The Red Rat's Daughter

"Mr. Browne?" he began, lifting his hat, and, as he did so, looking from one to another of the group.

"My name is Browne," said the young man, stepping forward. "What can I do for you?"

"I should be glad if you would favour me with a few minutes' private conversation," answered the other. "My business is important, but it will not detain you very long."

"I can easily do that," replied Browne, and as he said it his guest of the evening came forward to bid him good-bye.

"Must you really go?" Browne inquired.

"I am afraid I must," the other responded; "the boat has been alongside for some considerable time, and to-morrow the homeward mail goes out, and I have my letters to finish. I must thank you for a very jolly evening. My only regret is that you are not staying longer in Hong-kong. However, I hope we shall see you on the return voyage, when you must let us entertain you, in a somewhat better fashion, than we have been able to do to-day."

"I shall be delighted," said Browne as he shook hands; but in his own heart he was reflecting that, when he did return that way, there would, in all probability, be some one with him, who would exercise such control over his time and amusements, that bachelor pleasures would be out of the question. The man having taken his departure, Browne begged his friends to excuse him for a few moments, and then passed down the deck towards the tall individual, whom he could see waiting for him at the saloon entrance. "Now, sir," he began, "if you wish to see me, I am at your disposal."

"In that case, let us walk a little farther aft," replied the tall man. "Let us find a place where we shall run no risks of being disturbed."

"This way, then," said Browne, and led him along the deck towards the taffrail. He climbed up on to the rail, while his companion seated himself on the stern grating. The light from the after-skylight fell upon his face, and Browne saw that it was a countenance cast in a singularly handsome mould. The features were sharp and clear cut, the forehead broad, and the mouth and chin showing signs of considerable determination. Taken altogether, it was the face of a man who, having embarked upon a certain enterprise, would carry it through, or perish in the attempt. Having lit a cigarette and thrown the match overboard, he began to speak.

"It has been brought to my knowledge," he began, "that you are anxious to carry out a certain delicate piece of business connected with an island, a short distance to the north of Japan. Is that so?"

"Before you go any farther," continued Browne, "perhaps it would be as well for you to say whether or not you come from Johann Schmidt."

"Johann Schmidt!" replied the other, with some little astonishment. "Who the devil is he? I don't know that I ever heard of him."

It was Browne's turn this time to feel surprised. "I asked because I understood that he was going to send some one to me this evening."

"That is very possible," MacAndrew answered; "but let me make it clear to you that I know nothing whatsoever of him; in matters like this, Mr. Browne, you will find it best to know nothing of anybody."

After this plain speech, Browne thought he had grasped the situation. "We will presume, then, that you know nothing of our friend Johann," he said. "Perhaps you have a plan worked out, and can tell me exactly what I ought to do to effect the object I have in view."

"It is for that reason that I am here," resumed MacAndrew, with business-like celerity, as he flicked the ash from his cigarette. "I've got the plan fixed up, and I think I can tell you exactly how the matter in question is going to be arranged. To begin with, I may as well inform you that it is going to be an expensive business."

"Expense is no difficulty to me," replied Browne. "I am, of course, quite prepared to pay a large sum, provided it is in reason, and I am assured in my own mind, that the work will be carried out in a proper manner. How much do you think it will cost me?"

"Five thousand pounds in good, solid English gold," answered MacAndrew; "and what is more, the money must be paid down before I put my hand to the job."

"But, pardon my alluding to it, what sort of a check am I going to have upon you?" Browne next inquired. "How am I to know that you won't take the money and clear out?"

"You've got to risk that," said MacAndrew calmly. "I see no other way out of it. You must trust me absolutely; if you don't think you can, say so, and I'll have nothing whatever to do with it. I won't make you any promises, because that's not my way; but I fancy when the business is finished you'll be satisfied."

"I hope so," returned Browne, with a smile. "But can you give me no sort of guarantee at all?"

"I don't see that I can," muttered MacAndrew. "In cases like this a guarantee is a thing which would be a very unmarketable commodity. In other words, we don't keep them in stock."

