CHAPTER I

STOLEN IDOLS

by

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

[Illustration]

Boston

Little, Brown, and Company

1925

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Copyright, 1925,

By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

All rights reserved

Published May, 1925

Printed in the United States of America

------------------------------------------------------------------------

STOLEN IDOLS

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER I

The two ships, pursuer and pursued, quaintly shaped, with heavy,

flapping sails, lay apparently becalmed in a sort of natural basin

formed by the junction of two silently flowing, turgid rivers--rivers

whose water was thick and oily, yellow in colour, unpleasant to look at.

The country through which they passed was swamp-riven and desolate,

though in the far distance were rice fields and the curiously fashioned

roofs of a Chinese village. The sun beat down upon the glasslike water.

The air was windless. Further movement seemed impossible until from the

smaller boat, through unexpectedly opened hatches, half a dozen oars

were suddenly thrust into the water. The huge Chinaman who stood at the

helm, yellow-skinned and naked to the waist, picked up an enormous pole

and let it gradually down into the river bed. The oars, languidly though

they were wielded, cut the water, and the dhow began slowly to move. Wu

Abst, the Mighty Terror of the Great River, as he loved to hear himself

described, grinned mockingly as he looked backwards towards his pursuer.

He shouted words through the glistening heat intended to convey his

contempt of those who fancied that he was to be caught napping. Then he

bent over his giant pole and glanced with satisfaction at the distant

bank, which already showed signs of their progress. At the bend of the

river, not three miles distant, was a stretch of water into which no

such craft as that which had chased him could follow. He relit his pipe,

therefore, and smoked like a man at peace, whilst below the sweat rolled

from the naked bodies of the men who were emulating their Roman

predecessors of two thousand years ago. Wu Abst, pleased with their

efforts, shipped his pole for a moment, and, leaning over the side,

shouted encouragement and exhortation to the toilers. Then suddenly the

words died away upon his lips. His whole frame stiffened. The remains of

the grin faded from his face, the whole expression of which was now

almost ludicrously changed. For across that little stretch of river came

the horrible sound of which he had heard, the pop-pop-pop denoting the

use of some devil-made mechanical contrivance, which triumphed over

windless airs and opposing currents.

His horrified gaze became fastened upon the pursuing ship, now also

moving, and not only moving, but moving very much faster than anything

which all the efforts of his toiling gang were able to accomplish.

Bewilderment gave place to anger, which in its turn became merged almost

at once in the philosophy of his race--the graveyard of all emotions! He

shouted an order to those down below. There was a clatter and a rumble

as the men shipped their oars, and another more metallic sound as they

exchanged them for other weapons.

Wu Abst thrust his hand through the window of a small cuddy hole, which

he called his cabin, and drew out a long, antiquated rifle. It was one

of a type manufactured in Birmingham fifty years ago, rejected since

then by every South American band of patriots planning a revolution, and

scoffed at even by West African savages. He nevertheless dropped a

cartridge into its place and waited whilst the other ship glided almost

alongside. His eyes swept its deck, and his bloodthirsty intentions were

promptly changed. With expressionless face he slipped his weapon back

again through the cuddy hole and called down another order below. Then

he leaned over the rail and raised his hand in salute. A man who was

seated aft in a basket chair upon the deck of the approaching ship, rose

to his feet and came to the side. He wore Chinese garb and he spoke in

Chinese, but his linen clothes were spotlessly white and he wore no

pigtail.

"Are you Wu Abst, the river pirate?" he called out.

"I am Wu Abst," was the reply. "And who are you?"

"I am Wu Ling, the peaceful trader," the other answered. "I bring

prosperity to those whom you seek to rob."

Wu Abst spat into the river.

"I know of you," he growled. "You trade with foreign money. You take the

jade and the gems, the silk and the handiwork of these people and sell

them rubbish."

"Where I take," the other rejoined, "I give something in return, which

is more than you do."

"What is your business with me?" Wu Abst demanded, glancing sullenly at

the two Maxim guns trained upon him, behind each of which was seated,

cross-legged, a brawny and capable-looking Chinese sailor.

"Last night," Wu Ling announced, "I traded at the village of Hyest, and

I heard a strange tale. I heard that you had on board your ship a

foreigner tied with ropes, and that you were waiting to reach your own

stretches to throw him to the crocodiles. Is this the truth, Wu Abst, or

am I to search your ship?"

"It is the truth," the other admitted grimly. "He is a foreign devil who

merits death and even torture. He is a thief and a sacrilegious pest

upon the earth."

"You speak hard words of him," Wu Ling observed.

"What words other than hard can be spoken of such?" Wu Abst retorted.

"Presently I shall tell you of his deeds. I like not your speech, Wu

Ling. You speak our tongue but speak it strangely. There are rumours of

you in many places. There are some who say that not only is the money

with which you trade the money of foreign devils, but that you, too, are

one of them in spirit if not by birth."

"What I am is none of the present business," Wu Ling declared. "What of

this prisoner of yours?"

"I shall speak of him now," Wu Abst answered. "Then, if you are indeed a

man of this country, you shall see that I do no evil thing in casting

him to the crocodiles. He was caught, a thief in the sacred temple of

the sacred village of Nilkaya, in the temple where the Great Emperor

himself was used to worship. The priests who caught him tied his body

with ropes--not I. They brought him to the riverside, and they gave me

silver to deal with him."

"Your story is true," Wu Ling admitted. "The circumstances you relate

are known to me. But there were two of these robbers. What of the other,

his companion?"

"The priests say that he escaped, and with him the two sacred Images of

the great God, reverenced for nine hundred years," the pirate confided.

"It is because of the escape of the other that they wish to make sure of

the death of this one."

Wu Ling considered for a moment.

"Wu Abst," he pronounced at last, "you have told me a true story, and

you have acted in this matter as a just man. Therefore these guns of

mine shall bring no message of evil to you, nor shall I declare war, so

long as you keep to your side of the river and above the villages where

I trade. But as for the foreign devil, you must hand him over to me."

Wu Abst raised his hands to heaven. For a time his speech was almost

incomprehensible. He was stricken with a fit of anger. He shouted and

pleaded until he foamed at the mouth. Wu Ling listened unmoved. When at

last there was silence he spoke.

"It is clear to me what you intended, Wu Abst," he said. "There was to

be torture and more silver from the priests before you cast this

prisoner to the sea fish."

"It is a hard living that one makes nowadays," Wu Abst, the Terror of

the River, muttered.

"Nevertheless in this matter I am firm," the other insisted. "Hand me

over the foreigner and go your way. You know of me. I travel into

dangerous places when I leave my ship, and I have a score of men below

who could hew their way through a regiment of your cutthroats, and a gun

in the bows there which would send you to the bottom with a single

discharge. I am your master, Wu Abst, and I command. Bring me the

foreigner and go your way."

So, a few minutes later, a half-naked, barely conscious, young

Englishman, the remains of his garments rags upon his back, blue in the

face from lack of circulation, a hideous and pitiful sight, was carried

up from the hold of Wu Abst's sailing dhow and laid upon the deck of the

trading schooner of Wu Ling. His cords were cut, brandy and water were

poured down his throat, a sail reared as a shelter from the sun, whilst

from a small hose, cool, refreshing water was sprayed over him until

consciousness returned and speech began to stammer from his lips. Then,

from the petrol engine, commenced once more the noise which had brought

consternation to Wu Abst. The ship swung round in a circle and passed on

its way down the river. Wu Abst, with a little shrug of the shoulders,

relit his pipe. Perhaps, after all, there would have been no more

silver!

* * * * *

That evening seemed to the released man like a foretaste of paradise. He

lay on a couch in Wu Ling's cabin, with the roof and sides rolled back

and nothing but a cunning arrangement of mosquito netting between him

and the violet twilight. Above was the moon and the brilliantly starlit

night; on either side occasional groves of trees--trees growing almost

down to the river's edge, some with poisonous odours, others almost

sickly sweet. Sometimes there was a light from a distant village, but

more often they were enveloped in a thick, velvety darkness. And they

were pointing for the great port at the mouth of the river, and safety.

The released man was sipping brandy and water, and smoking. His host sat

opposite him, grave and enigmatic.

"I talk English little," Wu Ling said, "but I understand all. Speak your

story, and tell how called."

The young man raised himself slightly.

"My name is Gregory Ballaston," he announced. "I am an Englishman, as

you know, a traveller and fond of adventure. For years this story of the

temple of Nilkaya has been in my brain. I heard all about it from some

one who lived in Pekin for many years."

"The story?" Wu Ling enquired politely.

"In this temple," the young man narrated, "is a great statue of a

Chinese god--Buddha, I suppose--and on either side of it are two smaller

ones made from hard wood, marvellously carved, and, some say, a thousand

years old. Each is supposed to be a counterpart of the greater God, and

yet they demonstrate an amazingly presented allegory. They bear a

likeness to one another, they bear a likeness to the God himself, but

each is curiously different. In one you seem to trace the whole of the

evil qualities which could ever enter into the character of man, and in

the other, all the good qualities. One is hideous and the other

beautiful. Yet, if you put them side by side and glance quickly from one

to the other, the two seem to grow together so that the impression of

the Image which is left in your mind is that of the great God above.

They are called the Body and the Soul."

"This story I have heard," Wu Ling admitted.

"I have heard it many times, but I scarcely believed it--until I saw,"

the young man continued. "I had only a few minutes in the temple and

there was danger all around, yet for a moment they took my breath away.

I could scarcely move. Why, the man who fashioned them might have been

an oriental Phidias."

"Proceed," Wu Ling begged.

"Well, the point of the story is this. Generations ago there was a great

rising amongst the people, an invasion from the north, and robbers seem

to have overrun the whole place. They sacked even the temples, and the

priests--those who had warning of their coming--stripped their robes and

their temples of all the precious stones which they possessed, and hid

them."

"Hid them," Wu Ling repeated. "Ah!"

"Some of this story, you have, of course, heard," the young man went on,

"because your trade brings you, I suppose, within a hundred miles of

Nilkaya. The temples were rich in jewels--the emperors of China had sent

them gifts for centuries--and the legend is that all the most valuable

were concealed within these two Images--the Body and the Soul."

"That," Wu Ling commented, "is a strange story."

