WHEREIN A STRONG MAN YIELDS TO CIRCUMSTANCES
Curiosity, most potent of the primal instincts, conquered the girl's
fear. As it happened, Warden was still kneeling. He sat back on his
heels, rested the calabash against his knees, and withdrew a strip of
dried skin from its cunningly devised hiding-place. It was so curled
and withered that it crackled beneath his fingers when he tried to
unfold it. Quite without premeditation, he had placed the calabash in
such wise that the negro's features were hidden, and this fact alone
seemed to give his companion confidence.
"What is it?" she asked, watching his efforts to persuade the twisted
scroll to remain open.
"Parchment, and uncommonly tough and leathery at that."
He did not look up. A queer notion was forming in his mind, and he was
unwishful to meet her eyes just then.
"It looks very old," she said.
"A really respectable antique, I fancy. Have you any pins--four, or
more?"
She produced from a pocket a small hussif with its store of sewing
accessories.
"A genie of the feminine order!" he cried. "I was merely hoping for
a supply of those superfluous pins that used to lurk in my sister's
attire and only revealed their presence when I tried to reduce her to
subjection."
"Oh, you have a sister?"
"Yes--married--husband ranching in Montana."
Meanwhile he was fastening the refractory document to the deck.
With patience, helped by half a dozen pins, he managed to smooth
it sufficiently to permit of detailed scrutiny. The girl, wholly
interested now, knelt beside him. Any observer in a passing boat might
have imagined that they were engaged in some profoundly devotional
exercise. But the planks were hard. Miss Dane, seeing nothing but
wrinkled parchment, yellow with age, and covered with strange scrawls
that seemed to be more a part of the actual material than written on
its surface, soon rose.
"Those hieroglyphics are beyond my ken," she explained.
"They are Arabic," said Warden--"Arabic characters, that is. The words
are Latin--at least to some extent. _Epistola Pauli Hebraicis_ has the
ring of old Rome about it, even if it wears the garb of Mahomet."
He straightened himself suddenly, and shouted for Chris with such
energy that the girl was startled.
Chris popped his head out of the fore hatch, and was told to bring his
father's Bible, for Peter read two of its seven hundred odd pages each
day in the year.
Warden compared book and scroll intently during many minutes. Miss Dane
did not interrupt. She contented herself with a somewhat prolonged
investigation of Warden's face, or so much of it as was visible. Then
she turned away and gazed at the _Sans Souci_. There was a wistful look
in her eyes. Perhaps she wished that circumstances had contrived to
exchange the yacht for the pilot-boat. At any rate, she was glad he had
a sister. If only she had a brother!--just such a one!
At last the man's deep, rather curt voice broke the silence.
"I have solved a part of the puzzle, Miss Dane," he announced. "My
Latinity was severely tried, but the chapter and verse gave me the
English equivalent, and that supplied the key. Some one has that--some
one has written here portions of the 37th and 38th verses of the
eleventh chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews. Our version
runs: 'They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were
slain with the sword ... they wandered in deserts and in mountains,
and in dens and caves of the earth.' The remainder of the text is in
yet another language--Portuguese, I imagine--but my small lore in that
tongue is of no avail. In any case my vocabulary could not possibly
consort with the stately utterances of St. Paul, as it consists mainly
of remarks adapted to the intelligence of a certain type of freebooter
peculiar to the West African hinterland."
"What do you make of it all?" she asked.
"At present--nothing. It is an enigma, until I secure a
Portuguese-English dictionary. Then I shall know more. Judging by
appearances, the message, whatsoever it may be, is complete."
"What sort of skin is that?"
He lifted his eyes slowly. She was conscious of a curious searching
quality in his glance that she had not seen there before.
"It is hard to say," he answered. And, indeed, he spoke the literal
truth, being fully assured that the shriveled parchment pinned to the
deck had once covered the bones of a white man.
"The writing is funny, too," she went on, with charming disregard for
the meaning of words.
