave no explanation of his desertion.

“Oh!” cried the girl. “Oh— coward that you are, to leave him! Shame upon you!”

The Spahis grinned in the moonlight. They did not understand the words, but had no need to. Shaw, who still carried his naked rapier in his hand, wiped and sheathed it.

“My dear madam,” he said, the cool stiffness of his voice giving no hint of the tears that were upon his cheeks, “Patrick Spence is very dear to me. But it is I who bear the letter to the Governor of Udjde. It is I who am charged with a commission involving the fate of empires and of religions—”

“And you save your craven neck for that reason!” burst forth the girl, bitterly.

“Even so, and it pleases you,” rejoined Shaw’s emotional voice. “Unless I reach Udjde, our friend Mulai Ali falls into a trap back yonder, and receives no aid. In this event Pasha Ripperda remains sole ruler of Morocco. In such case, the Barbary States combine against Spain, who will be alienated from her allies; and the Moors will begin a holy war for the reconquest of the peninsula. It is very logical that—”

“A murrain on your logic!” snapped Mistress Betty. “Patrick Spence is worth more than all your fine plans and schemes!”

“So speaks the woman, mulier saeva,” reflected Dr. Shaw. “The cruel woman who recks empire less than the little finger of a man! Truly says Clemens Alexandrinus that—”

His voice ended, however, in a choked silence and a gulp. Here, perhaps, Mistress Betty perceived that in him was a greater tenderness than appeared, and guessed that his desertion of Spence might have other reason than cowardice or logic, for after this she rode on in silence.

They rode into Udjde in the morning with a great and haughty shouting on the part of the Spahis, and demands to see the amel immediately. Udjde, amid its wide orchards and olive groves, the most fertile oasis in all the Nagad steppe, opened itself to them by way of the Bab el Khemis.

Amid a continually growing concourse of horsemen, curious townfolk, and men of the famed Barbary tribes, they rode to the kasbah in the south quarter of the town. Thirty minutes later a hundred men of the ancient Lamta tribe were spurring madly eastward along the caravan road to the Cisterns.

Dr. Shaw found himself and Mistress Betty given commodious quarters in the citadel and hospitably entertained by the amel, or governor— an old, hoary Moor who had managed to live long by dint of guile and not too high ambitions.

During most of the day the worthy doctor rested. Toward evening he was summoned to dine with the governor, with word that news of Mulai Ali was expected at any time. Mistress Betty, being a woman, was forced to remain in her own apartment with the female slaves allotted her.

Garbed in clean linen, Shaw was conducted to the private quarters of the governor, whom he found alone. While a bountiful repast was served, the two fell to discussing affairs in Morocco. The governor was certain that once Mulai Ali could get into the country his star would quickly blaze above that of his cousin Abdallah.

“All men turn to the new master,” he said sagely, stroking his white beard with his left hand, while his right plunged into the food. “El Magrib is ripe for revolt— but Abdallah is strong, and stronger yet is Ripperda, in whose hands is the power.”

“If Mulai Ali comes will you declare for him?” asked Shaw.

“Yes, and my warriors will ride to Fez with him. Know you who that renegade was— him with the red beard, whom you called Barbarroja?”

Shaw shook his head. The old governor chuckled as at a good jest.

“He serves the Sherif Abdallah and carries with him the royal signet. And the other of whom you told me this morning, the man in the black burnoose, Gholam Mahmoud, is the agent of Pasha Ripperda. He, he! No wonder those twain laid in ambush for Mulai Ali!”

Before Shaw could reply to this disclosure— indeed, for a moment he sat agape at hearing the truth about Barbarroja— a slave hurriedly entered and knelt. In his hands was a pigeon, which he presented to his master. Knowing that the force sent to the Cisterns had taken carrier pigeons, the quicker to inform the governor of what took place there, Shaw leaned forward anxiously as a tiny roll was taken from beneath the bird’s wing.

The old Moor opened it, read a scrawl of Arabic, and turned pale.

“God, God, and God the Compassionate, the Merciful!” he ejaculated. “This is from a friend in Adjerud. It warns me that Pasha Ripperda is on his way here with his bodyguard of renegades. He should arrive tomorrow.”

Shaw gave a start.

“Ripperda— with his bodyguard! No troops?”

The old Moor shook his head. He was extremely agitated; the very fact of Ripperda’s coming had thrown him into consternation.

At this instant a second slave dashed in and presented a second bird. With trembling fingers the governor detached the missive. He read it, then crumpled the thin paper in his hand and sat staring before him, like a man who sees utter disaster ahead. In reality, his fertile old brain was scheming and planning, but Shaw did not know this.

“What is it?” demanded the divine eagerly. “News from Mulai Ali?”

For a long moment the Moor made no response. He stared straight before him, as though the question had been unheard. Shaw, unable to bear the suspense, reached out for the paper, but the Moor hastily tore it across.

“Catch Ripperda when he comes!” exclaimed Dr. Shaw swiftly. “You see your chance? Catch him at the city gates, capture him, raise the flag of Mulai Ali—”

The old Moor turned, lifted his head, regarded Shaw steadily.

“Ali,” he said slowly, “is dead. The redbeard has done his work. The troops reached the place too late— Ali had been stricken by a bullet.”

Shaw quivered under the blow. Then, silently, he resumed his seat and folded his hands on the table. Mulai Ali dead! Everything was lost. He did not observe that, while speaking, the eyelids of the Moor had fluttered slightly— an involuntary lowering of the lids, which is nature’s signal of a lie issuing from the lips.

Swiftly the governor clapped his hands. A slave brought writing materials, and the old Moor dashed off several notes, which he sealed and dispatched. Then the captain of the troops, a splendid Berber of the hills, strode in and received rapid orders.

“The Pasha Ripperda arrives tomorrow. Prepare rooms in the citadel for his use. In the name of Allah, greet him as one who is the right hand of our lord the sherif!”

Again the two men were alone. The old governor turned to Shaw with a quiet gesture.

“You have eaten my salt. I cannot protect you against Ripperda. What wish you to do?”

Dr. Shaw had gathered his wits by this time, and his brain was working shrewdly.

“My friend Spence was not mentioned in that message? Then let us hope that he is alive. I shall remain here. Ripperda will not harm us, for I have a nominal errand to the sherif— regardless of his name! And I must await news of my friend, also. We shall remain here.”

The Moor nodded. His eyes were narrowed in calculation, anxiety sat beneath the lids.

“May Allah further your undertakings! I have my own head to look after.”

Dr. Shaw took the hint, rose, and departed to tell Mistress Betty his news.

In another portion of this town was a house, outwardly inconspicuous, inwardly a mass of sumptuous furnishings. Many slaves were here, white and black; the harem was large.

In a small room sat the master of this house, upon a thick rug before a writing table such as scribes use. A tiny shaded lamp burned before him; his face was invisible, only his sinewy arms showing in the circle of light. He clapped his hands, and a slave entered.

“When a man comes showing the signet of the sherif, bring him to me at once.”

Alone again, the man went on writing. As his right arm moved in the light, one could see a design upon the skin— the figure of a dolphin, tattooed there. This man was Gholam Mahmoud.

Suddenly, almost without a sound, the door opened. A man clad in a dark burnoose came into the room; he threw back the hood and disclosed the flaming beard of Barbarroja. A weary oath broke from him as he sank down on the rug.

“Diantre! Get me some wine. I had to shout for half an hour before they would open the city gates— even the signet of the sherif barely satisfied the dogs. Allah upon them! I rode my horse to death and walked the last two miles of the way here.”

A slave brought wine. Barbarroja twice drained a goblet, then sighed contentedly.

“You should have stayed with me.” He grinned at his host. “You lost money, caballero! That is what comes of running after women. As it is, the reward is mine.”

“Reward!” Gholam Mahmoud started. “Then— Mulai Ali—”

“Is dead.”

Barbarroja twirled his mustache grandly.

“I do not say it was well done, nor am I proud of the matter, however, Allah knows I need the money! His Spahis fought off my men, and while they fought, I gained place in the rear— and put a bullet in his back.”

“Where is his head, then?” sneered the other.

“Bah! The event will prove my words. Any news of the man Spence?”

“None. He is lost. The others readied here safely. Why are you interested in him?”

“Because,” said Barbarroja coolly, “I have just learned that Spence carries the leather box behind his saddle. That makes you jump, eh? Well, it is the truth. Ripperda’s casket!”

Gholam Mahmoud snapped out an oath. Then: “Have you any scheme, any way to find him?”

Barbarroja chuckled.

“Spence cannot go far alone, and dare not go back to Tlemcen; so he must come west. In that event, he will be picked up somewhere in this district. We have only to wait until he is brought to the governor. When he comes we take the casket— and you negotiate its sale to your master Ripperda. You comprehend? It is simple.”

Gholam Mahmoud smiled his twisted smile.

“And suppose Pasha Ripperda comes here?”

“Let him come!” Barbarroja shrugged, but his eye was startled. “Do you expect him?”

“Perhaps tonight; certainly tomorrow.”

“Dios! Very well.”

The Spaniard made a grandiloquent gesture.

“I am a generous man. I shall allow you to share the credit of killing Mulai Ali; tell the pasha we did it together. The sherif’s reward goes to me, however. This will rehabilitate your credit with Ripperda, who will then gladly pay a big sum for the casket. You understand?”

Gholam Mahmoud regarded him sneeringly for a moment. “I understand that in all this there is no mention of the woman whom I desire. If we are to work together, let the conditions be fulfilled— or I shall obtain the woman for myself! If you want the money, turn over the woman to me, and do it quickly. She is here now.”

Barbarroja pawed at his great beard, and considered this demand.

“Agreed,” he said, and yawned. “You shall have her tomorrow. Give me a place to sleep, caballero, and Allah will bring all things to pass!”

Gholam Mahmoud himself conducted his guest to a room on the upper floor.

Once alone, Barbarroja did not sleep, though he was worn and haggard. Instead he sat for a while staring into the lantern, and plucking at his huge beard. He was sore put to it.

“They will all be warned against me now, since that old goat of a governor knows me all too well,” he reflected. “And the governor will avenge the death of Mulai Ali on me, if he catches me. How, then, shall I get the woman for yonder lecherous viper? Get her I must!

“If that devil of a Spence returns— ha! Old Shaw is the one to work upon, and I owe him a turn for the sorry trick he played me at the Cisterns. Shaw is the one— and it must be done speedily, before Ripperda comes, before that devil Spence turns up! Tomorrow, early.”

He sat for a while longer, then blew out the lantern. Presently his chuckles died away into a droning snore.

ix

“Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.”

AN HOUR after sunrise, Dr. Shaw hastily sought the presence of the governor. “Sleep is a trusty adviser,” he said. “I have changed my mind overnight, and have decided to leave here at once, before Ripperda shall arrive.”

“God knoweth all things.”

The old Moor blinked. “Consider me at your command. What wish you?”

“Nothing,” said Shaw. “I will take the two Spahis who brought me here and go on to Fez. I have obtained a guide. Give me a spare horse, food, and water-skins.”

The old Moor blinked again. He smelled something amiss, since this was not the proper state for an envoy. But he was mightily glad to be rid of Shaw, who might interfere with his own artistic lies to Ripperda, and refused to inquire too close into Shaw’s purpose.

Nor did he fail to note the inward agitation of Shaw. Putting one thing with another, he shrewdly guessed that this agitation was connected with the missing Spence. All his solicitude was for his own hoary head, however, so he sped his guests right courteously.

Half an hour later Dr. Shaw and Mistress Betty, attended by the two Spahis, rode toward the western gate of the city. With Shaw, in front, was a rascally one-eyed Moor. He was not only the guide, but the cause of their precipitate departure.

“You are certain you know the place?” said Dr. Shaw to the Moor.

“Aye, infidel,” growled the guide. “It is the tomb of Osman, half a mile from the city gates— a deserted spot, since the tomb has fallen into ruin.”

Shaw drew back beside the girl, who watched him with anxious eyes.

“I think it is all right,” he said. “At least, it tallies with Spence’s note, and we must trust the rascal. Let me study that note again, mistress.”

The girl handed him a paper, which he read over as he rode. It was a note in English, signed by Spence, telling Shaw to meet him outside the western gate at the tomb of Osman, and to make no delay. Spence stated that he was slightly wounded, had no horse, and dared not enter the city; that Mulai Ali was dead, and all their hopes gone. All this tallied only too well with what Shaw himself knew.

As they neared the western gate, there came to them a distant sound of gunfire and a faint clamor of shouts. Shaw gave the girl a whimsical smile. This noise was the welcome to Ripperda, who was at that moment entering the city by the northern gate.

The gate behind them, the party rode toward the orchards and groves beyond the city. The Spahis were ahead, the guide between them; Shaw and Mistress Betty followed with the lead horse. In this order they entered the rich champaign and saw the city walls vanish.

The timeliness of this departure, and the expected meeting with Spence, put Dr. Shaw into high good humor. His anxieties disappeared, and he discussed with the girl whether they should strike on for Fez or return to Algiers. In the midst of this cogitation the guide called back to inform him that the tomb of Osman lay ahead.

This was the ruined tomb of some ancient marabout, as the domed building testified. A desolate garden surrounded the place, which was in ruinous disrepair. There was no sign of Spence to be seen, and Shaw strove to dissipate the uneasiness of his companion.

“He may be sleeping somewhere near by,” he said, reassuringly. “At least, we can wait.”

They drew near, and passed beneath the western wall of the old tomb, where there was shade from the morning sunlight. Shaw dismounted and gave his hand to the girl to help her from the saddle.

At this instant the trap was sprung.

The guide, with one lightning movement, plunged his long knife into the side of the nearest Spahi, then put spurs to his horse. The second Spahi whipped out his scimitar, and from the nearby trees came a ragged blast of muskets. Pierced by two bullets, the Spahi fell beside his dying comrade.

Three men came running from the trees, joining the treacherous guide.

So swiftly had all this taken place that both Shaw and the girl stood motionless, paralyzed by the rapid horror. Then, as the assassins ran forward, a cry broke from Shaw.

“Barbarroja!”

Red-beard it was, brandishing his sword, who led the other ruffians. He came to a halt and grinned widely at Shaw, while his men seized the horses and plundered the dead Spahis.

“Señor, I greet you! Behold, am I not a pretty writer of notes? It is not Spence.”

“Scoundrel!” cried the doctor in a strangled voice. “You have deceived us!”

“Decoyed you into a pretty trap— exactly!” Barbarroja flourished his sword. “But there is no credit in decoying a weak partridge like you, little man.”

One glance around showed Dr. Shaw that he was lost. He instantly became calm and cold.

“What is the reason for this treachery?” he demanded, hand on sword.

“It is twofold,” was the cool response. “The pretty señorita would be reason enough for most men; but honor comes first with me. I owe you a debt for what you did to me at the Cisterns, and I shall settle the debt.”

Barbarroja advanced, glaring at Shaw. Behind the latter stood Mistress Betty, motionless, watching and listening in utter despair.

“Oh, traitorous rascal!” groaned Shaw. “It is all your doing that—”

“My doing, indeed!” Barbarroja strutted with huge gusto. “Poor little chicken of a man. Was not I, Lazaro de Polan, sent to kill Mulai Ali? Well, he is dead as yonder marabout! And you are in my power, and my friend Gholam Mahmoud will take the leather box when Spence shows up, as he must soon do!”

He laughed at the despair of Shaw. It was a proud moment for Barbarroja, whose vanity was the greatest part of him. He stood there and laughed, while that great flaming beard of his curled and matted over his chest. Already Barbarroja was a little drunk with the prowess of his arm and his wits. His three ruffians watched him in proper awe.

“Now to our debt, little man,” he went on. “You insulted me both in Christian and Moslem fashion. You kicked me, for which the ancestry of Lazaro de Polan demands recompense; and you tweaked my beard, for which the ancestry of Barbarroja demands vengeance. To what end have I, a great caballero, entered the portals of Islam, if I am not to enjoy the rights of that faith? So, as a caballero of Toledo, and a devout Moslem, I demand satisfaction!”

Shaw uttered a hollow laugh.

“You would murder me, you scurvy rogue?”

“Not at all,” said Barbarroja grandly. “I, Lazaro de Polan, am no slaughterer of poor fools! In my capacity as a good Moslem, I should at once put steel into you; but in my capacity as a good caballero, I do not desire to sully my sword. Look at this sword, little man! Look at the spring of it! A true Toledo blade out of the sherif’s treasury!”

He seized the long blade, bent it double, let it spring back again. Passion seized upon Shaw— the angry passion of one to whom all hope is lost.

“Vile renegade!” he spat out bitterly. “If you have the courage to face me, do so! Dog that you are, I suppose you will have your bandits pistol me in the back!”

A look of astonished fury swept into Barbarroja’s face. He stared at Shaw, then swung and faced his men. At an order from him, they retired. He turned again to Shaw.

“For those words, I kill you!” He threw away his hat, bowed mockingly. “In my capacity as a caballero of Toledo, I salute you! To you is the honor of crossing blades with Lazaro.”

Shaw, swift as light, lunged forward.

The rapiers touched, clashed, hung suspended; they ground against each other, steel against steel, wrist against wrist. With his free hand, Barbarroja carelessly twirled his mustache. Shaw disengaged and lunged again. Once more the steel slithered and twined and hung futile against the sky.

“Not bad, Englishman!” observed Barbarroja patronizingly. “Not bad! Come, thrust the point into this red beard of mine— thrust in the point! I recall a Frenchman who had learned the Italian blade and who fancied himself greatly, back at Ceuta.”

Shaw attacked furiously, a silent deadliness in his manner. Barbarroja parried the attack, laughing, and continued his careless speech.

“He was a clever Frenchman! He had a thrust not unlike yours, a stiff and upright godliness in his wrist. When I warned him against this red beard, he laughed, and had the audacity to thrust straight into it. And what then? Why—”

A curse fell from Shaw’s lips. Not even a doctor of divinity but is human; and for one flickering instant the point of Barbarroja had licked at his throat. He parried, lunged again, pressed the attack with a colder skill, a more supple wrist. Barbarroja escaped only by a backward leap, disengaging. Shaw was upon him instantly. Again the thin blades met and twined, and hung suspended with life wavering in the balance.

“We were speaking of that Frenchman,” pursued Barbarroja, again twirling his red mustache. “He thought I jested, even as you think, little señor! And the point in my red beard— Dios! Have a care with that riposte— the point was tangled in my beard, señor, and my own point pricked him very neatly in the throat— thus—”

Barbarroja laughed very heartily; and midway of the laugh lunged like a demon.

In and out flickered his blade, a very tongue of death, and his eyes glared in sudden hot ferocity for blood. Shaw evaded that licking tongue by a hair; it reached around him, baffled him, bore him desperately backward.

He fought only by inspiration; his eyes upon the blazing stare of Barbarroja, his blade fending off the slithering death by sheer intuition. This could not last long, and Shaw knew it.

He was driven back and back, while ever those blood-hot eyes glared upon him, and the Toledo slid ever with more deadly lust. Now he was growing weary.

Abruptly Shaw gathered himself together, so abruptly that in the very midst of his retreat he plunged forward. The two blades went upward, locked at the hilts; then Shaw thrust back and forward again, leaped away, stood on guard. It was all in a flash.

Barbarroja moved not. He stared at Shaw with an expression of dismayed consternation. Then, unexpectedly, the Toledo dropped from his hand. Across his breast surged a sudden wide flare of crimson. His knees crumpled; he plunged forward on his face and lay quiet.

“Whether he died from the point,” murmured Shaw, panting, “or from sheer amazement that I pinked him— ’tis all one. The result, logically enough.”

From the three ruffians came a wild, hoarse yell— a shout of mingled rage, despair, and fright. They broke and ran for the horses. With a rush, a scramble, a flood of hot oaths, they mounted and took to flight. Dr. Shaw gazed after them, wide-eyed. Then he felt the hand of Mistress Betty seize his arm— heard her voice crying out at him:

“Look! Look— it is he— Spence!”

Shaw whirled about. There, upon the road, he beheld a cloud of dust, and far ahead of the dust three riders already drawing close— the foremost of them Spence.

An instant later Spence was reining up beside them, while his men whirled on in pursuit of the three escaping rogues.

“Good!” cried Spence, exultantly shaking hands. “The old governor scented something amiss in your departure— he said I might catch up with you, so I came along. Shaw, what’s been going on here? Why did you leave town, Mistress Betty?”

There was a moment of hurried explanations as all spoke at once. Then the girl seized upon the story, and Spence heard of what had taken place. Soberly he nodded at mention of Mulai Ali’s death.

“Aye, we heard of his death— Ripperda was carried off his feet with delight. He is a gracious scoundrel, that Ripperda! Hello, Shaw, what are you up to?”

They turned. Dr. Shaw was muttering over the Toledo, which he had picked up. Now he lifted his face to them, his eyes gleaming with delight.

“Look!” he cried. “The rascal told the truth! This graving says that the blade was made at Toledo, in the year 368 of the Moslem calendar, by special order of the great Almansur of Cordova! To think of such a sweet tool— a historic relic— eight hundred years of age.”

“Thrust it into your scabbard and let us be gone— with congratulations on your victory, doctor! A noble fight. But Ripperda is awaiting you, and so keep your wits about you.”

Shaw stared with fallen jaw. Ripperda!

“Then look to yourself, Patrick!” he cried suddenly. “This Barbarroja told me that it is known you carry the casket behind your saddle! Gholam Mahmoud knows it.”

Spence broke into another hearty laugh.

“Nay, let him search!” he cried gaily. “When I met with Ripperda, yesterday, I threw the box into the river. The box is gone, Mulai Ali is dead— there is an end to all intrigue! Here come three horsemen who rode with me.”

The horsemen, among whom were some of Ripperda’s bodyguard, were returning. At the saddle of the three foremost were three bloody heads. Steel, says the proverb, is swifter than judgment.

Thus the three, reunited, rode back into Udjde. If Patrick Spence thought that he was done with intrigue, however, he was far wrong, for Mulai Ali, though wounded and hidden away by the old governor, was not dead at all.

x

“He will spend his mouth and promise, like Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it!”

PASHA RIPPERDA sat in the justice hall of the kasbah and enjoyed his triumph. With the death of Mulai Ali, the one external danger that menaced him was gone. This thin man with the haunted eye was the supreme ruler of western Africa; the combined Barbary armies and fleets obeyed his orders— Egypt was in alliance with him.

Inwardly, gout rioted in his blood. As he sat and gave orders and heard reports, agony twisted him. Around him were his famous renegades, bitter, cruel men, devoted to him. And they could not save him from the devils that dwelt in his blood.

Messengers were dispatched to the sherif with news of Mulai Ali’s death— though the body had not been found— and Ripperda ordered a litter made ready that night, for he was returning swiftly to the army.

Dr. Shaw, Patrick Spence, and Mistress Betty entered the hall.

Though the effort made his face livid, Ripperda arose and tendered the girl the pitiful ghost of that bow whose courtly grace had once been famous from Vienna to Madrid. Then he staggered and fell back among the cushions.

In the eyes of the girl lay pity. Dr. Shaw, after one cold bow, stood gazing at the man with no evidence of feeling. The shrewd doctor was sensible that he faced an enemy.

Ripperda began to speak in English, and suddenly the inner man shone forth. That tongue of Ripperda’s had done incredible feats, and had not lost its cunning. He ignored Shaw for the moment and addressed the girl, whose story he had learned from Spence on the road.

“You have naught to fear under my protection, mistress,” he concluded with that wan and haunted smile of his. “I shall take you to the coast and place you aboard he first Christian ship available; I have promised the same to Captain Spence. And, lady, I have heard much regarding your skill with the stars. I would talk with you later in the day regarding these augurs of destiny. This gentlemen, I take it, is the famous Dr. Shaw, of Algiers?”

Shaw bowed again, assenting dryly. Ripperda eyed him, smiled, assumed a blunt frankness.

“What say you— shall we consign the past to oblivion, sir? I know in whose company you have journeyed; but as our Spanish proverb say, ‘The dead have no friends.’ How say you?”

Shaw chuckled.

“It is also said that a living dog is better than a dead lion. I pay you my compliments for your generosity, admit my culpability, and pray your grace.”

Ripperda, generous enough in victory, uttered a frank laugh.

“Greatness knows how to punish and how to forgive. I pardon you and welcome you, for your erudition is famed. I pray that you will join me for the noon meal; meantime, your late quarters are again at your disposal.”