"As I told you," the young man continued, "I heard it from one who lived

in Pekin and I believe that it is the truth. For centuries the priests

have possessed a manuscript which has been handed down from one High

Priest to the other, and this manuscript tells how these Images have

been fashioned, so that there is within them a hollow place. There are

directions for finding it, and for opening the Images, and they say that

without these directions no man in the world could guess how to do it. I

have spoken with one who has visited the temple, and who was not quite

so much pressed for time as I was, who has seen these Images only a few

feet away, and who insists upon it that there is not a sign of any

possible aperture or any break in the wood."

"A simple thing," Wu Ling suggested blandly, "would be to break with

choppers."

The young man raised his eyebrows.

"It is strange to hear you, a Chinaman, propose such a thing," he

remarked. "I suppose any one who attempted it in this country would

sooner or later be cut into small pieces, for these Images are blessed

just as the larger one. But there is another reason against attempting

such a thing. You are a very wonderful race, you Chinese, and you were

more wonderful still, generations ago."

"Ah!" Wu Ling murmured.

"There are plenty of people," the young man proceeded, "who say that

there is scarcely a discovery in the world which you have not

anticipated and then declined to use because the central tenet of your

religion and your philosophy was to leave things that are. Well, they

say that you discovered gunpowder and all manner of explosives about the

time these Images were fashioned. They must always, from the first, have

been intended for a possible hiding place, for the old legend concerning

them--I know this from the only European who has ever visited the

temple--declared that if these are subjected to violence in any way,

then the earthquake follows. The priests all believe this implicitly,

and, although it sounds a far-fetched idea, the man who first told me

the story is convinced that when the jewels were stored away inside,

they were imbedded in some sort of explosive."

"It becomes more than ever a strange story," Wu Ling said didactically.

The young man looked searchingly for a moment at his host. Was it his

fancy, he wondered, or was there a faint note of sardonic disbelief in

his even tone?

"Of course," he went on, "it must sound to you, as it does to me,

although you would scarcely understand the word, like rot, but the man

from whom I heard it was a great person in Pekin, a friend even of the

Emperor, and not only of the Emperor, but of the Emperor's great adviser

whom some people think the greatest Chinaman who ever lived. He had

privileges which had never before been extended to any European."

Wu Ling nodded gravely.

"So," he said, with the painstaking air of one trying to solve a

problem, "you were seeking to take Images from temple, away from priests

to whom belong, that you might possess jewels."

The young man coughed. Somehow or other Wu Ling's eyes were very

penetrating.

"Well," he admitted, "I suppose in a way it was robbery, but robbery on

a legitimate scale. I don't suppose you've read much European history,

have you?"

"Read never," Wu Ling replied.

"That makes it difficult to explain," his companion regretted, pausing

for a moment to breathe in, with great satisfaction, a gulp of the cool

night air. "However, most of the territories in different parts of the

world which England possesses and a great deal of her inherited wealth,

have come because centuries ago Englishmen went across the seas to every

country in the world and helped themselves to pretty well what they

wanted."

"That," Wu Ling remarked, "sounds like Wu Abst, the pirate."

Gregory Ballaston smiled.

"Well," he continued, "the invasion of a foreign country for purposes of

aggrandisement is robbery, I suppose, only, you see, it is robbery on a

big scale. We looked at this present affair in the same way. If it is

true that there are a million pounds' worth of jewels in these images,

what good can they possibly do to any one hidden there for centuries? No

one could see them. No one could derive any good from them. Their very

beauty is lost to the world. Robbery, if you like, Wu Ling, but not

petty larceny."

Wu Ling shook his head with an uncomprehending smile.

"Of course you won't understand that," the other observed. "Still, what

I mean to say is, that the very danger of the exploit, the fact that you

risk your life--look how near I came to losing mine!--makes the

enterprise almost worth while. Nothing mean about it, anyway."

"Ah!" Wu Ling murmured meditatively. "And now please tell, where

Images?"

The young man was silent.

"That's a long story, Wu Ling," he sighed. "There were two of us in

this. The other got away. He didn't desert me exactly. It was according

to plan, but he had to leave first, and he left damned quick."

"And the Images?" Wu Ling persisted softly.

Gregory Ballaston leaned back. The night had become a thing of

splendour, the water, no longer yellow, but glittering with the

reflection of the moon. They were passing through a narrow strip of

country which might have been the garden of some great nobleman's

palace. There were flowering shrubs down to the river's edge, a faint

perfume of almond blossom, in the distance a stronger scent of something

like eucalyptus, and all the time a divine silence. After his terrible

quarters in the pirate ship this was a dream of luxury. The young man

was full of gratitude to his benefactor, and yet he hesitated. Could one

trust any Chinaman, even though he has saved one's life, with a secret

like this?

"The Images no longer stand in the Temple, Wu Ling," he said, "but just

where they are now I do not know. It was my part of the affair--if you

understand military language--to fight a rearguard action. I did, but

there were too many of them for me. They fought like furies, those

priests. I might have killed them, but I hadn't the heart to do it. I

shot one or two in the limbs, and then chucked it when I saw it was no

use. Whether my friend succeeded in getting away with the Images or not,

I shall not know for many days."

They passed a tiny village. From a plastered house with a curving roof,

two lanterns were hanging. A girl's figure was dimly visible through the

strings of thin bamboo, rustling musically together in the breeze. She

was singing to a kind of guitar, an amazing melody, uncouth in its way,

and unintelligible. Yet the young man turned over and smiled as he

listened.

"Is there no other thing but money to be desired amongst you of the

West," Wu Ling asked, "that even in youth you risk so much?"

Gregory Ballaston clasped his hands behind his head. He was gazing

steadily up at the stars, listening to the melody dying away in the

distance. Although he addressed his companion, he had the air of one

soliloquising.

"The further West you go, Wu Ling," he said, "the more you need money to

taste life. Artistically, of course, it's all wrong, but then the

world's all wrong. It's slipped out of shape somehow, during the last

thousand years. We aren't natural any longer. The natural person accepts

pleasure, but doesn't seek it. Directly you seek, you begin a terrible

chase, and we're all seekers over westward, Wu Ling. We have lost the

art of being. We have lost the gift of repose. We have lost the capacity

for quiet enjoyments. Sport, ambitions and love-making have all joined

in the débâcle. No one man can live alone and away from his fellows,

even if he sees into the evil of these things. All life to us has come

to run on wheels which need always the oil of money."

"And for the chance of gaining that," Wu Ling murmured, "you young

Englishmen have come so far and risked your lives."

The young man looked round the cabin and beyond. There was a rack of

rifles against the wall, boxes of ammunition which reached to the

ceiling. The moonlight outside glinted now and then upon the muzzles of

the Maxims.

"You yourself, Wu Ling," he pointed out, "run risks. For what? For the

same thing. For wealth. You wouldn't carry those firearms unless you had

trouble sometimes. You are past the time of life when an adventure alone

appeals. You too seek wealth, and you seek it with Maxim guns and

Enfield rifles to protect yourself."

"There are evil men upon the river," Wu Ling admitted. "There are men

like Abst and others, but these are for protection. We have a proverb in

this country--'The strong man only is safe.'"

"A wise saying," the young man acknowledged drowsily.

Wu Ling rose to his feet.

"Our guest must sleep," he said. "Soon the night will be cold and they

will draw coverings over the netting."

"I'm awfully afraid I'm turning you out of your quarters," Gregory

Ballaston apologised.

"I have others," was the courteous reply. "It is for sleep I leave you."

He passed out and, walking to the stern of the boat, stood pensively

watching a little streak of silver left behind. Forward the young man

slept--slept as he had never hoped to do again in this world. All

through the night they made lazy progress towards the great city which

fringed the ocean.

CHAPTER II

Wu Ling, the trader, Chinese representative of the great house of

Johnson and Company, at home and amongst his merchandise, was strangely

installed. He sat in the remote corner of a huge warehouse, packed from

floor to ceiling with an amazingly heterogeneous collection of all

manner of articles. There were bales of cotton and calico goods from

Manchester, woollens from Bradford, cases of firearms from Birmingham,

and six great crates of American bicycles in the foreground. A Ford

automobile stood in the middle of the floor, and, farther back, in the

recesses of the room, which seemed to be of no particular shape, and

which wandered into many corners, were piles of Chinese silks, shelf

after shelf of china bowls and ivory statuettes. Hanging from the walls

were mandarins' robes of green and blue, embroidered with many-coloured

silks, fragments of brocade, and one great pictorial representation of

the grounds of an emperor's palace, woven with miraculous skill into a

background of pale blue material. From the more distant parts of the

warehouse came an insidious, pungent odour, as of a perfume from which

the life had gone but the faintness of which remained; a perfume which

spread itself with gentle insistence into every corner of the place and

seemed to envelop even its more sordid details with an air of mystery.

In the great open yard, blue-smocked Chinamen were packing and unpacking

in amazing silence. The only sound in the warehouse itself came from the

clicking of a typewriter before which, on a plain deal bench, was seated

a black-haired, sallow-faced youth in European clothes. From outside,

there drifted in through the open window, in a confused medley, the

strange noises of the quay, the patter of naked feet, the shrill cry of

the porters and occasional screech of a siren. A white mist hung over

the harbour; a hot, damp mist, concealing in patches the tangled mass of

shipping....

Into this curious chamber of commerce, ushered by a Chinese boy, came

Gregory Ballaston, the Englishman whom Wu Ling had rescued a short while

ago. The Chinese boy murmured something and departed. Wu Ling nodded a

welcome to his visitor--a grave, reserved welcome.

"No gone England yet," he observed.

The young man sank into the chair which the other's gesture indicated.

He had evidently found his clothes, for he was very correctly dressed in

the European fashion. His manner was self-possessed and his voice level.

Nevertheless his pallor was almost ghastly and there were still blue

lines under his eyes. He had the air of a man who has been through some

form of suffering.

"You have heard the story of my friend, Wu Ling?" he asked.

The Chinaman shook his head and pointed around.

"Much affairs," he explained. "Very busy. Smoke cigarette?"

Gregory Ballaston helped himself from the open box.

"My friend got away," he recounted; "reached Pekin and got safely on to

the train. At some God-forsaken place on the way here, the train was

held up. There seems to have been confusion for an hour or so. When the

soldiers arrived, my friend was found with his throat cut, and the

Chinaman who had been his guide and interpreter was killed too."

