CHAPTER II. THE COMPACT
CHAPTER III. A CHANGE OF SKY, BUT NOT OF HABIT
CHAPTER IV. VON KERBER EXPLAINS
CHAPTER V. MISS FENSHAWE SEEKS AN ALLY
CHAPTER VI. AT THE PORTAL
CHAPTER VII. MRS. HAXTON RECEIVES A SHOCK
CHAPTER VIII. MASSOWAH ASSERTS ITSELF
CHAPTER IX. A GALLOP IN THE DARK
CHAPTER X. THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
CHAPTER XI. A WOMAN INTERVENES
CHAPTER XII. STUMP DEPENDS ON OBSERVATION
CHAPTER XIII. THE SIGN IN THE SKY
CHAPTER XIV. WHEREIN A BISHARIN CAMEL BECOMES USEFUL
CHAPTER XV. THE DESERT AWAKES
CHAPTER XVI. A FLIGHT--AND A FIGHT
CHAPTER XVII. HOW THREE ROADS LED IN ONE DIRECTION
CHAPTER XVIII. THE FINDING OF THE TREASURE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"By the Prophet!" he exclaimed, "I am overjoyed at seeing you"
"I don't want your charity, I want work!"
"Let your prisoner go, Mr. King"
"Good morning, Mr. King," she cried
"You need no promise from me, Miss Fenshawe"
The Arab appraised Royson with critical eye
He did not dare meet the glance suddenly turned upon him
"Go, Dick, but come back to me in safety"
CHAPTER I
WHEREIN FORTUNE TURNS HER WHEEL
At ten o'clock on a morning in October--a dazzling, sunlit morning
after hours of wind-lashed rain--a young man hurried out of Victoria
Station and dodged the traffic and the mud-pools on his way towards
Victoria Street. Suddenly he was brought to a stand by an unusual
spectacle. A procession of the "unemployed" was sauntering out of
Vauxhall Bridge Road into the more important street. Being men of
leisure, the processionists moved slowly. The more alert pedestrian who
had just emerged from the station did not grumble at the delay--he even
turned it to advantage by rolling and lighting a cigarette. The ragged
regiment filed past, a soiled, frayed, hopeless-looking gang. Three
hundred men had gathered on the south side of the river, and were
marching to join other contingents on the Thames Embankment, whence
some thousands of them would be shepherded by policemen up
Northumberland Avenue, across Trafalgar Square, and so, by way of Lower
Regent Street and Piccadilly, to Hyde Park, where they would hoarsely
cheer every demagogue who blamed the Government for their miseries.
London, like Richard Royson, would stand on the pavement and watch
them. Like him, it would drop a few coins into the collecting boxes
rattled under its nose, and grin at the absurd figure cut by a very fat
man who waddled notably, among his leaner brethren, for hunger and
substance are not often found so strangely allied. But, having salved
its conscience by giving, and gratified its sarcastic humor by
laughing, London took thought, perhaps, when it read the strange device
on the banner carried by this Vauxhall contingent. "Curse your
charity--we want work," said the white letters, staring threateningly
out of a wide strip of red cotton. There was a brutal force in the
phrase. It was Socialism in a tabloid. Many a looker-on, whose lot was
nigh as desperate as that of the demonstrators, felt that it struck him
between the eyes.
It had some such effect on Royson. Rather abruptly he turned away, and
reached the less crowded Buckingham Palace Road. His face was darkened
by a frown, though his blue eyes had a glint of humor in them. The
legend on the banner had annoyed him. Its blatant message had
penetrated the armor of youth, high spirits, and abounding good health.
It expressed his own case, with a crude vigor. The "unemployed" genius
who railed at society in that virile line must have felt as he, Dick
Royson, had begun to feel during the past fortnight, and the knowledge
that this was so was exceedingly distasteful. It was monstrous that he
should rate himself on a par with those slouching wastrels. The mere
notion brought its own confutation. Twenty-four years of age, well
educated, a gentleman by birth and breeding, an athlete who stood six
feet two inches high in his stockings, the gulf was wide, indeed,
between him and the charity-cursers who had taken his money. Yet--the
words stuck....
