THE MAN FROM MOROCCO - 4

THE MAN FROM MOROCCO
EDGAR WALLACE

( INSTALMENT 4 )

CHAPTER 53
THE HOUSE IN THE HOLLOW


Joan Carston was sauntering behind her father, and had come opposite to the door in the wall, when it opened and she paused to look into the courtyard. The first view was disappointing, but the smiling black woman who held the door invitingly open pointed, as though it was something worth seeing, and Joan, her curiosity aroused, stepped through the doorway. Instantly the door was slammed behind her, a big, black hand covered her mouth, and she was drawn backward against the gate-woman, who whispered something fiercely in her ear. It was unintelligible, but there was no mistaking the threat.

Before she realised what had happened, four men, who had appeared from nowhere, closed on her, and a scarf was knotted tightly round her ankles, a great wad of cottonwool was thrust into her face, blinding and stifling her, and she felt herself lifted up from her feet.

She struggled, kicking furiously, but it was futile to struggle against those odds, and, her terror subsiding, she lay passive on the stone-flagged ground whilst her hands were bound tightly together. Then she was lifted and she sniffed the scent of clean wood. The wool was pulled from her face and another silken scarf bound tightly round her mouth by an expressionless negro, who pulled the edges of the scarf away so that she could breathe. In another minute the lid of the case was fastened on, and she was lifted irregularly into the air. She dared not struggle for fear of throwing the bearers off their balance.

The air in the box was stifling: she felt she would suffocate and tried to raise the lid with her head, but it had been fastened from the outside. For an eternity she seemed to be swaying dizzily on the shoulders of the bearers, and then there was a little bump, and the box was slid on to a flat surface. What it was she knew, for she could feel the throb and pulsation of the engine beneath her. The car moved on, gathering speed, and evidently the driver was in a hurry, for he did not slow even over the irregular country road. Soon she was aching in every limb and ready to swoon.

She must have lost consciousness for a while, for she woke suddenly to find herself lying on the side of the road. The trolley and the box had disappeared, and her four captors, whose heads were swathed in scarves, were looking down at her. Presently one stooped and lifted her to her feet, saying something in Arabic which she did not understand. She shook her head to signify her ignorance of the language, and then she saw the waiting mules. Carrying her in his arms, the big negro sat the girl on a mule, and led it down a steep slope at right angles to the road, his companions following.

Her head was in a whirl, she was feeling dizzy and sick. To add to her torment, her thirst was almost unbearable, but they had not far to go. She saw one of the men, evidently the leader, looking back anxiously, and wondered what he feared. If there was a pursuit she must be rescued, and her heart leapt at the thought. The end of her journey, however, was near at hand. In a hollow was a low-roofed house, surrounded by a high, white wall, through the low gate of which the man led her mule.

The courtyard was a blaze of autumnal flowers; the inevitable fountain played in the centre. She waited while they closed the gates, and then her attendant signalled her to dismount, and leading the way to the house, knocked at the door. It was opened immediately, and he pushed her into the hall. At first it was so dark that she could see nothing and then there developed from the darkness the figure of a Moorish woman. She was pretty, Joan thought, in spite of the unhealthy pallor of her complexion. Guided by the girl she passed through another door into a long room, the floor of which was covered with shabby rugs, which, with a divan, constituted its furnishing.

Light was admitted from windows set high up in the wall, and she recognised the place, from the descriptions she had read, as the harem of a Moorish house. No other woman was in the room, and the girl who had conducted her there disappeared almost immediately, closing the door behind her.

Joan sat down on the edge of the settee and dropped her face in her hands. She must face the danger bravely, she told herself, terrible as that danger was. She had no illusions as to what these two attempts on her liberty signified. The first had failed, but now she realised, as she had suspected all along, that the attack upon the yacht at Suba had been designed for her capture, and was not, as the Captain had asserted and Lord Creith had believed, the haphazard attack of pirates in search of treasure.

The abduction had been carried out so smoothly that it must have been planned. How did they knew she would pass that door? They must have been waiting for days to carry their plot into execution. And who were "they"?

Her head ached; she felt at the end of her resources; and then she sprang up as the door opened and a girl came in, bearing a large brass tray containing native bread, fruit, and a large brown carafe of water. With this was a chipped cup.

"Do you speak English?" asked Joan.

The girl shook her head. The prisoner tried in French, with no better result.

"I can speak Spanish a little," said the Moorish girl, but though Joan recognised the language, her knowledge was too slight to carry on a conversation.

When she had gone, Joan poured out a cupful of water and drank feverishly. She regarded the food with an air of suspicion, and then resolutely broke the bread and ate a little.

"Joan Carston," she said, shaking her head, "you're in a very unhappy situation. You have been kidnapped by Moors! That sounds as though you're dreaming, because those things do not happen outside of books. You're not dreaming, Joan Carston. And you may eat the food. I don't suppose they will try to poison you—yet! And if they do, perhaps it will be better for you."

"I doubt it," said a voice behind her, and she turned with a cry.

A man had come into the room from the far end, and had been watching her for a long time before he made his presence known.

"You!" she said.

Ralph Hamon smiled crookedly.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," he said.

The appearance of the man momentarily stunned her, and then there dawned slowly upon her the true meaning of his appearance.

"So it was you all the time?" she said slowly. "And that was why you sent us on this voyage? You were the other man, on the beach? I ought to have known that. Where is Jim Morlake?"

She saw his jaw drop.

"Jim Morlake? What are you talking about? He is in England, I suppose, under arrest for murder, if there is any justice in the country. You probably know that your husband was killed the night before you left, and that Morlake shot him."

She shook her head, and he was amazed to see her smile.

"You killed Farringdon," she said. "Captain Welling told me before I left. Not in so many words, but he found your footprints on the garden bed."

If she wished to frighten him, she had succeeded. That old look she had seen before came into his grey face.

"You're trying to scare me," he said huskily.

"Where is Jim Morlake?" she asked again.

"I don't know, I tell you. Dead, I hope, the damned Yankee crook!"

"He is not dead, unless you killed him when you found you had him in your hands."

His blank astonishment was eloquent.

"In my hands? I don't understand you. When was he in my hands?"

"He was the sailor you took from the yacht," she said; "the cook."

"Hell!" breathed Hamon, and took a step backward. "You're fooling me. That wasn't Morlake. It was a sailor—a cook."

She nodded.

"It was Mr. Morlake. What did you do to him?"

"Damn him!" he snarled. "That swine Zafouri took him away—" He stopped and changed his tone. "He is dead," he said. "He was executed by the crew of the dhow—"

"You're not telling the truth. You told it at first. Mr. Morlake got away!"

He did not speak. Fingering his quivering lips, he glared at her.

"Morlake here! He can't be here: it is impossible!" he said. "You've invented that, Joan. I thought he was miles away. And what did Welling say? That is an invention too. What reason had I to shoot that soak?"

"Captain Welling practically told me that you were the murderer," said the girl with calm malice.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his streaming forehead.

"I'm a murderer, eh?" he said dully. "Well, they can only hang me, whatever I do," and his glance fell upon her. "I was going to tell you something, but you've upset my programme, Joan. It is easy to find out whether Morlake is in Tangier."

"I didn't say he was in Tangier. I don't know that he is," she said, and for a second his face cleared.

"He will come to Tangier," he said, frowning again. "He is not likely to lose much time if he knows you're there. Bit keen on him, aren't you? Lovers! I saw him kissing you in the wood. I hope he taught you how. Most of you cold white women haven't learnt the trick."

He bit his lip, and evidently his mind was elsewhere than in that tawdry room.

"I'll soon find out if he is in Tangier," he said, and went out the way he had come, through the little door behind the curtain which she had overlooked.

A few minutes after he had gone, the Moorish girl returned, and led her to a room at the back of the house. A brick bath had been sunk in the floor, and the girl signalled to her to undress. Thrown across the back of a rickety chair, Joan saw some garments which she guessed were the costume of a Moorish woman, and at first she refused, but the girl pointed significantly at the door; and guessing that if she offered any resistance force would be applied, Joan undressed under the watchful eye of the girl and stepped down into the bath.

When she came out and was enveloped in the warm towel that the girl had put for her, she saw that her clothes had been moved.

"You want me to wear these?" she asked in lame Spanish.

"Si, señorita," said the Moorish girl, and Joan dressed herself slowly.

The costume was curiously unlike any she had seen (and had worn) at amateur theatricals. There was no tinsel, no glitter of sequins ... her first feeling was one of comfort. Only one article of her old attire she was allowed to retain—her stockings. Fortunately, she had not far to walk, for she had lost her shoe, and though the stocking sole was brown with the dust of the Fez Road, it was not worn through. When she had finished, the girl led her back to the room where she had first been imprisoned, and left her there.

It was growing dark when Ralph Hamon returned to her.

"Your unofficial fiancé is in trouble with the Moorish authorities," he said, "but he asked for it! A man with his knowledge of the country should have thought twice before attempting to raid the women's apartments of a Moorish noble. You will be interested to learn that he was the gentleman who trailed you this afternoon."

"Anything you tell me about him interests me," she said, and his scowl rewarded her.

"I think you'd better get into a new frame of mind, Joan, and readjust your values," he said. "Big changes are coming into your life and into mine."

He seated himself beside her on the settee and she edged away from him, and finally rose.

"I'm going to enjoy the existence that I've always wanted," he said. "The dolce far niente of Morocco is a real thing: in Italy it is a phrase."

"You don't imagine that you are beyond the reach of the law?" she asked.

"The law!" he scoffed. "There is no law in the hills, but the law of the rifle and the chieftain who happens to be reigning in that particular district. Don't you realise that there is a man in this country called Raisuli, who has been the law in his own province for twenty years? My dear Joan," he said blandly, "no country is going to war in order to save you from a little inconvenience. I am probably rendering you a very great service," he went on. "You are going to know life—the life that is worth the living."

"In what capacity?" she asked, looking at him gravely.

"As my wife," he replied. "There will be some difficulty about marrying for a year or two, but Moorish marriages are arranged much more easily. You shall learn Arabic: I will be your teacher, and we will read the poems of Hafiz together. You will look back pityingly upon the old Joan Carston, and wonder what attractions she found in life that were comparable with the happiness—"

"You talk quite well," she interrupted him. "Nobody would guess that a man of your age, and with your curious face, would ever speak of poetry."

She looked down at him, her hands clasped behind her, an obvious interest in her eyes.

"You are a remarkable man," she said emphatically. "I don't know how many murders you have committed, but you have certainly committed one; and probably the whole of your fortune is founded upon some horrible crime of that description. It doesn't seem possible, does it, that we have that type of person living in the twentieth century? And yet there must be- -oh, a whole lot of people who have committed undetected murders for their own profit."

He was speechless with fear and rage. This, to him, was the tremendous fact—that she was presenting him as he was, and as now, for the first time, he knew he was. For a man may lie to himself and screen his own actions from himself; so veil his motives, and the sordidness of those motives, that, when they are faithfully described, he stands aghast at the revelation.

"I am not a murderer," he croaked, his face working convulsively, "I'm not a murderer, do you hear? I—I am many things, but I'm not a murderer."

"Who killed Ferdie Farringdon?" she asked quietly, and he screwed up his eyes with an expression of pain.

"I don't know—I did, perhaps. I didn't mean to kill him ... I meant to—I don't know what I meant. I thought I'd get Morlake. I drove my machine to within three miles of the village and came the rest of the journey on foot."

He covered his eyes with his arm as though shutting out some horrible sight.

"Damn you, how dare you say these things?" he nearly sobbed in his rage. "I'll make you so interested in yourself that you won't talk about me, Joan, understand that!"

He was about to say something else, but changed his mind, and, turning, walked quickly out of the room. She did not see him again that night, but just as she was dozing on the divan, she heard the door open and sitting up, saw the Moorish girl carrying a long blue cloak over her arm. Without a word she put it about Joan's shoulders, and she knew that the second stage of her journey had begun.

Whither would it lead? In her faith that it would lead to Jim Morlake, she went out, impatient to resume the journey.


CHAPTER 54
A VISIT TO THE BASHA


Hamon had spoken no more than the truth when he had said that Jim was in serious trouble with the authorities. But it was that kind of serious trouble which he could handle. The basha of Tangier, governor and overlord of the faithful, was at coffee when Jim was announced by the great man's majordomo. The basha pulled his beard and frowned horribly.

"Tell the Excellency that I cannot see him. There has been a complaint by the Shereef Sadi Hafiz which must go before the Consulate Board tomorrow."

The servant disappeared, to return almost immediately.

"Lord," he said, "Morlaki sends you one word and waits your answer."

"You're a fool," said the basha angrily. "I tell you I will not see him. What is the word?"

"The word, Lord, is 'sugar.' "

It was an innocent enough word, but the official's hand came straight to his beard and plucked at it nervously.

"Bring him to me," he said after a while, and Jim came into the presence unabashed.

"Peace on your house, Tewfik Pasha!" he said.

"And on you peace!" gabbled the other, and, with a wave of his hand, dismissed the servant from the room. "Now I tell you, Excellency, that there is serious trouble in Tangier. The Shereef Sadi Hafiz has brought charges against you of breaking into"—he lowered his voice fearfully— "his harem."

"O la la!" said Jim contemptuously. "Do I come here to talk of harems, Tewfik? I come here to talk sugar—great cases of sugar that came to you in the spring of the year of the rising, and in those cases of sugar were rifles, which went out to the pretender."

"God give you grace!" groaned the basha. "What can I do? If Sadi makes a complaint I must listen to him, or my authority is gone. As to the sugar—"

"We will not talk about sugar," said Jim, sitting down on a cushion in front of the basha's divan. "We will talk about a lady who has been taken from this town through the agency of Sadi Hafiz."

"If you can prove this—"

"What proof is there in Tangier?" said Jim scornfully. "Where you may buy a thousand witnesses for ten pesetas on either side! You know Sadi, Tewfik: he has been your enemy—"

"He has also been my friend," said Tewfik uneasily.

"He is your enemy now. A week ago he sent word to the Sultan that you had been plotting with the Spaniards to sell a railway concession."

"May he die!" exploded the basha. "I did no more than give a feast to a distinguished Spanish Excellency—"

Again Jim stopped him.

"This much I tell you, that you may know how you stand with Sadi. Now give me authority to deal with him."

The basha hesitated.

"He is a very powerful man, and the Angera people are friends of his. They say that he is also a friend of Raisuli, though I doubt this, for Raisuli has no friends. If I do not take action—"

"How can you take action if Sadi Hafiz is in prison?" asked Jim quietly, and the basha jumped.

"Prison? Bismallah! Could I put a man of his importance in the kasbah? You're mad, Morlake! What crime?"

"Find me a crime at the right moment," said Jim. He took from his pocket a thick bundle of thousand-peseta notes and threw them into the lap of the governor of Tangier, "God give you peace!" he said as he rose.

"And may he give you many happy dreams!" replied the bashamechanically, as he touched the notes lovingly.

Jim went back to the hotel and saw Lord Creith, and for once that nobleman did not object to being bothered.

"It is going to be difficult to search the houses where she may be hidden," said Jim. "I've got into bad trouble already. The only searches we can make are purely unauthorised. Of one thing I'm certain—that they have not gone along the Fez Road. I've gone twenty miles beyond the place where we found the trolley, and nobody had seen such a party. They must be in the vicinity, and tonight I am going out to conduct my investigations alone."

He was impatient to be gone, the more so as Lord Creith expressed a desire to accompany him. The old man went up to his room to get an authority he had procured that afternoon from the international consulates, and whilst he was waiting Jim stepped out on to the balcony. The night was chill, but a full moon rode serenely in the unclouded heavens, and he stood spellbound for a moment by the beauty of the scene. The broad terrace was deserted except for one man who sat with his coat collar turned about his ears, his feet raised to the stone parapet.

American or English, thought Jim. Nobody else would be mad enough to risk the ills which are supposed to attend the night air.

The stranger was smoking a cigar, and Jim sniffed its fragrance and found it good, but Creith appeared at that moment with the authorisation.

"I'm afraid it is not going to help you much, Morlake," he said, "but in such places as acknowledge the Sultan you will find it of assistance with the local authorities." He held out his hand. "Good luck to you!" he said simply. "Bring back my girl—I want her, and I think you want her too."

Jim pressed the hand of the old man in his, his heart too full for words. Dropping his hand on Creith's shoulder, he nodded, and then gently pushed him through the glass door into the lobby of the hotel. He needed solitude at that moment.

He stood for a moment, his eyes on the old man, as, with bowed shoulders, he walked up the carpeted corridor; then, turning abruptly, Jim made for the steps that led to the Beach Road. He was on the point of descending when a voice hailed him:

"Hi!"

It was the smoker of cigars. Thinking that he had made a mistake, he was going on.

