 CHAPTER XIX The spring had blossomed itself out, and the summer had bloomed itself in. The holiday up the river was a thing of the past. The dreams of the dreamer had given place to those sterner phases of life which must be coped with by the realist, and clique was back in harness again. A half-dozen more or less important cases had occupied his time since his return. But although he had carried these to a successful issue and had again been lauded to the skies by the daily papers, the one word of praise from the one quarter, whence he so earnestly desired to hear, was never forthcoming. Of Ailsa Lawn he had heard not a solitary thing, either directly or indirectly, since that day when he had put her into the taxi cab at Charing Cross Station, and saw her safely on her way to Hampstead before he went his own. True her silence was, as he had agreed, an admission that all was well with her, and that she had secured the position in question. True it was also that it was not for her to take the initiative and break that silence. That he fully realised how impossible for a girl, born and bred as she had been, to voluntarily open up a correspondence with a man who was, as yet, little more than a mere acquaintance. But all the same, he chafed under that silence, and spent many a wakeful hour at night brooding on it. In his heart he knew that if any advance was to be made, that advance was the man's duty, not the woman's. But the fear that she would think he was thrusting himself upon her, the dread that even yet the white soul of her could not but shrink from a closer association with him, kept him from taking one step towards breaking the silence he deplored. The French have a proverb which says, It is always the unexpected that happens. And it was the unexpected that happened in this case. In the midst of his dejection, in the very depths of returning despair, there came to him this note from Mr. Narcombe. My dear Cleak, kindly refrain from going out this evening. I shall call about nine o'clock, bringing with me Miss Ailsa Lawn whom you doubtless remember, and her present patron Angela Countess Chepstow, the young widow of that ripping old war-horse, who, as you may recall, quelled that dangerous and fanatical rising of the single ease at Trinkamalee. These ladies wish to see you with reference to a most extraordinary case, an inexplicable mystery, which both they and I believe no man but yourself can satisfactorily probe. Yours in haste, Maverick Narcombe. So then, he was to see her again. To touch her hand, hear her voice, look into the eyes that had lighted him back from the path to destruction. Cleak's heart began to hammer and his pulses to drum. Needless to say, he took extraordinary care with his toilet that evening, with the result that when the ladies arrived there was nothing even vaguely suggestive of the detective about him. Oh, Mr. Cleak, do help us, please do!" implored Ailsa, after the first greetings were over. Lady Chepstow is almost beside herself with dread and anxiety over the inexplicable thing. And I have persuaded her that if anybody on earth can solve the mystery of it, avert the new and appalling danger of it, it is you. Oh, say that you will take the case, say that you will save little Lord Chepstow and put an end to this maddening mystery. Little Lord Chepstow! repeated Cleak, glancing over at the Countess, who stood, a very nioby in her grief and despair, holding out two imploring hands in silent supplication. That is your ladyship's son, is it not? Yes, she answered, with a sort of wail. My only son, my only child, all that I have to love, all that I have to live for in this world. And you think the little fellow is in peril? Yes, in deadly peril. From what source? From whose hand? I don't know, I don't know. She answered, distractedly. Sometimes I am wild enough to suspect even Captain Hawksley, unjust and unkind as it seems. Captain Hawksley, who is he? My late husband's cousin, heir after my little son to the title and estates. He is very poor, deeply in debt, and the inheritance would put an end to all his difficulties, but he is fond of my son, they seem almost to worship each other. I too am fond of him, but for all that I have to remember that he and he alone would benefit by Cedric's death, and wicked as it seems. Oh, Mr. Cleak, help me, direct me. Sometimes I doubt him, sometimes I doubt everybody. Sometimes I think of those other days, that other mystery, that land which reeks of them, and then, and then, oh, that horrible Ceylon, I wish I had never set foot in it in all my life. Her agitation and distress were so great as to make her utterances only half coherent, and Ailsa realizing that this sort of thing must only perplex Cleak and leave him in the dark regarding the matter upon which they had come to consult him, gently interposed. Do try to calm yourself, and to tell the story as briefly as possible, dear Lady Chepster, she advised. Then, taking the initiative, added quietly, it begins, Mr. Cleak, at a period when his little lordship, whose governess I have the honour to be, was but two years old, and at Trinker-Malie, where his late father was stationed with his regiment, four years ago. Somebody, for some absurd reason, had set afoot a ridiculous rumour that the English had received orders from the throne to stamp out every religion but their own. In short, if the British were not exterminated, dreadful desecrations would occur as they were determined. To loot all the temples erected to Buddha, destroy the images, and make a bonfire of all the sacred relics, finished Cleak himself. I rarely forget history, Miss Lorne, especially when it is such recent history as that memorable Buddhist rising at Trinker-Malie. It began upon an utterly unfounded ridiculous rumour. It terminated, if my memory serves me correctly, in something akin to the very thing it was supposed to avert. That is to say, during the outburst of fanaticism, that most sacred of all relics, the holy tooth of Buddha, disappeared mysteriously from the temple of Dambool. And in spite of the fact that many lacks of rupees were offered for its recovery, it has never, I believe, been found or even traced to this day. Although a huge fortune awaits the restorer, and with it overpowering honours from the native princes. Those must have been trying times, Lady Chepstow, for the commandant's wife, the mother of the commandant's only child. Horrible, horrible! she answered with a shudder, forgetting for an instant the dangers of the present in the recollection of the tragical past. For a period our lives were not safe, murder hid behind every bush, sculpted in the shadow of every rock and tree, and we knew not at what minute the little garrison might be rushed under cover of the darkness, and every soul slaughtered before the relief force could come to our assistance. I died a hundred deaths in a day in my anxiety for husband and child, and once the very zealousness of our comrades almost brought about the horror I feared. Oh! With a shudder of horrified recollection and a covering of the eyes, as if to shut out the memory of it. Oh! that night! that horrible night! Unknown to any of us, my baby, rising from the bed where I had left him sleeping, whilst I went outside to stand by Lord Chepstow, wandered beyond the line of defence, and before anybody realised it was out in the open, alone and unprotected. Ferrell, the cook, saw him first, saw to the crouching figure of a native armed with a gun in the shadow of the undergrows. Without hesitation the brave fellow rushed out, fell upon the native before he could dart away, wrenched the gun from him, and brained him with the butt. A cry of the utmost horror rang out upon the air, and uttering it another native bounded out from a hiding-place close to where the first had been killed, and flew zigzagging across the open where Cedric was. Evidently he had no intention of molesting the little fellow, for he fled straight on past him, still shrieking after the accident occurred. But to Ferrell it seemed as if his intention were to murder the boy, and clapping the gun to his shoulder. In a panic of excitement he fired. If it had been one of the soldiers, someone, anyone, who