The Message

Suddenly he caught a blood–red flash that reminded him of the uncanny gleam in the eyes of the face on the gourd. The thought was disquieting, but he laughed.

“I am becoming a mere bundle of nerves,” he said aloud. “The sooner I get soaked with quinine the fitter I shall be. It must be the malaria in my system that makes me see things. Really, the proper thing to do now is to give that beastly mask to the head ju–ju man at Oku. Then it will be off my hands, and he will own the boss fetish of the whole West Coast.”

He was about to pocket the ring when the question of its subsequent disposal occurred to him. It was such a remarkable object that any one who saw it could not fail to question him as to its history. Under existing circumstances, he did not court inquiry in that shape, and the queer notion came that, in all likelihood, its prior owner carried it slung round his neck.

“Yes, by Jove, and the cord strangled him,” murmured Warden. Nevertheless, not being in the least superstitious, he might have adopted that plan of concealing it if he possessed a stout piece of cord or strong ribbon. But his pockets contained neither one nor the other, and a sharp pang came with the recollection that, in a case of similar need not so long ago, Evelyn’s hussif held a neat coil of tape that would have suited his purpose exactly.

Inside his waistcoat, however, was a secret pocket for carrying paper money. It was provided with a flap and a button, and would serve admirably as a hiding–place until he was able to entrust the ruby to a bank for transference to London. So there it went, making a little lump over his heart, and reminding him constantly that Domenico Garcia had not deceived him.

He was about to climb down again when his glance fell on the displaced stone. As a tribute to poor Garcia’s memory, he put it back in its bed, and even took the trouble to pour a few handfuls of dust and loose mortar into the joints, so that none might know it had ever been removed. While thus occupied, his attention was momentarily drawn to a pair of storks circling lazily above the tower. He wondered if they were the same placid couple that had watched him earlier. No bird is more wide–awake than the stork, despite its habitual air of sleepy indifference, and Warden fancied that the noise he made must have disturbed the two sentinels on the top of the building.

The hill–side was absolutely deserted. Far below nestled the white mass of the town, its long, low, whitewashed rectangles broken only by clumps of trees and an occasional dome or minaret. Near the quay lay the Water Witch. Her cranes were busy, two strings of coolies were rushing back and forth across a broad gangway, and the first mate was directing operations from the bridge. Warden smiled. He had heard the flow of language at the “Chief’s” command when some incident on ship–board demanded the reading of the Riot Act, and he could well imagine the way in which those scampering Arabs were being incited to strenuous effort.

It was peaceful up here in the tower – so cool and remote from the noisy life of the port that he was tempted to linger. But if he would regain the shelter of some café in the town ere the sun became unbearably hot, he must be on the move. So, with a sigh for the unhappy Garcia’s fate, and a farewell glance at the vaulted room which had witnessed that by–gone tragedy, and perhaps many another, he began the descent. Thanks to the precautions taken during the climb, he found no great difficulty in placing his toes in the right niches. He was already below the level of the window, and was halting with both feet wedged into a broader crevice than usual while he changed his hand hold, when something, whether mere intuition or a slight sound, he never afterward knew, caused him to look straight up.

Leaning over the top of the ruin, and in a direct line above his head, was a Moor of fantastic appearance. A blue cotton garment of vivid hue seemed to have lent its dye to the man’s face and hair. Had he been soused in a bath of indigo he could not have been colored more completely. Though this extraordinary apparition was fully one hundred and thirty feet above Warden’s head, there was no mistaking the malice that gleamed from the dark eyes gazing down on the Nazarene. Under such conditions thought is quick, and Warden was sure that he had unwittingly invaded the sanctuary of a Mohammedan fanatic. He was minded to whip out the revolver and fire a shot that would at least scare this strange being back into his eyrie. But a British sense of fair play stopped him. The blue man, howsoever wild–looking, had not interfered with or molested him in any way. He himself was the intruder. The fact that he was undeniably startled did not justify the use of a bullet, even for scaring purposes. The best thing to do was to reach the ground as speedily as might be, risking a jump when he was low enough to select a particular stone on which to alight. His dominant feeling at the moment was one of pique that he had failed to interpret correctly the flight of the storks. If the zealot on top of the tower meant mischief it would have been far better to have met him in one of the upper rooms than to be at his mercy while clinging like a fly to the face of the wall.