"It's to be a case of my putting my money in the slot, then, and you do the rest?"

"As the Yankees say," said the other, "I reckon that is so. No, Mr. Browne, I'm very much afraid you must rest content with my bare word. If you think I'm straight enough to pull you through, try me; if not, as I said just now, have nothing more to do with me. I cannot speak fairer than that, I think, and I shall now leave it to you to decide."

"Well, I must see your plan," continued Browne. "When I have done that it is just possible that I may see my way to undertaking the business."

"The plan, then, by all means," replied the other, and, as he did so, he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out an envelope, which he handed to Browne. "Here it is. I have roughly sketched it all out for you. You had better read it when you are alone in your cabin, and after you have got it by heart be sure to burn it carefully. I wrote it down in case I should not be able to see you, and also fearing, even if I did have speech with you, I might not be able to say what I wanted to, without being overheard. I will come off at daybreak to-morrow morning for your answer. In the meantime you can think it over. Will that suit you?"

"Admirably," said Browne. "I will let you know my decision then without fail."

"In that case, good-night."

"Good-night. I shall expect you in the morning."

"In the morning."

A quarter of an hour later Browne was alone in his own cabin. Having locked his door, he took the letter, the other had given him, from his pocket and opened it. A half-sheet of note-paper, upon which scarcely five hundred words were written, was all he found. But these words, he knew, meant all the world to him. He read and re-read them, and, as soon as he had got them by heart, lit a match and set fire to the paper, which was reduced to ashes. Then he returned to the deck, where Maas and Foote were still seated, and settled himself down for a chat. They had not been there many minutes before Maas found, that he had smoked the last cigar of a particular brand he affected, and rose to go to his cabin in search of another. He had not been very long absent before Browne remembered that he had left the envelope of MacAndrew's letter on his dressing-table. Accordingly he set off in search of it, intending to destroy it as he had done its contents. Having reached the companion, he was descending to the saloon below, when a sound resembling the careful, though hurried, closing of a door attracted his attention. A moment later he stepped into the saloon, to find Maas there, who, for once in his life, appeared to be flurried and put out by something.

"I have lost my cigar-case, my dear Browne," he said, as if in explanation. "Is it not annoying?"

Browne felt sure that this was not the truth. However, he did not say so, but when he had condoled with him, entered his own cabin, where a surprise was in store for him. The envelope he had come down to burn, and which he distinctly remembered having placed upon the table less than half an hour before, was missing. Some one had taken it!

CHAPTER XXIII

Taking one thing with another, Browne's night after the incident described at the end of the previous chapter was far from being a good one. He could not, try how he would, solve the mystery as to what had become of that envelope. He had hunted the cabin through and through, and searched his pockets times without number, but always with the same lack of success. As he lay turning the matter over and over in his mind, he remembered that he had heard the soft shutting of a door as he descended the companion-ladder, and also that Maas had betrayed considerable embarrassment when he entered the saloon. It was absurd, however, to suppose that he could have had any hand in its disappearance. But the fact remained that the envelope was gone. He rang for his valet, and questioned him; but the man declared that, not only did he know nothing at all about it, but that he had not entered the cabin between dinner-time and when he had prepared his master for the night. It was a singular thing altogether. At last, being unable to remain where he was any longer, he rose and dressed himself and went up to the deck. Day was just breaking. A cloudless sky was overhead, and in the gray light the Peak looked unusually picturesque; the water alongside was as smooth as a sheet of glass; the only signs of life were a few gulls wheeling with discordant cries around a patch of seaweed floating astern.

Browne had been pacing the deck for upwards of a quarter of an hour, when he noticed a sampan pull off from the shore towards the yacht. From where he stood he could plainly distinguish the tall figure of MacAndrew. He accordingly went to the gangway to receive him. Presently one of the women pulling brought her up at the foot of the accommodation-ladder, when the passenger ran up the steps, and gracefully saluted Browne.

"Good-morning," he said. "In spite of the earliness of the hour, I think I am up to time."

