STRUGGLING FOR VICTORY
I confess that I was somewhat excited as I heard him coming up the
stairs. I was sure that every means he could devise to defeat me would
be eagerly used. The man was a villain possessed of a strange and
dangerous power, and that power he would not hesitate to exert in every
possible way. But I was not afraid; my faith in God had given me life,
and so I would dare to defy the wretch.
I did not look at him until the girl had shown him in and left the room;
then our eyes met.
I recognized the steely glitter of those whity-grey orbs, which at times
seemed tinted with green. I knew he was seeking to exert his old
influence, and once I thought I should have to yield. The power he
possessed was something terrible, and I had to struggle to the utmost to
remain unconquered. His efforts were in vain, however, and, for the
time, at all events, the battle was not with him.
"Will you sit down, Mr. Voltaire?" I said, after a minute's perfect
silence.
He sat down as if in astonishment.
"Might I ask your business?" I asked as coolly as I could.
This question either aroused his anger, or he began to play a part.
"Yes," he said; "you will know my business at your cost. I thought you
had found out before this that I was not the man either to be disobeyed
or trifled with."
I did not think it wise to speak.
"I have come to tell you," he went on, "that you cannot escape my power,
that you cannot disobey me and not suffer. Remember this: I conquered
you, and you are my slave."
Still I did not think it wise to reply.
"You think," he continued, "because you have realized some immunity from
the power I wield, that I have left you. I have not, and it is greater
than ever. You have dared to leave London; you have dared to do that
which I told you not; and now I have come to tell you that you have
aroused the anger of a man who laughs at conventional laws, and snaps
his fingers at the ordinary usages of society--one who knows nothing
and cares nothing for your claptrap morality, and will not be influenced
by it."
"I am sorry if I have angered you," I replied humbly.
"Just so, and you will be more than sorry. Man, I hold your life in the
hollow of my hand. One word from me, and your liberty is gone; you will
be dragged through the streets like a common felon."
"Am I guilty of so much, then?" I said. "Did I really kill that man?"
He looked at me curiously, as if he suspected something. "Kill him?" he
replied. "Of course you did. But even if you did not, it is all the
same. Kaffar cannot be found, or proved alive, and thus my power over
you is absolute."
"I wonder you do not use it," I said quietly.
"I do not use it because it does not pay me to do so. My policy is to be
quiet. Miss Forrest is mine because she knows I am master of your life.
The months are swiftly passing away, Mr. Justin Blake. It is May now; in
December I shall take her to my breast."
"But supposing," I said, "that I find Kaffar; supposing before Christmas
Eve comes I prove I am innocent of his death. What then?"
"It is not to be supposed. You killed my friend; and even if you did
not, you could never find him. You dare not, could not, take any
necessary steps. You have not the power to ask other people to do it.
Even now you cannot rise from your seat and walk across the room."
Without a word I rose from my seat and walked across the room; then I
came back and coolly sat down again.
"What does this mean?" he asked angrily.
"It means," I said, "that you are deceived--mistaken. It means that your
villainous schemes are of no effect; that the man whom you thought you
had entrapped by a juggler's trick to be your tool and dupe is as free
as you are; that he defies your power; that he tells you to do your
worst."
I felt that again he was trying to throw me into a kind of trance, that
he was exerting all his power and knowledge; but I resisted, and I was
free. I stood up again and smiled.
Then a strange light lit up his eyes.
"Curse you!" he cried, "you defy me, eh? Well, you'll see what you get
by defying me. In five minutes you will be safe in a policeman's
charge."
"If I were you I would try and learn the Englishman's laws before you
appeal to them. The first question that will be asked will be why you
have refrained from telling so long, for he who shelters a criminal by
silence is regarded as an aider and an abettor of that criminal. Then,
man, this case will be sifted to the bottom. That pond will be pumped
dry, and every outlet examined. Besides, what about the booking-clerk
that issued a ticket to Kaffar two hours after you and Mr. Temple found
me?"
"It's a lie!" he cried; "Kaffar was never seen."
"Well, then, if you are so sure, give me in charge. It will not be very
much opposed to my wishes, for by so doing you will set the whole
machinery of the law of England on Kaffar's trail, and I promise you it
will find him. English law is hard on murderers, but all evidence is put
through a very fine sieve in an English court of justice. Kaffar is not
an ordinary-looking man, and from Scotland Yard our police authorities
hold communication with all other police authorities in the civilized
world. I tell you, man, your trumped-up story would be torn to pieces in
five minutes, and in the end you would be safely lodged down at Dartmoor
for fourteen years."
He sat silent a minute, as if in deep thought; then he said slowly, "Mr.