"It is pricked in with a needle and Indian ink," he explained. "That
is an indelible method," he continued hurriedly, seeing that she was
striving to recall something that the phrase reminded her of, and here
was a real danger of the suggestive word which had so nearly escaped
his lips being brought to her recollection. "You see, I have been able
to identify the gentleman who served the artist as model," and he
tapped the gourd lightly. "Therefore, I am sure that this comes from
a land where pen and ink were unknown in the days when some unhappy
Christian fashioned such a quaint contrivance to carry his screed."
"Some unhappy Christian!" she repeated. "You mean that some European
probably fell into the hands of West African savages years and years
ago, and took this means of safeguarding a secret?"
"Who can tell?" he answered, picking up the calabash and gazing
steadfastly at the malignant visage thus brought again into the full
glare of the sun. "This fellow can almost speak. If only he could----"
"Oh, don't," wailed the girl. "My very heart stops beating when I
see that dreadful face. Please put it away. If you will not throw it
overboard, or smash it to atoms, at least hide it."
"Sorry," he said gruffly, fitting the loose lid into its place. He
disliked hysterical women, and, greatly to his surprise, Evelyn Dane
seemed to be rather disposed to yield to hysteria.
"The more I examine this thing the more I am bewildered," he went on,
endeavoring to cover his harshness by an assumption of indifference.
"Where in the world did this varnish come from? It has all the gloss
and smooth texture and absence of color that one finds on a genuine
Cremona violin. The man who mixed it must have known the recipe lost
when Antonio Stradivarius died. Are you good at dates?"
The suddenness of the question perplexed her.
"Do you mean the sort of dates that one acquired painfully at school?"
she asked. "If so, I can give you the year of the Battle of Hastings or
the signing of Magna Charta."
"The period of a great artist's career is infinitely more important,"
he broke in. "Stradivarius was at the height of his fame about 1700.
Now, if this is the varnish he and Amati and Guarnerius used, we have a
shadowy clue to guide us in our inquiry."
"Please don't include me in the quest," she said decisively. "I refuse
to have anything to do with it. Leave the matter to me, and that nasty
calabash floats off toward the Atlantic or sinks in the Solent, exactly
as the fates direct. Positively, I am afraid of it."
"I really meant to take it out of your sight when I caught a glint of
the varnish," he pleaded.
But his humility held a spice of sarcasm. Rising, he tucked the gourd
under his coat. He was half-way down the hatch when his glance fell on
the little square of skin on the deck. Already the heat of the sun had
affected it, and two of the pins had given way. He came back.
"I may as well remove the lot while I am about it," he said, stooping
to withdraw the remaining pins.
"Oh, I am not to be frightened by _that_," she cried, with a pout that
was reminiscent of the schoolgirl period.
He laughed, but suppressed the quip that might have afforded some
hidden satisfaction.
"Gourd and document are much of a muchness," he said carelessly.
The parchment curled with unexpected speed, and caught his fingers in
an uncanny grip. Without thinking what he was doing, he shook it off
as though it were a scorpion. Then, flushing a little, he seized it,
and stuffed it into a pocket. Miss Dane missed no item of this by-play.
But she, too, could exercise the art of self-repression, and left
unuttered the words that her heart dictated. Being a methodical person,
she gathered the pins and replaced them in the hussif. She had just
finished when Warden returned.
"You don't mean to say----" he began, but checked himself. After all,
if he harped on the subject, there was some risk that the girl's
intuition might read a good deal of the truth into what she had seen
and heard during the past half-hour. So he changed a protest into a
compliment.
"Economy is the greatest of the domestic virtues. Now, a mere man would
have waited until one of those pins stuck into his foot as he was
crossing the deck for his morning dip, and then he would say things. By
the way, Peter believes the breeze is freshening. Would you care for a
short cruise?"
A delightful color suffused the girl's face. "I feel like lifting my
eyebrows at my own behavior," she said, "but I must admit that I should
enjoy it immensely. Please bring me back here before six o'clock.
I wish to go on board the _Sans Souci_ the moment Mrs. Baumgartner
arrives."
In response to Warden's summons, Peter and Chris appeared on deck. The
_Nancy_ cast off from her buoy, her canvas leaped to the embrace of the
wind, and soon she was slipping through the water at a spanking pace
in the direction of Portsmouth and the anchored fleet, for the cutter
could move when her sails filled.
