The Web of the Golden Spider

He found that nearly a third of the houses were closed for the summer, and that of these at least one half had small doors leading into fenced courtyards in the rear. There was not a single mark by which he might identify that one which he had battered down. He had only forced the lock so that the door when held closed again would show no sign of having been touched. The priest, or whoever it was who had entered after him, must have taken the same precaution, for every gate was now fast shut. It seemed a hopeless search. Then he happened to remember that the policeman had said that there was glass atop this particular wall. He retraced his steps. The clue was a good one; he discovered with a bounding heart that one alone of all the entrances was so protected. He tried the door, and found to his further relief that it gave readily. He stepped within and closed the gate behind him. He saw then that it had been held by the same piece of joist he himself had used, but had been so hastily and lightly fixed as merely to hold the door shut. He ran across the yard and in another minute was through the window and once again in the lower hall. It was fairly light there now; he did not feel as though this was the same house. This was the third time that he had hurried along this passage on his way to unknown conditions above, and each time, though within a period of less than a full day, had marked a crisis in his life.

As he sprang up the stairs it did not occur to him that he was unarmed and yet running full ahead into what had proven a danger spot. It would have mattered nothing had he realized this. He had not been long enough in such games to value precaution. To reach her side as quickly as possible was the only idea he could grasp now. At the top of the second flight he called her name. He received no reply.

He crossed the hall and pushed aside the curtains which before had concealed his unknown assailant. The blinds were still closed, so that the room was in semi-darkness. The fire had gone out. There was no sign of a human being. Wilson shouted her name once again. The silence closed in upon him oppressively. He saw the dead hearth, saw the chair in which she had curled herself up and gone to sleep, saw the rug upon which Sorez had reclined, saw the very spot where she had sat with the image in her lap, saw where she had stood as she had thrust the revolver into his hand and sent him on his ill-omened errand. But all these things only emphasized her absence. It was as though he were looking upon the scene of events of a year past. She had gone.

He hurried into the next room–the room where Sorez, fainting, had fumbled at the safe until he opened it–the room where he had first seen the image which had really been the source of all his misfortunes. The safe door was closed, but about the floor lay a number of loose papers, as though the safe had been hastily ransacked. The ebony box which had contained the idol was gone. Some of the papers were torn, which seemed to show that this had been done by the owner in preparing for hasty flight rather than by a thief, who would merely rummage through them. Wilson picked up an envelope bearing a foreign postmark. It was addressed to Dr. Carl Sorez, and bore the number of the street where this house was located. The stamp was of the small South American Republic of Carlina and the postmark “Bogova.” Wilson thrust the empty envelope in his pocket.

Coming out of here, he next began a systematic examination of every room on that floor. In the boudoir where he had found clothes for the girl, he discovered her old garments still hanging where she had placed them to dry. Her dress was spread across the back of a chair, her stockings were below them, and her tiny mud-bespattered shoes on the floor. They made him start as though he had suddenly come upon the girl herself. He crossed the room and almost timidly placed his hands upon the folds of the gown. These things were so intimate a part of her that it was almost like touching her hand. It brought up to him very vividly the picture of her as she stood shivering with the cold, all dripping wet before the flames. His throat ached at the recollection. It had never occurred to him that she might vanish like this unless, as he had half feared, he might return to find Sorez dead. This new turn left him more bewildered than ever. He went into every room of the house from attic to cellar and returned again to the study with only this fact of her disappearance to reward him for his efforts of the last three hours.

Had this early morning intruder abducted them both, or had they successfully hidden themselves until after he left and then, in a panic, fled? Had the priest, fearing for Wilson’s life, thrown him into the carriage rather than have on his hands a possible murder? Or after the priest had gone did Sorez find him and take this way to rid himself of an influence that might destroy his power over the girl? This last would have been impossible of accomplishment if the girl herself knew of it. The other theories seemed improbable. At any rate, there was little use in sitting here speculating, when the problem still remained of how to locate the girl.