Evidently, he was fated to be a sight-seer that morning. When he
entered Buckingham Palace Road, the strains of martial music banished
the gaunt specter called into being by the red cotton banner. A
policeman, more cheerful and spry than his comrades who marshaled the
procession shuffling towards Westminster, strode to the center of the
busy crossing, and cast an alert eye on the converging lines of
traffic. Another section of the ever-ready London crowd lined up on the
curb. Nursemaids, bound for the parks, wheeled their perambulators into
strategic positions, thus commanding a clear view and blocking the edge
of the pavement. Drivers of omnibuses, without waiting for the lifted
hand of authority, halted in Lower Grosvenor Gardens and Victoria
Street. Cabs going to the station, presumably carrying fares to whom
time meant lost trains, spurted to cross a road which would soon be
barred. And small boys gathered from all quarters in amazing profusion.
In a word, the Coldstream Guards were coming from Chelsea Barracks to
do duty at St. James's, coming, too, in the approved manner of the
Guards, with lively drumming and clash of cymbals, while brass and
reeds sang some jaunty melody of the hour.
The passing of a regimental band has whisked many a youngster out of
staid Britain into the far lands, the lilt and swing of soldiers on the
march have a glamour all the more profound because it is evanescent.
That man must indeed be careworn who would resist it. Certainly, the
broad-shouldered young giant who had been momentarily troubled by the
white-red ghost of poverty was not so minded. He could see easily, over
the heads of the people standing on the edge of the pavement, so he did
not press to the front among the rabble, but stood apart, with his back
against a shop window. Thus, he was free to move to right or left as he
chose. That was a slight thing in itself, an unconscious trick of
aloofness--perhaps an inherited trait of occupying his own territory,
so to speak. But it is these slight things which reveal character. They
oft-times influence human lives, too; and no man ever extricated
himself more promptly from the humdrum of moneyless existence in London
than did Richard Royson that day by placing the width of the sidewalk
between himself and the unbroken row of spectators. Of course, he knew
nothing of that at the moment. His objective was an appointment at
eleven' o'clock in the neighborhood of Charing Cross, and, now that he
was given the excuse, he meant to march along the Mall behind the
Guards. Meanwhile, he watched their advance.
Above the tall bearskins and glittering bayonets he caught the flourish
of energetic drumsticks. The big drum gave forth its clamor with
window-shaking insistence; it seemed to be the summons of power that
all else should stand aside. On they came, these spruce Guards, each
man a marching machine, trained to strut and pose exactly as his
fellows. There was a sense of omnipotence in their rhythmic movement.
And they all had the grand manner--from the elegant captain in command
down to the smallest drummer-boy. Although the sun was shining brightly
now, the earlier rain and hint of winter in the air had clothed all
ranks in dark gray great-coats and brown leggings. Hence, to the
untrained glance, they were singularly alike. Officers, sergeants,
privates and bandsmen might have been cast in molds, after the style of
toy soldiers. There were exceptions, of course, just as the fat man
achieved distinction among the unemployed. The crimson sashes of the
officers, the drum-major, with his twirling staff, the white apron of
the big drummer, drew the eye. A slim subaltern, carrying the
regimental color, held pride of place in the picture. The rich hues of
the silk lent a barbaric splendor to his sober trappings. And he took
himself seriously. A good-looking lad, with smooth contours not yet
hardened to the military type, his face had in it a set gravity which
proclaimed that he would bear that flag whithersoever his country's
need demanded. And it was good to see him so intent on the mere charge
of it in transit between Chelsea Barracks and the Guard-room at St.
James's Palace. That argued earnestness, an excellent thing, even in
the Household Brigade.
Royson was amusing himself with the contrast between the two types of
banner-bearers he had gazed at in the short space of five minutes--he
was specially tickled by the fact that the Guards, also, were under
police protection--when he became aware that the features of the
color-lieutenant were familiar to him. A man in uniform, with forehead
and chin partly hidden by warlike gear, cannot be recognized easily, if
there be any initial doubt as to his identity. To determine the matter,
Royson, instead of following in the rear as he had intended, stepped
out brightly and placed himself somewhat ahead of the officer. He was
near the drums before he could make sure that he was actually within a
few yards of a former classmate. The knowledge brought a rush of blood
to his face. Though glad enough to see unexpectedly one who had been a
school friend, it was not in human nature that the marked difference
between their present social positions should not be bitter to him.