Thenceforth the talk was nautical. Peter entertained them with details
of the warships or the yachts competing in the various races. Once,
by chance, the conversation veered close to West Africa, when Warden
gave a vivid description of the sensations of the novice who makes his
first landing in a surf-boat. But Peter soon brought them back to the
British Isles by his reminiscences of boarding salt-stained and sooty
tramps in an equinoctial gale off Lundy. No unpleasing incident marred
a perfect afternoon until tea was served, and the cutter ran to her
moorings.
The guardian Gorgon of the _Sans Souci_ watched their return, and it
was evident that his solitary vigil was still unbroken. About half-past
six, when a swarm of yachts were beating up the roads on the turn of
the tide, a steam launch approached the _Sans Souci_ and deposited a
lady and gentleman on the gangway. They were alone. The watchman helped
them to reach the deck, a financial transaction took place between him
and the gentleman, the latter disappeared instantly, and the watchman
descended the ladder with the evident intention of entering the launch.
But he hesitated, and pointed to the _Nancy_, whereupon the lady, to
whom he was speaking, looked fixedly at the cutter and her occupants.
"That is Mrs. Baumgartner, I am sure," said Evelyn eagerly. "Will you
take me across in the dinghy at once? Then, if necessary, I can reach
Portsmouth easily this evening, as I shall have gained half an hour."
She gave no heed to the astounding fact that if these people were
really the yacht-owner and his wife they were absolutely alone on the
vessel. Warden, unwilling to arouse distrust in her mind, bade Peter
draw the dinghy alongside.
"Good-by," he said, extending his hand frankly. "The world is small,
and we shall meet again. Remember, you have promised to write, and, in
the meantime, do not forget that if the _Nancy_ or her crew can offer
you any service we are within hailing distance."
"You are not leaving Cowes to-night, then?"
"No. To-morrow, if the wind serves, we go east, to Brighton and Dover,
and perhaps as far north as Cromer. After that, to Holland. But no
matter where I am, I manage to secure my letters."
Evelyn gave his hand a grateful little pressure. She was not insensible
of the tact that sent Peter as her escort.
"You have been exceedingly good and kind to me," she said. "I shall
never forget this most charming day, and I shall certainly write
to you. Good-by, Chris. Good-by, dear little ship. What a pity--"
she paused and laughed with pretty embarrassment. "I think I was
going to say what a pity it is that these pleasant hours cannot last
longer--they come too rarely in life."
And with that she was gone, though she turned twice during her short
voyage, and waved a hand to the man who was looking at her so steadily
while he leaned against the cutter's mast and smoked in silence.
There could be no doubt that the lady on the _Sans Souci_ was Mrs.
Baumgartner. No sooner did she realize that Miss Dane's arrival was
imminent than she threw up her hands with a Continental affectation of
amazement and ran into the deck cabin. To all seeming, she bade the
launch await further orders. Baumgartner and his wife reappeared, they
indulged in gesticulations to which Warden could readily imagine an
accompaniment of harsh-sounding German, and, evidently as the outcome
of their talk, the launch steamed away.
Warden smiled sourly.
"If those people had committed a murder on board, and were anxious to
sink their victim several fathoms deep before anybody interfered with
them, they could hardly be more excited," he thought. "Perhaps it won't
do my young friend any good if I remain here staring straight at the
yacht."
He busied himself with an unnecessary stowing away of the cutter's
mainsail, but contrived to watch events sufficiently to note that Mrs.
Baumgartner received her guest with voluble courtesy. Baumgartner, a
French-polished edition of the bacon-factor type of man, bustled the
two ladies out of sight, and thenceforth, during more than an hour, the
deck of the _Sans Souci_ was absolutely untenanted.
Twilight was deepening; lights began to twinkle on shore; not a few
careful captains showed riding lamps, although the precaution was yet
needless; launches and ships' boats were cleaving long black furrows in
the slate-blue surface of the Solent as they ferried parties of diners
from shore or yachts--but never a sign of life was there on board the
_Sans Souci_. Peter, undisturbed by speculations anent the future of
the young lady whose presence had brightened the deck of the _Nancy_
during the afternoon, cooked an appetizing supper. He was surprised
when Warden expressed a wish that they should eat without a light. It
did not occur to him that his employer was mounting guard over the
Baumgartners' yacht, and meant to have a clear field of vision while a
shred of daylight remained.