"Hi! Come here, Morlake!"

Astounded, he turned, and went toward the lounger.

"As you know me well enough to call me by name, I feel no diffidence in telling you that I'm in a great hurry," he said.

"I suppose you are," drawled the man on the seat, crossing his legs comfortably. "What I want to know is this: have you seen anything of my friend Hamon?"

Jim stooped to get a better view of the man's face. It was Captain Welling!


CHAPTER 55
THE LADY FROM LISBON


"What on earth are you doing here?"

"Inviting an attack of rheumatism," grunted Welling. "You're in a hurry: anything wrong?"

"Lady Joan has disappeared," said Jim, and briefly told as much of the story of the girl's abduction as he knew.

The old man listened thoughtfully.

"That is bad," he said. "I heard there'd been a shindy in the town, but didn't get the hang of it. My Spanish is very rusty, and my Arabic is nil. Not that Arabic is ever necessary to a traveller in Morocco," he said. "Lady Joan. By gosh, that's bad! Where are you off to?"

"I'm going to look for her," said Jim briefly.

"I won't stop you. No sign of Hamon?"

Jim shook his head.

"He is in Morocco, of course. You know that? I trailed him down as far as Cadiz. He came across on the Peleago to Gibraltar. There I missed him. He flitted from Gibraltar, leaving no trace."

The news took Jim's breath away. He had not seen Hamon on the dhow or subsequently, and he made a quick calculation.

"He may have got here," he said, "but I haven't seen him. I've gone on the supposition that Sadi Hafiz has been responsible for all the arrangements made to date, but it is quite possible that Hamon is somewhere in the background, putting in the fine touches."

He was turning away when a thought struck him.

"I wish you'd go in and see Lord Creith. He is rather under the weather. He will be able to tell you what happened at Suba," and, with a hasty word of farewell, he ran down the steps and hurried toward the gates of the city.

Near the Street of the Mosque is a small and unpretentious house, the door of which is reached by a flight of stone steps flush with the house. He mounted the steps, knocked at the door and was instantly admitted. Nodding to the Moorish tailor who sat cross-legged at his craft, he went into the inner room, taking off his coat as he went. Presently he appeared in the doorway.

"You have made all the arrangements?" he asked.

"Yes," said the tailor, not looking up from his work or ceasing to ply his busy needle. "They will wait for you on the road near the English doctor's."

Jim was stripping off his waistcoat when he heard a snore that seemed to shake the ancient house. He looked up to the square opening against which the top of a worn ladder rested.

"Who is there?" he asked from the doorway.

The tailor threaded a needle near-sightedly, but with extraordinary quickness, before he answered.

"A man lives there," he said unconcernedly. "He has the roof which the water-seller had. Yassin the Jew could not find a tenant because the water-seller had smallpox, so he gave it to the Inglezi for six pesetas a month. I pay fifty, but Yassin knows that I can find no other shop, and my fathers lived here since the days of Suliman."

There was a stir up above and the sound of a grumbling voice.

"He smokes," said the tailor. "He will go now to a café where the hashish pipe costs ten centimos."

Jim wondered whether it was the characteristic of all lodgers to be addicted to unnatural cravings, and as he wondered, a ragged shoe felt tremulously for the top rung of the ladder. The ankle above the shoe was bare, the ragged trouser leg reached half-way down the calf. Slowly the man descended, and Jim paused, taking stock of him. His hair was a dirty grey and hung over the collar of his shiny coat; the nose thick and red; the mouth a slit that drooped at each end.

He wore a stubbly and uneven red beard as though he had trimmed it himself, and he turned his pale blue eyes upon the visitor with an insolent stare.

"Good evening," he said wheezily.

"English?" said Jim in surprise, and disgusted by the unwholesome appearance of the man.

"Britannic—don't look so infernally sick, my good man. Honesta mors turpi vita potior! I can see that noble sentiment in your eyes! By your damnable accent you are either a Colonial or an American, and what the devil you're doing here I don't know. Lend me five pesetas, dear old boy; I'm getting a remittance from home tomorrow."

Jim dropped a Spanish doura into the outstretched paw and watched him hobble out into the night.

"Faugh!" said Jim Morlake. "How long has he been here?"

"Five years," said the tailor, "and he owes me five pesetas."

"What is his name?"

"I don't know—what does it matter?"

Jim agreed.

The dingy man had scarcely left the shop when a woman came slowly up the road, guided by a native boy in a narrow brown jellab. He carried a candle lantern in his hand, and if this method of illumination was unnecessary in the main streets, it became vitally essential when they struck the labyrinth of narrow alleys and crooked streets which lay at the back of the post office.

Behind her a porter carried two large grips, for Lydia Hamon had come ashore from the Portuguese West African packet that occasionally sets down passengers at Tangier. Presently they came to the well-lighted guests' entrance of the Continental Hotel, and she dismissed her guide and porter and, after a second's hesitation, wrote her name in the register.

"There is a letter for you, Miss Hamon," said the reception clerk, and took down an envelope from the rack.

It was in Ralph's handwriting, and she dreaded to read the message. In the seclusion of the writing-room she tore open the envelope and took out the sheet of paper it contained.

If you get this before registering, you had better sign the book by an assumed name [it ran]. The moment you arrive, come up to the house of Sadi Hafiz. I wish to see you urgently. Under no circumstances will you tell anybody that I am here.

She read the letter and, walking across to the fire, dropped it into the blazing coal and watched it till it was consumed. Then, with a sigh, she went back to the reception clerk.

"I want a boy to guide me up to the Sok," she said.

"Has madam had dinner?"

She nodded.

"Yes, I dined on the ship."

He bustled out into the street. Presently he returned with a diminutive boy, carrying a lantern. Apparently the clerk had told the boy where she wanted to go, for he asked no questions, leading her back to the little market place where the bread sellers sat like sheeted mummies, a candle advertising their wares.

"I want the house of Sadi Hafiz," she said when they were nearing the top of the hill, and without a word he turned off and, coming to a stop before the forbidding door, hammered with his clenched fists.

It was a long time before the call was answered.

"Wait for me here," she said in Spanish. "I shall be returning."

He grunted, blew out his candle, being of an economical turn of mind, and squatted down, pulling his ragged hood over his head.

The door opened, and the keeper of the door scrutinised her for a moment by the light of her lantern, and then shuffled in front of her to the house. Before she could reach the door, Sadi, resplendent in a blue silk robe, was coming down to meet her.

"This is a great honour you have done to my poor house, Miss Hamon," he said in English.

"Is Ralph here?" she asked, cutting short the complimentary flow.

"No, he has been called out of Tangier, but I expect him back very soon."

He led her into the room where Jim Morlake had searched, and clapped his hands vigorously. Half-a-dozen servants came running to obey the summons.

"Sweetmeats for the lady and English tea," he said. "Also bring cigarettes, quickly!"

The room was very dimly illuminated. One electric lamp, heavily shaded in a pseudo-oriental lantern, supplied all the light, and more than half of the apartment was in shadow.

"You will sit down and refresh yourself after your long journey?" he said. "Your brother will be with us soon."

"Are you sure he is coming?" she asked suspiciously. "I'm not staying here—you understand that?"

"Naturally," he said with a touch of asperity in his voice. "My wretched home is not good enough for your ladyship."

"It isn't that, only I prefer the hotel," she said shortly.

Was he deceiving her, she wondered? And then she caught her breath, for she heard Ralph's voice outside. She looked at him in amazement. She had never seen him in Moorish costume before. He kicked off his yellow slippers and came toward her, pulling back the hood of his jellab.

"You got here, then?" he said surlily. "I thought you were arriving yesterday?"

"We were held up at Lisbon. There has been some political trouble there. What did you want?" she said.

At the last minute Ralph had changed his plans and had gone on ahead of her, leaving her to come overland to Lisbon, whilst he went on to Gibraltar.

At a signal from Hamon, Sadi Hafiz withdrew noiselessly, pulling the curtains to hide the ugliness of the prison-like door before he made his exit.

"Lydia, you've got to know I'm in bad," said Hamon. "If what this girl tells me is true, I've made a very bad mistake."

"This girl?" she asked quickly.

"I'm talking about Joan."

"Joan? Is she here? Where?"

"Never mind where she is—she is here."

"Oh, yes!" The tension in her face relaxed. "How you frightened me, Ralph! Of course, the yacht is in the bay: they pointed it out to me as we came in. You have seen her?"

"She is not on the yacht, if that is what you mean," said Ralph roughly. "She is in one of Sadi's houses, twenty miles from here. She is doubly necessary to me now. She is my hostage, for one thing. Morlake is in Tangier."

She did not speak; she was staring wildly at him as though she could not believe her ears.

"You have Joan Carston! What do you mean—have you taken her—by force?"

He nodded.

"Oh, my God! Ralph, are you mad?"

"I'm very sane," said Hamon. He fumbled in the pocket of his clothes and, finding his case, lit a cigarette. "Yes, I'm very sane."

"You—you haven't hurt her?"

"Don't be a fool," he said roughly. "Why should I hurt her? She is going to be my wife."

"But, Ralph, how can you hope to escape punishment?" she almost wailed.

"It isn't so much hope as knowledge," he said. "There is no law in Morocco: fix that in your mind. The country is chronically at war, and the European governments have no more power than that." He snapped his finger. "They're so jealous that they will not move for fear of giving one another an advantage. You needn't worry about me. And, Lydia, I'm here for good."

"In Morocco?" she said in horror.

He nodded.

"I'm friends with most of the big clansmen," he said, "and after a while, when matters have blown over and Joan has settled down to the new life, I might think of moving, but for the moment I'm here."

"You want me to go back, of course?" she said nervously. "Somebody must settle your affairs in London."

"They're settled," he said. "I sold the house before I left. In fact, I sold everything except Creith. I want to keep that for my children."

"But I have affairs that need settling, Ralph," she said desperately. "I can't stay here. I'll come back if you wish me to—"

"You are not going," he said. "Now listen, Lydia." He sprang to her side as she reeled, and shook her violently. "I want none of that nonsense," he growled. "The success of my scheme depends on Sadi Hafiz. It is absolutely vital that I should retain his friendship and his support. My life may depend upon it—get that! I don't know how much Welling knows and how much was bluff on Joan's part, but if he knows half as much as she says he does, I'm booked for the drop."

"You—you haven't killed anybody?" she whispered.

"I've been responsible for at least two deaths," he said, and she sank under the shock. "You've been living your artistic life in Paris, getting acquainted with Count this and Countess that—on my money. Did it worry you how it came, or where I got it from? Not that I ever gained a penny from Cornford's death," he said moodily, "but I shall—I shall! That is what decided me to stay here. It doesn't matter what they know then."

She got up unsteadily.

"Ralph, I'm going home," she said. "I can't stand any more."

She held out her hand, but he did not take it, and then, with a little sigh, she walked to the curtains and pulled them back, turning the handle of the door. It did not move.

"Locked," said her brother laconically. "You're going home, are you? Well, this is your home, Lydia—this and Sadi's house in the hills. I've made a good match for you."

She stared at him incredulously.

"You mean ... you want me to marry a Moor? Ralph, you don't mean that?"

"Well, I don't know what else I mean," he said. "Lydia, you've got to make the best of things. This house is rotten, I admit, but the other place in the hills is wonderful. And it'll be good for Joan to have a woman handy like you." He chuckled. "That'll swamp a little of her pride, having Sadi Hafiz as a brother-in-law."

The thought seemed to please him, for he chuckled.

She was trapped—as much trapped as Joan Carston. She knew that it was useless to make any appeal to him. Ralph Hamon had never shrunk from the sacrifice of his relatives, and would not do so now.

She was about to speak when the door was unlocked and flung open, and Sadi Hafiz ran in.

"Quick!" he cried earnestly. "Get out—through the little gate! The house is surrounded by the basha's soldiers. They may be coming to arrest me: I shall know soon, but nothing can happen to me. Take her away!"

Ralph seized her by the arm and led her at a run into the courtyard. He seemed to know his way without guidance, for he came to the little gate that led to the Street of Schools. The door had already been unlocked. As they passed through, the door was slammed on them by Hafiz himself, and they were a long way from the house before the sound of the heavy knocking on the front gates died away.

The sight of a Moorish man and a European woman excited no comment. Ralph, his face shaded by his hood, shuffled along by her side, never once relaxing his hold of her arm. They came to the Sok, deserted at this hour of the night, and she turned instinctively to the hill which would take her back to the Continental.

"Oh no, you don't," he said between his teeth. "I know a little place where you can stay the night."

"Ralph, for God's sake let me go!" she begged.

And then, out of the shadows, came a man who was wearing a long fur- lined coat. The collar was turned up to his ears, and between its ends protruded the stump of a glowing cigar.

"Can I be of any assistance, madam?"

Ralph heard the voice and, dropping the girl's arm, turned and ran into the night.

There were many people he expected to meet in Tangier, but Julius Welling was not one of them.

Hamon raced across the dark market place and along a narrow, twisting lane, hedged with cactus, and was slowing to a walk when he saw somebody coming toward him and stepped aside to avoid the passer. Unfortunately, the unknown made a similar movement and they came into violent collision.

"Curse you!" snapped Ralph in English. "Look where you are going!"

He was startled when the reply came in the same language.

"Blundering hound! Have you eyes, oaf? To barge against a gentleman— you're drunk, sir!"

Arrested by the tone of the man's voice, Ralph struck a match and nearly dropped it again when he saw the blotched face and the red beard.

"E tenebris oritur lux," murmured the smoker of hashish. "Forgive me if my language was a little unrefined—excuse me!"

He threw back his head and searched the moonlit heavens.

"Would it be too much to ask you to point out the Gemma in the Constellation of Orion? I live somewhere underneath. In a foul den, sir, above a beastly Moorish tailor's shop. And what am I, dear friend? A gentleman of the cloth! No unfrocked priest—but a gentleman of the cloth— a reverend gentleman! And an officer holding the supreme decoration of the world, the Victoria Cross, sir! Aylmer Bernando Bannockwaite, sir—could you of your amazing kindness lend me five pesetas ... my remittance arrives tomorrow ..."

Like a man in a dream Ralph Hamon pushed a note into the man's hand.

Bannockwaite—the man who had made Joan and Ferdie Farringdon husband and wife!


CHAPTER 56
CAPTAIN WELLING ADDS A POSTSCRIPT


At the corner of the hilly street, Julius Welling waited for the girl to grow calmer.

"Thank you, thank you!" she was sobbing hysterically. "Will you please see me to my hotel? I'm so grateful!"

"Was that man molesting you?" he asked.

"Yes—no—he was a friend. It was my brother."

He stopped dead.

"Your brother?"

"And then, in the light of a standard, she saw his face.

"Captain Welling!" she gasped.

"That is my name. You must be Miss Lydia Hamon. I've been looking for you all over town. Was that your brother?"

She swallowed something.

"No," she said.

"I see it was," said the imperturbable detective. "Curiously enough, I never thought of his wearing Moorish costume. Why I shouldn't have expected that little piece of theatricality I don't know. It is very becoming; I'm thinking of buying a jellab to take back to London," he mused, and even the incongruous picture of Captain Julius Welling in a white, loose-sleeved wrap did not give her any amusement.

He walked all the way back to the hotel, and she was glad. It gave her an opportunity of making her plans. They were walking up the narrow lane in which the Continental is situated, when she said suddenly:

"Captain Welling, I am afraid of my brother."

"I don't wonder," he murmured. "I am a little afraid of him myself—in a way."

"Would it be possible," she asked, "to put somebody to guard me? That sounds very stupid, but—"

"I think I understand," said the detective. "That is simply arranged. What is the number of your room?"

"I don't even know," she said despairingly, and then: "Are you staying at the Continental?"

He nodded.

"I think I can arrange to have my room moved next to yours," he said, but on examination of the register he found that was unnecessary. She occupied a room at the end of the second floor corridor; and, by a coincidence, Captain Welling was in the next room.

At half-past eleven, when the hotel door was closing, there came a Moor with a letter addressed to Lydia, and Welling took it up to her. She opened the door to him, opened the envelope and read; then, without a word, she handed the letter to the old man.

Everything was all right [it ran]. It was only the basha's bluff. Sadi Hafiz says that Morlake saw the basha this evening, and the raid was the result. Come up for a few minutes and be civil to Sadi. I will bring you back to the hotel myself.

"May I answer this?" said Welling, a twinkle in his eye. When she nodded, he found his fountain pen, and, writing at the bottom:

Come down and have a talk.—J. W.

he enclosed it in an envelope and took it back to the waiting messenger.

"I don't think he will come," he said, when he returned to the girl. "For your sake I hope he doesn't."