Wu Ling inclined his head gravely. The story was not an unusual one.

"Robbers in China are bad men," he declared. "And the Images?"

The young Englishman touched his forehead. The heat was great and there

were drops of moisture upon his fingers.

"One was still amongst the train baggage," he confided. "It is now

safely on board the steamer. The other was taken away by the robbers."

Wu Ling reflected for several moments, looking downward upon the table.

He seemed indisposed for speech, and presently his visitor continued.

"Of course," he went on, "according to the superstition, one is supposed

to be worthless without the other. I am going to risk that, however.

Mine is under lock and key in the purser's safe, and I sha'n't even look

at it until we're well out of these seas."

"The steamer sail at four o'clock to-morrow," Wu Ling remarked, glancing

at a chart.

The young man nodded.

"I have been on board already," he said. "I came back to pay my promised

call upon you and to thank you once more for all you did for me."

Wu Ling waved his hand.

"It was nothing," he declared. "Wu Abst, bad man. If he had killed you,

there would have been trouble on the river. My trading all disturbed.

You safe now. Better leave the Image behind."

"I'm damned if I do," was the emphatic reply. "It's cost my pal's life

and very nearly mine. I am going to stick to it."

Wu Ling was thoughtful. Apparently he was watching some of the porters

at work in a distant corner of the warehouse.

"Which Image you have?" he enquired. "Body or Soul?"

"I haven't undone the case," the young man answered. "I don't care which

it is, so long as the jewels are in it."

"You think you get the jewels?" Wu Ling asked gently.

"If they are there, I shall," was the dogged reply. "Superstitions are

all very well in a way, but a wooden image is a wooden image, after

all."

Wu Ling said nothing. There was a curious significance about his silence

which seemed somehow to embarrass his visitor, who rose presently to his

feet and looked around. He was inspired with a desire to change the

conversation.

"What an amazing place this is!" he exclaimed. "I suppose you have some

wonderful Chinese things."

"We spend life collecting them," Wu Ling answered. "In return you see

what we give," pointing to the bales of calico and woollen goods and the

crates of bicycles. "Perhaps you care buy some curios?"

Gregory Ballaston shook his head.

"No money," he confessed. "I shall have to get a credit from the purser

as it is."

Wu Ling rose slowly to his feet.

"Come," he enjoined. "I show you something. Follow!"

The young man, not altogether willing, followed his guide to the extreme

end of that amazing warehouse, through a recess into a further dark room

also filled with a strange conglomeration of articles from which seemed

to come with even more troublous insistence the same curious odour,

lifeless yet disturbing. Beyond was still another door towards which Wu

Ling made his way. His companion hesitated.

"I have not a great deal of time," he said. "I want to see the Consul

before the place closes."

"You have time to see what I shall show," was the almost ominous

rejoinder.

They paused before the door which, to Ballaston's surprise, was studded

with great nails and of enormous strength. Wu Ling produced a long, thin

key from his pocket, which he inserted into a very modern-looking

aperture. The door swung ponderously open. Inside there was no window,

nor apparently any form of ventilation, and again that odour, cloying

and nauseating, swept out in stabbing little wafts, almost stupefying.

The young man, confronted with a pool of darkness, would have drawn

back, but there was suddenly a grip upon his arm like a ring of iron.

"Wait!" Wu Ling ordered. "There shall be light."

And immediately there was. From some unseen switch the dark chamber was

flooded with the illumination of many electric bulbs. Ballaston gasped

as he looked around. It was almost as though he had found his way into

some Aladdin's cave. On shelves of red, highly polished wood were ranged

lumps of jade and quartz, bowls of ancient china of which even his

inexperience could gauge the pricelessness, silk coats, faded but

marvellously embroidered, barbaric stones in open trays, a great circlet

of Malay pearls, and, on a shelf alone, staring at him, bland and

unmistakable, the other of the twin Images which he and his friend had

dragged down from their pedestals in the Temple. Ballaston stared at it

speechless. The face itself had a touch of sphinxlike mysticism, the

remoteness of a god, the benevolence of a kindly spirit. The work in it

seemed so slight; the result so prodigious. Ballaston found words at

last.

"The other Image!" he cried. "Where did you get it?"

"In this city," Wu Ling explained, "nothing of this sort is sold unless

it come first to us. Three nights since there appeared a messenger. I

sought the man from whom he came at his hiding place in the city. With

him I traded for the Image."

"You purchased it!" the young man gasped.

"Whom else?" was the composed reply. "In this country, from the dark

forests of Northern Mongolia, the temples of Pekin, or the mines on the

Siberian borders, all that there is for which men seek gold comes here.

We pay. They sell."

"But you can't keep it," Ballaston exclaimed, "not in this country. The

priests will hear. You will be forced to return it. If it belongs to any

one----"

He stopped short. Wu Ling read his thoughts and smiled.

"The priests of the temple, which you and your accomplice ravaged," he

announced, "live no longer. They were murdered by the people many days

ago, for their sin in permitting you to enter the temple. Furthermore,

the Images are now defiled. The hand of the foreigner has touched them.

They can never again take their place by the side of the Great Buddha.

You bought with blood, and I with gold."

There was the sound of shuffling footsteps close at hand. An elderly

man, dressed in shabby European clothes, stood behind them. He looked

over their shoulders at the Image, and there was for a moment almost a

glow in his worn and lined face.

"This," Wu Ling confided, "is a man of your race. He is of the firm--a

partner--not because of business, but because he is a great scholar. He

reads strange tongues, manuscripts from the monasteries of Thibet, the

archives of ancient China. He was once a professor at one of your

universities--Professor Endacott. He is now of the firm of Johnson and

Company."

The newcomer acknowledged indifferently the young man's greeting.

"You are looking at a very wonderful piece of carving," he said. "I once

spent a year in Pekin to see that and its companion Image."

"Young man has other," Wu Ling explained blandly. "He and friend stole

both from temple. This one come here--you know how. The other he has on

ship, taking with him to England."

Endacott's whole frame seemed to stiffen. He frowned heavily. His tone

carried a far-off note of sarcasm, which might have belonged to the days

of his professorship.

"The young man has chosen as he would," he remarked. "He possesses the

Body, and here, still in the land which gave it immortality, remains the

Soul. Now they are separated. What will you do with your Image, young

man, if you reach your country safely?"

"There is a legend of hidden jewels," was the eager reply. "You perhaps

know of it."

"I know the legend well," the other admitted. "There is treasure in one,

perhaps in both. Which do you think might hold the jewels--the Body or

the Soul?"

"I am hoping that there are some in mine, anyhow," Ballaston answered.

"That may be," was the tranquil comment. "On the other hand, we may find

the whole story to be an allegory. You may discover nothing but

emptiness and disappointment in the Body. Here, at least, in the Soul,

you find reflected by the divine skill of the craftsman, the jewels of

pure living and spiritual thought. You were of Oxford, young man?"

"Magdalen."

"You have the air. Nearly all of your age and small vision scoff in your

hearts at any religion which may seek to express the qualities for which

that Image stands. It is your ill-fortune that you have the Body. When

you are home you will unpack your case, you will place the Image amongst

your treasures, and I can tell you, even though it is thirty years since

I saw it, what you will see. You will see a brooding face and eyes cast

down to the dunghills. You will see thick lips and coarse features. You

will see expressed as glaringly as here you see the triumph of the

spirit, the debasement of the body. You will watch your Image and you

will sink. You will never look at it, you or others, without conceiving

an unworthy thought, just as you could never look upon this one without

feeling that some one has stretched down his hand, that somewhere there

is a murmur of sweet voices speaking to you from above the clouds."

"But the jewels!" the young man persisted.

"Bah!" Endacott muttered, as he turned on his heel.

Ballaston, with wondering eyes, watched the erstwhile professor

disappear.

"Looney!" he murmured, under his breath.

"I desire pardon," Wu Ling interpolated politely.

"A madman!"

Wu Ling smiled.

"He is a personage of great learning," he declared. "He is a friend of

Chinese scholars who have never spoken to any other foreigner. He has

great knowledge."

"What are you going to do with that?" Ballaston asked, motioning towards

the Image.

Wu Ling sighed. He stood for a moment in silent thought, his eyes fixed

upon his treasure. Then gently and almost with reverence he turned away,

beckoned his companion to precede him, passed out and locked the door.

"Who can tell?" he ruminated. "We have a great warehouse here filled

with strange goods, as you see, another and larger in Alexandria, an

agent in New York. All the things come and go. We do not hurry. We have

jade there which we have not even spoken of for twenty years, silk robes

from the chests of him who was emperor, ivory carvings from his Summer

Palace, denied even to the great merchants. Perhaps we sell. Perhaps

not."

"You must be rolling in money," the young man sighed.

"I desire pardon," Wu Ling rejoined, mystified.

"You must be wealthy--very rich."

Wu Ling smiled tolerantly. He turned back, swung open once more the

door, and turned on the light. He pointed to the Image, serene and

benevolent.

"What counts money?" he murmured.

They were about halfway through the outer warehouse on their way to the

lighter room beyond, when a thing happened so amazing that Ballaston

stopped short and gripped his companion by the shoulder. Returning

towards them was Endacott, and by his side a girl. She was dressed

simply enough in the white clothes and shady straw hat which the climate

demanded, but there were other things which made her appearance in such

a place curiously incongruous. She broke off in her conversation and

looked at Gregory Ballaston in frank astonishment. It was certainly an

unusual meeting place for two young people of the modern world.

"I am taking my niece to see our new treasure," Mr. Endacott observed, a

little stiffly. "Will you lend me the key, Wu Ling, or will you take us

back yourself?"

"I will return," Wu Ling replied gravely. "The young gentleman will

excuse."

"If I too might be permitted one more glimpse," Ballaston begged.

The girl smiled at him and glanced at her companion. Mr. Endacott

recalled the conventions of his past.

"I should like, my dear," he said, "to present our young visitor to you,

but I am not sure that I remember his name, or that I have even heard

it."

"Ballaston," the young man interposed, with some eagerness, "Gregory

Ballaston."

"This, then, is my niece, Miss Claire Endacott," the ex-professor

proceeded. "She will be your fellow traveller, I imagine, if you leave

on to-morrow's steamer."