The progress of the meal was rudely broken in on by Peter himself.
Although the placid silence of the night was frequently disturbed
by the flapping of propellers, his sailor's ear caught the stealthy
approach of the one vessel that boded possible danger. Swinging himself
upright he roared:
"Where's that ugly Dutchman a-comin' to? Quick with a light, Chris, or
she'll be on top of us!"
It was the Emperor's cruiser-yacht that had so suddenly upset his
equanimity. Returning to Cowes after convoying the yacht flotilla, she
was now fully a mile away from her usual anchorage. But the _Nancy_ was
safe enough. The imperial yacht stopped at a distance of three cables'
lengths, reversed her engines, let go an anchor, and ran up to the
chain hawser when the hoarse rattle of its first rush had ceased.
Chris lost no time in producing a lantern, and his father slung it in
its proper place.
"It 'ud be just our luck if we wos run down," Warden heard him mutter.
"That nigger's phiz we shipped to-day is enough to sink any decent
craft, blow me, if it ain't!"
Warden, whose vigil had not relaxed for an instant, saw that some
one was hoisting a masthead light on the _Sans Souci_. Her starboard
light followed, and soon the yellow eyes of a row of closed ports
stared at him solemnly across the intervening water. As the principal
living-rooms of such a vessel must certainly be the deck saloons, he
was more than ever puzzled by the eccentric behavior of her owners.
Every other yacht in the roadstead was brilliantly illuminated. The
_Sans Souci_ alone seemed to court secrecy.
It has been seen that, in holiday mood, he was a creature of impulse,
nor did he lack the audacity of prompt decision when it was called
for. He showed both qualities now by hauling the dinghy alongside and
stepping into it.
"Goin' ashore, sir?" cried the surprised Peter.
They kept early hours on board, and Warden's usual habit was to be
asleep by half-past nine when the cutter was at her moorings.
"No. I mean to pay a call. Got a match?"
"Let me take you, sir."
"No need, thanks. I'm bound for the _Sans Souci_. I may be back in five
minutes."
He lit a cigar, cast off, and rowed himself leisurely toward the vessel
which had filled so large a space in his thoughts ever since he met
Evelyn Dane in the street outside the steamer pier. His intent was to
ask for her, to refuse to go away unless he spoke to her, and, when
she appeared, as his well-ordered senses told him would surely be the
case, to frame some idle excuse for the liberty he had taken. She had
talked of returning to Portsmouth that evening, and it might serve
if he expressed his willingness to carry her imaginary luggage from
the quay to the railway station. She was shrewd and tactful. She would
understand, perhaps, that he was anxious for her welfare, and it would
not embarrass her to state whether or not his services were needed.
He was nearing the yacht when the red and green eyes of a launch
gleamed at him as he glanced over his shoulder to take measure of his
direction. There was no other vessel exactly in line with the _Sans
Souci_, and the thought struck him that this might be the messenger of
the gods in so far as they busied themselves with Miss Dane's affairs.
There was no harm in waiting a few minutes, so he altered the dinghy's
course in such wise that the launch, if it were actually bound for the
yacht, must pass quite closely, though he, to all outward seeming, was
in no way concerned with its destination. His guess was justified.
While the tiny steamer was still fifty yards distant, the quick
pulsation of her engines slackened. She drew near, and the figure of a
sailor with a boat-hook in his hands was silhouetted against the last
bright strip of sky in the northwest. She passed, and it demanded all
Arthur Warden's cool nerve to maintain a steady pull at the oars and
smoke the cigar of British complacency when he saw Miguel Figuero and
three men of the tribe of Oku seated in the cushioned space aft.