understood marksmanship, and was not likely to be in a nervous quake over the circumstances, the thing could not have happened, although the fugitive was careering along in a direct line with my precious little one. But with Ferrell, or Mr. Cleak, can you imagine my horror, when I saw the flash of that shot, heard a shrill cry of pain, and saw my child drop to the ground? Good Heaven! exclaimed Cleak, agitated in spite of himself. Then the blunderer shot the child instead of the native. Yes! and was so horrified by the mishap that, without waiting to learn the result, he rushed blindly to the brink of a deep ravine and threw himself headlong to death. But the injury to Cedric was only a trifling one after all. The bullet seemed merely to have grazed him in passing, and beyond a ragged gash in the fleshy part of the eye he was not harmed at all. That I myself dressed and bandaged, and in a couple of weeks it was quite healed. But it taught me a lesson that night of horror, and I never let my baby out of my sight for one instant from that time until the rising was entirely quelled. As suddenly as it had started the trouble subsided. Native priests came under a flag of truce to Lord Chepster, and confessed their error, acknowledged that they had never any right to suspect the British of any design upon their gods. For the loot of the temple had actually taken place in the midst of the rising, and they knew that it could not have come from the hands of the soldiers, for they had had them under surveillance all the time, and not one person of the race had ventured within a mile of the temple. Yet a tooth of Buddha had been taken, the sacred tooth which is more holy to Buddhists than the statue of Gautama Buddha itself. Their remorse was very real, and after that, to the day of his death from fever, eighteen months afterward, they could never show enough honour to Lord Chepster. And even then their favour continued, they transferred to the little son, the homage they had done the father, but in a far, far greater degree. If he had been a king's son they could have shown him no greater honour. Native princes showered him with rich gifts. If he walked out his path was strewn with flowers by bowing maidens. If he went into the marketplace the people prostrated themselves before him. When I questioned Buddhist women of this amazing homage to Cedric, they gave me a full explanation. My son was sacred, they said. Buddha had withdrawn his favour from his people because of the evil they had done in suspecting the father and of the innocent life ferrets which had been sacrificed, and they had been commanded of the priests to do a homage to the child, and thereby appeased the offended God, who doubtless had himself spirited away the holy tooth and would not restore it until full recompense was made to the sacred son of the sacred dead. When it became known that I had decided to return to England with my boy, native princes offered me fabulous sums to remain, and when they found that I could not be tempted to stay, the populace turned out in every town and village through which we passed on our way to the ship, and bowing multitudes followed us to the very last. Nor did it cease with that, for in all the years that have followed even here in London the homage and worship have continued. My son can go nowhere but that he is followed by singleese, can see no man or woman of the race, but he or she prostrates herself before him, and murmurs holy, most holy, and daily, almost hourly, rich gifts are showered upon him from unknown hands, and he is watched over and guarded constantly. I tell you all this, Mr. Kreek, that you may the better understand how appalling is the horror which now assails us, how frightful is the knowledge that someone now seeks his life, and is using every means to take it. In other words, my dear Kreek, put in knock-em as her ladyship overcome with emotion broke down suddenly. There appears to be a sudden and inexplicable change of front on the part of these fanatics, and they now seem as anxious to bring evil to his little lordship as they formerly were to protect and cherish him. At any rate, someone of their order has, upon three separate occasions within the last month, endeavored to kidnap him, and in one instance even attempted to murder him. Is that a fact, queried Kreek sharply glancing over at Miss Lawn? You are certain it is not a fancy but an absolute fact? Yes, oh yes, she made answer agitatedly. Twice when I have gone into the park with him attempts have been made to separate us, to get him away from me, and once they did get him away so swiftly, so adroitly that he had vanished before I could turn round. But although a bag had been thrown over his head to stifle his cries, he managed to make a very little one. I plunged screaming into the undergrowth from which that cry had come, and was just in time to save him. He was lying on the ground all bundled up in a bag, and his assailant, who must have heard me coming, had gone as if by magic. His little lordship, however, was able to tell me that the man was a single ease, and that he had tried to cut him with a knife. Cut him with a knife? Repeated Kreek in a reflective tone, and blew out a long, low whistle. Oh! but that is not the worst, Mr. Kreek! went on, Elsa. Three days ago a woman, a very beautiful and distinguished-looking woman, called to see Lady Chepsto regarding the reference of a former servant, one Jane Catherboys who used to be her ladyship's maid. After the caller left, a box of sugared violets was found lying temptingly open on a table in the main hall. Little Cedric is passionately fond of sugared violets, and had he happened to pass that way before the box was discovered, he surely would have yielded to the temptation and eaten some. In removing the box the parlor maid accidentally upset it, and before she could gather all the violets up, her ladyship's little Pomeranian dog snapped up one and ate it. It was dead in six minutes' time. The sweets were simply loaded with prosciic acid. When we came to inquire into the matter in the hope of tracing the mysterious caller, we found that Jane Catherboys was no longer in need of a position, that she had been married for eight months, that she knew nothing whatever of the woman, and had sent no one to inquire into her references. All of which shows, my dear Clicke, put in Narcombe significantly, that whatever hand is directing these attempts, it belongs to one who knows more than a mere outsider possibly could, in short, to one who is aware of his little lordship's excessive fondness for sugared violets, and is aware that Lady Chepstow once did have a maid named Jane Catherboys. If, said Clicke, you mean to suggest by that that this point suspiciously in Captain Hawksley's direction, Mr. Narcombe, permit me to say that it does not necessarily follow. The clever people of the underworld do nothing by halves, nor without careful inquiry beforehand. That is what makes the difference between the common pickpocket and the brilliant swindler. He turned to Ailsa. Is that all, Miss Lorne, or am I right in supposing that there is even worse to come? Oh, much worse! Much, Mr. Clicke! The knowledge that these would-be murderers, whoever they are, whatever may be their mysterious motive, have grown desperate enough to invade the house itself, has driven Lady Chepstow well and frantic. Of course orders were immediately given to the servants that no stranger, no matter how well dressed, how well seeming, nor what the plea was from that moment to be allowed past the threshold. We felt secure in that, knowing that no servant of the household would betray his or her trust, and that all would be on the constant watch for any further attempt. The unknown enemy must have found out about these precautions, for no stranger came again to the door. But last night a thing we had never counted upon happened. In the dead of the night the unknown broke into the house, into the very nursery itself, and but that Lady Chepstow impelled she does not know by what, only that she was nervous and wakeful, and felt the need of some companionship, rose and carried the sleeping child into her own bed, he would assuredly have