The two young people shook hands, and they all turned back into the

recesses of the warehouse.

"You are coming to England?" Ballaston asked.

She nodded.

"It is so nice to meet some one who is going to be on the ship," she

said. "I came from New York here last month, knowing scarcely a soul."

After that they remained without speech for a few moments. Somehow or

other their surroundings and their mission seemed to demand silence. Wu

Ling gravely opened the door and turned up the light. The girl drew a

little breath of joy as she gazed at the Image.

"But that is wonderful!" she exclaimed.

"It is the work of a great master," her uncle explained gravely. "The

hand which fashioned that Image was the hand of a man who knew the

secrets of the ages, who came as near the knowledge of what eternity

means as any man may. There is much to think about--little to speak of."

Their silence was the silence of entrancement; Ballaston's attention

alone curiously distracted. It was a strange environment for her modern

and vivid beauty, this chamber with its clinging odours, its ancient

treasures of silk and ivory, the time-defying Image gazing serenely past

them. Wu Ling and Endacott himself seemed entirely in the setting; the

girl, with her masses of yellow hair and almost eagerly joyous

expression, a butterfly wandered by chance into a vault. Yet he had

another impression of her before they left. He caught a glimpse of her

parted lips, the strained light in her clear, grey eyes, as though in a

sense her spiritual self were reaching out towards the allegory of the

Image. Then her uncle gave the signal. Wu Ling gravely switched off the

light and they trooped back into the warehouse.

"Somehow," the girl reflected--"I suppose it is because I have just come

from the art classes and the museums of New York--I feel as though that

were the first real thing I have ever seen in my life."

CHAPTER III

"Well," Claire exclaimed, laughing at Gregory Ballaston across the

table, "how have you enjoyed your dinner?"

"Immensely," he answered, with enthusiasm.

"Have you ever dined more strangely?"

"I don't think I have," he confessed. "It was most frightfully kind of

your uncle to ask me. I was never so surprised in my life."

"Nor I," she admitted candidly. "To tell you the truth, when we all came

together in the warehouse this afternoon, it seemed to me from his

manner that you were not particularly good friends, and I was afraid he

was going to hurry me off without a word. Then your intense curiosity to

have another look at that Image----"

"Entirely assumed," he interrupted. "I wanted a chance to be introduced

to you."

"Of course that wasn't in the least obvious," she laughed. "Anyhow, even

then I never dreamed of this. It was just when you were going that he

asked your name again and seemed so interested. Do you realise that he

must know something about you or your family?"

"I wondered," Gregory admitted.

She glanced at the door through which her uncle had disappeared in

search of cigarettes.

"Anyhow," she continued, "it is delightful to think that you are going

to be a fellow passenger on the Kalatat. Don't you sympathise with me

for being rather glad to get away from here?"

He looked around at the almost empty room, at the comfortless linoleum

upon the floor, the Chinese servants, moving like ghosts about the

table, at the cane-bottomed chairs, the few articles of cheap furniture.

It was an amazing environment.

"Your uncle," he remarked, a little hesitatingly, "apart from his

household surroundings, seems to be a man of great taste."

"He has wonderful knowledge," she said, "and a wonderful sense of

beauty, but he lives absolutely within himself. I am perfectly certain

he doesn't know that he has eaten curried chicken and rice every night

for a week. Why, if I hadn't thought of it, we'd have had nothing but

water for dinner."

"You're a good Samaritan," he murmured.

"Come and sit outside," she invited. "The verandah is the only possible

place here. We're a great deal too near the rest of the houses, but the

city looks almost beautiful now the lights are out, and the harbour is

wonderful. The chairs, as you will discover, are horrible, and there

isn't a cushion in the place."

"Tell me about yourself," he begged, when they were established, "and

why you came here."

"You see," she confided, "Mr. Endacott's brother, my father, was a

professor at Harvard. He died when I was eleven years old and my mother

died a year afterwards. I was sent to boarding school in Boston and New

York. When I was nineteen I was to be sent either to an aunt in England

or to my uncle here. My aunt in England lives at a place which reminds

me of your name--Market Ballaston, it is called."

He looked at her in astonishment.

"Why, that is where I live!" he exclaimed. "Tell me your aunt's name?"

"De Fourgenet," she replied. "She married a Frenchman, the Comte de

Fourgenet."

"Good God! Madame!"

"Madame?"

"That is what we call your aunt in the neighbourhood," he explained.

"She is my father's greatest friend. You know, of course, that she is an

invalid."

"I have heard so," the girl admitted. "A motor accident, wasn't it?...

Uncle," she went on, as he stepped through the window, "do you realise

that Mr. Ballaston knows Aunt Angèle?"

"I imagined that he might," Mr. Endacott acknowledged, a little drily.

"It was not until I heard your name for the second time," he continued,

turning to the younger man, "that I realised who you must be."

"It is a very small world," Gregory Ballaston remarked tritely, as he

accepted one of the cigars which Mr. Endacott was offering.

"Geographically it has contracted for me during the last twenty-five

years into a radius of a few miles round the city here," Mr. Endacott

confided. "To come back into the world again at my time of life will

seem strange."

"But you won't really mind it," the girl assured him. "You will find a

country house not too far from Aunt Angèle, you will have all your

manuscripts, your books, your treasures round you. It is true, isn't it,

that you sit in your little office every day without stirring? Why, you

can do the same thing in England as here. And then, there must be some

of your old Oxford friends who would like to see you."

Mr. Endacott smiled thinly.

"Thirty years," he reminded her, "is a long way to look back. To pick up

the threads, the friendships dropped more than a quarter of a century

ago, is not easy. At the same time," he went on, "it is right that I

should return to England. It marches well with affairs here."

"You must have found the life out in these parts very interesting, sir,"

Gregory Ballaston remarked. "I don't know whether it would get

monotonous to you, but to any one coming upon it suddenly it is an

amazing corner of the world. Off the ship, I have only seen three

Europeans since I have been here."

"It is for that reason," Mr. Endacott pointed out, "an unsuitable place

for my niece. My establishment here, too, is impossible. No European

woman could keep house under the prevailing conditions. That is why I am

hurrying my niece off, although I myself shall follow before long."

"My father will be interested to see you again," Gregory ventured.

"Your father, if his tastes had lain that way," Mr. Endacott ruminated,

"might have been a brilliant scholar. He preferred sport and life. We

met, not so many years ago, in Pekin. He was dabbling in diplomacy then.

He certainly had the gifts for it. He was, in fact, the most popular

Englishman who ever appeared at the Court there. He was received and

granted privileges where I could never follow him. He was, I suppose,

your instigator in this buccaneering expedition of yours."

The young man laughed a little uneasily. There had been a vein of

contempt in the other's tone.

"I suppose it must have seemed a horrible piece of vandalism to you,

sir," he remarked. "However, there it is. The adventure appealed to me

and we wanted the money badly enough."

His host looked out across the harbour at the swaying lanterns of the

small boats and beyond to the great lighthouse.

"Money!" he repeated. "The password of the West. Somehow I never thought

I should return to it."

"Money counts for something out here, too," Gregory protested. "Look at

your friend and partner, Wu Ling, trading up the river with machine guns

and rifles to protect himself. For what? To make money. He's doing it

for Johnson and Company. You're one of the firm, Mr. Endacott."

The latter nodded.

"Touché," he admitted. "But let me point out to you, young gentleman,

that the things Wu Ling brings back to our warehouses are things of

beauty."

"Which he pays for with rubbish," Gregory rejoined. "Half of your

warehouse is an abomination; the other half, I admit, a treasure house."

Mr. Endacott gently inclined his head.

"I cannot defend myself," he acknowledged. "I am a partner in the firm

because they insisted. All my savings for twenty years, which I advanced

to them, were, they tell me, the foundation from which the business has

been built up. But, believe me, I have never seen inside a ledger. Once

every twelve months, a strange little man brings me a slip of paper. I

look at it, and the business for the year is finished."

"It is perhaps as well," Gregory observed, "that your associates are

probably honest. Wu Ling, for instance."

"Wu Ling is an amazing person," Mr. Endacott pronounced.

"Is he altogether Chinese?" Gregory enquired. "There have been times

when he has puzzled me."

"No one but Wu Ling knows who Wu Ling is or where he comes from," was

the enigmatic reply. "He is a power unto himself."

"He saved my life," Gregory remarked, "but I don't think that he

approves of me."

"Tell me, Mr. Ballaston," the girl asked, "have you looked at your Image

yet, the one you have on the ship?"

"Not yet."

Mr. Endacott turned his head. He was seated on the most uncomfortable of

the three uncomfortable cane chairs; a stiff, unbending figure. His eyes

were turned speculatively upon his visitor.

"If there be any truth in the legend," he advised, "you will do well to

leave it in its case."

Gregory was doubtful.

"I rather wanted to examine it," he admitted. "The part of the legend

which interests me most is the part which has to do with the jewels."

"Naturally," Mr. Endacott agreed, with unconcealed sarcasm. "Yet, in the

story of the fashioning of the Images, there has been nothing more

vehement than the warning issued by the High Priest in whose day it was

done. Here, he pointed out, by the great art of the sculptor, the Body

and Soul were torn apart. All that was good and virtuous and that made

towards the beautiful in life was carven into the Image which our friend

Wu Ling seems to have purchased from the robber. All that was debased

and evil and which prompted towards sin was graven into the features of

the one which you possess. Together, side by side, they were supposed to

make up the sum of humanity--the good and the evil balancing. Side by

side, they might be looked at without evil effect; they might inspire

thought--reflection of the highest order. There were indications there

of what to avoid, what passions to fight against; indications there,

too, of what a man's aim should be, how to uplift oneself above sin and

how to climb always in one's thoughts towards the spiritual."

They both listened, fascinated, to Mr. Endacott's thin, reedy voice; his

still words, spoken without emphasis or enthusiasm, as they might have

been spoken to a class of student philosophers. It was the girl who

first ventured upon a question.

"But, Uncle," she demanded, "you don't seriously believe that to live

with either of these statues without the other could really affect any

one's character?"

"So runs the legend," was the quiet, almost solemn reply. "So it is

written in one of the manuscripts recording their history. The

superstition, if it be a superstition, has at least a logical basis. An

environment of beauty and spirituality tends towards holiness; an

environment of bestiality must, on the other hand, in time debase.