He made his way back to the safe and examined some of the torn letters; they were all in Spanish. A large part of them bore the same postmark, “Bogova, Republic of Carlina.” The sight of the safe again recalled to him the fact that he still had in his possession the parchment which had dropped from the interior of the idol. It was possible that this might contain some information which would at any rate explain the value which these two men evidently placed upon it. He took it out of his pocket and looked at it with some curiosity. It was very tightly rolled in a covering of what appeared to be oilskin. He cut the threads which held it together and found a second covering sewed with sinew of some sort. This smelled musty. Cutting this, he found still a third covering of a finely pounded metal looking like gold-foil. This removed revealed a roll of parchment some four inches long and of about an inch in thickness. When unrolled Wilson saw that there were two parchments; one a roughly drawn map, and the other a document covered with an exceedingly fine script which he could not in this light make out at all. Without a strong magnifying glass, not a word was decipherable. He thrust it back in his pocket with a sense of disappointment, when he recalled that he could take it to the Public Library which was not far from there and secure a reading glass which would make it all clear. He would complete his investigation in the house and then go to the reading room where he had spent so much of his time during the first week he was in Boston.

He picked up several fragments of the letters scattered about, in the hope of obtaining at least some knowledge of Sorez. The fact that the man had stopped to tear them up seemed to prove that he had made plans to depart for good, sweeping everything from the safe and hastily destroying what was not valuable. Wilson knew a little Spanish and saw that most of the letters were of recent date and related to the death of a niece. Others mentioned the unsettled condition of government affairs in Carlina. At one time Sorez must have been very close to the ruling party, for several of the letters were from a man who evidently stood high in the ministry, judged by the intimacy which he displayed with affairs of state. He spoke several times of the Expedition of the Hills, in which Sorez had apparently played a part. But the most significant clause which Wilson found in his hasty examination of the remnants was this reference:

“There is still, I hear, a great bitterness felt among the Mountain tribes over the disappearance of the idol of their Sun God. They blame this on the government and more than half suspect that you were an important factor in its vanishing. Have a care and keep a sharp lookout. You know their priest is no ordinary man. They have implicit faith that he will charm it back to them.”

This was dated three months before. Wilson put the few remaining bits of this letter in his pocket. Was it possible that this grinning idol which already had played so important a part in his own life was the one mentioned here? And the priest of whom Sorez spoke–could it be he who ruled these tribes in the Andes? It was possible–Lord, yes, anything was possible. But none of these things hinted as to where the girl now was.

He came back into the study and took a look into the small room to the left. He saw his own clothes there. He had forgotten all about them. They were wrinkled and scarcely fit to wear–all but his old slouch hat. He smiled as he recalled that at school it was thought he showed undue levity for a theological student in wearing so weather-beaten and rakish a hat. He was glad of the opportunity to exchange for it the one he now wore. He picked it up from the chair where it lay. Beneath the rim, but protruding so as to be easily seen, was a note. He snatched it out, knowing it was from her as truly as though he had heard her voice. It read:

“Dear Comrade:

I don’t know what has become of you, but I know that if you’re alive you’ll come back for me. We are leaving here now. I haven’t time to tell you more. Go to the telephone and ring up Belmont 2748.

Hastily, your comrade,Jo Manning.”

Wilson caught his breath. With the quick relief he felt almost light-headed. She was alive–she had thought of him–she had trusted him! It deepened the mystery of how he had come to be carried from the house–of where they succeeded in hiding themselves–but, Lord, he was thankful for it all now. He would have undergone double what he had been through for the reward of this note–for this assurance of her faith in him. It cemented their friendship as nothing else could. For him it went deeper. The words, “You’ll come back here for me,” tingled through his brain like some sweet song. She was alive–alive and waiting for him to come back. There is nothing finer to a man than this knowledge, that some one is waiting his return. It was an emotion that Wilson in his somewhat lonely life had never experienced save in so attenuated a form as not to be noticeable. He lingered a moment over the thought, and then, crushing the old hat–now doubly dear–over his bandaged head, hurried out of this house in which he had run almost the gamut of human emotions. He went out by the laundry window, closing it behind him, across the courtyard, and made the street without being seen. That was the last time, he thought, that he would ever set foot within that building. He didn’t find a public telephone until he reached Tremont Street. He entered the booth with his heart beating up in his throat. It didn’t seem possible that when a few minutes ago he didn’t know whether she was dead or alive, that he could now seat himself here and hope to hear her voice. His hand trembled as he took down the receiver. It seemed an eternity before he got central; another before she connected him with Belmont. He grew irritable with impatience over the length of time that elapsed before he heard,

“A dime, please.”