"Yes, you are very punctual," answered Browne. "Now, shall we get to business?"

They accordingly walked together in the direction of the smoking-room.

"You mastered the contents of my note, I suppose?" asked MacAndrew, by way of breaking the ice.

"Perfectly," replied Browne; "and I was careful to burn it afterwards."

"Well, now that you have perused it, what do you think of it?" inquired the other. "Do you consider the scheme feasible?"

"Very feasible indeed," Browne replied. "With a decent amount of luck, I think it should stand a very good chance of succeeding.

"I'm very glad to hear that," returned MacAndrew. "I thought you would like it. Now, when the other preliminaries are settled, I can get to work, head down."

"By the other preliminaries I suppose you mean the money?" queried Browne.

MacAndrew looked and laughed.

"Yes; the money," he admitted. "I'm sorry to have to be so mercenary; but I'm afraid it can't be helped. We must grease the machinery with gold, otherwise we shan't be able to set it in motion."

"Very well," rejoined Browne; "that difficulty is easily overcome. I have it all ready for you. If you will accompany me to my cabin we may procure it."

They accordingly made their way to the cabin. Once there, Browne opened his safe, and dragged out a plain wooden box, which he placed upon the floor. MacAndrew observed that there was another of similar size behind it. Browne noticed the expression upon his face, and smiled.

"You're wondering what made me bring so much," he remarked. How well he remembered going to his bank to procure it! He seemed to see the dignified, portly manager seated on his leather chair, and could recall that worthy gentleman's surprise at the curious request Browne made to him.

"But how do you propose to get it ashore?" said the latter to MacAndrew. "It's a heavy box; and what about the Customs authorities?"

"Oh, they won't trouble me," answered MacAndrew coolly. "I shall find a way of getting it in without putting them to the inconvenience of opening it."

"Do you want to count it? There may not be five thousand pounds there."

"I shall have to risk that," MacAndrew replied. "I haven't the time to waste in counting it. I expect it's all right." So saying, he took up the box, and followed Browne to the deck above.

"You quite understand what you've got to do, I suppose?" he asked when they once more stood at the gangway.

"Perfectly," said Browne. "You need not be afraid lest I shall forget. When do you think you will leave?"

"This morning, if possible," MacAndrew replied. "There is no time to be lost. I've got a boat in my eye, and as soon as they can have her ready I shall embark. By the way, if I were in your place I should be extremely careful as to what I said or did in Japan. Excite only one little bit of suspicion, and you will never be able to rectify the error."

"You need have no fear on that score," rejoined Browne. "I will take every possible precaution to prevent any one suspecting."

"I'm glad to hear it," MacAndrew returned. "Now, good-bye until we meet on the 13th."

"Good-bye," said Browne; "and good luck go with you!"

They shook hands, and then MacAndrew, picking up his precious box, went down the ladder, and, when he had taken his place in the well, the sampan pushed off for the shore.

"A nice sort of position I shall be in if he should prove to be a swindler," reflected the young man, as he watched the retreating boat. "But it's too late to think of that now. I have gone into the business, and must carry it through, whatever happens."

When Jimmy Foote put in an appearance on deck that morning he found that the city of Victoria had disappeared, and that the yacht was making her way through the Ly-ee-Moon Pass out into the open sea once more.

It was daybreak on the morning of the Thursday following when they obtained their first glimpse of Japan. Like a pin's head upon the horizon was a tiny gray dot, which gradually grew larger and larger until the sacred mountain of Fujiyama, clear-cut against the sky-line, rose from the waves, as if to welcome them to the Land of the Chrysanthemum. Making their way up Yeddo Bay, they at length cast anchor in the harbour of Yokohama. Beautiful as it must appear to any one, to Browne it seemed like the loveliest and happiest corner of Fairyland. He could scarcely believe, after the long time they had been separated, that, in less than half an hour, he would really be holding Katherine in his arms once more. During breakfast he could with difficulty contain his impatience, and he felt as if the excellent appetites which Foote and Maas brought to their meal were personal insults to himself. At length they rose, and he was at liberty to go. At the same moment the captain announced that the steam-launch was alongside.