Justin Blake, you think you have outwitted Herod Voltaire! Continue to
think so. I shall not give you in charge--not because I believe in
your paltry story, but because I should lose Miss Forrest by so doing,
and I cannot afford to do that, if for nothing else than to spite you.
You think you are free from me. Wait. You think Kaffar is to be
found--well, wait. But, I tell you, you shall repent all this. I will
marry the woman you love, and then I will lead you such a life as you
never conceived. You shall pray to die, and death shall not come. You
shall suffer as never man suffered. The condition of the Christians whom
Nero used as torches shall be heaven to what yours shall be.
Meanwhile--"
All this time he kept looking at me, and his words were uttered with a
nervous force and intensity that was terrible. I felt a strange chilling
sensation creep over me, and involuntarily I sat down. No sooner had I
done so than he gave a savage, exultant yell.
"You are mine again!" he cried.
It was a terrible struggle. His will and mine fought for the
mastery--his strengthened by a knowledge of laws of which I was
ignorant, and constant exertion of it; mine, by a new life which I had
but lately begun to live, by a strength given me through communion with
my Maker.
For a minute I was chained to the seat. My senses were numbed, and, all
the while his terrible glittering eyes rested on mine. Then my strength
began to return, and I again stood up, and in a few seconds I was master
of myself.
"Coward," I said, "you sought to take me unawares. You have done your
utmost, and I am your master, even now. Now go, and bear this in mind,
that the right and the truth shall be triumphant."
I rung the bell as I spoke, and the servant appeared. "Show this
gentleman out, Mary," I said.
Never shall I forget the look of hatred that gleamed from his eyes as he
left the room. If ever a man looked possessed of an evil spirit, it was
he; but he did not speak. He walked down the stairs without a word, and
then out into the street.
I stood and watched him until he was out of sight, and then tried to
collect my scattered thoughts. On the whole, I was not pleased with the
interview. I had shown my hand. It would have been far better if I could
have allowed him still to think I was in his power, but the temptation
to show him my freedom was too strong. It would now be a trial of skill
between us. If he could have believed that I was unable to do anything
to free myself, I should have, perhaps, caught him unawares. Now he
would be prepared for everything I could do; he would check my every
move. If Kaffar were alive, he would have a thousand means of keeping
him out of my way; if dead--well, then, I did not care much what
happened. If the latter, however, I determined to give up my life for
Miss Forrest, to put myself in the hands of the police authorities, and
tell of the influence Voltaire had exerted over me.
Meanwhile I must act, and that quickly; so I went straight to a private
detective, a man I slightly knew. I refrained from going to Scotland
Yard, as I thought Voltaire would be watching me. I gave this detective
a description of Voltaire, told him his address, which I had ascertained
through his letters to Temple Hall, and explained my wishes to him. He
took up my points very quickly, saw what I wanted without any lengthened
explanations, and expressed a willingness to serve me. So much pleased
was I with this interview, that I had no fear that my enemy would not be
well looked after.
After that I took train for Dover, and prepared to track Kaffar, if
possible, wherever he had gone, not realizing at the time the task I had
proposed for myself.
I thought I made a forward step at Dover, for, on inquiring at an hotel
there, I found that a man answering to Kaffar's description had engaged
a bedroom for one night, and had gone on to Calais by the midday boat,
in time to catch the express for Paris.
"Did this gentleman have any luggage?" I asked.
The hotel proprietor did not think the gentleman carried any luggage,
but he would inquire.
On inquiry of the hotel porter, I found that he carried a Gladstone bag,
rather small and new. This was particularly remembered--first, because
the foreign gentleman seemed very particular about it, and, second,
because there seemed to be nothing in it.
So far so good.
I determined to go on to Paris; it could do no harm, it might do good. I
could speak the French language fairly, and might, by some means, find
out the steps he had taken.
Arrived at Paris, I was completely blocked. He was not remembered in the
Custom House; he was not remembered at some twenty hotels at which I
called.
Again I began to think what he was likely to do. I did not think he
would possess very much money, and a man of his temperament would devise
some means of getting some. How? Work would be a slow process, and not
suited to his nature. Kaffar would get money by gambling. But that did
not help me forward. To search out all the gambling-houses in Paris
would be a hopeless task; besides, would he gamble in Paris, a city of
which he knew nothing? I did not think so. Where, then?
Monte Carlo!
No doubt the reader will smile at my attempts as a private detective,
but, realizing the circumstances by which I was surrounded, there may be
some excuse for my unbusinesslike way of going to work. Besides, I was
not sure that Kaffar was alive; I only had some vague grounds for
thinking he was.