With a brief bow Shaw accepted the dismissal. The three were conducted to the quarters so recently vacated, and there, with the girl’s permission, the two men lighted pipes and talked. Spence told what had happened to him, and how he had flung the leather box into the river and joined Ripperda.

“Ripperda was friendly enough,” he concluded. “He knew all about our friendship with Mulai Ali, bore no grudge, and welcomed me. A most amazing man!”

“Very!” said Shaw dryly. “Before Ceuta, he had two Spanish spies impaled on the same stake one day, which amazed even the Moors! Mistake not, Patrick; we play with fire.”

Spence shrugged.

“Mistress Betty,” he said, “your predictions to Mulai Ali scarce jibe with the fate that has befallen him! How explain you this discrepancy?”

“I explain nothing, Mr. Spence,” she said. “I am more interested in knowing what is to become of us. Will Ripperda keep his promises, think you?”

“He takes us to the coast tonight,” answered Spence. “Yes, it— it—”

As he spoke he had glanced through the window, which overlooked the courtyard. His voice died away. Suddenly he turned, darted to the door, flung it open. In the doorway stood one of Ripperda’s bodyguard, pistol on arm. The man, a Frenchman, did not budge.

“No one is permitted to leave,” he said, and grinned. “By order of the pasha.”

Spence slammed the door again. “Down there— Gholam Mahmoud, talking with the soldiers! The presence of that man bodes us ill.”

Dr. Shaw started.

“The man in black— Ripperda’s confidential agent! H-m! I see it all now. He has heard of Barbarroja’s death. He is down there, questioning the renegades, looking for that leather box— ha, Patrick! Did Ripperda’s men see you throw the box in the river?”

“Aye, most likely.” Spence stood at the window, watching the ominous figure below. “They said naught of it, however. Perchance they saw it done.”

A hammering at the door. Spence opened to admit a hulking Dutchman, the leader of Ripperda’s bodyguard. He made a smirking bow.

“The pasha wishes to see the lady and talk about the stars.”

Mistress Betty rose, calm and self-contained. She looked at Spence, and smiled.

“Do not fear for me, friends, for I think that Ripperda will keep his promise, and I may be able to help you. Farewell for the present!”

She left the room, the two men looking after her, helpless. Of those twain, one was destined to see her no more in life.

Mistress Betty entered the hall of justice, but was detained at the door. A tall figure in black passed her and strode rapidly to the side of Ripperda, to whom he spoke, low-voiced.

“Spence tried to destroy it, but I can recover it in a day or two. If I succeed will you give me this English girl for my harem?”

Ripperda’s face was overspread with a mortal pallor from the anguish in his veins.

“Her and a dozen more like her,” he said hoarsely. “A million curses on that Spence! Go, and fail me not. I shall await your report at Adjerud. The girl belongs to you.”

Gholam Mahmoud circled the seat and vanished through a hidden door. Mistress Betty was brought forward, curtsied, and waited. Ripperda forced a mechanical smile to his lips.

“Mistress, plead not for your companions!” he said gently. “They have deceived me basely—”

“They are my friends,” said the girl. “I cannot but ask your clemency for Mr. Spence and—”

Ripperda made a hasty, maddened gesture. His eyes flamed savagely.

“Very well, very well! Spence shall live; I will carry him to Adjerud and sell him as a slave. But Shaw— say no word of him, I warn you. Oh, how that man smiled at me! And in his heart he knew the box was gone, that I was defeated, unable to keep my promises—”

A spasm of rage came upon him. He writhed among his cushions, then with an effort got himself in hand.

“My horoscope!” he exclaimed. “Cast it. Fear not, gentle lady; you are under my protection and shall go safe to England. You have the word of Ripperda. So, while we journey north, do you cast my horoscope, for I think you will tell the truth about things.”

So the man lied. Mistress Betty, sensing the lie from his very protests, went a shade whiter. There was no fear in her answer, however.

“My lord, I am no wizard. To diagram the stars aright cannot be done in an hour or a day; I have no books to help me. Give me certain information, and in a week it shall be done.”

“A week!” repeated Ripperda. “Well, have your way. I shall have two women slaves given you, and new quarters here. We leave an hour before the sunset prayer. I shall send a scribe to you at once, let him write down what information you desire for the horoscope, and I will send it to you in an hour. Until night, rest, for we must travel fast.”

So Mistress Betty went to her prison, and saw her friends no more.

An hour before sunset Ripperda and his cavalcade departed. In the courtyard was riding and mounting, a horse litter was ready for Ripperda, another for Mistress Betty. Spence and Dr Shaw, disarmed and bound, were dragged forth beside Ripperda’s litter. From his curtained cushions, Ripperda glared out like some venomous reptile at Shaw.

“Smile on, fool!” said Ripperda acidly. “When the stake has pierced into your vitals and death is led before your eyes, remember Ripperda. Ho, there, amel!”

The old governor came forward obsequiously. Ripperda pointed to Dr. Shaw.

“When the muezzin cries for morning prayer, set this man upon a stake at the western gate. When he is dead, send his head to me in salt, that I may see whether he still smiled in death. Place the other man on a horse— forward, in the name of Allah!”

Spence was tied into a high saddle. To him pierced the voice of Shaw.

“Farewell, Patrick! God watch over you.”

“And you,” returned Spence in a choked voice. He looked back once, but Shaw had already been dragged away.

Through the city street, to the north gate, and then out in the sweet sunset through the olive groves and the fields of green alfalfa, passed the cavalcade, and on to the winding road that led north over the horizon to the sea. The sea! How the thought of it pierced Spence at this moment!

Himself tightly bound, destined to slavery, poor Shaw, impaled at the gate of Udjde, Mistress Betty, clenched in the grip of Ripperda and trusting to his treacherous word, and all these in the turn of a single day!

“A long score, Gholam Mahmoud,” muttered Spence thickly. “This is your doing, somehow— a long score to settle—”

So the sun sank from sight, and the day was done.

xi

“Fortuna— transmutat nicertos honores.”

THE LITTLE town of Adjerud, at the mouth of the Tafna River, was enjoying a brief heyday of prosperity. Upon an eminence behind the village was camped the great Pasha Ripperda with his personal troops; he kept the roads busy with messengers to the camps at Oran in the east and Ceuta in the west. He had been here a week, and illness held him fast.

Below the village, and by the deposition of fate camped between Ripperda and the shore, were a thousand wild Berber horse men, come from Morocco to join the armies. Ripperda was holding them here, uncertain as yet where they were most needed.

In the tiny port lay two ships. One was a small brigantine of Tetuan, Ripperda’s personal ship, manned by renegades like himself. On this ship, said rumor, were kept great treasures; Pasha Ripperda never knew when he was to be sent a wandering once more. The other ship was a battered hulk, brought in by a Salee rover to be repaired. Great crowds thronged the beach to watch her. She had come from a far country, and under her stern were the strange words, “Boston Lass.”

Aboard her were a score or more infidel captives hard at work. Each night they were brought ashore and kept guarded in a fishing shed on the beach. Among them was Patrick Spence, turned over to the fate of a slave, working under the lash with his fellow American seamen.

In a separate tent adjoining that of Ripperda remained Mistress Betty and her two slave women. She was closely guarded, for her own sake; when she left the tent, it was usually at night. From her women she knew of Spence’s fate, and knew that her own would be no better.

Upon the evening of Friday, “the day of the congregation,” she was summoned to the tent of Ripperda. He sat propped among pillows, his swathed feet upon two stools. His harried features bore such a blaze of exultation that she knew instantly some great thing had happened. Messengers had come from Oran by land, and from Ceuta by sea.

“Good evening, lady,” said Ripperda courteously. “Is not the horoscope finished?”

“At this time tomorrow night I will present it to you,” responded the girl quietly.

“Ah! And does it tell of success or failure?”

“Only one failure have I seen so far, my lord, and that is death. But there are evil influences in the south, and I fear tomorrow may tell another story.”

“Know you what has chanced today?” Ripperda gave a vibrant laugh. “Hear, then! The fleet and army of Algiers have joined my forces before Oran. A victory has been won at Ceuta. The Sultan of Egypt has joined me. And last— read this, which just came from Oran, from the hand of Admiral Perez himself!”

He extended a paper, a letter in Spanish. The girl read:

I write you hastily, during battle. The enemy attacked us and are trapped. Before me are the heads of the governor general, Marquis de Santa Cruz; the Marquis de Valdecagnas, Colonel Pinel, and a hundred officers of the Walloon and other regiments. In the name of Allah, who gives victory. Thy friend,

Perez.

“Now,” cried Ripperda proudly, “let us see if your horoscope forecasts what must happen! The Spaniard driven from Africa— and what then? Finish your labors, fair lady!”

“Tomorrow night they shall be finished, my lord. And forget not your promise to me!”

“I renew the promise— you shall have one of the captured Spanish ships at Oran, to go whither you will!”

The girl left the tent trembling, for she feared the man and his purposes. For a space she stood gazing over the camp-crowded shore below, and the little bay where the ship lights glimmered. Sadness was upon her, the load of despair grew more hopeless each hour. All her hopes had crashed down.

Now she was aware that a dark-clad Moor approached the man who guarded her. They talked softly, there was the chink of money, then the Moor came forward and addressed her in Spanish:

“Señorita, I come from Udjde. I have a letter for you, another for Captain Spence.”

Mistress Betty started violently. She took the paper extended to her.

“He is among the slaves yonder,” she said, despairing. “You cannot reach him.”

The Moor laughed quietly.

“Aye, we knew that ere I left. My master, the governor, has word daily by pigeon. I am told to bid you hope, and despair not. Adios!”

Crushing the note in her hand the girl turned to her own tent. In a fever of eagerness, she dismissed her slaves and bent above the lamp. She opened the paper and read:

If this reaches you, know that Mulai Ali is alive and well and will be proclaimed sherif ere this reaches you. Make what use of the news you can— he is already marching on Fez, but we keep it secret. The bearer will rescue you and Spence, if possible, and bears full powers from Mulai Ali to act for him. God keep you, sweet mistress!

Thos. Shaw.

Tears brimmed the girl’s eyes. Rescue! Good Dr. Shaw alive and well. Mulai Ali alive!

Whether she could be plucked from Ripperda’s hand was a large query. Spence was another matter; she felt sure that Mulai Ali’s emissary would rescue him. That Moor must have many friends, men of Ali’s party, enemies of the pasha. Was Shaw preparing some deadly blow against Ripperda, here in this place? Undoubtedly!

Exultation burned in the girl’s eyes as she turned to the horoscope.

“Mulai Ali wins!” she murmured, her eyes wide in rapt thought. “Though Ripperda slay me for it I shall drive home one blow to his face— such a blow as he shall rue bitterly! The man means to play me false, break his promise; I read it in his eyes. Well, then, here is a weapon that shall strike home to him!”

She seized quill and ink horn, and fell to work.

The following day was quiet. Ripperda looked hourly for fresh dispatches from Oran, but none came. His gout was worse; in her tent, Mistress Betty could hear the deep groans from his quarters. Only his renegades were encamped here on the hill, for he would trust no others.

Late in the afternoon, from her tent, the girl saw the arrival of a dozen horsemen from the south. Their leader wore a black burnoose, and at sight of him the girl shrank. Gholam Mahmoud! What new evil did his presence foretell? Had the man come to warn Ripperda?

The girl’s fears might have been both lightened and increased had she followed Gholam Mahmoud into Ripperda’s tent. He swaggered in, saluted Ripperda, and laid down a bundle.

“You have it there?” Ripperda started up, eagerly.

“Aye,” said Gholam Mahmoud. “As I thought, Captain Spence flung it into the river. Well, here it is! Being sewn in canvas, it has probably suffered little damage. It is unopened.”

Ripperda seized on the bundle with trembling fingers, ripped away the canvas, took a knife and cut the stiffened leather around the lock. Opening the box he found a number of small packages wrapped in oiled silk. A long breath of relief came from him, and he relaxed amid his cushions. Gholam Mahmoud regarded him with sardonic gaze.

“And my reward?”

“Ah!” Ripperda started. “Wait until tonight. The girl is casting my horoscope. Remain, hear the reading of it— and take her. Are you content?”

“It is well, master. I shall go and rest until night.”

The heel of the afternoon passed into sunset. As the daylight waned, the sail of a fast little sloop was seen speeding up the harbor toward the village.

It was now that Ripperda sent for Mistress Betty.

Starry-eyed she entered the tent, holding against the bosom of her white robe the scroll which was to foretell the doom of Pasha Ripperda. He sat among the cushions, smiling that weary smile of his. To one side sat Gholam Mahmoud, puffing at a water pipe; save for them, and the guard at the door, the pavilion was empty.

“The labor is done?” Ripperda’s tone was silky. “And did you obey my request?”

“I did,” said the girl. “My lord, your entire fate is written here.”

“Then read it, read it!” Ripperda’s interest quickened. “Tell first of the things I most want to know— the issue of my undertakings! I can study the whole horoscope later. Does everything go well?”

“Not so, my lord.”

The girl’s tone was grave; the gaze that she bent upon Ripperda was steady.

“If you desire flattery, I might give it; but what I have written here is the truth.”

Ripperda leaned back, a dry smile upon his lips.

“Let us know the worst, mistress! When shall the infidel be driven from Africa?”

“Never.” Mistress Betty unrolled the paper and read. “Your star has waned, my lord. The war against Spain is doomed to failure— nay, has already failed! Mulai Ali is alive and has been proclaimed sherif. You yourself have not a fortnight longer to enjoy life—”

An oath ripped from pasha’s lips. He sat upright, fury in his eyes.

“What madness is this?” he cried out. “Why, this—”

A cry from the door; into the pavilion rushed a panting man, waving a paper. The guard at the door called in to Ripperda.

“A boat from Oran, lord! This message has just come! From the admiral!”

Ripperda seized the paper, tore at the seals. Within, he found only a few hasty lines:

Allah has turned victory into defeat. The Algerine fleet is crushed on the rocks. Our camp is taken. Our army is shattered. Pasha Ali is dead. Flee to Tetuan; I meet you there. All is lost.

Perez.

From Ripperda burst a hollow groan. His features became ghastly, and for a moment he sat as though paralyzed. The paper fell from his nerveless fingers; Gholam Mahmoud, leaning forward, read the message in silence.

In this dread silence came another cry from the guard at the door.

“A courier from the south, with urgent news!”

“Admit him,” said Ripperda in a dead voice.

“In the name of God!” cried the dust-white man, flinging himself on his face at the entrance. “Mulai Ali is not dead, but alive, has been proclaimed sherif, is marching on Fez with all the Zenete tribes behind him. Also, an hour ago I met two Spahis from the army at Ceuta, who told me that the infidels have raised the siege there, and that a great fleet of Spanish ships has passed on the way to Oran—”

From Ripperda broke one choking cry. He rose, swayed, his face purpled with a rush of blood. Guards rushed into the tent, caught him in their arms. He could utter only one terrible word—

“Tetuan!” he gasped, and again: “Tetuan!”

He fell forward in their arms. Well, they knew that it was the signal to flee with him to his one refuge— Tetuan, on the coast. The captain of the bodyguard came running in hastily.

“There is mad tumult in the camp— by Allah! What has happened here?”

“Disaster,” said Gholam Mahmoud coolly. “The armies at Oran and Ceuta destroyed, Mulai Ali alive and proclaimed sherif! The master says to flee to Tetuan at once. Take the ship.”

“Listen!” shouted a renegade from the doorway. “Listen!”

From the camp below came rising a great chorus of voices, while muskets banged. “Ras Ripperda!” clamored a shrill, deadly yell, and the name of Mulai Ali rose high.

“They’ll have his head; sure enough.” Gholam Mahmoud gestured toward the unconscious Ripperda. “Get him away! You are cut off from the ship; you can’t gain it now. To horse!”

“By Allah, that is the truth!” cried the captain of the guard. “We cannot reach the shore. Bring him out, comrades— to horse, to horse!”

A rush of excited men. The tent emptied, save for the girl shrinking to one side— and Gholam Mahmoud. The latter brought a whistle to his lips, blew a shrill blast. The next moment a dozen men— his own men— were crowding into the pavilion. A mad tumult was rolling up from the camp.

“Loot everything!” cried Gholam Mahmoud. “Get aboard Ripperda’s ship— take her and her treasures for ourselves. Quickly! Scatter and meet at the shore!”

He turned upon Mistress Betty. One cry broke from her, but too late. A shawl was about her head, and he lifted her in his arms.

A moment afterward the rush of maddened Berbers, yelling the name of Mulai Ali and shrieking for the head of Ripperda, burst over the group of tents. These were empty. Only a hard-riding group of horsemen under the starlight showed that some few men had been faithful to the fallen pasha— faithful enough to flee with him.

xii

“Now from the bow came a noise of humming, and the crafty Odysseus sailed as he heard it.”

WHEN THAT fateful evening cast its shadows over the bay, Spence and his score of fellow slaves were herded into their fish-shed, ironed as usual by wrist and ankle. But tonight they did not cast themselves down in hopeless despair on the piles of filthy nets. Instead there was a low murmur of talk in the shed. Spence eyed his companions eagerly.

Three of them were from Newfoundland, the others were Boston men. Two over the score lay to one side, sorely wounded. All the officers of the Boston Lass had been calm at her taking, and now it was to Spence that these men looked for leadership. Nor did he fail them.

“Fear not, lads,” he said quietly. “That Moor was no liar! He and a dozen more men stand ready to aid us, and he bears an order from Mulai Ali to free us. Once escaped, we are safe enough.”

“And the lady, master?” spoke up lanky Cyrus Roberts, whom Spence had appointed to be his chief mate. “Be yon Moor a going to get her aboard the ship?”

“So he promised me,” answered Spence. “Hark! Something has happened in the camp.”

They fell silent, listening tensely. Something, indeed, had happened; the shallop had come to shore, bearing news of the disaster at Oran. Now, as the news spread through the camp, there arose a great tumult of cursing and shouting. Amid this clamor a dozen men stole into the shed, and their leader came to the side of Spence.

“Make haste, capitán!” he cried in Spanish. “Disaster has befallen our army at Oran, and already my emissaries are spreading news of Mulai Ali. Presently the tribesmen will be crying for the head of Ripperda— here are robes and swords.”

The Moor and his men were already unlocking the irons of the seamen. From somewhere close at hand boomed a musket, followed by a shrill yell: “Ras Ripperda!”

“I must go!” exclaimed the Moor. “I shall see to the señorita and meet you at the boats. Take your time and move carefully, lest you be recognized. These men of mine will obey you. Order them in Castilian— farewell!”

He was gone, running out into the clamor that now made an inferno of the camp.

Spence, freed of his irons, rose and took charge. There was no further need of caution, for the Berber camp was now in tumultuous confusion, guns flashing and torches flaring on every hand. Spence’s voice commanded the seamen sharply, as he stood beside the pile of robes and arms which had been brought by the Moors.

“Every man file past me and get a burnoose. Mr. Roberts! Take charge of these scimitars and deal them out, while I show the men how to get into the robes.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” responded Roberts promptly.

For any in the fever-hot camp to know that the Christian slaves were escaping, would provoke instant massacre, and Spence took no chances. He garbed each man in a burnoose, while Roberts handed out the swords and a few pistols which had been provided. Deep were the oaths of satisfaction which sounded as the men gripped the hilts and felt themselves once more free and about to strike a blow.

“Nigh enough like cutlasses, lads,” sang out Roberts, “to make ’em swing well! All ready here, sir. Be they Moors goin’ with us?”

Spence addressed the Moors, found that they were to help him capture the brigantine, and ordered them to lead the way. A last word to his men.

“Not a word until we get under her side, lads, or we may lose everything! She is Ripperda’s own ship, and if he gets aboard her we may have stiff work of it. But she’s our only chance of getting home again— look alive! Follow the Moors.”

It was the hope of Spence that he might not only capture the brigantine, but take Ripperda prisoner, for it was deemed certain that Ripperda would flee to his ship. Even Spence perceived, when he emerged from the shed, that this was an impossibility. From every side the Berbers were surrounding the little eminence on which stood Ripperda’s camp, and the pasha was quite cut off from shore.

“Unless he gets away by land, he’s done for,” thought Spence, listening to the frenzied yells of the mob.

Meantime, with his men, he was approaching the shore, where the fisher boats lay drawn up. Here, everything was darkness and confusion; several boats were creeping over the water between the shore and the anchored ships, and the Moors who were leading the party of white men came to a halt, counseling a wait for their leader.

Spence controlled the eagerness of his men, anxiously awaiting news of Mistress Betty. Suddenly a growl broke from Roberts.

“Master Spence! They’ve doused the lights on the brigantine— if they’re not a hauling of her out, then sink me for a Dutchman! Aye— can hear the clink o’ the pawls— kedging her, they are.”

True enough. Spence, hearing that sound, imagining that he could see the vague shape of the brigantine already moving across the water, caught his breath sharply. He breathed a prayer as he stood there in agonized suspense. Freedom— slipping away in the darkness! Without that brigantine they were lost. He knew it, the others knew it. And they waited for a girl.

Around him he could feel the tense straining and quivering of the seamen— their panting breaths, their awful agony of fear in that moment. From one bronzed throat came a stifled groan, then silence again. At length one man spoke up in terrorized accents.

“Master Spence! ’Tis too much to bide here doing naught, waiting for a lady.”

Somebody smote the man; there was the thud of a blow, then desperate silence. Spence felt a thrill as he sensed the quality of these seamen, sacrificing their hopes, jeopardizing their chances of escape for a girl they had never seen. He knew how bitter hard was that self-control.

“Ready at the boats, men,” he said quietly. “Lay the wounded men aboard and stand by to launch.”

A rustle of movement, a scrape of feet as they obeyed. All the while from the camp and the hill there was a flittering of torches and a continual outcry from the Berbers; the hapless servants of Ripperda were being slaughtered there.

Then a burst of running feet, and three men came hurtling out of the tumult. The foremost was the Moorish leader who had freed Spence, and from him came a sharp, terrible burst of words.

“She is gone! Gholam Mahmoud has seized her, taken her aboard Ripperda’s ship— he and his men have seized the ship.”

“Launch!” Like the snap of a taut cable came the word from Spence. “Run ’em out, lads— the lady is aboard the brigantine— after her!”

A growl of excited oaths, a. heaving of bodies, and the cumbersome fisher boats were scraped over the shingle. The men tumbled aboard, seamen and Moors intermixed, and there was a moment of confusion.

Spence, with six seamen only in his craft, and the Moorish leader were the first to get away. The oars dipped and tugged, the boat drew out from shore.

“What of Ripperda?” murmured Spence. The Moor whispered an oath.

“Escaped, may Allah blast him! His bodyguard rode away with him. Gholam Mahmoud had a dozen men there; they seized the lady and Ripperda’s treasures, and got aboard his ship. I was detained.”

“How many of them aboard her?”

“Thirty, at least, all corsairs.”

Satisfied that the other boats were following, Spence drove ahead. The brigantine was moving along in tow of boats; she would catch the land breeze soon. Already sheaves were squeaking and canvas was slapping. A moment afterward it was evident that Gholam Mahmoud no longer feared those ashore. Lanterns flashed on the deck, and hoarse shouts echoed, in the bows of the brigantine a cresset broke out its smoky flare. Three boats towed her.

“At her, lads!” snapped Spence.

He steered for hanging lines in the ship’s waist, and the men gave way. For a space it seemed that they would lay her board unchallenged; then, from her poop, cracked out a voice— the voice of Gholam Mahmoud. It was followed by the crack of a pistol.

“Off with the robes, lads! All up— boarders away!”

The boat surged forward— the oars fell. Spence caught a line, the agile Moor another, and they were over the rail. From the poop and bulwarks came a rush of men. The Moor emptied a pistol into them, then leaped forward with his curved blade swinging. Spence, cooler of head, stood by the rail, and his steel dropped the first man to reach him.

Now his men began coming over the side, sword in teeth; with a shout to them, Spence threw himself forward to the rescue of the Moor embroiled amid a crowd. “Hurray!”

The seamen streamed after him. A pistol cracked, and another; the Yankee rush burst the crowd asunder. The yell rose more shrill, as Spence’s other boats came up, and for a moment he thought they would take the ship at a blow. Only for a moment! Now from stem and stern came a rush of figures; steel flamed in the lantern light; the confusion and whirl of blades made an inextricable turmoil across the deck. From all this stood forth one terrible vision which was burned into Spence’s memory.

Himself engaged with a swarthy corsair, he saw Gholam Mahmoud cross blades with one of the Newfoundland men. A lantern lit them distinctly. He saw Gholam lean forward in a curious manner— saw his blade sweep out, then down and up— and with a scream the seaman died, ripped from abdomen to chin. It was the famous Mameluke stroke, the deadly and unavoidable cut which made the Mameluke swordsmen invincible throughout the east.