"Good luck to you, old fellow," said Jimmy, as Browne put on his hat and prepared to be off. "Though love-making is not much in my line, I must say I envy you your happiness. I only wish I were going to see a sweetheart too."

"Madame Bernstein is a widow," remarked Browne, and, ducking his head to avoid the stump of a cigar which Jimmy threw at him, he ran down the accommodation-ladder, jumped into the launch, and was soon steaming ashore.

Reaching the Bund, he inquired in which direction the Club Hotel was situated, and, having been informed, made his way in that direction. He had reached the steps, and was about to ascend them to enter the verandah, when he saw, coming down the passage before him, no less a person than Katherine herself. For weeks past he had been looking forward to this interview, wondering where, how, and under what circumstances it would take place. Again and again he had framed his first speech to her, and had wondered what she would say to him in return. Now that he was confronted with her, however, he found his presence of mind deserting him, and he stood before her, not knowing what to say. On her side she was not so shy. Directly she realized who it was, she ran forward with outstretched hands to greet him.

"Jack, Jack," she cried, her voice trembling with delight, "I had no idea that you had arrived. How long have you been in Japan?"

"We dropped our anchor scarcely an hour ago," he answered. "I came ashore the instant the launch was ready for me."

"How glad I am to see you!" she exclaimed. "It seems years since we said good-bye to each other that miserable day at Marseilles."

"Years!" he cried. "It seems like an eternity to me." Then, looking up at her, as she stood on the steps above him, he continued: "Katherine, you are more beautiful than ever."

A rosy blush spread over her face. "It is because of my delight at seeing you," she whispered. This pretty speech was followed by a little pause, during which he came up the steps and led her along the verandah towards two empty chairs at the farther end. They seated themselves, and, after their more immediate affairs had received attention, he inquired after Madame Bernstein.

"And now tell me what you have arranged to do?" she said, when she had satisfied him that the lady in question was enjoying the best of health. "I received your cablegram from Hong-kong, saying that everything was progressing satisfactorily. You do not know how anxiously I have been waiting to see you."

"And only to hear that?" he asked, with a smile.

"Of course not," she answered. "Still, I think you can easily understand my impatience."

"Of course I understand it, dear," he replied; "and it is only right you should know all I have arranged."

He thereupon narrated to her his interview with MacAndrew, speaking in a low voice, and taking care that no one should overhear him. When he had finished he sat silent for a few moments; then, leaning a little nearer her, he continued, "I want to remind you, dear, to be particularly careful to say nothing at all on the subject to any one, not even to Madame Bernstein. I was warned myself not to say anything; but in your case, of course, it is different."

"You can trust me," she returned; "I shall say nothing. And so you really think it is likely we shall be able to save him?"

"I feel sure it is," said Browne; "though, of course, I, like you, am somewhat in the dark. Every one who is in the business is so chary of being discovered, that they take particular care not to divulge anything, however small, that may give a hint or clue as to their complicity."

For some time they continued to discuss the question; then Katherine, thinking that it behoved her to acquaint Madame Bernstein with the fact of her lover's arrival, departed into the house. A few moments later she returned, accompanied by the lady in question, who greeted Brown with her usual enthusiasm.

"Ah, monsieur," she cried, "you do not know how triste this poor child has been without you. She has counted every day, almost every minute, until she should see you."

On hearing this Browne found an opportunity of stroking his sweetheart's hand. Madame Bernstein's remark was just the one of all others that would be calculated to cause him the greatest pleasure.

"And now, monsieur, that you are here, what is it you desire we should do?" inquired Madame, when they had exhausted the topics to which I have just referred.

"We must be content to remain here for at least another fortnight," said Browne. "The arrangements I have made cannot possibly be completed until the end of that time."

"Another fortnight?" exclaimed Madame, in some astonishment, and with considerable dismay. "Do you mean that we are to remain idle all that time?"