Welling went to bed that night without any fear of being disturbed. Hamon would not run the risk of putting himself in the detective's way, for, although the evidence that the police had against him was scrappy and not sufficient to justify the hope even of a committal, let alone a conviction, Ralph Hamon would be ignorant of its incompleteness, and his conscience would occupy the gaps which Welling was trying to fill.

He was a light sleeper, and the first pebble that struck his window pane woke him. He did not put on the light, but, getting noiselessly out of bed, he opened half of his window and looked out cautiously.

Two men, one carrying a lantern, were standing in the lane below. He saw one raise his hand and throw a stone. This time it struck Lydia's window, and he heard her walk across the room.

"Is that Miss Hamon?" asked a low voice.

"Yes?" she replied. "Who is that?"

"It is Sadi Hafiz. Your brother has shot himself!"

Welling heard her cry of distress, but did not move.

"Will you come down?" urgently, and then: "I am afraid he cannot live, and he has given me something for you, something he wants you to give to Mr. Morlake."

"Wait—I will come immediately," she said hurriedly.

Welling waited to hear no more, but pulled on his slippers and his overcoat. She must have been fully dressed, for she was out of sight by the time he was in the corridor, and he heard her fumbling with the locks and chains of the front door. She opened it at last, and, peering over the stairway, he saw the Moor enter.

"When did this happen?"

Her voice was trembling.

"It happened last night. Apparently your brother had seen a police officer he knew, and he came back to my house in a state of great trouble. I left him for a little while to get coffee, and I had hardly turned my back before I heard a shot, and, running in, found him lying on the divan."

"He is not dead?"

Sadi Hafiz shook his head.

"For a moment, no. You have nothing to fear because the house is in possession of the basha's soldiers," he said, "and Captain Morlake is there. Will you come?"

"You said you had something for me."

He put his hand into his breast and took out a little package, which he handed to her. In another instant she had followed him through the door into the dark street.

Welling, old as he was, jumped the last six stairs, and, flying across the hallway, reached her just as she put her foot on the street step.

"One minute," he said, and jerked her through the door.

And then, with amazing agility, he leapt aside to avoid the bludgeon stroke that was aimed at him by a man concealed in the deep doorway. In another second he was in the house, the doors locked, and he had switched on the hall light.

"Fooled 'em!" he said breathlessly.

"But, Mr. Welling—my brother—"

"Your brother has not shot himself. That kind of guy never does."

He took the envelope from her hand.

"They were killing two birds with one stone, young lady, but I was the real burnt-offering. This wonderful something is, of course, a blank sheet of paper."

He took her back to her room, bewildered and dazed by the happening.

"You don't think that it is true?"

"I know it is not true," he said. "The stone that was thrown at my window was intended to wake me, and it was intended that I should overhear your conversation. And the general idea, as they say in military circles, was that, as soon as I put my foot outside the street door, I was to get it in the neck—and I nearly did! On the whole, I think I have taken too unflattering a view of the Oriental mind. They are clever!"


CHAPTER 57
THE RIDE TO THE HILLS


That night held for Joan Carston an unbelievable experience. For four hours she sat on an ambling mule, passing through a country which she could not see, and the very character of which was a mystery to her. They were following, so far as she could tell, no beaten tracks, and from time to time her feet were caught by thorn-like bushes that clung to the soft white wrap she wore.

At daybreak she saw that they were in a wild and apparently uninhabited country. The party consisted of six men and the girl who had looked after her at her resting place. One of the men lit a fire and put on a pot of water, whilst another took the mules to a stream which must have been near but which was not visible to her.

She looked around, trying in vain to recall such physical features of Morocco as she had learnt at school, that would enable her to identify the spot. Blue mountains bordered half the horizon, and far away in the distance she saw an isolated mountain of peculiar shape, which she recognised as the crest of Gibraltar. One of the men found a little bower in the bushes and spread a blanket, signing to her to sleep. But Joan had never felt more wide awake, and though she retired to such privacy as the "bower" offered, it was only to lie and think and think, and then to think again.

The Moorish girl brought her a large tumblerful of coffee and an oaten cake, and she was glad of this refreshment, for she had had nothing to eat since her lunch on the previous day.

"Have we far to go?" she asked in halting Spanish.

The Moorish girl shook her head, but volunteered no information.

After two hours' rest the cavalcade got in movement again, and it puzzled her why such isolated travellers as they met with did not show any surprise at the appearance of a European woman, until she remembered that she was wearing Moorish dress. If they stared at her at all, it was because she did not veil her face when she passed them.

The hills were growing nearer, and she saw a little white patch on the slope, without realising that that was their objective. The patch grew to a definite shape as the way began to lead uphill, and she could not but admire the beautiful setting of the house. It looked like a white jewel, and even from that distance she could guess the glory of the gardens laid out on terraces above and below.

Here the country was undulating, and they were threading their way between the bushes down a gentle slope, when she saw a man sitting on a sorry-looking horse a little distance to their right. The rest of the members of the party paid him no attention, but the Moorish girl, who was now riding by her side, used a word that Joan understood.

"A mendicant?" she said in surprise, and might have been amused in other circumstances at the spectacle of a beggar on horseback.

He was an elderly man with a beard in which grey predominated. His face looked as if it had never known soap and water. The tarboosh at the back of his head was old and greasy. He stared at the party as it passed, and the Moorish girl dropped her veil and signed to her companion to follow her example.

Joan was too interested. She took stock of the man as they passed, noted the ragged jellab that covered his stooping frame, the discoloured shirt that showed at his throat, and thought that she had never seen anything quite so repulsive.

"Alms!" he bawled when they were level with him. "Alms, in the name of God the Compassionate!"

One of the party flung him a copper coin and he caught it dexterously in his uncleanly hands.

"Alms, O my beautiful rose, in the name of the Compassionate and Merciful, pity the poor!"

His voice sank away to a drone.

The girl was ready to drop from weariness before they reached the open gates that took them through the gardens to the house. Near at hand, the white house was even more beautiful than it had appeared from the distance. It was nearly new, yet its walls were smothered with begonias.

"It must be beautiful in the summer," she said in English before she realised that the girl at her side could not understand her.

Before the door stood a big pillared porch, so much out of architectural harmony that she wondered what freak had induced the owner to add this European finish to a building which, in its graceful, simple lines, was wholly satisfying.

As she walked into the house, the girl, who seemed to be as much a stranger to the place as she, ran forward to ask a question in a whisper of the women who were curiously regarding the arrival. One of these came forward, a stout woman with a heavy face, disfigured at the moment with a scowl which made her forbidding. She said something in a sharp tone, and when Joan shook her head to signify that she did not understand, she clicked her lips impatiently. Pointing to a door, the Moorish girl, who seemed in awe of the stout lady, opened it and beckoned Joan forward.

The room was exquisitely furnished and reminded her of an English drawing-room, except that the windows, like those in most of the Moorish houses, were barred. She looked round curiously, and then asked in Spanish:

"Who is that fat woman?"

The Moorish girl giggled shrilly.

"That is the Señora Hamon," she said, and Joan sat down suddenly on the nearest divan and shook with helpless laughter.

She might become the principal, but she certainly would not be the first wife of Mr. Ralph Hamon!


CHAPTER 58
AT THE WHITE HOUSE


"Who are the other women? Are they his wives also?" she asked drily.

The little Moor shook her head.

"There is only one wife here," she said, and Joan managed to follow her Spanish without difficulty. "The others are women of attendance. The wife does not live here; she came a little time ago. She has not seen her husband for many years."

She spoke slowly, repeating her words when Joan failed to grasp the meaning.

"Thank you," said the girl.

"Claro?" asked the little Moor, whose name was Zuleika.

"Perfectly claro," said Joan with a smile.

Why she should be so extraordinarily cheerful at this, which promised to be the most tragic moment of her life, puzzled her. It might have been the tang of the fresh mountain air that induced the strange exhilaration in her heart; or was it the consciousness that the future could hold no surprises for her, that enabled her to draw a line under her misfortunes and seek for some balance on the credit side of life's ledger? The ceiling reminded her of Jim's room: it was made of thick white plaster, in which Moorish workmen, with their sharp knives, had cut so delicate a tracery that it almost seemed that the ceiling was made of frothing lace.

European houses must have supplied the furniture and the panelling. The big blue carpet, bordered with arabesques of gold and brown, had been woven in one piece on the looms of Persia. She saw the European touch in the white marble fireplace, with its green pillars and its crouching lions. Ralph Hamon must have had this retreat in his mind all his life, for she detected at a glance the care which had been exercised in choosing every single article in the room.

Beautiful it was, but a prison! It might be something worse.

At the far end of the chamber a wide window was covered on the outside by a hand-worked grille of wrought iron. She opened the window and leant out, taking in the beauty of the wide valley. From here she caught the distant sparkle of the sea, and, turning her head, saw that the bulk of Gibraltar was in view.

She noticed something moving in the valley, and shaded her eyes from the glare of the setting sun. It was the beggar, and he was riding back on the Tangier Road. For one second her poise was disturbed.

"Joan, Joan," she said breathlessly, "you are not going to weep or faint or do anything equally feminine, are you?" and she shook her head.

Closing the window, she walked back to the door and turned the silver handle. She did not expect it to open as it did. The hall was empty; the swing doors were not fastened. Apparently she was to be given a certain amount of liberty, and for that at least she was grateful.

But once she was in the garden, she saw how hopeless any thought of escape must be. The wall about the property was unusually high, even for a Moorish house, and was crowned at the top by spears of broken glass that glittered in the sunlight, as though to remind her that escape that way was futile.

The gate was equally impossible. There was a little brick lean-to built against the wall, in which the gatekeeper slept and she was reminded (and again she felt that pang of poignant sorrow) of Creith and the empty lodge which Lord Creith could never afford to fill.

Tired and sickened against her fierce determination to keep all thoughts of home, of father and of someone else out of her mind, she went back to the big room, which was evidently reserved for her, since nobody else came to relieve her solitude.

News had been brought to Ralph Hamon of the successful ending of the flight, and he rode across the uneven country, a fierce song of triumph in his soul, his eyes glued upon the white house in the hills.

At last! Joan Carston was his, in every possessive sense. He had had a secret interview with a red-bearded man in Tangier, and now his happiness was complete. Sadi Hafiz, who rode by his side, was in a less cheerful frame of mind. He had seen his cup of joy shattered whilst it was almost at his lips, and Ralph Hamon had found him a sulky and uncompanionable fellow-passenger.

"We shall get there soon after sunset," said Ralph.

"Why I go there at all, Heaven knows," said Sadi pettishly. He invariably spoke in English, priding himself, with reason, not only upon his extraordinary knowledge of the language but his acquaintance with the rich classics of that tongue. "You've made a bungling mess of my affairs, Hamon!"

Ralph Hamon laughed coarsely, not being in the mood to feel angry, even at so unjust an accusation.

"Who was it came flying into the room and saying that the basha and his soldiers were at the door? Who practically turned her out of the house when he had her safe? Whose plan was it to wake up the detective so that he might be quietened, when it would have been a simple matter, as was proved, to have brought Lydia to your house? I haven't bungled it, Sadi. You must have patience. Lydia is still in Tangier, and will probably remain there for a few days, and it should not be difficult, if I could bring my lady to this place—"

"If you could bring!" sneered the other. "Inshallah! Who brought her but me, the Shereef Sadi Hafiz?"

"She is lovely," said the unthinking Hamon with enthusiasm.

"Why else should I be making this journey?" said Sadi coldly, and something in his tone made Ralph Hamon look round.

"You may satisfy your curiosity and then you may go," he said curtly, "and bestow your attentions where they are most likely to be acceptable. Let there be no mistake about this, Sadi: this girl is to marry me."

The shereef shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Women are as many as beggars," he quoted, and jerked his head to the nondescript figure that was ambling toward them.

"Alms, in the name of Allah the Compassionate and Merciful!" moaned the beggar, and Ralph looked at him without interest. He had seen such sights too often.

"A toothless old devil," he said, and in the manner of the East flung him a coin.

"God grant you happy dreams," whined the mendicant, and urged his horse after him. "Gain joy in heaven and the pleasure of the prophets," he moaned, "by giving me one little house to sleep in tonight, for I am an old man...!"

Sadi, being what he was, could bear this appeal philosophically. Ralph turned with a smile and glared into the red-rimmed eyes.

"Get away, you dog!" he roared, but the old man followed on, continuing his supplications in a monotonous whine.

"Let me sleep in the shadow of your house, O my beautiful bird of paradise! Give me a blanket and a little roof, for the nights are cold and I am a very ancient man."

"Let him alone," said Sadi. "Why do you argue with beggars, and you so long in Morocco?"

So they suffered the old man to follow them at a distance, until the door slammed in the long face of his horse, and he went, grumbling and complaining, down the hillside, and later Ralph saw him, his horse hobbled by the leg grazing in the coarse grass, and a blue line of smoke rising from the bushes where the ancient beggar ate his dinner.

Ralph Hamon had an unpleasant task, and he was not particularly anxious to go to it. He dined with Sadi in a small room off the hall.

"You're not a very ardent lover," said the Moor. "Have you seen her?"

"She can wait," replied Hamon.

"Then I will meet her," said Sadi blandly. And seeing the other's hesitation: "After all, you're not a Mussulman, and I think the young lady might be reassured to meet a Moorish gentleman and to learn that we are not wholly without good breeding."

"I'll take you in to her later, but I have something else to do," said Ralph shortly.

The "something else" was to interview a woman whom he had not seen for eight years. As he walked into her room, it seemed impossible that this stout, scowling female was once a Moorish lady of considerable beauty, slim and wholly delectable.

"So you have come, Hamon?" she said harshly. "All these years I have not heard from you or seen you."

"Have you been hungry?" asked Hamon coolly. "Have you been without a roof or a bed?"

"Who is this girl you have brought here?" asked the woman suspiciously.

"She will soon be my wife," replied Hamon, and the woman leapt up, quivering with anger.

"Then why did you bring me here?" she stormed. "To make me look a fool before my servants? Why did you not leave me at Mogador? At least I have friends there. Here I am buried alive in the wilderness. And why? That I should be a slave to your new wife? I will not do it, Hamon!"

Hamon felt sure of himself now.

"You can go back to Mogador next week. You are here for a purpose of my own."

She brooded awhile.

"Does she know?" she asked.

"I told the girl to tell her, so I suppose she does," said Hamon carelessly.

He had indeed a very excellent purpose to serve. His Moorish "wife" had been brought post haste to the house in the hills that Joan might see her, and, seeing her, understand. The subtle mind of Ralph Hamon was never better illustrated than in this act of his.

He went back to Sadi Hafiz.

"I'm going to see my lady," he said, "and afterwards I will bring you in."

He tapped at the door of the drawing-room, and as there was no answer, he turned the handle and walked in. Joan was on a music-stool before the grand piano, her hands folded on her lap. All the evening she had been trying to work up an inclination to play, and she had at last brought herself to the piano when Hamon made his appearance.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked.

She did not reply. He stood for a while, admiring the straight figure and the calm, imperturbable face. A lesser breed would have shown the hatred and loathing she felt, but not a line of her face changed, and he might have been a servant of Creith who had come at her summons, so unmoved and unemotional was her reception.

"It is a beautiful place, eh? One of the loveliest in Morocco," he went on. "A girl could be happy here for a year or two. Have you seen Number One?"

He sat down, uninvited, and lit a cigar.

"By Number One I presume you mean Mrs. Hamon?"

He nodded. She had never seen Ralph Hamon look quite so cheerful as he did at that moment. It was as though all the trouble in the world had rolled away from him and left him care-free and buoyant of heart.

"When I say 'first,'" said Joan carefully, "I of course expose my ignorance of Moorish customs. At any rate, she is the first I have seen."

"And the last you'll see, Joan," he said with a laugh. "Marriages, they say, are made in heaven. Pleasant alliances can be made in Morocco, but Number One, first, last and all the time, will be Lady Joan Hamon."

A shadow of a smile came and went.

"It sounds beastly, doesn't it?" she said frankly.

She had a trick of irritating him more than any other human being. She could get under his skin and drag on the raw places. For a second his eyes blazed, and then, swallowing his rage, he forced a laugh. Secretly he admired her cool insolence, and would gladly have imitated her if it were possible.

"It may sound bad, but it is a good enough name for me," he said.

"Is that a Moorish custom too?" she asked coolly. "That a girl takes the name of the man who abducts her? You must instruct me in the Moorish marriage laws; I'm afraid I'm totally ignorant on the subject."

He crossed to where she was sitting, pulling his chair with him.

"Now listen, Joan," he said quietly. "There is to be no Moorish marriage. There is to be an honest-to-God marriage, conducted by a fully ordained minister of the Episcopalian Church, with wedding ring and the usual paraphernalia. I asked you just now, had you seen my Moorish wife, and I guess you have. What do you think of her?"

