The Message

Warden looked blankly at the speaker. It was then Thursday. It left him little more than a day in which to unravel the mystery that enveloped Evelyn and her whereabouts. A bitter rage welled up in his breast, but he controlled his face, and the official attributed his silence to the suddenness of his suggested departure.

“I am sorry that your leave should be spoiled in this fashion,” continued the quiet voice. “But it is unavoidable. The thing presses. And I need scarcely tell you that when Government wants a man’s service it is good for the man.”

“I shall be on board the Water Witch on Saturday,” said Warden.

Perhaps the lack of enthusiasm in his manner was puzzling, but the suave official paid no heed.

“And now for your instructions,” he said. “The vessel touches at Cape Coast Castle before going on to Lagos. You will be met there by some officer whom you are acquainted with. He will tell you the exact position of affairs, and what, if any, developments have taken place in the meantime. He will also give you the Governor’s views as to the way in which your experience of the natives can best be utilized. I leave it to you to take the necessary precautions to conceal your movements and identity, and I am authorized to hand you £250 to meet any expenses incidental to your mission. Your passage on the Water Witch is paid for, by the way.”

Again the older man failed to understand why the young officer should laugh with the grim humor of one who bids fate do her worst. Certainly, the situation had in it some element of comedy. Gold was being showered on Warden from the skies – promotion and distinction were thrust upon him – yet he was miserable as any man in England that day.

“Something on his mind – is it a woman?” mused the shrewd official, and the time came when he remembered the idle fancy.

In the freedom of the street Warden soon recovered himself. Not even an all–absorbing passion – rendered more intense by reason of his self–contained nature – could deprive him of the habit of years. In the Colonial Office at the moment lay a letter from the Governor of Southern Nigeria commending him in the highest terms for his cool judgment, resourcefulness, and decision. He showed these qualities now. He hurried to Charing Cross, and despatched three telegrams, one to Evelyn, begging her to communicate with him instantly, a second to his friend in Ostend, thanking him for his kindly offices and requesting that the money should be paid into a named bank, and the third to the Harbor Master at Dover, asking him to inform Peter Evans, of the pilot–cutter Nancy, that he must travel to London by the earliest train after arriving from Ostend.

Then he went to the Savoy.

Rosamund’s telegram had been handed in at Lochmerig the previous night. It occurred to Warden that she must have written it about the time his message to Evelyn was delivered. If so, and it was true that the Baumgartner household had already departed on board the Sans Souci, there was an obvious question to be answered.

As he anticipated, Mrs. Laing was in the hotel. In fact, she was about to dine in her own room when Warden’s card was brought to her. She hastened to meet him, all smiles and blushes.

“How awfully good of you to come so soon!” she cried. “And at just the right hour! I hate eating alone, but I dislike still more being at a table by myself in a big hotel. You can’t have dined. Let us go to the café, and then it doesn’t matter about one’s toilette.”

“I don’t wish to disturb your arrangements” – he began, but she was not to be forced into a serious discussion at once.

“Who said anything about disturbance?” she rattled on. “You could not have met my wishes better if you had guessed them. Now, don’t look so glum. It is not my fault that your pretty governess was ready to flirt with other men, is it? Come and eat, and I shall tell you all about it.”

He fell in with her mood. A woman will dare anything when she loves or hates, and he credited Rosamund with excess in both directions. Yet it would be strange, he thought, were she playing some deep game not immediately discernible, if he did not unravel the tangled skein of her deceit.

“I got your letter, of course,” he said when they were seated.

“Ah, then I guessed correctly. That is why you are disconsolate,” she said, looking at him frankly.

“It may be. At present I am chiefly curious. How did you obtain my London address?”

“Didn’t you telegraph it?”

“To Miss Dane – yes.”

“You dear man, what would you have done if a telegram were brought to a remote place in the Highlands for a lady whom you knew was gone goodness knows where in a yacht?”

“Surely it might have been forwarded to her?”

“Yes, if you or I, or any other reasonable being, were the addressee. But the Baumgartners gave instructions that everything was to be sent to their London house, which is closed, except for a caretaker. Mrs. Baumgartner herself told me they did not expect to be in town under a month or six weeks.”