been murdered. The nurse, awakened by a horrible suffocating sensation, opened her eyes to find a man bending over her with a chloroform-soaked cloth, which he was about to lay over her face. She shrieked and fainted, but not before she saw the man spring to the little bed on the other side of her own, hack furiously at it with a long, murderous knife, then dart to the window and vanish. In the darkness he had not, of course, been able to see that that little bed was empty, for its position kept it in deep shadow, and hearing the household stir at the sound of the nurse's shriek he struck out blindly and flew to save himself from detection. The nurse states that he was undoubtedly a foreigner, a dark-skinned Asiatic, and her description of him tallies with that his little lordship gave of the man who attempted to kill him that day in the park. There, Mr. Cleak, she concluded, That's the whole story. Can't you do something to help us? Something to lift this constant state of dread, and to remove this terrible danger from little lord Chepstow's life? I'll try, Miss Lawn, but it is a most extraordinary case. Where is the boy now? At home, closely guarded. We appeal to Mr. Narcombe, and he generously appointed two detective officers to sit with his little lordship and keep constant watch over him whilst we're away. And in the meantime, added Mr. Narcombe, I've issued orders for a general rounding up of all the single eaves who can be traced or are known to be in town. Petrie and Hammond have that part of the job in hand, and if they hit upon any Asiatic who answers to the description of this murderous rascal. I don't believe they will, interposed Cleak. Or if they do, I don't for a moment believe he will turn out to be the guilty party. In other words, I have an idea that the fellow will prove to be a European. But, my dear fellow, both his little lordship and the nurse saw the man, and as you have heard, they both agree that he was dark-skinned and quite oriental in appearance. One of the easiest possible disguises, Mr. Narcombe. A wig, a stick of grease-paint, a threpenny twist of crepe hair, and there you are. No, I do not believe that the man is a single eaves at all. And far from his having any connection with what you were pleased to term just now a change of front on the part of the Buddhists who have so long held the little chap as something sacred, I don't believe that they know anything about him. I base that upon the fact that the child is still treated with homage whenever he goes out, according to what Miss Lawn says, and that with the single exception of that one woman who tried to poison him, nobody but just one man, this particular one man, has ever made any attempt to harm the boy. Fanatics, like those single eaves, cleave to an idea to the end, Mr. Narcombe. They don't cast it aside and go off at another tangent. You have heard what Lady Chapsto says the native women told her, the boy was sacred. Their priests had commanded them to appease Buddha by doing homage to him until the tooth was found, and the tooth has not been found up to the present day. That means that nothing on earth could change their attitude toward him. That not one of the Buddhist sect would harm a solitary heir of his head for a king's ransom. So you may eliminate the single eaves from the case entirely so far as the attempts upon the child's life are concerned. Whoever is making the attempts is doing so without their knowledge and for a purely personal reason. Then in that case, this Captain Hawksley, I'll have a look at that gentleman before I tumble into bed tonight, and you shall have my views upon that point tomorrow morning, Mr. Narcombe. Frankly, things point rather suspiciously in the Captain's direction, since he is apparently the only person likely to be benefited by the boy's death. And if a motive cannot be traced to some other person, he stopped abruptly and held up his hand. Outside, in the dim halls of the house, a sudden noise had sprung into being. The noise of someone running upstairs in great haste, and stepping quickly to the door, Clicke drew it sharply open. As he did so, dollops came puffing up out of the lower gloom, a sheep's trotter in one hand and a letter in the other. "'Lo, governor!' groaned he from midway on the staircase. "'I don't believe as I'm ever going to be let get a square tuck in this side of the burying ground. Just finish what was left of that air-state and kidney pudding, sir, and start it on my second trotter, when I see a pair of legs nip past the area railings to the front door, and then nip off again like greased lightning. And when I ups and does a flying leap up the kitchen stairs, there was this ear-envelopment in the letterbox, and then there, blessed legs, no ways in sight. "'Ah, say, sir!' agitatedly. "'Look what's wrought on the envelope, will ye? And arse always keeping of it so dark!' Clicke plucked the letter from his extended hand, glanced at it, and puckered up his lips. Then, with a gesture, he sent dollops back below stairs, and returning to the room, closed the door behind him. "'The enemy evidently knows all Lady Chepster's movements, Mr. Narcombe,' he said. "'I expect she and Miss Lawn have been under surveillance all day, and have been followed here. Look at that!' he flung the letter down on a table as he spoke, and Narcombe, glancing at it, saw printed in rude illiterate letters upon the envelope, the one word, Clicke. The identity of Captain Burbage was known to some one, and the secret of the house in Clarges Street was a secret no longer. Purposely disguised, you see, no one, not even a little child, would make such a botch of copying the alphabet as that. Clicke said, as he took the letter up and opened it. The sheet it contained was lettered in the same uncouth manner, and bore these words. Clicke, take a fool's advice, and don't accept the Chepster case. Be warned, if you interfere, somebody you care about will pay the price. You'll find it more satisfactory to buy a wedding bouquet than a funeral wreath. Oh! shuddered the two ladies in one breath. How horrible! how cowardly! And then, feeling that her last hope had gone, Lady Chepster broke into a fit of violent weeping, and laid her head on Elsa's shoulder. Oh, my baby! My darling baby boy! She solved, and now they're threatening somebody that you too love. Of course, Mr. Clicke, I can't expect you to risk the sacrifice of your own dear ones, for the sake of me and mine. And so, and so. Oh, take me away, Miss Lord, let me go back to my baby and have him while I may. Good night, Mr. Clicke, said Elsa, stretching out a shaking hand to him. Thank you so much for what you would have done but for this, and you are our last hope, too. Why give it up, then, Miss Lorne, he said, holding her hand and looking into her eyes. Why not go on letting me be your last hope, your only hope? Yes, but they spoke of a funeral reason. And they also spoke of a wedding bouquet. I am going to take the case, Miss Lorne, take it and solve it as I'm a living man. Thank you. As her brimming eyes uplifted in deep thankfulness, and her shaking hand returned the pressure of his. Now, just give me five minutes' time in the next room. It's my laboratory, Lady Chepstow, and I'll tell you whether I shall begin with Captain Hawksley, or eliminate him from the case entirely. You might go in ahead, Mr. Narcombe, and get the acid bath and the powder ready for me. We'll see what the fingerprints of our gentle correspondent have to tell, and if they are not in the records of Scotland Yard, or down in my own private little book, we'll get a sample of Captain Hawksley's in the morning. Then, excusing himself to the ladies, he passed into the inner room in company with Narcombe, and carried the letter with him. When he returned, it was still in his hand, but there were grayish smudges all over it. There's not a fingerprint in a lot that is worth anything as a means of identification, Ms. Lawn, he said. But you and Lady Chepstow may accept my assurance that Captain Hawksley is not the man. The writer of this letter belongs to the criminal classes. He is on his guard against the danger of fingerprints, and he wore rubber gloves when he penned this