Joan did not speak. She was trying to discover what he was aiming at.

"What do you think of her?" he asked again.

"I feel extremely sorry for her. She wasn't particularly pleasant to me, but I have every sympathy with her."

"You have, eh? Fat, isn't she? Pasty-faced and over-fed. They go like that in Morocco. It is the dark of the harem, the absence of liberty and exercise. It is being treated like cattle, locked up in a hothouse atmosphere day and night, and exercised for half-an-hour a day under the eyes of slaves. Why, it is worse than being in prison. That is what it means to be a Moorish wife. Joan, do you want to be a Moorish wife?"

She met his eyes straightly.

"I don't want to be any kind of wife to you," she said.

"Do you want to be a Moorish wife?" he asked her. "Or do you want to be married, and have children who can bear your name and inherit your father's title?"

She rose abruptly from the stool and walked to the end of the room, her back toward him.

"We won't go any farther into this question for the moment," said Ralph rising. "I'd like you to meet a very dear friend of mine, Sadi Hafiz, and be civil to him, do you hear, but not too civil."

Something in his tone made her turn.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because he is feeling sore with me just now. He is very keen on Lydia, and Lydia has slipped him. I don't want him to have ideas about you."

He left her to meditate upon this warning, and went out, to return with the silk-robed Sadi, and a new factor came immediately into play. One glance Joan gave, and she knew that this man was as great a danger as Ralph Hamon. Greater, for if he was as remorseless, he was less susceptible, since he had not that brand of human vanity which made Ralph Hamon so easy to handle. She hated him, with his fat, expressionless face and his dark, unblinking eyes that looked at her through and through, appraising her as though she were cattle. She hated him for the veneer of his civilisation, his polite English, his ready smile.

Here, then, was the danger: this she recognised instantly.

Sadi Hafiz did not remain very long—just long enough to create an impression. In Joan's case he would have been surprised if he had read her heart and mind, for he rather flattered himself upon his flair for imposing his personality upon women.

"What do you think of him?" asked Ralph when he had gone.

"I haven't thought," she said untruthfully.

"A good friend and a bad enemy," said Hamon sententiously. "I wish Lydia had had a little more sense. She owes me something."

Joan thought it was possible that he might owe Lydia something too, but was not in the mood for conversation. Unexpectedly he rose.

"I'm going now. You'll find your sleeping room, I suppose? Pleasant dreams!"

She said nothing.

At the door he turned.

"A Christian wife has a better time than a Moorish wife. I guess you've noticed that already."

Still she did not speak.

"We'll be married in two days," he said, and, with a crooked smile: "Would you like anybody else to come to the wedding?"

"You dare not," she was taunted into saying. "You dare not produce an English clergyman!"

"Oh, daren't I?" he said. "I'll not only produce him, but he'll marry us whatever you say, and whatever protests you make. You're going to meet an old friend, Joan."

"An old friend?" She was for the moment taken aback.

"An old clerical friend," said Hamon. "The Reverend Mr. Bannockwaite," and with this parting shot he left her, and she heard the key turn in the lock.


CHAPTER 59
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW


Sadi was waiting for him in the smoking-room, and so absorbed was the Moor in his thoughts that he did not hear Hamon until his name was called.

"Eh?" he said, looking up. "Allah, you frightened me. Yes, yes, she is a pretty woman—not the Moorish kind, and too thin for my liking. But you Aryans prefer them that way; I have never understood why."

Hamon was not deceived; the girl had made a tremendous impression upon the Moor and he was watchful and alert.

"Do you like her better than Lydia?" he asked humorously, as he poured out a drink from the decanter.

The Moor shrugged his shoulders.

"In some ways Lydia is impossible," he said.

That was a bad sign and Hamon knew it. The thought of Lydia had absorbed this man to the exclusion of all else, and now he could talk of her critically and without heat—a very bad sign.

"Shall you go back to Tangier tomorrow?" he asked, and his eyes narrowed when the Moor shook his head.

"No, I have decided to stay on for a little while. I need the change. It has been a nervous time for me."

"But you promised to bring Bannockwaite?"

"He will come without any assistance from me. I've told one of my men. Besides, your English agent could arrange to bring him. He'll come if you pay him."

"Do you know him very well?" asked Hamon.

"I've seen him. He has become quite a character in Tangier," said Sadi Hafiz. "He arrived during the war and the story I have heard is that he got drunk on the eve of the Battle of the Somme and deserted. He is a man entirely without principle, surely he could not perform the marriage ceremony? You told me he was unfrocked."

Ralph shook his head.

"His name appeared in the official list of clergymen of the Established Church until he was reported missing on the Somme. I have an idea it is still in the list; but even if it isn't, that would not invalidate the marriage."

"Why marry at all?" asked the Moor, looking up suddenly. "You are a stickler for the conventions, my friend."

Ralph smiled.

"Not so much as you think," he said. "I've a reason. The Creith title will descend through my wife to her children."

Again the Moor shrugged.

"It is a freakish idea," he said, "but then, freakishness has been responsible for your downfall, Hamon."

"I have not fallen yet," snarled Hamon.

"But you will," said the other, "unless," he went on quickly, seeing the look of distrust and suspicion in the man's eyes, "unless you elect to remain here in Morocco, outside the jurisdiction of the embassies."

He stretched his arms and yawned.

"I'm going to bed," he said. "You will be pleased to learn that I've decided to go back to Tangier in the morning."

He saw the look of relief in the other's face and smiled inwardly.

"And I will send along your Bannockwaite under escort."

When Hamon woke the next morning, he learnt that the Shereef had departed, and was thankful. He did not go in to Joan, though he saw her, from his room, walking in the garden.

Hamon's plan was not wholly dictated by a desire to break into the peerage. As Creith's son-in-law he would be possessed of powerful influence. It was not likely that the Earl would kick once the girl was married; and he knew her well enough to be satisfied that, if she bore his name, she would at least be outwardly loyal.

He mounted a horse and went down the hillside, and his way took him past the camp of the old beggar. The scarecrow horse raised his head to view him for a moment, and resumed its grazing, but the old man was not in sight. A fantastic idea came to him and he grinned at the thought. There was something about Ralph Hamon that was not quite normal.

In the evening his servant reported that a party was approaching the house, and, taking his glasses, he inspected the three men who were riding across the wild country in his direction. Two were Moors; the third, who rolled about on his horse like somebody drunk, he recognised, though he had never seen him except by match light, and, hastily running from the house, he was waiting at the open gates when the Rev. Aylmer Bannockwaite arrived.

The man almost fell from his horse, but recovered himself with the aid of the Moor who was with him and who evidently expected some such accident, for he had sprung off his horse the moment the party halted and run to the clergyman's side.

Bannockwaite turned his bloated face to his host, but, ignoring the outstretched hand, he fumbled in his dilapidated waistcoat and produced a glass, which he fixed in his eye.

"Who are you and what are you?" he said irritably. "You have brought me across this wretched country, you have interfered with my proper and pleasant recreations—now what the devil do you mean by it?"

"I'm sorry if I have inconvenienced you, Mr. Bannockwaite," said Ralph, humouring the man.

"Handsomely said."

A big, flabby paw gripped Ralph Hamon's feebly.

"Handsomely said, my boy. Now if you can give me a little time to rest, and a pipe of that seductive hemp to steady my nerves and stimulate my imagination I'm your friend for life. And if you will add a glass of the priceless Marsala and a scented cigarette, I am your slave body and soul!"

Watching from her window, Joan saw the obscene figure, and immediately guessed his identity. Could that be Bannockwaite, the tall, dapper ascetic? She had only seen him twice, and yet ... there was a likeness; something in his walk, in the roll of his head. She stared open- mouthed until he had passed out of view, then sat, her head in her hands, trying to bring into order that confusion of her thoughts.

It was Bannockwaite. Then he was not dead: Bannockwaite, the fastidious, half-mad parson, the idol of Hulston, the inventor of bizarre secret societies was this gross and uncleanly creature whose rags and dirt were an offence to the eye.

How had Ralph Hamon found him, she wondered, and changed the current of her thoughts as she realised the unprofit of speculation.

Bannockwaite would marry her, whatever were her protests; that she knew instinctively. Even if he had been his old, sane self—if he ever were sane—the queer situation would have so appealed to him that he would not have hesitated.

Ralph made no appearance that night, although she expected him to bring the besotted parson to meet her. The bedroom led from the principal apartment, a large room, furnished in the Empire style. The window here was barred, with less elegance but as effectively as the bigger room. She waited until twelve, and then, undressing, she put over the night attire that the Moorish girl had brought her a long fleecy cloak, and, pulling a chair to the window and having extinguished the light, pulled back the curtain. As she did, she screamed and almost dropped with fright. A face was staring at her through the bars, long-bearded, hook-nosed, red-eyed, hideous! It was the wandering mendicant and in his teeth he held a long knife that glittered in the moonlight.


CHAPTER 60
THE MARRIAGE


He heard the scream and dropped quickly out of sight and she stood, holding on to the window-ledge, her heart thumping painfully. Who was he, and what did he want? How did he come into the garden? In the house complete silence reigned. Nobody had heard the scream, for the walls were thick.

It took an effort to thrust open the window and look out as far as the bars would allow her. The little garden looked peaceful and mysterious in the moon's rays. Long shadows ran across the ground; strange shapes seemed to appear and disappear. And then she saw him, moving cautiously toward the wall. In another instant he was beyond her view.

Why did she associate this midnight prowler in her mind with Sadi Hafiz? And yet she did. Was he some agent of this cunning Moor? The knife had not been intended for her; of that she was sure.

It was daylight before she went to bed and she was sleeping heavily when Zuleika brought in coffee and fruit and drew aside the curtains.

"Zuleika," she said in her halting Spanish, which had improved since she had had an opportunity of talking to the girl, "do you remember the old beggar we saw, the mendicant on the horse?"

"Yes, Lady," said the girl, nodding.

"Who is he?"

The girl smiled.

"There are many in Morocco. Some say they are the spies of the chieftains."

A spy of Sadi Hafiz! Put there to watch her arrival—why? Again that fear of the Moor swept through her, but she was left little time that morning to meditate, either upon her terrifying experience of the night or the intentions of Sadi. She had hardly dressed and finished her breakfast when Ralph came in. He was brisk and gave her a cheerful and smiling good- morning.

"Joan, I want you to meet the Rev. Aylmer Bannockwaite," he said. "I think you've met him before. Anyway, you'll find him changed. This gentleman has consented to perform the necessary ceremony that will mark, I hope, the beginning of a happier and a brighter time for both of us."

She did not reply.

"Are you going to be sensible, Joan? I'm trying to do the right thing by you. You're absolutely alone here, and there is nobody within a hundred miles who'd raise their hand if I killed you."

"When do you wish—" she hesitated.

"today, immediately," he said.

She was panic-stricken.

"You must give me time to think this matter over, Mr. Hamon," she said. "tomorrow—"

"Today," he insisted. "I'm not going to let another day pass. I think I know my friend Sadi Hafiz. Sadi has enough respect for the law and the sanctity of married life," he sneered, "to leave you alone if you're married. But if I wait until tomorrow—" He shrugged his shoulders.

But there was no yielding in her determined face.

"I absolutely refuse to marry you," she said, "and if Mr. Bannockwaite has a lingering remnant of decency he will refuse to perform the ceremony."

"You can make up your mind on one point," said Hamon, "that he hasn't even the dregs of decency. You'd better meet him. He is more or less exhilarated now and is more bearable than he will be."

In the morning sunlight, Aylmer Bannockwaite looked even more horrible than he had in the kindly blue of the dusk. She shuddered. It seemed as though some horrible incarnation of evil had come into the room as he strutted forward with his plump hand outstretched.

"It is my dear little Carston girl!" he said jovially. "Well, this is the most amazing coincidence—that I should marry you twice is an especial privilege!"

One glance she gave at his face and shuddered. Thereafter, she never looked beyond the second button of his stained waistcoat.

"I am not going to be married, Mr. Bannockwaite. I want you to understand that distinctly; if you marry me, it is against my will."

"Tut, tut!" said Bannockwaite loudly. "This will never do. A shy bride! 'Standing with reluctant feet where the brook and river meet,' eh? God bless my life! Marriage is the natural state of mankind. It has ever been a matter for regret to me—"

"I won't marry him, I won't, I won't," she flamed. "If I am to be married, I'll be married decently by a clean man to a clean man!"

She stood erect, her eyes blazing, her finger outstretched in accusation.

"I know you now. You look what you are, what you always have been, and all your posturing and posing does not disguise you. You are corruption in human form—Ada called you 'The Beast with the silver tongue,' and she was right."

That was her curious and hateful gift—to touch the raw places of human vanity. The man's thick underlip stuck out; there was an insane fury in his eyes that momentarily frightened her.

"You Jezebel!" he boomed. "I'll marry you, if they hang me for it! And it will be legal and binding on you, woman! I posture, do I? I pose? You, you—"

Hamon gripped his arm.

"Steady," he whispered, and then, to the girl: "Now, Joan, what is the use of this foolishness? He was good enough a parson to marry you before."

"I won't marry you, I won't!" She stamped her foot. "I would sooner marry the beggar I saw on the roadside. I'd sooner marry the meanest slave in your household than marry you, a thief and a murderer—a man to whom no crime is too mean. I'd rather marry—"

"A burglar?" he said, white with passion.

"Ten thousand times yes—if you mean Jim Morlake. I love him, Hamon. I'll go on loving him till I die!"

"You will, will you?" he muttered. And then, turning, he ran out of the room, leaving her alone with the clergyman.

"How can you, Mr. Bannockwaite? How have you brought yourself to this low level?" she asked sternly. "Is there nothing in you that is wholesome to which a woman could appeal?"

"I don't want the heads of a sermon from you," he growled. "I will have you understand that I am intellectually your superior, socially your equal—"

"And morally the mud under my feet," she said scornfully.

For a moment she thought he would strike her. His bloated face grew first purple with passion, then faded to a pasty white.

"Intellectually your superior and socially your equal," he muttered again. "I am superior to your insults. Telum imbelle sine ictu!"

And then came a half-mad Hamon, dragging behind him a man, at the sight of whom Joan reeled backward. It was the beggar, a grinning, fawning toothless old man, horrible to look upon as he came cringing into this lovely room.

"Here is your husband!" almost shrieked the demented man. "Look at him! You'd sooner marry a beggar, would you, damn you! Well, you shall marry him and you shall have the desert for your honeymoon!"

She looked from the beggar to Bannockwaite and, even in her distress, she could not help thinking that she had never seen two more hideous men in her life.

"Get your book, Bannockwaite!" yelled Hamon. He was frothing at the mouth, so utterly beside himself that he seemed inhuman.

From his pocket, Bannockwaite produced a small book and opened it.

"You'll want witnesses," he said, and again Hamon dashed out, returning with half-a-dozen servants.

And there, under the curious eyes of the tittering Moors, Lady Joan Carston was married to Abdul Azim. Hamon muttered something in Arabic to the man, and then the girl felt herself caught by the arm and pulled and led through the hall into the garden.

Hamon dragged her to the open gates and flung her out with such violence that she nearly fell.

"Take your husband back to Creith!" he howled. "By God, you'll be glad to come back to me!"


CHAPTER 61
THE BEGGAR HUSBAND


Hamon pushed the beggar out after his bride and slammed the gate on him.

Joan tried to walk, stumbled, recovered again, and then she knew no more. She recovered from her faint, lying under the shadow of a big juniper bush. Her face and neck were wet; a bowl of water was by her side. The old beggar had disappeared, and, raising herself on her elbow, she saw him unhobbling his sorry-looking horse. What should she do? She came unsteadily to her feet and looked round wildly. Escape was impossible.

And then she saw, far away in the valley, a cloud of dust. A party was approaching, and, straining her eyes, she caught sight of white jellabs and the glint of steel. It was a party of Moors, probably Sadi Hafiz returning—there would be no help there.

She looked again at her husband. The old man was wrapping his face and head in voluminous scarves, until only his iron-grey beard and the tip of his red hooked nose were visible.

He saw her and came toward her, leading the horse, and she obeyed his signal without a word, and mounted. Walking ahead he kept his hand on the bridle and she noticed that he took a path that was at right angles to the main road to Tangier. Once or twice he looked back, first at the house and then the swift-moving party of horsemen which were now in view. It was Sadi—Joan recognised the figure riding at the head of the party. And she saw, too, that each man carried a rifle.