Before these Images were fashioned, the philosophers of past ages used

their symbolism for a text, 'If thou wouldst be holy, live with holy and

spiritual things. If thou wouldst avoid sin, turn thy back upon the

presentment of evil'."

"But you don't really suppose, sir," Gregory ventured, "although, of

course, the idea is beautiful, that there is anything supernatural in

the influence which those Images might bring to bear upon any one's

life?"

"My dear young man," Mr. Endacott expounded, "I do not even know what

empires of thought the word supernatural covers. I have pointed out the

logical basis for such a teaching. That is all. We are in a world here

where one does not lightly reject superstitions. In the West there

exists a great world reared to the gods of materialism, unwarmed with

the flame of spirituality; the world of gold and stone and huge banking

accounts, and prosperous cities, and hurrying, hastening lives. The

Western brain holds no corner for superstitions, but casts them

scornfully away. Live here for twenty years and you find the brain more

elastic, its cells more receptive, even its philosophy less inevitably

based upon the fundamental but dry-as-dust mathematical principles. Keep

your Image in its packing case, Mr. Gregory Ballaston. It will be time

enough when you get home to search for the jewels."

The 'rickshaw which Gregory had ordered came lumbering up the hill. He

rose with reluctance. Even in her stiff, uncomfortable chair, there was

something very attractive about Claire, as she lay with her hands

clasped behind her head, the light of a lantern upon her suddenly

thoughtful face. He reflected, however, with a little thrill of

pleasure, that for six weeks she would be more or less his companion.

"If we don't meet again before I sail, sir," he begged, turning towards

his host, "let me thank you for your hospitality. It will be a great

pleasure to see you and your niece in Norfolk."

"This must be our farewell for the present, at any rate," Mr. Endacott

said, as he shook hands. "My niece is going on board early to-morrow

morning, as I myself have a meeting to attend in the afternoon. My

respects to your father. We shall meet without a doubt in England."

"And we," Gregory added, in a lower tone, as he bent over his young

hostess' fingers, "shall meet before then."

She looked up at him, smiling. They were young and he was very

good-looking. Nevertheless she was American-trained, and it was in a

spirit of frank comradeship that she replied.

"I know that we shall have a lovely time on the voyage. Until to-morrow,

then!"

Gregory Ballaston was carried down the rough road, past the tangle of

high modern buildings--rabbit warrens of humanity--past the plastered

and wooden structures of older days, with their curved roofs and narrow

windows, through the confused streets which at every step became more

thronged, towards the harbour, taking very little note of his progress,

his thoughts engrossed, his mind fixed upon one problem. Already the

memory of that strange meal, amidst surroundings so sordid that even the

girl's presence had been unable to modify them, was becoming

overshadowed. His late host's cold words of advice seemed to have made

not the slightest impression upon him. He thought of the small packing

case in the purser's office with almost feverish impatience, joyful of

the permission to sleep on board for the night, anxious only for the

moment when he should reach the quay. Somehow or other Endacott's

serious, stilted talk had immensely confirmed his belief in the

existence of the jewels, and as for the rest--the warning he had

received--this, in all probability, simply proceeded from the vapourings

of a mind steeped in Orientalism, the mind of a scholar, removed for

half a lifetime from the whole world of common sense and possibilities.

Morally, he was as other young men. He would have scorned to cheat or

lie; he had an inherited sense of honour and a sportsman's probity. A

mean action would have revolted him--he was capable of a great one. He

was a little selfish, a little narrow in his pride of name and race, as

courageous as any man might be, with the undoubted conceit of his class.

Such as he was, he had no fear of change. He had never indulged in

self-analysis. He accepted himself for what he was, which, on the whole,

was something a little better than the average. He had no presentiment

of even temporary ill-fortune, as he stepped into the ship's boat

waiting by the quay, and looked eagerly across the harbour to where the

great steamer lay anchored with her blazing line of lights.

CHAPTER IV

At very nearly the hour of his former visit, Gregory Ballaston entered

the warehouse of Messrs. Johnson and Company, on the following morning.

Wu Ling, seated at his table, waved away the stolid-looking native

foreman to whom he was giving orders, and glanced enquiringly at his

visitor.

"Ship not gone?" he asked.

"We don't sail until the afternoon," Gregory reminded him. "Haven't got

all our fresh stores shipped, or something. I came back to have a talk.

Do you mind?"

Wu Ling's gesture was noncommittal. The young man continued.

"Last night," he confided, sinking into a chair, "I unpacked my Image. I

took it out and looked at it, with my porthole closed and my door

locked, although I imagine that now that the priests are dead there is

no fear of my being followed.--Wu Ling, I wish to God that you were an

Englishman!"

"Why for?"

"I could talk to you more easily."

There was a brief silence. Wu Ling, stolid, powerful, imperturbable, sat

with his keen enquiring eyes fixed upon his visitor. Gregory showed

signs of some slight relapse from his well-being of the day before. His

natural, bronzed complexion which had almost reasserted itself, seemed

to have given place again to the pallor which denoted a sleepless night.

There were lines under his eyes, a restlessness in his manner.

"You found Image bad company?" Wu Ling enquired.

"I hate the beastly thing already," Gregory acknowledged.

Wu Ling clapped his hands softly together. The screen of bamboos was

pushed to one side and Mr. Endacott appeared. He had discarded his

European clothes in favour of the dress of a native Chinese gentleman,

and he carried a white umbrella.

"Our young friend again," he remarked, with a brief salutation.

Wu Ling pointed to a chair.

"He wish talk to you."

Mr. Endacott glanced at his watch before he sat down.

"I am about to visit the head of the Chinese University here," he

announced. "A man of rare intelligence and great learning! Why should I

waste my time? Have you found the jewels in your Image, Mr. Ballaston?"

"Not a sign of them up to the present, sir," Gregory admitted. "I am not

very happy about them, either. As you know, the whole thing was a pretty

dangerous enterprise, and I've only half succeeded. The Image is heavy

enough, but I can't see any possible aperture anywhere."

"The recovery of the jewels," Mr. Endacott remarked, leaning a little

forward, with his hands clasped upon the knob of his umbrella, "was

scarcely likely to be a simple matter."

"I realise that," Gregory confessed. "Already I am beginning to feel a

sort of hatred of the thing. For the first time last night," he went on,

"I felt inclined to take seriously what Wu Ling here and you have said

of these Images; that neither of them has any real existence separately.

Side by side they have looked down upon that procession of worshippers

through all these years. Side by side they must be, you have told me,

according to the superstition, if the jewels are to be found."

Mr. Endacott inclined his head.

"Our young friend is showing signs of intelligence," he admitted. "He is

beginning to travel along the lines of the allegory."

"If this is true," Gregory asked bluntly, "what is the use of my taking

one to England and leaving the other here in this warehouse?"

"The only reason for such a course seems to be," his companion murmured,

"that one does not belong to you. Perhaps you can trade with the firm. I

myself am not a trader. Wu Ling is. Wu Ling, I am sure, is at your

disposal."

"How can I trade?" Gregory demanded. "What do you suppose brought me out

here on an enterprise like this? Love of adventure a good deal, I grant

you, but, behind it all, sheer and absolute need of money. We are poor

in England to-day, Mr. Endacott, we people with estates. I haven't the

money to buy your Image. After my experience of last night I would

rather consider an offer from you for mine."

Wu Ling smiled. He talked for a moment in Chinese to his companion. The

latter showed signs of agreement.

"Wu Ling's attitude is mine," Mr. Endacott pronounced. "If by any chance

you had acquired the statue we possess and we had yours, the firm of

Johnson and Company would trade. Not now. We are content."

"Then you don't believe in your own allegory?" Gregory queried.

Wu Ling was looking into the dark recesses of the warehouse. There was

nothing to indicate that he had heard or understood, but it was he who

replied.

"Yes, I believe in it," he admitted. "We both believe in it, but we have

many jewels and I think that these will be hard to find."

"If you had both the Images," Gregory suggested, "you could break them

up."

Mr. Endacott raised his hand to his forehead as though in pain. Wu

Ling's expression appeared unchanged. Yet somehow or other he gave one

the impression of having listened with distaste to words of blasphemy.

"You speak like a huckster from the new cities," Mr. Endacott said

wearily. "They are great works of art, these Images, sanctified by the

years, alive by virtue of their greatness. To raise a hand against them

would be barbarous. Besides, Wu Ling and I believe the legend. We

believe that those will die who treat the Images roughly."

Gregory remained discontented. He took a cigarette from the large wooden

box which Wu Ling pushed towards him. The box was of some sort of

sandalwood, but it, too, seemed to give out the peculiar odour of the

place.

"Last night," he confided, "when I sat alone with my Image, it came back

to me how my father himself had insisted upon the necessity for securing

both Images. He too must have been impressed by the legend. He'll think

my errand a failure if I return with one."

"Without money how buy?" Wu Ling asked. "Johnson and Company, we are

traders. For gold we sell anything on earth. Without gold, how can buy?"

"It is a problem," Gregory admitted gloomily.

"You had, perhaps, a proposition?" Mr. Endacott suggested.

"Something of the sort. That is why I came to see you this morning. I

wondered whether you would let me take your Image to England with mine,

and, whilst they were together, have them examined in the British

Museum, and see if any possible trace of opening or access to the

interior of them is to be found? Of course, I shall do that with mine

when I get there, anyhow, but you see I am beginning to fall in line

with your superstition. I feel that both Images ought to be treated at

the same time."

"And if the jewels should be discovered?" Mr. Endacott enquired.

"We would divide equally," was Gregory's prompt proposal.

Wu Ling, a man not given to gestures, beat the air in front of him

gently with the fingers of his hands.

"We would not agree," he said. "I would not agree. Mr. Endacott would

not agree. Our partner, who is not here, would not agree."

Gregory frowned. He followed Wu Ling's steadfast gaze, followed it into

the further recesses of the second warehouse. He began to think of the

Image he had lost, the Image in the steel chamber. A sense of its beauty

suddenly possessed him. He coveted it passionately.

"In a way," he ventured, "the Image which you have locked up there, the

Image which you call the Soul, rather belongs to me, don't you think? I

have, at least, a claim upon it. I fought to secure it. My friend lost

his life in defending it."