Here was "Jack" marching down the middle of the road in the panoply of
the Guards, while "Dick" his superior during six long years at Rugby,
was hurrying along the pavement, perhaps nearing the brink of that gulf
already reached by the Vauxhall processionists.
So Dick Royson's placid temper was again ruffled, and he might have
said nasty things about Fate had not that erratic dame suddenly
thought fit to alter his fortunes. As the street narrowed between
lofty buildings, so did the blaring thunder of the music increase. The
mob closed in on the soldiers' heels; the whole roadway was packed with
moving men. A somber flood of humanity--topped by the drumsticks, the
flag, the glistening bayonets and the bearskins--it seemingly engulfed
all else in its path. The sparkle of the band, intensified by the
quick, measured tramp of the soldiers, aroused a furtive enthusiasm.
Old men, bearded and bent, men whom one would never suspect of having
borne arms, straightened themselves, stood to attention, and saluted
the swaying flag. Callow youths, hooligans, round-shouldered slouchers
at the best, made shift to lift their heads and keep step. And the
torrent caught the human flotsam of the pavement in its onward swirl.
If Royson had not utilized that clear space lower down the street, it
would have demanded the exercise of sheer force to reach the van of the
dense gathering of nondescripts now following the drum.
Nevertheless, a clearance was made, and speedily, with the startling
suddenness of a summer whirlwind. A pair of horses, attached to an open
carriage, were drawn up in a by-street until the Guards had passed. So
far as Royson was concerned, they were on the opposite side of the
road, with their heads towards him. But he happened to be looking that
way, because his old-time companion, the Hon. John Paton Seymour, was
in the direct line of sight, and his unusual stature enabled him to see
that both horses reared simultaneously. They took the coachman by
surprise, and their downward plunge dragged him headlong from the box.
Instantly there was a panic among the mob. It melted away from the
clatter of frenzied hoofs as though a live shell had burst in the
locality. Two staccato syllables from the officer in command stopped
the music and brought the Guards to a halt. The horses dashed madly
forward, barely missing the color and its escort. A ready-witted
sergeant grabbed at the loose reins flapping in the air, but they
eluded him with a snake-like twist. The next wild leap brought the
carriage pole against a lamp-post, and both were broken. Then one of
the animals stumbled, half turned, backed, and locked the front wheels.
A lady, the sole occupant, was discarding some heavy wraps which
impeded her movements, evidently meaning to spring into the road, but
she was given no time. The near hind wheel was already off the ground.
In another second the carriage must be overturned, had not Royson,
brought by chance to the right place, seized the off wheel and the back
of the hood, and bodily lifted the rear part of the victoria into
momentary safety. It was a fine display of physical strength, and quick
judgment. He literally threw the vehicle a distance of several feet.
But that was not all. He saw his opportunity, caught the reins, and
took such a pull at the terrified horses that a policeman and a soldier
were able to get hold of their heads. The coachman, who had fallen
clear, now ran up. With him came a gentleman in a fur coat. Royson was
about to turn and find out what had become of the lady, when some one
said quietly:
"Well saved, King Dick!"
It was the Hon. John Seymour who spoke. Rigid as a statue, and almost
as helpless, he was standing in the middle of the road, with his left
hand holding the flag and a drawn sword in his right. Yet a school
nickname bridged five years so rapidly that the man who had just been
reviling Fate smiled at the picturesque officer of the Guards in the
old, tolerant way, the way in which the hero of the eleven or fifteen
permits his worshipers to applaud.
But this mutual recognition went no further. The Guards must on to St.
James's. Some incomprehensible growls set them in motion again, the
drum banged with new zest, and the street gradually emptied, leaving
only a few curious gapers to surround the damaged victoria and the
trembling horses. The fresh outburst of music brought renewed prancing,
but the pair were in hand now, for Royson held the reins, and the
mud-bedaubed coachman was ready to twist their heads off in his wrath.
"Don't know what took 'em," he was gasping to the policeman. "Never
knew 'em be'ave like this afore. Quiet as sheep, they are, as a ryule."
"Too fat," explained the unemotional constable. "Give 'em more work an'
less corn. Wot's your name an' address? There's this 'ere lamp-post to
pay for. Cavalry charges in Buckingham Palace Road cost a bit."
An appreciative audience grinned at the official humor. But Royson was
listening to the somewhat lively conversation taking place behind him.