Suddenly the beggar changed direction, moved parallel with the cavalcade, as far as she could guess, for they were now out of sight and mounting the hill toward a point which would bring them clear of the gardens. From the anxious glances he shot backward, she guessed that he was in some fear lest Hamon, in a saner moment, had relented his mad folly. He walked the horse down to the bed of a hill stream and followed its tortuous windings, keeping the horse in the shallow waters. Suddenly she heard a shot, and then another. The sound re-echoed from the hills, and she looked down at the old man anxiously.

"What was that?" she asked in Spanish.

He shook his head without looking round.

Again came a shot, and then she guessed the reason. The shots were to attract the attention of the beggar and to recall him, and he evidently had the same view, for he jerked the reins of the horse and the animal broke into a trot, the beggar running nimbly by his animal's head.

They came to a little wood of pines and he brought the horse up the steep slope into its cover, and, signalling her to wait, he went back on foot. It was nearly half-an-hour before he returned, and then, holding up his hand, he lifted her from the saddle and she closed her eyes that she might not see his face. After a time he brought her water from the stream, and opening a little bundle, displayed food, but she was too tired to do any more than drink the cold, refreshing liquid. So tired, that, when she lay down upon the rug he spread, she forgot her terrible danger, forgot the trick of fate that had made her the wife of a beggar and fell instantly into a sound and dreamless sleep.

Ralph Hamon sat, crouched in his bedroom, his nails at his teeth, feeling weak and ill. The mad gust of temper that had driven him to such an act of lunacy had passed, leaving him shaking in every limb. From his window he could see the beggar carrying the girl down the hill, and at the sight he started to his feet with a hoarse cry of rage. That folly could be remedied and quickly.

There was a man amongst his servants who had been his pensioner for years, an old man, grizzled and grey, and he sent for him.

"Ahab," he said, "you know the beggar who rides the horse?"

"Yes, lord."

"He has taken with him at this moment the lady of my heart. Go bring her back and give the old man this money." He took a handful of notes from his pocket and put them into the eager palm of his servitor. "If he gives you trouble—kill him."

Ralph went up to his bedroom to watch his emissary go through the gates, and then for the first time he saw the party of mounted men winding their way up the hillside.

"Sadi," he said under his breath and guessed what that visit signified.

It was too late to recall his messenger and he ran down to the gates to welcome his some-time agent. Sadi Hafiz threw himself from his horse and his tone and mien were changed. He was no longer the polite and polished product of the mission school. He was the Moorish chieftain, insolent, overbearing, unsmiling.

"You know why I've come, Hamon," he said, his hands on his hips, his feet apart, his big head thrust forward. "Where is the girl? I want her. I presume you are not married, but, if you are, it makes very little difference."

"I am not married," said Hamon, "but she is!"

"What do you mean?"

He was not left long in doubt.

"My lady expressed a preference for a beggar. She said she would rather marry the old man who asked for alms than marry me—her wish has been fulfilled."

Sadi's eyes were slits.

"They were married half-an-hour ago and are there." He took in the country with a gesture.

"You're lying, Hamon," said the other steadily. "That story doesn't deceive me. I shall search your house as Morlake searched mine."

Hamon said nothing. There were twenty armed men behind Sadi and at a word from their leader he was a dead man.

"You're at liberty to search the house from harem to kitchen," he said coolly, and the Moor strode past him.

He could not have had time to make a very complete inspection, for he was back again almost immediately.

"I've spoken to your servants, who tell me that what you have said is true. Which way did she go?"

Hamon pointed and the Moor gave an order to his men. One of the horsemen fired in the air. A second and a third shot followed.

"If that does not bring him back we will go and look for him," said Sadi grimly.

"So far as I am concerned," Ralph shrugged his shoulders—"you may do as you wish. My interest in the lady has evaporated."

He was not speaking the truth, but his manner deceived the Moor.

"You were a fool to let her go," he said more mildly.

"If I hadn't let her go, you would probably have persuaded me," said Hamon, and Sadi's slow smile confirmed his suspicion.

A minute later the party was riding down the hill, scattering left and right in an endeavour to pick up the trail of the beggar and his wife. Hamon watched them before he returned to the house, to gather the pieces of his scattered dreams and discover which of the fragments had a solid value.

From an inside pocket he took a black leather case and, emptying the contents, laid them on the table and examined them one by one. The last of these possessions was an oblong document, covered with fine writing. Hindhead seemed far away—Hindhead and Jim Morlake and the prying Welling, and Creith, with its avenues and meadowlands. He knew the document by heart, but he read it again:

Believing that Ralph Hamon, who I thought was my friend, designs my death, I wish to explain the circumstances under which I find myself a prisoner in a little house overlooking Hindhead. Acting on the representations and on the advice of Hamon, I went to Morocco to inspect a mine, which I believed to be his property. We returned to London secretly, again on his advice, for he said it would be fatal to his plans if it were known that he was transferring any of his interests in the mine. Having a suspicion that the property, which he stated was his, had in reality nothing whatever to do with his company, I went to Hindhead, determined not to part with my money, until he could assure me that I was mistaken. I took a precaution which I believed and still believe is effective. At Hindhead my suspicions were confirmed and I refused to part with the money. He locked me up in the kitchen under the guardianship of a Moor whom he had brought back from Tangier with him. An attempt has already been made, and I fear the next—

Here the writing ended abruptly. He rolled up the damning charge and, returning it to his pocket-book with the other contents, slipped it into his inside pocket again. And, as he did so, he recalled Jim Morlake's description. The monkey's hand was in the gourd and he had come to the place where he could not release the fruit.

In the meantime, one of Sadi's men had picked up the track of footprints, and Sadi and two of the party had reached the edge of the stream.

"Leave your horses and come on foot," he ordered.

They followed the course of the stream downward until it was clear to the shereef that they could not have gone in that direction. From thereon, he had a view of the country. Moreover, they passed a particularly shallow stretch with a sandy bottom and there were no marks of hoofs.

"We will go back," he said, and led the way.

An hour's walk brought them to a place where the stream ran between high banks, and here the Moor's quick eyes saw the new marks of horse's feet, and he signalled his men to silence. With remarkable agility he ran up the bank and crept forward ...

Joan woke from her sleep to meet the dark eyes of Sadi Hafiz looking down at her.

"Where is your friend?" asked Sadi, stooping to assist her to her feet.

She looked round, still dazed with sleep.

"My friend? You mean Abdul?"

"So you know his name," said Sadi pleasantly.

"What do you want with me?" she asked.

"I am taking you with me to Tangier, to your friends," he said, but she knew he was lying.

Looking round, she saw no sign of the beggar. His horse still grazed beneath a tree, but the old man had disappeared. Sadi sent one of his people to bring in the animal, and helped her to mount.

"I was terribly worried," he said in his excellent English, "when our friend Hamon told me the stupid thing he had done. There are times when Hamon is crazy and I am very angry with him. You like Morocco, Lady Joan?"

"Not very much," she said, and he chuckled.

"I don't suppose you do." He looked up at her admiringly. "How well the Moorish costume suits you! It might have been designed for your adornment."

A trick he had of using pretentious words that would at any other time have amused her. He walked by her side, one of his riflemen leading the horse, and after a while they came to a place where they had taken the stream. The remainder of his party were waiting for him, sitting on the bank, and at a signal they mounted.

"Perhaps it is as well I did not meet your husband," said Sadi ominously. "I trust he has not given you any trouble?"

She was not in the mood for conversation and she answered curtly enough and he seemed amused. No time was lost. She was lifted from the beggar's horse to a beautiful roan that had evidently been brought specially for her and she could not help reflecting on the certainty that, even if Ralph had married her, she would still have ridden on that horse before the day was through. Sadi Hafiz had come to take her back with him to his little house in the hollow, married or unmarried.

He rode by her side most of the day, talking pleasantly of people and things, and she was surprised at the wideness and catholicity of his knowledge.

"I was agent for Hamon in Tangier, and I suppose you have an idea that I was a sort of superior servant," he said. "But it suited me to act for him. He is a man without scruple or gratitude."

That was a sentiment which she thought came ill from Sadi Hafiz.

Before sunset they halted and made a camp. In spite of the coldness of the night, the men prepared to sleep in the open, wrapped in their woollen cloaks, but for the girl a tent was taken from the pack-horse and pitched in the most sheltered position Sadi could find.

"We will rest here until midnight," he said. "I must reach my destination before daybreak."

She lay wide awake, listening to the talk and watching the shadow of the smoking fires that the sunset threw on the thin walls of the tent, and then the talk gradually died down. There was no sound but an occasional whinny from a horse. She looked at the watch on her wrist, the one article of jewellery she had retained. It was nine o'clock. She had three hours left in which she could make her escape.

She drew aside the curtain of the little tent and, looking out, saw a dark figure—a sentry, she guessed. Escape was impossible that way. She tried to lift the curtain at the back of the tent, but it was pegged down tightly. Working her hand through under the curtain she groped around for the peg and presently found it. It took all her power to loosen it, but after a while, with a supreme effort, she pulled it from the earth and, exerting all her strength, she lifted the curtain a little farther and got her head beneath, and, by dint of perseverance, wriggled clear.

Ahead of her were impenetrable thorn bushes. She crept round the outside of the tent, conscious that her white dress would be detected if the sentry turned his head. And then she found an opening in the undergrowth and wriggled through. At the sound of cracking twigs the sentry turned and shouted something in Arabic. And now, desperate, the girl rose to her feet and ran. She could hardly see a yard before her; once she ran into a dwarf tree and fell momentarily stunned, but was on her feet again immediately. The moon was just rising and showed her a sparsely wooded stretch of plain; but it also revealed her to her pursuers.

The camp was now in an uproar. She heard shouts and the bellowing voice of Sadi Hafiz, and the clatter of horses' hoofs. It was Sadi himself who was coming after her. She knew it was he without seeing him, and, terrified, she increased her speed. But she could not hope to outpace the horse. Nearer and nearer he came, and then with a thunder of hoofs the horseman swept past her and turned.

"Oh no, my little rose!" he said exultantly. "That is not the way to happiness!"

He reached over and caught at her cloak and, swinging himself from the saddle, he caught her in his arms.

"This night I live!" he cried hoarsely.

"This night you die!"

He turned in a flash to confront the aged beggar and dropped his hand to the folds of his jellab.

Joan Carston stood, rooted to the spot, staring at the newcomer. She looked at the hideous face of Abdul Azim, but it was the voice of Jim Morlake that had spoken!


CHAPTER 62
THE ESCAPE


Two shots rang out together, and Sadi Hafiz went to his knees with a groan and fell sideways.

"Get on to that horse, quick," said Jim, and almost threw her into the saddle.

He was up behind her in a second.

"Jim!" she whispered, and the arm that encircled her increased its pressure.

Burdened as he was, the big horse strode out freely, and Jim, looking over his shoulder, saw that the white figures that had followed Sadi from the camp had halted to succour their fallen chief.

"We've got ten minutes' start of them, anyway," he said, "and with any luck we ought to miss them."

Wisely, he left the direction to the horse, who would know the country, and whose eyes would detect the pitfalls and barriers in which the plain abounded. There was no sign now of pursuers, but Jim was without illusions. If Sadi Hafiz was capable of issuing orders, there would be no dropping of the pursuit. After an hour's travelling the horse gave evidence of his weariness, and Jim dropped from the saddle and went to his head.

"There used to be a guard house on the coast," he said, "though I don't know that a Moorish guard is much more companionable than the gentleman we have left behind."

She was looking down at him, trying to recognise, in the unpleasant face, one vestige of the Jim she knew.

"It is you?"

"Oh yes, it is I," he laughed. "The make-up is good? It is an old character of mine, and if Sadi had had the sense of a rabbit, he would have remembered the fact. The nose is the difficulty," he added ruefully. "The wax gets warm in the sun and has to be remodelled, but the rest is easy."

"But you have no teeth," she said, catching a glimpse of the black cavity of his mouth.

"They're there, somewhere," he said carelessly. "A toothbrush and a cake of soap will make a whole lot of difference to me, Joan."

He heard her gasp.

"What is the matter?" he asked quickly.

"Nothing," she said, and then: "How funny!"

"If your sense of humour is returning, my young friend, you're on the high road to safety!"

Before daybreak they halted near a spring and unsaddled and watered the horse.

"I'm afraid I can give you nothing to eat," said Jim. "The only thing I can do—"

He stripped off his jellab and unfastened his ragged shirt and produced from a pocket a small waterproof bag and carried it to the stream.

He went down a hideous old man; he came back Jim Morlake, and she could only sit and look at him.

"This is a dream," she said decidedly. "I shall wake up presently and find myself—" she shuddered.

"You'll hardly be any more awake than you are at this moment," said Jim. "We are within two miles of the coast, and unless friend Sadi has given very emphatic orders, his men will not follow us to the guard- house."

His estimate proved to be correct; they did not see a white cloak again, and reached the guard-house to find it in charge, as Jim had suspected, of a Spanish officer; for they had reached that territory which Spain regarded as within the sphere of her influence.

"From here, we shall have to follow the coast-line and take a chance," said Jim, after interviewing the officer. "The Spaniards can't give us an escort to Tangier for political reasons—the French are rather jealous of their neighbours crossing the line, but I don't think we shall be molested."

They made camp that night almost within view of the lights of Tangier. Jim had borrowed blankets from the Spanish outpost and spread them for the girl under the ruin of an old Moorish post.

"By the way," he said, as he bade her good-night, before retiring himself to the windy side of the wall, "this morning, you said something was very funny—what was it?"

"I'm not going to tell you," said Joan firmly.

As she settled down to sleep, she wondered whether the ceremony of the morning had been legal and binding—and fervently hoped that it had.


CHAPTER 63
THE END OF SADI


They brought Sadi Hafiz to the house on the hill and the journey was a long one for a man with a bullet in his shoulder. The first news Ralph had of the happening was a thundering knock at the gates which roused him from a fitful sleep and sent him to his window.

The gates were locked and barred and could not be opened without his permission. He saw the gleam of lanterns outside, and presently a shrill voice called him by name and he knew it was Sadi. Hurrying downstairs, he joined the suspicious gatekeeper, who was parleying through the barred wicket.

"Let them enter," he said, and himself lifted one of the bars.

A glance at Sadi told him that something serious had happened and he assisted the wounded man into the house.

"Allah, I am finished!" groaned Sadi. "That pig. If that pistol had not caught in the folds of my cloak he would have been in hell to- night!"

Hamon sent for a woman and in the meantime examined the wound.

"It is nothing," said Sadi roughly. "The last time he shot me was more serious."

"The last time he shot you?" repeated Hamon dully.

Sadi had noticed a peculiar development in the man, which was not altogether explained in his changed appearance. He seemed to be thinking of something so intently that he had no time to interest himself in the events of the moment.

"What is the matter with you?"

"Nothing," said Hamon, coming out of his reverie. "You were saying ...?"

"I was saying that the last time he shot me was more serious."

"Who shot you, anyway?" asked Hamon. "Not the beggar?"

"The beggar," repeated the other grimly.

Here conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the woman whom the Moorish girl had called Señora Hamon. She carried a large bowl of water and cloths and Hamon watched her unseeingly while she dressed the wound. When she had gone, he took up the thread of the conversation.

"I never thought he would do you much harm," he said, "he is very old and feeble—you did not tell me that you knew him."

"I did not know that I knew him," replied the Moor, "or that you knew him. But Mr. Morlake is an old enemy of mine!"

With a start Hamon came to himself.

"You were speaking about the beggar, weren't you?" he said, frowning. "I'm so rattled and muddled tonight. You were talking of the old beggar man, Abdul."

"I'm talking about Mr. Morlake," said the other between his teeth. "The gentleman you so considerately married to your woman this morning!"

"Oh!" said Hamon blankly.

The tidings were too tremendous for him to take in. He passed his hand wearily before his eyes.

"I don't get it," he said haltingly. "The beggar was Morlake, you say? But how could he be? He was an old man—"

"If I'd had the eyes of a mole," said the other bitterly, "I'd have known it was Morlake. It was his favourite disguise when he was in the Intelligence Service in Morocco."

Hamon sat down on the divan where the man was lying.

"The beggar was Morlake," he said stupidly. "Let me get that in my mind. And I married them!"

He burst into a fit of laughter and Sadi, with his knowledge of men, saw how near his host was to a breakdown. Presently he calmed himself.

"Did he get her? Of course he did. He took her from you and shot you. Oh God! What a fool I was!"

"He hates you," said the Moor after a long interval of silence. "What is behind it?"

"He wants something I have—that is behind it." The flushed face and the slurred voice aroused Sadi's suspicion. Had the man been drinking?

As though he read Sadi's mind, Hamon said:

"You think I'm drunk, don't you, but I'm not. I was never more sober. I'm just—" he hesitated to find a word, "well, I feel differently, that is all."

