AN INTRUDER.
Dr. Avery was determined to make the guide express himself more
clearly as to the probable fate of the party. He had let fall some
abrupt expressions, but they were not satisfactory.
Finally Luchman said he had had a faint hope that there might be some
way of leaving the rear of the temple. It was for that reason that
he made his reconnaissance, but it only showed him that there was not
the slightest chance.
"I gather that you have concluded that darkness is one of the
indispensable conditions."
"That is true, sahib."
"The moon will rise later each night, but we cannot afford to wait
many days for that."
"I am willing to tarry two nights longer, sahib, and then if we
cannot make the venture we have the last resort."
"What is that?"
"I will open negotiations with Wana Affghar and get the best terms
possible, knowing that he will break every one of them if he can."
The guide realized the skill with which this ruffian had outwitted
him. When Luchman reappeared in Delhi, after his journey from
Calcutta, Wana's detectives knew it and held him under surveillance,
though the guide never dreamed of such a thing. He supposed the
bloodhounds had been thrown off the track, but they never lost the
scent for any length of time, and were at his heels, as may be said,
when he left Flagstaff Tower, and with little delay opened
communications with their chief.
The truth was, Wana Affghar was determined to secure the Star of
India--the great diamond--no matter what the cost or sacrifice
demanded. This fixedness of purpose, amid extraordinary conditions,
will make clear many occurrences which otherwise would remain
incapable of explanation.
That night brought a singular experience to another member of the
little party of refugees.
After the departure of Dr. Avery to learn the cause of the slight
disturbance in the entrance way, the missionary and his family
continued their conversation in low tones until the faint sound of
Luchman's pistol was heard.
This naturally startled the group, and Mr. Hildreth rose to go out
and learn the cause.
"Wait until the doctor comes back," interposed his wife, "it is
lonely here in the darkness."
"I imagine it is nothing serious," said her husband when some minutes
had passed, "otherwise we should hear more of it."
"The pistol was probably discharged to let the Ghoojurs know that our
friends are on the watch," suggested Marian.
This theory was accepted, the three naturally believing that if there
was anything worth telling they would hear of it. The conversation
went on as before, until the hour became so late that Mr. Hildreth
requested them to retire for the night.
Marian and her mother withdrew to the smaller apartment, where, with
the aid of their shawls and outer garments, they made the best couch
they could upon the flinty floor. The missionary himself, while
awaiting the coming of one or more of his friends, fell asleep and
did not wake until morning. It was much the same with his wife, but
far different with his daughter.
The latter rested quietly until about the turn of night, when she
found herself wide awake, without understanding the cause. The
extreme sultriness of the evening oppressed her, and she concluded
her wakefulness was due to that. It will be borne in mind, too, that
she had slumbered more than usual during the preceding twenty four
hours, and therefore was in no special need of sleep.
There was nothing to do but to lie still and think. The gentle
breathing of her parent at her side showed that she was unconscious,
and Marian took care not to disturb her. Her brain seemed to be
unusually busy, and the longer she lay the more wakeful she became,
until she was convinced that she would have to pass the long dismal
hours in that fashion until morning.
She was half inclined to rise and pass into the entrance way, where
she supposed Luchman, Avery and Harkins were keeping guard. She knew
they would be glad to see her, though they might object to the
increased danger in which she would be placed. At the same time a
gentle feeling of delicacy restrained her, and she decided to stay
where she was.
"It is dreary enough for us all," she reflected, "and my place is
beside my mother, even though she would not miss me."
She had lain awake, as she believed, about an hour, still oppressed
by the heat, when she became aware that the apartment was cooler, as
though a gentle current of air was blowing in.
She did not understand it, since the only means of ventilation was
through the circular openings around the upper part of the room, and
the door which was closed.
And jet the atmosphere was unmistakably cooler. She distinctly felt
a touch of the draught against her hot cheek.
"The door must be open," she concluded, softly rising to her feet and
groping her way to it.
No; it was shut, just as she had closed it herself before she and her
mother lay down.
Still wondering, she listened, in the belief that a gentle wind must
have risen, but the vegetation outside was motionless.
"There is no use in perplexing myself," she thought, closing her
eyes, in the hope that gentle sleep would press them down.
But it was useless. She was as fully awake as when hurrying through
the streets of Delhi on that fearful night of the uprising. With a
sigh she gave up the attempt.
"I do believe the door is open," she said, shortly after; "but, if it
is, those on the outside are watchful, and there is no cause for
fear, so I will not rise again."
She could not be mistaken when the faint sound of a footstep fell on
her ear: some one was stepping softly about the room.
"What is the matter, father?" she asked, speaking low, so as not to
disturb her mother.
There was no reply, and she repeated the question. Still there was
no answer, and the cat-like step ceased. Whoever the intruder might
be, he was standing still and listening. Marian was curious, but she
felt no misgiving, for it was beyond belief that any enemy could have
effected an entrance into the inner temple.
A moment later she heard the heavy door shut, after which the same
tomb-like stillness settled over all. She lay a long time listening
and wondering, but heard nothing more, and finally fell asleep.
When she opened her eyes in the morning, the night's experience was
upon her mind, and continued a puzzle which she could not
satisfactorily explain. She questioned her father, and found that he
had not risen from his bed after bidding them good night. He was not
a somnambulist, so that it was impossible that the stealthy footsteps
should have been his.
It was equally out of the question that Dr. Avery or Harkins was the
intruder. She was, therefore, forced to the reluctant conclusion
that it was Luchman, whose business it was impossible to imagine,
though she could not doubt that it was perfectly proper.
And yet it was not Luchman.