“Allah!” yelled the corsairs, and the Moors who fought for Spence responded in kind. Spence clove his way to the poop, and found the rail ahead of him. The waist was cleared. To bow and stern his men were driving the defenders. Then a rush changed the whole aspect. The seamen became bunched in the waist, fired on from poop and bow.

“Aft, lads!” shouted Spence, his voice rising over the din. “Aft! To the poop!” He leaped up the ladder, gained the poop, and found himself assailed by a corsair, the rais of the ship. Spence fended his head with his blade, and the steel shivered. He reeled, saw the swarthy face whirl in upon him, and leaped barehanded. He jerked up the bearded head, caught the naked torso, threw all his power into the terrific wrench. The corsair shrieked once, then went limp as his neck twisted.

“Up with you, men!” shouted Spence, but they were already coming.

From the deck Spence caught up a sword and led the rush. Behind, from the bow, the corsairs were pursuing, but the seamen gained the poop and began to clear it. Now amid the turmoil, Spence caught a glimpse of a white figure by the starboard rail, dragging a lantern from its place. He stared, incredulous, at the face of Mistress Betty— then a streak of fire and a roar leaped forth from her hand. A little swivel gun, mounted there at the rail, had been emptied into the crowded ranks of the corsairs!

In the flames of that discharge darted forward the face of Gholam Mahmoud, contorted and infernal in its rage. Spence saw the flash of a weapon, heard the girl cry out, hurled forward. Of what passed around him he saw nothing— now he had Gholam Mahmoud before him, and he heard the voice of Mistress Betty in his ears, and was fighting like a madman.

It was fortunate that Spence had seen and noted that dreaded Mameluke stroke, for now he saw Gholam Mahmoud lean forward again in that same curious manner. Spence leaped back and the blade hurtled up— a miss! Gholam snarled as Spence pressed in again. No words passed; the two men fought back toward the stern— back and back, quartering the deck with blow after blow.

Once again came that Mameluke stroke, this time so close that the steel point drew blood from Spence’s chest. As the blow missed, almost before it had missed, Spence was in and struck fiercely, with all his strength.

He felt the blade go home— heard the sword of Gholam Mahmoud clatter down on the deck. Then, in a flash, the man leaped up to the rail— gained it! He stood there an instant, getting his balance for a spring to the water; in this instant came something like a streak of light that took him squarely between the shoulders.

A knife, it was— a long curved knife from the hand of a Moor.

Gholam Mahmoud threw out his arms, the knife haft standing from his back; then, convulsively, the body leaped. From below came a splash— no more.

Spence leaned on his sword, panting, out of breath, things swimming before his eyes. Nor could he move, even when Mistress Betty came to him; her voice seemed distant and far. Then he was dimly aware of Roberts exultantly addressing him.

“She’s ours, Master Spence. Four of our lads killed, all a bit hurt— but she’s ours!”

“Make sail,” muttered Spence. “All hands— make sail!”

xiii

“A randy, dandy, dandy-o,

A whet of ale and brandy-o,

With a rumbelow and a Westward-ho!

Heave, my mariners, all-o!”

Tetuan was passed, and the narrow way of Gib-al Taric, and off Tangier the brigantine spoke a small galley which had come from the port to meet her. The two craft lay side by side, for the sea was like glass.

Here Spence said farewell to the Moor who had freed him, and to the six men who remained of the Moor’s following.

From the lazaret of the brigantine was lifted a chest, one of several in which was laid away Ripperda’s ill-gotten gold. This chest, with certain other plunder, was swung aboard the galley as Mulai Ali’s share. Then Spence confided to the Moor that same water-stained leather box, which held in its care Ripperda’s great schemes.

“To Mulai Ali this is worth more than the gold,” he said. “Take it to him, with our thanks and good-will.”

So the Moor passed to his own ship, and the galley departed. Spence called the crew into the waist, and with Mistress Betty beside him, laid a choice before them.

“Say now, lads, which way we steer? Whether to the north and England, or out across the Atlantic to home again. Many of you are wounded, we are short-handed, our charts are poor, our instruments worse. Yet we have food and drink to spare. Settle the matter by vote, and let us get out of these waters.”

Now the men, grinning, looked one at another. Roberts was urged forth as spokesman. He touched his forelock to the girl, and regarded Spence with a wide smile.

“Why, sir, as to instruments and charts and such, that be your business. But that there gold down below— be there much left?”

Spence laughed. “Enough to make us all rich men, lads, and Ripperda pays the shot. So speak out freely.”

“Well, sir, we would be fools to steer for any English port wi’ that gold below,” said Roberts. “The less any one knows of our business, say we, the better! If it please you, Master Spence, we vote to make Boston town, and if the royal governor hears naught o’ that there gold, ’twill be good luck for us!”

“Very well,” said Spence. “Master Roberts, lay the course for the Azores, and we’ll try our fortune for home!”

A cheer echoed up from the crew. Spence turned to the girl— met her grave regard.

“Well, Mistress Betty! Will you be saddened in heart to see the hills of Boston over our bow instead of the chalk cliffs of Dover?”

A smile lightened in the eyes of the girl as her hand crept into his.

“Dear Patrick! Hast never read your Bible, then? Dost not remember what Ruth said to the man in whose hand her own lay— even as mine lies in yours?”

And Patrick Spence laughed out as he looked with her to the west, and the ship swung about to the wind.

____________________

5: Three Smart Silks

Detective-Dragnet, December, 1930

JOHN DRISCOLL looked up as Hopkins entered. The oil operator was frowning, intent upon a paper in his hand, and shoved it suddenly at his guest.

"A damnable outrage!" he exclaimed. "The third threatening letter this week— and this one has a kick in it."

Driscoll, unhurried, reached for a cigar. He did not look at all like a Canadian, or even a barrister; much less did he look what he was— one of the best lawyers in Toronto. His pleasant, even features, with their level eyes seemed younger than their years.

He had been here in Beverley Hills only two days, having come out from Toronto to consult with Hopkins about the latter's eastern oil business and its Canadian branch, and was the guest of Hopkins.

"Did you get the papers from White?" he asked casually. Hopkins nodded.

"Yes. He's dropping in on his way home— I was a bit upset about this letter."

Driscoll held up the scrawl, which was upon blank stationery:

PEMBERTON HOPKINS, Beverley Hills

Fifty thousand in cash will save us a lot of trouble and will save you money and notoriety. Fraud charges filed tomorrow connection Oil Corpn. Unless cash deposited by eight tonight with Joe O'Meara. This is no bluff, brother.

COME ACROSS.

Driscoll's brows lifted as he regarded the letter, studying it carefully. His gray eyes scintillated, became alert with energy.

"I don't quite understand," he said. "The Oil Corporation?"

Hopkins made an impatient gesture. His iron-jawed features were a little weary.

"Yes, the combination, you know, of Coast companies— the Hopkins, Janiver and others. Three days from now we put it through; I'm to be president. Of course, if fraud charges are made, we'll have no end of trouble. My Hopkins Oil has wells in production up the San Carlos valley, with a lease on the entire Dominguez rancho, covering twenty thousand acres."

Driscoll frowned. "They can hit you, some way?"

"I don't know; my lawyers don't know. I've been pretty honest in my way, and I've made enemies. We know that for two weeks our stock has been heavily bought here and in 'Frisco. I whipped two big companies in a fight for that field, and they'd like to see me smashed—"

"What's this demand for fifty thousand cash to be given O'Meara? Blackmail?"

"I've just seen the postal inspectors; we don't know who writes the letters, and of course O'Meara would deny knowing. He's a shyster lawyer here, a personal injury shark with a big pull politically. No use trying marked money— we'd never catch him. He doesn't expect us to give him the money that way. This is to make us hold a conference with him and submit to robbery."

"It'd help you to know who wrote the letter, eh?" Driscoll picked up the paper and studied it again. As he was about to speak, Hopkins was summoned by the telephone buzzer.

"Send him right up," he said, and turned to Driscoll. "It's White."

"What time is it?" asked Driscoll. "Rather, what time do offices close here?"

"Four ten. Offices? Oh, about five or so."

Driscoll picked up a reading-glass from the table and studied the letter. He was still at it when White, chief of the legal firm handling Hopkins' affairs, entered. He was a worried-looking man of forty, and shook hands nervously with Driscoll.

"Any luck with those investigators you put on the blackmail hunt?" asked Hopkins.

White shook his head, as he opened his briefcase.

"I'm afraid we'll get nowhere, Hopkins. I can't unearth any hint as to what fraud charges they might bring, but I've found that O'Meara is pretty thick with a chap in the district attorney's office— undercover man and fingerprint expert. That means we're up against something shady. By the way, Mr. Driscoll, here are the proxies and other papers you wanted."

"Thanks very much," said Driscoll, his trace of English accent rather pleasant. "Do I understand that you have engaged detectives about these anonymous letters?"

"Yes, I have two very good men—"

"Would it be possible for you or your men, or all of you, to get into O'Meara's private office, on some excuse or another, before it closes today?"

"Of course," returned White, surprised. "I could go to him in regard to this letter, which mentions him. But why?"

"Well, please do it," said Driscoll. "And do it now, before his office closes. You'll find one or two penholders on his desk— not fountain pens, but old-fashioned ones. Get hold of them, by force if necessary; take one or both of your men with you, however, and slide them away without being seen, if you can. Have them marked, not on the pen holder, but on the pens themselves; they may be important evidence. Your detectives will understand."

White stared rather blankly at the Canadian. "Are you in earnest, Mr. Driscoll?"

"If O'Meara is behind this matter," said Driscoll, "then these letters were probably written in his private office. Certainly this letter was dictated, and he'd be the logical person."

THE lawyer turned to Hopkins, with a bewildered air, but met with a curt nod and a gesture that sent him hastily away. Hopkins, who conducted him to the door, returned to find Driscoll again poring over the anonymous letter.

"Look here, Driscoll," said the oil operator brusquely, "what makes you think that letter was dictated?"

Driscoll leaned back, lighted a fresh cigar, and gestured toward the letter.

"It's indicated by the uneven spacing between the words— in this case, a clear deduction. I'd say that the man who wrote it sat at O'Meara's desk, using one of the pens there. He was a man of fifty or more, of French parentage or extraction, was formerly a telegraph operator, was well dressed, and has a police record. Perhaps these points will help to identify him."

Staring blankly at the speaker Hopkins uttered an oath of amazement.

"I didn't know you were a detective, Driscoll— or is this a joke?"

"Not a bit of it."

"But how the devil can you tell all this about the writer of the letter?"

"Simplicity itself. There are five words to a line, many of the words connected; that shows an old telegraph operator, who always wrote his words thus by force of habit for easier counting, five to a line. This fact also determines his approximate age, for nowadays machines are used in most telegraph offices.

"His French extraction is proven by the capital 'T' which has the base oval on the right side instead of on the left, as we make it; the capital 'Q' is finished very low, and the small 'S' has a tip at the top, which might come from German— but the capital 'T' makes it definitely French. Certain of the words are not connected like the others, pointing to pauses in dictation.

"The paper," went on Driscoll, "is a soft, porous, cheap paper such as is used for second or carbon sheets. On the left side are two peculiar rigid indentations; my guess is that they were made by the seams of a glove. The writer kept his left hand gloved, then, while he held down the paper. Only very carefully dressed men wear gloves in California. Under the circumstances, it was odd that the writer did not remove his gloves entirely; why not? He was exercising habitual care to leave no fingerprints. Obviously he has a record somewhere."

Hopkins gave him a hard, amazed glance. "My lord! That's clever."

"Not particularly. I've made a study of documents. By the way, do you know anyone who might answer such a description?"

"Hm! The French part of it helps. Might be Jack Legrand— he was San Francisco French. He dabbles a bit in oil and is crooked as a dog's hind leg. He was one of the men after the Dominguez tract when I beat 'em to it. Still, he'd hardly be the writer of these letters; he's too big a man."

"Do you consider fifty thousand dollars a piker's bet?" asked Driscoll dryly. "Certainly no underling would be trusted with writing these letters. Have you the other two here?"

Hopkins nodded, and produced the letters.

DRISCOLL was still examining them minutely when White returned, accompanied by two men— investigators from a private agency. He came to Driscoll and laid two ordinary ink-stained pen-holders before him.

"There you are, sir— both are marked; all three of us can swear to them. They were taken from the desk while I talked to O'Meara, and he paid no attention. Hopkins," and the lawyer faced around, "that crook is too slick for us. He laughed at mention of the letter, and said we were trying to frame him. Then he let go his broadside.

"He's acting for Jack Legrand and several others who have bought stock in the Oil Corporation. It seems there was a prior lease made two years previous to yours by the Dominguez heirs, to some wildcat company that failed even to sink a hole. However, the lease ran for five years, and completely invalidates yours."

"The hell you say!" Hopkins flushed angrily. "Is it genuine?"

"Apparently. It goes to the District Attorney in the morning, with a demand for an investigation and with fraud charges."

Hopkins was aghast. "But I tell you, it can't be genuine!" he exclaimed. "There were three Dominguez heirs; none of them mentioned it to me! They swore they'd given no other lease!"

"Where are they now!"

Hopkins shrugged. "Spain, I think; one was in New York at last accounts. It can't be possible— eh? What is it, Driscoll?"

The Canadian had risen, and was holding out one of the pens to the lawyer.

"Here you are, Mr. White— your evidence. Defective pen; one of the nibs has been damaged, probably by a fall from the desk. Nearly every downstroke in that letter is imperfect, except where the pen was fresh dipped. With a little careful measurement of enlarged photos, we can absolutely prove that this pen wrote this letter. No two pen-points, even of the same identical make and model, are exactly alike, you know. Better put your investigators to work on this, and check up on the other two letters and the other pen."

Hopkins, waiting at the telephone, turned to Driscoll.

"Are you sure you want to handle this?"

"I'm sure of nothing, my dear chap," said Driscoll calmly. "I'd like to handle it, if you'll give me free rein. I think I can put it across for you, but I guarantee nothing."

"You're all right," said Hopkins. It was nearly six o'clock, and he had just located Joseph O'Meara at the latter's home. "Sure you want no one else present?"

"No; why try to scare him! Meet him anywhere—"

Hopkins leaned forward.

"Hello, O'Meara. This is Pemberton Hopkins. My attorney tells me there's some question about a prior lease to that Dominguez tract; correct? Well, if your clients would consider anything in the nature of a compromise— or in other words, if they'd sell me that prior lease— you imagine they might, eh? Very well. Have to discuss the matter tonight? Can't be done; I'm tied up in a business deal. I could have a friend of mine, here from the east, meet you—he'd want to look over your document anyway, and he could bring a blank check. Suit you?"

Hopkins turned to his guest, with an eloquent wink. The fish was hooked.

"Oh, anywhere you say—sure, I can trust Driscoll to the limit, and he can make the bargain if your document is genuine. Right. Cigar stand of the Ambassador Hotel, at seven sharp. Driscoll? Oh, young chap, English accent. Right."

Scarcely had Hopkins hung up the receiver, when one of White's two investigators arrived, with a report on Jack Legrand.

"It sure checks up with what you said about the letter writer, Mr. Driscoll," said the operative admiringly. "Legrand went to France with relatives, as a boy, spent some years in England, and returned here as a young man. He was a telegraph operator upstate for years, at Ukiah and points north. His age is a trifle over fifty, so far as we can find."

"Hm!" said Driscoll. "He came here from England about 1905? It was just before then that King standardized the fingerprint identification system in England. Did you get anything on this Legrand?"

"Not a thing. He made money just after the war, probably in some racket, in San Francisco. For six or seven years he's been in straight business, dabbling in oil around down here. He wears gloves, like you said."

"Better get your blank check ready, Hopkins," said Driscoll. "What does O'Meara look like?"

"Medium height," said Hopkins. "Wears a choker collar and puff tie, rather old-fashioned; ruddy face, pleasant smile, just a suspicion of Irish brogue."

"Right. Then I'll be off. You'd better wait here, in case I want to telephone you, Hopkins. Then we'll meet at eight, say, for dinner!"

"If you can get back here, yes— or I'll come downtown and meet you. Say, at the Ambassador." "Until later, then."

FIVE minutes later he was heading down Wilshire Boulevard in Hopkins' car. Driscoll walked into the hotel at six fifty-five. Selecting a cigar at the counter, he saw his man just beyond— genial, slightly pompous, with a keen Irish eye.

"Mr. O'Meara, I believe? Driscoll is my name."

O'Meara smiled, shook hands. "Let's go to the writing room upstairs— it should be empty now."

They mounted, found the writing room off the main lobby deserted, and made themselves comfortable at a table.

"Now, am I to understand, sir," asked O'Meara cautiously, "that you're acting with full authority for Mr. Hopkins?"

Driscoll nodded and produced his blank check. "Yes, here's the check. I say, though I'll have to glance at the lease. As I understand it, you hold a prior lease to the property, including the oil rights?"

"Exactly, and very much prior it is," said the other dryly. "But I'm not carrying the documents about with me, y' understand. It's already gone to the district attorney."

"What?" exclaimed Driscoll.

The other smiled broadly. "Yes, you'd better realize to start off that we're not bluffing, my friend. However, the charges will not be formally entered or the complaint signed, until morning."

"Eh? Oh, I see." Driscoll relaxed, looking slightly puzzled. "But, my dear fellow, I gathered that I was to turn over this check, after filling in the amount, and you were to give me the original of the lease! You know, I can't do that if you haven't the document, and I can't bargain with you before I examine it."

O'Meara chuckled and slapped his thigh.

"This isn't the old country, Mr. Driscoll. If we make a deal, I can get the document here within ten minutes. Here's a photostat of it, and a copy of the charges."

He produced a rolled photostat copy, which turned the original black writing into white, and several typed carbon pages in a legal folder, constituting a copy of the charges made against Hopkins and substantiated by the original lease.

Driscoll studied these very briefly, paying small attention to the charges and much to the photostat, which showed both front and back of the lease in question— a typed document occupying both sides of a sheet.

"I suppose it's quite legal over here," and Driscoll glanced up, "to conclude a document on the back of a sheet, instead of using a second sheet? A minor point, perhaps."

"Legal enough," said O'Meara complacently. "Looks pretty clear, eh? The last paragraph carries the kick, Mr. Driscoll— mineral rights."

"So I perceive," Driscoll, with a helpless gesture, laid down the papers. "Well, I take it there's no use beating around the bush, what? As you say, the last paragraph has— er— the kick. As to the price—"

"Fifty thousand, my boy, and not a nickel less." O'Meara hooked his thumbs in his vest and surveyed Driscoll with beaming air. "No argument. If you try to beat me down, the price goes to sixty thousand."

"Eh?" Driscoll looked flustered. "I say, I haven't tried to beat you down, though!"

"And," pursued the other, "in cash. Cash, understand? I'm not turning over that document in exchange for a check that can be stopped. On the Day and Night Bank, eh? Fair enough. We can wait here until a friend of mine cashes the check, then I'll give you the paper."

"I suppose that's quite all right," said Driscoll. "Fifty thousand, eh? You'll not mind if I telephone Mr. Hopkins to give him my opinion?"

O'Meara waved his hand grandly. "Not a bit, not a bit! And I'll be getting my friend Legrand to help us out with the bank—"

"I'll want to look at the original document before I sign the check," said Driscoll, with a stubborn air. The other chuckled.

"And so you shall, me lad! I'll meet you here in fifteen minutes, say."

Driscoll nodded.

Five minutes later, ensconced in a telephone booth, he had Hopkins on the line. "Everything's fine, Hopkins," he said crisply. "I'm going to gamble with fifty thousand of your money, whether you like it or not. In fifteen minutes, O'Meara will endorse your check for fifty thousand, and I believe Legrand will take it over to the Day and Night Bank to cash it—you drew on that bank. Whoever cashes it, will telephone us, and the papers will be turned over to me.

"Now, Hopkins, it's up to you to have Legrand arrested— the minute after he has telephoned, understand? Not before. Arrange with the bank to give him marked thousand dollar notes, and be sure they're taken from him and held as evidence."

"I don't know what you're driving at, but I'll do it," said Hopkins. "On what charge can he be arrested?"

"Charge conspiracy to get money under false pretenses," and Driscoll laughed. "I warned you it's a gamble. Are you game?"

"Go the limit," growled Hopkins. "And depend on me."

"One thing more— and it's highly important. Send one of your private detectives along with the officer to make the pinch. Have him remark, so that Legrand can hear it, that I am the chief investigator of the documentary section at Scotland Yard. Get that?"

"Eh?" queried Hopkins. "But you're no such thing!"

"Never mind. Don't fail, now!"

LEAVING the booth, Driscoll made his way back to the writing room, and was smoking placidly when O'Meara hove in sight, accompanied by a thin, swarthy man in evening dress.

"This is Mr. Legrand, Mr. Driscoll," and O'Meara beamed. "Well, we have the papers in the case— you want to look over the lease, I believe?"

"A mere glance at it," said Driscoll, sitting down.

O'Meara produced the document, remaining at his elbow and spreading it out. Driscoll fumbled in his pocket and produced a magnifying glass, then took a look at the front and back of the lease. He leaned back and shrugged.

"Very good, gentlemen. That blank check— ah, yes! Here it is. I suggest that Mr. Legrand cash it, and then telephone us— it's a bit of a ride from here downtown, you know, and we might conclude the matter more promptly. I'm a bit pressed for time."

"Suits me," said O'Meara assuredly. "I was going to propose the same thing. Give us a call as soon as it's cashed, Jack."

Driscoll filled out the check, then glanced up. "I've made it out to you, Mr. O'Meara."

"No matter, my boy— I'll endorse it, and they know Legrand there."

It was all very pleasant, very open and aboveboard, a little business deal among gentlemen. O'Meara dashed off his signature, blotted it, and with a bow Legrand took the check and then departed.

Driscoll picked up the carbon copy of the fraud charges, and idly glanced over them, then turned abruptly to O'Meara.

"Oh, I say! You'd better write me out a receipt— here, on the back of this will do," and turning over the papers, he presented the reverse side of the carbon sheets. "Merely a matter of form to show Hopkins— a receipt for the payment for the lease."

"As Legrand's attorney, yes, yes," and O'Meara, producing a fountain pen, indited the requested receipt and signed with a flourish. "You don't mind if I turn this receipt over with the document when we get that 'phone call? Always well to be careful, my boy."

"Of course." Driscoll produced his cigars. "By the way, what do you know about the racing down at Tijuana? I was told that if I came here I should look up the place."

O'Meara knew all about horses and racing, and talking brilliantly and with enthusiasm, was astonished when a call boy summoned him to the telephone. He was gone for five minutes, then returned, rubbing his hands and beaming.

"Everything settled, Mr. Driscoll! Very sorry to show perhaps undue caution, but you know how careful one must be, eh? Here is the lease—here, receipt, charges, everything! And you might tell Hopkins he got a bargain. If we'd been inclined to hold him up, we might have asked double the money."

"Quite so," said Driscoll, and pocketed everything in sight "Charmed to have met you, sir. Perhaps we'll meet again in the near future. Good night!"

So he departed to his waiting car, and O'Meara chuckled.

AT NINE o'clock on the following morning, a curious company assembled in the handsome private office of Hopkins' suite in the Wilshire building. Since the previous night, very hot telephone wires had brought this company together.

Joseph O'Meara was present, and he looked like a ruffled and angry turkey-cock. With him was Legrand, who was out on bail, thinner and more sallow than ever, his black eyes flaming with restrained fires. Behind the flat-topped desk of Hopkins sat Driscoll, very amiable, with a number of documents piled before him. Hopkins sat at his side. White, the lawyer, was at a table by the door. Somehow the place took on the air of an official bureau.

"Let me tell you, sir," said O'Meara impressively to Hopkins, "we're going to have the satisfaction you have promised for this outrage! In causing the false arrest of this gentleman on trumped-up charges, you've gone too far!"

"One moment, if you please," intervened Driscoll smoothly. He caught the eye of Legrand and smiled. "Kindly remember your dealings are with me, as agent for Mr. Hopkins."

"You, yes!" O'Meara swung on him hotly. "I hear you're an English detective, here from Scotland Yard."

"Not in any official capacity. Will that reassure you? Or Mr. Legrand?"

"I have nothing to do with Scotland Yard," drawled Legrand, with a shrug.

"Precisely. But you recall that Scotland Yard has had something do with you, my dear sir. Or is the cable which I have just received mistaken in saying so?"