He made one of his abrupt exits, leaving Sadi to nurse his wound and to ponder on a development which brought almost as much unease to his mind as did his wound to his body. Hamon must go, he decided coldbloodedly. If it was true that there was an English police officer looking for him in Tangier, then the policeman must have his prey. Only in that way could Sadi be rehabilitated in the eyes of his many employers. Hamon had ceased to be profitable; was nearing the end of his financial tether. The shrewd Moor weighed up the situation with unerring judgment. He did not sleep, his shoulder was too painful; and soon after sunrise he went in search of his host.

Hamon was in the room that the girl had occupied. He at any rate had found forgetfulness, and on the table, where his head rested on folded arms, was an open pocket-book and a scatter of papers. Sadi examined them furtively.

There were half a dozen negotiable bank drafts, made out to "Mr. Jackson Brown," and there was also a white paper folded in four ...

Hamon awakened and lifted his head slowly. The Moor was reading, and:

"That is mine, when you've done with it," said Hamon.

In no way disconcerted, Sadi dropped the papers on the table.

"So that is it? I wondered what you were scared of. You're a fool; that paper would hang you. Why don't you burn it?"

"Who told you to read it?" asked the other and his eyes were like live coals. "Who asked you to sneak in here and spy on me, Sadi?"

"You're a fool. I'm in pain and bored. I came in to talk to you, expecting to find you in bed."

Ralph was slowly gathering his property together.

"It was my fault, for leaving it around," he said. "Now you know."

Sadi nodded.

"Why don't you destroy it?" he asked.

"Because I won't, I won't!" snarled the other, and pushed the case savagely into his pocket.

He followed Sadi with his eyes as the Moor strolled out of the room and sat motionless, staring at the door and fingering his lip.

Toward the evening, he saw one of Sadi's men mount his horse, and, leading another, go down the hillside. That could only mean one thing: the messenger was riding to Tangier without drawing rein except to change his horse. And he could only be riding to Tangier on one errand. Ralph Hamon chuckled. For some reason the discovery afforded him intense amusement. Sadi Hafiz was saving his own skin at his expense. In two days—to- morrow perhaps—authorisation would come through from the Sultan's representative, and he, Ralph Hamon, would be seized by the man whom he had befriended, and carried into Tangier, there to be extradited to stand his trial for—what?

He drew a long whistling breath. His hand unconsciously touched the case in his pocket. There were no safes to hide it there, no strong boxes, and yet a match, one of a hundred from a ten-centimos box, would relieve him of all danger. And he did not, would not, could not burn the accursed thing. He was well enough acquainted with himself to know that he was physically incapable of that last drastic act.

At the back of the house were his own stables, and the grooms' quarters. He strolled round casually and called the head groom to him.

"I'm going on a journey tonight, but it is secret. You will bring your horse and mine to the river where the road crosses—we'll go to the coast and afterward into Spanish territory. There is a thousand pesetas for you and yet another thousand if you are a discreet man."

"Lord, you have sewn up my mouth with threads of gold," said the man poetically.

Hamon went into Sadi's room to take dinner with him and was unusually cheerful.

"Do you think they will reach Tangier?" he asked.

"That is certain," said Sadi, "but I have as good a tale as any. I told her I was taking her back to her friends. I did not harm her in any way and I think I will be able to satisfy the consulate that the young lady was alarmed for no good reason. The beggar I shot at—why? Because I do not know that he is Mr. Morlake. To me he is an evil old thief from whom I am rescuing the lady. Yes, the consulates will accept my story."

"And do you think I shall be able to satisfy the consulates?" asked Hamon, fixing his blazing eyes on the wounded man.

Sadi shrugged his shoulder and winced with the pain of it.

"You are a rich man and powerful," he said diplomatically. "I am a poor Moor, at the mercy of foreigners. tomorrow I will go back to Tangier," he said, "and you?"

"Tomorrow I also may go to Tangier," said Hamon, not moving his eyes from the other, and he saw him shift uncomfortably.

"These things are with God," said the philosophical Sadi.

The household went to bed early. Sadi's men had been accommodated within the walls—a course which satisfied their chieftain. Midnight was striking on the little clock in the drawing-room when Hamon, dressed for riding, and wearing a thick coat that reached to his knees, came down the stone stairs to the hall. He wore rubbers over his shoes and made no sound as, creeping to the door of the room where Sadi was sleeping, he turned the handle softly. Only a candle burnt to give light to the sick man and Hamon stood, listening in the open doorway, till he heard the regular breathing of the sleeper. Then he drew a long, straight knife from his pocket and went into the room. He was only there a few minutes, and then the candle was extinguished and he came out.

He rode hard for two hours and halted whilst his groom heated some water and prepared a meal, and in the light of the dancing fire, the man said in alarm:

"Lord, there is blood on your sleeve and on your hands."

"That is nothing," said Hamon calmly. "This morning a dog of my house would have bitten me, so I killed him."


CHAPTER 65
A MOORISH WOMAN'S RETURN


Sunlight bathed Tangier in a yellow flood, the surface of the bay was a mass of glittering gold; and all that could please the eye was there for their admiration; but the two elderly men who leant over the balustrade of the terrace saw no beauty in the scene; for the heart of one was breaking, and Welling's ached in sympathy.

The Cadiz mail was in the bay, a black, long-funnelled steamer, that at that moment was taking on the passengers who had been rowed out from the quay.

"I told her I couldn't come down to see her off, so she won't be very much disappointed," said Welling.

"Who? Lydia Hamon?"

Welling nodded.

"She'll be glad to see the last of Tangier." A pause. "That girl has the makings of a good woman."

"All women have," said Lord Creith quietly. "At least, that has been my experience."

Welling sniffed sceptically.

"There is no news, I suppose?"

Lord Creith shook his head. His eyes wandered to the stately yacht that lay at anchor in the bay.

"You'll wait here until you hear something?" suggested Welling.

"I suppose so," listlessly. "And you?"

"My work is practically done," said Welling, pulling thoughtfully at his cigar. "I came out to get the beginnings of Hamon, and I've pretty well cleaned up the obscurity of his start. He was a floater of fake companies, and was moderately successful until he brought a strange Englishman out here, a man of some wealth. They lived at the house of Sadi Hafiz and were here together for about a fortnight, when the Englishman and Hamon left together. I have discovered that the stranger paid him a very considerable sum of money—I have been round to the Credit Lyonnais, who have turned up the records. The transaction is very clear; the sum paid was fifty thousand pounds on account."

"On account of what?" asked Lord Creith, interested in spite of his trouble.

"That is what I want to know. Apparently a still larger sum was to be paid, but it certainly did not go into Hamon's account here."

"You don't know the name of this mysterious Englishman?"

The old man shook his head.

"I don't, but I guess the money was paid. I should say the final payment was made in the vicinity of Hindhead—if I could only be sure of that, Hamon would not show his nose in Tangier again."

"He won't anyway," said Creith bitterly. "By heavens, Welling, if the government of this infernal country doesn't do something by tomorrow, I'm going to raise an expedition and go into the interior to find my girl! And the day I meet Ralph Hamon will be his last!"

Welling sucked at his cigar, his eyes fixed upon the sunlit waters.

"If Jim Morlake can't find her, you won't," he said.

"Where has he gone?" wailed Creith. "It is the uncertainty about him that is holding me back."

"Nobody knows. That English dope-fiend that lives at the tailor's where, I have discovered, Morlake has a room, has been away from Tangier for two days. He came back last night. I've got a feeling that he's in the business, but when I tried to talk with him, he was too sleepy to snore!"

Two people were riding along the beach toward the town. They were less than half-a-mile away, but were conspicuous by reason of their unseemly animation.

"You don't often see a Moorish man and woman carrying on a bright conversation in public, do you?" said Welling, watching.

"Is the smaller one a woman?" asked Creith.

"I guess so; she is sitting side-saddle."

Lord Creith fixed his glass and peered at the two, and then the woman raised a hand and waved, and it seemed that the greeting was for him.

"Are they signalling to us?"

"It looks like it," said Welling.

Lord Creith's face had gone suddenly pale.

"It can't be," he said in a tremulous voice. Then, turning, he ran down the steps across the beach road on to the sands, and the two riders turned their steeds in the direction and kicked them into a gallop.

Welling watched the scene dumfounded. He saw the Moorish woman suddenly leap from the saddle into the arms of the bareheaded old man and then the bigger Moor got down, to be greeted warmly.

"If that is not Jim Morlake, I'm a Dutchman," said Welling.

In another instant he was flying across the sands to meet them. A crowd of Moors had watched the unseemly behaviour of the unveiled woman and stared painfully at her outrageous conduct.

"I don't care," said Joan hilariously. "I feel drunk with happiness."

In an hour four happy people sat down to the first square meal two of them had taken in days. Welling went away after lunch and came back in an hour with the news that the basha had sent a posse to arrest Hamon on information laid by Sadi Hafiz.

"Which means that Sadi, having saved his life, is now rapidly saving his skin," said Jim. "In a sense I'm glad I didn't kill him." He turned to Lord Creith. "You are going to get Lady Joan out of this very quickly, aren't you?"

"We sail this evening," said his lordship fervently, "and if there is a gale in the channel and the seas of the Bay of Biscay are mountains high, I'm heading straight for Southampton. I would go home by the nearest route," he added, "and let the yacht find its way back without my assistance, but the real owner is a personal friend of mine. You're coming too, Morlake?"

Jim shook his head.

"Not yet," he said quietly. "I came out here with two objects. One is to a great extent fulfilled; the other remains."

"You mean Hamon?"

He nodded.

"I'm certainly not going to leave you here, my good man," said Joan with spirit. "I have an especial right to demand that you will return with us!"

But on this point Jim was obdurate. The day after the yacht sailed, he received news of the death of Sadi Hafiz and the murderer's flight, and cursed himself for not following his heart. He flew over to Cadiz by military aeroplane, in the hope of picking up the yacht at that port, but even as the aeroplane was crossing the coast line, he saw the L'Esperance steaming out. He caught the afternoon train to Madrid, and was on the quay at Southampton to welcome them. And Joan did not see the man she loved until another month had passed, for Jim Morlake had been seized with a sudden shyness and a doubt had come to his mind which had developed into an obsession.


CHAPTER 65
THE REVEREND GENTLEMAN


"Hanimals are hanimals," said the aggrieved Binger. "They 'ave their places, the same as everything helse."

"They may have their places, but if you kick my dog," said Jim Morlake, "I shall kick you!"

"If you kick me, sir," said Binger with dignity, "I shall hoffer my resignation."

Jim laughed and caressed the lame terrier who was showing his teeth at the valet.

"A hanimal's place is in the country, sir, if you'll excuse me."

"I won't excuse you, Binger," said Jim good-humouredly. "Get out."

He filled his pipe and sat back in the deep chair, scanning the evening newspaper and the terrier, who had resented the gentle kick which Binger had delivered because of a certain missing mutton-bone, put his head between his paws and went to sleep.

Presently Jim put down his newspaper, went to the bookshelf in his bedroom and brought back a large atlas. He turned the pages until he came to the coast line of Morocco and with a pencil he traced the possible avenues of escape that might lie open to a hunted murderer. He was in the midst of this occupation when Welling came.

"Planning out a honeymoon trip?" he asked pleasantly and Jim flushed.

"I am not contemplating a honeymoon trip," he said a little stiffly.

"Then you're wasting a perfectly good atlas," said the calm detective, laying his hat carefully over the head of the sleeping dog. "Your man is alive."

"Hamon?" asked Jim quickly.

The detective nodded.

"Two bank drafts have been cashed, both in Tangier, for a considerable sum. They were made payable to Hamon in a fictitious name—I only discovered the fact yesterday when I went to one of his banks. Hamon had several accounts running, and it was rather difficult to discover them all; but when I did get on to the right track I made that discovery. The drafts have been honoured—in fact, they're back in England."

Jim looked serious.

"Then he got to Tangier?"

"Undoubtedly, but that would be easy. I am willing to accept your theory that he got through to the Spanish territory. From Tetuan to Tangier is only a step. I think one of the Gibraltar steamers calls at both ports."

"He'll stay there if he is wise."

"But he isn't wise," said Welling. "It is dangerous enough for him in Tangier. He'll be tried for the murder of Sadi Hafiz if he is detected. The mere fact that he has drawn this money seems to me to be pretty convincing proof that he's shaking Tangier at the earliest opportunity— probably he is away by now. It is rather curious to see you fiddling with that atlas. I was doing exactly the same thing this morning, guessing the lines he took—"

"Which would be—?"

"Gibraltar-Genoa, or Gibraltar-Naples. Genoa or Naples to New York or New Orleans. New York or New Orleans to London, or maybe Cadiz and a banana boat to Thames River—that's more likely."

"You think he'll come here!" asked Jim in surprise.

"Certainly," said the other. "And what is more, we shall never take him."

Jim put down his atlas and leant back in his chair.

"You mean you'll never capture him?" he asked in surprise.

The detective shook his head.

"We may capture him, though at present we've no evidence worth the gum on a penny stamp," he said, "but he'll never hang. Because he is mad, Morlake! I've seen the report of the doctor who examined Sadi Hafiz after he was found, and I can tell you, as a student of medical jurisprudence, that Ralph Hamon is the third lunatic I've met in this case."

Jim lit his pipe again.

"Am I one?" he asked ironically.

"No, there have been three, but you haven't been one. The first was Farringdon, who was undoubtedly mad; the second was Bannockwaite, who is also mad but not dangerous; the third is Hamon, who is the worst of the lot."

Jim Morlake pondered as he recalled the characteristics of the men.

"Bannockwaite is the maddest of the lot," he said at last.

"He has left Tangier," nodded Welling. "The British Minister gave him twenty-four hours to quit, for some reason, which I haven't discovered, but which was probably due to your representation. He went over to Algeciras, but the Spanish people sent him packing. He was in Paris until yesterday. He is in London tonight."

"How do you know?" asked Jim in surprise.

"I had him tailed from the station. He is living in a little lodging in Stamford Street, Blackfriars."

Jim was not sufficiently curious to enquire much about the decadent minister, but now he learnt for the first time that Bannockwaite was practically penniless at the time when he was supposed to have died. He had run through a large fortune, scattering his money lavishly. His only income was from a group of houses the rents of which had been left to him by a maternal aunt in the days when he was so wealthy that he had regarded the legacy with something like contempt. These had been overlooked by him in the final squandering of his patrimony, and when he would have sold them the estate was fortunately in bankruptcy. Enough had been realised to clear his debts, but the administration of this little property remained in the trustee's hands.

"A remarkable fellow," said Welling, shaking his head. "He built three churches, endowed an orphanage, and brought more souls to the verge of hell than any living man."

Welling was on his way home. He had lately got into the habit of calling at the flat in Bond Street.

"Why don't you go back to Wold House?" he asked.

"I prefer this place for the time being. It is rather cold in the country," Jim excused himself lamely.

"What are you afraid of?" asked the detective contemptuously. "A bit of a girl!"

"I'm afraid of nothing," said Jim, going red.

"You're afraid of Joan Carston, my lad," and he spoke the truth.

Jim saw him out and went back to his pipe and his atlas, but now he had no interest in tracing possible routes, and closing the book returned it to the shelf.

Yes, he was afraid of Joan Carston—afraid of what she might feel and think; afraid that, in her less emotional moments, she would feel he had taken advantage of his disguise and sneaked into matrimony—that was his own expression. He was afraid that the marriage was not legal—equally afraid that it was. He might have accepted one of Joan's invitations, that grew colder and colder with repetition, and gone down to Creith House and talked it over with her, but he had shirked the meeting. He heard the front door bell ring and Binger came in.

"There's a man wants to see you, sir."

"What sort of a man?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, my hown impression is that he's hintoxicated."

"What sort of a man?" asked Jim again.

"He's what I call the himage of a chronic boozer."

Jim looked at him and past him.

"Did he give his name?"

"Bannockburn is his name," said Binger impressively. "In my opinion it is a put-up job. Shall I say you're hout?"

"No," said Jim, "he might misunderstand you. Ask your Mr. Bannockburn to come in—by the way, his name is Bannockwaite."

"It sounds like a piece of hartfulness to me," said Binger and showed the man into the room.

There was very little improvement in the appearance of the marrying clergyman. He carried himself a little more jauntily, his manner was perhaps less aggressive. He wore a collar and a tie, the former of which had probably been in use since his return to London.

"Good evening, Morlake," he said with a sprightly wave of his hand. "I think we have met before."

"Won't you sit down," said Jim gravely. "Put a chair for Mr. Bannockwaite."

Binger obeyed with a grimace of distaste.

"And close the door tight," said Jim significantly, and Binger bridled as he went out.

"I got your address from a mutual friend."

"In other words, a telephone directory," said Jim. "I do not know that we have any mutual friends except Abdullah the tailor of Tangier. An excellent fellow!"