“Have they vanished into thin air?”

“Something of the kind. They spoke vaguely of a cruise round the Shetlands, but I am sure that was meant as a blind. They wouldn’t take Figuero and von Rippenbach as their sailing companions for the mere fun of the thing, would they?”

“Did they offer no excuse to their guests?”

“Oh, yes. Billy Thring – sorry, but I must mention him – well, his brother’s death was the ostensible reason. I don’t believe a word of it. I. D. B. is not the man to break up a pleasant house party because one of its members has suffered a bereavement. There is something else going on. I am honestly feminine enough to want to know what it is. I was simply dying of curiosity yesterday when I saw Figuero and the dainty Evelyn in the garden, discussing things with bated breath.”

Warden frowned. He could keep a tight rein on his emotions, but this was trying him high.

“Would you mind telling me how a man who is dining with a lady can best express polite incredulity at her statements?” he asked.

“Very neat,” she retorted, “but in this instance you are the water and I the duck. If you think I am deliberately telling you untruths, why not choose some less exciting topic? How did you like Ostend? I adore it. The people amuse me – they are so naïvely shocking, or shocked, as the case may be. Did you see that fat Frenchman who struts about in a ridiculously tight and glaring bathing suit?”

“Of course you want to talk about Lochmerig,” he said quietly. “Now, Mrs. Laing, it will be wiser to speak in plain language. Evelyn Dane is my promised wife. If possible, I would marry her to–morrow. That is no figure of speech. If she were here now, and the law permitted, I would marry her within the hour. You know me well enough to believe that once my mind is made up I do not change. Well, then, why are you endeavoring to create discord between me and the woman I love?”

Rosamund flushed. She had expected him to say something of the kind, but it was none the less disagreeable in the hearing. The fury that convulsed her found a ready outlet in the tears that stood in her beautiful eyes.

“It is very unkind of you to blame me,” she half sobbed. “How could I make up all these wicked inventions? I had never even heard the girl’s name before I went to Lochmerig. It was her own foolish tongue that revealed things – about you – and the men of Oku – and – and – what you saw that night at Cowes. She is either very wicked or very thoughtless, Arthur. If you are engaged in some secret business for the Government, and she were really true to you, would she ever have spoken of it to Billy – to Lord Fairholme?”

Warden was beaten. He poured out a glass of wine and drank it. He felt that if he spoke at once his voice might betray the agony of his soul. Ah, if only he might see Evelyn for five precious minutes! Better go to Africa with his dear idol shattered than carry with him the lingering torture of doubt.

“I think you were right when you switched our talk off to Ostend,” he muttered at last. “May I give you a word of advice? Forget what you have just said. It is a dangerous problem – one not to be settled by women’s tongues.”

So they left it at that, and when they parted, not without a tacit understanding that they would meet again at the earliest opportunity – for Warden was obliged to be ambiguous in that respect – Rosamund was sure that she had gained some ground in a pitiless struggle. Warden was desperately unhappy. That was her second success. She had won the first move when the Sans Souci carried Evelyn off the field.

Early next morning Warden went to a shipping office, and the people there advised him to send a reply–paid telegram to the coast–guard station nearest Lochmerig. He soon received an answer. “The Sans Souci sailed Wednesday, 3 p. m. Destination believed Shetlands, but headed southeast by east.”

He passed many hours in writing a full statement of everything that had taken place – including copies of Rosamund’s letter and telegram, and a literal record of their conversation in the hotel – and enclosed the ring and the manuscript in a stout linen envelope. When Peter Evans came to him in the evening, he gave him the package and fifty pounds, with explicit details as to its safeguarding and the reasons which governed his present decision.

“You are to find Miss Dane, no matter what the cost,” he said. “You may hear of her at her home in Oxfordshire, or at this address, where you have my permission to open any letters that arrive during my absence. If you run short of money, or are compelled to take an expensive journey, apply to my bankers. I shall leave full instructions that your requirements are to be met when you explain them. The one thing I want you to do is to deliver this letter into Miss Dane’s own hands.”

Peter, somewhat awestricken by Warden’s gravity, yet proud of the trust placed in him, promised obedience.