"Are you injured in any way?" cried the gentleman in the far coat,
obviously addressing the lady in the victoria. The too accurate cadence
in his words bespoke the foreigner, the man who has what is called "a
perfect command" of English.
"Not in the least, thank you," was the answer. The voice was clear,
musical, well-bred, and decidedly chilling. The two concluding words
really meant "no thanks to you," The lady was, however, quite
self-possessed, and, as a consequence, polite.
"But why in the world did you not jump out when I shouted to you?"
demanded the man.
"Because you threw your half of the rug over my feet, and thus hindered
me."
"Did I? Ach, Gott! Do you think I deserted you, then?"
"No, no, I did not mean that, Baron von Kerber. The affair was an
accident, and you naturally thought I would follow your example, I did
try, twice, to spring clear, but I lost my balance each time. We have
no cause to blame one another. My view is that Spong was caught
napping. Instead of arguing about things we might have done, we really
ought to thank this gentleman, who prevented any further developments
in some wonderful way not quite known to me yet."
The lady was talking herself into less caustic mood. Perhaps she had
not expected the Baron to shine in an emergency. Her calmness seemed to
irritate him, though he was most anxious to put himself right with her.
"My object in jumping out so quickly was to run to the horses' heads,"
he said. "Unfortunately, I tripped and nearly fell. But why sit there?
We must take a hansom. Or perhaps you would prefer to go by train?"
"Oh, a cab, by all means."
The horses were now standing so quietly that Royson handed the reins to
the coachman, who was examining the traces. Then he was able to turn
and look at the lady. He saw that she was young and pretty, but the
heavy furs she wore half concealed her face, and the fact that his own
garments were frayed, while his hands and overcoat were plastered with
mud off the wheels, did not help to dissipate a certain embarrassment
that gripped him, for he was a shy man where women were concerned. She,
too, faltered a little, and the reason was made plain by her words.
"I do not know how to thank you," she said, and he became aware that
she had wonderful brown eyes. "I think--you saved my life. Indeed, I am
sure you did. Will you--call--at an address that I will give you? Mr.
Fenshawe will be most anxious to--to--acknowledge your services."
"Oh, pray leave that to me, Miss Fenshawe," broke in the Baron, whose
fluent English had a slight lisp. "Here is my card," he went on
rapidly, looking at Royson with calm assurance. "Come and see me this
evening, at seven o'clock, and I will make it worth your while."
A glance at Royson's clothes told him enough, as he thought, to
appraise the value of the assistance given. And he had no idea that his
fair companion had really been in such grave danger. He believed that
the shattering of the pole against the lamp standard had stopped the
bolting horses, and that the tall young man now surveying him with a
measuring eye had merely succeeded in catching the reins.
Royson lifted his hat to the lady, who had alighted, and was daintily
gathering her skirts out of the mud.
"I am glad to have been able to help you, madam," he said. He would
have gone without another word had not von Kerber touched his arm.
"You have not taken my card," said the man imperiously.
Some mischievous impulse, born of the turbulent emotions momentarily
quelled by the flurry of the carriage accident, conquered Royson's
better instincts. Though the Baron, was tall, he towered above him. And
he hardly realized the harshness, the vexed contempt, of his muttered
reply:
"I don't want your charity, I want work."
At once he was conscious of his mistake. He had sunk voluntarily to the
level of the Vauxhall paraders. He had even stolen their thunder. A
twinge of self-denunciation drove the anger from his frowning eyes. And
the Baron again thought he read his man correctly.
"Even so," he said, in a low tone, "take my card. I can find you work,
of the right sort, for one who has brains and pluck, yes?"
The continental trick of ending with an implied question lent a subtle
meaning to his utterance, and he helped it with covert glance and sour
smile. Thus might Caesar Borgia ask some minion if he could use a
dagger. But Royson was too humiliated by his blunder to pay heed to
hidden meanings. He grasped the card in his muddied fingers, and looked
towards Miss Fenshawe, who was now patting one of the horses. Her
aristocratic aloofness was doubly galling. She, too, had heard what he
said, and was ready to classify him with the common herd. And, indeed,
he had deserved it. He was wholly amazed by his own churlish outburst.
Not yet did he realize that Fate had taken his affairs in hand, and
that each step he took, each syllable he uttered in that memorable
hour, were part and parcel of the new order of events in his life.