He was within ten feet of the pile of rough stones, and was about to drop on one larger than its fellows – in fact, he was already in the air, having sprung slightly outward, when a crushing blow on his head and left shoulder flung him violently on to the very slab of granite he was aiming for. The shock was so violent that he felt no pain. Consciousness was acute for a fraction of a second. He understood that a heavy stone had fallen or been dropped purposely from the summit of the tower, and that his change of position, helped perhaps by the arched crown of his pith hat, had prevented it from striking directly on top of his head. But that was all. He lay there, with his back propped awkwardly against the tower, staring up at the sky. He saw nothing but the bright dome of heaven. It seemed to be curiously near, and its glowing bounds were closing in on him with the speed of light. Then the veil fell, and there was merciful darkness.

Consternation reigned in Rabat next morning. The Captain of the Water Witch began the disturbance over night, but when daylight brought no tidings of the missing Englishman, the British Vice–Consul talked most unfeelingly of a visit by the West Coast Squadron. A worried and anxious Bey, well aware that Morocco had troubles in plenty without Rabat adding to the store, protested that the Nazarene must have been spirited away without human agency. The Bey was not listened to, so he tried honestly to find out what had become of Warden. The only ascertainable facts were that the Giaour had bought a chisel, and was seen going to the tower of Hassan, the way to which was shown to him by one of his own countrymen. The hour was early, soon after sunrise. Since then he had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth. The Bey’s myrmidons told how they had searched the Tower, and found that the Giaour had climbed into its interior. He had used the chisel and displaced a stone, apparently without object. But the place was now quite empty, though some one had ground corn and millet recently in an upper chamber.

Now, the Bey knew quite well that the Blue Man of El Hamra made the Tower his headquarters when he visited Rabat periodically to collect subscriptions for the Jehad that was to drive every foreigner out of the sacred land of the Moors. But he kept silent on that matter, for he feared the Blue Man even more than the British Fleet. Nevertheless, he caused inquiries to be made, though no one had met the tinted prophet of late.

In a country where there are no roads, nor any actual government beyond the sphere of each chief town, official zeal does not travel far. The Water Witch sailed to Cape Coast Castle, and reported the disappearance of Mr. “Alfred Williams” to an officer who came out to meet her in the Governor’s own surf–boat. A cruiser hastened to Rabat, and trained a gun on the principal palace, whereupon the Bey went aboard in person to explain that none could have made more genuine effort than he to find the lost Nazarene, either dead or alive. And perforce he was believed. Even the British Vice–Consul could not charge him with negligence, though not one word had he said to any European concerning the Blue Man of El Hamra.

The cruiser flitted back to Cape Coast Castle, and thence to Lagos, and there was much wonderment in the small circle that knew the truth. Yet no man is indispensable, whether in West Africa or London, and another Deputy Commissioner was gazetted for the special duty of dealing with native unrest in the Benuë River district. The facts were communicated to Whitehall, and an official from the Colonial Office called on an Under Secretary in the Foreign Office to explain why Captain Forbes was acting in the capacity for which Captain Arthur Warden seemed to be so peculiarly fitted.

“It is a queer business,” said the Under Secretary. “What do you make of it?”

“I believe he was worried about a woman,” began the other.

“What? In Rabat?”

“No, no, in London. Only this morning I received a letter from a Mrs. Laing, who says she is exceedingly anxious to ascertain Captain Warden’s address. Now, Lady Hilbury wrote two days ago with the same object, and, of course, I returned a polite message to the effect that he was engaged on Government service.”

“Mrs. Laing!” mused the Under Secretary. He unlocked a diary, and ran back through its pages. “I thought I remembered the name,” he continued. “She was staying with the Baumgartners at Lochmerig before they went to Hamburg in their yacht.”

He was silent for a few seconds. His nails seemed to need instant examination. Apparently satisfied by the scrutiny, he went on:

“I rather liked that youngster. He struck me as the sort of man who would go far. Have you replied to Mrs. Laing?”

“No.”

