THE MAN FROM MOROCCO - 3

THE MAN FROM MOROCCO

EDGAR WALLACE

( INSTALMENT 3 )

CHAPTER 36

THE BANNOCKWAITE BRIDE

"Now let's hear all about it."

He held her at arm's length.

"And look up, Joan. There's nothing you'll ever do that is going to make any difference to me or my love for you. You're the only person in the world who isn't a bother and who couldn't be a bother."

Presently she told the story.

"Mr. Bannockwaite started it. It was a society called the Midnight Monks. The boys at Hulston used to come over the wall and we would sit around in the convent garden and eat things—pastry and pies, a sort of midnight picnic. It will sound strange to you that that could be innocent, but it was. All those queer societies of his started that way, however they developed. We were the Midnight Monks, and my dearest friend, Ada Lansing, was our 'prioress.' Of course, the sisters knew nothing—the sisters of the convent I mean. Poor dears! They'd have died if they had dreamt of such goings-on! And then somebody suggested that, in order that the two branches of the society should be everlastingly united there should be a wedding symbolical of our union—that and nothing more. You think all this is madly incredible, but things like that happen, and I think Bannockwaite was behind the suggestion. He had just come down from Oxford and had built the little chapel in the woods. He never lost touch with any of the societies he formed and he was very much interested in the Monks, which was the first he invented. I know he came down because he presided at one of our summer night feasts. We drew lots as to who should be the bride—"

"And the choice fell on you?" said Lord Creith gently.

She shook her head.

"No, it fell upon Ada, and she was enthusiastic—terribly enthusiastic until the day of the wedding. It was a holiday and the seniors were allowed out in twos. Mr. Bannockwaite arranged everything. The man was to dress like a monk, with his face cowled, and the girl was to be heavily veiled. Nobody was to know the other. We weren't even supposed to know who had drawn the lots. Can you imagine anything more mad? Mr. Bannockwaite was to perform the ceremony. We went to this dear little chapel in the woods near Ascot, and in the vestry poor Ada broke down. I think it was then that I first realised how terribly serious it was. I won't make a long story of it, Daddy—I took Ada's place."

"Then you never saw your husband's face?"

She nodded.

"Yes, the cowl fell back and I saw him, and when the ceremony was over and I signed the register, I saw his name. I don't think he saw mine, unless he has been back since."

"And you never saw him again?"

She shook her head.

"No, that was the plan. I never saw him until—until he came here. I heard he was dead. It seems a terribly wicked thing to say, but I was almost glad when poor Ada died."

Lord Creith filled his pipe with a hand that shook.

"It was damnable of Bannockwaite, and even his death doesn't absolve him. It might have been worse." He put his arm around her and squeezed her gently. "And it is hard on you, Joan, but it can be remedied."

"It is harder—than you think," she said.

The Lord of Creith was a very human man, and his knowledge of humanity did not stop short at guessing.

"What is wrong, girlie?" he asked. "Do you love somebody else?"

She nodded.

"That certainly is unfortunate." The old twinkle had come back to his eyes, and he pulled her up to her feet. "Come along and have tea," he said. "Feel better?"

She kissed him. The Creiths were not demonstrative, and to be kissed by his daughter was generally a source of embarrassment to his lordship. On this particular occasion he felt like crying.

Joan went up to her room, removed the traces of tears from her face, and his lordship strolled into the library. Hamon was there with his back to the fire, his face black as a thundercloud.

"My man tells me that you took the police up to my room—why?"

"Because I am the principal magistrate in this part of the world, and I cannot refuse a request when it is made to me by a responsible officer," said Lord Creith quietly.

"I suppose you remember occasionally that this house is mine?"

"I never forget it," said the earl, "but if this county was yours it would not make the slightest difference to me, Hamon. If you were under suspicion of murder—"

"Under suspicion? What do you mean? Have you taken up that crazy story? What did the police want? Why did they search my room? What did they expect to find?"

He fired off the questions in rapid succession.

"They expected to find a burnt envelope," said Lord Creith wearily, and he got a certain malicious satisfaction when he saw his guest start. "It was a letter that was delivered to you, posted at Little Lexham this morning."

"They didn't find it," said the other harshly.

"They found the ashes thereof," said Lord Creith, and then: "Do you mind switching off wilful murder? I find I'm not so fascinated by crime as I used to be. And, by the way, Hamon, what time shall I order your chauffeur?"

"Why order my chauffeur at all?"

"Because you're going back to town tonight," said his lordship, almost jauntily. "You're constantly reminding me that this house is yours. Let me remind you that I am a tenant for life, and that until my certain- to-be-regretted demise I have all the authority, legal and moral, to order you out of my house, which I do at this moment and in the plainest terms I can command!"

"This is a remarkable action on your part, Lord Creith," said the visitor in a milder tone.

"I don't know that it is remarkable, but it is certainly necessary," said his lordship, and, without any further conversation with his visitor, he ordered the car to be ready in an hour.

His valet brought the news to Ralph Hamon.

"We're not returning to London. Go down to the Red Lion and book me a bedroom and a sitting-room," he said.

This development had considerably altered his plans. Marborne's death and the safe recovery of the thing he had risked so much to hold, did not promise complete safety; and now that he was under suspicion, there was a double reason why he should not leave Creith until his mission was accomplished, and until he had made sure that disaster did not come from the least considered source.

Besides, he had told Ahmet to hurt but not to kill! It was no fault of his if the fool had exceeded his instructions. He had given similar orders to a certain Ali Hassan, with as unhappy consequences; but Ali Hassan was a smoker of hashish and an undependable man, or he might have carried out his orders to the letter.

Lord Creith heard that his guest had taken up his quarters at the Red Lion without feeling any sense of uneasiness.

"I don't know what the Red Lion is like nowadays," he said to his daughter. "In the days of my youth it was notoriously dirty and full of fleas, and I trust it has not changed. The air is cleaner now, my duck. This Hamon is a very nasty fellow."

And she was inclined to agree. She had not seen Jim since the meeting on the hill, and she purposely avoided contact with him. What would he think of her? How was he feeling? Was he hurt? She hoped most fervently that he was.

"Do you like Americans, Father?"

"I like some of them, and I detest some of them," said his lordship, without raising his eyes from the newspaper he was reading; "but that remark equally applies to almost any nation. Why?" He looked over the top of the paper. "You're thinking of Morlake?" he said.

"I was," she confessed.

"A very nice fellow. I never knew that a desperado could be so nice. He is a gentleman, too," he added, and returned to his newspaper.

CHAPTER 37

THE LETTER

The people of Creith wondered to see their lord's principal guest, and, if rumour did not lie, the future owner of the estate, moving his lodgings to the village inn; but Hamon had got to the point where he did not care what they thought. A week ago, such an affront to his dignity would have driven him desperate; but now something else was at stake. Unexpectedly his world was rocking dangerously.

He wired Lydia to meet him in London on the morrow, and, waiting until it was dark, he went out from his lodgings and bent his steps to the gardener's cottage. Mrs. Cornford opened the door to him, and at first she did not recognise him in the darkness.

"I want to see you, Mrs. Cornford," he said.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Ralph Hamon."

She did not move, standing squarely in the narrow passage, and then, opening the door wider:

"Come in," she said, and followed him into the little parlour.

"You haven't changed very much, Mrs. Cornford," he said, at a loss how to approach the subject which had brought him there.

She made no reply. It was an awkward situation, and again he sought for an opening.

"I suppose you're still feeling sore with me?"

"No," she replied quietly, and then: "Won't you sit down, Mr. Hamon?"

"There is no reason why you should feel sore. I did everything I could for Johnny."

"Where is he?" she asked.

"I don't know—dead, I suppose," he said, and at the brutality of his words she winced a little.

"I think he is dead too," she breathed, nodding slowly. "You were equally sure that he was alive twelve years ago," she said quietly. "What happened to his money, Mr. Hamon?"

"He lost it: I told you that before," said Hamon impatiently.

Her eyes never left him.

"He wrote to me from Morocco, saying that he had seen the mine, and how splendid a property it was, and then a month later he wrote from London, saying that he was fixing everything with you, and I never heard from him again."

"He disappeared: that is all I know," said Hamon. "He was coming to my office to complete the purchase of shares, and he didn't turn up. I wired you, asking where he was, immediately."

His tone was a defiance.

"I only know that he drew a hundred thousand pounds from the bank, and that neither he nor the money was seen again," she said steadily. "I am not pretending, Mr. Hamon, that my husband and I were very happy. He was of too erratic a disposition, had too many friends of both sexes that I could not possibly approve; he was a drunkard too, but he was in some respects a good man. He would not have left me a beggar as he did."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Why didn't you go to the police?" he asked blandly. "If you had any doubts about me—"

She looked down upon him, a contemptuous smile upon her tired face.

"You begged me not to go to the police," she said in a low voice. "I see now what a fool I was. You begged me, for my own sake and for the sake of my husband's people, not to advertise his absence."

"Didn't I put advertisements in every newspaper? Didn't I send agents to Monte Carlo, to Aix, to Deauville—to every gambling place where he might be?" he demanded with simulated indignation. "Really, Mrs. Cornford, I don't think you're treating me quite fairly."

It was useless to reply to him. He had put her off her search until the cleverest detective agencies in England found it impossible to pick up a clue, for she had delayed independent action until that independent action was futile. One day she had been a rich woman with a home and an independent income. The next, she was beggared.

If John Cornford had been the ordinary type of business man, there would have been no question as to her action. She would have notified the police immediately of his disappearance. But Johnny Cornford, prince of good fellows to all but his own, had a habit of making these mysterious disappearances. She had learnt, in the course of her life, the discretion of silence.

"Why have you come?" she asked.

"Because I wanted to settle up this matter of Johnny. I feel responsible, to the extent that I brought him to London. Will you show me the letter he sent you from town?"

She shook her head.

"You wanted to see that before, Mr. Hamon. It is the only evidence I have that he had returned to England at all. Some time ago, a man asked you what had become of my husband, and you said that he had been lost in the desert in Morocco. Hundreds of people who knew him are under the impression that he died there."

"What is that?" he asked suddenly. There was a low wail of sound.

"I have a young man staying with me who is very ill," she said, and hurried from the room.

He looked round the apartment. Where would a woman of that sort keep her letters? Not in an accessible dining-room, he thought. Somewhere in the bedroom, probably. The door connecting the rooms was open, and he looked in. A candle was burning on the table. He heard her footsteps and stepped back quickly to his seat.

"Now I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Mrs. Cornford. If you will let me see that letter, I will tell you the whole truth about Johnny's death."

"He is dead, then?" she asked huskily, and he nodded.

"He has been dead ten years."

She seemed to be struggling with herself. Presently she got up, went to the bedroom and closed the door behind her, returning in a few minutes with a small ebony box, which she opened.

"Here is the letter," she said. "You may read it."

Yes, it was blue! He knew that it was written on Critton Hotel notepaper—the Critton note was blue.

He read the scrawled writing. It was dated from a London hotel.

I am seeing Ralph Hamon today, and we are fixing the purchase of the shares. The only thing about which I am not certain—and this I must discover—is whether the property I saw was Hamon's mine, or a very prosperous concern which has no connection whatever with Ralph's company. Not that I think he would deceive me.

She watched him intently, ready to snatch at the letter if he attempted to pocket it, but he handed it back to her, and she replaced it in the box and closed the lid. She was about to speak when again there came that moaning sound from the next room. She hesitated a moment, locked the little ebony box and carried it back to her bedroom, turning the key on the bedroom door after her when she came out. He watched with a certain amount of amusement, and when she went into the invalid's room he followed her.

"Who is this man?" he asked, regarding curiously the gaunt face that lay on the pillows.

"He is my boarder," she said, troubled. "I'm afraid he is worse tonight."

Farringdon rose on his elbow and tried to get out of bed. It took all her strength to push him back. Again he tried to rise, and it took their united efforts to force him back.

"Will you stay here whilst I get the doctor?" she asked.

Ralph Hamon had no desire to act as nurse to a half-crazy patient, but in all the circumstances he thought it would be advisable. He pulled up a chair and watched the poor wretch who tossed from side to side, muttering and laughing in his delirium. Presently the sick man's voice grew clear.

"Joan—married? Yes, her father is Lord somebody or other," said the patient. "I never knew. You see, they found out that afternoon—the house-master heard me talking to Bannockwaite. We were married at the little church in the wood. I didn't want to marry, but the gang insisted. We drew lots. It was Bannockwaite's fault. He was never quite normal. You know Bannockwaite? He was ordained that year, and he thought it was a great joke. They chucked him out of the Church for something queer that happened, but I was abroad then and don't quite know what it was all about. Anyway, he was killed in the war. He ought never to have been a parson. Bannockwaite, I mean. He started the society, the Midnight Monks, when he was a kid at Hulston—that's my school. The girls at the convent next door used to sneak over the wall and we ate candies ... Joan, that was her name—Joan. Her father was Lord somebody and lived in Sussex. Bannockwaite told me that she was a peeress. I didn't want her ... Ban called her Ada something when we were married, but her name was Joan ..."

Hamon listened, electrified. Joan! It must be Joan Carston. He bent over the sick man and asked eagerly:

"Where were you married?"

For a time the invalid said something that he could not catch.

"Where?" he asked sharply.

"Little church in a wood at Ascot," murmured Farringdon. "It is in the register."

Hamon knew the reputation of Bannockwaite, and guessed the rest of the story. Joan was married! He pursed his lips at the thought. It was at once a lever and a barrier. He heard the feet of Mrs. Cornford and the doctor, and drew back to the doorway. It was easy to take his farewells now, and, with a nod to the woman which she hardly saw, he went back to the hotel.

It was half-an-hour before the doctor left, and, in spite of the feverish condition of the patient, he reported a distinct improvement.

"I'll have a nurse in from the County Hospital tonight, Mrs. Cornford," he said, and she thanked him gratefully. She had had little sleep for forty-eight hours.

Why had Ralph Hamon called, she asked herself? And what could be the object of his wanting to see that letter? He had asked years before, but she had refused him access, feeling, in some way, that its possession retained for her a last grasp on the fortune which had slipped through her hands.

She had taken a great risk in letting him touch it, and she was thankful that there were no worse consequences to her folly. Before she went to bed that night she opened the drawer of her bureau, took out the box and unlocked it. There was the faded blue letter on the top. She was closing the lid down when it occurred to her to read this last message from her husband, and she opened the sheet. It was blank.

Ralph Hamon knew the colour of the letter, knew its shape and size. It had been easy to ring the changes.

What should she do? The hour was late. Should she go to the hall and invoke Lord Creith's assistance? She had only seen him once, and she was already in his debt. And then her mind turned to Jim—that quiet, capable man, and, putting on her hat and coat, she hurried to Wold House.