He was forced to drop the receiver and go out for change. Every clerk was busy, but he interrupted one of them with a peremptory demand for change. The clerk, taken by surprise, actually obeyed the command without a word. When Wilson finally succeeded in getting the number, he heard a man’s voice, evidently a servant. The latter did not know of a Miss Manning. Who did live there? The servant, grown suspicious and bold, replied,

“Never mind now, but if ye wishes to talk with any Miss Manning ye can try somewheres else. Good-bye.”

“See here–wait a minute. I tell you the girl is there, and I must talk to her.”

“An’ I’m telling ye she isn’t.”

“Is there a Mr. Sorez there–”

“Oh, the man who is just after comin’? Wait a minute now,” he put in more civilly, “an’ I’ll see, sor.”

Wilson breathed once more. He started at every fairy clicking and jingle which came over the waiting line.

“Waiting?”

He almost shouted his reply in fear lest he be cut off.

“Yes! Yes! waiting. Don’t cut me off. Don’t–”

“Is this you?”

The voice came timidly, doubtingly–with a little tremor in it, but it was her voice.

He had not known it long, and yet it was as though he had always known it.

“Jo–comrade–are you safe?”

“Yes, and you? Oh, David!” she spoke his name hesitatingly, “David, where did you go?”

“I was hurt a little. I lost consciousness.”

“Hurt, David?”

“Not seriously, but that is why I couldn’t come back. I was carried to a hospital.”

“David!”

Her voice was tender with sympathy.

“And you–I came back to the study for you. You were gone.”

“We were hidden. There is a secret room where we stayed until daylight.”

“Then it was–”

“The priest. Sorez was so weak and frightened.”

“He came for the image?”

“Yes, but he did not get it. Was it he who–who hurt you, David?”

“It must have been. It was just as I came into the study.”

“And he carried you out?”

“Because he thought the house empty, I guess, and feared I was hurt worse than I was.”

“And you really are not badly hurt?”

“Not badly.”

“But how much–in what way?”

“Just a blow on the head. Please not to think about it.”

“I have thought so many horrible things.”

“Where are you now?”

“Mr. Sorez did not dare to stay there. He really is much stronger, and so he came here to a friend’s. I did not dare to let him come alone.”

“But you aren’t going to stay there. What are you going to do now?”

He thought she hesitated for a moment.

“I can’t tell, David. My head is in such a whirl.”

“You ought to go back home,” he suggested.

“Home? My home is with my father, and nowhere else.”

“I want to see you.”

“And I want to see you, David, but–”

“I’m coming out there now.”

“No! no! not yet, David.”

“Why not?”

“Because–”

“Why not? I must see you.”

“Because,” she said, as though with sudden determination, “because first I wish to make up my mind to something. I must do it by myself, David.”

“I’ll not disturb you in that. I just wish to see you.”

“But you would disturb me.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you.”

There was a moment’s pause. Then,

“David, I may go away a long distance.”

“Where?”

“I can’t tell you now, but I may go at once. This–this may be the last time I can talk with you for–oh, for months.”

He caught his breath.

“What do you mean by that? What has happened?”

“I have promised not to tell.”

“But you must, girl. Why–you–this man Sorez has no right to exact promises from you. He–”

“You don’t understand, David. It–it has to do with my father and with–with what I saw.”

“In that cursed image?”

“Yes, the image. But it is not cursed, David.”

“It is–it is if it takes you away.”

“You see,” she trembled, “you see, I can’t discuss it with you.”