“Then please ask her to come here next Tuesday about three o’clock. Just quote her letter, and allow it to be assumed that her inquiry concerning Captain Warden may be answered. I hope you don’t mind my stepping in in a matter affecting your Department?”

The Colonial man laughed.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “I have a whole regiment of lady visitors and correspondents whom I shall gladly hand over to you.”

Thus it came to pass that Rosamund’s furs and frills graced the same chair in the Foreign Office that Warden had sat in when he interviewed the Under Secretary. She was charmingly anxious in manner. Though of high rank in the Government, the Under Secretary was young enough to be impressionable; he was clearly a dandy; such men are the easiest to subjugate.

“In the first place, Mrs. Laing,” he said, when she explained her earnest wish to communicate at once with Captain Warden, “you will not misunderstand me if I ask what measure of urgency lies behind your business with him. We officials, you know, like to wrap ourselves in a cloak of mystery with red tape trimmings. Yet I promise you I shall match your candor if possible.”

“Well – perhaps I ought to begin by saying that – if not exactly engaged – Captain Warden and I are very dear to each other. We were engaged once, years ago. But I was young. I was forced into marriage with another, who is now dead.”

Rosamund made this ingenuous confession with the necessary hesitancy and downward eye–glances. The Under Secretary was sympathetic, and delighted, and envious of Captain Warden’s good fortune. There could be no doubt about these things, because he said them.

“That being so, I know a good deal of his private affairs,” said Rosamund demurely. “I knew, for instance, that he might be summoned to West Africa at any moment, but he is such a scrupulously precise man where duty is concerned that he would actually go away without telling me anything about it if ordered not to take any one into his confidence.”

“Something of the kind has happened,” admitted the Under Secretary.

“Ah, then, he really is in Africa, and if I write – ?”

“I am sorry, but I fear I have misled you. He is not in Nigeria. When last I heard of him he was at Rabat.”

“Where is that?” she cried, genuinely surprised.

“On the West Coast of Morocco.”

“But what is he doing there?”

The Under Secretary pressed the tips of his fingers closely together.

“It is difficult to say,” he replied.

“Surely you will tell me. I have a right to know,” she pleaded. “I understand the position on the Benuë River. I am the daughter of a West African Governor. I am one of the few women in England who can grasp the seriousness of any plot which brings together the men of Oku and the trusted confidant of a meddlesome foreign potentate. Captain Warden was sent to the Protectorate to carry out your instructions, and that is the very reason I wish to write to him. I have news of the utmost importance.”

“Connected with the sailing of the Sans Souci from Hamburg?”

The question was so unexpected that Rosamund looked at the Under Secretary with more shrewdness than her fine eyes had displayed hitherto. He was making a little circle of dots with a pencil on a blotting–pad. Neither by voice nor manner did he display any surprise at her reference to the men of Oku.

“Yes, that is one of the items,” she said.

“And the others?”

“But you are telling me nothing,” she pouted.

“Forgive me. I hate the necessity that imposes restraint. Now, Mrs. Laing, enlighten me on one point, and I shall acquaint you with such few details of Captain Warden’s recent movements as are in my possession. What interest had he in Rabat?”

“I – really – don’t know.”

The protest was honest. This fashionable lady was speaking the truth.

“Who, in your opinion, might know?” he persisted.

Rosamund was not prepared for that. Her mind flew instantly to Evelyn Dane. Of course she would not mention the girl’s name; the mere thought of Evelyn cast a shadow over her mobile face.

“I haven’t the faintest notion,” she said.

The accompanying smile was forced, and the Under Secretary was not in the least deceived.

“Of course, if you cannot tell me why Captain Warden should go ashore at Rabat no one can, I suppose,” and Rosamund caught the pleasing hint of her dominance in all that affected the man she loved.

“You keep on referring to this place that I have never before heard of,” she cried. “Is he still at Rabat? I have ascertained that he is not at Lagos, or in Southern Nigeria, because I cabled for information.”

“When last I heard of Captain Warden he was at Rabat,” said the Under Secretary. “He is not there now. Indeed, I cannot tell you where he is. If the earth had opened and swallowed him, he could not have disappeared more completely.”

