* * * * *
I
Two miles beyond Clinch's Dump, Hal Smith pulled Stormont's horse to a
walk. He was tremendously excited.
With naive sincerity he believed that what he had done on the spur of
the moment had been the only thing to do.
By snatching the Flaming Jewel from Quintana's very fingers he had
diverted that vindictive bandit's fury from Eve, from Clinch, from
Stormont, and had centred it upon himself.
More than that, he had sown the seeds of suspicion among Quintana's own
people. they never could discover Salzar's body. Always they must
believe that it was Nicolas Salzar and no other who so treacherously
robbed them, and who rode away in a rain of bullets, shaking the
emblazoned morocco case above his masked head in triumph, derision and
defiance.
At the recollection of what had happened, Hal Smith drew bridle, and,
sitting his saddle there in the false dawn, threw back his handsome head
and laughed until the fading stars overhead swam in his eyes through
tears of sheerest mirth.
For he was still young enough to have had the time of his life. Nothing
in the Great War had so thrilled him. For, in what had just happened,
there was humour. There had been none in the Great Grim Drama.
Still, Smith began to realise that he had taken the long, long chance of
the opportunist who rolls the bones with Death. He had kept his pledge
to the little Grand Duchess. It was a clean job. It was even good
drama----
The picturesque angle of the affair shook Hal Smith with renewed
laughter. As a moving picture hero he thought himself the funniest
thing on earth.
From the time he ha poked a pistol against Sard's fat paunch, to this
bullet-pelted ride for life, life had become one ridiculously exciting
episode after another.
He had come through like the hero in a best-seller. ... Lacking only a
heroine. ... If there had been any heroine it was Eve Strayer. Drama
had gone wrong in that detail. ... So perhaps, after all, it was real
life he had been living and not drama. Drama, for the masses, must have
a definite beginning and ending. Real life lacks the latter. In life
nothing is finished. It is always a premature curtain which is yanked
by that doddering old stage-hand, Johnny Death.
* * * * *
Smith sat in his saddle, thinking, beginning to be sobered now by the
inevitable reaction which follows excitement and mirth as relentlessly
as care dogs the horseman.
He had a fine time, -- save for the horror of the Rock-trail. ... He
shuddered. ... Anyway, at worst he had not shirked a clean deal in that
ghastly game. ... It was God's mercy that he was not lying where Salzar
lay, ten feet -- twenty -- a hundred deep, perhaps -- in immemorial
slime----
He shook himself in his saddle as though to be rid of the creeping
horror, and wiped his clammy face.
Now, in the false dawn, a blue-jay awoke somewhere among the oaks and
filled the misty silence with harsh grace-notes.
Then reaction, setting in like a tide, stirred more sombre depths in the
heart of this young man.
He thought of Riga; and of the Red Terror; of murder at noon-day, and
outrage by night. He remembered his only encounter with a lovely child
-- once Grand Duchess of Esthonia -- then a destitute refugee in silken
rags.
What a day that had been. ... Only one day and one evening. ... And
never had he been so near in love in all his life. ...
That one day and evening had been enough for her to confide in an
American officer her entire life's history. ... Enough for him to pledge
himself to her service while life endured. ... And if emotion had swept
every atom of reason out of his youthful head, there in the turmoil and
alarm -- there in the terrified, riotous city jammed with refugees,
reeking with disease, halt frantic from famine and the filthy, rising
flood of war -- if really it all had been merely romantic impulse,
ardour born of overwrought sentimentalism, nevertheless, what he had
pledged that day to a little Grand Duchess in rags, he had fulfilled to
the letter within the hour.
As the false dawn began to fade, he loosened hunting coat and cartridge
sling, drew from his shirt-bosom the morocco case. It bore the arms and
crest of the Grand Duchess Theodorica of Esthonia.
His fingers trembled slightly as he pressed the jewelled spring. It
opened on an empty casket.
In the sudden shock of horror and astonishment, his convulsive clutch on
the spring started a tiny bell ringing. Then, under his very nose, the
empty tray slid aside revealing another tray underneath, set solidly
with brilliants. A rainbow glitter streamed from the unset gems in the
silken tray. Like an incredulous child he touched them. They were
magnificently real.
In the centre lay blazing the great Erosite gem, -- the Flaming Jewel
itself. Priceless diamonds, sapphires, emeralds ringed it. In his
hands he held nearly four millions of dollars.