Wu Ling's smile was almost a genuine effort at mirth. Mr. Endacott

chuckled sardonically.

"If I were you, young man," he advised, "I don't think that I would

pursue that line of argument."

"It was stolen property," Gregory persisted doggedly.

"And the stolen property was stolen," Mr. Endacott reminded him.

There was a silence. An impasse seemed to have been reached. It seemed

indeed as though there were nothing more to be done, no further argument

he could use. Yet Gregory Ballaston sat as though rooted to the spot. To

leave the place with his desire unattained seemed almost a physical

impossibility. Then, unexpectedly, Wu Ling spoke at some length.

"What you come here to say," he began, "has reason. You come here with

an idea which is right. Body and Soul you cannot part. Your Image

without that one which belongs to Johnson and Company is a thing of

evil. The Image we have locked in our treasure chamber is a thing of

great beauty, and no more. You who desire the jewels cannot buy. We, to

whom the jewels mean little, will not sell. Listen to me, young

gentleman. I propose something."

"Go on," Gregory begged eagerly.

"You," Wu Ling continued, "have a quality of the Chinese in you, or you

would not have risked life for this adventure. You are gambler. Me too.

I offer this. I will gamble with you for the two Images."

Gregory Ballaston held his cigarette away from his mouth and stared at

the speaker. Temporarily, at any rate, his nonchalance had left him.

"Are you in earnest?" he demanded.

Wu Ling nodded gravely. Gregory glanced towards the professor. The

latter also inclined his head gently.

"If Wu Ling says so," he murmured.

"Gamble! But how? What games do we both know?"

"There is a Chinese game," Wu Ling began----

"Not having any," Gregory interrupted drily. "I have heard of these

Chinese games. What about poker?"

"Not understand," Wu Ling regretted.

Gregory sat for a moment or two deep in disturbed thought. More than

anything he had ever coveted in the world he coveted that other Image.

"Look here," he decided at last, "I accept. But we don't need to play a

game at all. Send for a pack of cards, have them well shuffled and deal

a card to each of us. The highest wins."

Wu Ling nodded approvingly.

"It is simple," he assented. "We do that. If you win, my porters shall

pack Image and you can take it to ship. If you lose you bring yours

here."

Gregory moistened his lips which were already a little dry.

"It is agreed," he said.

Wu Ling opened one of the lower drawers of his desk. He searched for a

few moments and then produced an ordinary pack of playing cards. He laid

them upon the table.

"In here?" Gregory demanded, glancing at the silent forms, always moving

around them.

"Why not?" Wu Ling replied. "What we do is nothing to them. They see

nothing. They work."

Mr. Endacott chuckled as he took the cards in his hands and shuffled

them.

"You will lose, young man," he warned Gregory. "I've seen a great many

games of cards in this city, but I have never yet seen a European who

could hold his own against a Chinese."

"This isn't a game," Gregory pointed out. "It's just a show-down. My

chance must be as good as his. We'll make it the best of three, though."

"How?" Wu Ling queried politely.

"A card each three times," his partner explained, "and the one who wins

twice out of three times gets the Images. It appears to me that I too am

rather largely interested in this. Any choice as to who turns the first

card up?"

Gregory shook his head, cut the cards which were handed to him, and

passed them to Wu Ling. The latter hesitated only for the fraction of a

second. Then he threw one card to his opponent and one to himself.

Gregory's card was a knave; his own a queen.

"One up to the firm," Mr. Endacott observed.

Gregory took the cards. His hands were beginning to shake. He gave his

opponent a four. He himself threw down a ten.

"One each," he exclaimed, trying his best to keep his tone level.

He shuffled and passed the cards across once more. Wu Ling sat for a

moment toying with them, almost as though in silent prayer. Then he

threw a card to Gregory.

"A king!" the latter cried exultantly.

"And the firm has an ace," Mr. Endacott pointed out, as Wu Ling's card

fell upon the table.

Gregory sat staring at it, motionless and rigid, the light of triumph

fading from his face. There had been gamblers in his family, though, and

heredity asserted itself. He rose calmly to his feet.

"I'll go down and pack the Image," he said.

Wu Ling clapped his hands. His expression had never varied. He showed no

signs, even of content.

"There will be porters who attend you," he announced. "They will follow

your 'rickshaw and bring back the Image."

Gregory held out his hand, even then scarcely realising the position.

All this risk and privation for nothing, his friend's life for nothing,

all gone on the turn of a card. For a moment the place with its strange

atmosphere seemed unreal, his adventure a nightmare. Then he heard Wu

Ling giving orders to the foreman and saw him point to the harbour. He

choked down his feelings.

"I shall not sympathise with you," Mr. Endacott said, as he shook hands.

"Your enterprise has never commended itself to me, and your possession

of the Body without the Soul was never a thing to be envied."

Gregory could not trust himself to reply. He held out his hand to Wu

Ling, who took it gravely.

"At least, Wu Ling," he said, "if you have spoilt my trip out here, you

saved my life. I don't think it's worth much, but I thank you. Send the

porters along."

He turned and left the place; a tall, slim figure, graceful and trim in

his well-fitting clothes, the strangest contrast to the blue-smocked

coolies and one or two native traders through whom he had almost to push

his way. He walked out into the broiling sun and disappeared.

Mr. Endacott glanced at Wu Ling, and Wu Ling, with the cards in his

hand, smiled back at him.

The morning wore on, the afternoon came and passed. Mr. Endacott, who

had spent a pleasant few hours with his Chinese friend, returned to find

repose reigning throughout the rambling premises of Messrs. Johnson and

Company. A fierce sun had suddenly blazed once more through the drifting

masses of mist--gone now, as breath from a looking-glass. The water in

the harbour was indigo blue, the junks and dhows and native fishing

craft were all becalmed, like painted ships upon a still ocean. The

sirens blew no more. All who could were at rest. The porters in the

warehouse had crept into the dark shady corners and lay there

motionless. Half a dozen clerks, young men of superior station who wore

European clothes and babbled a little English, had retired to the

shelter of an adjoining tea house. Only Wu Ling sat still in his place,

waiting. Mr. Endacott took in the situation at a glance.

"They have not returned, our porters?" he enquired.

"Not yet."

"And the ship sails?"

"It is past due."

Endacott smiled.

"The truth is as old as life," he said. "The things which are written

here are written behind the veil. That young man came from what, from a

Western point of view, we used to think good stock. His father was under

me at Oxford. His grandfather and generations before him were men of

good repute. Still, that counts for nothing, and we know why. He has the

Body. Why wait, Wu Ling?"

"You think that his word it is broken," the latter asked, "broken to us

who scorned even to watch him to the ship?"

Mr. Endacott shook his head.

"He has the Body," he repeated.

There was a pattering of feet outside; feet that passed swiftly across

the pavement of blistered heat. A little troop of porters entered and

sought shelter. The foreman advanced and stood silent before Wu Ling's

desk.

"Speak," Wu Ling directed.

"We waited on the dock," the man recounted. "We waited in the heat.

Hours went by. Then, as the ship moved away, the Englishman leaned over

the rail. He called out to us, 'There is nothing to send back.' Then he

disappeared."

"So you returned," Wu Ling murmured.

"So we returned," the man assented.

Wu Ling rose to his feet and stood at the window. There was a clamour of

sirens blowing through the sultry, stagnant air, a waving of

handkerchiefs from a distant dock. A great steamer was drifting out, her

bows set westward. Wu Ling watched her gathering speed through the lazy

sea, leaving behind her a wake like a rope of snow in the deep blue of

the waters which she parted. The smoke belched from her funnels.

Somewhere on board her was Gregory Ballaston and his booty. Endacott

laid his hand upon the arm of Wu Ling whom he loved.

"The young man has done ill," he said, "but the Soul is ours."

CHAPTER V

"Steward," Gregory asked him, standing up in the centre of his

stateroom, his hands behind his back, "do I look drunk?"

The steward was used to eccentric passengers and answered as though the

question were an entirely reasonable one.

"For a young gentleman as hasn't moved out of his stateroom for two

days, and 'as had a good deal more to drink than to eat," he pronounced,

"you look wonderful, sir."

"Fetch me a whisky and soda, then."

"Certainly, sir."

The man withdrew, closing the door behind him. Gregory drew back the

curtain of his upper bunk and again, with tireless eyes, he stared at

the treasure which had cost him his friend's life, and, as it seemed to

him sometimes now, especially in those horrible watches of the night,

his own honour. Always there was the same fascination. Every time he

looked, he fancied that he discovered some fresh horror in that grim yet

superbly bestial face.

"You are ugly," he said softly, as he dropped the curtain. "You are

damnably ugly! I wish you were at the bottom of the sea, and yet I can't

part with you."

The steward brought him the whisky and soda. He paused for a moment

before drinking it.

"What's your name?" he demanded.

"Perkins, sir."

"Well then, Perkins," he directed, "please see the second steward for

me. Try to get me a small table in the saloon, alone in a corner, and I

will go in to dinner to-night."

"Very good, sir," the man replied, as he made his exit. "There will be

plenty of room to sit just where you please until we get to Bombay."

Once more Gregory pushed aside the curtain, raised his glass and drained

its contents, his eyes fixed all the time upon the Image. He set down

the empty tumbler.

"That's what you like; to see me drink, isn't it?" he murmured softly.

"You'd like the whole world to be as foul as the things some devil has

carved into your face. Yet I suppose I would forgive you if only you

would give up your secret."

For the hundredth time he passed his fingers over the carved head;

fingers which were long and slim and sensitive of touch. Nowhere,

however, could they discover the slightest sign of any join or any

possible aperture, however cunningly concealed. The wood had become as

smooth and hard as marble, black as jet, shining as though with

generations of polish. Gregory drew the curtain and turned away, baffled

once more. With his back turned to the Image he made a long and

deliberate toilet. Afterwards he lit a cigarette and for the first time

since he had boarded the steamer, ventured on deck to find only a few

people promenading, a dozen or so drinking cocktails in the smoking

room. There was no sign of the person he longed yet dreaded to see. The

heat was great but it was not unusually oppressive. In the west, a

blood-red sun, pencils of black cloud surrounding it, seemed almost to

be falling into the ocean. Gregory loitered about until long after the

bugle had sounded, and then, summoning up all his courage, descended to

take his place in the saloon. The second steward hurried forward to meet

him and showed him his table. He breathed a sigh of relief as he

realised its isolation.