Rosamund gasped, and was somewhat inclined to storm, but not another syllable would the Under Secretary add to his amazing statement, though he undertook to communicate with her immediately when news of Warden’s whereabouts reached him. In the meantime, she had to be content with knowledge that was no knowledge, and that only added to her perplexity. On the way to the hotel she stopped her carriage at a map–seller’s and bought a map of Morocco, and a book which revealed many things about Rabat, but no one thing calculated to explain why Warden had gone there.

In some sense, the Under Secretary was more puzzled than Rosamund. He turned to his notes and pored over them. One paragraph stood out boldly.

“Captain Warden, when at Cowes, met a young lady, Miss Evelyn Dane, engaged as companion to Baumgartner’s daughter. He took her in a dinghy to the Sans Souci, and this slight chance led to the discovery that the yacht was in charge of a shore watchman.”

The Under Secretary actually rumpled his hair with those immaculate fingers of his.

“I am lost in a fog,” he confessed ruefully. “Mrs. Laing is not engaged to Warden – Lady Hilbury herself told me so only this morning. Warden is the last man alive to discuss Government affairs with Mrs. Laing or any other woman. Why, then, does she pretend that he did the very thing he did not do? And who is this girl, Evelyn Dane, to whom he telegraphed from Ostend and London before sailing in the Water Witch? Can she shed light on the dark places of Rabat? It is worth trying. The Sans Souci arrives at Madeira to–morrow. I shall instruct some one to call on Evelyn Dane, and find out how far she is mixed up in the wretched muddle. Confound Rabat, and the Benuë, and the men of Oku, and may Baumgartner be blistered! I shall not get a day’s hunting before the frost sets in.”

CHAPTER XI

THE BLUE MAN – AND A WHITE

When Warden came to his senses he found himself lying in impenetrable darkness. A half–formed belief that he was blind impelled him to put his hands to his face. Then he awoke to realities. His wrists were bound tightly, movement was painful and almost impossible, yet he seemed to be strapped to something that moved. By using his eyelids he soon succeeded in convincing himself that his eyes were uninjured, but the cold sweat of fear induced by that first horrible suspicion revived him more speedily than any stimulant. Straining his cramped limbs to test both his bonds and his injuries, he was not long in reaching a fairly accurate estimate of a disastrous plight. His head and left shoulder were stiff and sore, and he believed he had been rendered unconscious by a blow that caused a slight concussion of the brain. There was a bitter taste in his mouth which he recognized as poppy–juice, a preparation of opium widely used in Northern Africa as a soothing tonic. This, in itself, was somewhat reassuring. It suggested a crude effort to revive him. Again, though tied hand and foot, he was lying comfortably, and the irregular swaying motion which puzzled his waking thoughts was quickly explained by the shuffling of sandals and the occasional grunting comments of the men who carried the palanquin, or litter, in which he was pent.

But how account for the darkness? Turn and twist as he would, there was no glimmer of light, and the most closely–woven fabric that ever left a loom could not altogether shut out the rays of the tropical sun rising over Morocco when last he saw its beams. Then a gust of cool air blew in on his clammy cheek through a slit in the litter–cloth, and the astounding knowledge that it was already night was forced on him. Now, he was almost certain that he suffered from no injury grave enough to entail fifteen or twenty hours of complete insensibility, and the only reasonable conclusion was that he had been drugged.

That was a displeasing explanation of the taste of poppy–juice, but he felt too sick and weary to care very much what strange hazard had brought him to his present state. It sufficed that he was a captive, that the Water Witch would sail without him, that he would be discredited in his service for missing an appointment of the utmost importance. These ills were obvious. No matter what other misfortunes the immediate future might have in store, his visit to Hassan’s Tower had proved unlucky in all save its direct object, the recovery of the ruby.

Perhaps even that slight recompense for these positive evils had been taken from him. His revolver was gone, and the chisel, as he could determine by rolling a little from side to side. Probably his pockets were emptied long since. He tried to raise his body ever so slightly, but failed, yet he fancied he could feel the pressure of the ring against his ribs. And in fact it was still in his possession, for those who had robbed him, though they unfastened his waistcoat to learn if he wore a money–belt, had missed the hidden pocket. He was deadly tired. The nauseating drug with which he had been dosed was still powerful enough to render him almost incapable of reasoned thought. After the effects of the first thrill of restored vitality had passed, he listened idly to the pattering feet and muttered talk of his bearers. Then he resigned himself to fate, and fell asleep.