message. When I find him, rest assured I shall find a man who has had dealings with the police before, and whose fingerprints are on their records. I don't know what his game is, nor what is after, yet, but I will inside of a week. I have an idea, but it's so wild a thing I'm almost afraid to trust myself to believe it possible, until I stumble over something that points the same way. Now go home with Lady Chepstow, and begin the work of helping me. Helping you? Oh, Mr. Creek, can we? Is there anything we can do to help? Yes. When you leave the house, act as though you are in the utmost state of dejection, and keep that up indefinitely. Make it appear, for I am certain you will be followed and spied upon, as if I had declined the case. But don't have any fear about the boy, the two constables will sleep in the room with him to-night, and every night, until the thing is cleared up and the danger passed. Tomorrow, about dusk, however, you personally take him for a walk near the park, and if, among the other singleese you may meet, you should see one, dressed as an Englishman, and wearing a scarlet flower in his buttonhole. Take no notice of how often you see him, nor of what he may do. It will be you, Mr. Creek? Yes. Now go, please, and don't forget to act as if you and her ladyship were utterly brokenhearted. Also his voice dropped lower, his hand met her hand, and in the darkness of the hall a little silver-plated revolver was slipped into her palm. Also take this, keep it always with you, never be without it night or day, and if any living creature offers you violence, shoot him down as you would a mad dog. Good night, and remember. And long after she and Lady Chepstow had gone down and passed out into the night, he stood there, looking the situation straight in the face and thinking his own troubled thoughts. A wedding bouquet, a threat against her and the mention of a wedding bouquet, he said, as he went back into the room and sat down to figure the puzzle out. Only one creature in the world knows of my feelings in that direction, and only one creature in the world would be capable of that threat, Margo. But what interest could she or any of her tribe have in the death of Lady Chepstow's little son? Her game is always money. If she were after a ransom she would try to abduct the child, not to kill him, and if a sudden thought came and wrenched away his voice, he sat a moment twisting his fingers one through the other and frowning at the floor. Then, of a sudden, he gave a cry and jumped to his feet. Five lakhs of rupees of fortune! By George, I've got it! he fairly shouted. The wild guess was a correct one. I'll stake my life. Let's put it to the test. The Summer Twilight was deepening into the summer dusk when Ailsa, acting upon Clique's advice, set forth with his little lordship the following evening, and turned her steps in the direction of the park. But although, on her way there, she observed more than once that a swarthy-skinned man in European dress, who wore a scarlet flower in his coat, and was so perfect a type of the Asiatic that he would have passed master for one even among a gathering of singleese, kept appearing and disappearing at irregular intervals, it spoke well for the powers of imitation and self-effacement possessed by dollops, that she never once thought of associating that young man with the dawdling messenger-boy, who strolled leisurely along with a package under his arm, and patronized every bun-shop, winkle-stall, and pork-pie purveyor on the line of March. For upward of an hour this sort of thing went on without any interruption or any solitary thing out of the ordinary. Ailsa strolling along leisurely, with the boy's hands in hers, and his innocent prattle running on ceaselessly. Then, of a sudden, whilst they were moving along close to the park railings, and in the shadow of the overhanging trees, the figure of an undersized man in semi-European costume that, wearing on his head the twisted turban of a singleese, eschewed from one of the gates, and well-nigh collided with them. He drew back, murmuring an apology in pidgin English. Then, seeing the child, he salamed profoundly, and murmured in a voice of deep reverence, Holy, most holy, and prostrated himself with his forehead touching the ground, until Ailsa and the child had passed on. But barely had they taken five steps before Cleek appeared upon the scene, and did exactly the same thing as the singleese. All right, you may go home now. I've got my man. He whispered, as Ailsa and the boy passed by. Look for me at Chepstow House some time to-night. Then rose, as she walked on, and went after the man who first had prostrated himself before the child. He had risen and gone on his way, but not before witnessing Cleek's abasance, and flashing upon him a sharp, searching look. Cleek quickened his steps, and shortened the distance between them. Now or never was the time to put to the test that wild thought which last night had hammered on his brain. For it was certain that this man was in very truth a singleese, and as such must know. He stretched forth his hand and touched the man who drew back sharply, half indignantly, but changed his attitude entirely when Cleek, who knew Hindustani more than well, spoke to him in the native tongue. Unto thee, O brother, Cleek said, Thou too art of us, for Thou too dost acknowledge the sacred shrine these eyes have beheld thee. All his hopes rested on the slim pillar of that one word, shrine, and his heart almost ceased to beat as he watched to see how it was received. It broke, however, into a very tumult of disturbance in the next instant, for the man positively beamed as he gave reply. Sacred be the shrine, he answered in Hindustani. Clearly Thou art of us, not of those others. Others, what others, I am but newly come to this country. Walk with me then to my abode, sub with me, eat of my salt, and I will tell thee then no brother. But I forget, Thou hast no knowledge of me. Listen then, I am Archibnusroth, father of the High Priest Sedama, and it is among the people of my house that the gun is yet preserved. Nor has the blood of Sedama been ever washed from the wood of it. Come. All in a moment a light seemed to break over Cleeke's brain. The missing link had been supplied. The one thing that could make possible the wild thought which had come to him last night had been given into his hands, and here at last was the key to the amazing mystery. He turned without a word and went with Archibnusroth. What an ass! he said to himself in the soundless words of thought. What an ass! never to have suspected it when it is all so clear. Meantime Elsa and the boy, dismissed from any further need of service, walked on through the deepening dusk, and turned their faces homeward. But they had not gone twenty yards from the spot where Cleeke had seen them last, when his little lordship set up a joyful cry, and pointed excitedly to a claret-coloured limousine, which at that moment swung in from the middle of the roadway, and slowed down as it neared the curb. Oh, look, Miss Lorne, here's Mummy's motor-car, and I do believe that's Bimby peeping out of it, exclaimed the child. Bimby, being his pet name for Captain Hawksley, then broke in wild excitement from Elsa's detaining hand, and fled to a tall military-looking man with a fair beard and moustache, who had just that moment alighted from the vehicle. It is, Bimby, it is, it is! he shouted as he ran. Oh, Bimby, I am glad! Said he, dear, you mustn't be so boisterous! chided Elsa, coming up with him at the curb. How fond he is of you, to be sure, Captain Hawksley! You've come for us, I suppose, said he recognized the car at once. Yes, jump in, he answered. Lady Chep's dough sent me after you. She's nervous for a soul every moment the boy's away from her. Jump in, old chap. Catching up his little lordship, and swinging him inside. Better take the back seat, Miss Lorne. It's more comfortable. Quite settled, both of you? That's good. All right, Chepher. Home. Then he jumped in after them, closed the door, dropped into a seat, and the motor, making a wide curve out into the road, pelted away into the fast-gathering darkness. Bimby says maybe he's going to be my