Gingerly he balanced the emblazoned case, fascinated. Then he replaced
the empty tray, closed the box, thrust it into the bosom of his flannel
shirt and buttoned it in.
Now there was little more for this excited young man to do. He was
through with Clinch. Hal Smith, hold-up man and dish-washer at Clinch's
Dump, had ended his career. The time had now arrived for him to vanish
and make room for James Darragh.
Because there still remained a very agreeable role for Darragh to play.
and he meant to eat it up -- as Broadway has it.
For by this time the Grand Duchess of Esthonia -- Ricca, as she was
called by her companion, Valentine, the pretty Countess Orloff-Strelwitz
-- must have arrived in New York.
At the big hunting lodge of the late Henry Harrod -- now inherited by
Darragh -- there might be a letter -- perhaps a telegram -- the cue for
Hal Smith to vanish and for James Darragh to enter, play his brief but
glittering part, and----
Darragh's sequence of pleasing meditations halted abruptly. ... To walk
out of the life of the little Grand Duchess did not seem to suit his
ideas -- indefinite and hazy as they were, so far.
He lifted the bridle from the horse's neck, divided curb and snaffle
thoughtfully, touched the splendid animal with heel and knee.
As he cantered on into the wide forest road that led to his late uncle's
abode, curiosity led him to wheel into a narrower trail running east
along Star Pond, and from whence he could make a farewell view of
Clinch's Dump.
He smiled to think of Eve and Stormont there together, and now in safety
behind bolted doors and shutters.
He grinned to think of Quintana and his precious crew, blood-crazy,
baffled, probably already distrusting one another, yet running wild
through the night like starving wolves galloping at hazard across a
famine-stricken waste.
"Only wait till Stormont makes his report," he thought, grinning more
broadly still. "Every State Trooper north of Albany will be after Senor
Quintana. Some hunting! And, if he could understand, Mike Clinch might
thank his stars that what I've done this night has saved him his skin
and Eve a broken heart!"
He drew his horse to a walk, now, for the path began to run closer to
Star Pond, skirting the pebbled shallows in the open just ahead.
Alders still concealed the house across the lake, but the trail was
already coming out into the starlight.
Suddenly his horse stopped short, trembling, its ears pricked forward.
Darragh sat listening intently for a moment. Then with infinite
caution, he leaned over the cantle and gently parted the alders.
On the pebbled beach, full in the starlight, stood two figures, on white
and slim, the other dark.
The arm of the dark figure clasped the waist of the white and slender
one.
Evidently they had heard his horse, for they stood motionless, looking
directly at the alders behind which his horse had halted.
To turn might mean a shot in the back as far as Darragh knew. He was
still masked with Salzar's red bandanna. He raised his rifle, slid a
cartridge into the breech, pressed his horse forward with a slight touch
of heel and knee, and rode slowly out into the star-dusk.
What Stormont saw was a masked man, riding his own horse, with menacing
rifle half lifted for a shot! What Eve Strayer thought she saw was too
terrible for words. And before Stormont could prevent her she sprang in
front of him, covering his body with her gown.
At that the horseman tore off his red mask:
"Eve! Jack Stormont! What the devil are you doing over _here!_"
Stormont walked slowly up to his own horse, laid one unsteady hand on
its silky nose, kept it there while dusty, velvet lips mumbled and
caressed his fingers.
"I knew it was a calvaryman," he said quietly. "I suspected you, Jim.
It was the sort of crazy thing you were likely to do. ... I don't ask
you what you're up to, where you've been, what your plans may be. If
you needed me you'd have told me.
"But I've got to have my horse for Eve. Her feet are wounded. She's in
her night-dress and wringing wet. I've got to set her on my horse and
try to take her through to Ghost Lake."
Darragh stared at Stormont, at the ghostly figure of the girl who had
sunk down on the sand at the lake's edge. Then he scrambled out of the
saddle and handed over the bridle.
"Quintana came back," said Stormont. "I hope to reckon with him some
day. ... I believe he came back to harm Eve. ... We got out of the
house. ... We swam the lake. ... I'd have gone under except for her----"
In his distress and overwhelming mortification, Darragh stood miserable,
mute, irresolute.
Stormont seemed to understand: "What you did, Jim, was well meant," he
said. "I understand. Eve will understand when I tell her. But that
fellow Quintana is a devil. You can't draw a herring across any trail
he follows. I tell you, Jim, this fellow Quintana is either blood-mad
or just plain crazy. Somebody will have to put him out of the way.
I'll do it if I ever find him."