The wreck of a man fixed his glass in his eye and beamed benevolently on Jim.

"A limited but an excellent fellow. The industry of the Moor is a constant source of wonder to me." He stroked his uneven red beard and looked approvingly round the apartment. "It is delightful, perfectly delightful," he murmured. "A touch of old Morocco! I specially admire the ceiling."

Jim was wondering what was the object of the visit, but was not long left in doubt.

"I performed a little service for you, Mr. Morlake," said Bannockwaite with an airy wave of his swollen hand. "A mere trifle, but in these hard times, necessitas non habet legem. At the moment I was not aware that we had such a distinguished—er—client, but it has since transpired, though I have not advertised the fact, that the unprepossessing bridegroom was none other than the very interesting and—if I may be excused the impertinence—the very good- looking gentleman who is sitting before me.

"To turn my sacred calling into commerce is repugnant to all my finer feelings, but a man of your financial standing will not object to a mere trifle of five guineas. I could make an even larger sum if I wrote a little account, one of those frothy, epigrammatical soufflés of literature with which my name was associated at Oxford, and through the good offices of my friend of the editor of the Megaphone—"

"In other words, if I don't pay your fee of five guineas, you're going to broadcast the fact that I married Lady Joan Carston?"

"That would be blackmail," murmured the other and smiled jovially. "No, no, I will tell you candidly, intra muros, that I am too lazy to write. My dear fellow, I will be perfectly candid with you—I have no intention of writing," and again he beamed.

Jim took a note from his pocket and passed it across the table.

"Mr. Bannockwaite, I often wonder whether you think?"

"I beg your pardon?" The man leant forward with an exaggerated gesture of politeness, his hand to his ear.

"Whether I think?" he repeated. "My dear fellow, why should I think? I ask you, in the name of heaven, why I should think? I live for the moment. If the moment is good, I am happy; if it is bad, I sorrow. I have lived that way all my life."

"You have no regrets?" asked Jim wonderingly.

The man pocketed the note, smacked his lips and smiled.

"I shall see you again," he said, rising.

"If you call again, I will have you thrown out," said Jim without heat. "I hate to say it to a man of your surpassing intellect, but you are altogether horrible."

The visitor threw back his head and laughed, with such heartiness that Binger opened the door and stared in.

"My dear fellow," he said, "you lack something in philosophy. I wish you a very good evening."

When the door closed upon him, Jim rang the bell for Binger.

"Open the windows and air the room," he said.

"I should jolly well say so," said the indignant Binger.

"Then jolly well don't," snapped Jim.

He looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock and he was conscious that he had not dined. Binger was a bad cook and Mahmet had not returned from Casa Blanca. To avoid starvation or indigestion, Jim patronised a little restaurant in Soho, but tonight he craved for dishes that were home-made, and the very thought of the rich fare that awaited him in Soho made him feel ill. Home dishes, served in a big old-fashioned dining-room, with a fire crackling on the hearth, the rustle of bare boughs in the garden outside, a frozen lawn, and a river where little fishes leapt. He rang the bell.

"Telephone through to Cleaver and say I'm coming down tonight. Let him get me a large joint of juicy beef, with a mountainous pie to follow. And beer."

"Tonight, sir?" said Binger incredulously. "It's height o'clock."

"I don't care if it is heighty," said Jim. "Get me my coat."

Soon he was speeding through the night, the cold wind rasping his cheeks. This was better than Tangier; better than warm breezes and sunny skies were these scurrying clouds that showed glimpses of the moon. There was a smell of snow in the air; a speck fell against his wind-screen and on the south side of Horsham it was snowing fast. The hedges were patched with white and the road revealed by his headlamps began to disappear under a fleecy carpet. His heart leapt at the sight of it. It could not be too cold, too snowy, too rainy, too anything—the country was the only place. There was something wrong about people who wanted to live in town all the year round, and especially in winter. Amongst the attractions of the country he did not think of Joan; yet, if he had thought of the country without her, it would have been drear indeed.

Cleaver greeted him with just that amount of pompousness that Jim enjoyed and took his wet coat from him.

"Dinner is ready, sir. Shall I serve?"

"If you please, Cleaver," said Jim. "Everything quiet here?"

"Everything, sir. A hayrick caught fire at Sunning Farm—"

"Oh, blow the hayrick!" said Jim. "Is that all the excitement you've had here since I've been away?"

"I think so, sir," said Cleaver gravely. "The tortoise-shell cat has given birth to four kittens and the price of coal has risen owing to the strike, but, beyond that, very little has happened. The country is very dull."

"Are you another of those dull-country people, my man?" said Jim gaily, as he rubbed his hands before the log fire. "Well, get that out of your head! It came on me tonight, Cleaver, that the country is the only place where a man can live. I'll have a fire in my bedroom, and turn on every light in the study, let up the shades and open the shutters."

Joan, going to bed, looked out of the window as was her practice, and saw the illumination.

"Oh, you have come back, have you!" she said softly, and kissed her finger-tips to the lights.


CHAPTER 66
A LUNCHEON PARTY


"What is worrying me," said Lord Creith at breakfast, "is the future of this wretched estate."

"Why, Daddy?" she asked.

"What is going to happen, supposing this horrible scoundrel is arrested and tried and hanged, as very probably he will be? Who inherits Creith House?"

That had not occurred to her.

"His sister, I suppose," she said, after a moment's thought.

"Exactly," said Lord Creith, "and we're as badly off as ever we were! I'm jiggered in this matter, my dear, absolutely jiggered!"

"Have you actually sold the property?"

"N-no," said his lordship. "What I gave Hamon was a sort of extravagant mortgage."

"What kind of mortgage is that?" she asked, smiling.

"Well, he gave me a sum which it is humanly impossible that I could ever pay back, so that foreclosure sooner or later is inevitable, in exchange for which I received the tenancy for life."

He mentioned a sum which took her breath away.

"Did he pay you all that money?" she said in awe. "Why, Daddy, what did you do with it?"

Lord Creith tactfully changed the subject.

"I gather Jim Morlake is back," he said. "Why the dickens he hasn't come down before, I do not know. Really young men have changed since my day. Not that Morlake is a chick, I suppose he's fifty."

"Fifty!" she said scornfully. "He may be thirty but he's not much more."

"There is very little difference between thirty and fifty, as you will discover when you are my age," said his lordship. "I sent him a note asking him to come over to breakfast, but I don't suppose he is up."

"He is up every morning at six, Daddy," she corrected him severely, "hours before you dream of coming down."

"I dream of it," he murmured, "but I don't do it. How do you know?"

"He told me a whole lot about himself in Morocco," she said, and the subject of their discussion was ushered in at that moment.

All his fears had come back to him, and her attitude did not make matters any better. She seemed scarcely interested in his recital of what he had been doing since he came to London, a recital called for by Lord Creith's persistent question:

"But why on earth haven't you been down?" demanded his lordship. "Joan—"

"Will you please leave me out of it?" said Joan immediately. "Mr. Morlake isn't at all interested in my views."

"On the contrary," said Jim hastily, "I am very much interested, and as I say I had a tremendous lot of work to do."

"And I hope you did it," said Joan briskly, "and now I'm going to the dairy. And don't come with me," she said as he half rose, "because I shall be very busy for the next two hours."

"You're staying to lunch, Morlake?"

"How absurd, Daddy," she said. "One would think Mr. Morlake had come down from London for the day! We're upsetting all his household arrangements and the admirable Mr. Cleaver will never forgive you."

Lord Creith stared glumly at the visitor after the girl had gone.

"That cuts out lunch so far as you're concerned, my boy," he said. "You're going to stay over for the hunting, of course?"

"I don't think so." Jim was annoyed, though he made an effort not to show it. "The country doesn't appeal to me very much. I came down to get my house in order. I've only paid one visit to Wold House since I returned from Morocco. I'm going to America next week," he added.

"It is a nice country," said his lordship, oblivious to the fact that he was called upon to show some regret or surprise.

Jim went home feeling particularly foolish and was irritated at himself that he had been guilty of such childishness.

The visitor was gone when Joan came back to lunch.

"Where is Mr. Morlake?" she asked.

"He's gone home, where you sent him," said Lord Creith, unfolding a serviette with care.

"But I thought he was staying to lunch?"

Lord Creith raised his pained eyes at this shocking piece of inconsistency.

"You knew jolly well he was not staying to lunch, Joan!" he said severely. "How could the poor man stay to lunch when you sent him home? I'm going to London tomorrow to see him off."

"Where?" she gasped.

"He's going to America," said his lordship, "South America, probably. And," he added, "he will be away ten years."

"Did he tell you that?" she demanded, staring at him.

"He didn't mention the period," he answered carefully, "but I gathered from his general outlook on things that he finds Creith dull and that a few healthy quibbles with a boa-constrictor on the banks of the perfectly horrible Amazon would bring amusement into his life. Anyway, he's going. Not that I intended seeing him off. I can't be bothered."

"But seriously, Daddy, is he leaving Creith?"

His lordship raised his eyes wearily and sighed.

"I've told you twice that he's going to America. That is the truth." He pulled out a chair and sat down.

"I don't want anything, thank you, Peters."

"Aren't you eating? You've been drinking milk," accused his lordship. "There's nothing like milk for putting you off your food. And it will make you fat," he added.

"I haven't been drinking milk. I'm just simply not hungry."

"Then you'd better see the doctor."

She dropped her head on her hands, her white teeth biting at her underlip. Lunch promised to be a silent meal until she said:

"I don't believe he is going!"

"Who?"

"Who were we talking about?"

"We haven't talked about anybody for a quarter of an hour," said his lordship in despair. "You're the most unsociable woman I've ever dined with. Usually people do their best to amuse me. And believe me I pay for amusing! He's going!"

She raised her eyebrows to signify her indifference.

"I don't believe he is going," she said. "I'm hungry and there isn't anything to eat. I hate lamb!"

Her parent sighed patiently.

"Go and lunch with him, my dear, for heaven's sake! Take a message from me that you're growing more and more unbearable every day. I wonder, by the way, if you'll ever develop into an old maid? We had an aunt in our family—you remember Aunt Jemima—she was taken that way. She bred rabbits, if I remember aright ..."

But Joan did not want to discuss her Aunt Jemima and flounced up to her room.

His lordship was in his study when he saw her walking across the meadows in the direction of Wold House and shook his head. Joan could be very trying ...

"Thank you, Cleaver," said Jim. "I don't think I want any lunch."

"It is a woodcock, sir," said Cleaver anxiously. "You told me last night you could enjoy a woodcock."

Jim shuddered.

"Take it away, it seems almost human! Why do they serve woodcocks with their heads on? It isn't decent."

"Shall I get you a chop, sir?"

"No, thanks, a glass of water, and bring me some cheese—no, I don't think I'll have any cheese—oh, I don't want anything," he said, and got up and poked the fire savagely.

"Jane Smith," said a voice from the doorway. "I've announced myself."

She took off her coat and handed it to Cleaver and threw her hat on to a chair.

"Have you had any lunch?"

"I haven't; I'm not hungry."

"What have you got for lunch?" she asked.

"We have a woodcock," said Jim dismally. "It isn't enough for two."

"Then you can have something else," said Joan, and rang the bell. "Jim, are you going to America?"

"I don't know. I'm going somewhere out of this infernal place," he said gloomily. "The country gives me the creeps; snowing all the morning and the sound of the wind howling round the house makes my hair stand up."

"You're not going anywhere, you are staying in Creith; I've decided that," said Joan.

She was eating bread and butter hungrily.

"Don't they feed you at home?" asked Jim looking at her in wonder.

"What are you going to do about us?" was her reply.

"What do you mean—us?" he asked, inwardly quaking.

"About our marriage. I've taken legal advice and there is not the slightest doubt that we're married. At the same time there's not the least doubt that we're not. You see I've been to two sets of lawyers."

"Have you really?"

She nodded.

"I haven't been to lawyers exactly, but I've written to two newspapers that give free advice and one says one thing and one says the other. Now what are we to do?"

"What do you want to do?" he countered.

"I want to get a divorce," she said calmly, "except for the publicity. I shall base my petition on incompatibility of temperament."

"That isn't a good cause in this country."

"We shall see."

Jim drew a long face.

"There's another way out of the trouble, Mrs. Morlake," he said.

"Don't call me Mrs. Morlake. At the worst, I am Lady Joan Morlake. Jim, are you really going to America?"

"I've had very serious thoughts about it," he said. "But honestly, what are we to do, Joan? My lawyer says that it is no marriage because the necessary licence is not issued, and the mere fact that a clergyman performed the ceremony does not legalise it."

Consternation was in her face when he looked at her.

"Do you mean that?" she said.

"Are you sorry?"

"No, I'm not exactly sorry. I'm annoyed. That means that we've got to get married all over again. And, Jim, that will take an awful time ..."

Cleaver, coming in at that moment, turned round and went out again very quickly, and it seemed almost as if the woodcock winked.


CHAPTER 67
THE RETURN


It had snowed all night. The roads were ankle-deep but the man who tramped doggedly through the mean streets of East London hardly noticed the weather. It was too early to get a cab. The little ship had come in with the tide and was moored near Tower Bridge and he had had some difficulty in persuading the man at the docks to let him pass, but as he carried no luggage, that difficulty had been overcome, and now he was heading for the city.

He passed Billingsgate, crowded even at that early hour, and turning up Monument Hill, came to the Mansion House. Here he found a wandering taxi which set him down at the end of Grosvenor Place. There was nobody in sight. The snow was falling again and a fierce wind had driven the policeman to cover. The blinds of the house were drawn, he noticed, and wondered whether it was empty. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the door.

Nothing had been moved. He had sold the house and the new tenant had told him he would not wish to take possession for a year. He muttered his satisfaction. Looking into the drawing-room, he saw it was untouched. On one of the tables was an embroidery frame, the needle showed in the fabric and he nodded. Lydia was here then, she had not returned to Paris, and she was wise. On the way upstairs he met a servant coming down and the woman stared at him as though he were a ghost. Fortunately he knew her.

"You needn't tell anybody I'm back," he said gruffly and went on to his room.

It looked very desolate with its sheeted furniture. The floors were bare and the bed innocent of clothing. He took off his overcoat and looked at himself in the glass with a queer smile, and he heard a rustle of feet on the landing outside. The door opened suddenly and Lydia came in in her dressing-gown.

"Ralph!" she gasped. "Millie told me that she had seen you."

"Well, she told the truth," he said, looking at her strangely. "So you're here, are you?"

"Yes, Ralph, I came straight back."

"After telling the police as much as you could about me?"

"I told them nothing," she said.

He grunted his disbelief.

"Ralph, there's a story about Sadi Hafiz. He was murdered in Morocco and you were—you were in the house."

"Well?" he asked.

"Is that true?"

"I didn't know he was dead," he said, not meeting her eyes. "Besides, what happened in Morocco is nothing to do with us here. They can't extradite me for a murder committed in a foreign country. And if they do who's to prove I did it? Sadi Hafiz got what was coming to him," he said cunningly. "I killed him because he insulted you."

She knew he was not speaking the truth but did not argue with him.

"The police have been here," she began.

"Of course they've been here. Haven't you been running round with old Welling? I heard about it in Tangier. As to the police, I'm going to Welling this morning."

"Ralph, you're not!" She laid her hand on his arm but he shook it off.

"I'm going to Welling this morning, I tell you. I've been thinking things over on the ship and I'm sick of living like a hunted dog. If they've got anything on me, let them produce it. If it is a question of trial, why I'll stand my trial! Get me something to eat."

She hurried away, coming back to tell him that she had laid a tray in his study.

"I suppose the police have looked there too, haven't they?"

"They didn't look anywhere, Ralph," she said, "they merely called. They had no warrant—"

"Hadn't they?" He turned on her quickly, a gleam in his eyes. "That means that they're not sure of themselves," he added. "I'll see old Welling today and he will be a very surprised man. Then I'm going down to Creith, my property," he said emphatically.

"Ralph, you're mad to go to the police," she said tremulously, "couldn't you go abroad somewhere?"

"I've had too much of abroad already. I tell you I'm going to surprise old man Welling."

Inspector Welling was not easily shocked, but when a policeman came into his office that morning and laid a card on his table he almost jumped from his chair.

"Is he here?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, sir, in the waiting-room."

"He himself?" He could not believe his ears.

"Yes, sir."

"Bring him along," and even then he did not expect to see Ralph Hamon.

Yet it was the Ralph of old, with his immaculate silk hat and his well-fitting morning coat, who walked into the office and laid his cane upon the officer's table and smiled down into his astonished face.

"Good-morning, Welling," he said cheerfully. "I understand that you have been looking for me?"

"I certainly have," said Welling, recovering from the shock of surprise.