At this suave thrust, Legrand shrank into himself and kept quiet.

"Now, O'Meara, let me state the premises simply as possible," said Driscoll, becoming very crisp and business-like. "We have here a perfectly legal lease of the Dominguez tract for grazing purposes, containing at the end an added clause covering oil and mineral rights for a period of five years. This lease was bought from the holders by Mr. Legrand. There is no question as to its legality. Am I correct?"

"You are, sir," returned O'Meara with dignity. "A lease on the oil and mineral rights was later and illegally granted Mr. Hopkins, causing my clients great distress."

"Let us stick to the point at issue," intervened Driscoll. "It is the added clause of the elder lease— you note, I say the 'added' clause. In two places, the typing of this added clause crosses portions of the signatures to the lease. The clause is brief but comprehensive. With a due regard to possible investigation, the clause was written by the same typewriter, the identical typewriter, which drew up the body of the document. This displays great acumen."

O'Meara sprang to his feet, purple with rage.

"Are you inferring, sir— do you dare to infer, that this clause was added to the document at a later date?"

"I infer no such thing," said Driscoll calmly. "I state it as a matter of fact. A stereoptic microscopic photograph of these crossed lines shows that the ink signatures had become oxidized and set long before the typing which touches them was applied to the paper. I happen to have made a study of such things and can qualify as an expert. A new typewriter ribbon was used for the body of this document, and also for the added clause— a ribbon thick with ink, which the microscope shows ran into the fibres of the paper. It did not run into these fibres at the intersections, for there the ink of the signatures had already filled the fibres."

O'Meara sat down. "This is absurd! It's childish nonsense!"

"Undoubtedly; of a sort to send you to San Quentin, sir," said Driscoll. "We have here two pens, taken yesterday from your desk by Mr. White; that was the real purpose of his visit to your office. They will be established as evidence. One was used by Legrand in writing the last anonymous letter; the other pen was used on the two previous occasions. He was so unfortunate as to leave a very clear thumb-print on one of these pen-holders— but perhaps I need not go into that, Legrand? The subject of certain prints still on file in London, I mean."

Legrand, who had turned deathly white, said nothing. O'Meara, chewing an unlighted cigar, watched Driscoll with ferocious intensity.

"Now, the subject of our present meeting," continued Driscoll suavely. "You gentlemen owned this lease, drew up certain charges in connection with it, and abandoned them when we made an open purchase of the lease. You have fifty thousand dollars of our money, at present being held by the courts as evidence— marked money. It is now our turn to hand this lease and the accompanying evidence to the district attorney, charging both of you with conspiracy, fraud, and several other felonies— Mr. White has drawn up quite a list of the alleged offenses, and two officers are now waiting outside to take you both into custody."

"It's a damnable outrage!" shouted O'Meara, springing up again. "You've no proof that we extorted money from you by threats—"

"I have your own charges against Mr. Hopkins; on the back of them you very kindly wrote out a receipt for the fifty thousand dollars.

O'Meara stared at him, turned purple, and mopped at his brow.

"It's a trap!" he exclaimed.

Driscoll smiled. "You realize it, then? Good. Take your choice, O'Meara and Legrand. One hundred thousand dollars in a check to be cashed before you leave this room— or you go out of here as prisoners and this evidence goes to the district attorney. Eh, Hopkins?"

"You're damned right!" said Hopkins, with obvious and cruel enjoyment.

ONE HOUR LATER, Hopkins, alone with Driscoll, handed his guest a check.

"There's your half the loot, Driscoll," he exclaimed, laughing. "And you've earned it. But what about that thumb-print of Legrand on the pen?"

"He didn't leave any," and Driscoll smiled. "Neither am I an official of Scotland Yard. But how was he to know? Let's have a drink."

"Keno!" said Hopkins heartily, and clapped him on the shoulder.

__________________

6: Rendezvous

i

BURKE was collecting his bets on the fourth race. It was a cleanup, an enormous cleanup. All around swarmed the money-mad throng— Arabs, civilians, soldiers, women. His hands filled with bundles of thousand-franc notes, Burke turned.

He collided sharply with Captain Crepin, who was of course in mufti.

A simultaneous word of apology broke from the two men. Burke’s lean, incisive features broke into a whimsical smile as he met the eyes of the Intelligence officer. Crepin did not return the smile. His thin, mustached, severe countenance was menacing.

“A word with you, M. Burke,” he said.

“Faith, my dear Crepin, I’m at your service!” returned Burke gaily, stuffing the sheaves of notes into his pockets: “You’re always full of the most charming surprises!”

The other grunted sardonically, as they worked a way through the crowd.

The sun hung in the west, glittering on the snowy peaks of the Atlas that rise above Marrakesh. Nearby showed the new French city, lively, naked, spick-and-span. Off to the right, amid its glorious date-palm groves, lifted the savage red walls of old Marrakesh.

“I congratulate you,” said Crepin acidly, “on picking the right horse.”

Burke chuckled. “Congratulate me, rather, on having the right friends, my dear fellow! If you didn’t make such a nuisance of yourself, I might let you in on something good tomorrow.”

Crepin merely sniffed. Presently they were clear of the throng, and Crepin halted. He lit a cigaret and handed Burke one, surveying the trim, hard figure with the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor at its lapel. Burke held a match to both cigarettes.

“M. Burke, I have a certain respect for you,” said Crepin bluntly. “You’re a rascal. A scoundrel. You’ve run guns to dissident chiefs. I intend to land you in jail or have you expelled from Morocco. None the less, you have a certain sense of honor which I appreciate.”

Denis Burke bowed, and his blue eyes danced gaily.

“I may return the compliment,” he said whimsically. “You’re a bitter hard devil. You are devoted to your duty. You’ve no more human feeling than a snake, apparently. At the same time, you’re a gentleman. Your mere word on any subject would be good with me.”

Crepin inclined his head. “Thank you. In that case, M. Burke, I give you my word that I know your business here in Marrakesh. I know whom you expect to meet, what you expect to do. You’ve run your last gun, and your number is up. I advise you to leave here, leave Morocco, immediately.”

Burke’s brows lifted. “I like Morocco,” he answered. “It likes me. I’ve been here for three years—”

“Raising hell.”

“Making trouble, if you like. Well, expel me if you can! You’ve tried hard enough to get something on me. You’ve failed. You’re too much of a gentleman to frame me.”

“This time,” said Crepin stiffly, “there will be no failure. Au revoir!”

He strode away. Burke directed his steps toward the French town, at first in sober thought. His lips twisted in a grimace.

“A devilish unpleasant fellow, that!” he reflected. “Does he really know, indeed? Has somebody babbled that I’m here to meet El Hanech? In that case— but no, it’s impossible! El Hanech sent me word to meet him at a certain time and place. His brother carried the message, was caught and killed an hour afterward. No one else could have spoken. Yet Crepin seemed damned sure of himself! Well, I’ll chance it.”

He swung along with his lithe, clean stride, nodding to acquaintances, exchanging occasional cheery greetings with cloaked Arab figures. He had cast his lot here in Morocco, and loved the country.

A certain part of Morocco, however, did not love Denis Burke.

Presently he was seated before a table, on the shaded terrace of a cafe. Across the railroad tracks on the far side of the square, was a glorious outspread view of Marrakesh and the palm groves. From this thronged square radiated all life and activity between the huge native city on the one side, and the enormous semi-circle of the French town, aviation camp and forts on the other side.

A short, bearded Arab, nearly black in complexion but wearing beautiful snowy garments, passed among the tables, saluted Burke, and pulled out the chair beside him.

“Peace be upon you, sidi,” he grunted.

“And upon you, Si’ Dris,” said Burke in Arabic, then broke into a laugh. “How the devil you worked it, I don’t know! But Fanchon romped home and paid twenty to one. I got your money and mine down. I’ve a bale of notes here—”

“Keep them until later; bring them to my office in the morning,” said Sidi Idris, and crooked a finger at the nearest waiter. He accepted a cigaret from Burke, and smiled faintly beneath his white hood. “Not so bad for the first day of your visit in our charming city, eh? But there is better to come, by Allah! We have not seen you here for two months. There is work to do.”

“You and I work together all right, Si’ Dris,” said Burke. “We can trust each other, and that’s more than I can say for most! What kind of work?”

The Arab did not reply until the waiter had brought his mint tea and departed. He sipped the tea, his eyes stabbing about the place, then spoke softly.

“I have four boxes, small enough to be inconspicuous in the rear end of an automobile. Three of ammunition, one containing automatic rifles taken apart. We split thirty thousand francs for their delivery. A day’s run from here.”

Burke’s eyes lighted up, then narrowed.

“To whom?”

“El Mekhnezi; he’ll meet you on the highway near Jeb el Saghro―”

“No,” snapped Burke, and his gaze hardened. “That fellow’s a blackguard, an outright murderer. He and his gang are lice on the face of the earth! To supply a fellow of that sort with automatic rifles would be criminal.”

“Does it matter?” asked Sidi Idris gently. “You have taken guns to others—”

“That was different, and you know it,” cut in Burke, his eyes glinting dangerously. “With El Mekhnezi, no! I’ll help the right sort, but not the wrong sort at any price!”

“Allah i samah!” murmured Sidi Idris, and so dismissed the matter with the proverbial “God will pardon!” which his people apply to anything and everything. Presently he finished his tea and pushed back his chair.

“You are leaving?”

“Not yet, my friend,” said Burke. “I have an appointment.”

The other nodded and took his departure.

DENIS BURKE lit a fresh cigaret, sipped his drink, and let his thoughts drift back to Captain Crepin. He had no hesitation in risking French anger, for he had potent friends among French, Arabs and Berbers also. Now that military rule was superseded by civil government, Crepin must needs step softly.

True, Burke lived by his wits, was an adventurer. He risked his neck by running guns with the same gay laughter that accompanied a big haul on a fixed horse-race; but he sold his help to those who needed it. There was plenty of oppression in Morocco. The native chiefs, the great caids and pashas, were supported by the French; the feudal system still prevailed; slavery, even, was still in existence.

El Hanech was a typical case. That chieftain of a little Berber hill tribe was a doomed man. The French wanted to hang him, the powerful pasha who had taken his lands wanted to shoot him— chiefly because he had resisted oppression. El Hanech, “the serpent,” could command money enough, but was too fiercely proud, too independent, too dangerous, not to be doomed. And Burke had come here to meet this man.

Precisely to the minute of the appointment made two weeks earlier, El Hanech came.

Burke had expected to see the man he knew, a wild blond savage from the hills, bearded, clad in arrogant Berber garments of filth and tatters. He was astonished to see a slim figure with a pure white sulmah flung over European clothes. Under the white hood showed a clean-shaven, hard-jawed face as white as his own, blue eyes as reckless as his own, a thin-lipped smile tinged with bitterness.

“Greeting, my friend!” said El Hanech in French, “So you would not recognize me, eh? Excellent. Neither will anyone else.”

“You’re a fool to come here,” said Burke. The other took the opposite chair and threw back the white hood to display red hair. A strong man, vigorous, virile.

“No; it is safe enough. My shaven face is unknown. Well, the pasha has taken the last of my lands, all my cattle and sheep. It is the end. The French support him.”

“And you dare to come to Marrakesh?”

“This is only the French city. No, I’m not going into the pasha’s den yonder!” and El Hanech flung a glance over his shoulder toward the ancient city— of hatred.

“You are my one hope,” went on El Hanech softly, looking back to Burke. “Behind the pasha are the French; to resist, were utter folly. If you had not kept this appointment, I would have gone into the city, sought out the pasha, and put my knife into his liver. My people have scattered with their possessions, among other tribes. For me there is no refuge. The pasha has put a price upon my head.”

“And it’s a damned shame,” said Burke hotly. “Your family?”

“You have it. Three wives, two sons; no more. Six of us. As you know, my cousin Moussa lives in Larache, in the Spanish zone to the north, far beyond the power of this dog of a pasha. He is wealthy, a great man, with much land. He offers me an asylum.”

“But how the devil will you get there?” exclaimed Burke, astonished. “By train, you’d be pinched in no time, even if you had forged papers. You can’t cross the frontier—”

El Hanech grinned.

“The frontier is nothing; Moussa will arrange that. You will arrange all else.”

“Oh, will I?”

“Assuredly. Three days ago I killed the pasha’s steward and took the year’s taxes he had collected. Here is twenty thousand francs,” and into Burke’s hands he passed a fat roll of notes. “Get me an automobile. Have it at a certain place tomorrow night. Yes?”

Burke pocketed the money.

“Yes. Where?”

“On the Casablanca road. Once through the palm groves, you know the bridge across the Tinsift river? Just beyond is a fork, one highway branching off to Safi. At that fork, I’ll be waiting. I’ll send back the car from the frontier. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Burke. “At eight tomorrow night.”

“May Allah recompense you!” For an instant the Berber’s hard face softened. Then he drew up his hood. “One thing more. My family lie out in the hills, a few miles away. They are starving. I will take back some food today, but we will need more, both food and water. Put some in the car. We have no luggage except rifles, so there’ll be room enough.”

“Very well,” said Burke. “Do you think that Captain Crepin has any word of this?”

“Crepin?” The white teeth of El Hanech showed in a snarl that was like a wolf’s snap. “That dog? No. Only I knew and my brother, who is now dead. And you.”

“Then perhaps he guessed, for he gave me a warning.” Burke shrugged and laughed. “No matter! I’ll bring the car. Eight tomorrow night; be ready for anything.”

ii

BY nine o’clock that evening, Denis Burke found that he was unable to rent a car in Marrakesh. December had come, the tourist season was on full blast, and every available car was out. The few other private cars he might have obtained were only diminutive Citroens.

Burke was not worried, however. The huge Transatlantique system of hotels, spread over the whole of northern Africa, was at his service. In the morning he could go to the “Transat” and get anything from a sedan to an autobus at five minutes’ notice. So, with a shrug, he returned to his pension in the French city.

With morning, he passed by the office of Sidi Idris— who was a lawyer, with up to date offices in the French town— and left the other’s share of the racing spoils. Then he went his way toward the savage red Marrakesh whose legions had poured forth to the conquest of Spain.

Coming in by the Dukala gate, he had only a few steps to go before reaching the charming old palace that had been transformed into the Transat hotel. Burke passed the gaily clad group of native guides clustered inside the entrance, and strode on to the desk, with a cheery nod to the French manager.

“Good morning, M. Dufresne! How are you off for automobiles this morning?”

“Ah, M. Burke! How goes it? Automobiles? Mon Dieu! I never knew such a season! It is terrible!”

“Good! I’ll have no trouble getting a closed car, then?”

Dufresne spread his hands wide. “You misunderstand! The courrier that reached Casablanca yesterday morning from Marseille, flooded us with tourists. Trippers, season visitors, artists, Americans— name of a dog! It is terrific, it is formidable! Every company car from here to Fez has been engaged; every private car we could rent has been taken.”

“The devil!” exclaimed Burke. “Look here, Dufresne. You have a Fiat sedan yourself. Rent it to me for three days and I’ll pay any price you ask.”

The other looked sorrowful.

“Monsieur, I am desolated. But five minutes ago it, too, was engaged.”

“By whom?” snapped Burke. Dufresne pointed across at the writing room.

“By that species of a camel in there. An Englishwoman— what a woman! One who walks like a man, and writes a book on politics.”

“Her name?”

“Madame Stillwater.”

Burke turned and strode across the glorious lobby, whose thick Berber rugs and old cut plaster decorations formed a riot of color. In the little writing room sat a woman of perhaps fifty, severely clad. At Burke’s bow, she lifted frigid eyes.

“My card, Mrs. Stillwater; permit me,” said Burke. For once that charming smile of his had no effect.

“I am not aware that I have your acquaintance, sir,” said the woman brusquely.

“Faith, you are now!” and Burke laughed. Then he sobered. “Madame, I am in the most urgent need of a car for a couple of days. It is, I assure you, a matter of life and death. I find that you’ve hired the last car to be obtained in Marrakesh, that of the hotel manager.”

“Certainly I have,” she broke in coldly, without glancing at his card. “If you mean to ask that I let you use it, you’re wasting your time and mine. I need that automobile myself.”

“Not as badly as I do, perhaps,” said Burke. “I’ll be glad to pay the rent on it, and to offer you a bonus of five thousand francs.”

She surveyed him suspiciously.

“No! It’s for no good, I’ll be bound. An American, by your accent; well, I don’t intend to give up my comfort for American dollars.”

“Ten thousand francs, madame.”

Her brows lifted. “That is all. Good day to you.”

“Twenty thousand francs, madame! I tell you it’s a matter of—”

“And suppose I asked fifty thousand francs?” she demanded.

“Fifty thousand? Very well. I’ll pay it—”

“You are certainly a madman,” said the lady. “Will you kindly cease to annoy me, or must I have you put out?”

Livid with anger, Burke bowed and withdrew in silence. In this austere, frigid woman was utter finality— an absolute refusal to listen or comprehend.

He was appalled by what he had learned, a few hours too late. No time now to telephone for a car from Casablanca. He had no way of reaching El Hanech, who was lying out on some sun-scorched hillside. Desperate, he returned to the desk.

“Dufresne, I must have a car by five this evening. I’ll pay twenty thousand francs if you can hire one for me.”

Dufresne turned pale. “Twenty thousand! For that I would sell you the Fiat! But no, m’sieu. To rent a car at any price is impossible today. I have just had a telephone call from the Rabat hotel. A rich tourist there has offered any price for a car. It cannot be found. Automobiles, alas, do not grow on trees in Morocco! By tomorrow, it will be different.”

“By tomorrow,” muttered Burke, as he left the hotel, “the man who depends upon me will be lost.”

Behind him, as the doors closed, a trim figure crossed the lobby, spoke briefly with the manager. The latter then accompanied him to the writing room and introduced him to Madame Stillwater. At her invitation, Captain Crepin sat down and spoke fluently.

“My dear sir,” said the lady firmly, “I have whole-hearted respect for government. I knew from the very start that this man was a scoundrel!”

“You were right,” assented Captain Crepin, fingering the card Burke had left. “He supplies ammunition and guns to dissident chiefs. He lends help to escaping prisoners. He laughs at the government, defies the Sultan himself.”

“And you do not punish him?” exclaimed the indignant lady.

“First he must be caught. And this time, madame, I expect to catch him— with your help. Will you give it?”

“I shall, most certainly!” and flinty eyes were bent upon the intelligence officer.

Captain Crepin leaned forward and spoke rapidly.

DENIS BURKE, meantime, was walking along the dusty road toward the French city. He needed to walk, needed to think. A car capable of taking El Hanech and his family at top speed to the frontier—well, it did not grow on Moroccan palms, as Dufresne had said. A taxicab would be useless; one might get El Hanech as far as Casablanca, but there was too much risk. The Berbers must reach the frontier before daybreak, to be safe.

Sidi Idris? He would not help willingly. Arab and Berber regard each other with the virulent hatred of a thousand years. He would probably betray the Serpent. Burke could trust Sidi Idris with his life, but not with the life of a Berber chief.

“El Hanech has put his life in my hand, and I can’t fail him,” thought Burke desperately. “I’ll get a car somewhere if I have to steal it—”

Ahead of him opened out the French city, with its bustle and thronging crowd filling the Square of the 7th September. Then Burke paused. He heard his name called, and turned.

“Sidi! Sidi Burke!” It was one of the guides from the hotel, stripped of his gay outer garments, running hard to overtake him. “A message! Ya Lalla!”

“Eh?” exclaimed Burke. “What lady?”

“She who is like a camel, sidi. She sent me for you, asks that you return.”

TWENTY MINUTES later, Burke once more bowed to Madame Stillwater.

“Mr. Burke, if that is your name,” she said stiffly, “I have reconsidered. My first impression was that you were a very impudent young man, and I resented it. Perhaps I was wrong; not that I am often mistaken in my judgments, however. If you desire the car for three days, it is yours. I will accept no payment whatever.”

Denis Burke could not believe his ears. With a sudden access of joy, he extended his hand to the lady, his eyes shining with delight.

“Madame, you are an angel!” he exclaimed warmly. “Upon my word, an angel! I thank you with all my heart.”

“Never mind all that, if you please. The car is at your service now. I have spoken to the manager. Good day to you.”

Burke withdrew, and scarce knew what was going on around him until he deposited the Fiat before the door of his own pension. Then he dared believe that it was true.

“The rest is simple,” he reflected happily. “Gas and oil. Provisions and water. I’ll have them packed in boxes for the sake of neatness and to save room. This car can go like the devil, and El Hanech can drive like another devil. Good! Tomorrow night he’ll have the car back here. Couldn’t be better!”

Burke had entirely forgotten that, on the previous day, he had refused to earn thirty thousand francs by delivering four small boxes to the bandit, El Mekhnezi.

iii

AT seven-thirty that evening, Denis Burke was switching on the lights of the Fiat, when a voice came to him in the darkness.

“Sidi! I am from Si 'Dris.”

He was aware of a dark figure beside the car. A messenger, then.

“Yes?” he said. “What does Sidi Idris want?”

“A warning, sidi,” came the response. “You have been followed, watched. Even now two misbegotten Arabs of the intelligence service are standing at the corner.”

“Let them stand!” and Burke laughed a little.

“More, sidi. Captain Crepin has given orders, assembling his men at seven-thirty.”

Burke started. “Where? Quickly, in the name of Allah!”

“At the camp, sidi—”

Like a flash, Burke started the car, threw in the gears, and went roaring away without lights. A faint yell drifted after him from the corner. He was around another corner on two wheels, shifted into second, switched on his lights, and swung into the Avenue du Gueliz with the speed of a madman.

This wide boulevard went straight past the railroad station to the great camp. But Burke was not headed for the camp.

Crepin gathering his men at seven-thirty—it was seven-thirty now! Then it was a matter of minutes, as Burke realized instantly. Ahead of him was a triangle. At the railroad tracks, the Casablanca highway turned sharply right. Straight ahead was the camp under the Gueliz forts. To block the highway, Crepin must come from the camp; while Burke had only to swing into it here ahead—

He sent the Fiat roaring along the street. Those watchers must telephone to Crepin, who would then make a dash to cut off evasion at the railroad bridge, just this side the rendezvous. It was a gamble, a good gamble!

“Faith, I can make it—I must make it!” thought Burke, leaning over the wheel. There was the railroad ahead. His horn blared at a party of soldiers; they scattered with wild curses. The car swung, the brakes ground, the tires screamed. The Casablanca highway!

Crepin knew everything, then. The warning had been honest. Somewhere, somewhere, there had been a leak. No matter! Burke opened the throttle wide.

Up there at the fork of the roads was the hillman who trusted him, who depended absolutely upon him, with terrible simplicity. To El Hanech, this car meant life; safety for himself and his family. Without it, he was doomed.

And Crepin knew everything! The words rang in Burke’s brain like a knell. Here was a rendezvous he must not fail!

What it meant to him, he knew well enough. He had intended to turn over the car and walk back to town; a few miles meant nothing. Now there would be no escape, no evasion. El Hanech would get away in the Fiat. Denis Burke must remain afoot, delay the pursuers, hold them ignorant of which road El Hanech had taken, there at the fork.

THERE WAS no way out, no choice. Burke crouched over the wheel as the car roared madly on, and cursed under his breath. He had given his word, and this was something Denis Burke had never broken. Prison— deportation— no matter! Another man had trusted him, and must not trust in vain.

The buildings, the outspread palm groves, were behind him now. An open stretch ahead, then the hills, the railroad bridge, the road-fork. The mileage needle quivered and mounted, but Burke never looked at it. Somewhere ahead, the road from the camp came into the highway. Crepin was beaten! Not a car in sight!

Burke felt the heart upleap in him, felt the wild surge of exultation that comes from victory. A laugh on his lips, he drove at the curving road ahead, found the low hills closing in. His insane speed slackened. No car could take these curves at such wild pace—

A sudden fierce oath burst from him. Around a curve now; and dead ahead showed two cars, their headlights trained on the road, figures of men strung out. The two were placed with converging headlights—barely space for a car to pass between them. A soldier stood there, waving a flag, halting him.

Burke did not halt. He knew instantly that somehow he had been outguessed. Crepin might have sent that messenger, in fact; the whole thing was a trap. A trap! The blood thrummed at his temples. The soldier was waving frantically now. There was Crepin, in the full headlight glare, waving a pistol. Other men with rifles.

“To hell with you!” roared Burke, and opened the throttle wide again.