There are certain advantages and some disadvantages to an hotel. The disadvantage, from Ralph Hamon's point of view, was its accessibility to the outside public. He was sitting before a fire in his bedroom, for the night was chilly, smoking his last cigar, and ruminating upon the queerness of this latest development, when, without so much as a knock, the door opened and Jim Morlake walked in.

"I've got two pieces of news for you, Hamon. The first is that your Moor is caught. The second is that you're going to give me a letter that you stole from Mrs. Cornford, and you're going to give it to me very, very quickly."

CHAPTER 38

A YATCHING TRIP

Ralph Hamon rose to his feet, his hands in his pockets, his jaw out-thrust.

"My Moor, as you call him, doesn't interest, and this yarn about a stolen letter doesn't even amuse me."

"I didn't come here at this hour of the night to make you laugh," said Jim. "I want that letter."

He took two strides across the room, and then, with an oath, Hamon sprang between him and the dressing-table.

"It's there, is it? Get out of my way!"

He brushed the man aside as though he were a child, and pulled open the drawer. On the top was a pocket-book, and this he took out.

"You thief!" howled Hamon, and leapt at him.

Again he reeled back from the outstretched hand.

"Here is the letter," said Jim. "Now, if—"

He did not finish his sentence. Grinning with rage, Hamon saw him make a rapid search of the pocket-book, but the thing he sought was not there.

"Found it?" he said exultantly.

"I've found the letter—that was enough," said Jim, as he slipped it into his pocket and dropped the case back into the drawer. "You can call the police if you like. I don't mind—I'm used to it. There's a fine charge for you—breaking and entering!"

Hamon said nothing.

"If your Moor talks, there will be some sad hearts on Wall Street— nothing depreciates the stock of a Corporation more than the hanging of its president!"

Still Hamon made no reply. He flung open the window, and, leaning out, watched the tall man till he disappeared into the night, and then he went back to his interrupted reflections, but now they were on another plane. And invariably his thoughts came back to the starting point, which was Joan Carston—the married Joan. Joan, linked in some indefinable way with Jim Morlake. Lydia had told him they were engaged, and he had laughed at the idea. Was he the real barrier? If he could be sure ...!

He left the next morning for London and went to Victoria to meet Lydia in the afternoon. She had read of the murder of Marborne in the Paris newspapers, and was a little frightened and nervous—he was amazed to note how the news had affected her.

"How did it happen, Ralph?" she asked in the car on the way home. "How dreadful! Was he really killed by a Moor? You know nothing about it, do you, Ralph?" She gripped his hand in both of hers and peered into his face. "You didn't, did you? It would be horrible if I thought otherwise. Of course you didn't!"

"You're getting hysterical, Lydia. Of course I know no more about this poor devil's death than you. It was a great shock to me. I don't pretend I liked the man, and I liked him less after he got so fresh with you."

"What are you going to do, Ralph?"

"I'm going to get away out of this country," he said. "I'm sick of it."

"To Morocco?"

He saw the corners of her mouth droop.

"Yes, to Morocco. We'll go there for Christmas: it is the best time of the year."

"Not for good?"

"Of course not. If you're bored you can run over to Gibraltar or Algeciras. You needn't stay in the place," he soothed her. "Maybe I won't go there at all. I ought to go to New York to finish off a business deal. You were telling me last week, when you were over here, about a swell French friend of yours who was hiring a yacht to take some people to the South Sea Islands. It fell through, didn't it?"

"Yes," she said, looking at him wonderingly.

"Do you think you could go along and charter the yacht for the winter?"

"Why not go by the usual route, Ralph? It is more comfortable," she said.

"I prefer the sea."

She did not answer him, knowing that he was a bad sailor.

"Will you see what you can do in this matter?" he asked impatiently.

"Yes, Ralph. Count Lagune is in London at this moment, I think. It could easily be arranged."

She came to him in the evening with a story of accomplishment. She had chartered the yacht provisionally, and the Count had telegraphed to Cherbourg to have the vessel sent to Southampton. She found her brother in a jubilant mood, for the Moor had escaped from the little Sussex lock-up to which he had been taken, and had half-killed a policeman in the process.

"Your Moor will talk!" he mimicked Jim. "Let him. I guess he's talking!"

She was staring at him, wide-eyed with horror.

"Ralph!" she gasped. "It isn't true—you knew nothing about this?"

"Of course I didn't, you fool!" he said roughly. "They thought I did. That swine Morlake practically accused me—said the man was in my service, which was a lie. I've never heard of him."

That night he wrote a letter to the Earl of Creith, and it was both conciliatory and logical.

"I must say," said his lordship, wagging his head, "this fellow isn't as bad as he looks. He has written a most charming letter, and I'm rather sorry I was such a pig."

"The only man you could talk about so offensively is Mr. Hamon," said the girl with a smile.

She took the letter from her father's hand and read it.

I'm afraid I have been rather a boor these last few days [it ran] but so many things have happened to get on my nerves and I know I have not been quite normal. I hope you will not think too badly of me, and that in a year or two's time we shall both be amused at the absurd suggestion that I was in any way responsible for poor Marborne's death. I have been called unexpectedly to America, which has changed my plans considerably, for I had contemplated a yachting cruise in the Mediterranean and I find myself with a yacht on my hands. I wonder if I can persuade you to take the trip? You would be quite alone, and I am sure you would have an enjoyable time. I only regret that neither myself nor my sister can be with you. The yacht is the "L'Esperance," and will be at Southampton on Tuesday. May I beg of you, as a very great favour, to use the yacht as if she were yours, and save me from what, to a financier, is a misery—a sense of having wasted my money.

"H'm!" mused the Earl. "Of course, if he'd been going on a trip, I should have written him a very polite letter, telling him that in no circumstances should I share the voyage with him. But this is different, don't you think, my love?"

Again he shook his head at the letter.

"I'm not so sure that the trip wouldn't be good for us all," he said.

Knowing how strong were her prejudices against Hamon, he expected some opposition. He was therefore agreeably surprised when she fell in with his view. Creith was on her nerves too—Creith and the sick man at Mrs. Cornford's, and Jim, whom she never saw and ached to see.

The first news of the intended trip came, as usual, ex Binger, and the divers junctions of intelligence that met in the tap-room of the Red Lion.

"It appears that this yacht—it is hon loan to Hamon."

"What do you mean by 'on loan'—has it been chartered?"

"Yes, sir. If my information is haccurate."

"Which in all likelihood it isn't—where are they going?"

"To the Mediterranean, sir. Mr. Hamon and sister are hoff to America. Which they are welcome to."

"To the Mediterranean?"

Jim looked into the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully.

"That means ... When do they go?"

"On Saturday, sir."

"Indeed!" said Jim.

For the Mediterranean meant Tangier, and Tangier stood in his mind for Sadi Hafiz and the beautiful hell in the Rifi Hills.

CHAPTER 39

THE CHAPEL IN THE WOOD

There is a little chapel which stands back from the Bagshot Road. The beauty of its outlines is hidden by the jealous trees. An open gateway in a side road leads, apparently, into the cool depths of the wood, without any suggestion that anything more solid than the pines or more beautiful than the wild violets that grow here in spring is concealed there.

Ralph Hamon left his car on the Bagshot Road and proceeded afoot to his investigations. For a time he stood looking at the graceful lines of the little edifice, though in his mind there was no thought of its aesthetic beauty or the loveliness of its surroundings. He only wondered who could have been such a fool as to build a church miles from the nearest village. He also speculated as to what the collections were, and what it cost to build the chapel, and who was the lunatic who had endowed such a useless structure.

The door was open: he went into the tiny porch and pushed gingerly at the baize door. The interior, with its gorgeous stained-glass windows and its marble altar, looked bigger than it actually was. A man was sweeping the tessellated floor, and looked round as he heard the door close.

"Good-day to you," said Ralph. "Is the vicar about?"

The cleaner shook his head.

"No, sir, there's no vicar here. The curate of St. Barnabas' generally comes over to take the service. But usually we open it for marriages—there is one today."

"Why for marriages?" asked Ralph, surprised.

"Because it's romantic," said the man vaguely. "You know what young people are—they like a bit of romance in their lives. It was built for a marrying church by a rich young parson named—now, what was his name?"

"Bannockwaite?" suggested Ralph.

"That's the name." The verger shook his head. "He was a bad lot, according to what I've heard."

It was a marrying church! That was good news. There would be a register. He asked the question.

"Yes, sir, the register is kept here."

He looked round dubiously toward the vestry door.

"I don't know whether I'm supposed to show it to you. You have to pay a fee, don't you?"

"I'll pay your fee, my friend. You produce your register."

He followed the man through the little arched doorway into a small stone room furnished with a table and a few chairs. His fear was that the verger would not have either the authority for or the opportunity of showing him the book, but apparently there was no difficulty here, for the man unlocked the chest and laid a heavy volume on the table.

"What date would it be?"

"It would be five or six years ago," said Hamon.

"That's as long as the church has been built," said the verger doubtfully, and turned back to the first page to verify his statement.

And the first entry on the first page was the record of a marriage between Ferdinand Charles Farringdon and Joan Mary Carston!

With fingers that trembled he made a copy of the entry, tipped the verger lavishly, and hurried out into the open. He saw a man walking unconcernedly between the pines, but, in his excitement, scarcely noticed, let alone recognised him.

How was he to use his knowledge to the best advantage? Should he go to the girl, tell her all he knew, and threaten her with exposure? He rejected this plan. What was there to expose? Still, he had the knowledge, and sooner or later it must be of value.

He went back to town in a more cheerful mood than he had been for days. Julius Welling watched his departure, and would have followed instantly, but he was anxious to know what business had brought the financier to Ascot ...

Lydia was superintending her packing when her brother arrived, and she was more amiable than usual.

"You're back, Ralph?" she said. "I wanted to see you about one or two things. You can't tell how glad I am you've decided to go to America. I've always wanted to see the United States. You'll go to Palm Beach, won't you—"

"Let us get this thing right before we go any farther," said Hamon. "We are not going to America!"

Her face fell.

"We're going to Morocco."

"Morocco!" she gasped. "But, Ralph, you've made the reservations."

He sighed wearily.

"It was necessary to make reservations, because I don't want anybody to know what my plans are."

"But you have loaned the yacht to Lord Creith. You said you hated the idea of a sea voyage—"

"We're going by train—as you suggested," said Hamon. "My business calls me there, and it is absolutely necessary that I should see Sadi before Christmas."

She was silent and resentful, and stood biting her lip and regarding him from under her lowered brows.

"I don't like this, Ralph," she said. "There is something wrong."

"There is more than one thing wrong, my dear," he said. "The whole universe is a little off its feet, and I am speaking more especially of my universe. I'll tell you this plainly: I want Joan Carston."

She looked up at him.

"You mean you want to marry her?"

"I want to marry her if it is possible," he said carefully. "There are certain obstacles in the way for the moment, but they won't remain obstacles very long."

"But if she doesn't like you—?"

"What married couple ever like one another?" said Ralph roughly. "They are infatuated—in love, as they call it. But liking is a matter of growth and a matter of respect. And you can make a woman respect you in half-a-dozen ways. The first essential to respect is fear. Puzzle that out, my girl."

"Is it necessary that I should come?"

"Very necessary," he said promptly.

She took a cigarette from a little jewelled case and lit it, watching him keenly.

"I suppose you'll want a whole lot of help from Sadi Hafiz?" she said carelessly.

"I certainly shall."

"And you think that Sadi will be more amenable—if I am there?"

His surprise did not deceive her.

"I have never thought of it in that light," he said.

"I hate the place!" She stamped her foot angrily. "That beastly old house and dingy garden, and those wretched women prying at me from behind the grilles—"

"It is a lovely house," he interrupted enthusiastically, "and the air is like wine—" He stopped suddenly.

"You're thinking of another house," she said quickly. "Has he another?"

"I believe he has, somewhere on the hills," he answered shortly, and refused to be drawn any further on the subject.

He locked himself in his study for the rest of the day, and she thought he was working; imagined him turning out drawers, destroying papers, and clearing up the correspondence that such a man allowed to fall into arrears. But, in truth, Ralph Hamon was dreaming. He sprawled in an easy chair, his eyes fixed on vacancy, conjuring a hundred situations in which he played a leading and a flattering part. He dreamt Jim Morlake into prison and Joan into his arms. He dreamt great financial coups and the straightening out of life's tangle. And so he passed from romance to reality, and his dreams became plans, just as Lady Joan Carston became Lady Joan Hamon.

At five o'clock he unlocked the door and lounged into his sister's room. She had a cup of tea, a novel and a cigarette, but she also had found occupation for her thoughts, and the book was unread and the cigarette was burning itself away in the jasper tray.

"You look pleased with yourself."

"I am," he said, his eyes shining, "I am!"

CHAPTER 40

THE LOVER

"Please, sir, there's a lady to see you."

Cleaver spoke in hushed tones, and, by the air of awestricken wonder, Jim gathered somebody unusual had called.

"Who is the lady?" he asked, and knew before the man replied.

"Lady Joan."

Jim jumped up from his chair.

"Why didn't you ask her in?" he said.

"She wouldn't come in, sir. She is on the lawn: she asked if she could speak to you."

He hurried out into the garden. Joan was standing at the river bank, her hands behind her, looking down into the water, and, hearing the swish of his shoes on the grass, she turned.

"I wanted to see you," she said. "Shall we cross the river? I am on my way to the house, and you might take me as far as the coverts."

They walked in silence until they were beyond the inquisitive eyes of Cleaver.

"I left you rather abruptly on No Man's Hill," she said. "I think that it is due to you that I should finish my story."

And then she told him, in almost identical words, the story she had told her father and he listened, dumfounded.

"I am so sick of it all and I've had to make this confession twice; once to my father, because—well it was due to him, and once to you because—"

She did not finish her sentence nor did he press her.

"The marriage can be annulled, of course," he said.

She nodded.

"Father said that, and I suppose it seems very simple to you. But to me it means going into court and having this ghastly business thrashed out point by point." She shivered. "I don't think I shall ever do it," she said. "I'm a coward; did you know that?"

"I have never had that estimate of you," he laughed. "No, Joan. I don't believe that! One isn't a coward because one shirks the ugliness of life. You're going away, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"I don't want to make the trip, but I think it will be good for father. The winter climate here doesn't suit him and it will be a change for us both. I thought there was a catch in it somewhere," she half smiled, "but really Mr. Hamon is going to America. He is with father now, taking his farewells."

"And that is one of the reasons why I have the privilege of seeing you?" he chuckled, but she protested vigorously.

"No, I should have come anyway. I had to tell you about—about the marriage. And do you know, James, I have a feeling that Hamon knows."

"How could he?"