“But I don’t see. I think you ought–you must–”

“Must, David?”

“No–not that. I suppose I haven’t the right, only–well, it sort of takes my breath away, you see, to think of your going off–out of my life again.”

“It’s odd that you should mind–I’ve been in it so short a time.”

“You’ve been in it for years,” he ran on impulsively. “You’ve been in it ever since I learned to look between the stars and found you there.”

There was silence for a moment, and then he heard her voice,

“David.”

“Yes.”

“I have a feeling that I may come back into it again.”

“You’ll never go out of it. I’ll not let you. I’ll–”

“Don’t be foolish, David. And now I must go. But, David–are you listening, David?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t try to find me. Don’t try to see me. I’m safe, but if I should need you, I’ll send for you. Will you come?”

“To the ends of the earth.”

“You must not ring me up again. But before I go away, if I do go away, I’ll write to you and tell you where. I will write you in care of the General Delivery, Boston–will that reach you?”

“Yes, but–”

“That is all, David. That must be all now, for I must go. Good-bye.”

“Jo–comrade!”

“Good-bye.”

“Just a minute, I–”

But he heard the little click of the receiver and knew that she had gone.

CHAPTER VIII

Of Gold and Jewels Long Hidden

Reluctantly Wilson placed the receiver back upon the hook. It was as though he were allowing her hand to slip out of his–as though he were closing a door upon her. The phrase, “Good-bye,” still rang in his ears, but grew fainter and fainter, receding as in a dream. He stared blankly at the telephone instrument. Some one opened the door, anxious to use the booth. This roused him. He came out into the store, and the life around him brought him to himself once more. But what did this new development mean? Where was Sorez leading her, and what inducement was he offering? Her father she had said. Doubtless the man was holding out to her promises of locating him. But why? His mind reverted to the idol. It was that. He wished to use her psychic power for some purpose connected with this image. And that? He had a parchment within his pocket which might explain it all!

This furnished him an objective which for the moment gave him rest from useless speculation. But even while walking to the library he felt a new and growing passion within him: bitterness towards the man who was responsible for taking her away from him. That Sorez’ claim of being able to find the girl’s father was merely to cover a selfish object was of course obvious. He was playing upon her fancy and sympathy. How the girl must love this father to be lured from home by the chance phantom in a crystal picture–to be willing to follow a stranger half around the globe, perhaps, because of his promise and a dream. Yet, it was so he knew that her nature must love–it was so he would have her love. It was this capacity for fanatical devotion which struck a responsive chord in his own heart. Her love would not allow her to have her father dead even though the report came. Her love admitted no barriers of land or sea. If so she was inspired by calm, filial love, what would she not do for love of her mate? If this mysterious stranger had but died–he clenched his teeth. That was scarcely a humane or decent thing to wish.

He found a chair in one corner of the reading room and borrowed the most powerful reading glass used in the library. It was only by showing his manuscript that he was able to secure it. Even then they looked at him a bit askance, and made him conscious once more that his head was still bandaged. He had forgotten all about this, and in another minute he had forgotten all about it once again.

One of the manuscripts which he spread out upon the desk before him contained but little writing. A crudely drawn map filled almost the entire space. A drawing in the upper left-hand corner represented a blazing sun, and in the lower left-hand corner another gave the points of the compass. This doubtless served to illustrate the contents of the other manuscript.

The parchment had been rolled so long and so tightly that it was almost impossible to straighten it out. He worked carefully for fear of cracking it. It was a matter requiring some patience, and consumed the best part of half an hour. He found that the writing had been preserved wonderfully well although, as he learned later, many of the words were so misspelled or poorly written as to be undecipherable. The writing itself was painfully minute and labored–as though each letter had been formed with the greatest effort and considerable uncertainty. It was as though the author were thoroughly conversant with Latin–for it was in that tongue–but as a spoken rather than a written language. It was such Latin as might be written by a man who knew his Vulgate and prayers by heart, but who had little other use for the language. In places, where evidently the author did not know a word, he had used a symbol as though the common medium of communication with him were some sign language.