Wild, shrill yells from either hand. The man with the flag leaped frantically for safety as the Fiat thundered at him. Burke crouched low, saw one of the two cars shoved forward. The fools! Trying to wreck him! A red spat of rifles.

Then a crash, a shuddering shock. The Fiat seemed to stagger, and next instant was roaring on again full speed. A bullet came through the rear window, smashed the windshield before Burke’s eyes. He was through them, through! Ahead, his lights picked up the railroad bridge. Through them!

Then the Fiat plunged wildly.

Burke wrenched at the wheel with savage strength. Another plunge. A horrible lurch sideways, as the brakes screamed. Halfway down the descent, the Fiat swung across the road and came to a stop, with a tire shot out.

AND AHEAD, not half a mile distant, El Hanech waited.

A great sob broke from Denis Burke— half oath, half groan. Suddenly weak, he lowered his head on his hands, as they clutched the wheel. They were coming behind him, one car loaded down with men. No escape now, no evasion. He was taken. He had failed.

“Good evening, M. Burke,” said Captain Crepin stiffly. “Will you descend, if you please?”

Burke obeyed.

“Devil and all!” exclaimed Burke, with the shadow of his old gay smile. “I gave you a run for it, anyhow!”

Crepin, standing beside him, shrugged lightly.

“You will have a long repose,” he made dry response. “Out with those boxes, men! Smash into them.”

“Why waste time?” said Burke. “You have me, you know.”

Crepin smiled thinly beneath his clipped mustache.

“I have you, yes. But, my friend, I must have the evidence also.”

For one wild instant, Burke stared. Had Crepin stooped so low? Was there some planted evidence in his car? Impossible! There was a crash of wood, another. Then startled faces were turned to the two who stood there, and sudden silence fell. A sergeant, prying into one of the smashed boxes, straightened up and saluted.

“My captain! There is some mistake.”

Crepin craned forward, and Burke caught a suppressed oath from him. What the devil did it mean? Suddenly the intelligence officer turned on him fiercely.

“Eh? You, M. Burke— this is incredible! Here. Come with me.”

Burke obeyed. Crepin halted him at the roadside, spoke in a low voice.

“Come! You have just one chance. Tell me where they are hidden, or I’ll tear the cursed automobile apart!”

“What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Burke.

“The arms and ammunition for El Mekhnezi. I know all about it. Quickly!”

Burke knew that a laugh would ruin him— and suppressed it.

“Crepin— give me your word! Is that why you were after me?”

“You know it damned well,” snapped the other.

Burke fumbled in his pocket, produced cigarettes, struck a match.

“I was offered thirty thousand francs to run that stuff to El Mekhnezi,” he said coolly. “That blackguard is a criminal, a murderer, and I’d be the same if I put arms in his hands. I refused.”

Crepin started, stood looking hard at him.

“M. Burke,” he said in a low voice, “there are some things it is hard to credit.”

“I’ve never broken my word,” said Burke gravely. “And I gave my word to El Hanech that tonight I’d bring him a car, with provisions. He wants to get out of the country, over the frontier.”

“El Hanech!” exclaimed Crepin sharply. “El Hanech! That poor devil!”

“Exactly. I supposed you wanted to shoot him down—”

“Damnation take you!” cried Crepin angrily. “Am I an assassin of hunted men?”

“You’re not far from it. Am I scoundrel enough to give El Mekhnezi guns?”

“Well, you’re the next thing to it,” snapped Crepin.

Burke broke into a laugh. He could afford it, now.

“Well, you know everything, or nearly everything! But you’ll not find out from me where El Hanech is hiding, so save your breath.”

Crepin turned to him with a savage oath.

“You’ve refused to obey orders to halt,” he said. “You’ve damaged government property— you wrecked my car back there! You’ll have all sorts of charges against you. Do you realize it?”

“Perfectly. Make the most of it.”

“I intend to do so. The court will fine you at least five hundred francs,” said Crepin. “Will you give me your word to appear in court tomorrow and answer the charges I shall lay against you?”

“Eh?” said Burke. “Why, of course! But—”

“As soon as my men have replaced that tire of yours, go on with your car,” said Crepin harshly. “And tell El Hanech I hope to thunder he gets away safe. Good night.”

__________________

7: The Second Mate

Short Stories, Oct 10 1922

THE SULU QUEEN was steaming south at an eight-knot clip, which for her was exceedingly good, bound for Macassar, Singapore and way ports, according to the dispensation of Providence. Her tail shaft was likely to go at any minute; she had an erratic list to starboard; her pumps could barely keep down the water that seeped through her loose plates; but she was going. Just to be going was an achievement for the Sulu Queen. She was certain not to be going for very long.

Her Macaense— or Portuguese Eurasian— skipper was enjoying an opium dream in his cabin. Her chief engineer, a one-eyed Cyclops who had long since buried his Glasgow accent under a maze of tropic profanity, was dead drunk. Her black gang was composed of Macao coolies. Her men forward were lascars, under a mild-eyed Malay serang who was an escaped murderer from Bilibid Prison. Her two quartermasters were Chinese, and efficient. Her supercargo was a Straits Chinese comprador, a Singapore man. Her mate was a hulking Dutchman, rotten with gin alow and aloft. Her second mate was Jim Barnes, for whose labor all these others drew pay.

She carried nine passengers. Abdullah, an Arab merchant, was going home to Macassar, taking with him his first wife and five offspring. How the Slave of God, as his name bore witness, ever got to Canton with so many, was a mystery; what had become of the other three lawful wives, not to mention the unlawful ones, was a greater mystery. The other two passengers were Nora Sayers and Ellen Maggs.

They were missionaries of some kind in China, had been ordered to voyage for their health, and as their funds were low, had taken the Sulu Queen. Jim Barnes had been too busy to ask questions. He would have welcomed them on the bridge, except that the Dutchman and the chief were both up there, nearly naked and rather soused. They had been there in that condition since leaving Cantop. When he explained the matter to them, Ellen Maggs blushed faintly, and Nora Sayers was quite willing to come along anyhow; but Ellen prevailed.

At two bells in the morning watch, Jim Barnes heaved a huge sigh of relief and left the bridge, which he had perforce held since before midnight. The islands were past; Simonor was dropping astern into the horizon and ahead was the open Celebes Sea and a clear course for Macassar. By some miracle the coral reefs had been evaded.

Jim Barnes sought the galley and obtained some tea from the yellow cook. He gulped it down and then started for his own cabin, meaning to get some sleep. The quartermaster of his watch had the bridge and a fair course.

Then, at the door of his stateroom, he paused with a sudden oath. The course was south by a quarter east; to his amazement, Barnes discovered that the ship was swinging around until the sun was almost astern.

With another oath of weary, wondering disgust, he started for the ladder. As he touched it, he heard his name spoken, and glanced around. The other quartermaster, Li Fu by name, was gliding toward him, and the yellow face was gleaming with inward excitement.

"What is it?" demanded Barnes.

"Maste', you watch out velly sha'p!" exclaimed Li Fu, low-voiced, tense. "Bad piecee bobbery kick up, mebbeso two bells this afte'noon! I think mebbeso all hands talkee-talkee make fo' mutiny. Cap'n he say fo' tell you come see him."

"You tell the skipper to go to hell," said Barnes. "Opium crazy, that's what he is. Mutiny. Good gosh, we've nothing to mutiny for!"

"Cap'n he say head in fo' Sesajap," persisted the Chinaman.

Jim Barnes groaned. "Head in for Sesajap, eh? Heading in for Borneo— the skipper changed the course, did he? That why we're turning?"

Li Fu nodded, beady eyes alert.

"Well, I've no time now to palaver with that cursed Eurasian topside," said Barnes bluntly. "You tell him to take the bridge or chase Vanderhoof up there— I'm done. Savvy? I'm going to sleep. Let everybody mutiny and be damned. I'm the only seaman aboard this cursed packet anyhow. I'm tired o' doing ten men's work. Trouble coming this afternoon, is it? Then let afternoon take care of itself. I'll be ready to take the deck after this watch is over— noon. And, listen! Tell the cap'n that if he don't shoot the sun and verify his position after this running around, he'll land us all in hell. You savvy that? Then tell him from me. And if he wants to run us into Borneo, let him do it!"

Li Fu grinned delightedly and stated that he savvied plenty. He, like any efficient seaman, had no use for the other officers and regarded Jim Barnes as a little tin god. Jim Barnes went into his cabin, locked the door, stuck a chair under the knob, and then dropped on his bunk, dead to the world.

DOWN in the engine-room, where the heat had sent the chief into a drunken stupor, the Malay serang conferred with the two assistant engineers. They were both men of color, being Macaense like the skipper, but not, like him, owning a large share in the Sulu Queen. Filling his mouth with betel paste, expectorating a scarlet stream across the floor under the ladder, the serang spoke as he squatted there with the two engineers.

"The supercargo, Lim Tock, is a very clever man. He has arranged everything into shares; there will be one hundred shares made of everything. Fifty of these will be divided among the men, the other fifty among us, the officers."

"Good," assented the second engineer. "How many are in it, Gajah?"

Gajah, the serang, spat again, and his soft eyes glowed luminously.

"All the men, here and above. The wireless man, the two quartermasters, Tuan Barnes, and the cap'n must be killed. Tuan Vanderhoof will navigate the ship. He is a great coward, and after his feet are burned he will be glad to serve us. This chief engineer must be killed, too. Six altogether. You will attend to this chief."

The two Eurasians looked at each other, then at the supinely snoring figure of the chief. They grinned and nodded. The chief would be drunk again after tiffin.

"You are sure of the men?" asked the third.

"Of course," said Gajah. "Lim Tock shipped them carefully at Canton, and my own men are picked for the purpose."

"Why has the course been changed?" demanded the second engineer.

"Because I whispered into the ear of the cap'n," said Gajah, with a meditative smile. "I told him that I knew a chief at one of the islands in the mouth of the Sesajap River, who had a great deal of gold dust, many birds' nests, and some fine pearls and shell. The tuan cap'n is very greedy. He changed the course immediately."

"Is there such a man?" asked the third. Gajah grinned in derision.

"Why not? Once I knew such a man at Sibuko, which is not far away. He was the second cousin of my elder brother's third wife, and he was very rich. I went to visit him, and induced his youngest wife to run away with me. But she forgot to bring the pearls with her, being in love with me, and so I slew her. That happened in Manila, and they put me into prison because of it. The white tuans did not understand."

"Well, when is this to take place?" asked the second engineer nervously.

"At the striking of two bells in the next watch."

"It shall be done. Who is to command, after that?"

"The supercargo, Lim Tock," answered the serang. "He is very clever. A friend of his, also a member of the Lim family, is to meet us near Bunju Island with a junk of which he is cap'n. Since the arrangement is all Lim Tock's, he deserves to command. It was he who got the opium put aboard at Macao."

"One thing," put in the third, his dark and muddy eyes gleaming. "The two white women! Surely they are not to be killed?"

"One does not waste the gifts of Allah," said Gajah sententiously. "The one with yellow hair goes to me; the other, who blushes often and whose figure is that of the willow, will comfort Lim Tock for the loss of his eldest son, who was hanged by the English last month for killing a white tuan. After a little while we shall sell them to chiefs along the coast, and so be rid of them. Wallah! It is hot down here."

He arose, knotted his fine silk sarong more closely about his waist, loosened his shagreen-hilted kris in its sheath, and departed. They two engineers looked at each other, and a slow smile passed between them.

"She of the yellow hair," said the third reflectively, "is tall and strong, of high spirit, and a fitting mate for me, whose veins run with the proud blood of the da Soussas!"

"And she of the lissome body," said the second engineer, rubbing his bristly chin, "has ere now smiled very sweetly upon me. It is not proper that yellow and brown island scum should have precedence before us, men descended from the conquistadors!"

"I agree with you," responded the other. "But what are we to do?"

"First secure the ship," said the second promptly. "Then secure— what we want."

"Good!" agreed the third engineer with emphasis. "Let us consider the matter."

MEANTIME, in the chart-house Li Fu had delivered the second mate's message to the befuddled skipper, who sat dreamily over his charts. The message was literally delivered, but it could not stir the captain into action. He was lost in the reverie of contemplation that comes of good opium; not actual dreams, as some think, but a complacent sweetishness in the mind that shoves aside all immediate problems and refuses to take a crisis seriously.

The captain, indeed, was a lost soul. Usually your opium-eater cannot smoke the drug at all, and the smoker cannot attain Nirvana by eating it. This Macaense, however, both ate and smoked, thereby letting damnation into himself by two channels. He was a thin, pasty man, once of powerful physique, but now rather rickety on his pins.

"One hundred and seventy miles to the mouth of the Sesajap," he murmured. "We shall reach it at five o'clock tomorrow morning."

He gave over thinking and plucked vacuously at his thin mustaches.

"Providing the engines hold," added Li Fu, who spoke better Portuguese than English. "If the night is clear, there will be a new moon. We should sight the coast by midnight."

"The engines!" repeated the skipper. "Where is the chief? He was here an hour ago."

"He went below, sir. The mate woke up and went into the wheel-house."

"Bring him here, Li Fu."

The quartermaster went out of the chart-house, presently to return alone.

"He is asleep, sir. We cannot wake him."

"Drunk, eh? Never mind, never mind. I will take the observation myself at noon—"

"And at two bells, sir," reminded Li Fu cautiously.

"Oh, you are a fool, Quartermaster! These men will not mutiny. There is no reason for it. You are not used to Lascars and must not be a fool. I shall go to rest and make ready my instruments. The course is to be held as it is."

The captain rose and, with a sigh of relief that no more duty presented itself, made his way back to his cabin.

Li Fu studied the outspread chart and lighted a cigarette. After a while, the other quartermaster left the wheel lashed and came into the chart-house, also lighting a cigarette. The two men greeted each other quietly. Like Li Fu, Quartermaster Hi John was a stalwart, efficient seaman, calm and well poised. He addressed Li Fu in the Cantonese dialect.

"You told him, Li?"

"I told him," said Li Fu. "He went to sleep. He was very weary."

"Did you find out why the captain changed the course?"

"No. He thinks more about his hap toi than about what I ask him. I woke up the chief and told him, but he was too drunk to understand. He asked if there was no help for the widow's son, and went to sleep again. His mind is gone."

"The second mate will fight," said Hi John thoughtfully.

"If he is not slain before he gets a chance."

"There remains the wireless officer."

"True. He remains."

The two men looked at each other and smiled mirthlessly. The wireless man was the privileged son of a Macaense, chief owner of the Sulu Queen. Cumshaw had obtained his berth; he did not know one end of the wireless from another, as the quartermasters had learned when Jim Barnes cursed him for an idiotic fool. He was no better than an idiot; he was, indeed, some degrees worse, since the diseased degeneracy of Asia was his heritage.

"Then you and I are alone," said Hi John.

"We are alone. What answer shall we make to Lim Tock when the time comes?"

Hi John extinguished his cigarette.

"Duty is a shining star, Li Fu. I have a revolver in my bag."

"I have one also," said Li Fu. "Yet I do not want to swallow gold."

"Nor I; this life is good." Hi John lighted another cigarette. "Still, consider duty! Lim Tock is a terrible man. It was he who sank the Dutch steamer last year, before his son was hung. His son helped him. They each got two Dutch women and much money. If we do not join him, Li, I think that we shall both swallow gold."

"Yes. Then you join him."

"Oh, no." Hi John's singsong tones were soft. "Oh, no! I did not mean that."

Li Fu looked slightly ironic. "You think this ship worth dying for? Or those white women beautiful enough to die for?"

"Not at all," said Hi John. "The ship is a rotten hulk. The women are ugly and pale as ghosts. I care nothing what becomes of either. At the same time, I revere the wisdom of my paternal parent, who was also an officer in a ship. Before he swallowed gold, he asked me to take an oath, that I would never swerve from my duty. Therefore I cannot well join Lim Tock, since I undertook a certain duty aboard this ship."

"That is true," said Li Fu. "I have no oath to restrain me, but my duty needs no oath. Therefore I agree with you fully. I shall get my revolver, and also yours, while you are on the bridge; I have had it two rice-years, but it is a good one."

"Very well," said Hi John. "Give me mine when you have the opportunity."

WHILE these two men talked on the bridge-deck, Lim Tock, the super-cargo, walked aft on the main-deck, past the dingy passenger-cabins where the brood of Abdullah swarmed about the two "missionary ladies." Lim Tock was an elderly Straits Chinaman, with a short, gray mustache, a drawn, parchment face, and two bright and glittering gray eyes— a most amazing pair of eyes to be staring from a saffron face! Yet some Chinese are gray-eyed.

In the stern, he came upon Abdullah, the Arab merchant, who was reading a Koran. The Arab looked up, smiled slightly, and spoke in the Low Malay which most men use in the island seas. This Slave of God was a thin and deadly looking person, fierce with his hook nose and jutting shreds of beard and jetty eyes.

"All is arranged?"

"It is arranged," said Lim Tock. "You agree to take the white women off our hands?"

"Yes; and to ask no other share of the rewards."

Lim Tock inclined his head and passed on around to the starboard passage. There he came upon Gajah, the serang, busy doing nothing. To him Lim Tock spoke in High Malay, a tongue which very few men know or understand, even in the island seas.

"Abdullah suspects nothing. His boxes will be rich plunder. Let him be the first to fall, and his children after him— a clean sweep."

"And the woman, his wife?" asked the Lascar serang.

"She has borne many and is past pleasing. Let her accompany Abdullah."

The serang nodded indifferently and Lim Tock went his way.

While men thus talked and schemed and counseled together alow and aloft, Jim Barnes slept.

ii

NORA SAYERS was tall and active, with brilliant yellow hair and very deep violet eyes; a young woman of great energy, who had seen too much bloodshed in the revolutionary fighting around Pekin, and who had turned her mission station into a hospital of tortured men. Ellen Maggs, smaller, very slender and frail in looks, was newer to China, but she, too, had seen so many horrors that the powers above had thought best to send both women away on a sea voyage in company. Ellen Maggs, however, had more steel beneath her quiet and old-fashioned exterior than men imagined possible.

When they entered the mess saloon at eight bells, noon, they were not surprised to find themselves alone. They had by this time grown used to the peculiar conditions prevailing aboard the Sulu Queen. The chief had a lurking sense of shame that kept him from their presence. The captain had the bridge. The wireless officer came in, bowed very effusively, and seated himself. He could speak no English, and listened staringly to the laughter and light chatter of the two women. Abdullah and his family ate by themselves.

Presently Jim Barnes entered, bathed and shaven and with his usual air of radiating high good-humor. Almost at the same moment came Vanderhoof, eyes bloodshot, walk unsteady, to seat himself with a grunt and absorb quantities of coffee and rice-curry. He gave Barnes a scowling regard across the table.

"Der cap'n say for you to take der pridge," he growled.

"Not me," said Barnes pleasantly. "Now that we've open sea ahead, you and he can do a little work, Van. Everything's galley-west aboard this hooker, and the watches might as well go with the rest."

The yellow steward set an open gin-bottle beside the mate, who poured a tumbler full, then glared at Barnes.

"By chiminy," he said, "d'you refuse to opey orders, huh?"

"You bet I do," said Jim Barnes, his eyes twinkling. "And if you know what's good for your health, Van, you'll sober up before you try to give me any. Savvy that?"

Despite the cheerful accent, something in the steady and level regard of the second mate caused Vanderhoof to drink down his gin without making any response. When he had emptied the bottle, he shoved back his chair and left the cabin.

"Well, ladies," said Barnes, "how do you find yourselves this morning? Rather warm last night. Did your fan work all right?"

"Quite, thanks," and Nora Sayers smiled. "Aren't you just a trifle independent with your superior officers, Mr. Barnes? I thought all sailors were very polite—"

Barnes grinned. "Oh, me and Van? Don't pay any attention to that, Miss Sayers. He was just trying to show his authority in front of you and Miss Maggs."

"Oh!" Nora Sayers laughed. "Isn't it mutiny to refuse to obey orders?"

"Not aboard this packet. The skipper has been hitting the pipe all morning and now he's got us headed slap for Borneo. Lord knows why; I don't."

Ellen Maggs smiled shyly.

"You're the most happily irresponsible person I ever met, Mr. Barnes," she said. "And so is this ship. Every voyage in her must be a delightful adventure, if it's like this one! Have you been with her long?"

"This is my first and last," said Barnes drily. "You can't say that you've enjoyed yourselves so far, can you?"

"I have, every minute of it!" exclaimed Ellen Maggs, an unwonted sparkle in her eyes.

"And so have I," asserted Nora Sayers with energy. "Look at the queer people we've met! This funny little man down the table, who stares and giggles—"

"He's part idiot," interjected Jim Barnes. "But who else?"

"All of them! The poor old captain, with his politeness and queer abstractions and—"

"The old man's only forty," and Barnes chuckled. "But the hops gets 'em early. So you like the Eurasians, do you?"

"I don't like them, no, but they're interesting," stated Miss Sayers. "And the chief engineer is queer, too, only he won't talk—"

"I was talking with him early this morning," put in Ellen Maggs. "He's a dear old man, Nora. He was telling me all about his early life in Scotland."

"He always does," put in Jim Barnes, "when he's in the middle of a big spree. Oh, don't look shocked! Won't do any good. I guess you ladies are disappointed that you didn't find another queer duck in the second officer's shoes, eh? Or am I queer, too?"

"You're just human," declared Miss Sayers promptly. "Only you're too busy to be very polite."

"I'm going to be busier yet, right after lunch," said Jim Barnes. "Oh, Steward! Get me some more of that curry."

"Why, what have you found now to keep you occupied?" asked Ellen Maggs, interested.

Jim Barnes did not respond until the steward had left the cabin. Then he spoke cheerfully, as he sugared his coffee with some care.

"Me? I've got to set the ship afire. As soon as they give the alarm, I want you two ladies to come up to the upper bridge-deck, and come quick! I'll be in the chart-house—"

"You mean that little coop up above the bridge, with the awning?" asked Nora Sayers.

"Just that. I'll get there before they discover the blaze."

The two women stared at him, then glanced at each other in perplexed wonder.

"What do you mean, Mr. Barnes?" demanded Ellen Maggs, a faint touch of color in her cheeks. "Are you joking about getting the ship afire?"

"No," said Jim Barnes. His tone was unusually crisp, and the look that he gave them was keen and incisive. "No. Don't let out a peep before the steward, now! A mutiny is due to start at one o'clock, and, so far as I can see, most of the officers will get wiped out at the first crack. Mutiny or piracy, I'm not sure which. I've got to set the hooker afire and keep the men so blamed busy they'll have no time for murder. Please pass the butter, Miss Maggs."

His matter-of-fact manner made the two women at first doubt his words, then believe them with a frightful sense of conviction; Ellen Maggs stared at him from eyes that slowly widened. Glancing up and meeting her gaze, Jim Barnes was suddenly startled by the intensity of her look, by the revealed womanhood he saw in her face; he had not dreamed that she could look so beautiful.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he said, smilingly. There was an infectious quality to his smile; perhaps because of his direct blue eyes, wrinkled at the corners; perhaps because of his wide and humorous mouth and strong chin. "But the steward's coming now—"

"You're in earnest?" demanded Nora Sayers, who had gone a little white.

"Quite. Nobody aboard can use the wireless, unless you ladies can. Any chance?"

Ellen Maggs shook her head.

"No chance," she said, and astonished Jim Barnes by smiling. "But I have a pistol in my suitcase—"

"Fine!" exclaimed Barnes heartily. The steward entered with his plate of curry. "You get it. And you girls might as well buckle down to the fact that before we get through there's going to be a large slice of the lower regions laid bare aboard this hooker. Is that an engagement ring you're wearing, Miss Sayers? Pardon personalities; I'm asking for a reason."

"Yes." Nora Sayers twisted the ring on her finger. "It's—"

"All right. If you ever want to add a plain gold hoop to it, you remember that there's just one man aboard who can pull you out o' this, and that's me. I don't want any interference, and I do want help. Get me?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Ellen Maggs, and her eyes were shining. "Just where do you want us to come, please? You spoke about the chart-house—"

"Come there, and I'll see you up safe to the awning deck above. A little before two bells. Bring with you anything that you value very highly. We may stave off this fuss until night, in which case we'll be all right. Well, cheer up and don't worry! See you later."

Jim Barnes pushed back his chair, produced his pipe, and began to fill it as he left the mess saloon. He stood by the rail a moment, until his pipe was lighted.