"I have given you a table to yourself, sir, as Perkins seemed to think

you wanted it," he announced, "but if you would care for a seat at the

captain's table--that was where we had intended to put you--it could be

arranged now, if you preferred it."

"Not on any account," Gregory begged earnestly. "I've been laid up. Must

be quiet. This exactly suits me."

He continued a conversation for some minutes, accepted the wine list,

studied the menu, gave his orders, and finally ventured to look around.

She was there, seated on the right hand of the captain, her inevitable

place under the circumstances. Their eyes met. Without hesitation she

smiled a greeting. Gregory half rose in his place and bowed. When he sat

down he realised that both his hands were clenched, the white of the

knuckles showing through the skin. His breath was coming a little

quickly. It was an absurd thing but he had a feeling that he had passed

through one of the crises of his life. There had been no message then

from her uncle--no wireless. She knew nothing.

Afterwards he came across her on deck, talking to an elderly woman whom

he realised must be the Mrs. Hichens of whom she had spoken as a

possible chaperone. She turned round at once and welcomed him smilingly.

There was a shade of reproach in her tone.

"I was beginning to wonder what had become of you, Mr. Ballaston," she

said. "Let me present you to my chaperone, Mrs. Hichens."

Gregory acknowledged the introduction and spent the next few minutes

searching for and arranging their chairs.

"I suppose I have been outrageously lazy," he confessed, when at last he

had installed them. "That trip of mine into the interior, which you

heard me speaking of with your uncle, was rather an exhausting affair."

"Some day you must tell me the whole story," she begged. "The snatches I

heard of it were most romantic. You came back in Wu Ling's trading

schooner, didn't you?"

"Wu Ling," Gregory confided, "saved my life, and brought me back to the

city. I got into trouble. I was certainly somewhere where I had no right

to be, and I was handed over to Wu Abst, the famous pirate, by a couple

of fanatical priests, with instructions that I was to become nourishment

for the alligators. Wu Ling heard about it at one of the villages where

he was trading and released me. It sounds like a page from somebody's

novel, doesn't it? It was all very real at the time, though."

They both looked at him curiously, but the older woman had lived for

some time in a country where few questions were asked, and Claire was

more concerned with the shadow of either pain or sleeplessness which

seemed to darken his face.

"I can quite understand your feeling like a rest," she said

sympathetically. "I thought you looked terribly ill the day we met in

the warehouse."

She picked up a book, merely with the idea of giving him an opportunity

to pass on if he cared to, but after strolling about the deck aimlessly

for a quarter of an hour, he returned to find her with her book still

unopened, her mind, as a matter of fact, occupied with him and his

story. She accepted immediately his invitation to walk. They went on to

the upper deck and looked down together at the oily water with its

streak of phosphorescence. They talked of the ship, of such of their

fellow passengers as they had observed, and of the route home, with a

certain obvious attempt at casualness; conversation of little import,

yet almost a necessary stepping-stone to more intimate understanding.

Claire's perceptions were keen enough for her to realise that this young

man was scarcely in a normal condition.

"You have had no wireless from your uncle or from the firm since you

left?" he asked, a little abruptly.

She shook her head.

"You asked me that before," she reminded him. "Why on earth should I? We

said good-by early in the morning after the night you dined with us.

Uncle would never dream of coming to see me off. He hates steamers and

he hates what he calls 'looking westwards.' How he will survive life in

England I am sure I can't imagine, except that he does sometimes still

admit that English country life is wonderful."

"He really means to come then?"

"Why, surely."

"And you? Shall you like it?"

She assented a little doubtfully.

"I think I would rather live in New York," she confessed, "but I can't

fancy Uncle there. I think that would be expecting a little too much of

him. He still has friends and a few relatives in England."

"Pretty sporting of him to break away at all," Gregory observed, "after

all these years."

"I think it is marvellous," she agreed. "I am sure if I hadn't come,

he'd rather go on living in that strange, smelly little house of his

and read Chinese manuscripts and interpret Chinese hieroglyphics

round old ornaments, and talk Chinese literature with some of the

quaintest-looking people you ever saw up at the University, than do

anything else in the world."

"All the same," Gregory remarked, "they say that a man should always

return to the country of his birth to end his days. Besides, China is no

place for an Englishman after a certain number of years. He'd become

nothing but an old fossil without the society of his own kind."

"What a nice, consoling person you are," she declared. "Sometimes I've

had it on my conscience a little that I'm taking him away from the

things he likes best in life."

"I shouldn't worry about that," he told her. "He'll be better at home

amongst some of his old cronies, and for you--well, of course, China

would be utterly impossible."

"I am very happy to be going to England," she assured him. "I am looking

forward to the country life immensely."

"Fond of games?" he asked her.

"Riding and tennis are the extent of my accomplishments," she replied.

"I like those. And then, after a year or so, I shall hope to travel on

the Continent. My aunt still has a great many friends in Paris."

"One meets so many American women and girls in France and Italy," he

observed, "and so few men. Why are they such stay at homes?"

"They aren't," she explained. "They travel, but they want something out

of it. They either prospect for mines, or look for markets, or something

of that sort."

"In a way then, they too have the adventurer's instinct. I haven't any

head for business. When the war ended--I had been wounded twice and

transferred into the Intelligence Department--it chanced that I was in

Palestine, and I went on from there to Abyssinia. From there I visited

some friends in Bombay, and when I got home my father and I planned my

little adventure in China."

"You certainly are some traveller," she admitted smilingly.

"So was my father before me," he confided. "He was in the Diplomatic

Service for some time, and lived in Pekin during the days of the

Monarchy."

She suddenly looked around and saw the rising moon, a blood-red circle

emerging with incredible swiftness from the edge of a black sea. She

crossed the deck swiftly, waving to him to follow her. Halfway there he

paused. She was standing full in the light shining through the

uncurtained window of the Marconi room; tall, slim and white in the

windless night--a curiously and wonderfully desirable vision. She turned

and waved to him impatiently, a smile of invitation upon her lips, her

eyes full of eager delight.

"Hurry!" she cried. "Isn't it wonderful?"

He came slowly across the deck, and a little puzzled frown took the

place of her smile as he drew near.

"Why do you look at me as though you had never seen me before?" she

asked, as he took his place by her side.

"I never have, with the same eyes," he answered uneasily.

"Idiot!" she laughed. "Well, you'll have to put up with me for at least

six weeks like this. Don't you love the stillness with just the throb of

the engine?"

"I'd like it better without the engine," he observed. "It is beautiful

enough here to make one believe that we are on our way to paradise, and

that wretched throb keeps on reminding us that our next stop is Bombay."

"Aren't you just a little inclined to be cynical to-night?" she asked.

"I don't know quite what's the matter with me," he answered restlessly.

"I think that terrible country behind has broken my nerve, or----"

His thoughts flashed back to his stateroom. She was suddenly intent upon

listening. From away upon the lower deck they could hear the sound of

the orchestra. Her face lit up with pure joy.

"Dancing!" she cried. "I believe they're dancing. Why, I haven't even

heard the music since I left New York! Come along!"

She had reached the companion ladder before he could catch her up.

Already her feet were moving to the music.

"Look here," he confided doubtfully, "remember I've been out of England

for a very long time. I'm not at all sure that I can manage these new

steps."

She slipped her arm through his in friendly fashion.

"You're the only man on board I know, and you've got to," she declared

imperiously.

CHAPTER VI

"Perkins," Gregory demanded, as he struggled into his dinner coat a few

nights later, "what should you think if I told you to drop that grinning

piece of wooden monstrosity there into the sea?"

The steward glanced doubtfully over his shoulder at the Image.

"It's a damned ugly piece of goods, sir," he admitted, "but I shouldn't

make away with it like that. It's very likely valuable. They give no end

of money sometimes for genuine bits of stuff from China way."

Gregory straightened his tie and looked at his treasure fixedly.

"Perkins," he confided, "that Image is either worth a few hundred, or

perhaps a thousand pounds as an antique, or it may be worth--listen to

me--a million." The steward coughed. He was inclined to think that this

passenger of his, on whom the slackness of the season had enabled him to

bestow more than his normal share of attention, was a trifle cracked.

"If it is worth as much money as that, sir," he remarked, "it would be a

sin to think of getting rid of it."

"You're quite right," Gregory assented, "it would be a sin. We'll let it

stay where it is."

At his table in the dining saloon he trifled with his dinner and

covertly watched the girl seated by the captain's side, who, on his

entrance, had sent him a little wave of welcome. He had worshipped more

or less casually at the shrine of girls and women of all ages, but never

with quite the same restless and fitful confusion of feeling as had

swept over him occasionally during the last few days in her near

presence, or at the thought of her in his sleepless hours. She was, he

tried to tell himself, as he studied her with eyes that attempted to be

critical, an ordinary, pleasant-looking, good-looking, attractive girl,

like hundreds of others of her age, too young and too lacking in

experience to justify a great passion. Her yellow hair, her one real

beauty, was brushed backwards with a touch almost of severity; a

fashion, however, which the vivacity of her face justified. Her eyes, he

had to admit, were unusual; grave and tender sometimes, full of the

sparkle of humour when, as now, she was engaged in light-hearted

conversation. Her mouth was perhaps almost too sensitive, but it was

beautifully shaped, and not over-small. He watched her rise and walk out

of the saloon; a girl's figure still, but with just a suggestion of

coming power in her easy, flowing movements.

He had known more beautiful women. There were more beautiful women to be

seen every day in Bond Street, he told himself, with an almost fierce

desire to deny her attractiveness, but she possessed a gift which

baffled him. He only knew that the idea of that message, which without a

doubt she must at some time or other receive from her uncle, was like a

nightmare to him. He felt instinctively how meanness of any sort,

dishonour and falsehood, would appeal to her, with her youthful,

uncompromising standards, her lack of experience. She would belie that

sensitive mouth and the kindliness of her eyes. Where an older woman

might have sympathised she would have no pity. And with it all his mind

was in a state of turmoil about her. Unaccustomed sensations tortured

him. The flash of her welcoming glance had set his pulses tingling.

