When Ross returned to consciousness it was to a blurred, feverish,
pain-wracked world.
He did not know where he was or what had happened. He only knew that his
head was bandaged and splitting with pain; that his shoulder was stiff
and sore, incapable of being moved even the fraction of an inch, and that
it pained with a dull, throbbing hurt; that his eyes burned and blurred;
and that his entire body burned with ten thousand fires.
Of one thing more was Ross conscious. That was the girl. When she saw
that Ross had temporarily come out of the fog she hurried to his side and
answered the unasked question on his lips by holding a cup of cold water
to them. She seemed to have been waiting for ages to do just that.
Ross drank gratefully, but when he would have questioned her she laid her
finger across his lips and said;
“_Sh-h-h-ush!_ Not now. We’ll talk when you feel better. Just now you
need sleep more than anything else.”
And Stanley Ross obeyed. In an instant he was asleep, a wild, feverish
sleep that brought no rest.
There followed days of half consciousness, half nightmare; days when Ross
neither knew nor cared what happened, when wild delirium alternated with
painful reality.
He was far too ill to make any inquiries about anything that had
happened. In fact, he was only conscious of the fact that whenever the
fog lifted the girl always seemed to be present—a ministering angel who
brought cooling draughts, and soothing applications for his head and
shoulders.
Finally there came a day when Ross awoke to a sane world. The fever fog
had departed from his brain. His head no longer throbbed and beat like
a thousand devils. His shoulder was sore and stiff, but it no longer
was filled with maddening pain. He was weak, very weak, but the world
was once more interesting and he was acutely aware of a most prodigious
appetite.
Ross was aware that he was in the room to which he had been conducted
by Garfin on the night of the strange dinner. Beyond that, he was not
interested. He was aware that the girl was still acting as his nurse.
At meal time the Chinese, Wong, came in with a tray. He was still too
weak to care as to the whereabouts of the others, or what had happened on
the night of the fight.
He did learn that the girl’s name was Virginia Carver, but that was all.
In less than a week he was sitting out on the long veranda every
afternoon. With returning strength came returning curiosity. He wanted to
know the story of this strange habitation in the desert and to learn just
what had happened on the night Wong had aided him to escape.
Several times he broached the subject to the girl, but each time she put
him off with the statement that he was not yet strong enough to talk. The
excuse was obviously becoming threadbare, however, as his health improved.
One afternoon, while Ross was sitting on the veranda, the girl came
out and took a seat opposite him. It was patent that the time for
explanations had come.
“I suppose, Mr. Ross,” began Virginia Carver, “that you have been
wondering just what this whole thing is about, and you certainly are
entitled to an explanation. I don’t know how I am ever going to thank you
for what you have done for me. You were very brave.”
“Well, suppose you forget about the thanks, Miss Carver,” said Ross,
visibly embarrassed. “I _would_ like to know all about this queer affair,
though. I thought Arabian Nights were ancient history, but I’m about
ready to believe anything.”
“In order for you to understand I’ll have to take you back about seven
years,” explained the girl. “At that time my uncle, Arthur Ward, was one
of the biggest operators in Wall Street. All his life he has been a very
peculiar man; eccentric; always doing queer things for which there seemed
no explanation, and never taking any one into his confidence.
“In the Street he was known as a plunger. He made a great deal of money.
Just how much I have no idea beyond the fact that he was always very
generous with my mother, his sister. But at one time he must have been
very wealthy indeed.
“Seven years ago it seems that he plunged too heavily and got caught.
His fortune was practically wiped out. When everything was settled up he
was still a wealthy man—that is, he was probably worth a half million
dollars—but the great bulk of his fortune was gone.
“He fought fiercely to keep from going under. There were days and nights
at a time when I don’t think he slept at all. He was like a wild man, but
the combination against him was too great and he went under.
“At first we thought he was going to lose his mind. For weeks he acted
very queer. Finally he seemed to get a hold on himself and he appeared
rational.