"He was at the house one night when Mr. Farringdon was unusually violent. It was the night Mrs. Cornford lost her letter, which you got back for her. And she said that Farringdon had been talking about the church in the wood at Ascot all the time. A man of Hamon's shrewdness would jump at the truth."

"Does it matter?" asked Jim quietly after a pause, "whether he knows or not? How is Farringdon, by the way?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"He is better. It is wicked of me not to be thankful, but, Jim, I can't be—I shall have to call you Jim, I suppose. I saw him today; he was walking in the plantation at the back of the cottage."

"Is he so far recovered as that?" asked Jim in surprise, "but would he recognise you?"

She nodded.

"I have a feeling that he did," she said. "Yes, he has recovered. The doctor told Mrs. Cornford that these cases get better with surprising rapidity. I didn't know he was in the wood. I was on my way to the cottage to ask after him, and suddenly we came face to face and he looked at me very oddly as I passed. What makes me think he knows is that Mrs. Cornford told me he had been asking who was Lady Joan and what rank was her father. And then he asked how far it was to Ascot."

Her voice trembled and she bit her lip to recover her self-possession.

"He may be guessing," she said after a while, "but even that may make it more difficult for me. What am I to do, Jim? What am I to do?"

He had to hold himself in, or he would have taken her into his arms. He loved her; he had not realised how intensely until that moment. To Jim Morlake she was the beginning and end of existence and all its desirability. He would have changed the plan of his life, and abandoned the quest that had occupied ten years of his life, to save her from one heart-ache.

Looking up, she dropped her eyes again, as though she read in his face something of the burning fire that was consuming him. He laid his hand on her shoulders and his touch was a caress. Slowly they paced toward the wood, and instinctively she leaned more and more upon him, until his arm was about her and her cheek brushed the home-spun of his sleeve.

Ralph Hamon had said good-bye to the Earl of Creith and was searching the grounds for the girl when he saw the two and stopped dead. Even at that distance, there was no mistaking the athletic figure and the clean-moulded face of Jim Morlake. Still more impossible was it to misunderstand the relationship of these two.

They disappeared into the straggling plantation and he stood for some time biting his nails, his heart hot with impotent rage. There wassomething between them, after all! He had pooh-poohed the suggestion when Lydia had made it, but here was a demonstration beyond all doubt. He broke into a run down the grassy slope toward the strip of wood, not knowing what he would do, or what he would say when he saw them. All he wanted was to meet them face to face and release upon them the fury which burnt within him.

Blundering across the grass-land, he reached the wood breathless. He stopped to listen, heard footsteps and went toward the sound. Moving forward stealthily from tree to tree, he saw the walker and stopped. It was Farringdon, the man he had seen at Mrs. Cornford's cottage!

His appearance took Hamon by surprise. He thought the walker was bedridden. The man came nearer and Hamon took cover and watched. Farringdon was a wild-looking figure with his week's growth of beard, his pale face and his untidy dress. He was talking to himself as he slouched along, and Hamon strained his ears, without being able to distinguish what he was saying. The man passed and, coming from his hiding place, the watcher followed at a distance, guessing that the course he was taking would intercept the lovers.

To Jim those were the most precious moments of his life. The burden of life had slipped from him; all other causes and ambitions were lost in his new-found happiness. In silence they walked into the wood, oblivious to all the world that lay outside their hearts. Presently she stopped and sat down on a fallen tree trunk.

"Where are we going?" she asked, and he knew that she did not refer to their immediate destination.

"We're going to happiness, sooner or later," he said, as he sat by her side and drew her to him. "We will disentangle all the knots, big and little, and straighten out all the paths, however crooked and uneven they may be."

She smiled and lifted her lips to his. And then, in that moment of pure ecstasy, Jim heard a low, chuckling laugh, and gently putting her away from him, turned.

"A forest idyll! That's a fine sight for a husband—to see his wife in another man's arms!"

Farringdon stood tensely before them, his arms folded, his dark eyes glistening feverishly. The girl sprang up with a cry of distress and clutched at Jim Morlake's arm.

"He knows!" she whispered in terror.

The man's keen ears heard the words.

"He knows ...!" he mocked. "You bet he knows! So you're my Joan, are you? If I hadn't been a lazy brute I'd have found that out years ago."

He took off his hat with a sweep.

"Glad to met you, Mrs. Farringdon!" he said. "It is a long time since you and I were joined together in the holy bonds of matrimony. So you're my Joan! Well, I've dreamt about you for all these years, but I never dreamt anything so pretty. Do you know this ..." he pointed at her with a shaking finger. "There was a girl I could have married, and would have married if it hadn't been for that cursed folly! You've been a stumbling block in my road, a handicap that nothing but booze could overcome!"

He took a step toward her and suddenly, gripping her, jerked her toward him.

"You're coming home," he said, and laughed.

In another instant he was thrust backward and, stumbling, fell. Jim stooped to pick him to his feet, but he struck the hand aside, and, with a scream of rage, sprang at the tall man.

"You dog!" he howled. But he was a child in the hands that held him.

"You're ill, Farringdon," said Jim gently. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"Let me go! Let me go!" screamed Ferdie Farringdon. "She is my wife. I'm going to tell the village ... she is my wife! You're coming with me, Joan Carston—do you hear! You're my wife till death do us part. And you can't divorce me without bringing him into it."

He wrenched himself from Jim's grip and staggered back. He was breathing painfully, his face, distorted with rage, was demoniacal.

"I've got something to live for now—you! You came to see me, didn't you? And he came too ... you're coming again, Joan—alone!"

And then he spun round and, running like a person demented, flew down the woodland path and was lost to view. Jim turned to the girl. She was trying to smile at him.

"Oh, Jim!"

It hurt him to feel the quivering, trembling agony of her soul as he held her.

"I'm all right now," she said after a while. "You'll have to see me home part of the way, Jim. What am I to do? Thank God we're going away on Saturday!"

He nodded.

"And I was regretting it!" he said. "The man has been at the bottle again, or else he's gone mad."

"Do you think he will come to the house?" she asked fearfully, and then, with a surprising effort, she put him at arm's length and smiled through her unshed tears. "I told you I was a coward and I am. Matrimony doesn't suit me. Jim, I'm beginning to sympathise with wives who murder their husbands. That is a terrible thing to say, isn't it? But I am! He won't come up to the Hall—I don't care if he does," she said, with something of her old spirit. "Father knows. Who could have told him—Mr. Farringdon, I mean?"

"He guessed," said Jim decisively, "and why he hadn't guessed before, I don't know. Probably it was the accident which brought him to Creith, and the opportunity he had of seeing you and hearing your name, which made the discovery possible."

Conversation was difficult; they were each too full of their own thoughts to find speech anything but an effort. But when they came in sight of Creith House, the girl asked unexpectedly "Jim, what were you before you were a burglar?"

"Eh?" he replied, startled. "Before I was a burglar? Oh, I was a respectable member of society."

"But what were you? Were you in the Army?"

He shook his head.

"In any public service?"

"What makes you ask that?" he demanded, looking at her in amazement.

"I don't know—I guessed."

"I was in the diplomatic service for a while—which doesn't mean that I was an ambassador or a consul. I was a sort of hanger-on to embassies and ministries ..."

"In Morocco?" she asked when he did not go on.

"In Morocco and Turkey and other Asiatic countries. I gave it up because—well, because I had sufficient money and because I found a new avenue to adventure."

She nodded.

"I thought it was something like that," she said. "You mustn't go any further. Will you write to me?"

He hesitated and, quick to notice such things, she said:

"Poor man! You don't know where to write! Daddy is having all his correspondence addressed to the English Club at Cadiz—will you remember that? Good-bye!"

She held out both her hands and he took them.

"I don't think you'd better kiss me again. I want to keep as near to normality as I can—I've got to face the lynx-eyed Mr. Hamon."

The lynx-eyed Mr. Hamon was watching the parting from a distance, and he ground his teeth as her companion, disregarding her wishes, put his arm about her and kissed her.

CHAPTER 41

A PHOTOGRAPH

Jim Morlake had one predominant habit of behaviour. It was to clear up as he went along. Before the girl was out of sight he had decided on his line of action, and without hesitation turned off from the field path, and crossing the field, reached the by-lane which led to the village, and incidentally, to Mrs. Cornford's cottage.

Farringdon must give the girl her freedom and he must disabuse that young man's mind of any queer ideas which had crept into his crazy brain.

Mrs. Cornford opened the door to him, and he saw at a glance that something out of the ordinary had happened to trouble her.

"I hope I haven't come at an inconvenient moment."

She shook her head.

"I'm glad to see you, Mr. Morlake," she said, and showed him into her little sitting-room.

It was not hard to guess where the trouble lay, for the sound of ravings came to him distinctly.

"I've come to the end of my dreams," she smiled, "a little suddenly."

"That is a tragic place to reach, Mrs. Cornford," said Jim. "What is wrong?"

"I was hoping to stay on at Creith, but everything depended upon my keeping Mr. Farringdon with me."

"Is he going?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Not of his own will, but I must ask him to leave. He is like a maniac today. A few minutes ago he came in, so beside himself that I was terrified."

Jim thought for a moment.

"I want to see him," he said, and her face grew grave.

"I wish you wouldn't," she begged. "Perhaps tomorrow, or later in the day. He has locked his door. I tried to take him a cup of tea just now, and he would not open it. I am growing frightened."

Jim felt sorry for the woman, for he had guessed that some tragedy had come to her which had altered the whole course of her life. She had the air of one who was used to good living and comfortable surroundings; and it was a pain to him to realise what this drab life must mean to her.

"Will you forgive me if I ask you what you do for a living?" he asked. "Perhaps I might be able to help you?"

She shook her head.

"Unless you wanted music lessons, I'm afraid you can't be of much assistance to me," she said, and he laughed softly.

"Music isn't my long suit," he said, "but I may be able to help you in other directions."

The raving became louder and he looked round and half-rose from the chair to which she had invited him, but she put out a restraining hand.

"Leave him alone," she said. "I will get the district nurse. I think he is ill again."

"Will you forgive me if I ask you a very personal and very impertinent question?"

She did not reply, but her eyes gave him encouragement.

"You have—" he hesitated, not knowing how to frame the question— "you have lost a great deal of money at some time or other?"

"You mean I have come down in the world?" she smiled. "Yes, I'm afraid I have. My husband disappeared some years ago and when his affairs were settled it was found that he, who I thought was a very rich man, was practically penniless. That is my whole story in the smallest compass," she said frankly. "John Cornford was rather a law to himself and did eccentric things which made tracing him a very difficult matter. Perhaps I was ill-advised at the time, for I did not attempt to make enquiries. I trusted Mr. Hamon—"

"Hamon?" he said quickly. "Was it Hamon who gave you the advice not to trace him? When did your husband disappear?"

"Nearly eleven years ago," she said.

He made a rapid mental calculation.

"In what month?"

"In May. May was the last time I heard from him. It was his last letter that you so kindly recovered from Mr. Hamon."

"May I see it?" he asked.

She brought it to him and he read it through twice.

"Your husband's name was John Cornford?"

"Why?" she asked eagerly. "Did you know him?"

He shook his head.

"No, only—years ago I had a very singular adventure. It happened a week after your husband disappeared, but it is absurd to associate the two things. Have you his portrait?"

She nodded, and went into her bedroom and was gone some time.

"I had to search for it," she apologised. "I put it away in a place of safety."

He took the photograph from her hand and he did not betray by so much as a twitching muscle the shock he received.

It was the portrait of a good-looking man of forty, clean-shaven and obviously satisfied with himself.

But it was something else: it was the face of the dying sailor whom he had picked up from the Portsmouth Road, and who, before his death, had told him the strangest story that James Morlake had ever heard.

******

John Cornford was the unknown sailor who slept in a nameless grave at Hindhead! For ten years he had trailed the man responsible for his death, seeking the evidence that would bring him to justice.

"Do you know him?" asked Mrs. Cornford anxiously.

He handed the portrait back to her.

"I have seen him," he said simply, and something in his tone told her the truth.

"He is dead?"

Jim nodded gravely.

"Yes, he is dead, Mrs. Cornford," and she sank down into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

Jim thought she was weeping, but presently she looked up.

"I have always felt that he was dead," she said, "but this is the first definite news I have received. Where did he die?"

"He died in England."

Again she nodded.

"I knew he had died in England. Hamon said he was lost in the desert. Can you tell me anything about it?"

"I'd rather not," said Jim reluctantly, "not just yet. Will you be patient for a little while?"

She smiled.

"I've been patient for so long that I can endure for a little while longer. Please understand, Mr. Morlake, that, though this is a great shock, my husband and I were not," she hesitated, "were not very great friends. I don't think the blame is mine. I am almost ready to accept it all, though it is very difficult to analyse where the blame lies after so many years."

"Can I have that portrait?" he asked.

She handed it to him without a word.

"There is one more thing. Before your husband died, he handed me a sum of money to give to his wife—" And then, seeing the look of surprise and doubt in her face: "You will understand, Mrs. Cornford, that I did not know his name."

"You didn't know his name?" she asked in amazement. "Then how—?"

"It is too long a story to tell, but you will have to trust me."

Then suddenly she remembered Jim's antecedents and the proved charge against him.

"Was he mixed up in any—any—" She was at a loss how to put the matter politely.

"In any crooked business?" smiled Jim. "No, so far as I am concerned, he was a perfect stranger to me when I saw him. I tell you I do not even know his name."

He was gone before she began to ask herself how John Cornford could have given him a thousand pounds without telling him the name of the wife to whom it was to be delivered.

He had not left half-an-hour before Binger came to the door with an envelope. It contained ten notes for a hundred pounds, and a scrap of writing on a visiting-card.

"Please trust me," it said, and for some reason she felt no embarrassment when she locked the money away in her box.

"Did you wait?" asked Jim.

"Yes, sir, and she said there was no hanswer."

"I suppose it sounded like that," said Jim with a sigh of relief.

"Have you any plans, sir?"

"About what?"

"About the future, about going back to town. To tell you the truth, sir," said Binger, "the country don't agree with me. The hair isn't like what it is in London. Some like country hair; personally I prefer the hair of the Barking Road."

Jim thought awhile.

"You may go back by the next train. Get me on the telephone and ask Mahmet to speak."

Telephones Mahmet under no circumstances would touch. All other conveniences of civilisation he could employ familiarly, but there was something about that forbidding machine which terrified him.

Binger left by the next train with the greatest alacrity. He was a Cockney, to whom the quiet and unsociability of the country was anathema. And Jim was not sorry to see him go, for the regularity which Binger imposed upon life was repugnant to him at the moment. Binger was the spirit of the stereotyped. He did things in a regular way at regular hours. He brought morning tea as the clock struck seven; set the bath tap running at a quarter past; at a quarter to eight Jim's shoes fell with a clatter outside his bedroom door. The Cockney valet was a constant reminder that time was flying.