I went to Monte Carlo. I inquired at the hotels; I inquired at the
Casino--without success. I learnt one great lesson there, however, and
that was the evil of gambling. In spite of tinsel and gilt, in spite of
gay attire and loud laughter, in spite of high-sounding titles and
ancient names, never did I see so much real misery as I saw in the
far-renowned gaming palace.
For days I tried to think what to do, without avail. Kaffar had not been
at the Casino; he had not stayed at any of the hotels. Where was he,
then?
I began to entertain the idea that he had gone to Egypt as he had said.
I would do my best to find out. Accordingly, I went to all the seaports
along the coast of France and Italy from which he would be likely to set
sail for Egypt. I was unsuccessful until I came to Brindisi.
Here I found that inquiries could easily be made. There were only two
hotels in the place, one of which was very small. At the smaller of the
two, I found on inquiry that a man answering to my description had
stayed there a day and a night, waiting for the boat for Alexandria. The
hotel proprietor said he should not have remembered him, but that he had
talked Arabic with him. This traveller had also told him he had come
from England, the land of luxury and gold, and was going to Cairo.
He did not remember his name. Egyptians often came to Brindisi, and to
him one name was pretty much like another. He called them all "Howajja,"
and remembered nothing more. He did not keep an hotel register.
Little and poor as this evidence was, I determined to go to Egypt. It
was now June, and terribly hot, even at Brindisi; I knew the heat must
be worse in Cairo, but that was nothing. If I could find this man, I
should be rewarded a thousandfold.
Accordingly the next night, when an Austrian Lloyd steamer stopped at
this little old-fashioned seaport on its way to Alexandria, I secured a
berth and went on board. The voyage was not long, neither was it very
tedious; at night, especially, it was glorious. To sit on deck and gaze
at the smooth sea, which reflected in its deep waters the bright starry
heavens, while the splash of the waters made music on the vessel's side,
was to experience something not easily forgotten.
Arrived in Alexandria, I again set inquiries on foot, but with far less
chance of success. Kaffar was not a marked man here. In this town, where
almost every nationality was to be seen, no notice would be taken of
him. A thousand men answering to Kaffar's description might be seen
every day. Still I did all I could, and then hurried on to Cairo.
I have not tried to give any detailed account of my journeys, nor of the
alternate feelings of hope and despair that possessed me. This must be
left to the imagination of my readers. Let them remember the
circumstances of the story as I have related them, let them think of how
much depended on my discovery of Kaffar, let them also try to fancy
something of my feelings, and then they will be able to guess at my
weary nights and anxious days, they will know how feverishly I hurried
from port to port and from town to town. Anyhow, I will not try to
describe them, for I should miserably fail.
Cairo was comparatively empty. The heat had driven the tourists away to
colder climes. The waiters in the hotels lolled around, with little or
nothing to do. Only a few guests required their attendance. Everything
was very quiet. The burning sun fairly scorched the leaves of the acacia
trees, which grew everywhere. The Nile was exceedingly low, and water
was comparatively scarce. The older part of Cairo was simply unbearable;
the little Koptic community dwelling in the low huts, which reeked with
dirt and vermin, would, one would have thought, have been glad to have
died.
I had no success in Cairo. A dozen times I was buoyed up with hopes, a
dozen times my hopes were destroyed, leaving me more despairing than
ever. In spite of the terrible heat, all that could be done I did.
Recommended by an hotel proprietor, I engaged two of the shrewdest men
in this wonderful city to try and find Kaffar, but they could discover
no trace of him. I went to mosques, to temples, to bazaars--in vain. If
he were in Cairo, he was hiding.
Oh, the weary work, the dreadful uncertainty! Hoping, despairing, ever
toiling, ever searching, yet never achieving! The months were slipping
by. It was now August, and I was no nearer finding him than when I
started. Must I give up, then? Should I renounce my life's love? Should
I yield my darling to Voltaire? Never!
I formed a new resolution. I would go back to England. Doubtless I had
gone clumsily to work, and thus my failure would be explained. When once
back in London, I would engage the cleverest detectives the city could
boast of, and I would state the whole case to them. Perchance they could
do what I had failed to accomplish. This determination I at once carried
into practice, and in a little more than a week I again saw the white
cliffs of Dover. I did not rest. Arriving at Victoria, I drove straight
to Scotland Yard, and in an hour later two of the most highly
recommended officers of the London detective police force were in
possession of all the facts that I could give them that would lead to
the discovery of the Egyptian, providing he lived.
Then I drove back to my rooms in Gower Street, weary and sad, yet not
hopeless. There were four months in which to act. Two clever men were at
work, while, thank God, I was free to act and to think.
Yet the future looked terribly doubtful. Would the inquiries be
successful? would Gertrude be freed from Voltaire? and should I be
happy?