daddy one day, didn't you, Bimby? said his little lordship, climbing up onto Bimby's knee, and snuggling close to him. I say, you know, you mustn't tell secrets, old chap. Was the laughing response. Miss Lorne will hand you over to nursery with orders to put you to bed, if you do. I know. Aren't you, Miss Lorne? He ought to be in bed, anyhow, responded Elsa gaily, and then, this giving the conversation a merry turn, they talked, and laughed, and kept up such a chatter that three-quarters of an hour went like magic, and nobody seemed aware of it. But suddenly Elsa thought, and then put her thoughts into words. What a long time we are in getting home! she said, and bent forward so that the light from the window might fall upon the dial of her wristwatch. Then gave a little startled cry, and half rose from her seat. For the darkness was now tempered by moonlight, and she could see that they were no longer in the populous districts of the town, but were speeding along past woodlands and open fields in the very depths of the country. Good gracious! Johnston must have lost his senses! she exclaimed agitatedly. Look where we are, Captain Hawksley, out in the country with only a farmhouse or two in sight. Johnston! Johnston! she bent forward and wrapped wildly on the glass panel. Johnston, stop! turn round! are you out of your head? Captain Hawksley, stop him! stop him for pity's sake! Sit down, Miss Long. He made reply in a low-level voice, a voice in which there was something that made her pluck the child to her, and hold him right to her breast. You are not going home to a night. You are going for a ride with me, and if— Oh, that's your little game, is it? Lurching forward, as she made a frantic clutch at the handle of the door. Sit down, do you hear me? Or it will be worse for you. There! The cold bore of a revolver barrel touched her temple, and rung a quaking gasp of terror from her. Do you feel that? Now you sit down and be quiet. If you'll make a single move utter a single cry, I'll blow your brains out before you've half finished it. Look here! Do you know who you're dealing with now? See! His hand reached up and twitched away the fair beard and moustache. He bent forward so that the moonlight through the glass could fall on his face. It had changed, as his voice had now changed, and she saw that she was looking at the man, who in those other days of stress and trial had posed as Gaston Maraud, brother to the fictitious Countess de la Tour. Phew! she said, in a bleak voice of desolation and fright. Dear heaven, that horrible Margot's Confederate, the king of the Apaches! Yes, he rapped out. You and that fellow clique came between us in one promising game, but I'm hanged if you shall do it in this one. I want this boy, and I've got him. Now you call off clique and tell him to drop this case, to make no effort to follow us or to come between us and the kid, or I'll slit your throat after I've done with his little lordship here. Lannister, to the chauffeur. Lannister, do you hear? Oui, monsieur. Give her her head, full speed, and get to the mail as fast as you can. Margot will be with us in another two hours' time. And onward behind them moved, too, the same dilatory messenger-boy who had loitered about in the neighbourhood of the park, squandering his haypence now as then, leaving a small trail of winkle-shells and trotter-bones to mark the record of his passage, and never seeming to lose one iota of his appetite, eat as much and as often as he would. The walk led down into the depths of Soho, that refuge of the foreign element in London. But long before they halted at the narrow doorway of a narrow house in a narrow side street, a street that seemed to have gone to sleep in an atmosphere of gloom and smells, clique had adroitly pumped Argyb Nusrut dry, and the riddle of the sacred sun was a riddle to him no longer. He was now only anxious to part from the man, and returned with the news to Lady Chepstow, and was casting round in his mind for some excuse to avoid going indoors with him, and wasting precious time in breaking bread and eating salt, when there lurched out of an adjoining doorway an ungainly figure in turban and sandals, and the full flower of that grotesque regalia which passes muster at cheap theatres and masquerade balls for the costume of a single ease. The fellow had bent forward out of the deeper darkness of the house passage into the murk and gloom of the ill-lit street, and was straining his eyes as if in search for someone long expected. Dog of an infidel! exclaimed Argyb Nusrut, speaking in Hindustani, and spitting on the pavement as he caught sight of the man. See, well beloved, he is of those others of which I spoke when I first met thee. There are many of them, but true believers none. They dwell in a room, huddled up as unclean things in the house there. They drink and make merry-fire into the night, and a woman, veiled and in European garb, comes to them and drinks with them sometimes, and sometimes a man of her kind with her, and they speak a tongue that is not the tongue of our people. Yet have I seen them go forth into the city and do homage as we to the sacred sun. Cleek sucked in his breath, and twitching round stared at the dim figure leaning forward in the dim light. By George, he said to himself, if I know anything, I ought to know the slouch and the low-sunk head of the Apache, and the woman comes, and the man comes, and there are five lax of rupees. I wonder, I wonder, but no, she wouldn't come here to a place like this if she had ventured back into England, and had called some of the band over to help. She'd go to the old spot, to the old haunt where she and I used to lie low and laugh whilst the police were hunting for me. She'd go there, I'm sure, to the old burnt-acre mill, where, if you were stalked, you could open the sluice-gates, and let the Thames and the mill-stream rush in and meet and make a hell of whirling waters that would drown a fish. She would go there if it were she, and yet it is an Apache, I swear it is an Apache. He turned and looked back at Archive Nusrut, then raised his hand and brushed it down the back of his head, which was always the sign, wait to dollops, and then spoke as calmly as he could. Brother, I will go in and break bread and eat salt with thee, he said, but I may do no more for to-night, I am in haste. Come then, the man answered, and taking him by the hand led him in and up to a room at the back of the second story, where, hot as the night was, the windows were closed, and a woman, squatted before a lighted brazier, was dripping the contents of an oil-cruise over the roasting carcass of a young kid. It is to shut out the sounds of the vile infidel orgies from the house adjoining, explained Archive Nusrut, as Clicke walked to the tightly closed window, and lent his forehead against it. Yet, if the heat oppresses thee, it does, interposed Clicke, and lent far out into the darkness, as those sucking in the air, when the sash was raised, and the thing which had been only a dim, babel of wordless sounds a moment before, became now the riotous laughter, and the ribbled comments of men upon the verses of a comic song which one of their number was joyously singing. French, said Clicke, under his breath, as he caught the notes of the singer and the words of his audience, French, I knew it. Then he drew in his head, and having broken of the bread and eaten of the salt, which, at a word from Archive Nusrut, the woman brought on a wicker tray, and laid before them, he moved hastily to the door. Brother and son of the faithful peace be with thee, I must go, he said, but I come again, and it is written that thou shalt be honoured above all men when I return to thee, and that the true believers, the true sons of Holy Buddha, shall have cause to set thy name at the head of the records of those who are most blessed of him. Then he salomed and passed out, and closing the door behind him ran like a hair down the narrow stairs. At the door dollops rose up like the imp in a pantomime and jumped toward him. Lord Governor, I'm nice, starved, awaiting for you, he said in a whisper. What's the lay now? A double quick change? I've got the stuff here, look. Holding