Jim Morlake needed the solitude, for a new factor had appeared, a new leader from the main stream of his mystery. It was one of those coincidences which appear in every branch of investigation, that, on the day that Mrs. Cornford revealed the identity of the dead sailor, Mr. Julius Welling took hold of a thread that was to lead him to the same discovery.

CHAPTER 42

CAPTAIN WELLING: INVESTIGATOR

Julius Welling appeared in the record office at headquarters, and the officer on duty hurried to discover his wishes, for this white-haired man seldom made a personal call, and if he did, there was big trouble on the way for somebody or other.

"Just tell me if my memory is failing. It was ten years ago when The Black robberies started, wasn't it, Sergeant?"

A drawer was opened, a procession of cards flickered under the Sergeant's nimble fingers, and:

"Yes, sir—ten years this month."

"Good! Now give me a list of all the murders that were committed for a year before."

Another drawer shot out noiselessly.

"Shall I make a list, sir, or will you see the cards—they have a précis of the crimes."

"The cards will do."

A package of fifty large cards was put before him, and he turned them over, speaking to himself all the time.

"Adams, John, hanged; Bonfield, Charles, insane; Brasfield, Dennis, hanged—all these are 'knowns,' Sergeant."

"The unknowns are at the bottom, sir."

These Welling read without comment until he came to the last.

"Man unknown, believed murder. Assailant unknown—"

His eyes opened wide.

"Got it!" he cried exultantly, and now he read aloud.

"Man, apparently sailor, was found on the edge of the Punch Bowl, Hindhead, unconscious. Lacerated wounds and contusion of scalp. No identity established. Deceased was found by a cyclist, whose name is not available (U.S.D.I.6. (See F.O.) Foreign Intelligence Officers' Regulation, c. 970). Deceased died soon after admission to cottage hospital. All stations notified and portrait published. No identification."

Welling looked up over his glasses.

"What is U.S.D.I.6?" he asked.

"United States Diplomatic Intelligence—6 is the number of the department," said the officer promptly. "The F.O. Regulation deals with the treatment offered to Foreign Intelligence officers in this country. I was looking it up the other day, sir."

"And what is the regulation?"

"If they are acting on behalf of their Government, with the knowledge of our people, they are not to be interfered with unless there is a suspicion that they are engaged in espionage."

Captain Julius Welling rubbed his nose.

"Then it comes to this; the cyclist was an intelligence officer of a foreign Government. When he was questioned as to the identity of the dead man, I presume he produced his card to the local police inspector, and the local police inspector, in accordance with the regulations, did not put his name in the report."

"That's about what it is, sir."

"Then obviously, the person to see is the local police inspector," said Welling.

Late in the afternoon he arrived at Hindhead and interviewed the chief of police.

"The Inspector who took that report has left the service some years ago, Captain Welling," said the official. "We've got our own record, but the name of the man would not be there."

"Who was the inspector at the time?"

"Inspector Sennett. He lives at Basingstoke now. I remember the day when the sailor was found; I was acting-sergeant at the time, and was the first man to report at the hospital, but he was dead by then."

The hospital authorities gave Welling all the technical details he required, together with a description of the clothing the man had worn when he was brought into the hospital unconscious. Welling read the entry very carefully. No money was in his pocket, no books or papers of any kind to identify him.

"I think," said Welling as they left the hospital, "I should like to see the place where the body was found if you know where it is?"

"I can point to the exact spot," said the local inspector.

They entered the officer's car and drove until they came to a lonely stretch of road that bordered that deep depression which is known locally as the Devil's Punch Bowl.

"It was here," said the officer, stopping the car, and pointed to a grassy stretch by the side of the road.

Welling got down and stared for a long time at the scene of the tragedy.

"Did you personally visit this place after the man was found?" he asked.

"Yes," nodded the other.

"Was there any sign of struggle, any weapon?"

"None whatever. The impression I had at the time was that he had been brought to this place after the assault was committed and thrown on to the grass."

"Ah!" said Welling, a gleam in his eye. "That sounds to me like an intelligent hypothesis."

He scanned the countryside, beginning with the hollow and ending with the hill that sloped up from the road on the opposite side.

"Whose house is that?"

The Inspector told him; it was the property of a local doctor.

"How long has he been living there?"

"Fifteen or twenty years. He built the house himself."

Again the detective's eyes roved.

"Whose cottage is that? It seems to be empty."

"Oh, that is a little bungalow that belongs to a lawyer who died two or three years ago. It hasn't been occupied since '14."

"How long did he have it?"

"A few years."

"And before then?" asked Welling, continuing his inspection of the country.

"Before then—" The Inspector frowned in an effort to recall the name of its previous proprietor. "I know; it used to belong to a man named Hamon."

"What! Ralph Hamon?"

"Yes, he's a millionaire now. He wasn't so rich then, and he used to live here in the summer."

"Oh, he did, did he?" said Welling softly. "I'd like to see that cottage."

The path up the hillside was overgrown with weeds, though at one time it had been well kept, for it was gravelled and in places steps had been made to facilitate the owner's progress. The house bore a lifeless appearance; the windows were shuttered, spiders had spun their webs in the angles of the doorposts.

"How long did the lawyer live here, you say?"

"He never lived here. He owned the place, but I think it has been unoccupied since Mr. Hamon left—in fact I'm sure it has. Mr. Hamon sold it to him as it stood, furniture and all ... I'm sure of that because Mr. Steele—that was the lawyer's name—told me he intended letting it furnished."

Welling tried to pry open one of the shutters and after a while succeeded. The windows were grimed with dust and it was impossible to see the interior.

"I intend going into this cottage," said Welling and brought his stick down with a crash upon one of the window-panes.

Inserting his hand, he drew back the window-bolt and lifted the sash. There was nothing unusual about the appearance of the room. It was a simply furnished bedroom, and though dust lay thick upon every article, there was a certain neatness about the character and arrangement of the furniture which defied the dishevelling results of neglect. Nor was there anything remarkable about the other rooms. The furniture was good and the carpets, which had been rolled up, were almost new.

But the furnishing of the room did not seem to interest Welling. His attention was devoted to the walls, all of which were distempered in pink. At the back of the house was a fairly large kitchen, the windows being heavily barred.

"Would you like me to search the bureau—"

Welling shook his head.

"You will find nothing there," he said. "What I am looking for is— "

He opened the window and pushed out the shutter.

"Now I think I can find what I want," he said, and pointed. "Do you see that patch?"

"I see nothing," said the puzzled officer.

"Can't you see that a portion of the wall here has been repainted?"

The kitchen was distempered white, and the irregular patch of new paint was distinct.

"Here is another," said Welling suddenly.

He took a knife from his pocket and began to scrape the wash carefully.

"Murder will out," he said, speaking to himself.

"Murder?" said the other in surprise.

For answer, Welling pointed to a pear-shaped stain that his knife had uncovered.

"That is blood, I think," he said simply.

With his pocket handkerchief he cleared the dust from the table and examined the top inch by inch.

"It has been scraped here. Do you feel that?"

He felt tenderly along the surface of the pine wood.

"Yes, it has been scraped."

"Do you suggest—?"

"I suggest that your unknown sailor was hammered to death in this very room," said Welling.

"But Mr. Hamon would have known."

"He probably wasn't in residence," said Welling, and his companion accepted this as completely exonerating the former owner of the bungalow.

"Naturally you wouldn't think of searching a near-by house to discover how some poor sailor had met his death," mused Welling. "I think that is all I want to know, Inspector. You had better nail up the shutters and give instructions that whoever comes to take possession must first interview me because I want this house empty for a week or two."

He came down the hill path and paced the distance between the spot where the path joined the road and the place where the dying man was found, and made a few notes.

"Now, Inspector, if you will lend me your car to go to Basingstoke, I don't think I will trouble you any further."

He found the pensioned policeman without any difficulty—he was a well-known local character—but it was less easy to induce him to talk, even to a high official of Scotland Yard—or possibly because of that, for the jealousy between the country police and police headquarters is proverbial.

But Captain Welling had a way of his own; a fund of anecdotes calculated to soften the sourest of pensioned officers with a grievance against headquarters.

"It's against all regulations," he said, mollified at last, "but I can tell you all you want to know, because I kept his card as a curio. These highbrow intelligence people had never come my way before and naturally I was interested."

The finding of the card involved an hour's search amongst such oddments as an old man, with a passion for hoarding old race cards, old dance programmes and other mementoes of a cheerful life will accumulate through the years. Watching him, Welling wondered whether the same spirit guided Ralph Hamon and whether it was just the innate craving of the miser for holding on to useless scraps of paper that conduced to the folly of keeping in his possession a document which might hang him.

"Here it is," said the pensioner in triumph and handed a stained card to his guest.

Captain Welling fixed his glasses and read:

"Major James L. Morlake, U. S. Consulate, Tangier."

He handed back the card with a beatific smile.

All the mysteries but one were solved, and that one defied solution. It was the mystery of Ralph Hamon's passion for clinging to his own death warrant.

CHAPTER 43

THE MAN IN THE NIGHT

Creith House was in that turmoil which comes to every house, big or little, when the family is on the point of leaving for a holiday. Lord Creith was looking forward to his voyage with the zest and enthusiasm of a schoolboy.

"Young people are not what they used to be," he said. "Now, when I was your age, Joan, I'd have been dancing round at the prospect of a real holiday free from bother. We shan't see Hamon for two months. That ought to be enough to make you cheerful."

"I'm bubbling over with cheer, Daddy," she said wearily, "only I'm rather tired."

If she had said she was exhausted, she would have been nearer the truth. The events of the day had taken their toll, she realised, as she dragged herself to her room, undecided as to whether she should go to bed or try to find, in the pages of a book, the quietness of mind that was so desirable. Oscillating between the two alternatives, she took the course which was least profitable. She thought. She thought of Jim and the haggard man at the cottage, and of Hamon a little. It was curious how he had receded into the background.

Her maid came to pack her clothes, but she sent her away. How was Farringdon, she wondered? Was that outburst of his part of his disease ... was he mad? She wished there were a telephone at the cottage, so that she could ring up Mrs. Cornford and ask her. On the spur of the moment she went to her writing-table and wrote a note, but when her maid came, in answer to her ring, she had changed her mind. She would go down to the cottage herself and see the man, reason with him, if he was in a reasonable frame of mind. She must know just where she stood.

Lord Creith saw her coming down the stairs.

"Going out?" he asked in consternation. "My dear old girl, you can't go out tonight. It is blowing great guns!"

"I'm only going to walk as far as the lodge gates, Daddy," she said.

She hated lying to him.

"I'll come with you."

"No, no, please don't. I want to be by myself."

"Can't you take your maid?" he insisted. "I don't like you roaming around alone. By gad! I haven't forgotten the fright you gave me on the night of the storm."

But, with a reassuring smile, she went out through the big doors on to the terrace and he stood uncertainly, half-inclined to follow her. She followed the drive almost to the lodge gates, then turned off by what was known as the wall path, that would bring her within a few yards of the cottage. Half a gale was blowing, and the trees creaked and groaned, and the bare branches rattled harshly above her. But she was for the moment oblivious to the elements and to any storm but that which raged in her own heart.

Mrs. Cornford had had a very uneasy evening with her patient, and the doctor, hastily summoned, now took a graver view of the disorder.

"You'll have to keep nurses here," he said. "I am afraid this man is certifiable. I'll bring in Dr. Truman from Little Lexham tomorrow to examine him."

"Do you mean he is insane?" she asked in horror.

"I am afraid so," said the doctor. "These dipsomania cases generally end that way. Has he had a shock?"

"No, nothing that I know about. He was up this morning, walking in the garden and was quite rational. Then this afternoon," she pointed to an empty whisky bottle, "I found it in the garden. I don't know how he got it, but probably he sent one of the villagers to the Red Lion."

The doctor glared at the bottle.

"That is the cause," he said. "I don't think our friend will drink again for a very long time. I would have him moved tonight, but I cannot get in touch with the hospital authorities. Hark at him!"

The patient was yelling at the top of his voice, but it was quite impossible to distinguish any consecutive sentence.

"Joan," occurred at intervals.

"That Joan is certainly on his nerves," said the doctor. "Have you any idea who she is?"

"None," said Mrs. Cornford.

In her heart of hearts she harboured a faint suspicion, which she had dismissed as being disloyal to the girl who had done so much for her.

"It may be an hallucination, but the chances are that there is a Joan somewhere in the world who could fix matters for him."

As he went out, he saw a girl on the garden path.

"Is that you, Nurse?" he asked.

"No, Doctor, it is Joan Carston."

"Lady Joan!" he gasped. "Whatever are you doing out tonight?"

"I've come to see Mrs. Cornford," said Joan.

"Well, well, you're a brave girl. I wouldn't turn out tonight for anything but dire necessity."

"How is your patient?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Very bad, very bad. Don't you go anywhere near him."

She did not answer him. Mrs. Cornford, hearing the voices, had hurried to the door and was as much surprised as the doctor to see who the visitor was.

"You must not see him," she said, shaking her head vigorously when Joan, in the privacy of the sitting-room, told her why she had come.

"But I must, I must! I must talk to him."

Her heart sank as the sound of the raving voice came to her.

"Is he so bad?" she asked in a whisper.

"He is very bad," said the puzzled Mrs. Cornford.

"You can't understand why I want to talk to him, can you?" said Joan, smiling faintly. "I see that you can't! Perhaps one day I will tell you."

She waited awhile, listening with knit brows at the animal sounds that came from the other room.

"He'll not be quiet all night," said Mrs. Cornford. "The nurses are coming at any moment now; the doctor has sent for them."

"Aren't you afraid?" asked Joan wonderingly.

Mrs. Cornford shook her head.

"No, I—I once had a case almost as bad," she said, and Joan did not ask her any more.

Her journey had been a folly and this end to it was a fitting finish.

"It was silly of me to come," she confessed, as she grasped her cloak. "No, no, don't come with me. I can find my way back to the house. And please don't even come to the door."

She went out, closing the front door behind her. To the left was a lighted window—Farringdon's bedroom. She crept nearer and could hear, and shuddered as she heard, the wild sound that came forth. Then, wrapping her cloak about her, she stole down the path.

She heard the click of the gate and stepped behind the big elm that grew before the house, not wishing to be seen. Was it the doctor? The nurse, she supposed. But it was a man's figure she saw dimly in the darkness. There was something remarkable in his gait; he was moving stealthily, noiselessly, as though he did not wish his presence to be known. She could have reached out and touched him, he passed so close. Who was he, she wondered, and waited in curiosity to discover Mrs. Cornford's visitor.