"I mean that we must enjoy ourselves here for a fortnight," Browne replied. Then, looking out into the street at the queer characters he saw there – the picturesque dresses, the jinrickshas, and the thousand and one signs of Japanese life – he added: "Surely that should not be such a very difficult matter?"

"It would not be difficult," said Madame, as if she were debating the matter with herself, "if one had all one's time at one's disposal, and were only travelling for pleasure; but under the present circumstances how different it is!" She was about to say something further, but she checked herself; and, making the excuse that she had left something in her room, retired to the house.

"Do not be impatient with her, dear," said Katherine softly, when they were alone together. "Remember that her anxiety is all upon my account."

Browne admitted this, and when he had done so the matter was allowed to drop.

CHAPTER XXIV

That afternoon they boarded the yacht, and Katherine renewed her acquaintance with Jimmy Foote. Maas was also introduced to her, and paid her the usual compliments upon her engagement. Later she explored the yacht from stem to stern, expressing her delight at the completeness of every detail. The pleasure she derived from it, however, was as nothing compared with that of her lover, who never for one instant left her side.

"Some day," he said, as they stood together upon the bridge, looking at the harbour and watching the variety of shipping around them, "this vessel will be your own property. You will have to invite whoever you like to stay on board her with you. Do you think you will ever let me come?" He looked into her face, expecting to find a smile there; but, to his astonishment, he discovered that her eyes were filled with tears. "Why, my darling," he cried, "what does this mean? What is the reason of these tears?"

She brushed them hastily away, and tried to appear unconcerned. "I was thinking of all your goodness to me," she replied. "Oh, Jack! I don't know how I can ever repay it."

"I don't want you to repay it," he retorted. "You have done enough already. Have you not honoured me, dear, above all living men? Are you not going to be my wife?"

"That is no return," she answered, shaking her head. "If you give a starving man food, do you think it kind of him to eat it? I had nothing, and you are giving me all. Does the fact that I take it help me to repay it?"

What he said in reply to this does not come within the scope of a chronicler's duty to record. Let it suffice that, when he went below with her, he might very well have been described as the happiest man in Japan. The history of the following fortnight could be easily written in two words, "love and pleasure." From morning till night they were together, seeing everything, exploring the temples, the country tea-houses, spending small fortunes with the curio dealers, and learning to love each other more and more every day. In fact, there was only one cloud in their sky, and that was the question of what was to be done with Maas. Up to that time, that gentleman had shown no sort of inclination to separate himself from the party. Browne could not very well ask him to leave, and yet he had the best of reasons for not wanting him to go on with them. What was to be done? He worried himself almost into a fever to know what he should do. Then, almost at the last minute, Maas settled the question for them, not in an altogether unexpected fashion. Finding his host alone in the verandah of the hotel one evening, he asked outright, without pretence of beating about the bush, whether he might, as an old friend, continue to burden them with his society. Browne found himself placed in a most awkward position. Though he did not want him, he had known Maas for so many years, and they had always been on such a footing of intimacy together, that he felt he could do nothing but consent. He accordingly did so, though with scarcely the same amount of grace, that usually characterized his hospitality. Jimmy Foote, however, expressed himself more freely.

"Look here, Jack, old man," said the latter to Browne, when he was informed what had taken place, "you know as well as I do that Maas and I were never the greatest of friends. I tell you this because I don't want you to think I am saying, behind his back, what I would not say to his face. At the same time, I do think that you ought to have told him straight out that he couldn't come."

"How on earth could I do that?" asked Browne. "Besides being exceedingly rude, it would have given the whole show away. What possible sort of excuse could I have made for not wanting him on board?"

"I don't know what sort of excuse you could have made," replied Jimmy; "all I know is that you ought to have made it. You have other people besides yourself to consider in the matter."

The deed was done, however, and could not be undone. For this reason, when the yacht said good-bye to the lovely harbour of Yokohama, and Treaty Point was astern, Maas stood upon the deck watching it fade away and drop below the sea-line.