With what sort of an instrument the writing had been done it was impossible to conceive, for it was as fine as could be accomplished with the finest steel engraving. It occurred to Wilson that possibly this had been done with a view towards making it illegible to any ordinary eyes which should chance to see it. With all these difficulties it was as much as Wilson could do to make anything at all out of the parchment. But he found the work absorbing, and as he began to get an inkling of what he really held in his hands, lost himself altogether in his task. At the end of three hours, which had passed like so many minutes, he took a piece of paper and wrote down the result of his work, leaving dashes for words which he had been unable to make out. He had this broken message:

“I, Manco Capac, priest of the Gilded Man leave this for my brothers, fearing – from strangers with –. When I heard Quesada was near and learned that he was about to – the lake I called twenty of the faithful and with great – we – piece by piece, using – to – the gifts from the bottom. Many pieces we – but much gold, gifts of plate, and – with – jewels we reached. In all six hundred and forty-seven pieces we carried to where they now rest. I will make a chart so that it may –. But beware for – the foot stumbles – death to all – except those who –. The Gilded Man is strong and will – blood and the power of the hills. I alone know and I am about to die. The other faithful children, leaped from – and their bodies I – where they are protected by –. Never must be taken from this – for – if –. Those who – death.

The gold I – in the farther cave where –, but the jewels are – beneath and –. The place is – upon the map which I have made. This I have truly written for those who –. The hand of the Gilded Man will crush any who –.”

Wilson, his blood running fast, sat back and thought. It was clear that the struggle over the image was a struggle for this treasure. Neither man knew of the existence of this map. The priest fought to preserve the idol because of its sacredness as guardian of what to him was doubtless a consecrated offering to the Sun God; Sorez, acquiring it with the tradition that the image held the secret, thought that with the psychic gift of the girl he had solved the riddle. This much seemed a reasonable explanation. But where was this treasure, and of what did it consist? He turned to the second parchment. At the end of an hour he had before him a half page of minute directions for approaching the treasure from the starting-point of a hut in the mountains. But where were these mountains? He had two names which might be good clues. One was “Quesada,” the old Spanish adventurer, of whom Wilson had a faint recollection. It was possible that in the history of his day some mention might be made of this expedition. The other name was “Guadiva,” which appeared on the map as the name of a lake. Many of the old Spanish names still remained. A good atlas might mention it.

He investigated the latter hint first. He was rewarded at once. “Guadiva” was a small lake located in the extinct volcanic cone of Mt. Veneza, beyond the upper Cordilleras. It was remarkable chiefly for a tradition which mentions this as one of the hiding places of a supposed vast treasure thrown away by the Chibcas that it might escape the hands of Quesada.

Starting with this, Wilson began a more detailed search through the literature bearing upon these South American tribes, Spanish conquest, and English treasure hunting. He was surprised to find a great deal of information. Almost without exception, however, this particular treasure which had sent Quesada to his grave a pauper, which had lured from quiet England Raleigh, Drake, and Leigh was thought to be a myth. The hours passed and Wilson knew nothing of their passing. It was eight o’clock before he paused once more to summarize the result of his reading. In the light of the key which lay before him, the possibilities took away his breath. His quick imagination spanned the gaps in the narrative until he had a picture before his eyes that savored of the Arabian Nights. It was a glittering quest–this which had tempted so many men, for the prize was greater than Cortez had sought among the Aztecs, or Pizarro in his bloody conquest of the Incas.

He saw many thousands of the faithful Chibcas, most powerful of all the tribes upon the Alta plain, which lies a green level between the heights of the white summits of the Andes, toiling up the barren lava sides of Mount Veneza to where, locked in its gray cone, lies the lake of Guadiva. He saw this lake smiling back at the blue sky, its waters clear as the mountain air which ripples across its surface. The lake of Guadiva! How many bronzed men had whispered this name and then dropped upon their knees in prayer. To Quesada it was just a mirror of blue with unsearchable depths, but he lived to learn how much more it meant to the lithe bronze men.