But he did not knock at the door. Instead, he moved towards the window of the sick man's room. Then she heard him fumbling with the window- latch. It was a casement window, and as he pulled it opened, the window- shade began flapping, and he lifted it with one hand, while the girl stood, frozen with horror. She could not move, she could not scream. She saw the glitter of the man's pistol, but her eyes were on the black-masked face.

"Jim!" she gasped feebly.

At that moment the intruder fired twice, and Ferdinand Farringdon screamed and rolled over on to the floor, dead.

CHAPTER 44

MURDER

She heard a terrified cry in the house, and her first impulse was to run to Mrs. Cornford's help. But somebody else had heard the shot. There came the noise of running feet, a police whistle was blown and a man dashed through the gates and ran up the path as the door opened.

"What was that?" he asked sharply.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Cornford's agitated voice. "Something dreadful has happened. I think Mr. Farringdon has shot himself."

The girl waited, trembling with terror. What should she do? If she said that she had been a witness of the shooting, she must also describe the assailant. As the visitor disappeared through the door, she crept to the garden gate and slipped out.

There were flying footsteps on the road. They must not see her; the presence of these strangers decided her. In another minute she was racing along the wall path. Her heel caught in a soft path and she all but fell. Before she realised what she was doing, she was running up the stairs of Creith House. Happily, there was nobody in the hall. Lord Creith, who was in his room, heard the slam of her door and came along to ask a question about his collars. He found the door locked.

"Have you gone to bed, my dear?" he called.

"Yes, Daddy," she gasped.

The room was in darkness. She staggered to the bed and flung herself upon it.

"Jim, Jim!" she sobbed in her anguish of soul. "Why did you? Why did you?"

She must have fallen asleep, for she came to consciousness to the insistent knocking on her door. It was her father's voice:

"Are you asleep, Joan?"

"Yes, Daddy. Do you want me?"

"Can you come down? Something dreadful has happened."

Her heart sank. She knew what that "something dreadful" was.

"Can I come in?"

She opened the door.

"Haven't you got a light?" he asked and was reaching for the switch but she stopped him.

"Don't put the light on, Daddy; I've got a headache. What is it, dear?"

"Farringdon has met with an accident," said Lord Creith, who lacked something in diplomacy. "In fact, he's shot. Some people think that he shot himself, but Welling is not of that opinion."

"Is Mr. Welling here?" she asked, her heart sinking.

Of a sudden she feared that shrewd old man.

"Yes, he came back from town tonight. He is downstairs. He wanted to see you."

"He wants to see me, Daddy?" she said in consternation, seized with a momentary panic.

"Yes, he tells me that you had only left Mrs. Cornford's house a few minutes before the shooting occurred."

He heard her little gasp in the dark.

"Oh, is that why?" she said softly. "I will come down."

Welling had returned to Creith that night and had had time to take his baggage to the Red Lion. He was, in fact, on his way to Wold House when he had heard the shot and the scream. The Red Lion was less than fifty yards from the gardener's cottage and the wind had been blowing in his direction.

"There is no doubt about it being murder," he explained to Lord Creith. "The window was open and no weapon has been found. The only clue I have is footprints on the garden bed outside."

"Was he dead when you found him?"

"Quite dead," replied Welling. "Shot through the heart. Two shots were fired in such rapid succession that it sounded to me like one, which means that an automatic pistol was used. You have no idea why Lady Joan went to Mrs. Cornford's?"

"I haven't. Mrs. Cornford is a great friend of hers, and probably she went down to enquire after Farringdon. She has been there before on that errand," said Lord Creith quietly and Welling nodded.

"That is what Mrs. Cornford told me," he said.

"Then why the dickens did you ask me?" demanded Lord Creith wrathfully.

"Because it is a detective's business to ask twice," said Julius at his gentlest, and his lordship apologised for his display of temper.

"Here is my daughter," he said. As Joan came into the library he shot a quick, searching glance at her. The pale face and shadowed eyes might mean anything. Mr. Welling was one of the few people who knew the secret of the church in the forest and could forgive her emotion.

"His Lordship has told you that Farringdon has been killed?" he said.

She inclined her head slowly.

"You must have been very near the house when the shot was fired. Did you hear anything?"

"Nothing."

"Or see anybody?"

She shook her head.

"Not in the garden or in the road?" persisted Welling. "Mrs. Cornford tells me that you had not left the house a minute when the shot was fired."

"I heard nothing and saw nobody," she said, and he looked thoughtfully at the carpet.

"The wind would be blowing in the opposite direction," he mused, "so it is quite possible you did not hear the shot. Is there any place in the garden where a man could conceal himself?"

"I don't know the garden well enough," she answered quickly.

"Hm!" He scratched his nose with an air of irritation. "You don't know this man Farringdon, of course?" he said, and when she did not answer, he went on: "Perhaps it is better that you didn't know him. It would save a lot of unnecessary pain to many people and your knowledge of him will not help the cause of justice."

Walking down the dark drive, he tried to piece together the puzzle which this new outrage made. Who had shot Farringdon? Who had reason to shoot him? "Find the motive and you find the criminal," is an old axiom of police work. Who had a motive for destroying that useless life? Only one person in the world—Joan Carston.

"Pshaw!" he said with a shrug. "Why not Lord Creith? His motive was certainly as obvious."

He had come back to the village single-handed, and had to depend upon the local constabulary, represented for the moment by a sergeant of police.

Nothing had been found in the preliminary search and Welling decided to put into execution his original plan, which was to call on Jim Morlake. When he got to Wold House no light showed from any of the windows; the garden gate was wide open and that was unusual. Welling had found his way along the road by the aid of a torch and he was using this to guide him up the drive, when he saw what were evidently fresh wheel tracks. The garage stood at the side of the house, and, acting on the impulse of the moment, he turned his steps toward this building. He came abreast of it and put the light on the garage. The doors were wide open and the little shed was empty.

Welling knew that Jim had got his car back—where was it?

Cleaver opened the door to him.

"Do you want to see Mr. Morlake?" he said. "I'm afraid he's out."

"How long has he been out?" asked Welling.

"He's been gone about half-an-hour. I was rather surprised to see him go, because he'd already made arrangements for me to call him early in the morning—Binger has gone back to town."

"Did he tell you he was going?"

Cleaver shook his head.

"No, sir, the first intimation I had was when I saw the lights of Mr. Morlake's car going through the gates. He went away in a great hurry, because he left his pipe and tobacco pouch behind and he doesn't usually do that. Not only that, but he went by the window. I hadn't any idea he was out of the house until I saw the machine."

The French window in the study was still unfastened. Pushing open the door, Welling looked carefully on the floor.

"So he went in a hurry, did he?" said Welling softly. "Went half-an- hour ago? Will you leave me, Mr. Cleaver? I want to use the telephone."

His first call was to Horsham police headquarters.

"Hold a two-seater car, painted black. The driver's name is Morlake. I want you to hold him—not arrest him, you understand, but hold him."

"What is the charge, Captain Welling?"

"Murder," said Welling laconically.

CHAPTER 45

WANTED

Jim Morlake had disappeared. He had been seen neither at his flat nor at the restaurant he affected when he was in London. His car had been found outside the door of the garage where it was usually kept when in London. It was covered with mud, for the night had been wet, and showed evidence of hard driving, but there was no note nor any word of instructions as to its disposal.

Binger had not seen him, and Mahmet the Moor presented a stolid unintelligent face to the questioners who came to him, and disclaimed all knowledge of his master. The afternoon newspapers printed prominently a request to Mr. James Morlake to report himself to the nearest police station, but this produced no result.

"Always in trouble, always in trouble!" groaned Binger. "I can't understand why Mr. Morlake don't take helementary precautions."

Mahmet did not answer. If his knowledge of English was slight, his understanding of Binger's English was negligible.

"You're a man of the world, Mahmet!" continued Binger, who liked nothing better than to address an audience that could not under any circumstances protest or interrupt him, "and I'm a man of the world, Mahmet. We know young gentlemen are a bit eccentric, but this is going beyond a joke. Of course, Mr. Morlake is a foreigner, so to speak, but he's a Hanglo-Saxon, Mahmet, and Hanglo-Saxons, like you and me, don't go dodging off to nowhere without telling nobody."

That great Anglo-Saxon, Mahmet Ali, concealed a yawn politely and listened with stolid patience to a further exposition on the thoughtlessness of employers. When Mr. Binger had talked himself to a standstill, Mahmet said:

"I go way a bit."

"What you are trying to say is: 'I'm going hout,'" said Binger. "I wonder you don't try to learn the English language. I'm willing to give you an hour a day for heducational purposes."

"I go now?" said Mahmet, and Binger, in his lordly way, gave him leave.

Mahmet went to the little room where he slept, took off his white jallab and dressed himself in a ready-made European suit, which turned him from something that was picturesque to a nondescript weed. He travelled on the top of a bus eastward, and did not descend until he had reached dockland. Up a side street was a small, dingy-looking establishment that had once been a bar, which had lost its licence owing to the misguided efforts of the proprietor, who augmented his income by conducting a betting business. It was now a home, in the sense that here strange coloured folk stranded in London could buy indifferent coffee and could sleep in a cell a little bigger than an egg-box on payment of a sum which would sustain them in comfort in their own countries for a week.

Mahmet went into the smoky room which served as lounge and card- room. Half-a-dozen dusky-skinned men were playing cards, and near one of these Mahmet saw a compatriot and, beckoning to him, they retired to an empty alcove at the far end of the room.

"My good man has gone," said Mahmet without preliminary. "Will you write to your uncle in Casa Blanca and tell him to buy four mules, also that he send a message to the Shereef El Zuy at Tetuan, telling him to be with the mules near the lighthouse at El Spartel on the twelfth day of this month? You have heard no more?"

His companion, a tall, loose-made Moor, his face disfigured by the ravages of smallpox, had indeed much to tell.

"There is trouble in the Angera country, and there has been fighting. I think the Sultan's soldiers will be defeated. Sadi Hafiz is supposed to be with the Angera people, and it is true that they are making great preparations at his house in the hills. He is sending serving women there. Now that is strange, for Sadi has never taken servants to this place."

Mahmet interrupted him.

"You're an old man," he said contemptuously. "You have told me that story twice, and that is the way of old men."

There were other items of gossip to be picked up, but Mahmet did not stop either to hear the latest scandal about the Basha's favourite wife, or the peculations of the Grand Wazir. He hurried back to the flat, made a bundle of his clothes, tying his complete wardrobe in a pillow case. When Binger came the next morning there was no sign of Mahmet, and though the indignant valet made a complete inventory of the contents of the flat, he discovered, to his annoyance, that nothing was missing.

CHAPTER 46

POINTED SHOES

A great change had come over Joan Carston in the last few days. She was the first to be sensible of the difference, and had wondered at herself. For now every remnant of the old Joan had been annihilated in the terrific shock of this supreme tragedy. She did not sleep that night, but sat at the window, her hands clasped on the broad sill, her eyes everlastingly turned in the direction of Wold House. If Jim's light would only appear! If she could hear the sound of his voice in those dark and stormy hours of night! Her heart yearned toward him. How happy she had been! She had not realised her blessings.

Daylight found her pale and hollow-eyed, an ache in her heart, depressed by a sense of utter weariness and despair. With a start she realised that she was leaving Creith that day! She could not go away now; she must wait to be at hand in case Jim wanted her. She did not judge him, for that was beyond human judgment. Nor did she attempt to analyse the condition of mind which drove him to that terrible act. She could only set the facts of the deed badly, with a numb sense of resignation to the inevitable.

There came a knock at the door. She dragged her weary limbs across the floor to turn the key. It was her maid with the morning coffee.

"Put it down," she said.

"You haven't slept in your bed, m'lady!" said the girl, aghast.

"No, I shall have plenty of time to sleep on the yacht," she said.

She drank the coffee gratefully and felt refreshed enough to go downstairs into the open. A sky grey with hurrying clouds was above her; the wind was keen and cold; pools of water stood in the little hollows of the drive. The dreary scene was in tune with her heart. Unconsciously she walked down the drive until she came to the lodge gates and stood there, her hands holding the bars, looking through—at nothing.

Then her eyes turned toward the cottage and she shuddered, and, turning, she walked quickly back the way she had come. She had not gone a few paces when somebody called her, and, looking back, she saw Welling in a dingy yellow ulster and nondescript hat pulled down over his head.

"You've been up all night too, Captain Welling?" she said. His chin was silvery with bristles, his boots thick with mud, and the hand he raised to lift his hat was inexpressibly grimy.

"I gather from that, young lady," he said, "that you've not had a great deal of sleep, and I don't blame you. The wind has been most disturbing. Is his Lordship up?"

"I don't know: I expect so. Father doesn't usually rise till nine, but I think today he has made some sort of arrangement with his valet to get up at the unnatural hour of eight." She smiled faintly.

"You've had your share of trouble in this village, I think," said the detective, walking at her side; but she did not make any rejoinder to that most obvious statement. "Queer case, that—very queer! Have you ever noticed that Morlake wears broad-toed shoes, the American type?"

"No, I haven't noticed anything about him," she said quickly, lest she should be an unwilling agent to his hurt.

"Well, he does," said Welling. "He never wears any other kind. I've been searching his house—"

"He is gone, then? The maid told me last night—he has gone?"

"Vanished," said Welling. "There is no other word, he has vanished. That is the worst of these clever fellows—when they disappear they do it thoroughly. An ordinary criminal would leave his visiting card on every mile-post."

He waited, but she did not speak, till:

"What is the significance of the broad-toed shoes?" she plucked up courage to ask.

"Well, it was a pointed toe that killed Farringdon."

At his words she spun round.

"You mean—you mean—that Jim Morlake did not kill him?" she asked unsteadily. "You mean that, Captain Welling? You are not trying to trap me into saying something about him, are you? You wouldn't do that?"

"I'm capable of doing even that," confessed Julius with a mournful shake of his head. "There is no depth of depravity to which I wouldn't sink, and that is the truth, Lady Joan. But on this particular occasion I'm being perfectly sincere. The feet under the window are the feet of a man who wears French boots with pointed toes. Also, the gun he used was of much heavier calibre than any Morlake owns. I know the whole Morlake armoury, and I'll swear he never owned the gun that threw those two bullets. Jim Morlake has three: the one he carries and two Service Colts. You seemed pretty sure it was Morlake?" he said, eyeing her intently.

"Yes, I was," and then, following her impulse: "I saw Mr. Farringdon killed."

She expected he would be staggered by this revelation, but he only guffawed.

"I know you did," he said calmly, "you were hiding behind the tree. It was easy to pick up your footmarks. You came back to the house by way of the wall path—I found the heel of one of your shoes there and guessed you were in a hurry. If you'd lost it in daylight you would have picked it up. If you'd lost it by night and had plenty of time on your hands, you'd have looked for it. Anyway, you wouldn't have lost it, if you hadn't been running at such a speed. Do you think Pointed Toes knew you were there?— by the way, you didn't see his face?"