up the package he was carrying. Or a chance for me to do some fly-catching with me blooming tickle-tootsies? The man in the singleese costume had vanished from the doorway of the adjoining house, and catching the boy by the arm, Kleeck hurried him to it and drew him into the dark passage. I'm going to the back. I'm going to climb up to the windows of the second story and see who was there and what's going on. He whispered, lie low and watch. I think it's Margot's gang. Oh, colour me blue! Them beauties, and in London! I'd give a tanner for a strong cup of tea. Shh! Be quiet. Speak low. Don't be seen, but keep a close watch, and if anybody comes downstairs, he's mine, interjected dollops, stripping up his sleeves. Glow to the eyebrows and warranted to stick. Nip away, Governor, and leave it to the tickle-tootsies and me. Then as Kleeck moved swiftly and silently down the passage and slipped out into a sort of yard at the back of the house, he pulled out his roll of brown paper squares and his tube of adhesive, and crawling upstairs on his hands and knees began operations at the top step. But he had barely got the first plaster fairly made and ready to apply, when there came a rush of footsteps behind him, and he was obliged to duck down and flatten himself against the floor of the landing, to escape being run down by a man who dashed in through the lower floor, flew at top speed up the stairs, and with a sort of blended cheer and yell, whirled open a door on the landing above and vanished. In a twinkling other cheers rang out, there was the sound of hastily moving feet and the uproar of general excitement. Ah, well, if you won't stop to be whited on, gents, help yourselves! said dollops with a chuckle. Then he began backing hastily down the stairs, squirting the contents of the tube all over the steps, and concluded the operation by scattering all the loose sheets of paper on the floor at the foot of them, before slipping out into the street and composedly waiting. Meantime, Kleeck, sneaking out through the rear door, found himself in a small brick-paved yard, hemmed in by a high wall, thickly fringed on the top with a hedge of broken bottles. At one time, in its history, the house had been occupied by a cat-cut maker, and the rickety shed in which he had carried on his calling, still clung, sagging and broken roofed to the building itself, its rotten slates all but vanished, and its interior piled high with mildewed bedding, mouldy old carpet, broken furniture, and refuse of every sort. A foot or two above the roof-level of this glowed two luminous rectangles in the blackness of darkness, the windows of the back room on the second story, and out of these came floating still the song, the laughter, and the jabbered French he had heard in the house next door. It did not take him long to make up his mind. Gripping the swaying supports of the sagging shed, he went up it with the agility of a monkey, crawled to the mirror of the two windows, and cautiously raising himself peeped in. What he saw made him suck in his breath sharply, and sent his heart hammering hard and fast. A dozen men were in the room, men whose faces, despite an inartistic attempt to appear oriental, he recognised at a glance, and knew better than he knew his own. About them lay discarded portions of singly's attire, thrown off because of the heat, and waiting to be resumed at any moment. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, and rank with spirituous odours. Sprawled figures were everywhere, and on a couch against the opposite wall, a cigarette between her fingers, a glass of absence at her elbow, her laughter and badinage ringing out as loudly as any, lay the listen figure of Margot. But even as Cleak looked in upon it, the picture changed. Swift, sharp, and sudden came the rattle of flying feet on the outer stairs. Margot flung aside her cigarette, and jumped up. The song and the laughter came to an abrupt end, the door flew open, and with a shout and a cheer, a man bounced into the room. As she and the others crowded round him. «Soul of a slugger, don't waste time in laughing and capering like this. Speak up, speak up, you hear? A witter flyer wants to demail and join him. As he succeeded, is he done? «Yes, yes, yes, shouted back, serpice, throwing up his cap and capering. «It is done, it is done, under the very nose of the cracksman, too. Margot's got them, got them both. The little lordship and the mam's along, too. They took the bait like guzzins. They stepped into the automobile without a fear, and ways it was off to demail like that. We win, we win, we win. The shock of the thing was too much for Cleak. Carried out of himself by the knowledge that the woman he loved was now in peril of her life, discretion foresuck him, blind rage mastered him, and he did one of the few foolish things of his life. «You lie, you brute, you lie!» he shouted, jumping up into full view. «God help the man who lays a hand on her! Let him keep his life from me if he can! «The caxman!» yelled out serpice. «The caxman! The caxman!» echoed Margot and the rest, then a pistol barked and spat. The light was swept out, a bullet sang past Cleak's ear, and he realised how foolish he had been. For part of the crowd came surging to the window, part went in one blind rush for the door to head him off and hem him in, and through the din and hubbub rang viciously the voice of Margot, shrilling out, «Kill him! Kill him!» as though nothing but the sight of his blood would glut the malice of her. It was neck or nothing now, and the race was to the swift. He dropped through a gap in the ragged roof, sheer down like a shot into the rubble and refuse below. He lurched through the shed to the door and through that to the black passage leading to the street, the clatter on the highest staircase giving warning of the crowd coming after him, and flew like a hair hard pressed toward the outer door, and then, just then, when every little moment counted, there was a scrambling sound, a chorus of oaths, a slipping, a sliding, a bang on one step and a bump on another, and as he darted by and sprang out into the street, the hall was filled with a writhing, scuffling, swearing mass of glue-covered men struggling in a whirling waste of loose brown paper. «This way! Come quickly for your life!» he shouted to Dollops as he came plunging out into the street. «They've got them! Got his little lordship! Got Miss Lorne in spite of me! Come on! Come on! Come on!» and flew like an arrow from crossing to crossing and street to street with Dollops like a shadow at his heels. A sudden swerve to the right brought them into a lighted and popular thoroughfare. Italian restaurants, German delicatessen shops, eating places of a dozen other nationalities lined the pavements on both sides of the street, and in front of these a high-power motor stood, protected by the watchful eye of an accommodating policeman, while the chauffeur sampled Chianti in a wine-shop close by. With a rush and a leap, Cleak was upon it, and with another rush and a leap the constable was upon him, only to be greeted with the swift flicking open of a coat and the gleam of a badge that every man in the force knew. «Cleak! Yes, in the name of the Yard, in the name of the King! Get out of the way! In with you, Dollops! We'll get the Brutes yet!» Then he bent over, threw in the clutch, and, discarding all speed-laws, sent the car humming and tearing away. «Hold tight!» he said through his teeth. «Whatever comes, we've got to get to Burntaker Mill inside of an hour. If you know any prayers, Dollops, say them. «A Lord fetches home in time for supper!» gulped the boy obediently. «Selp me, Governor, the wind's going through my teeth like I was a mouth-organ, and I'm hollow enough for a flute!» End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Of Cleak, The Man of the Forty Faces This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. «Cleak! The Man of the Forty Faces» by Thomas W. Hanshu. Chapter 22 It is strange how in moments of stress and trial, even in times of tragedy, the most commonplace thoughts will intrude themselves, and the mind separate itself from the immediate events. As Mehod put the cold muzzle of the