Quite crestfallen, he hurried away. He found himself inside the gates
of the park before he took note of direction. Then he went to the edge
of the lake, wetted his handkerchief, and rubbed off the worst of the
mud-stains. While engaged in this task he calmed down sufficiently to
laugh, not with any great degree of mirth, it is true, but with a grain
of comfort at the recollection of Seymour's eulogy.
"King Dick!" he growled. "Times have changed since last I heard that
name. By gad, five years can work wonders."
And, indeed, so can five seconds, when wonders are working, but the
crass ignorance of humanity oft prevents the operation being seen. Be
that as it may, Royson discovered that it was nearly eleven o'clock
before he had cleaned his soiled clothes sufficiently to render himself
presentable. As he set out once more for his rendezvous, he heard the
band playing the old Guard back to quarters. The soldiers came down the
Mall, but he followed the side of the lake, crossed the Horse-guards
Parade, and reached the office for which he was bound at ten minutes
past eleven. He had applied for a secretaryship, a post in which "a
thorough knowledge of French" was essential, and he was received by a
pompous, flabby little man, with side whiskers, for whom he conceived a
violent dislike the moment he set eyes on him. Apparently, the feeling
was mutual. Dick Royson was far too distinguished looking to suit the
requirements of the podgy member for a county constituency, a
legislator who hoped to score in Parliament by getting the Yellow Books
of the French Chamber translated for his benefit.
"You are late, Mr. Royson," began the important one.
"Yes," said Dick.
"Punctuality--"
"Exactly, but I was mixed up in a slight mishap to a carriage."
"As I was about to remark," said the M.P., in his most impressive
manner, "punctuality in business is a _sine quâ non_. I have already
appointed another secretary."
"Poor devil!" said Dick.
"How dare you, sir, speak to me in that manner?"
"I was thinking of him. I don't know him, but, having seen you, I am
sorry for him."
"You impudent rascal--"
But Royson had fled. Out in the street, he looked up at the sky. "Is
there a new moon?" he asked himself, gravely. "Am I cracked? Why did I
pitch into that chap? If I'm not careful, I shall get myself into
trouble to-day. I wonder if Jack Seymour will lend me enough to take me
to South Africa? They say that war is brewing there. That is what I
want--gore, bomb-shells, more gore. If I stay in London--"
Then he encountered a procession coming up Northumberland Avenue.
Police, mounted and on foot, headed it. Behind marched the unemployed,
thousands of them.
"If I stay in London," he continued, quite seriously, "I shall pick out
a beefy policeman and fight him. Then I shall get locked up, and my
name will be in the papers, and my uncle will see it, and have a fit,
and die. I don't want my uncle to have a fit, and die, or I shall feel
that I am responsible for his death. So I must emigrate."
Suddenly he recalled the words and manner of the Baron von Kerber. They
came to him with the vividness of a new impression. He sought for the
card in his pocket. "Baron Franz von Kerber, 118, Queen's Gate, W.," it
read.
"Sounds like an Austrian name," he reflected. "But the girl was
English, a thoroughbred, too. What was it he said? 'Work of the right
sort, for a man with brains and pluck.' Well, I shall give this joker a
call. If he wants me to tackle anything short of crime, I'm his man.
Failing him, I shall see Jack to-morrow, when he is off duty."
A red banner was staggering up Northumberland Avenue, and he caught a
glimpse of a fat man in the midst of the lean ones.
"Oh, dash those fellows, they give me the hump," he growled, and he
turned his back on them a second time. But no military pomp or startled
horses offered new adventure that day. He wandered about the streets,
ate a slow luncheon, counted his money, seventeen shillings all told,
went into the British Museum, and dawdled through its galleries until
he was turned out. Then he bought a newspaper, drank some tea, and
examined the shipping advertisements.
His mind was fixed on South Africa. Somehow, it never occurred to him
that the fur-clothed Baron might find him suitable employment.
Nevertheless, he went to 118, Queen's Gate, at seven o'clock. The
footman who opened the door, seemed to be expecting him.
"Mr. King?" said the man.
This struck Royson as distinctly amusing.
"Something like that," he answered, but the footman had the face of a
waxen image.
"This way, Mr. King."
And Royson followed him up a wide staircase, marveling at the aptness
of the name.