"How do you know?"

"Because you weren't sure whether it was Morlake or not; therefore, you couldn't have seen his face. And once more, therefore, he must have been masked. Black?"

She nodded.

"From head to foot, eh? In that style which Mr. James Morlake has made popular. I guessed that, too," he said as she nodded. "It may have been a coincidence, of course, but probably wasn't."

He stopped, and she followed his example. He was looking down at her with his head thrown back, and his eyes seemed to possess an hypnotic power.

"Now perhaps you can give me a little information that will be really useful," he said. "Who else wears pointed French boots in Creith besides your father?"

CHAPTER 47

THE YACHT

She stared at him for a minute, and then burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

"Oh, Mr. Welling, for a moment you scared me. Daddy wouldn't kill anybody: it would be too much bother!"

The detective was unruffled.

"I am not suggesting that your father did shoot this man. I am merely saying that Lord Creith is the only man within ten miles who wears pointed shoes."

"How silly!" she scoffed. "Why, lots of people wear pointed shoes. Mr. Hamon wears pointed—"

She checked herself suddenly.

"That is what I wanted to know," said Julius gently, "that is all I wanted to know! Does Mr. Hamon wear pointed shoes? I know Lord Creith does, because I've interviewed the village cobbler, and the village cobbler knows the secret history of every pair of boots in your house."

"Mr. Hamon is so rich that he doesn't need to have his shoes repaired," said the girl, and then, seriously: "You don't suspect Mr. Hamon? He wasn't in Creith last night."

"If he shot Farringdon, then he certainly was in Creith. If he didn't shoot Farringdon, I don't care where he was," said Welling.

The reaction after that night of terror and anxiety was so great that she felt hysterical. She could have flung her arms round the neck of this interesting old man and hugged him in her joy and relief.

"Are you sure—absolutely sure?"

"About Morlake?" he asked, sensing the cause of her anxiety. "I don't think there is any doubt about that. He is one of those big-hoofed fellows. He could not have got his feet into the shoes that left the marks. Though," he added cautiously, "it is by no means certain that the owner of the shoes was also the murderer. What makes it look so queer against Morlake is that Pointed Shoes was in the grounds of Wold House last night. We've got a cast of his feet leading toward the river, and at the bottom of the river it is any odds on finding the pistol with which the crime was committed."

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"What is more," he went on, "I guess we're going to get a letter from some person unknown, telling us exactly where to look for that gun. I love anonymous letters, especially when I'm expecting 'em. The letter will be in printed characters and will be posted"—he looked up to the dull sky and considered—"will be posted ... now where will it be posted? Yes, I have it," he said brightly. "It will be posted at the G. P. O."

"You're a prophet," she smiled.

"I'm a student," he replied.

When they got to the house, Lord Creith was superintending the labelling of the baggage, which meant that every package had been labelled wrongly.

"Hullo, Welling!" he said. "Who have you arrested this morning?"

"I never arrest people on Saturdays: it spoils their week-end," said Welling. "You've had a telephone message from Mr. Hamon?"

"Yes," said the Earl in surprise. "How do you know?"

"It came last night, didn't it?"

"About midnight. How on earth do you know that? If the exchange was in the village I could quite understand, but my calls are put through from Lexham."

"It was about something he'd left behind, asking you to forward it?"

"No. As a matter of fact, he wanted to know what time I would be leaving this morning."

"Why, of course," nodded Welling, "that was the natural thing to do. About twelve o'clock?"

"A little before, I should imagine. You've been listening in," accused Lord Creith.

When he went away to discover the whereabouts of a sporting rifle which had mysteriously disappeared at the last moment, Joan asked:

"How do you know all this, Captain Welling?"

"I guessed," said the old man. "It is natural that, if Pointed Toes was friend Hamon, he should seize the earliest opportunity of establishing the fact that he was in town." He shook his head sadly. "Telephonic alibis are terribly numerous," he said.

Her mind was occupied by one pressing thought, and after a while she expressed the question that was in her mind.

"Why did Mr. Morlake go away?" she asked.

She had asked Welling to breakfast with them, which meant breakfasting with her, for the choler of Lord Creith was rising rapidly. Some fishing rods had joined the rifle, and his favourite tennis racquet had suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth.

"I don't know," said Welling helplessly. "That fellow is beyond the understanding of normal people. Something is wrong—I don't know where, I don't know how. But all I know is that he's left in a hurry."

"You don't think...?" she asked quickly, and he smiled at her.

"These fellows are in danger and out of danger all the time," he said carelessly. "Probably he is carrying out some quiet little burglary—"

"Don't be horrid, Captain Welling," she said hotly. "You know Mr. Morlake is not a burglar."

"If there is one thing I know," said Welling, "it is that he is a burglar! I don't care what noble incentive he has, but that doesn't make him less a burglar. What is more, he is the cleverest safe-breaker in this country."

"Has he stolen much money?" she asked.

"Thousands, but it has all been Hamon's. That is the rum thing about this burglar, although it isn't so rum to me as it was. He's broken into other safes and other boxes, but not one of the people who have suffered from his curiosity have complained that they lost money. Hamon has complained about nothing else. And the crowning queerness of his action is that it isn't money he is after."

If she was hoping, as she was, for a miracle to happen and for Jim to reappear at the last moment, she was doomed to disappointment. The car which took her and her father to Southampton passed Wold House, and she craned out of the window in the hope that she might catch one glimpse of him. When the machine had passed the entrance she looked back through the window of the hood.

"Expecting anybody, dear?" asked Lord Creith drily. "Missed anything?"

"Yes, Daddy, I have," she said, with some spirit.

"You can buy almost anything you want at Cadiz," said His Lordship, wilfully dense. "Cadiz is my favourite city. Unfortunately, it is rather late for the bull fights."

"I never dreamt you were so bloodthirsty, Father," she said.

"Bulls' blood, yes, but human blood, no," he said with a shiver. "By gad, I'm glad to be out of Creith! I was scared that they'd hold me for a witness. Happily, I was drinking the waters of Lethe in the presence of the impeccable Peters when the murder was committed. In fact, I heard the shot through the window."

"The waters of Lethe" was Lord Creith's synonym for his normal whisky and soda.

The first emotion which Joan experienced when she saw the yacht lying out in Southampton Water was one of pleasurable surprise. She had expected to see a very small ship, and, when she had time to think about such matters, had felt a little uneasy at the prospect of a voyage across the Bay of Biscay in a tiny craft. L'Esperance had the appearance of a small cruiser, and was unusually large even for an ocean-going yacht: the same idea seemed to strike Lord Creith.

"That must have cost friend Hamon a pretty penny," he said. "Why, the infernal thing is as big as a liner!"

The captain, an Englishman, welcomed them at the gangway, and apparently every preparation had been made to leave as soon as the party was on board.

"Mr. Hamon is not coming, I understand?" said Captain Green, a typical teak-faced sailorman. "If you like, my Lord, we'll get under way. There is a moderate sea in the Channel, and with any kind of luck we ought to get through the Bay without so much as a roll."

"Let her go, Captain," said Lord Creith gaily.

The girl's cabin was beautifully appointed and smothered with hothouse flowers. She did not trouble to ask who had sent them. Mr. Hamon would not lose an opportunity of emphasising his devotion. She was too fond of flowers to throw them out of the porthole, but the knowledge that he had sent them robbed them of at least one attraction.

Lord Creith and she dined alone that evening. The captain was on the bridge, for they were steaming down the crowded Channel, and fog banks were reported by wireless between Portland Bill and Brest.

"A jolly good dinner," said his lordship with satisfaction. "You've got an excellent cook, Steward."

"Yes, sir," said the chief steward, a Frenchman who spoke English much better than his lordship spoke French, "we have two."

"All the crew are French, I suppose, as this is a French yacht?"

The steward shook his head.

"No, my Lord," he said, "most of the hands are English and Scottish. The owner of the yacht prefers an English crew. We have a few Frenchmen on board—in fact, we've almost every nationality, including a man who I think is either a Turk or a Moor. He came on board at the last moment to work in the pantry, and he's been ill ever since we came out of the Solent. I believe he is a servant of the owner's; we are dropping him at Casablanca."

He served the coffee, and Lord Creith took a gulp and made a wry face.

"I praised your dinner too soon, Steward," he said good-humouredly. "That coffee is execrable."

The steward snatched up the cup and disappeared into the mysterious regions at the back of the saloon. When he returned, it was with apologies.

"The chef will send you in some more coffee, my Lord. We've got a new assistant cook who isn't quite up to his job."

After dinner, Joan strolled on to the deck. It was a calm night, with a sea that was absolutely still. Through the mist she could see the stars twinkling overhead, and on the starboard beam a bright light flickered at irregular intervals.

"That is Portland Bill," explained one of the officers who had come down from the bridge, "and the last of the lights of England you'll see until you return."

"Will it be foggy?" she asked, looking ahead.

"Not very. I think you're going to have an ideal voyage for this time of the year. If we can get abreast of Cherbourg without slackening speed, we shall be quit of the fog for good."

She stood, leaning over the taffrail, talking to the officer, until Lord Creith joined her, smoking a long cigar and at peace with the world. He brought with him an acceptable coat, which she was glad to put on, for the night was very cold—a fact she had not noticed until she came on deck.

They stood side by side, her father and she, watching in silence the faint phosphorescence of the waters; and then:

"Happy, old girl?"

"Very happy, Daddy."

"Whom were you sighing about just now?"

He heard her low laugh, and grinned to himself in the darkness.

"I didn't know that I was sighing. I was thinking about Jim Morlake."

"A very nice fellow," said his lordship heartily. "An American, but a very nice fellow. I don't want a burglar in the family—naturally. But I'd just as soon have a burglar as a moneylender. In fact, I should prefer one. I don't know whether that is particularly generous to our beloved host, but there is something in the sea air that makes me candid."

The days that followed were, for Joan, days of almost perfect peace. The yacht was a delightful sea boat; the comfort and luxury of the appointments, and a glimpse of a scarcely remembered sun, added to her happiness. If, by some miracle ... the waving of a magic wand, or the muttering of some potent incantation, she could have brought Jim into that deep, red-cushioned armchair—Jim, in white flannels, Jim, with his classical face and a patch of grey at his temples ... She sighed.

CHAPTER 48

MUTINY

The voyage passed without event until the morning of the day they reached Cadiz. Something aroused Joan from deepest sleep to most complete wakefulness. There was no sound but the sough of wind and sea, and the peculiar monotony of the "creak-creak" at intervals which is a ship's own noise. The grey light showed against the porthole and faintly illuminated the cabin. Sitting up in bed, she looked around.

A movement by the door attracted her attention; it was slowly closing, and, jumping to the floor, she ran and pulled it open. She caught a glimpse of a big figure disappearing in the gloom of the alleyway, and then a strange thing happened. He had almost reached the end of this narrow passage when something rose from under his feet and tripped him. Even amidst the sea noises she heard the thud as he struck the hard deck. He was on his feet in an instant and then, for some reason, he fell again. Straining her eyes, Joan saw a man stand over him and pull him upright. In another instant they were out of sight.

She locked her door and went back to bed, but not to sleep. It may have been an accident; it may have been that one of the crew was a thief— few crews, even a yacht's crew, but may include one of those pests of the sea. Perhaps the thief had been detected by a watchful quartermaster, and that was the explanation of the little fight she had witnessed. She did not wish to worry her father, but as soon as she was up and dressed, she went in search of the chief steward and reported what had happened. He was genuinely concerned.

"I don't know who it could have been, Miss. The watch were on deck, scrubbing down, at daybreak, and there's a night steward on duty in the alleyway. What was the man like?"

"As far as I could see, he wore a white singlet and a pair of blue trousers."

"Was he tall or short?"

"He was very big," she said, and the man passed the crew under review.

"I'll speak to the chief officer," he said.

"I don't want to make any trouble."

"Your Ladyship will probably make more trouble if you don't report this," he retorted.

Lord Creith, who generally found the most comfortable explanation, suggested that she had been dreaming—a suggestion which she indignantly rejected.

"Then, my dear," he said, "probably the man was walking in his sleep! You should have locked your cabin door."

She spent two full and delightful days at Cadiz, that city of languid, beautiful women and unshaven men; drove out to Jerez to see the wine pressed, and learnt—though she had a dim idea that she had already learnt this at school—that Jerez had been corrupted into English as "sherry" and had given its name to a wine. The bad weather had passed; the sky was a delightful blue, and if the wind that blew down from the sierras had a nip that made the men of Cadiz wear their high-collared blue cloaks, it was to the girl a tonic and a stimulant.

They left Cadiz at midnight on the third day, and at daybreak the stopping of the engines woke her. She heard the rattle of a hawser and splash as the anchor fell into the water, and, looking out of her porthole, saw a twinkle of lights near at hand. It was her first glimpse of Africa, and the mystery and wonder of it thrilled her. In daylight, much of the enchantment was gone. She saw a straggle of white houses fringing a lemon-coloured beach; beyond, the blue of hills. In the cold, cheerless light of morning the mystery had gone. She shivered.

The stewardess came in answer to her ring of the bell.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"At Suba, a little coast village."

At that moment a lowered boat came into view through the porthole and disappeared. She heard the splash of it as it struck the water.

"The crew are going ashore to bring out some cases of curios that Mr. Hamon wishes to be brought home," explained the stewardess, and through the porthole Joan watched the boat draw away.

Lord Creith knocked at the door at that moment and came in in his dressing-gown.

"This is Suba," he explained unnecessarily. "Put your coat on and come up on deck, Joan."

She slipped into her fur coat and followed him up the companion-way. Except for one sailor, the deck was deserted. On the bridge was a solitary officer, leaning over the bridge and regarding the retreating boat without interest.

"There aren't many people left on the ship," she said, glancing round.

Lord Creith looked up at the clouds with a nautical eye.

"A man and a boy could navigate this ship on a day like this," he said. "There is no wind."

And then, looking across to the port side, he saw a tall, white, billowing sail moving slowly toward them.

"There is wind enough," she smiled. "Aren't they coming rather close?"

"Bless you no!" said his lordship cheerfully. "These fellows can handle a boat better than any Europeans. Moors are born seamen, and by the cut of his sail I should think it is a Moorish craft. This coast is the home of the Barbary pirates."

She glanced nervously round at the approaching sail, but he went on, oblivious to the impression he was creating.

"For hundreds of years they levied a tax on every ship that passed. Why, the word 'tariff' comes from Tarifa, a little village on the other side of the Straits—"

He stopped as the girl turned quickly. They had both heard that deep "oh!" of pain.

"What was that?" asked Lord Creith. "It sounded like somebody hurt."