"Well, here I am," said Hamon, and found a chair for himself.

He looked ten years older than he had when Welling saw him last, and the frothy little locks that covered the top of his head had completely disappeared, leaving him bald.

"I want you to account for what you did—or, at any rate, for your movements—in Morocco," said Welling, beginning cautiously. Anything further that he might have said was interrupted by his visitor's laughter.

"You can't ask me anything, Welling, or make any enquiries, unless you are requested to do so by the police authorities of that district in which Sadi Hafiz died. You see, I am making no disguise of the fact that I know it is Sadi Hafiz's murder you are thinking about. My sister tells me you also require certain information concerning Farringdon and his untimely end. I can only tell you that, at the time of his murder, I was in London, and if you can prove to the contrary you are welcome to take any steps which you may think necessary."

The detective looked at him from under his bushy eyebrows.

"And what of the murder in the little cottage overlooking the Devil's Punch Bowl?" he asked.

Not a muscle of Ralph Hamon's face moved.

"That is a new one to me," he said, "though the locality sounds familiar. I had a bungalow there—or in that region."

"It is about the bungalow I am speaking," said Welling. "A man was killed there, stripped and put into a sailor's suit, and left for dead on the Portsmouth Road. He was picked up, as you probably know, by Mr. James Lexington Morlake, and conveyed to the Cottage Hospital, where he died. I have examined the premises, and I find bloodstains on the wall of the kitchen."

Ralph Hamon smiled slowly.

"Have you also found that I put them there?" he asked drily. "Really, Captain Welling, I am not prepared to discuss these crimes in detail. What I do ask you plainly is this." He got up and walked across to the table, and stood leaning upon its edge, looking down into Welling's upturned face.

"Have you any charge to make against me? Because, if you have, I am here to answer that charge."

Welling did not reply. The enemy had carried the war into his country, and had established a very favourable point for himself. He was practically demanding an enquiry into rumour and a precipitation of suspicion. There was no warrant for the man, no definite charge against him. Even Scotland Yard would hesitate to arrest Ralph Hamon on the information it possessed; and he knew that the man was on safe ground when he said that no charge could follow the murder of Sadi Hafiz unless representations had been made by the Moorish Government—and none had been made.

"Most of the charges are those which you are bringing yourself," he drawled. "I do not even ask you to produce your pocket-case and show me its contents."

He watched the man narrowly as he spoke. If Hamon had shown the slightest uneasiness, if he had turned the conversation elsewhere, if he had protested against the suggestion, he would have arrested the man on the spot and have searched him, on any charge that came into his head. But the answer of Ralph Hamon was characteristic. He dived his hand into his pocket and flung the case on to the table.

"Look for yourself," he said, "and if you wish to search me ..." he flung out his arms—"you are at liberty."

Welling opened the case and examined the papers it contained with a professional eye. Then he handed the leather pouch back to its owner.

"Thank you," he said. "I will not detain you, Mr. Hamon."

Hamon picked up his hat and stick, pulled on his gloves and walked leisurely to the door.

"If you want me, you know where you will find me—either at my house in Grosvenor Place, or at my country residence, Creith House."

Welling smiled.

"I never find anybody except in the place I put them," he said.

Ralph Hamon strolled down the long corridor, twirling his stick, and out on to the Thames Embankment, where a hired car was awaiting him. On his way through the Park he looked back wondering which of the taxicabs which were bowling along behind contained the shadow that Welling had affixed to him.

He found Lydia waiting in a state of nervous tension.

"What did they say, Ralph?" she asked, almost before he was in the room.

"What could they say?" he smiled contemptuously.

He went to her writing bureau, pulled out a cheque book and sat down.

"Since you are so infernally nervous, you had better go off to Paris this afternoon," he said, and, writing a cheque, tore it out and handed it to her.

She looked at the amount and gasped; then, from the cheque, her eyes went back to her brother.

"Have you this amount in the bank?" she asked, and he swung round to stare at her.

"Of course I have," he said.

He turned again to the table, wrote another cheque and, enclosing it in an envelope, added a card: "With Compliments," and, having addressed the envelope, rang the bell.

"We have no butler now, Ralph," she said nervously. "Would you like me to take the letter to the post? Are you staying in?" she added.

"No," he answered curtly, "I am going to my wife."

Her hand went up to her mouth.

"Your wife, Ralph?" she faltered. "I did not know you were married."

"I am referring to Joan," he said gravely, and went out, and up to his room.

She sat motionless, twisting a torn handkerchief in her hand, and after a while she heard him come down again and the street door close. She went to the window and looked out, to see him enter his car and drive off. He had changed his attire, and wore the suit he had been wearing when he arrived that morning. Before the car was out of sight, she was flying up to her room to dress, for she knew that the moment of crisis was at hand.


CHAPTER 68
THE END OF HAMON


Welling was going out to lunch when she arrived, and he met her literally on the doorstep.

"I must see you, Captain Welling, at once," she said. "It is vitally important."

"Come back to my room," he said kindly. "You look ill, Lydia."

"I am distracted. I don't know what I shall do," she said, her voice trembling.

In his room he poured her a glass of water, and waited until she was sufficiently composed to tell him the object of her visit.

"It is about Ralph," she said. "He was here this morning?"

The old man nodded with a rueful smile.

"He was here, and he emerged with flying colours," he said. "If it was a bluff, it was the cleverest bluff I've met with. You have seen him since?"

She nodded.

"He came back to the house, and I haven't seen him so buoyant in years. He asked me if I would like to go to Paris, and gave me a cheque. Here it is."

She handed him the cheque and the detective took it and read, and when he had read, he whistled. For the sum which Ralph Hamon had drawn was a million pounds!

"What is that?" he asked, seeing the envelope in the girl's hand. It was addressed to him, he saw. "From your brother?" he asked with a frown.

She nodded, and, tearing open the envelope, he extracted a second cheque, which was also for a million pounds.

Welling bit his lip.

"That looks pretty bad to me," he said. "Where is he now?"

"He's gone off to see Joan. He called her his wife," said the girl.

She was crying softly, and he put his arm around her shoulder and patted her cheek.

"You're going to have a bad time for a while, Lydia," he said, "and I am going to help you all I know how. You must stay at an hotel tonight, and not your maid or any of your servants must know where you are. Come and lunch."

She protested that she had no appetite, but he insisted, and did not leave her until he had carried her bag into the vestibule of the Grand Central and handed her over to the especial care of the hotel detective.

He had come so far in a taxicab, but a big police car was waiting for him, with three men from police headquarters.

Jim was practising with a golf club on the lawn when the car arrived.

"A queer occupation," said Welling, for the snow lay thick everywhere.

"If you dip a gold ball in ink—" began Jim lightly, when he caught sight of the car's three half-frozen men who were huddled in its depths. "Come inside, Welling," he said. "What is the trouble?"

"There is trouble for somebody, and I'm not quite sure who it is going to be," said Welling.

He told all he knew, related the incident of the cheques, and Jim listened in silence.

"I am putting two men at Creith House. You had better put up the other here."

Jim shook his head.

"Let the three go to Creith House," he said. "I can look after myself. Has he left London?"

Welling nodded.

"He had a car in a garage—a public garage—near by. Unfortunately, I was not able to trace that until it was too late. This afternoon he took it out, and since then he has not been seen."

Snow was falling heavily when the police car turned through the gates of Creith House and made a slow and noisy way up the drive. Lord Creith watched the arrival from the dining-room window, and came to the door to meet them. At the first sight of Welling his face fell.

"There is going to be bother," he said fretfully. "You stormy old petrel!"

They were glad to get into the warmth and cosiness of the library, for it was bitterly cold and the snow was freezing as it fell.

"Who are you after?" asked Creith anxiously. "Not Hamon?"

Welling nodded.

"Hamon it is. He is in England, and probably not four miles from Creith," he said, and his lordship looked serious.

"Where is Joan?" asked Welling.

"She is out," said Creith. "Mrs. Cornford asked her to go down to lunch at the cottage."

Welling shook his head reprovingly.

"From now on, until this man is under lock and key, she must not be allowed out alone," he said. "Somebody ought to go and bring her back."

But Jim was already on his way. He ploughed knee-deep through the icy covering, and, finding that the short cut to the cottage would in the end be the longest way, he struggled back to the drive and followed the wall path. Here he found the tracks of Joan; the impress of her rubber boots was plain, and he felt a little thrill of satisfaction in this evidence of her nearness.

Then, for no apparent reason, the footprints turned to the right, entering the deeper snow that had drifted about a clump of bushes. With an exclamation of surprise, he followed them. They led him deeper and deeper into the snow, until they turned again and disappeared.

He peered into the bushes but could see no sign of her. Crushing his way between the snow-covered boughs, he found a comparatively clear space where the grass showed. But there was no sign of Joan. She must have gone out somewhere, and he pushed his way clear of the bushes, to find her tracks leading to the path again.

He stood with a frown on his forehead, puzzling out her eccentric movements. And then he saw another set of footprints which were obviously recent, for the falling snow had not yet obliterated them. They were fairly small, and the toes were pointed. He gasped—Hamon! The girl must have seen him coming along the path, and then flown on to her destination.

He turned back, this time following Hamon's tracks. There were two sets: one going toward Creith House and the other returning; and presently he found the place where the man had turned. Jim unbuttoned his overcoat and took from his pocket the little black automatic, and slipped it into his overcoat; and then, hurrying as fast as the snow would allow him, he made for the gardener's cottage, all the time keeping his eyes upon the footprints.

At the end of the path the two sets branched off—Joan's toward the cottage. He ran up the cottage path, and a glance at the house told him that something unusual had happened. The shutters were drawn in every room. He knocked at the door, and, receiving no answer, knocked again more loudly.

"Are you there, Mrs. Cornford?" he called, and he thought he heard a creaking sound inside, and flung himself against the door.

It shook under his weight, and an agonised voice called:

"If you open the door, I will shoot you."

It was the voice of Joan!

"It is I, Joan," he called eagerly. "Look through the key-hole—it is Jim!"

He walked back half-a-dozen paces in order to give her a clear view, and, as he did so, he felt his hat jerked violently from his head. That and the crack of the explosion came together, and he spun round to face the danger. Nobody was in sight.

And then the door of the cottage opened.

"Keep inside," he cried. "For God's sake don't come out."

Ping!

The bullet struck the wall of the cottage with a snap, and, running, he gained the shelter of the passage and slammed the door.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" sobbed the girl distraitly. "Oh, Jim, I'm frightened—frightened! I saw him in the grounds," she went on, when he had soothed her.

"And you hid in the bushes—I followed your tracks. He didn't see you?"

She shook her head.

"Not until I was nearly at the cottage, and then he ran after me. Mrs. Cornford had seen him, and had put up her shutters. It is Hamon, isn't it?"

Jim nodded.

The shutters operated from inside the house, and he gently raised the lower half of one and peered out. He had hardly done so before a bullet smashed the window, tore a long, jagged hole in the wooden shutter, and temporarily numbed his hand with the shock.

"I think we had better wait," he said. "Welling will have heard the shots. Our only hope is that friend Hamon guesses, by my hasty retreat, that I am unarmed, and comes to close quarters."

"Have you no weapon?" she asked anxiously.

He produced a little pistol.

"Only this," he said, "which is comparatively useless except at short range. It is, in fact," he smiled, "the weapon with which I have terrified night watchmen and unfortunate banking officials these ten years past."

He had rightly estimated the effect of his precipitate flight upon the cunning madman who was glaring at the house from behind the cover of a wood pile. Hamon knew that Jim Morlake would not fly into the house if he had a gun handy; and he knew, too, that the sound of the shooting must soon bring assistance. Already a curious and fearful knot of children had gathered in the middle of the street at a respectful distance, and if he were to accomplish his great revenge, and bring to fruition a plan that had occupied his mind for the past three months, he must move quickly.

He sprang from his place of concealment and ran across the cottage garden; and, as he expected, he drew no fire from the house. He looked round for something he could use as a battering-ram, and his eyes returned to the wood pile, and going back, he picked up a heavy branch and brought it to the door. The whole cottage seemed to shake under the impact of the ram, and Jim, watching from the passage, knew that the lock would not stand another blow.

"Keep back," he warned the girl in a whisper, and slipped through the door which led from the passage into the room where Farringdon had lost his life.

Again Hamon struck, and the lock broke with a crash. In another second, Hamon had pushed open the door, and, gun in hand, had stepped in. He saw the open doorway and guessed who stood there.

"Come out, Morlake!" he screamed. "Come out, you dog!"

He fired at the lintel, and the bullet ricochetted past Jim's face. Jim was waiting for the second shot, and when it came he leapt out, his little black pistol levelled.

Before Hamon could fire, Jim pressed the trigger. There was no explosion. Only from the muzzle of the black "gun" shot with terrific force a white spray of noxious vapour. It struck the would-be murderer in the face, and with a choking gasp he fell heavily to the floor.

Jim's eyes were watering, he himself found it difficult to breathe, and he came back for a moment to the girl, who held her handkerchief to her mouth.

"Open the windows," he ordered quickly, and then went back to the unconscious man, just as Welling and his men came flying up the path.

"It isn't pleasant, is it?" said Jim, eyeing his stubby gun with a smile. "It has never carried a cartridge, because it isn't built that way. It throws a spray of pure ammonia vapour, and throws it a considerable distance."

It was necessary to put the maniac into a strait-jacket before he could be moved to the nearest lock-up, and they did not see Welling again until he came to Creith House late that afternoon, weary and bedraggled, but with a look of triumph in his eyes.

"Well," he said, speaking to the company in general but addressing Jim, "I have discovered the mystery is not such a mystery after all. And why I did not hit upon the solution as soon as I heard and knew that you were burgling banks and strong rooms in order to secure a document which would incriminate Ralph Hamon, I cannot for the life of me understand. Maybe I am getting old and dull."

"I am too," said the girl, "for it certainly puzzles me."

Lord Creith stretched his hands to the blazing warmth, rubbed them together and ruminated profoundly.

"I give it up too—our American friend must explain. But perhaps you have the document, Welling?"

Captain Welling smiled.

"It is here," he said, and produced Ralph Hamon's pocket-book. "It seemed incredible to me that Hamon should carry about with him a statement written by his victim that would most inevitably bring him to the gallows if it ever was produced in a court of law."

"Then why the devil didn't he burn it?" asked Lord Creith irritably, and for answer Welling produced the document.

Lord Creith read it through with a frown.

"He could have burnt this—" he began.

"Turn it over," said Welling quietly, and Creith obeyed.

He stared for a moment at the engraved letters on the other side.

"Good God!" he said.

The statement was written on the back of a Bank of England note for £100,000.

"He could have burnt it," said Jim, "but his natural cupidity would not allow him to destroy so much money. He dared not pay it into the bank; he could not bring himself to do away with the evidence of his guilt. When I found John Cornford, he was dying, and the first name I heard was that of Ralph Hamon, whom I had met once in Tangier and knew to be a shady customer. And then I recognised in the sailor the mysterious visitor that Hamon had had some months before. Little by little, I learnt from the half- sane man the story of Hamon's villainy. In order that he might not be wronged, Cornford had changed all his money into one note of a hundred thousand pounds. I was able to trace that at the bank, and even if Hamon had presented it for payment, it would have been stopped. The monkey and the gourd," he mused; "he could not let go of his treasure and he was caught."

******

On a bitterly cold day in January, when the whole country was ice- bound, and rivers which had never known obstruction were frozen from bank to bank, Jim Morlake and Joan Carston came out of Creith parish church, man and wife. They left that afternoon by car for London, and it was Joan's wish that they should make a détour through Ascot.

"You are sure you don't mind, Jim?" she asked for the tenth time, as the car was rolling swiftly along the frozen Bagshot Road.

"Why, of course not, honey. It is very dear of you."

"He was a boy, just a silly, romantic boy, who had held such promise of a big career, and I feel that this—this ruined him."

She was thinking of Ferdinand Farringdon, and Jim understood. They halted near the place where the black pines hid the little church in the wood, and she handed a great bunch of lilies to Jim as he got out of the car.

"Lay them on the altar, Jim," she said, and he nodded and slammed the door tight.

The cold was phenomenal: it struck through his fur-lined coat and made his fingers tingle. How different it was in winter, he thought! And yet the chapel in the wood had a beauty of its own, even on this drear day. As he turned to cross, he stood looking, and then he saw the figure crouched against the steps—a bundle of rags that bore no semblance to anything human. He ran forward and looked down into the cold, grey face, strangely beautiful in death. What freak impulse brought Bannockwaite to the door of the church he had built, there to die in the cold night?

Jim looked round: there was nobody in sight, and, stooping, he laid the lilies on the dead man's stiffened hands, and, bareheaded, walked back to the car.

END