When next he awoke he was still in the palanquin. But the curtains were drawn apart, it was daylight, and a Moor was unfastening his bonds. The man spoke to him in a jargon that was incomprehensible. Warden sat up. He felt cold and stiff, and a twinge of pain in his shoulder drew from him a stifled exclamation in English.

The Moor spoke again. This time it was dimly discernible that he was asking in execrable French if Monsieur wished to eat and drink.

Warden answered him in the same language.

“Why am I here?” he said, glancing round a rough camp pitched in the shade of a grove of tall trees.

“You must address the ever–to–be–honored Nila Moullah.1 I am only a servant,” was the reply.

“I am not French,” began Warden, “I am an Englishman.”

The man growled an oath in Arabic, and repeated the request about food. It was useless to question him.

“What is on the menu?” said Warden, with a wry smile.

He was not to be starved, it seemed. Perhaps some explanation of his present predicament would soon be forthcoming. At any rate, his wits would be clearer after a meal. He had eaten nothing during twenty–four hours at the lowest reckoning. He saw now that a new day was well advanced. The trees opposed a dense screen to the sun, but that luminary was high in the heavens, and he was sure he had not dreamed of the night journey in the palanquin. A dozen Moors, all armed to the teeth, lolled on the grass or sat on the gnarled roots of trees in the glade that sheltered the bivouac. At some little distance there was a palanquin similar to his own, save that its trappings were more gaudy, and the bearer–poles were painted a bright blue. The curtains were closed, but the color of the paint, added to the title of the moullah to whom the Moor referred him for information, accentuated a notion slowly taking shape in his brain. He had not forgotten the extraordinary being who gazed at him so threateningly from the top of the tower. It was a fair assumption that the man had dropped a stone on him at the very instant he took the downward leap that would have secured his safety. Was he a prisoner in the hands of this fanatic? And for what purpose was he brought into the interior?

That he was far away from the coast was determined by many signs. The keen, invigorating mountain air, the hardy types of trees and shrubs, the absence of the myriads of insects that would have made a grove on the plains a place of anything but rest at that hour – these things were an open book to one accustomed to life in the jungle. He reflected bitterly that if he had practised the first rudiments of the scout’s art the previous day, he would now, in all likelihood, be on board the steamer. Then he remembered the ring, and pressed a hand to his breast while ostensibly rubbing his injured shoulder. Yes, it was there – the one article left him. Watch, money, revolver, even a handkerchief and a box of matches, were stolen, but the ring remained. He wondered dully how the Blue Priest would have accounted for the piece of tattooed skin – with its Arabic–Latin quotation from the Epistle of St. Paul to the Hebrews and its Portuguese announcement of the secret hoard of Hassan’s Tower – if it had happened to be in his pocket. But it reposed in a portmanteau in his cabin, together with the canvas bag containing the gourd. When he was missed, would the skipper examine his baggage to discover some clue to his identity? If so, that weather–beaten tar’s remarks when he looked at the face of M’Wanga, one–time king of Benin, would be interesting.

The Moor came back with a dish of pillau, chicken stewed with rice. It was exceedingly appetizing. Some coarse bread and a bowl of goat’s milk completed a meal that was almost sumptuous. He ate heartily, and his spirits rose with each mouthful. The nondescript warriors who formed his escort paid little heed to him, even when he rose and stretched his limbs in a stroll round the palanquin. A man unacquainted with native ways might have drawn a favorable augury from their indifference – not so Warden, to whom it gave sure proof that his escape was deemed impossible.

At a little distance was a larger gathering, mainly servants and coolies. Here, too, were tethered some camels and hill ponies. The strength and equipment of the party betokened a much more serious purpose than the capture of a stray European; yet he seemed to be the only prisoner; the others were Moors, Arabs, and negroes, the soldiers and hangers–on of a fighting caravan.