There was nobody in sight, and he went forward to the bridge. As he did so, a big man crept up the companion ladder, and Joan immediately recognised the figure she had seen in the alleyway. Barefooted, the man approached the unconscious officer leaning over the taffrail.

"Look out!" yelled Lord Creith.

The officer spun round and the blow just missed his head, but caught him on the shoulder and he fell with a cry of pain. In another instant the big man had turned, and the girl saw with horror that in his hand he carried a huge hammer.

That diversion saved the officer's life. Injured as he was, he thrust himself forward and tobogganed down the steep ladder, falling on to the deck. In an instant he was on his feet and climbed down the companion- way, the big, white-faced Moor in pursuit.

"Down the companion, quick!" cried Lord Creith, and she obeyed.

As she flew down the ladder, she saw over her shoulder the high white sail of the dhow rising sheer above the ship's side, and heard the jabber of excited, guttural voices.

"Run along the alleyway into my cabin," cried Lord Creith.

She sat panting on the sofa, whilst her father shot the bolt in the door. He opened his bag and made a search.

"My revolver is gone," he said.

"What is wrong?" she asked. She was calm now.

"It looks precious like mutiny," said his lordship grimly.

She heard a patter of feet on the deck above, and again a babble of talk.

"They've boarded us from the dhow," said her father quietly, and the sound of somebody swearing softly came to them from the next cabin.

"Is anybody there?" Lord Creith called.

The partition dividing the cabins did not extend to the upper deck, and a space of three or four inches made conversation possible. It was the wounded officer, they discovered. No bones were broken, he told them, but he was in considerable pain.

"Have you any kind of firearm on your side?" he asked anxiously.

Lord Creith had to confess sadly that he was unarmed.

"What has happened?" he asked.

"I don't know," was the reply. "Most of the crew are ashore. The Captain and the first and second officers have gone to collect some packing-cases."

"How many of the crew are left on the ship?"

There was a silence as the officer calculated, and then:

"Six, including the steward. One deckhand, two chefs and a cook's mate, and, of course, the Moor we took on at Southampton. He is the fellow who bowled me over. I think they must have got the deckhands, and the chef wouldn't fight. That leaves us with the cook's mate."

He laughed bitterly.

"And the cook's mate is going to have a bad time," he said after a pause. "He beat up the Moor a few days ago. I only heard about it in the early watch. You remember your daughter complained—she is with you, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Lord Creith. "Was it the Moor who opened the door?"

"That's the man. I suppose he was looking for loose guns," said the officer. "The cook's mate happened to be on duty and saw the fellow, and there was trouble! And there's worse trouble ahead—here they come."

There was a patter of bare feet in the alleyway, and somebody hammered on the cabin door.

"You come out, you not be hurt, mister," said a husky voice.

Lord Creith made no reply.

Crash! The door shivered under the blow, but it was obvious that the narrow alleyway did not give sufficient play to the hammer, for the lock remained intact. Again the blow fell, and a long crack appeared in one of the panels of the door.

Lord Creith looked round helplessly.

"There is no kind of weapon here," he said in a slow voice to the girl. "Even my wretched razor is a safety!"

He looked at the porthole.

"Do you think you could squeeze through that?"

She shook her head.

"I won't leave you, Daddy," she said, and he patted her shoulder.

"I don't think you could get through," he said, eyeing the porthole dubiously.

Crack! Bang! The panel broke, but it was not the sound of its smashing they heard. Outside in the alleyway there was a quick scurry of feet, a shot was fired, and another. Then, from the other end of the alleyway came three shots in quick succession. Somebody fell heavily against the wall with a hideous howl, and then there was a momentary silence.

"What was that?"

It was the officer's voice from the next cabin.

"I think it was somebody shooting," said Lord Creith. He peered through the splintered panel. The man on the floor was still howling dismally, but there was no other sound.

"Look, Daddy," cried the girl excitedly. "The boat is returning."

She pointed through the porthole, and over her shoulder he saw the two boats rowing furiously toward the yacht.

And now the alleyway pandemonium broke out. Again came the rush of feet and the deafening staccato of the automatic.

"Who is it? It must be one of the deckhands. Where did he get his gun?"

The questions were fired across the top of the partition, but Lord Creith was too intent upon the struggle outside. The firing had ceased, but the screaming fury of the fighters went on. Presently there was an exultant yell and somebody was dragged along the alleyway.

"They've got him," said Lord Creith, a little hoarsely. "I wonder who he is."

Then, as the leader of the mob came parallel with the door, a voice hailed them in English.

"Don't open your door until the crew come aboard. They are returning."

The girl stood petrified at the sound of the voice, and pushing her father aside she stooped to peer through the broken panel. She saw a man struggling in the hands of his white-robed captors; a tall man in the soiled white garb of a cook. It was Jim Morlake!

CHAPTER 49

THE MAN ON THE BEACH

Joan screamed and tugged at the door.

"The key, the key, Father!" she said wildly. "It is Jim!"

But he dragged her back.

"My dear, you're not going to help Jim Morlake or yourself by putting yourself in the hands of these beasts," he said, and presently her struggles ceased and she hung heavily in his arms.

He laid her on the settee and ran to the porthole. The boats were nearing the yacht, and he could see, by the attitude of the Captain, who stood in the stern, revolver in hand, that news of the mutiny had reached him. There was no noise from the alleyway nor overhead on the deck; only the whining of the wounded man outside the door broke the complete stillness. In another minute they heard the boats bump against the side of the ship, and the rattle of booted feet above them. And then came the Captain's voice.

"Is anybody here?" he called.

Lord Creith unlocked the cabin door and stepped out over the prostrate figure.

"Thank God you're safe!" said Captain Green fervently. "The young lady, is she all right?"

Joan had recovered, and though she lay without movement she was conscious. Then realising that she alone knew the secret of the "cook's" identity, she staggered to her feet.

"Jim! They have taken Jim!" she said wildly.

"Your cook." Lord Creith supplied the startling information.

"My cook!" said the puzzled captain, and then a light dawned on him. "You mean the assistant cook—the man I took on at Southampton? Is he the fellow who did this?" He looked down at the motionless figure in the alleyway. "If they have taken him, he is on the dhow," said the Captain. "It pushed off as we came on board."

He ran up to the deck, and the girl did her best to imitate his alacrity, but her limbs were shaking and she was curiously weak. The dhow was already a dozen yards from the ship, and was heeling over under the fresh land breeze, her big leg-o'-mutton sail filling.

"Are you sure they've taken him on board?" asked the Captain. "He may be amongst the—" He did not finish the sentence.

One of the crew was dead, another so badly injured that his life was despaired of, and search parties were sent to discover other casualties, but no sign of Jim was reported.

"We can overtake them," said Lord Creith, and the Captain nodded.

"I'll get up anchor, but it is by no means certain we can do much unless they are fools enough to keep to the open sea. I think they'll run round the point, and there I shan't be able to follow them, except with boat crews."

The dhow was gaining way every minute. The white wake at her stern was significant.

The wireless operator, in his little cabin on the upper deck, had been overlooked by the boarders, and it was he who had signalled the Captain back. He had done something more: he had got in touch with an American destroyer that was cruising some twenty miles away, and a blur of smoke showed on the horizon.

"Whether she can come up before the dhow gets to safety is a question," said the Captain.

At that moment the white-sailed vessel changed her course, and the Captain grunted.

"She is going inshore round the point. I thought she would," he said.

"What will they do with him?" asked the girl, and for a moment he did not know to whom she referred.

"Oh, the cook? I don't suppose he'll come to much harm. If they thought he was a man of substance they would hold him to ransom. As it is, he'll probably be fairly well treated. The Moor isn't particularly vindictive to the enemies he takes in fair fight."

The wind had freshened and was blowing strongly when the yacht's bow turned in pursuit of the Moorish craft, but by this time he was rounding the promontory that ran out to sea for two miles, and by his tactics the Captain guessed what plan was being followed.

"We shall never get up to them," he said, "and if we do, we shan't find the man we want."

"Why?" asked Joan, but he did not supply the gruesome information.

In his days he had been a member of the Royal Navy, engaged in the suppression of slave traffic on the East Coast of Africa, and he had seen slaves dropped overboard, with a bar of iron about their necks, in order that the incriminating evidence against the captors should be removed. And he did not doubt that the skipper of the dhow would follow the same procedure.

When they rounded the point, the dhow was so close inshore that it seemed to have grounded.

"They're landing," said Captain Green, watching the boat through his glasses, "and there goes my cook!"

The girl almost snatched the binoculars from him and focussed them on the beach. Her hand trembled so violently that all she saw was a blur of white figures and yellow sand, but presently she mastered her emotion and held the glasses upon the tall, dark form that walked leisurely up the beach.

"That is he," she whispered. "Oh, Jim, Jim!"

"Do you know him?"

She nodded.

"Then there is no need for me to pretend ignorance," said the Captain, "and I will ask you to keep this matter from my owners. Captain Morlake and I are old acquaintances. I knew him when he was at Tangier. He came to me in a great hurry on the Friday night before we sailed, and begged me to ship him on board the yacht as an extra hand. Knowing that he has always been mixed up in queer adventures—he was an intelligence officer, and may be still, for all I know—I took him on as a cook. He warned me of what would happen, and, like a fool, I thought he was romancing."

"He warned you of this attack?" said Lord Creith in astonishment. "How could he know?"

The Captain shook his head.

"That I can't tell you, but he did know, though I imagine he wasn't sure where the attempt would be made, because he said nothing before I went ashore to pick up those darned packing-cases—which were not there!"

The destroyer was now visible to the naked eye.

"She is useless to us," said the Captain, shaking his head. "Before she can land a party, these fellows will be well away into the desert." He bit his lip thoughtfully. "They won't hurt Captain Morlake. He speaks the language, and there is hardly a big man in Morocco who doesn't know him. I should imagine that at this moment the captain of the dhow is scared to death to find who is his prisoner."

He focussed his glasses again.

"Two Europeans!" he gasped. "What other man have they taken? Do you know, Johnson?" He turned to his second officer.

"I've been looking at him and I can't make him out," he said.

He steadied his telescope against a stanchion and looked again.

"He is certainly a European, and he is certainly not a sailor. He is wearing a civilian overcoat."

"May I look?"

Assisted by the officer, the girl brought the telescope to bear upon the figure that was walking with a white-gowned Moor. Jim had disappeared over the crest of a sandhill, and these two walked alone, the Moor gesticulating, the other emphasising some point with his clenched fist.

She shook her head.

"I don't know him," she said. "I never expected I would."

It was a humiliating confession for her to make, did she but know it, for she had once boasted that she would know Ralph Hamon anywhere and in any garb! And it was Ralph Hamon who strode angrily side by side with the master of the dhow.

CHAPTER 50

THE PLAY

Ralph Hamon, shivering in his light suit, despite the heavy overcoat he wore, growled his imprecations as he toiled painfully up the steep slope of the sandhill and Arabic is a language which was specially designed for cursing.

"You're a fool!" he stormed. "Did I not tell you a hundred times what to do?"

The black-bearded captain of the dhow shrugged his shoulders.

"It was the fault of my officer, who now roasts in hell, for I told him first to silence all the members of the crew that were left on board, but they forgot this sailor with a pistol."

"Why didn't you knock him on the head? Why did you bring him on board?" growled Hamon.

"Because the men desired to settle with him in their own way. He has killed Yussef, whom the men loved. I think he will be sorry he did not die," said the Captain ominously, and Ralph Hamon snorted.

"What he will be sorry for and what he will be happy about doesn't concern me," he growled. "You had the woman in your hands and you did not take her."

"If this sailor with a pistol—" began the Captain again, and Ralph Hamon shouted him down.

"Curse the sailor with a pistol!" he shouted. "Do you think I've been lying ill in your foul boat for two days in order to capture a sailor?"

"If you will see him—" pleaded the Moor.

"I don't want to see him, and I don't want him to see me. If you allowed the woman to escape, you are fools enough to let him go also. And do you think I want him to carry the news to Tangier that I was with you on your dhow? Do what you like with him."

He saw the prisoner at a distance—a tall man whose face was unrecognisable under the mask of grime and blood, but he did not venture near to him. Mules were waiting for them at a little village and at the sight of one, more richly caparisoned than the rest, with a saddle of soft red leather, and tinkling bells about its neck, Ralph Hamon bit his lip until the blood came. It was the palfrey that he had designed for the girl.

With no delay the party mounted and soon a string of a dozen mules was crossing the wild land. They halted for two hours in the afternoon and resumed the journey, halting for the night in the vicinity of a little village of charcoal burners.

"You will not come to the play?" said the Captain interrogatively. "This man is of your race and it would give you unhappiness to see them whip him."

"It would not make me unhappy at all," said Ralph savagely, "but I'm tired."

They pitched a tent for him next to the chief, and he was on the point of retiring, though the sun had scarcely touched the western horizon, when a diversion came. There was an excited stir amongst the men of the caravan; the drone of conversation rose to a higher pitch and he enquired the cause.

"El Zafouri," was the laconic answer.

Ralph knew the name of this insurgent chief, though he had never met him.

"Is he here?"

"He is coming," said the other indifferently, "but I am a good friend of his and there is nothing to fear."

A cloud of dust on the hill-road was evidence of the size and importance of El Zafouri's retinue; and when, half-an-hour later, he pitched his camp near by, Ralph Hamon was glad in his heart that the rebel was likely to prove a friend.

He went in person to greet the notorious shereef, and found him sitting before his tent, a squat and burly man, distinctly negroid of countenance, and black.

"Peace on your house, Zafouri!" he said conventionally.

"And on you peace," said Zafouri, looking up straightly at the stranger. "I think I know you. You are Hamon."

"That is my name," said Ralph, gratified that his fame had extended so far.

"You are a friend of the Shereef Sadi Hafiz?"

Here Ralph Hamon was on more delicate ground. So rapidly did Sadi change his friendships and his allegiances that, for all he knew, he might at the moment be a deadly enemy of the man who was watching him.

"Sadi is my agent," he said carefully, "but who knows whether he is my man now? For Sadi is a man who serves the sun that shines."

He was perfectly safe in saying this, for the reputation of Sadi Hafiz was common property and he was secretly relieved to see the twinkle that came in Zafouri's dark eyes.

"That is true," he said. "Where are you going, haj?" He addressed the captain of the dhow, who had stood by Ralph during the interview.

"To the Rifi Hills, Shereef," he said and the little Moor stroked his chin.

"You are coming the longest way," he said significantly. "You have a prisoner?"

The dhow captain nodded.

"My men told me of him. He dies, they say? Well, that is best for him and for all. When a man is asleep he harms nobody and is happy. I will come to your play."

Ralph would have been present, but nature forbade the exertion. For forty-eight hours he had been without sleep, and no sooner had he lain on the matting that his servant had spread for him in the tent, than he was asleep.