“He settled up his business, and then suddenly disappeared. He left no
word where he was going—just dropped out of sight. That was seven years
ago, and for two years we heard nothing from him. Five years ago I got a
letter from him asking me to visit him here. I came and found things just
about as you see them now.
“He seemed perfectly rational and contented. Of course, he was queer and
erratic, but he had always been that. He seemed to have forgotten Wall
Street entirely and spent most of his time making a collection of the
accoutrements of horse and man of the old-time West. I doubt if there is
a finer collection in existence.
“He did a lot of entertaining, too, for his old friends, inviting them
out for long visits. Here his eccentricity cropped out, for he insisted
on going to great lengths to have everything just as it would be in New
York. There must be fifteen dress suits in the house, and he always asked
every one to dress for dinner. He imported wines and foods. Wong has been
with him ever since he has been here and he is an excellent cook.
“I came out every year. He was always very kind to me and has made every
effort to entertain me. I thought he acted a little more queer each year,
and I often wondered if he was not a little unbalanced mentally.
“When I came out this year there was a great change. I saw at once
that he was quite mad. He imagined that he was being persecuted by the
Warings, and kept Poole and Garfin, New York gunmen, to protect him.
The Warings were the people who engineered his defeat in Wall Street,
and Uncle Arthur hated them intensely. He not only imagined they were
persecuting him, but he also imagined that the younger Waring, whom I
have never seen, was trying to marry me. This seemed to be an obsession
with him.
“When I got here I found that Larson Beebe was Uncle Arthur’s guest. I
had met Mr. Beebe in New York several times, and I detested him. I had
good reason to. He—well, I have always despised him.
“Just what his hold or influence on Uncle Arthur was I haven’t the
slightest idea, but I had hardly arrived before Uncle Arthur began to
insist that I marry him.
“Of course, I refused, and it was then that Uncle Arthur’s insanity came
to the surface. He had always been kindness itself, but now he suddenly
became the very incarnation of cruelty. While there was no question but
that he was entirely mad, yet in his madness his brain was as shrewd and
cunning as ever.
“When I refused to marry Beebe he began to practice his cruelties on me
in an effort to break my will. I was utterly at his mercy, for there was
no way that I could escape. All I could do was submit.
“The culmination of his indignities was to chain me to the rocks where
you found me. Whether he would have left me there till I was dead I
hardly know, but I think not. His brain was so unbalanced that it would
be hard to tell.
“I ran away that night because I knew he would kill you if he found
you with me. Evidently he had Garfin watching me, or he would not have
learned that you had released me. He was obsessed with the idea that you
were the younger Waring.
“The rest of the story you know. I dare not think of what would have
happened to me if you had not come to my rescue, Mr. Ross.”
“But what really happened the night I escaped?” asked Ross.
“Well—you shot both Uncle Arthur and Poole,” she replied hesitatingly.
“Did I—did I—” he floundered helplessly.
“Yes,” she replied evenly. “Providence helped your aim that night. Wong
buried them both. No, Mr. Ross,” she finished, as she noted the look on
his face, “don’t feel that way about it. If you hadn’t killed them they
would have killed you, and I would have suffered a fate worse than death.
Under the circumstances I cannot feel sorry.”
“What happened to Beebe?” asked Ross, curious as to the fate of that
dubious individual.
“That’s a mystery. He simply disappeared that night and we have not seen
him since. Wong just barely missed him that night with a hatchet. I think
he is deathly afraid of Wong. At any rate, he is gone. And now, Mr. Ross,
I want to ask you a question: How did you manage to escape from your
prison that night? Wong won’t tell me a thing. He just grins when I ask
him, and I suspect I owe a great deal to Wong.”
“You surely do, Miss Carver,” answered Ross fervently. “That Chinaman is
a wonder. In some way he got hold of my automatic and cartridge belt. He
passed them to me through the window, and then, under some pretense, got
Garfin to come and open the door. Then—well, Garfin won’t ever bother us
again.”
_CHAPTER TEN_