revolver to Ailsa's temple, and she ought, one would have supposed, to have been deaf and blind to all things but the horror of her position, one of these strange mental lapses occurred, and her mind, travelling back over the years of her early school days, dwelt on a punishment task set her by her preceptress, the task of copying three hundred times the phrase, discretion is the better part of valor. As the recollection of that time rose before her mental vision, the value of the phrase itself forced its worth upon her, and huddling back in the corner of the limousine, she clutched the frightened child to her, and gave implicit obedience to Mehod's command to make no effort to attract attention, either by word or deed, and he, fancying that he had thoroughly cowed her, withdrew the touch of the weapon from her temple, but held it ready for possible use in the grip of his thin, strong hand. For a time the limousine kept straight on in its headlong course, then, of a sudden, it swerved to the left, the gleam of a river all silver with moonlight struck up through a line of trees on one side of the car, the blank, unbroken dreariness of a stretch of wasteland spread out upon the other, and presently, by the slowing down of the motor, Ailsa guessed that they were nearing their destination. They reached it a few moments later, and a peek from the window as the vehicle stopped, showed her the outlines of a ruined watermill, ghostly, crumbling owl-haunted, looming black against the silver sky. A crumbled wheel hung, rotten and moss-grown, over a dry water-course, where straggling willows stretched out from the bank, and trailed their long feathery ends, a yard or so above the level of the weeds and grasses that carpeted the sandy bed of it, and along its edge, once built as a protection for the heedless or unwary, but now a ruin and a wreck, a moss-grown wall with a narrow, gape-less archway made an irregular shadow on the moon-drenched earth. She saw that archway and that dry water-course, and a new, strong hope arose within her. Discretion had played its part. Now it was time for Valor to take the stage. Come, get out, this is the end, said Merode, as he unlatched the door of the limousine and alighted. You may yell here until your throat splits, for all the good it will do you. Lannister, show us a light. The path to the door is uncertain, and the floor of the mill is unsafe. This way, if you please, Miss Lann, let me have the boy. I'll look after him. No, no, not yet. Please, not yet," said Elsa, with a little catch in her voice, as she plucked his little lordship to her and smothered his frightened cries against her breast. Let me have him whilst I may. Let me hold him to the last, Monsieur Merode. His mother trusts me. She will want to know that I stood by him until I could stand no longer. Please, we are so helpless. I am so fond of him. And he is such a very little boy. Listen, you want me to write to Mr. Cleak. You want me to ask something of him. I won't do it for myself. No, not if you kill me for refusing. I'll never do it for myself. But I will do it if you won't separate us until he has had time to say his prayers. All right, then, he agreed. If it's any consolation doing a fool's trick like that, why do it? Now come along and let's get inside the mill without any more nonsense. Lannister, bring that lantern here, so that Mamzell can see the path to the door. This way, if you please, Miss Lann. Thank you, she said, as she alighted and moved slowly in the direction of the door, suzing the child as they crept along almost within touch of the crumbling wall. Said he, darling, don't cry. You are a brave little hero, I know, and heroes are never afraid to die. From the tail of her eye she watched, Merode. He seemed to realise from these words to the child that she was reconciled to the inevitable, and with an air of satisfaction he put the pistol back into his pocket and walked beside her. She kept straight on with her soothing words, and in the half-shadow neither Merode nor Lannister could see that one hand was lost in the folds of her skirt. Said he, darling, let Miss Lann be able to tell Mummy that her little man was a hero, that he died as heroes always die, without a fear or a weakening to the very last. I'll stand by, you precious. I'll hold your hand, and when the time comes— It came, then. The gaitless archway was reached at last, and the thing she had been planning all along now became possible. With one sudden push she sent the boy reeling down the incline into the dry water-course, flashed round sharply, and before Merode really knew how the thing happened she was standing with her back to the arch and a revolver in her levelled hand. Throw up your arms. Throw them up at once, or as God hears me, I'll shoot. She cried, Run, said he. Run, baby. He shall follow you. I'll kill him if he tries. You idiot! began Merode, and made a lurch toward her, but the pistol barked, and something quite hot zigzagged along his arm and bit like a flame into his shoulder. Up with your hands, up with them, she said, in a voice that shook with excitement as he howled out and made a reeling backward step. Next time it will be the head I aim at, not the arm. Then, lifting up her voice in one loud shriek that made the echoes bound, she called with all her strength, and lo, as she called as if a miracle had been wrought, out of the darkness an answering voice called back to her, and the wild swift notes of a motorhorn bleated along the lonely road. I'm coming, I clique. That voice rang out. Hold your own, hold it to the last, Miss Lorne, and God help the man who lays a finger on you. Mr. Clique! Mr. Clique! Oh, thank God! she flung back with all the rapture a human voice could contain. Come on! Come on! I've got him! Got that man, Merode, and the boy is safe! The boy is safe! Come on! Come on! Come on! Come on! We're a-coming, Miss! You gamble on that, and the lightning's a-fall to us! shouted Dollops in reply. Let her have it, Governor! Bust a blooming tank! Give her her head! Give her her feet! Give her her a blessed merry thought if she wants it! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! And then, just then, when she most needed her strength and her courage, Ailsa's evaporated. The reaction came, and with the despairing cries of Merode and Lannister ringing in her ears, she sank back, weak, white, almost fainting, and, leaning against the side of the archway, began to laugh and to sob hysterically. Merode seized that one moment and sprang to the breach, realizing that the game was all but up, that there was nothing for him now but to save his own skin, if he could. He called out to Lannister to follow him, then plunged into the mill, swung over the lever which controlled the sluice-gates, and darting out by the back way, fled across the waist. But behind him he left a scene of indescribable horror, and the shrills screaming of a little child told him when that horror began. For as the sluice-gate opened, a sullen roar sounded. On one side the diverted mill stream, and on the other the river rose as two solid walls of water, rushed forward and met. And in the twinkling of an eye the old water-course was one wild, leaping, roaring, gyrating whirlpool of upflung froth and twisting waves, that bore in their eddying clutch the battling figure of a drowning child. Even before he came in sight of it the roaring waters and the fearful splash of their impact told Cleat what had been done. He could hear Elsa's screams, he could hear the boys' feeble cries, and a moment later when the whizzing motor panted up through the moonlight and spared by the broken wall there was Elsa, fairly palsied with fright, clinging weakly to the crumbling arch and uttering little sobbing, wordless, incoherent moans of fright as she stared down into the hell of waters. And below, in the foam, a little yellow head was spinning round and round and round in dizzying circles of torn and leaping waves. Evans, governor! began dollops in a voice of appalling despair. But before he could get beyond that Cleat's coat was off, Cleat's body had described a sort of semicircle and the child was no longer alone in the whirlpool. Battling, struggling, fairly