“Never fear, sir,” he said. “If the Sans Souci is afloat on the seven seas I’ll get her bearin’s one way or another. Sink me! if I don’t find that gal afore a month, I’ll unship my prop, sell the Nancy, an’ go to the wokkus.”

In disposing of his belongings, Warden packed the gourd and the parchment among some heavy clothing which was useless in Africa. He told the hall porter exactly which portmanteaus he meant to take with him, but on arriving at Paddington Station at 4.30 a. m. on a cold morning, he found the bag containing the gourd and parchment piled with the rest of his goods on the platform.

He eyed it resentfully, but yielded.

“So you mean to stick to me!” he growled. “You mesmerized that sleepy scoundrel into carrying you downstairs and depositing you on the roof of my cab. Very well. Let us see the adventure through in company.”

He was chatting with the skipper of the Water Witch one day while the ship’s position was being pricked off on the chart.

“You are keeping close in to the Spanish coast, Captain,” said the passenger.

“Not particularly, Mr. Williams,” was the reply.

“But I have always been under the impression that vessels bound for the West Coast headed for the Canaries?”

“So they do, if they’re logged for a straight run. It happens this time, however, that my ole tub has to call in at Rabat and Mogador.”

“At Rabat!” repeated Mr. Williams, seemingly staggered at the mere mention of the place.

“Yes, funny little hole. Ever bin there?”

“No.”

“Well, p’raps you’ll go ashore. If you do you’ll see the queerest collection of humans you’ve ever set eyes on.”

Mr. Williams turned and gazed at the horizon.

“I think I’m bewitched,” he muttered.

“Wot’s that?”

“Odd thing. I’ve been dreaming of Rabat!”

The captain grinned.

“When you’ve seen it you’ll fancy it’s a nightmare,” he said.

CHAPTER X

HASSAN’S TOWER – AND THE COLONIAL OFFICE

Warden did not find Rabat so intolerable as the captain of the Water Witch led him to believe. Its streets were more regular and cleaner, or less dirty, than those of the average Moorish town. Its people seemed to be devoted to commerce – probably because they are not pure–blooded Moors, but of Jewish descent. That, at least, is the argument advanced by a man from Fez or Tafilat when he wants a heavier dowry with a Rabati bride.

From the roadstead, once the troublesome bar was crossed, the town looked attractive. Its white houses were enshrined in pretty gardens. Orchards, vineyards, and olive–groves brightened the landscape. To the north, on the opposite bank of a swift river, cultivated slopes stretched their green and gold to the far–off Zemmur mountains. A picturesque citadel, built by a renegade Englishman in the bad old days, commanded the harbor, and a spacious landing–place showed that the Rabatis opposed no difficulties to the export of their Morocco leather, carpets, Moorish slippers, and pottery.

The Water Witch entered the river soon after dawn, and Warden was assured that she would not be able to clear her shipments until next forenoon at the earliest. He went ashore and was agreeably surprised at finding quite a large number of British and other European merchants’ offices near the quay, while the shields of several Vice–Consuls and Consular Agents bespoke some semblance of law and order.

In a word, Rabat looked settled and prosperous. It was utterly out of keeping with the picture conjured up by the tattoo marks made by Domenico Garcia on the skin of Tommaso Rodriguez. Still the Hassan Tower was no myth. It was pointed out to him by an Englishman who had walked to the wharf to watch the landing of the ship’s boat.

Pausing only to buy a strong chisel in a native shop, Warden strolled at once in the direction of the tomb. He would neither delay his search for the ruby, nor give much time to it. If he failed to identify the exact spot described in the parchment, or was unable to discover anything after a speedy examination, assuredly he would not spend several hours in tearing ancient masonry to pieces. Since leaving England, Warden had become a different man. Always a good–humored cynic, he was now perilously near the less tolerable condition of cynicism without good humor. Intellect began to govern impulse. Though his brain was wearied with endeavor to find a reasonable explanation of events, he was almost convinced that Evelyn must at least have committed the indiscretion of gossiping about her adventures in the Isle of Wight. If only she had written! His heart kept harping on that! Why had she flown away with her employers without ever a sign that her thoughts were with the man she loved?