"I guess that was laying bare the situation with a rough and brutal hand," he said, and chuckled softly. "Had to be done, though. And now I've got to step mighty carefully. Most likely those assistant engineers are in on the game; they're Eurasians, too, so I can't take chances. If anyone suspects that I know about things, the blow-off will come before two bells— which would spoil everything for me. But lordy! What a pippin that little Maggs girl is! She's a regular guy."

From his language, it might be inferred that Jim Barnes was an American.

Puffing at his pipe, he sought the engine-room. The chief blinked up at him from a huge plate of curry. A glance showed Barnes that neither of the assistants were about, and he ventured an open word.

"Chief, wake up! Mutiny is scheduled for two bells, and if you don't want your throat cut you'd better be advised—"

"Get oot o' ma engine-room!" ordered the chief with dignity. "Ye drunken scut, can ye not bear your liquor like a man? I'll hae no drunken officers cooming doon here to be bawlin' o' mutinies in ma ear! Tak' shame to yoursel', sir!"

Barnes compressed his lips and turned away. It was useless.

The Sulu Queen, originally a well-decked tramp, had been fitted up rather shabbily to carry passengers in the island trade, the after portion of the deck-house having been added to for this purpose. Carrying all the oily waste he could conceal about his person, Jim Barnes made his way aft to one of the unoccupied cabins. The two white passengers were not in sight. In the stern, beneath a tattered awning, Abdullah sat smoking a water-pipe, his wife and family around him.

"They're safe enough," observed Barnes, as he ducked into the cabin he sought. "Even if the old packet can't get up enough steam to check the flames, and goes down, they'll be taken care of. So, on with the dance!"

The fact that he was committing various sorts of barratry and felony, did not worry Jim Barnes in the least.

The storm season being past, the lookout or awning-deck above the pilot-house was fitted up with awning and canvas aprons and some chairs, but remained almost unused. The additional climb of a dozen feet from the chart-and pilot-house was far too much trouble for the captain and others; besides which, the place was no more than a box a dozen feet square, and was hot. A single ladder ascended to it from the bridge deck, which it overlooked completely.

SHORTLY before two bells, Jim Barnes welcomed Ellen Maggs and Nora Sayers, as they came up to the bridge. He was alone there, with Li Fu and two of the lascars in the chart-house. Down in the bows, Lim Tock, the supercargo, was standing in talk with the steward, and both watches were idling about the deck.

"How do we get upstairs?" asked Ellen Maggs.

"Right this way, ladies!" answered Barnes cheerfully. "Chairs up there and a couple of old magazines, as well as a breaker of water and some other things. Whatever happens, don't worry—and wait for me. Here you are!"

As they vanished up the ladder, he re-entered the chart-house and addressed the two lascar seamen.

"Run, quick! One of you to the serang, the other to Lim Tock. Say that I smell smoke, and have search made for fire. Look at the bunkers, but don't take off the hatches until the last thing. If there's a fire in the forward hold, call me."

A startled glance passed between the two men, and they jumped for the ladder. Jim Barnes turned to the quartermaster, smiling slightly.

"Where is Hi John?"

"Him look velly sharp, I think."

"We can depend on him?"

Li Fu nodded.

"All right, then," said Barnes. "You go tell him to come up here. Then take charge of those lascars and keep 'em out of the after cabins for a while, until the fire shows itself. You savvy? Don't be in any hurry to put it out, either. We'll hold this thing off until night if we can."

Across the saffron features flitted a look of admiration, for Li Fu comprehended the plan instantly. Then the quartermaster was gone. Barnes looked at the chronometer. It lacked five minutes of one.

"Two bells won't be struck," he thought, as he swung the wheel.

He grinned at sight of the commotion below. Lim Tock was yelling orders at those of the black gang whom he could see. Gajah, the serang, was whistling at his lascars shrilly. Then he remembered the chief engineer, and rang the bell. One of the assistants answered in the tube.

"Ship's on fire," said Jim Barnes, chuckling to himself. "Stop your engines and keep up a full head o' steam for the hose."

Hi John appeared, gave Barnes a brief nod and a grin, and took the wheel. There had never been any fire drill aboard the Sulu Queen in the memory of man, but Barnes blew the whistle nevertheless and added to the confusion. Vanderhoof's bellow arose from below, followed by an outburst of yells and shouts from aft.

"They've found it," said Barnes.

He went to the bridge rail and glanced aft. A trail of smoke and steam was veering out in the wake of the steamer. Barnes listened for a little to the sounds of tumultuous confusion, then rejoined the quartermaster.

"How did you and Li Fu know so much about this mutiny?" he demanded.

"Talkee-talkee," rejoined Hi John curtly. "My savvy lascar talk plenty."

"Oh! Understand Malay, do you? Good work. What reason have they to mutiny?"

Hi John had picked up a good deal of information. He knew that the rich boxes of the merchant Abdullah were to be looted, and that there was a large amount of opium down below, to be transferred to a Chinese junk and landed somewhere along the Bornean coast. Undoubtedly, the Sulu Queen was to be stripped of everything valuable, then quietly sunk in deep water. Lim Tock was in it, the serang Gajah was in it, and the Chinese junk was in it; so were some of the officers and all the men aboard.

Reluctantly Jim Barnes became convinced that to strive against the inevitable would be useless. Except for these two Chinese, he could depend upon no one. Had he been alone on the ship, his actions would have been simple and perhaps effectual.

"I'd like to go down there and shoot the supercargo, the serang, and a few of the men, and get the old hooker into port," he said to Hi John. "But the safety of those two white women is worth more than this damned old carcass of a boat. I can't risk it."

Hi John looked bewildered at this reasoning, which he could not understand. At this instant Li Fu came up the port ladder, panting, and grinned as he saluted Barnes.

"Mutiny makee, no matter! I think they wait, same time tonight, mebbeso."

"Two bells evening watch?" demanded Barnes.

"Aye, sir. Cap'n say go ahead on course, he makee fire go out."

Barnes rang for full speed ahead, then questioned Li Fu. Both the skipper and Vanderhoof were in charge, it seemed, and were fighting the fire. Vanderhoof was somewhat sobered by the danger; the captain was almost incapacitated and was acting like an old woman, according to Li. The quartermaster was highly disgusted. It was the effort of the serang, whose lascars were working hard, that was putting the fire under control.

Presently the skipper himself appeared, He was breathing hard and was all in a tremble. He wiped his pallid brow and cursed heartily.

"Fire under?" asked Barnes.

"Yes, yes, or soon will be. No matter at all. Very disturbing," panted the captain. "I must obtain some rest, must verify our position. Keep her as she is, sir."

He looked around, nervously fingered the chart, then departed. Barnes looked after him in contempt, then went to the ladder leading above.

"Gone for a few pipes, the swine!" he muttered, then looked up and raised his voice. "Come on down, girls. Mutiny's postponed until tonight. False alarm and nobody killed yet."

iii

"WHAT PART are you from?" asked Jim Barnes.

"Illinois," said Ellen Maggs. "From Elgin, where they make watches. Were you ever there?"

"No closer than the outside of a watch," responded Barnes. "But now I'm going there some day."

"Why?"

"To see where you came from."

Ellen Maggs laughed a little and actually forgot to blush.

"Do it again," said Barnes.

"Do what?"

"Laugh that way. It's the prettiest thing I ever saw."

Ellen blushed at that, then turned as Nora Sayers joined them.

"Nora! Mr. Barnes comes from Baltimore, too! He was born there!"

"Good for him!" Nora Sayers laughed in her hearty, energetic fashion. "Perhaps you know my father there, Mr. Barnes— the physician, Doctor Sayers?"

"Don't know anybody there," admitted Jim Barnes. "I've been at sea ever since the war finished up, and before. But I'm going to settle down some day, across the bay from San Francisco. Ever been there, Miss Maggs?"

"Only when I came out to China."

"Well," said Jim Barnes, in his whimsical [Transcriber's note: line of text missing from source book] all picked out! A fine little bungalow on one of the hills at Sausalito, where you can see the ships all up and down the bay, and the campanile at Berkeley clear across—

"Have you got the girl picked out, too?" asked Nora Sayers amusedly.

"Well," said Jim Barnes, in his whimsical way, "I didn't have up to a couple of weeks ago, but lately I've sort of got my mind made up. By the way, girls, you'd better get all ready. We're going to leave the ship in an hour or two."

"Leave her?" they repeated as one, in dismayed accents. "How?"

"You'll see. I'll take the bridge when watches are changed at eight bells— eight o'clock. You come up to the bridge a little before then, and stick around. Excuse me, now; I'll have to pack a few things myself."

Barnes hurried away, leaving the two women at the rail.

DINNER was over, a meal from which all three were glad to escape, coming out on deck to find the sun gone and the afterglow staining the horizon like old church windows. A tragic affair, that dinner! The captain was ill and did not appear; Vanderhoof was on deck, more drunk than usual; the second engineer quarreled with the wireless cub, who lost his head in a fit of idiotic rage and had to be taken away and locked up, screaming curses. The chief engineer was also locked in his own cabin, enjoying a spell of "the horrors."

Wishing vainly that he understood something about the wireless outfit, Barnes sought his cabin and packed up the few belongings that he wished to take from the ship. While he was at this task, Li Fu knocked at the door and entered hurriedly.

"Hello! What news? Is it set for two bells?"

Li Fu assented. He was bursting with laughter over some joke of the cruel Chinese variety, and Barnes presently learned what it was. He was ordering Li to warn Abdullah of what was intended, with the intent to get the Arab's family away safely, when the quartermaster exploded in a laugh and reported a conversation that he had overheard among some of the lascars.

It appeared that Abdullah was as much in the plot as anyone, and was to receive as his booty the two white women. The assistant engineers had an eye on the same prey; while Lim Tock and Gajah, the serang, were equally concerned. To the Chinese, this was a huge jest all around, for it meant that the wolves would turn and rend each other.

"Hell!" said Jim Barnes. "I hate to leave the kids here. But go ahead, now; and tell Hi John to attend to the engines as soon as he goes off watch, then to get up to the bridge and stand by. Have you got the boat ready?"

"Aye, sir," assented Li Fu. "Plenty wate'; eve'ything leady."

"On your way, then!"

Barnes made his way to the bridge, where Hi John and two lascars were in charge, and passed behind the chart-house unremarked. Vanderhoof was not in evidence. Aboard the Sulu Queen the clear night was already insufferably warm, for she was steaming with the wind.

Passing to the centre starboard boat, Barnes found the cover loosely in place. He put in his few effects, then gave his attention to the lines. Like most old ships of a past generation, the steamer was equipped with Clifford's lowering gear, the most beautiful boat-gear ever devised, in theory, permitting a boat to be lowered by slacking a single line. This was the boat carried for use in emergencies. It was not stowed in chocks but was swung out and left clear, secured by gripes to a toggle which could be slipped in ah instant.

"If we have luck she'll do," thought Barnes, examining the lowering line. "The pendants are new line and not swelled; we ought to get down without spilling. Hm! If anybody'd ever told me that I'd owe life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness to this cursed ancient Clifford gear, I'd have called him a liar! But wait. We're not off yet by a long shot."

True enough.

AN AUTOMATIC in either side pocket of his jacket, Jim Barnes took over the bridge from Hi John as eight bells struck. Then, dismay seized upon him. His own lack of foresight had brought on the crisis before he wanted or expected it! Ellen Maggs and Nora Sayers were on the bridge. They had brought some personal effects, each in a small grip; and from the look cast at them by the departing lascar wheelmen, Barnes knew that suspicion was up.

Two fresh lascars came to the wheel, with Li Fu. Disregarding these, Barnes made a slight gesture to Hi John, who slipped out of sight instantly on his errand below. Unless the engines were disabled, Barnes knew that his preparations were of no avail. He greeted the two women with his usual air of cheerful assurance, however.

"All ready? Fine! The two quartermasters are with us. Come along, now, and climb into the boat— no time to lose, I assure you! In ten minutes this ship is going to be about the unhealthiest spot you ever heard of."

He led them around the chart-house toward the boat.

"But the captain!" protested Nora Sayers. "Surely, if you know there will be some trouble, the other officers—"

"Nix," said Barnes. "Good Lord, girl! Haven't you seen already what sort o' swine the others are? Hear that so-called wireless officer scream? He's still off his head— and couldn't send a message if he were sane. And the old man's soggy with opium. Here you are! Step on this water breaker, and over into her; she's solid."

Indeed, his words were given emphasis by the screaming of the wireless man, which had broken out anew down below. Miss Sayers stepped to the breaker, and Barnes helped her up into the boat. Then he turned, picked up Ellen Maggs bodily and lifted her over the edge, laughing as he did so.

"Got your pistol? Good. Sit tight, and don't scream when things bust loose. See you later."

He left them hurriedly and returned to the wheel, fighting down his appalling helplessness to prevent what was going to happen. About the ship's officers he cared less than nothing; he was thinking now of the Arab woman and her brown children below. Abdullah might or might not protect them from the yellow fiends.

The tall figure of the serang rose at the starboard ladder. One glance from Li Fu told Barnes that this was the end. The two lascars were here to finish the quartermaster, and Gajah had come to attend to the second mate. The time was at hand.

Barnes went to the door of the chart-house. A shot would do the business, but he wanted no shooting up here if possible.

"Serang!" he exclaimed crisply. "Step aft. Something I want to show you."

That suited the Malay, who loosened his kris in its sheath and followed. At the corner of the chart-house, Barnes pointed across the deck, obscure in the starlight, to the boat.

"What's that?"

Sincerely astonished, Gajah peered at the boat, with the two women sitting in her. And as he stared, Barnes let drive with the heavy barrel of his automatic, a full, fair blow across the skull. A grunt broke from the serang, who pitched sideways and flung out his arms. Barnes caught him and lowered the bleeding form to the deck, then darted back to the chart-house.

Just in time, too! For all his watchful care, Li Fu had been taken unawares, one of the lascars gripping him in both arms, the other with kris upraised for the blow. Barnes was in upon them unseen, and struck down the man with the kris. The other lascar leaped away, gained the far door of the chart-house— and ran into the arms of Hi John. Something happened there. Steel flashed and a man gasped; the lascar slipped to the deck quietly.

"You two men watch the ladders!" snapped Barnes. "When you hear me call, come to the boat."

Revolvers out, each quartermaster took one of the ladders. Barnes turned and ran aft along the deck at top speed, disregarding the low call that the two women sent after him as he passed the boat. He was listening desperately for sounds from below. They came to him, came all in a jumble that his brain sorted out mechanically. First came a jarring wrench that shook the whole ship. Then the engines stopped. Whatever Hi John had done, the work was effective. And at the same instant the night was split by a sudden cry.

"Allah! Allah—"

Then the screaming of the wireless man was cut very short. An oath of desperation on his lips, Jim Barnes gained the small after ladder that led to the stern of the main deck. From below him burst a storm of cries; the shriek of a woman, the staccato yells of men, and a thin, shrill wail that maddened him. He dropped to the deck below, and found himself in the midst of an inferno, clearly illumined by the deck-lights.

Abdullah lay across his water-pipe, stabbed in the back. Nearby was his eldest child, also stabbed, and two lascars were fighting to take another child from the arms of its dying mother. Barnes saw only this much, and then began to fire. He forgot everything but the horror in front of him, and only laughed when several of the lascars began to converge on him.

A shot rang out from one of the forward cabins. Barnes, seizing the child, thrust aim up the ladder and then swung about to meet three lascars plunging at him. He shot the first and second, ducked the kris-swing of the third, then tripped the man and shot him as he fell. Then he plunged for the nearest cabin, whence came screams.

Just what happened next is something of which Jim Barnes never speaks. The orders of Lim Tock, to make a clean sweep of Abdullah's family, were being followed to the letter. Barnes was in the cabin for fully a minute— which, just then, was a very long space of time.

By the time he emerged, much had happened. There was a crashing and smashing from the length of the cabins as the doors were battered in. From the bridge, a spatter of revolver shots; and, from below, more shots followed by the wild scream of the old chief as he reached the deck— a scream of half rage, half agony. He died at the rail, trailing blood across the deck, in his fist a blood-spattered spanner. After him, the Chinese stokers poured up to the deck and scattered for loot.

Jim Barnes came out of the cabin, thrusting a dead lascar ahead of him. About his neck clung one of Abdullah's daughters, and under his left arm was another. From the passage leaped a stoker, whom Barnes shot. Then, at the ladder, he urged the two little girls upward to join their brother above.

A shot rang out at him, and the bullet slithered on the steel beside him. Barnes paused to empty his automatics, then went up the ladder on the jump. At the top, he caught hold of the frightened children and rushed them along, shouting as he did so to the two quartermasters.

They, after shooting at the forms down below on the foredeck and in the well, joined him at the boat. Barnes chucked in the three children and cast off the toggle.

"In with you, men, and lower away! I'll slide down the pendant. Where's your pistol, Ellen? Hand it over— thanks. Sit still, all of you! Lower, Li, lower! That's it—"

Li Fu slacked the lowering line about the cleat, and the boat fell away rapidly. Barely in time, too; Barnes perceived a rush of figures coming from the after ladder, and opened fire. They scattered.

There was a moment's breathing spell, while from fore and aft, alow and aloft, rose sing-song calls in Cantonese and the harsher gutturals of the lascars. A rush was being planned from both sides.

Barnes caught a soft call from below, and breathed a prayer of thanks. A number of figures showed at the corner of the chart-house. He emptied his pistol at these, then turned, caught one of the pendants hitched to the davit-head, and let himself go sliding down.

A burst of yells rang out from the bridge deck, but he was in the boat below ere any could reach the rail. The two quartermasters had already put out the oars, and Barnes cast off the line and let the pendants unreeve as the roller whirled. The boat started away from the ship's side.

"Here," came a voice, and Barnes felt one of his own pistols shoved into his hand. "My clip fitted your automatic and—"

"Good girl, Ellen!" he cried out, and laughed as he fired at the rail above. A shot made answer, and a kris sang through the air to splash alongside—but the boat was clear. She drew away from the ship before the mutineers were sure just what had happened.

iv

"THERE'S one good thing we can say for the Sulu Queen," observed Jim Barnes. "That is, she sailed under English board rules."

"What has that to do with our present situation?" demanded Nora Sayers.

"It means that we've got a sprit rig stowed aboard. In oars, men! Hi John, we'll be sailing before the wind, so lash your oar to the for'ard thwart to make a boom for the fores'l. Li Fu, break out the canvas. Get the mast stepped, then trim ship."

Over the waves behind, the tumult had died, and the distant lights of the Sulu Queen showed only when the boat lifted on a crest. No pursuit had been made, nor had the searchlight been put into effect. Seemingly, Lim Tock was making no effort to find the boat. Probably the supercargo was for the present unable to get his men in hand and was also very likely to be busy getting the engines into working order.

When the centreboard was let down and the boat was being trimmed, Jim Barnes surveyed her with acute satisfaction. She was a nearly new whaleboat, fitted with a rudder in navy style, and well found in all respects. With a grunt of delight, Barnes opened the oiled silk wrapping of the matches, found the compass to be a good one, and set it by his side in the stern. In another ten minutes the sprit was up, the foresail rigged to the makeshift boom, and the whaleboat was running before the wind toward Borneo.

The eldest of the three children was barely six; none of them were cognizant of what had happened. After whimpering a little, they were soon asleep amidships, wrapped in the spare sail.

"If you girls will come aft, you can curl up in the bottom of the boat at my feet," said Barnes. "You'll be out of the wind and she'll be better trimmed. I've kept the boat well wet down since we sailed, and she's dry as a bone."

The two women obeyed. Nora Sayers looked up at Barnes.

"The other children? And their mother?"

Barnes tried to speak, but his throat was suddenly dry.

"I— damn it, girl, don't make me think of it! I did what I could. Go to sleep."

Ellen Maggs caught her breath sharply. Then, after a moment, Barnes felt her hand touch his, and he gripped her fingers. Both women were crying, he thought; but after a little they fell quiet, lulled by the regular rise and fall of the boat, by the long forward sweep, the rush and hiss of water as she drove along on a crest, and the tilted drop into the trough only to gather impetus anew and hurl forward.

The curling sweep of wind and sea, like a cleansing breath, wiped out all that was behind them and lessened the sharp memory. Once Barnes, looking back, saw a searchlight fingering the water; that was all. The stars blazed cold and brilliant, and the thin crescent of the new moon hung like green silver against the depths above. So passed the hours, and the boat rushed ever onward and onward under the steady sweep of wind. Barnes held her on the same course the Sulu Queen had been following, to make the Bornean coast. They were far out of any steamer track, and there was no hope of being picked up unless by some chance trading schooner.

Dawn found them steadily bowling along. Li Fu had crept aft and relieved Barnes of the tiller; and Barnes, resting against the stern-thwart, opened his eyes to find the head of Ellen Maggs pillowed upon his shirt, and his arms about her shoulders. How this had come about, he had not the least idea, but made no objection to the arrangement.

Perhaps aroused by his awakening stir, the girl opened her eyes a moment later. Nora Sayers was sleeping peacefully. Barnes felt Ellen Maggs catch her breath at sight of the ocean and sky that closed them in, then saw the color come into her cheeks. Before she turned to glance at him, he closed his eyes again. She did not move, but, after realizing the situation, accepted it. Above them the lean form of Li Fu crouched at the tiller, dark eyes sweeping the water ahead.

"Awake?" asked Barnes after a moment. "Don't move. Sailing a whaleboat before the wind, even with a centreboard, is about as ticklish as canoeing. Comfortable?"

"Very, thank you," she responded, although he could see that the color lingered in her cheeks.

"When the kids wake up, we'll stretch our legs a bit and break out some grub," said Barnes. She was silent for a space, then spoke quietly.

"Are we going anywhere? Have you seen any ship, or will any see us?"

"Going to Borneo. We'll raise the coast as soon as the sun's up. We won't see any ship unless she sees us first, however."

"But I thought we might see one, and catch her attention—"

Jim Barnes chuckled at this.

"No chance! Novels to the contrary, it just ain't done. A small boat has a horizon of two and a half miles. We could see another boat a mile farther. The bridge of a ship can see us fifteen miles away, and would be sure not to miss our sails. So by the time we saw a ship, she'd be bearing down to take us on board. But we'll not see any; we're way out of the steamer lane."

Behind the boat, all the eastern sky reddened and streamed with the dawn-shafts, and the sun sprang suddenly from the sea-rim, piercing the haze and mist of dawn with his level rays of gold. Li Fu bent down and touched the shoulder of Barnes. The latter looked. Out ahead of them a purple mass was upheaved above the horizon, running north and south.

"Look!" Barnes pointed it out to the girl. "There's Borneo. If the wind holds, we'll make the coast in a couple of hours. The wind's shifting around to the north, too. Wake up, Hi John! Take in your boom, bring the sheet aft, and let the foresail gybe. Mind your helm, Li Fu, as she wears——"

The whaleboat came over nicely, but as she heeled the three children wakened and began to cry out. Nora Sayers sat up, bewildered, then quickly began to mother the little ones. Hi John came aft and relieved Li Fu, who, with Barnes, set to work breaking out the cabin stores put aboard the boat.

When breakfast was somewhat precariously made an end of, Barnes turned over the forward portion of the boat to the two women and their charges, bringing the quartermasters back in the stern with him. With the spare sail he contrived a low screen which afforded the women some privacy without lessening the windage of the sails.

Li Fu curled up to sleep, but Hi John, with a serious effort to improve his English, questioned Barnes about their course and then delivered himself of a matter which drew Barnes' immediate and earnest attention.

The quartermaster had discovered that the captain had changed the course of the Sulu Queen toward Borneo by reason of something the serang Gajah had said to him. Further, he knew that there was much opium on the steamer, which Lim Tock meant to transfer to a junk which was to meet her somewhere. Putting these facts together, the inference was that the Sulu Queen was to meet the junk somewhere near the mouth of the Sesajap, for which the skipper had headed her.

"I don't know but what you're right, John," said Barnes thoughtfully. "We might run into that junk, eh? But no great matter if we did. They'd be Chinese and would leave us alone."

John shook his head at this. The boat was stenciled with the name of the Sulu Queen, and the men aboard the junk would not be exactly fools. Barnes nodded assent.

"You're right. Still, the chances are ten to one that we'll not see her. How badly did you smash those engines? What did you do to them?"

"Me no savvy," said the quartermaster with a shrug. He had smashed them, and that was all he knew, except that he had done it in a hurry and at considerable risk.

Jim Barnes had fetched along no charts, but needed none for this coast. To the north was Point Elphinstone and British territory, and no settlements along the coast. To the south were several Dutch stations within a hundred miles or so. As Hi John claimed to know the coast fairly well, Barnes decided to run straight in for the land, if possible identify their position, and then strike south for the nearest Dutch settlement. The boat was staunch; the storm season was gone, and there was nothing to fear.