The play had been fixed for an hour after sunset, and it was of a kind that was novel to Zafouri. Two lines of men arranged themselves at a few paces' interval, leaving a narrow lane through which the prisoner was to pass, ostensibly to safety, for, if he reached the end of the lane and was sufficiently agile to escape the two swordsmen placed there to give him his quietus, he was free. It was the old, bad punishment of running the gauntlet, and Jim, who in his experience had heard of this method of settling accounts with malefactors and political enemies, faced the certainty that, swift as he might run, he could not hope to survive the hail of blows which would fall on him, for each man in the two lines was armed with a wooden stave.

His captors brought him fruit and water.

"Be swift and you will be happy," said one with a chuckle, and was taken aback when Jim answered in the Moorish Arabic quoting a familiar tag.

"Justice is faster than birds and more terrible than lions."

"Oh!" said his gaoler in surprise. "You speak the language of God! Now, friend, speak well for me to the djinn, for tonight you will live amongst ghosts!"

They brought him out for the final condemnation and the dhow captain, squatting in state on a silken carpet, gave judgment.

"Death for Death. Who kills shall be killed," he recited in a monotonous sing-song.

"Remember that, man," said Jim sternly, and Zafouri, who shared the silken carpet with his host, shot a quick glance at the bearded prisoner.

They brought the Captain a glass of water and he ceremoniously washed his hands of the prisoner.

"Listen, man without a name," said Jim in fluent Arabic. "If I die, people will talk and the consequence will come to you wherever you are, and you will hand in the sok, and your soul will go down to Gehenna and meet my soul—"

"Take him away," said the Captain huskily.

"Let him stay."

It was Zafouri who spoke.

"Peace on you, Milaka." It was the old Moorish name for him and Jim's eyes kindled.

"And on you peace, Zafouri," said Jim, recognising the man.

And then Zafouri drew his squat bulk erect, and, putting his arms about the prisoner, kissed him on the shoulder.

"If any man says death to my friend, let him say it now," he said, and his left hand closed over the hilt of his curved sword.

The Captain did not speak.

CHAPTER 51

THE COURTYARD

Tangier lay bathed in the early morning sunlight, a vast mosaic of white and green, and Joan Carston gazed spellbound at the beauty of the city as the yacht moved slowly into the bay. Overhead was a cloudless blue sky; and a shore wind brought in its lap a faint, pungent and yet indescribable aroma.

"That is the East," sniffed Lord Creith.

Joan had thrown off the effects of her terrible experience, but the change which Lord Creith had noticed in her before they had left England was more marked than ever.

"Do you feel equal to going ashore?"

She nodded.

"You're a wonderful girl, Joan," he said admiringly. "You have had more knock-down blows in the past few weeks than come to most people in the course of their lives."

She laughed.

"You can become inured even to knock-down blows. I think it would take a human earthquake to disturb me now."

He shot a furtive glance in her direction.

"You're not worrying any more about—about Morlake?"

She seemed to be examining her own mind before she replied.

"It is difficult to tell how I feel. I have such faith in him and this feeling—that if anything terrible had happened I should know."

Lord Creith was only too happy to agree. He had a weakness for agreeing to all cheerful, and for dissenting violently from all dismal, predictions.

"The Captain says he has arranged to stay here a week and I think we can well afford the time."

He had booked rooms at the big white hotel that overlooked the beach and, later in the day, from the broad terrace, she could gaze in wonder at the confused jumble of buildings, which made modern Tangier.

"Rather like the Old Testament lit by electricity," said his lordship. "I don't know whether I've read that or whether I've invented it. If I've invented it, it is jolly good. I hope you're not being disappointed, Joan. These Eastern cities are never quite so pleasant near at hand as they are from three miles out at sea. And the smell—phew!" He dabbed his nose with his handkerchief and pulled an unpleasant face.

"Jim lived here for years," she said.

"Even that doesn't make it smell like Attar of Roses," said her practical father. "What was he doing here?"

"Captain Green says he was in the diplomatic service. I am going to enquire."

The next day she threaded the tortuous street in which the various consulates were situated. The news she secured about Jim Morlake was, however, of the most fragmentary character. By very reason of his profession, the officials at the consulates and embassies were reticent. She was, however, able to confirm the Captain's statement, which had been news to her, that for some years Jim Morlake had been something of a power in this city. Lord Creith knew the British Minister and they went to tea at the Residency and Joan listened without hearing to the talk of concessions, of representations, of the enormities of the sanitary council and the hideous injustice which was inflicted by the native basha upon the unfortunate subjects of the Sultan.

She did not accompany her father in his visit to the prison and she was glad afterwards, when he brought back a highly coloured narrative of his experience.

"A hell upon earth," he described it tersely, and she felt a little sinking of heart. If the method of the Kasbah was the standard of the Moorish treatment of prisoners, then it would go hard with Jim.

It was the third day of their visit and already Joan had almost wearied of the town. She had seen the great marketplace, and wandered amidst the charcoal sellers and the kneeling camels, had watched the native jugglers and the professional holy men, and chaffered with the sellers of brass in the bazaar.

"The prettiest part of Tangier one doesn't see. Do you remember that ugly street we passed through at the back of the mosque?" she asked. "A very old door opened and I caught a glimpse of the most gorgeous garden and there were two veiled women on a balcony, feeding the pigeons. It was so lovely a picture that I nearly went in."

Lord Creith said something about the insanitary conditions of the houses and went on to discuss the hotel bill. That afternoon, they walked up the hill to see a gun play. A number of tribesmen had come in from the hills to celebrate the anniversary of a local saint's death and at her request he turned aside from the market place to show her the exterior of the prison.

She shuddered as a horrible face leered out at her from behind the bars.

"Do you want to have a look inside?"

"No thank you, Daddy," she said hastily, and they turned their steps toward the bazaar.

Lord Creith opened his lawn umbrella and put it up, for the sun's rays were unpleasantly hot.

"East is East and West is West," he chanted. "What always interests me about these fellows is, what are they thinking about? You don't really get into the East until you understand its psychology."

The girl, who had been walking behind him, did not answer, but he was used to that.

"Now, if you were to ask me—" he began and turned his head to emphasise his remarks.

Joan was not there!

He strode back along the street. A begging man stood at the corner of a court, demanding alms in the name of Allah; a stout veiled woman was waddling away from him carrying a basket of native work; but there was no sign of Joan. He looked up at the high walls on either side, as though he expected to find her perched miraculously on the top.

And then the seriousness of possibilities struck him and he ran along the uneven cobbled street to the end. He looked left and right, but there was no sign of Joan. In one street he saw four men carrying a wooden case, chanting as they went, and he came back to the beggar and was about to ask him if he had seen a lady, when he saw that the man had been blinded.

"Joan!" he roared.

There was no answer. A man who was asleep in the shadow of a doorway woke with a start, stared at the pallid old man, then, cursing all foreigners who disturb the rest of the faithful, curled up and went to sleep again.

Lord Creith saw in the distance a French officer of gendarmes and ran up to him.

"Have you seen a European lady—my daughter—?" he began incoherently.

Rapidly he told the story of the girl's disappearance.

"Probably she has gone into one of the houses. Have you any Moorish friends?" asked the officer.

"None," said Lord Creith emphatically.

"Where was she when you saw her last?" and Lord Creith pointed.

"There is a short cut to the sok near here," suggested the officer and led the way.

But Joan was not in the big market place and Lord Creith hurried back to the hotel. The lady had not returned, the manager told him. She was not on the terrace. The only person on the terrace was a tall man in grey, who was fanning himself gently with his broad-brimmed sombrero.

He looked round at the sound of Lord Creith's voice and jumping to his feet, hurried toward him.

"Morlake!" gasped Creith. "Joan ...!"

"What has happened to her?" asked Jim quickly.

"She has disappeared! My God, I'm afraid—I'm afraid!"

CHAPTER 52

THE HOUSE OF SADI

Jim had a brief consultation with the chief of police before Lord Creith guided him to the spot where Joan had disappeared.

"I thought it was here!"

He said something in a low voice to the police chief and Lord Creith saw the officer shake his head and heard him say:

"I can't help you there. It may lead to serious trouble for me. The only thing I can do is to be on hand if you want me."

"That will do," said Jim.

There was a small door in the wall and to this he went and knocked. After a time the wicket opened and a black face appeared in the opening.

"The Shereef is not in the house," said the slave in guttural accents.

Jim looked round. The police officer had withdrawn to a discreet distance.

"Open the door, my rose of Sharon," he breathed. "I am from the basha, with news for the Shereef."

The woman hesitated and shook her head.

"I must not open," she said, but there was an indecision in her tone of which Jim took immediate advantage.

"This message is from Hamon," he said in a low voice. "Go to the Shereef and tell him."

The wicket closed. Jim glanced round at the troubled Lord Creith.

"You had better join our friend," he said under his breath.

"But if she is there, I can insist—"

Jim shook his head.

"The only form of insistence is the one I shall employ," he said grimly. "You would help me greatly, Lord Creith, if you did not interfere."

Soon after his lordship had walked reluctantly to the unhappy police chief, Jim heard the sound of bolts being drawn, a key squeaked in the rusty lock, and the gate was opened a few inches to admit him to a familiar quadrangle. He glanced at the ancient fountain, and the untidy verandah and its faded chairs, and then, as a man appeared in the doorway, he walked swiftly across the untidy space and went up the steps of the verandah in one bound.

"Sadi Hafiz, I want you," he said, and at the sound of his voice the man started back.

"God of Gods!" he gasped. "I did not know that you were in Tangier, Milaka!"

It seemed that his pale face had gone a shade whiter.

"Now what can I do for you, my dear Captain Morlake?" he said in his excellent English. "Really this is a surprise—a pleasant surprise. Why did you not send your name—"

"Because you would not have admitted me," said Jim. "Where is Lady Joan Carston?"

The man's face was a blank.

"Lady Joan Carston? I don't seem to remember that name," he said. "Is she a lady at the British Embassy?"

"Where is the girl who was lured into this place half-an-hour ago?" asked Jim. "And I warn you, Sadi Hafiz, that I will not leave this house without her."

"As God lives," protested the fat man vigorously, "I do not know the lady and I have not seen her. Why should she be here, in my poor house, for she is evidently of the English nobility."

"Where is Lady Joan Carston?" asked Jim deliberately. "By God, you had better answer me, Sadi, or there will be a dead man for me to explain."

He jerked his gun from his pocket, and the gleam of it seemed to blind the Moor, for he half closed his eyes and blinked.

"This is an outrage," he said, and, as he grew more and more excited, his English suffered. "I will report this matter to the Consulate—"

Jim pushed him aside and strode into the flagged hall. A door was on the left; he kicked it open. It was evidently Sadi's smoking-room, for it reeked with a scent of hashish and tobacco. At one end was an iron circular staircase leading to an upper floor, an incongruous object in that primitive Oriental setting. Without hesitation he flew up the stairs, and, with a scream, a girl who was lolling on a lounge jumped up and pulled her veil across her face.

"Where is the English lady?" asked Jim quickly.

"Lord," said the trembling girl, "I have seen no English woman."

"Who else is here?"

He ran across the half-darkened room, pulling aside the curtains of its three sleeping places, but Joan was not there. He came down the stairs to confront the outraged Sadi Hafiz.

Jim knew what was going to happen before Sadi fired, for he had committed the unpardonable sin of invading the women's apartments of an Oriental magnate.

"Drop your gun, Sadi," he said sternly, "or you die. I've got you covered."

Sadi fired at the place where Jim had disappeared, and then, unexpectedly, the intruder came into view from behind a pillar, and Sadi put up his hands. In another instant Jim was upon him and had snatched his pistol away.

"Now," he said, breathing through his nose. "Where is Joan Carston?"

"I tell you I don't know."

Outside the door was a small knot of frightened servants, and Jim slammed the heavy open doors into their place and shot the bars.

"Where is Joan Carston?'

"She's gone," said the man sullenly.

"You lie. She hasn't had time to go."

"She was here only for a minute, then she went into the Street of the School—there is another door in the yard."

"With whom?"

"I don't know," was the defiant reply.

Jim towered over him, his hands on his hips, his eyes scarcely visible.

"Sadi," he said softly, "do you know Zafouri? Last night he told me that he will have your head because you betrayed him to the Government, took money from him to buy rifles, and used it for yourself. I will save your life."

"I have been threatened before, Mr. Morlake," said Sadi Hafiz, recovering a little of his audacity, "and what has happened? I am still alive. I tell you I know nothing about this lady."

"You told me just now she was in the courtyard and had been taken out of the door into the Street of the Schools. Who took her?"

"As Allah lives, I do not know," cried the man in Arabic, and Jim struck him across the face with the back of his hand.

"You will keep, Sadi Hafiz."

Jim turned as he unbarred the doors and flung them open, and he pointed to his throat with a long forefinger.

"Zafouri will get you—that is certain. But more certain than that is, that, if any harm comes to this lady, I will find you and kill you inch by inch."

He slammed the doors behind him and strode out of the house and into the courtyard.

A brief examination showed him that the man had spoken the truth to this extent, that there was another door leading to the narrow street which Lord Creith had searched.

And then he remembered that Joan's father had seen four men carrying a heavy case. He strode into the street and beckoned the policeman.

"I want your people to trace four men who were carrying a heavy case up the Street of The Schools. They must have crossed the sok."

The movements of the party were easy to follow. A native policeman had seen them crossing to the Fez Road and load the case upon a light car which had been waiting there all the morning. A camel driver, who had been resting by the side of the road near the car, confirmed this, and said that something inside the box had moved, and he had asked the man in charge of the carrying party what it was, and had been told it was a crate of chickens.

"Wait here," said Jim.

He ran back through the crowd that had gathered in the market, and disappeared in their midst. Ten minutes later Lord Creith saw a big car come flying along the road, and Jim was at the wheel.

"I found it outside the Hotel d'Angleterre," he said breathlessly. "God knows who is the owner."

Lord Creith jumped into the car.

"I'm afraid I can't come with you," said the police officer, who was a Frenchman and regarded all regulations as inelastic. "Beyond here is outside my jurisdiction."

Jim nodded curtly and sent the car flying along the Fez Road. The tracks of the motor-van were visible for a long way, but ten miles out of Tangier ...

"There's the car!" said Jim.

It was abandoned by the side of the road, and the case was still intact. Suppose he were wrong, and they were on the wrong track? His heart grew heavy at the thought.

He pulled the car up at the tail of the trolley and leapt on to the float. And then he saw that the box was empty, the lid having been thrown into the undergrowth on the side of the road.

Not wholly empty, for in the bottom lay a little white shoe, and, as he lifted it out, Lord Creith groaned.

"That was Joan's," he said.

CONTINUED IN

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