He wondered if Peter Evans had found her. If so, there would be news at Cape Coast Castle, for he had given his bankers explicit directions, and a member of the firm was a personal friend who would attend to cablegrams and letters.

The Hassan Tower stood on a height not far beyond the outermost city wall, Rabat being dignified with two lines of fortifications, built by Christian slaves centuries ago. Indeed, when Warden climbed the hill of which it formed the pinnacle, he realized that it was a landmark shown on a chart he had examined the previous evening. Square and strong, built to defy destruction, and rearing its one hundred and fifty feet of exquisitely fretted stonework from a tangled undergrowth of stunted vegetation, it seemed, in some proud and curiously subtle way, to promise the fulfilment of Domenico Garcia’s bequest.

Great marble columns, many erect, but the majority overthrown, indicated the quadrangle of what was meant to be a gigantic mosque. Warden passed quickly through these and other ruins; he caught a hint of an aqueduct, looked into a deep excavation evidently designed as a cistern, and then, with somewhat more rapid pulse–beat, and a certain awed wonderment dominating his mind, made straight for the causeway that led to the “door three cubits from the ground.”

To his chagrin, though the inclined plane itself might be ridden by a man on horseback, the arched door was solidly built up.

Here was an unforeseen check. It was one thing to be conscious of a cooling of the ardor that vowed the adornment of Evelyn’s fair hand with a “gem of great price,” but it was none the less baffling and exasperating to be at the foot of the tower and meet an apparently insuperable obstacle of this nature. Was he brought to Rabat by the most extraordinary series of events that could well have befallen him, only to find blind fate smiling maliciously? The thought was not to be borne. Somehow, anyhow, that tower must be entered, or the spirit of the hapless Garcia would haunt him for ever.

He looked around, thinking his Arabic would serve him in good stead were there a goat–herder or other tender of flocks near at hand. But he was quite alone on the tiny plateau. A couple of great storks which had built their nest on top of the tower looked down at him with wise eyes. Hundreds of pigeons fluttered about the summit or clung to the ridges of fretted stone, while the only window visible above the doorway was a hundred feet from the base.

But a soldier knows that every position, however impregnable in front, may be turned from the flanks. Before formulating any method of attack, he decided to survey the stronghold from all points of view, and, because Garcia mentioned the “third window on the left,” he went to the left. On that side there were only two windows, each twenty feet or more above his head, and Warden was nearly six feet in height. Then he reflected that the Portuguese, writing his sorrowful legend “to pleasure that loathly barbarian, M’Wanga, King of Benin,” would surely count from the inside of the tower.

On he went, noting each cranny and fissure in the weather–beaten mass, until he reached the opposite side. Here were three windows, and, most gratifying of discoveries, he saw that the Arabs had contrived a means of entry and egress through the center window by scooping away the mortar between the huge blocks of granite used for the foundation story. Débris had accumulated close to the wall in such quantity that the window–sill was not more than fourteen feet from his eyes. To an active, barefooted Moor, with toes and fingers like the talons of a vulture, the climb would present no difficulty whatever. To a man whose nails were well kept, and whose toes would speedily be lacerated if not protected by boots, the scaling of the rough wall was no child’s play. But Warden began to crawl upwards without a moment’s hesitation.

He knew that the ascent would be easy compared with the return, while a fall meant the risk of a bad sprain, so he memorized each suitable foothold as he mounted, and often paused to make sure of the deepest niches. It must be confessed that no thought of other danger entered into his calculations. His military training should have made him more wary, but what had either experience or text–book to do with this quest of a jewel, hidden for safety in a Moorish tomb so many years ago?

And he was armed, too, quite sufficiently to account for any prowling thieves who might be tempted to attack a stranger. A service revolver reposed in one pocket, and the chisel in another – but there did not seem to be the remotest probability of human interference; he had not seen a living thing save the birds since he breasted the hill.