"And the quicker I can get a gunboat after that devil, Lim Tock, the better!" reflected Barnes. He still saw red at thought of what he had witnessed the previous night.

AN HOUR passed, and another, and the coast opened up before them as the breeze held. The mountains of the interior rose in a dull purple mass, against which stood the brighter green of the low shores. An island presently detached itself to the north, and after studying the coast-line carefully, Hi John declared this to be Bunju, with the island of Tarakan a little off the port bow. South of Tarakan were Dutch posts on the Bulangan River mouths, so Barnes let her fill off a little, heading southeast by east.

The children, meantime, had begun to explore, and two of them appeared aft, staring at the three men with wondering brown eyes, but too shy to talk. Barnes was paying little heed to them; both he and Hi John were examining the coast ahead. Then, suddenly, Li Fu uncurled, and came out of his sleep with a blood-curdling yell.

For an instant Barnes thought the quartermaster had gone mad, until he saw the man staring at the wet leg of his dungaree trousers. Wet! A chattering cry from Li Fu drove the warning home. He plunged forward.

"Drop it, you little rascal! Drop it!"

It was one of those slight accidents upon which destiny hangs and veers. The Arab boy had found the lanyard of the plug in the boat's bottom, and now stood holding up the plug curiously while the water spouted into her.

At the cry and plunge of Barnes, the boy scrambled away forward. Nora Sayers came aft, and ran into him. They fell together, just as Barnes flung himself on the plug and attempted to replace it. Hi John, too startled to mind his helm properly, let her yaw on the crest of a wave— and the big mainsail gybed.

Barnes, who had jammed the plug back into place, thought she was gone; but the water that she had shipped saved her in that instant. The mast, bone-dry and rotten, went with a rending crash, smashing the sprit with it. She swept up on the next sea with a pile of canvas dragging over her bow and the frightened children screaming.

Seizing Li Fu's knife, Barnes went into the tangle furiously, for somewhere beneath it was Ellen Maggs. He found her unhurt, however, her arms about the youngest child.

"Lord, girl! I thought the mast had hit you. Get aft, now. Both of you girls take pannikins and bail. Li, put out an oar and keep her from broaching. John, come along and help clear away. Move sharp, everybody!"

In five minutes the dripping canvas was hauled in amidships and the damage ascertained. The sprit was gone beyond repair, and the upper half of the mast. Against the stump, Barnes held an oar while Hi John deftly lashed it in place.

"What happened?" demanded Nora Sayers.

"We all picked the lee side to fall on," and Barnes laughed as he spoke. "Cheer up! No harm done! We'll run into shore and replace the spars, then be on our way. Eh, John?"

"Can do," grunted Hi John, examining the coast line. "Plenty bamboo. Hey! Catchum sail off sta'board counter!"

Barnes leaped to a thwart and took one look to the north. A brown, square sail was in sight, creeping from behind one of the islands.

He turned.

"Now, John, move! Get that canvas up, anyway at all so it'll draw— come on! Use that long piece of the sprit for a gaff; lash the canvas to it and then lash it as high on the oar as you can. Look alive! That's your junk, yonder."

The two men fell furiously to work, while the women bailed and Li Fu tugged at the long oar to keep the whaleboat from broaching. And the brownish yellow matting sail crept down on them like an ungainly water-spider.

v

UNDER the rapid directions of Barnes, the whaleboat was presently surging through the water again, while he took the tiller and the quartermasters finished the bailing. Both women sat a bit aft to trim the boat anew; and, as they had worked diligently at Cantonese while fitting themselves for mission duties, they understood the tongue more or less. Neither of the quartermasters was aware of the fact. Barnes spoke it not at all.

"Our master is in love with this drooping girl," said Li Fu chantingly, as he bailed. "Lim Tock desired her also. She must have a devil that charms some men, for she is of no beauty in my eyes."

Hi John laughed harshly. "If those aboard the junk see the women, they will try hard for us! Lim Tock was a Straits man; to him white women are beautiful. These others are Straits men, too, I think. Women are more desirable than gold, and white women than pearls; for white women are hard to come by in Singapore, unless one—"

He went on to speak learnedly of matters which, by good fortune, came in words that the two women had not learned. As it was, they gave each other a startled glance. Then Ellen Maggs motioned to the spare sail.

"Get it, Nora. Lie down and pull it over us."

Barnes saw the action, and his eyes narrowed perplexedly. Then he understood, and a smile touched his lips.

"Good work, girls! Get the kids with you. Li and John, lie down here by the after thwart, in the trough of the next wave. Chances are they won't have very good glasses aboard the junk. We'll puzzle 'em a bit and make 'em suspicious."

Once again the slender accident upon which hangs fortune! Although the junk was at least three miles from them, Barnes had swiftly estimated her course and sailing power, and had come to the desperate conclusion that she meant to intercept them and would do so before they could make the shore. Her large forward and smaller after sail were putting her through the water almost dead before the wind at a fast clip.

Now, when the whaleboat rose to the following seas, she presented the spectacle of a boat under jury rig manned by a single figure in the stern. Other figures had been aboard her; now they were gone. To those on the junk, familiar with the artifices of Malay and Dyak, familiar with theft and murder and piracy by quiet lagoon and hidden river-mouth, it was obvious that the thirty-foot whaleboat wished them to think only one person was aboard. The others might be lying hidden with weapons ready under mats and sails—as they were.

Jim Barnes hauled in his sheets until the whaleboat began to heel, and headed up more directly For the shore, sailing by the wind and getting every possible fraction of speed out of her. Watching narrowly, he saw the brown matting sail braced around. The junk altered her course slightly, to run past the stern of the whaleboat and reconnoitre.

"Good!" he exclaimed, with a breath of relief. "We've won— he's frightened! Everybody stay close, now. We don't want her to learn too much. Li Fu, feel around there and pass me up the crutch for the steering oar, and you, John, have one of the oars ready. I'll ship the crutch and get out the oar. That'll give us better steering power and add a bit to our speed. We'll need the oar in the surf, if there is any."

Five minutes later the change was made and Barnes stood up to the long oar, which kept the boat from yawing and thus aided her progress. Her makeshift rig was holding and promised to effect its purpose.

So it did, indeed. Another twenty minutes made so plain to the junk that the whaleboat could not be intercepted, that she hauled about and stood off-shore, giving up the chase entirely. Barnes jubilantly conveyed the news to all hands, but added a warning word.

"Stay where you are! We don't want her coming in later to investigate us. John, stand by the centreboard and haul up when I give the word. There's a lagoon ahead, and we may find a bar at the entrance. No sign of any, but that don't always signify—"

He craned anxiously forward as he stood, examining the shores upon which they were sweeping. They were low and unhealthy. From the water ascended a line, a tangled cluster of mangrove roots twisted like frozen snakes, with the green wall above. Here and there, however, openings showed that behind these islets lay long lagoons. For one of these openings Barnes steered, forced to take chances on striking a sandbar. He looked back from a crest and found the brown sail dipping under the horizon.

"All clear! Come alive! Ready for a shock if she strikes, girls. Haul in, John! That's the ticket!"

In between the trees, they rushed on a white foam-crest, swept past, and went darting across the quiet surface of a lagoon, the sails flapping. A hundred yards in width it was, the mangrove wall on one side, and on the other a strip of white sand with jungle greenery making another wall to shut off the sky. The boat glided gently across and drifted until her nose touched the sand. With a breath of relief, Barnes dropped his oar.

Then the heat smote them, blazing, torrential, insufferable. There in the quiet lagoon, cut off from wind and sea, the sun beat down unchecked. Nora Sayers, coming to her feet, glanced at the watch on her wrist and uttered a cry of surprise.

"Good gracious! Do you know that it's nearly noon? No wonder it's hot—"

"Sit down!" ordered Barnes. "Pull her up, lads."

Leaping into the water, the quartermasters pulled the nose of the whaleboat to the sand and helped the two women and the children out.

"All ashore!" sang out Barnes. "Li Fu, you and Hi John cut a new mast and sprit. Bamboo, if you can find it; if not, whatever you can get. Miss Sayers, keep your eye on the kids, will you? Miss— er— Ellen, will you take this stuff as I hand it out? We'll use the spare canvas for table-cloth, and have a bang-up feed to celebrate. You girls are getting your money's worth this cruise! How do you like Borneo?"

Nora Sayers had no time to answer, for the three brown children had promptly stripped and were plunging through the water or catching sand-fleas, and she was in laughing pursuit. Ellen Maggs smiled as she took the provisions that Barnes handed out.

"I— why, I like it!" she said, her eyes big with wonder at the things around, and sparkling with eagerness. "I'm frightened, and happy, and— don't want to go back! Are there any savages around?"

"Probably a few head-hunters, but they won't worry us. Here's a tin of sardines."

With her next load the girl was laughing at sight of Nora Sayers rounding up her charges.

"I wish we could do that, too! The water looks so clean, and the sand so white."

"Nothing to prevent," said Barnes, chuckling. "After lunch we'll get the boat rigged. You and Nora can slip up around that point, take the kids along and enjoy life. No sharks of any size in here, and no crocodiles in salt water, I guess. You might catch a stingaree, but not much chance. While you're gone, I'll have a dip myself."

Nora Sayers and the excited, chattering brown children rejoined them, and presently their noon meal was ready. Barnes sent up a call, which was answered from the depths of the green jungle, but the meal was half over when Li Fu and Hi John appeared. They were hot and bedraggled, but exultantly produced two admirable spars of bamboo, each of the right size, for mast and sprit.

Nora Sayers, energetic and vigorous despite the heat, went exploring and announced the discovery of a little cove, just around a sandy point. So, taking the children, she and Ellen Maggs presently departed thither, and the joyful shrieks of splashing youngsters soon echoed through the lagoon.

Jim Barnes lighted his pipe and fell to work on the spars, at which the quartermasters joined him after their meal. It was no light job, since he was determined to have everything shipshape for the proper handling of the boat, and the sheath-knives made slow work of the fibrous bamboo. It was an hour before the mast was stepped and rigged to his satisfaction. Then he enjoyed a quick dip, and was dressed again when the others returned. The Chinese went in search of crabs, to vary their diet.

The two women found Barnes sitting on the sand, his pipe alight and a frown on his face, as he studied the opposite shore of the lagoon.

"Are you all ready to get off?" asked Nora.

"Ready and waiting." Barnes grinned cheerfully. "Look at the channel over there, by which we came in. Notice anything funny about it?"

Both women looked, perplexed, but could find no explanation of his words. Barnes pointed to the sand about the bow of the boat.

"There's the answer, girls. Tide! It must have been on the ebb when we got here. Now she's gone down, and there isn't three inches of water over the bar. We're stuck until about five o'clock, that's all! I'm taking no chances with a thin-skinned whaleboat."

"We can't get out, then?" queried Ellen Maggs.

"Right. We can fish and sew and smoke and talk, and hunt crabs, but we can't leave. By four or five o'clock we may scrape over. Why worry? We're a lot better off than we might have been. Not often you strike a sand beach along these mangrove swamps, I can tell you! We'll stretch the spare sail as an awning for the kids and let 'em sleep."

Using the broken spars, and Nora Sayers aiding him, he stretched the canvas from the side of the boat and the three children were soon asleep in the shade. Retiring to the edge of the trees, the three awaited the return of the quartermasters. Barnes sighed luxuriously.

"Golly! This is the first vacation I've had in a long while. Hope you girls won't lose your jobs if you don't get back to China on schedule?"

"I guess not," said Ellen Maggs. "What brought you on that awful ship, Mr. Barnes?"

Barnes gave her a look of whimsical reproach.

"Now, now, I'm surprised at you! My name isn't Mister— it's Jim! Make believe we're on a desert isle, can't you?"

Ellen Maggs blushed faintly, but her eyes were sparkling when she responded.

"All right— Jim! Now what brought you on that ship?"

"Fate," said Jim Barnes, grinning. "Do you girls remember that morning you came into the consul's office in Hong Kong?"

Both women glanced at him, surprised.

"Were you there?" demanded Nora Sayers. "We didn't see you?".

"I was there when you left, after talking with the consul about the Sulu Queen" he responded. "You were too excited to notice me, though. The consul's a good sport. He knew the old hooker was no ship for me, but he said you girls were stubborn and were going to take the trip aboard her—"

"The rates," put in Ellen Maggs meekly, "were half what the other steamers wanted."

"Sure. So's the pay they offered me. 'You go along on that houseboat of corruption, Barnes,' the consul said. 'She needs a second, and there ought to be one white man aboard her if those fool girls are determined to sail.' So, having seen you girls, I agreed with him—and here we are! And believe me, I'm tickled to death that I shipped aboard her."

"So am I," said Nora Sayers laughing frankly. Ellen Maggs said nothing at all, but Barnes caught a look from her eyes that set his pulses leaping.

Li Fu and Hi John returned with a mighty loot of crabs and sea-slugs garnered from the outer reef, and reported that no sail was in sight, nor was any trail of smoke along the horizon. While the women shudderingly eyed the hideous slugs and the children poked at them with sticks, Barnes got a fire going from dry driftwood and the crab-meat was cooked. The two Chinese squatted over another fire and prepared the slugs after their own fashion.

The repast was flavored with curiosity rather than hunger. By the time it was done, Nora Sayers announced the hour as nearly four. Jim Barnes glanced out at the bar, and nodded. The tide was creeping in.

"All aboard! We'll try it, anyhow. Unship the tiller, Li! She steers and handles much better with the oar."

Thankful to escape from the unstirred, stagnant heat of the lagoon, the women and children were aided into the boat after it had been shoved clear. Barnes took the stern; the quartermasters ran her out and leaped aboard, getting out oars.

"Wind's going down outside," announced Barnes, as they neared the opening. "We'll keep along the coast during the night, however, and with morning ought to run into some native fishing boats. We can soon find where the nearest Dutch post is located. Here we are, now! In oars, men! Stand by the centreboard, John. Li Fu, take care of the sheets!"

The boat's keel touched the mud of the bar lightly, very lightly, and then was over. There had been surf in the morning, but now it was gone, except for a line of breakers fifty feet away. The sails caught the breeze, the boat heeled over, and a moment later Barnes luffed and drove her through the surf, to fall away on the other tack and head out to the southward.

Then, as he stood watching the sails, his eyes widened. Before him, seemingly without cause, had appeared a little round hole in the mainsail. An instant later the crack of a rifle came on the wind. He turned, as a shout broke from Li Fu, and perceived what none of them had observed in the moment of getting through the surf.

Half a mile to the north along the mangrove reef was the same junk they had encountered earlier in the day; and, between her and them, bearing down upon them and booming along with the breeze, were three ship's boats with canvas set.

"Our boats!" cried Jim Barnes. "They sank the ship and came along in the boats. Down, everybody! John, get those water breakers aft to trim ship. Down!"

Another rifle-crack emphasized his words, and then the sharp song of the bullet whining overhead, followed by a chorus of yells from the three boats.

vi

BARNES stood at the steering oar, holding the long ash deep and giving the whaleboat every ounce of windage that would drive her forward. Shot after shot rang out from the pursuing boats, which were filled with men.

He could picture well enough what had happened. Lim Tock, unable to repair the smashed engines of the Sulu Queen, had sunk her. Into the boats had piled the lascars and the yellow men, with their loot and opium, and started for the coast. They must have met the junk during the day, put the loot aboard her, heard of the whaleboat, and had come to seek her. Lim Tock would not dare to let her escape to carry tales.

"And now they've found us right enough!" he thought. "Caught us, confound it! If they didn't have rifles, I'd run out to sea and fight 'em with seamanship. Those lascars can't begin to handle whaleboats. If we only had a good mile between us! But the wind's falling. It'll die out, and won't come up again until after sunset. And by that time they'll crawl up on us with the oars. Damn it!"

The bullets droned overhead. One man at a time seemed to be firing until his magazine emptied. There were good shots among the pursuers, too; several holes were visible in the mainsail, and twice Barnes had felt hot lead come close. It dawned upon him that they were firing at his figure.

"Are we beating them?" called Nora Sayers.

"No," said Barnes grimly. In his appraisal he found the case hopeless, desperate; and he put it bluntly enough, explaining that the oarsmen aboard the pursuing boats, and the calm that was certain to fall, insured their being overtaken. The Chinese listened calmly, with clear understanding; the two women comprehending well enough, but urging him desperately with their eyes.

The whaleboat was reaching out on the starboard tack, as she had left the lagoon opening. The land fell away to the southwest, so that she was standing practically out to sea while running almost before the wind.

"We'll have to run for the land, and do it quick," said Barnes. "We don't dare to tack; we'll have to wear. The breeze is still pretty fresh, and they're apparently badly out of trim; good! Now you'll see some fun, girls. I'll bet a trade dollar that one of 'em gets spilled. Nora, come a bit aft and sit on the lee thwart— that's right. Revolvers loaded, men?"

The quartermasters answered with a nod. Barnes commanded Li Fu to stand by the fore sheet and, when the helm was put up, to empty his weapon at the nearest of the three boats.

"You take charge of the main sheet, John. Those lascars will imitate us, and we'll give 'em something to imitate, or I'm a Dutchman! All right, John— slack away, roundly! Haul in—haul in! Let her gybe, now— smart does it! Ease away, now—"

The staccato reports of Li Fu's revolver cracked emptily down the wind. The boat went off before the wind, and the mainsail was hauled in and gybed dangerously, then was eased away as she paid off on the new tack. Li Fu, dropping his weapon, handled the fore sheet smartly to meet her by the wind.

A jubilant yell broke from Barnes as he glanced backward. The foremost pursuer, confused by Li Fu's bullets, tried to wear hastily and suddenly. Her mainsail hauled around in a terrific jibe that sent her flat over. Heads dotted the water about the craft, but the other two boats managed the trick safely and stood away without halting to pick up their companions. A renewed rifle-fire opened from them.

"Fire and be damned to you!" shouted Barnes in delight. "If I had you out at sea and the wind steady, I'd show you tricks, you dogs! That's one of you gone, and the junk will be delayed picking up—"

The words seemed suddenly checked on his lips; a grunt broke from him, an abrupt ejaculation of surprise and almost alarm. The occasion of it did not appear.

"Can either of you men steer with the oar?" he demanded.

Li Fu shook his head. Hi John assented with a nod, and Barnes beckoned him. Picking his way aft, Hi John took over the oar.

"You see that point dead ahead, with what seems to be a river-mouth on the other side? Head for it, or a couple of points to starboard of it to allow for leeway. And make the river, John—good man—"

Barnes spoke jerkily. For an instant he changed countenance; an expression of agony leaped across his face. He started forward. A cry broke from Ellen Maggs.

"Catch him, Li Fu!"

But Jim Barnes sank down on the thwart beside Nora Sayers, and, smiling a little, reached up one of his automatics to Li Fu.

"Here, Li! Go aft to keep her trimmed, and let 'em have it. Fire low; those bullets will smash through the boat."

Li Fu stepped past him. Barnes, disregarding the hand of Nora Sayers, lifted himself forward a little and dropped near the bow thwart, beside Ellen Maggs. The three children were up in the bow, chattering away and delighted with the chase.

"You're hurt?" cried Ellen Maggs, leaning toward Barnes. He laughed lightly, though his lips were graying, as he looked into her eyes.

"Aye. Nora, pass up that little black medicine chest, will you? It's stowed under your thwart, I think, with the lantern and other stuff that was in the boat. Does either of you girls know anything about surgery?"

"I do," said Ellen Maggs. Her cheeks were very white, her eyes large. "Only a little—"

Barnes put his hand under his shirt and examined his side gingerly. Then, with a grimace, he wriggled out of his jacket. He took the sheath-knife which Li Fu tossed forward on demand, and cut at the right side of his shirt. Nora Sayers, her face drawn and anxious, would have come with the medicine case, but Barnes checked her.

"Stay where you are, Nora. We're fighting to reach land ahead of those devils, and every bit of trim to the boat counts a lot. Throw it; that's right. Now Ellen, the bullet went in under the right arm and is bulging out the skin here on my right side. Cut the skin and it'll pop out. I'm not left-handed or I could do it. Then douse on plenty of iodine fore and aft, and clap on some kind of a bandage."

He lay back and threw up his arms, gripping the corks outside the gunwale, and so lay motionless, waiting. The girl leaned forward, her lips clenched.

"Don't worry; it won't hurt," he said easily. "You, Li Fu! Open up. Are they gaining on us, or holding steady?"

"Plenty steady," responded the quartermaster. At the next wave-crest he fired.

His feet braced, Barnes lay motionless, and a smile crept to his pallid lips as he noted the deft certainty with which the girl attacked her task. Twice she started to cut, and flinched; then, desperately, she set the keen steel to the white skin. In five seconds it was done. The bullet fell from her reddened fingers and bounced on the thin sheathing.

"Steady, steady!" said Barnes quietly, seeing her lips quiver. "Now the smelly stuff and the bandages, girl." A sudden exclamation from the Chinese made him glance up. "What is it, men? What is it?"

"That last shot plenty damn good; first-chop!" responded Li Fu, staring out. "Hai! Catchum bottomside one time!"

"Fine work!" cried Barnes. "That's two out of the race. Ripped through her sheathing, eh? Anybody hurt?"

"My no can see— catchum one damn coolie, mebbeso. Bail like hellee!"

"Good! Do the same to the other boat if you can."

"Can do," asserted Li Fu confidently, but he failed to make good his promise. The one shot that caused one of the two pursuers to limp behind was doubtless sheer luck.

"Turn over, please," came the voice of Ellen Maggs.

Barnes obeyed. The girl caught her breath as his blood-soaked back was revealed, while Nora Sayers leaned forward and directed her, aiding as best she could.

"How's the wind?" demanded Barnes, while the bandage was being wrapped in place.

"Go down plenty quick," responded Li Fu, examining the empty weapon. "No can do. I think Lim Tock in this boat. Plenty joss."

"Huh! Joss won't save him if I get a good crack at the devil," commented Barnes, as he lay face-down. "Going to make the river, John?"

"Aye. Can do."

"It's done," said Ellen Maggs, her voice very faint.

Barnes lifted himself stiffly and sat up. He saw the girl smile tremulously. Then her face went ashen and she dropped back against the lee gunwale and lay quiet. Barnes looked up at Nora Sayers.

"Leave her be," he said quietly. "Poor girl! Must have been hell for her."

"It was," agreed Nora Sayers, regarding him almost savagely. "Why didn't you let me do it? She wasn't made for that sort of thing, although she's a wonderful surgical assistant. I saw her faint twice, one morning at Tientsin, when they were working on the wounded men. She ought to be cooking and tending babies, instead of messing around blood and wounds!"

"Good lord, don't take it out on me!" said Barnes, and smiled a little. "I didn't send her out to China, did I? But it won't be my fault if she ever goes back, I can tell you that! Come on, swap places with me and mother her a bit. I've got to see what's doing. We've got a darned slim chance even if we do get ashore, and we can't overlook any bets."

He dragged himself painfully to the thwart, Nora Sayers aiding him. Then, as he sat up, she took the head of Ellen Maggs in her lap.

To his infinite relief, Barnes perceived that they were more than holding their own in the chase, and, if the wind had held, might have run for it successfully. But the wind would not hold. Already it was dying out. Looking back, he could see the brown matting sails of the junk flapping idly as she lay to, picking up the men from the capsized boat. The second boat, half submerged, was heading back for her.

Only the third boat held on its course. As nearly as Barnes could tell, there were a dozen men aboard her, but without glasses he could not distinguish figures to the extent of identifying them. He took the empty weapon from Li Fu and began to reload.

"None too many cartridges left; we didn't figure on a little war," he commented, and turned his attention to the shore.

A breath of relief escaped him. The shore was a scant quarter-mile away, and the wind would get them to it. Hi John had made the promontory, a low, mangrove-rimmed tongue of land, and was heading toward the river-mouth which had disclosed itself beyond. The stream was one of some size, thickly girt by trees and jungle.

A single line of surf, breaking across the bar, was divided by a small, narrow island of white sand, where a few trees struggled. With extra high tides the island would be covered, Barnes decided, but not at present.

"Right-hand channel, John," he directed. "Then beach her on that island. If we don't get that boat stopped, she'll do for us; but we can stop her. Ellen waked up yet?"

"Not yet," said Nora Sayers.

"Then leave her alone. The next ten minutes tells the tale. Give me that gun of hers."