[Illustration: The presence of Figuero in Cowes was perplexing _Page 49_]
He could not be mistaken. He knew the West African hinterland so well
that he could distinguish the inhabitants of different districts by
facial characteristics slight in themselves but as clearly visible to
the eye of experience as the varying race-marks of a Frenchman and a
Norwegian. Coming thus strangely on the heels of the discovery of that
amazing calabash, the incident was almost stupefying. The presence of
Figuero alone in Cowes was perplexing--the appearance of three Oku
blacks was a real marvel--that all four should be visitors to the _Sans
Souci_ savored of necromancy. But Warden did not hesitate. He made
certain that the strange quartette were being conveyed to the yacht;
he took care to note that their arrival was expected, seeing that
Baumgartner himself came down the gangway with a lantern to light the
way on board; and then he pulled back to the _Nancy_. Ere he reached
her, the launch had gone shoreward again.
"You've changed your mind, sir," was Peter's greeting.
"You were keeping a lookout, then?" said Warden.
"'Ave nothin' else to do, so to speak, sir."
"Well, jump in and take the oars. I shall be with you in a moment."
Warden dived into the small cabin, rummaged in a box, and produced two
revolvers. He examined both weapons carefully under the cutter's light,
and ascertained that they were properly loaded, whereupon one went into
each of the outer pockets of his coat.
"Now take me to the _Sans Souci_, Peter," he said. "When I reach the
gangway, pull off a couple of lengths, and stand by."
"What's doin'?" asked Peter, who was by no means unobservant.
"Nothing, I hope. I may have to talk big, and twelve ounces of lead
lend weight to an argument. But I am puzzled, Peter, and I hate that
condition. You remember our nigger friend on the gourd?"
"Remember 'im. Shall I ever forget 'im?"--and the ex-pilot spat.
"Well, three live members of his tribe, and the worst Portuguese
slave-trader and gin-runner now known in West Africa, have just boarded
the _Sans Souci_. I don't consider them fit company for Miss Dane. What
do _you_ say?"
Peter hung on the oars.
"W'y not let Chris come an' look after the dinghy?" he said. "You may
need a friendly hand w'en the band plays."
Warden laughed.
"We are in England, Peter," he replied; but the words had a far less
convincing sound in his ears now than when he protested against Evelyn
Dane's unreasoning detestation of the carved gourd. One of the weapons
in his pockets was actually resting on the crackling skin of a man who
had been flayed alive--and most probably so flayed by ancestors of the
negroes who were on board the _Sans Souci_ at that instant. The thought
strengthened his determination to see and speak to the girl that night.
At all costs he would persevere until she herself assured him that she
had no wish to go ashore. He even made up his mind to persuade her
to return to Portsmouth for the night, and it seemed to him that no
consideration could move him from his purpose.
Whereat Lachesis, she who spins the thread of life, must have smiled.
Short as was the distance to be traversed by the dinghy under the
impetus of Peter Evans's strong arms, the cruel goddess who pays no
regard to human desires had already contrived the warp and weft of
circumstances that would deter even a bolder man than Warden from
thrusting himself unbidden into the queer company gathered on the yacht.
The pilot was pulling straight to the gangway when a large steam launch
whistled an angry warning that he was crossing her bows. He twisted the
dinghy broadside on, and both Warden and he saw two officers in the
uniform of a foreign navy step on to the _Sans Souci_ gangway, where
Baumgartner, bare-headed and obsequious of manner, was standing to
receive them.
The _Nancy's_ boat was so near that her occupants could hear the
millionaire's words distinctly as he greeted the first of his two
latest visitors. He spoke in German, and Peter was none the wiser, but
Warden understood, and his errant fears for Evelyn Dane's welfare were
promptly merged in a very ocean of bewilderment.
"The _Nancy_ for us, Peter," he murmured. "As they say in the States, I
have bitten off more than I can chew. Do you know who that is?"
"Which?--the little one?"
"Yes."
"Mebbe he's the skipper of the Dutchman yonder. That's her launch."
"He is skipper of many Dutchmen. Mr. Baumgartner addressed him as
'emperor.' Give way, Peter. We must watch and eke pray, but there are
affairs afoot--or shall I say afloat--that it behooves not a simple
official in the Nigeria Protectorate to meddle with. God wot! I have
earned a captaincy and a year's leave by serving my country in a humble
capacity. Let me not lose both by an act of _lèse majesté_, and it
would be none else were I to break in on the remarkable conclave now
assembled on board the _Sans Souci_!"