When his hands rested on the broken stonework of the window he was naturally elated. Soon his eyes drew level with it, and he could peer into the interior. It was all one great apartment, not lofty, though an arched roof gave an impression of height. A staircase led to the upper stories, but it was broken. Desolation reigned supreme. Some startled pigeons flew out with loud clutter of wings at the sight of him. Then he raised himself steadily up, and leaped inside, while the walls echoed the noise of his spring with the hollow sound of sheer emptiness.

There was plenty of light, but, after a first hasty glance, he gave no further scrutiny to his surroundings. Were he spying out the land in an enemy’s country, he would have looked at the littered floor to find traces of any recent visitor. Most certainly he would not have begun operations in Garcia’s hiding–place without first visiting the upper rooms. But he was too eager and excited to be prudent. Evelyn seemed to be very near him at that moment. He remembered how her impetuous attempt to throw the calabash into the Solent had led to the discovery of Garcia’s amazing manuscript, and there was the spice of true romance in the fact that now, little more than two months later, he should actually be standing in “the tomb of the infidel buried outside the wall” of Rabat. His fingers itched to be at work. He was spurred by an intense curiosity. He felt that the finding of the ruby would lend credence to an otherwise unbelievable story. It connected Oku and the wild Benuë of two and a half centuries ago with Cowes and the Solent in Regatta Week. It made real the personality of a long–forgotten tyrant, who perchance lived again to–day in one of those three negroes he had seen in Figuero’s company. No wonder, then, that Warden was impatient. Ten seconds after he had reached the interior of the building, he was bent over the “deep crack between the center stones” of the window described by Garcia.

There could be no doubting now which window the scribe meant. It stood next to that by which Warden had entered, and, sure enough, just in that place the stones were more than ordinarily wide apart. The word “crack” was ambiguous. It might be applied more accurately to a break in one particular stone, but Warden was no adept in the Portuguese tongue, and the dictionary–maker might be translating “interstice,” or “crevice,” or “division,” when he wrote “crack.” At any rate, the “center stones” were sound, but the mortar between them was partly eaten away, and Warden saw at once that in order to make good his search one of the stones must be prised out bodily. A crowbar would have ended the job in a minute when once the chisel had cut a leverage, but, in the absence of a crowbar, he set to work with the chisel.

The mortar became flint–like when the deodorizing influence of the weather ceased to make itself felt. Nevertheless, the amateur house–breaker labored manfully. Half an hour’s persistent chipping and twisting of the tool was rewarded by a sullen loosening of the stone.

Then he lifted it out of its bed, and there, nestling between it and its fellow, hidden beneath a layer of dust and feathers, lay a ring!

Now, Domenico Garcia spoke of a “ruby,” not of a ring, but it needed no skilled eye to detect the cause of that seeming discrepancy. The ring was a crude affair, made of gold, it is true, but fashioned with rough strength merely to provide a safe means of carrying the great, dark stone held in its claws. Garcia did not waste words. To him the ring was naught, so why mention it?

The gold was discolored, of course, and the ruby did not reveal its red splendor until Warden had cleansed it with his handkerchief and breathed on it repeatedly to soften the dirt deposited on its bright facets by thousands of rainstorms. Then it was born again before his eyes. With a thrill of pity rather than gratification he gazed on its new and glowing life. “Friend, I am many marches from Rabat but few from death!” said the man who placed it there, thinking that perchance he “might escape.” Now his very bones were as the dust which had shrouded it during all those years, yet the wondrous fire in its heart shone forth as though it had left the lapidary’s bench but yesterday. Warden even smiled sadly when he realized that, no matter how his wooing fared, such a huge gem could never shine on Evelyn Dane’s slim finger. It was large enough to form the centerpiece of some stately necklace or tiara. He knew little about the value of precious stones, but this ruby was the size of a large marble. He had once seen a diamond that weighed twenty–four carats, and the ruby was much the larger of the two. He fancied he had read somewhere that a flawless ruby was of considerably higher intrinsic worth than a diamond of the same dimensions. The diamond he had in mind was priced at three thousand pounds. If, then, this ruby were flawless, its appearance in England would create something of a sensation.

And Garcia’s story was true – that was the most astounding part of the business. The magnificent jewel winked and blinked in the sunlight. It might almost be alive, and telling him in plain language that the gods do not lead men into strange paths without just cause.