The girl obeyed. A shrill cry from Hi John heralded the surf-line, and as the boat rose to it, the sail began to flap. The wind was down.

vii

SUNSET was at hand. The red ball of the sun, blurred out of rotundity by the haze, hovered at the purple rim of the western mountains as though hesitating to depart.

The boat was through the surf, carried forward by the white crest in a surging rush. A last puff of wind filled her sails and gave her way enough to get over the bar and go in upon the sandy shore of the islet. Here the trees and brush, while nothing like the tangled mass of jungle ashore, were thick enough to afford concealment. This was not the aim of Barnes, however.

"Haul her up, lads!" To his order the quartermasters leaped out. "You girls stay here and keep the kids quiet. If they have the nerve to rush, we're gone; but they won't. Here, John, give me a hand! Quick!"

He was helped ashore, finding himself very weak but clear-headed. Each of the Chinese had a revolver. Barnes had two automatics and the one belonging to Ellen. He gave his directions swiftly, and the two men darted into the brush. Barnes leaned against the nearest tree and waited, watching the canvas of the pursuing boat come flying in with the last dregs of the breeze.

At last she came, rising on the gathering surge of the breaking surf, bow flinging high, steersman standing at the straining, oar in the stern. As she lifted against the flaming sky, Barnes threw up his automatic and fired. The oarsman crumpled up. From three points the islet spat bullets at the nearing boat, sweeping her with the hot lead.

By some miracle, the expected did not happen. Instead of capsizing, the boat swept in on the surf, and paused. A rifle spat response vainly. Men were tumbling, falling over the thwarts, shrieking and yelling oaths. The figure of Lim Tock, in the bow, staggered and went down, but his voice pierced through the din continually.

An oar was put out, and another. Of the dozen men aboard her, not half survived that blasting welcome. Revolvers and pistols had been emptied. Frantically the gasping men got the boat headed around to meet the surf. Two more oars jabbed out. Barnes lifted Ellen Maggs' pistol and shot with deliberate aim. Two of the oarsmen sprawled down. Somehow the boat crawled out again, in an interval of the surf, and began to draw away. Barnes, disappointed and raging, emptied his last bullets at her. For a while she floated there, until the oars bit at the water and pulled her slowly away.

"Damn it!" said Barnes bitterly, as the quartermasters came back, reloading. "Came within an ace of capsizing him; came within an ace of getting him and bagging his rifles! And missed. Now we've lost the whole trick after all."

"Plenty joss along Lim Tock," commented Hi John.

Barnes wearily turned to the boat and seated himself on the gunwale, while at his order the two men unshipped the spars and canvas. Ellen Maggs still lay unconscious, her head in the lap of Nora Sayers, who, was looking up at Barnes with glad eyes.

"We've won? You beat them off?"

Barnes mechanically felt for his pipe, filled it, and held a match to it.

"No," he said, his voice bitter. "We'd have won if we'd got their rifles and killed that devil, Lim Tock. We only drove him off— and we've lost, absolutely. Leave the spars here ashore, John; put the canvas aboard— that's right. Lay her on the canvas, Nora, and take it easy. You'll need the sails for a covering against the night-mist."

When she had made the unconscious girl comfortable with the canvas, Nora Sayers rose and stepped ashore, where the three children were already ranging happily.

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "How have we lost?"

Barnes jerked his pipe to seaward.

"They're bound to silence us at all costs, aren't they? Sure. They've plenty of men aboard the junk and those other boats. It'll probably remain calm until sunrise, now, and we can't possibly get to sea. We can use only two oars. The inference is obvious."

She could not mistake it, and nodded slowly. Barnes turned to the two Chinese.

"Any idea where we are, John?"

Hi John nodded, and squatted in the sand with a stick. In the sand he drew several converging lines, designed to represent the delta and mouths of a large river. He pointed to one, then indicated the river beside them.

"I think Bulungan River," he said. "We go up, bimeby we come topside. Big river."

"You may be right, John— and look here! There's a Dutch post somewhere up the Bulungan—"

"Two," said the quartermaster. "Plenty big river, topside."

Barnes looked at the recumbent figure of Ellen Maggs in the boat, looked at the three children playing in the sand. In the warm, clear light of the sunset, the perplexed frown of his face was plain to be seen. He looked anxious, yet his blue eyes were stormy and filled with a passionate anger as though he were rebelling against something that he saw was unavoidable. He came to his feet and paused.

"Dutch posts?" cried Nora Sayers eagerly. "Then we can row up the river!"

Barnes looked at her, and under the regard of his eyes she fell silent.

"Yes, you can," he said. "Sure. And so can those devils, unless there's something right here to stop 'em! Besides, it's a long chance. We don't know for sure that it's the Bulungan River, or one of the mouths. That's the devil of destiny; it never gives a man a fair show for his white alley! The cards are stacked every time."

He glanced at the sky. There was yet half an hour of daylight, for the sun was down behind the western mountains of Borneo, and the afterglow would linger for a while.

"You mean," questioned the girl, "that they can row so much faster than we can?"

"Exactly. A dozen oars to our two. The Dutch posts, if they're here, are probably miles up-river. They are trading posts, you know, in touch with the natives. We might hide somewhere along the river, only to die slowly. Lim Tock will search every inch of the stream, you may be sure. His own life depends on it."

"If we could get a messenger up the river—"

"Yes," said Barnes, and laughed. Nora Sayers bit her lip.

For a moment he puffed at his pipe, then drew a deep breath and beckoned the two quartermasters. They came, watching his face calmly, without emotion.

"You men will take this boat and row up the stream," he said quietly. "I confide to your care these two women, and these children. You are to protect them at all costs. This is—"

"But— wait!" exclaimed Nora Sayers in dismay.

"Shut up!" snapped Barnes. "Now, men, this is your duty. They must be taken up to the Dutch post, wherever it is. It means you must row most of the night, understand? I shall remain here and stop Lim Tock's men. I'm no good for rowing— and I can do that. Now, do you understand?"

"My savvy. Aye," they responded together.

"Good. Get to work and lighten the boat, then."

Barnes put his pipe between his teeth and stepped toward the trees. He found himself halted, the girl's hand on his arm. He turned, and was astonished by the emotion that was in her face and eyes.

"Please!" she said brokenly. "You must not do this. You must not deliberately sacrifice yourself—"

"Cut it out, will you?" he roughly intervened. "I know what must be done here, Nora. I'm not making any grandstand play, either. I can hold 'em up, and you can send down a Dutch launch with a gun in her. They have 'em with machine-guns and pom-poms. One o' their launches could sink that blamed junk in a jiffy! They'll come quick enough, too! Believe me, those Dutchmen like nothing better than wiping out pirates, unless it's wiping out plague-ships. They do both jobs up brown."

"Stop evading, please," she broke in. "Why are you doing this? Why don't you leave one of those Chinese here, and go with us?"

The face of Barnes twisted wryly.

"Gosh, I wish that I could!" he said almost wistfully. "Nope. Whoever stays here will have a sweet time of it. Besides, I'm good for nothing else. Those quartermasters are darned fine men, Nora; they'll see you through safe. You've got to realize that we're up against a desperate affair, and no half-way measures will serve!"

She stared into his eyes for a moment.

"Is it for the children that you're doing it?" she asked. "They aren't worth it, I tell you! Three Arab children— they aren't worth the loss of a man like you!"

"You know better, girl," he said quietly, and she shivered.

"Is it— us? Is it for her? Then, do you think she'd want to leave you? Do you think she'd want to live and know that you had died here—"

"Shut up; you'll be hysterical if you keep up this gait," interrupted Barnes. "Now, young lady, you can gamble good and hard that I don't want to stay here! Not much. If there was any way out of it, I wouldn't. I'm not hankering for a martyr's crown or any of that hero stuff, not for a minute! I'm for keeping Jim Barnes topside every time. It hurts like hell to realize that there's no other way out. But here are you girls, and the kids, and somebody has to wait here. See? It just has to be done, that's all."

"Then— then you don't believe that— we can reach the post in time?"

"Well, anything's possible," said Barnes dryly. "Sure, there's a chance! Now, I want you to get off before Ellen wakes up, see? Let her sleep as long as she will; this faint of hers is liable to go into sleep."

MEANTIME, the two quartermasters, while lightening the boat of everything except food and a breaker of water, had been drinking in what they could understand of this conversation. Their work finished, they stood by the bow of the boat and looked at each other for a moment, silent. At length Li Fu spoke, impassively, unconcerned.

"To the superior man, duty is as a clear star shining in the night."

"So it is written," agreed Hi John. "Give me your revolver and cartridges."

"Haste treads upon the tail of a tiger," dissented Li Fu reflectively. "Here is the revolver. Let us see to whom the gods assign it. Shall a white man be braver than we?"

"Very well."

Li Fu tossed his revolver in the air. It spun, end over end, and spinning, fell down into the sand. The butt fell toward Li Fu, who stooped and picked it up.

"Now give me yours," he said.

Hi John obeyed without protest, passing over his revolver and what spare cartridges he had in his pockets. Then he turned and walked to Barnes and Nora Sayers, who had watched this scene curiously. He addressed the girl.

"Missee, I think mebbeso you can row plenty good?"

"Of course!" she exclaimed. "Of course I can!"

"Then you row along me," said Hi John. "Li Fu, he stop here."

Barnes growled something under his breath, and walked over to Li Fu.

"What's this mean?" he demanded. "You get in that boat and row, d'you understand?"

Li Fu regarded him placidly, without emotion, his yellow features very composed.

"You go hellee," he said, and then grinned. "My stop along you. Savvy? Missee plenty stlong, use oar plenty good! You go hellee."

What he saw in those calm eyes checked the words on the lips of Barnes. He turned and went to the boat, and waded out along the gunwale until he was beside the figure of Ellen Maggs. With an effort, he stooped and touched his lips to her still cheek.

"Good-by, girl!" he whispered, and then straightened. "Get the kids, Nora! Come on, pile in; time to get off! Get as far as you can before it gets dark. Wrap a cloth about your hands, too; they'll be blistered quick enough."

Collecting the children, Nora Sayers got into the boat. She held out her hand to Barnes, who gripped it and smiled cheerfully.

"Good-by," she said, her voice breaking. "I wish you'd let me wake her up! She'd want to say—

"She'd say I needed a shave damn bad," and Barnes chuckled as he made reply. "You settle down on this thwart. All ready, men? Shove off. Good luck to you, Nora! Wrap your hands, now, before you get started. See you later!"

The boat glided out, Hi John scrambling aboard as she cleared the sand. Nora Sayers tried to answer, but could not. Barnes stood beside Li Fu and waved his hand.

The boat slowly drew up-river under the pull of the two oars and vanished around the head of the islet.

viii

"WATCH and watch, Li Fu," said Barnes, when night settled down on the islet, the river-mouth and the booming surf. "I'm done in. Wake me at midnight; they'll not come until then."

"Not then, I think," said Li Fu. "China boys not like night devils. Plenty devils in liver."

"All right," Barnes laughed as he stretched out in the warm sand. "Let the river-devils fight for us, then!"

About midnight the quartermaster wakened him. There had been no alarm, no sound or sight of the enemy. Only the continuous rolling crash of the surf, regular and unceasing, conflicted with the noises of nightbirds from the jungle. The starlight and thin glow of the sickle moon faintly illumined the white sands and the glittering waters, where the waves curled and broke in running lines of phosphorescent radiance.

At first Barnes found Li Fu's conviction incredible. It was hard to believe that Lim Tock's lascars and Chinese, the latter probably predominating, would relinquish the opportunity to sweep in upon the islet with their boats and finish everything with one determined rush. The Chinese firmly credited the existence of water-devils, however, and river-devils in particular, whose power at night was invincible.

Barnes sat through his lonely watch, stiff and aching from his wound, and found no indication of alarm out on the surging waters, where a heavy ground-swell kept the rollers tumbling in along the shoreline. He began to think that he had wasted himself, despite all. Had he stayed in the boat, it by this time would be far up the river.

He laughed and shook off the thought. After all, he had no assurance of that! The boat, with only two oars, might be a day or two in reaching the main river above the delta, where the Dutch post would be placed. With dawn, the pirates would sweep down on the island. If they found it deserted, they would go up the river with a rush. No, the effort was not wasted; was far from wasted!

Toward dawn he roused Li Fu, and lay down once more to get all the rest possible. When the quartermaster again wakened him, it was to point out dark dots on the waters, now overcast with the graying dawn. The boats, four of them, were scattered a quarter-mile from the river mouth, up and down from the bar. Jim Barnes laughed softly.

"They think we'll come out with the first breath o' wind; that we've been waiting here for the breeze! And they're waiting to riddle us with their rifles, then close in. Good! Let 'em wait. Every minute gained puts the whaleboats farther up the river. Suppose we make some tea, Li Fu. The fire will show that we're here and encourage 'em to wait."

Chuckling at all this, Li Fu gathered wood and soon had a fire going. Hot tea and biscuit invigorated Barnes hugely, and he was much himself again by the time the reddening dawn and freshening daylight betrayed to the waiting boats that the fugitives were not setting forth from shore. No doubt they considered that Barnes had laid up the whaleboat and was prepared to fight it out.

"They're closing in," said Barnes suddenly. "Oars are out. The junk is coming down the coast, too. She'll probably anchor off the river, and they'll pour in a hot rifle-fire before making a rush. Dig for cover, Li!"

Grasping the idea, Li Fu took his knife to the sand and prepared two long, deep depressions at the edge of the brush.

Meantime, one of the boats drew in closer than the others as though to test the presence of those on the islet. Barnes sighed unavailingly for a rifle, as his pistols were of small value at such distance. He tried two shots, however, and by sheer luck dropped the boat's helmsman, so that she sheered off promptly. The boats opened a dropping rifle-fire, and Barnes retired to the position prepared. Lying beside Li Fu, he waited. He had three automatics and several spare clips. The quartermaster had two revolvers and a handful of loose cartridges.

Under the urge of the ground-swell, surf was now breaking in a heavy line at the bar, an outer line of breakers stretching twenty yards farther seaward. While the boats kept up their intermittent fire, bullets crashing across the island, the junk came slowly along with the morning breeze. Outside the first line of surf she dropped anchor and hauled down the brown matting sails, and the boats converged upon her. Streamers and fingers of flame were reaching across the whole eastern sky.

"Plenty of men aboard her," said Barnes. "They'll crowd into the boats and pull for us. Catch the first boat as she rises, Li, like we did last night. If one of them goes over in that surf, not a man will reach shore. Good gosh, look at her rise up! They're fools if they try it."

To the two men lying on the sandy islet, the surf promised indeed to be an excellent protection. The roaring breakers swept on and hurled up into a great wall of white and crimson spray, against the sunrise, a ten-foot wall of curling, foaming water whose impact as it came down made the islet shake and sent a booming roar echoing along the coast. The tide was coming in, and there was a strong rip along the bar.

Now the sun was up, in a gleaming splendor of golden glory.

As each glittering line of surf swept up and curled, it hid from sight the boats and all save the upper masts of the junk herself. Between the surges, the rifle-fire was maintained steadily, but Li Fu and Barnes were well protected against the ripping storm of lead that devastated the foliage above and ploughed the sand into ripples of dancing grains.

"They come," said Li Fu suddenly.

The next surf-interval showed a crowded boat leaving the junk. The craft damaged on the preceding evening by Hi John's bullet must have sunk, for it appeared that now there were but two whaleboats among the four approaching craft. One of those, however, would do the business, thought Jim Barnes grimly.

Covered by a hot fire from the rifles, the first boat reached in for the surf, her oars dipping strongly, the other boats following her. She was a bluff-jawed longboat belonging to the junk, dangerously crowded with men, and Barnes caught the flame of naked steel as she lifted on a crest. He thrilled to the possibility of sending her over as she struck the white wall to cleave a way through. Not a man would reach shore through the pounding maelstrom of those waters.

Thundering and shuddering, a long breaker smashed and swirled across the bar, and now the longboat dipped oars and gathered way to rise on the next crest and come over. A whirl of bullets heralded her coming. Then, as the riotous crest closed in and lifted her and the shots ceased, Barnes came to one knee. He had her position absolutely fixed, and aimed carefully, firing even before she came into sight.

She heaved and lifted, cleaving the water. Barnes fired again and again, hearing the bark of Li Fu's revolver at his side. A mad yell broke from the Chinese. Barnes lowered his arm and stared, wide-eyed.

That first shot of his, perhaps, had done the work; had sent a rower headlong at the crucial instant. At the very crest of the giant wave, the boat broached, was sent stern-first. A shriek burst from the score of men crowded into her, a fearful, splitting shriek that wrenched through the roar of the surf. Then she was picked up, hurled end over end from the crest of the wave, flung sideways, and went upside down beneath the terrific smash of that falling pinnacle of water.

A lather of foam spread out from the sweeping rush of the breaker, but not a man showed in it. They were held down, dragged out with the backlash, gripped and flung about with the mad swirl under the surface. The boat itself, a crushed and broken thing, came into sight, was tugged out and into the next surf-crest, to be whirled horribly aloft and buried again; but no man of all her crew appeared.

The whiff of a bullet made Barnes wake up, and he flung himself into the sand. Li Fu was yelling in an ecstasy of delight. Then, at the next interval, Barnes realized that the other boats were coming forward—two whale-boats, and a smaller craft.

"Lascars!" yelled Li Fu. "Plenty joss along Lim Tock!"

The Malays were rowing these boats; seamen unsurpassed. Well, this was the end of it; useless everything that had been done, once these boats came through. Barnes caught the arm of the yellow man.

"Empty one gun— then reload and wait. Savvy?"

Li Fu nodded hastily. The two whale-boats came on abreast, rowed with precision, a brown Malay at each steering crutch, the long oars rising and dipping and hurling her forward with absolute surety. Up they rose and up, then forward and down, as though leaping from that high curling wall into the water beyond!

Barnes found himself firing mechanically, firing until the hammer clicked on nothing and he slipped one of his extra clips into the weapon. Useless! A sudden inarticulate cry escaped his lips. The last bullet had brought down the steersman of the boat to the left. Almost through, she broached and swerved. The water swung her about, caught up her keel and spilled her men into the smother. She was sent rolling along, crushing the men beneath her, pounding on the sand until the undertow dragged her out and away.

But the other boat was through. It drove forward toward the islet with a wild yell lifting from the men aboard, and rifles spattering lead. And now the smaller boat was in the surf, and riding it.

"Back!" shouted Barnes. "Back to cover, Li! Fire and reload while I fire."

From the shelter of the brush, Li Fu emptied his two revolvers into the boat. He could hardly miss at this distance, as she came foaming to the shore. Barnes could see the figure of Lim Tock crouching amidships, a bandage about his head. Men went down, brown and yellow men crowded between her thwarts. Rifles and revolvers sent bullets hailing at the trees, and with the impetus that was upon her, she came in and her nose touched the beach.

Barnes was ready, cool, imperturbable. The first man that leaped from her, he dropped; and the second, and the third. Then the boat tipped, and brown and yellow came ashore in a mass, Lim Tock heading them. Krisses and knives flamed in the sunlight. The smaller boat was reaching into the shore now. The end was at hand.

Into the mass Barnes planted his bullets steadily. One gun was empty, now the other. No time to reload— he dropped them and seized that of Ellen Maggs. Only three or four men left, Lim Tock heading them! Then a new burst of yells, and from the last boat poured a dozen fresh assailants, with the serang Gajah at their head, his unhealed scalp wound red and ominous in the sunlight.

A scream of battle-madness burst from Li Fu. He leaped forward, out into the open, and ran at the newcomers. Pistols barked; krisses glittered. Barnes saw the quartermaster come to grips with Gajah, and the two men went rolling in the sand. Then, smiling, he lifted his weapon and shot.

Lim Tock took the bullet between the eyes, and sprawled forward. Barnes laughed, and shot again. Then he ducked back into the brush. An instant later, the brown and yellow men came on in a wave, mad with the battle fury, blind and deaf to everything around them, intent only upon the white man who had eluded them.

From among the trees the weapon of Barnes barked out its last shots.

ix

THE PATROL launch belonging to the Bulungan River post, commanded by. Controleur Opdyke and manned by stalwart Achinese sepoys, sped swiftly down the northern branch of the mighty river. The controleur was highly nervous, for this navigation in the early dawn was an unaccustomed and perilous thing; further, the girl who stood beside him, and the tall Chinese at her elbow, were continually urging him to greater speed.

Then came the first gleams of sunrise, and the spattering of shots from below— and the prim, alert controleur needed no further urging. At his swift command the speed was increased, and the brown sepoys stripped the cover from the one-pounder up forward.

Rifles were brought up and loaded.

They burst into full view of the river-mouth just as the smaller boat came to the islet and poured forth her men and the wild charge forward was begun. Controleur Opdyke perceived instantly that he could not get through the surf to the junk. Being a man of distinct character, he did not hesitate. Two orders passed his lips. At the first, the gun crew threw in a shell and sighted; at the second, the rifles began to speak along the forward deck.

The little pom-pom barked, and the shell exploded above the junk. It barked again, and scored a hit. Again, and the junk reeled and staggered. Then the Achinese were leaping overboard and pouring ashore, and among them Hi John.

And after them, despite the imploring commands of the officer, Ellen Maggs.

Jim Barnes came face to face with her as he squirmed out of the brush and brushed the blood from his eyes. A kris had slithered athwart his scalp; for a moment he thought she was a vision, standing there in the fresh sunlight, her eyes fastened upon him, her hands outreaching. Then he heard her voice.

"Oh, Jim, Jim! If you had only known— it was barely five miles up to the post! And we were hours getting there. Thank God, you're alive!"

It was quite as a matter of course that Jim Barnes took her in his arms and held her close to him for a long moment. Speech came hard. There was everything to say, and nothing. Suddenly he realized that she was trembling.

"Oh, Jim! You'll have to help me. I— I told an awful lie—"

She was frightened, nervous, tearful, and yet a smile crept into her-blushing cheeks as she looked up into his eyes.

"Who to, me?" he asked, returning the smile.

"No. To— to the controleur. Controleur Opdyke. He was terribly severe about it all. He wouldn't bring Nora, and he wasn't going to bring me—"

"What was the lie?" asked Barnes, puzzled.

Then he looked up to see the officer striding toward them. He realized abruptly that the little brown soldiers had been very busy all over the islet.

"Der junk hass sunk," said the controleur, taking off his helmet. "Diss iss Mynheer Parnes? I am pleassed to meet you, sir."

"Same to you," and Barnes grinned as he put out his hand. Even the primness of Opdyke could not meet that grin without an answering smile. "Controleur Opdyke? I'm sure much obliged to you. Just came along in time."

"Ja. I am glad. Your vrouw, Madame Parnes, she hurried us. Dat wass goot, too."

"Oh, so that's it!" Barnes laughed out suddenly, and caught Ellen Maggs to him. "You little rascal, you! Told him you were my wife, eh? Well, you will be as quick as it can be managed— won't you? Say yes!"

"Yes, Jim," she murmured.

Suddenly Barnes turned.

"Where's Li Fu?" he demanded. "That Chinese chap who stayed with me—"

"He iss badly hurt, but all right," said Opdyke, beginning to understand things a little. "Sir, dere must be reports made, und prisoners must be—"

"Forget it, forget it!" said Barnes, and laughed happily. "This is Miss Maggs, Controleur. She told you a lie. She's not my wife, but is going to be. Will you forgive her?"

Controleur Opdyke met the eyes of Ellen Maggs. Suddenly he smiled, and tendered her a very deep bow.

"Diss young man, he iss very lucky," he said. "Mejuffvrouw, shall I make you happy, yes? Den, dere iss a missionary at de post. Now, if you eggscuse me, I must look after dese t'ings."

He turned and walked stiffly away toward his men, who were rounding up sullen captives. But Jim Barnes looked-down into the shining eyes of the girl.

"Ellen! Remember that bungalow on the hill above Sausalito that I told you about? Do you really want it— and a husband who's a sailor and hasn't a lot o' money? Or would you sooner go back to China?"

A smile lightened in her face.

"I'm tired of China, Jim," she said.

Delightedly, Barnes caught her to him again and stooped to her lips. Then, with a happy laugh, he straightened up.

"Missionary at the post, eh? Hurray! Let's go!"

"Aye, aye, sir," she said obediently. "Go it is, sir— steady as she is!"

The End

Table of Contents

1: A Question of Brains

2: The Case of the Kidnaped Duchess

3: A Personal Problem

4: Down The Coast Of Barbary

5: Three Smart Silks

6: Rendezvous

7: The Second Mate