"Yes. ... You people ought to do that. ... Or, if you like, I'll
volunteer. ... I've a little business to transact in New York, first.
... Jack, your tunic an breeches are soaked; I'll be glad to chip in
something for Eve. ... Wait a moment----"
He stepped into cover, drew the morocco box from his grey shirt, shoved
it into his hip pocket.
Then he threw off his cartridge belt and hunting coat, pulled the grey
shirt over his head and came out in his undershirt and breeches, with
the other garments hanging over his arm.
"Give her these," he said. "She can button the coat around her waist
for a skirt. She'd better go somewhere and get out of that soaking wet
night-dress----"
Eve, crouched on the sand, trying to wring out and twist up her drenched
hair, looked up at Stormont as he came toward her holding our Darragh's
dry clothing.
"You'd better do what you can with these," he said, trying to speak
carelessly. ... "_He_ says you'd better chuck -- what you're
wearing----"
She nodded in flushed comprehension. Stormont walked back to his horse,
his boots slopping water at every stride.
"I don't know any place nearer than Ghost Lake Inn," he said ... "except
Harrod's."
"That's where we're going, Jack," said Darragh cheerfully.
"That's _your_ place, isn't it?"
"It is. But I don't want Eve to know it. ... I think it better she
should not know me except as Hal Smith -- for the present, anyway.
You'll see to that, won't you?"
"As you wish, Jim. ... Only, if we go to your own house-----"
"We're not going to the main house. She wouldn't, anyway. Clinch as
taught that girl to hate the very name of Harrod -- hate every foot of
forest that the Harrod game keepers patrol. She wouldn't cross my
threshold to save her life."
"I don't understand, but -- it's all right -- whatever _you_ say, Jim."
"I'll tell you the whole business some day. But where I'm going to take
you now is into a brand new camp which I ordered built last spring.
It's within a mile of the State Forest border. Eve won't know tat it's
Harrod property. I've a hatchery there and the State lets me have a man
in exchange for free fry. When I get there I'll post my man.
It will be a roof for to-night, anyway, and breakfast in the morning,
whenever you're ready."
"How far is it?"
"Only about three miles east of here."
"That's the thing to do, then," said Stormont bluntly.
He dropped one sopping-wet sleeve over his horse's neck, asking care not
to touch the handle. He was thinking of the handful of gems in his
pocket; and he wondered why Darragh had said nothing about the empty
case for which he had so recklessly risked his life.
What this whole business was about Stormont had no notion. But he knew
Darragh. There was sufficient to leave him tranquil, and perfectly
certain that whatever Darragh was doing must be the right thing to do.
Yet -- Eve had swum Star Pond with her mouth filled with jewels.
When she had handed the morocco box to Quintana, Stormont now realised
that she must have played her last card on the utterly desperate chance
that Quintana might go away without examining the case.
Evidently she had emptied the case before she left her room. He
recollected that, during all that followed, Eve had not uttered a single
word. He knew why, now. How could she speak with her mouth full of
(diamonds)?
A slight sound from the shore caused him to turn. Eve was coming toward
him in the dusk, moving painfully on her wounded feet. Darragh's
flannel shirt and his hunting coat buttoned around her slender waist
clothed her.
The next instant he was beside her, lifting her in both arms.
As he placed her in the saddle and adjusted one stirrup to her bandaged
foot, she turned and quietly thanked Darragh for the clothing.
"And that was a brave thing you did," she added, "-- to risk your life
for my father's property. Because the morocco case which you saved
proved to be empty does not make what you did any less loyal and
gallant."
Darragh gazed at her, astounded; took the hand she stretched out to him;
held it with a silly expression on his features.
"Hal Smith," she said with perceptible emotion, "I take back what I once
said to you on Owl Marsh. No man is a real crook by nature who did what
you have done. That is `faithfulness unto death' -- the supreme offer
-- loyalty----"
Her voice broke; she pressed Darragh's hand convulsively and her lip
quivered.
Darragh, with the morocco case full of jewels buttoned into his hip
pocket, stood motionless, mutely swallowing his amazement.
What in the world did this girl mean, talking about an _empty_ case?
But this was no time to unravel that sort of puzzle. He turned to
Stormont who, as perplexed as he, had been listening in silence.
"Lead your horse forward," he said. "I know the trail. All you need do
is to follow me." And, shouldering his rifle, he walked leisurely into
the woods, the cartridge belt sagging _en bandouliere_ across his
woollen undershirt.
* * * * *