leaping as a fish leaps in a torrent, one moment half out of the water, the next wholly submerged, Cleat struck from eddy to eddy from circle to circle, until that little yellow head was within reach, then put forth his hand and gripped it, pulled it to him, and in another moment he was whirling round and round the whirlpool's course with the child clutched to him, and his wet white face gleaming wax-like over the angle of his shoulder. They had not made the half of the first circle thus before dollops had leapt to the bending willows, had scrambled up the rough trunk of the nearest of them, and pushing his weight out upon a strong and supple bow bent it downward until the half of its strongest witties were deep in the whirling waters. Grab them, Governor, grab them when you come by! he sang out over the roar of the waters. There hold you, sir, hold a dozen like you, and if—well played, got him the first grab, hang on, get a tight grip. Now then, sir, hand over hand till you're at the bank. Good bees, good bees, blessed if you won't be going in for the circus trade next. Steady does it, sir, steady, steady. Go, by Jupiter, now then, hand me up the nipper. Ah, should say the young gent. And in two minutes' time. Right, got him. Here you are, Miss Lawn, lay hold of his little lordship, will you? I've got me blessed hands full of keeping to me perch whilst the governor's a wobbling of the branch like this. Good bees! Now then, sir, another half a yard. That's the call. Hands on his bow and foot on the bank there. One, two, three. No, you do it. Save us out, his call. Bless your bully heart. And then, as Cleat, wet, white, panting, dragged himself out of the clutch of the whirlpool, and lay breathing heavily on the ground. By Gams, Governor! Dolops added as he looked down on the whirling waters. What an egg-beater it would make, wouldn't it, sir? I ain't got such a thing as a biscuit about you, have you? My spines are raspin' holes in my neck-tie, and I'm so flat you could slip me into a pillow-box, and they'd take me home for a penny-stamp. But Cleat made no reply. Wet and spent after his fierce struggle with the whirling fury he had just escaped. He lay looking up into Ailes' eyes as she came to him with the sobbing child close pressed to her bosom, and all heaven in her beaming face. It is not the funeral wreath after all, you see, Miss Lawn, he said. It came near to being it, but it is not. It is not. I wonder. Oh, I wonder. Then he laughed the foolish, vacuous laugh of a man whose thoughts are too happy for the banality of words. It was midnight and after. In the close-curtained library of Chepsto House, Cleat, with his little lordship sleeping in his arms, sat in solemn conclave with Lady Chepsto, Captain Hawksley, and Maverick Narkham. And while they talked, Ailsa, like a restless spirit, wandered to and fro, now lifting the curtains to peep out into the darkness, now listening as if her whole life's hope lay in the coming of some expected sound. And in her veins there burned a fever of suspense. There you failed to get the rascals, did you, Mr. Narkham? Cleat was saying. I feared as much, but I couldn't get word to you sooner. We injured the machine in that mad race to the mill, and, of course, we had to come at a snail's pace afterwards. I'm sorry we didn't get Margo. Sorry astill that that hound Mahode got away. Now bound to make more trouble before the races run. Not for her ladyship, however, and not for this dear little chap. Their troubles are at an end, and the sacred sun will be a sacred sun no longer. Oh, Mr. Cleat, do tell me what you mean, implored Lady Chepster. Do tell me how Dr. Fordyce at last struck in Ailsa excitedly, as the doorbell and knocker clashed, and the butler's swift footsteps went along the hall. Now we shall know, Mr. Cleat. Oh, now we shall know for certain. And so shall all the world, he replied, as the door opened, and the doctor was ushered into the room. I don't think you were ever so welcome anywhere or at any time before, Doctor. He added with a smile. Come and look at this little chap. Bonnie little specimen of a Britisher, isn't he? Yes, but my dear sir, I was under the impression that I was called to a scene of excitement, and you seem as peaceful as eaten here. The constable who came for me said it was something to do with Scotland Yard. So it is, Doctor. I had Mr. Narcom sent for you to perform a very trifling but most important operation upon his little lordship here. Upon Cedric exclaimed Lady Chepster, rising in a panic of alarm. An operation to be performed upon my baby boy? Oh, Mr. Cleat, in the name of heaven! Know your ladyship, in the name of Buddha. Don't be alarmed. It is only to be a trifling cut, a mere reopening of that little wound in the thigh which you dressed and healed so successfully at Trinkamalee. You made a mistake, all of you, that night when the boy was shot. The native poor feralt saw a skulking along with the gun, was not a mere tribesman, and had not the very faintest thought of discharging that weapon at your little son, or indeed at anybody else in the world. He was the high priest Cedama, guardian of the Holy Tooth, the one living being who dared by right to touch it, or to lay hands upon the shrine that contained it. Fearful when the false rumour of that intended loot was circulated, that infidel eyes should look upon it, infidel hands profane the sacred relic, he determined to remove it from Dambul to the Rockune Temple of Galwihara, and to enshrine it there. For the purpose of giving no clue to his movements, he chose to abandon his priestly vestments, to disguise himself as a common tribesman, and the better to defeat the designs of any who might penetrate that disguise, and endeavor to take the sacred relic from him and hold it for ransom, he hid the Holy Tooth in the barrel of a gun. That gun was in his hands, your ladyship, when Feralt rushed out and brained him. In his hands? Oh, Mr. Creeke, then—then— Her voice all but failed her as a sudden realisation came. That relic, that fetish, if it was in that gun at that time, then it is now— Embedded in the fleshy part of the boy's thigh, said Creeke, finishing the sentence for her. In clothes darkless, in a sack or cyst which Mother Nature has wrapped round it, the Tooth is there, in your little son's body, and for five whole years he has been the living shrine that held it. It was quite true, as events rapidly and completely proved. Ten minutes later the trifling operation was concluded, the boy lay whimpering in his mother's arms, and the long-lost relic was on the surgeon's palm. Take it, Captain Hawksley, said Creeke, lifting it between his thumb and forefinger and carrying it to him. There is a man in Soho, one Arjib Nusrut, who will know it when he sees it, and there is a vast reward—five lakhs of rupees will pay off no end of debts, my friend. And a man with that balance at his bankers can't be thought a mere fortune-hunter when he asks for the hand of the woman he loves. The captain didn't ask for his, however, he simply jumped up and grabbed it. By George, you're a brick, he said, with something uneven in his voice, something that was like laughter and tears all jumbled up together, and stammered confusedly, but went on shaking Creeke's hand all the time. It's ripping of you, it's bully, dear chap, but I say, you know, it isn't fair. It's dolly uneven. You found out you ought at least to have a share in the reward. Not I, said Creeke, with an airy laugh. Like the fellow who was born with a third leg, I have no use for it, Captain. But if you really want to give any part of it away, bank a thousand to the credit of my boy, Dollops, to be turned over to him when he's twenty-one. And you might make Mr. Narcombe, and if she will accept the post, Miss Lawn, his trustees. Miss Lawn faced round and looked at him, and even from that distance he could see that her mouth was moving tremulously, and there was something shining in the corner of her eye. I accept that position with pleasure, Mr. Creeke, she said. It is the act of a man and a gentleman. Thank you. Thank you. And came down the long length of the room, with her hand outstretched to take his. End of Chapter Twenty-three