He finished his wine, leaving most of his dinner untasted, and, instead

of going on deck, returned to his stateroom, thrust aside the curtain,

and looked fiercely, almost challengingly, at his treasure. As he looked

he felt once more a certain change in himself and his impulses, suddenly

felt the torture of a sacrilegious thought, an instinct, horrible at one

moment, alluring the next. He suddenly threw the cigarette case which he

was holding at the face which mocked him.

"Blast you!" he cried.

The case, truly enough thrown, recoiled from the unchanging hardness of

that lowering forehead, and fell, spilling its contents upon the bunk.

He recovered it with trembling fingers, listening all the time to the

music of the distant orchestra. He had a sudden impulse to lock the door

and stay where he was; an impulse swept away a moment later by an

unconquerable desire to be moving to the music with Claire in his arms.

From the door he ventured upon one last unwilling glance upwards. He

could have sworn that for the fiftieth time that expression had changed.

There was a light almost of suggestion in those sightless orbs, a curl

of sardonic contempt in the thick lips. He hurried up on to the deck and

leaned for a moment over the rail, his eyes looking across the sea.

"Nerves!" he told himself slowly. "Nerves!"

The doctor passed him with a cheery good evening. Gregory called out to

him.

"Just a moment, Doctor."

"You'll be in disgrace," the latter remarked. "They're dancing already.

Come and have a liqueur in my room first."

"Thank you," Gregory replied.

They made their way to the lower deck and into the doctor's quarters.

The latter excused himself for a moment whilst he prepared some

medicine. Afterwards he opened his cupboard, produced a bottle of brandy

and two liqueur glasses and pushed a box of cigarettes across the table.

"What's wrong with you, young fellow?" he asked a little abruptly.

"Nerves," Gregory answered. "Do you believe in them?"

"To some extent," was the cautious reply. "How are they getting at you?"

"I'm haunted by an evil spirit," Gregory declared, lighting a cigarette.

"It's there, a wooden Image behind a curtain, down in my stateroom. Now

get ready to laugh. I assure you, Doctor, every moment I spend with that

damned thing makes me feel more of a rotter."

"Where did you get it?" the doctor enquired curiously.

Gregory glanced towards the closed door.

"I am not sure whether it is wise to tell you," he replied, "but, as a

matter of fact, it is a small statue of a famous Chinese god. It is

meant to represent all the gross side of a man's life. It is meant to

depict every evil that can haunt the sinner."

The doctor suddenly leaned forward in his chair.

"You don't mean to tell me that you were mixed up in the Nilkaya

affair?" he exclaimed. "You're not one of the Englishmen who looted the

place?"

"I've got one of the Images here, anyway," Gregory admitted.

"There was a report that you were both dead."

"My pal is, although he was taking on what we thought the simplest part

of the job. They got me, a dozen of those priests. Fought like furies,

the fellows did! I was to have been food for the alligators but I was

rescued on the river by a trader from the coast."

The doctor looked at his companion with amazement.

"No wonder you've got nerves," he observed. "You've been through

something."

"I've been through hell," Gregory admitted. "The fight wasn't so bad,

but I was two days strapped up on that pirate ship with not a mouthful

to eat, in a foul atmosphere, and expecting to be thrown overboard at

any moment. I had a certain amount of luck. I got clear, as you see, and

I've got one of the Images. It is supposed to be chock full of jewels,

and yet I'm half inclined to chuck the damned thing overboard."

The doctor smiled reassuringly.

"I won't say anything of the morality of the enterprise," he declared,

"but you had a fine, plucky adventure, and when you talk about throwing

the Image overboard, you're talking like an ass. Set your heel upon all

this superstitious nonsense, Ballaston, and go on as usual. Believe me,

you'll be none the worse for possessing that piece of wood. You create

the evil in yourself when you allow yourself to believe that the thing's

likely to do you harm. The world's old enough for us to realise the

nature of most of its organic forces. The malice of nine hundred years

ago may have been carved into that Image, but it can't come out again."

Gregory drew a little sigh of relief.

"Of course you're right," he acquiesced, "and yet----"

"Cut out the 'and yets'," the doctor interrupted. "Get up on deck now

and dance. That's what's good for you. Be normal and don't harbour any

thought that hasn't a definite and reasonable origin. See you later. I

may come up and have a turn myself."

Gregory hurried on deck to be greeted a little reproachfully by Claire.

"How dare you keep me waiting," she complained. "The orchestra have

never played better and I've been nearly crazy sitting here by myself.

Don't let's waste a minute now you have come."

They were out of the region of storms. The awning had been rolled away

and they danced on the outside deck with the orchestra half concealed in

a little lounge. The minutes passed by in a sort of enchantment. From

fox trots they passed to waltzes, both utterly unconscious that

sometimes they were the only two dancing. Suddenly Claire drew back and

looked at her companion.

"Why, I believe you're tired!" she exclaimed. "Do let's stop."

"No, we'll go on," he answered quickly.

The music seemed to have gained a new and more passionate throb. The

starlit night seemed to be leaning down, to close them in. There was a

breath of magic in the languid air, in the perfume from her hair and

clothes, swimming out into the stillness. Her eyes for a moment had half

closed in faint response to the joy of it all. His arm suddenly

tightened around her--tightened!

"Stop!" she ordered quickly.

He obeyed at once. She looked at him with an expression of amazement, in

which was almost a gleam of terror. Then she turned away.

"I'm tired," she said. "I want to speak to Mrs. Hichens. Please don't

come."

He knew better than to follow her, to protest, to attempt any

explanation. He made his way to the smoking room and drank two whiskies

and sodas. The steward looked at him curiously.

"Hot work dancing to-night, sir," he observed.

"Hot as hell," Gregory answered. "Give me another drink."

He was served immediately. Afterwards he stepped back on to the deck.

Claire had disappeared. He went up to a woman whom he had previously

avoided with sedulous care--a grass widow, good-looking still in a way,

but overanxious, overobvious, overperfumed. She rose to her feet with

astonishing alacrity at his unexpected invitation. A moment later they

danced off into the darkness.

* * * * *

The smoking-room steward took Gregory to his stateroom that night, and

the faithful Perkins, summoned from his own repose, undressed him. He

went to sleep with a chuckle upon his distorted lips.

"I'm with you, old fellow," he muttered, waving his hand feebly to his

unseen companion. "You're the chap for us Ballastons. Glad I got

you--and not the other."

CHAPTER VII

The doctor, a few days later, paused in his morning promenade and took a

vacant place by Claire's side. He made a few commonplace remarks about

the voyage, and then leaned confidentially towards her.

"Miss Endacott, I want to speak to you for a moment, if I may, about

young Ballaston."

The sensitive lips quivered a little. Nevertheless she had self-control.

"Well, Doctor?"

"I don't exactly know what has happened, of course," he went on, "but

you two were such pals at first, and now one can't help noticing that

you scarcely speak. Ballaston hasn't said a word to me. This is all on

my own, but I imagine that somehow or other, he has succeeded in

offending you."

"He has," she acquiesced coldly.

"I don't hold any brief for the young man," the doctor proceeded, "but I

can't help wondering whether you know what he's been through just

lately. He's had a wonderful adventure and played his part like a man. I

won't say a word about the morality of it, or the object of it, or

anything else. I'll only say that it was a jolly plucky thing to attempt

and he only escaped with his life by a miracle."

"I have heard all this," Claire admitted.

"It is always after an exploit of this sort that one runs a danger of

suffering from nerves. That's precisely what's happened to young

Ballaston. In his stateroom down below he has that Image which he risked

his life for, and he's adopted the legend about it in a way I should

never have dreamed a young fellow with his strength of character could

have done. You know the legend?"

"I have heard it."

"Well, Ballaston honestly believes that every hour he spends with this

Image is doing him harm morally and that very belief is apt to make him

behave at odd times impossibly. The thing won't last, of course. He'll

get used to it, and the idea will pass out of his brain. It is there

just now, and I tell you frankly that I believe it is likely to

influence his actions."

There was more and more interest in Claire's face, a little tinge of

returning colour. She leaned forward. The icy note had gone from her

tone.

"How extraordinary!" she exclaimed. "I--well, to tell you the truth,

Doctor, the other night when we were dancing, when I was offended, I

thought that he had had too much to drink."

The doctor shook his head.

"It wasn't that at all," he assured her gravely. "Now, mind you, Miss

Endacott, I'm not defending Ballaston. I don't even know what the cause

of offence was--certainly I'm not trying to interfere in any way--but he

is suffering, and suffering terribly, and it isn't doing him any good to

be cut off from you. If you could just remember that, you might be able

to help him, perhaps more than any one else."

"I will remember," she promised. "Thank you very much indeed."

The doctor took his leave and Claire sat gazing out to sea with a

kindlier expression in her face. A few minutes later, Gregory left the

smoking room, and, seeing her, was turning the other way. She called to

him softly.

"Mr. Ballaston."

He glanced around in surprise.

"Mr. Ballaston, please come here for a moment."

He approached slowly and stood before her, bareheaded. As she looked at

him her pity increased. His eyes were very brilliant but they seemed to

have sunken, and he was certainly thinner in the face.

"Will you sit down and talk to me for a little time, please," she

invited.

"If you wish me to," he replied diffidently.

"I think that perhaps I was silly about the other night," she went on.

"I perhaps--misunderstood."

"You didn't," he groaned.

"Please don't say that," she begged. "I want to believe that I did, and

I want you to please be nice to me again and be different."

"Has any one been talking to you?" he asked.

"The doctor spoke a few words," she admitted.

"It is sweet of you," he declared dejectedly, "but you mustn't believe

the doctor altogether. It isn't exactly nerves. I was never much good

and you're such a child. I'm not good enough now to talk and dance with

you on equal terms. I feel this all the time. For two days I have hated

you because it is through you I know what I am. And I don't mind telling

you that I hate you," he went on, "because----"

"Because?" she questioned.

"Because I care for you more than any one else in the world," he

concluded.

She laughed, but very kindly. Her eyes were softer than he had ever seen

them, and there was a new flush in her cheeks.

"It is just as silly for you to say that as the other," she declared,

"considering that I have known you exactly--what is it?--eleven, twelve

days. Now, could we talk nonsense, please, or go for a walk. We start

again, and you see--I trust you."

"I shouldn't," he warned her gloomily. "I'm not trustworthy, and you'll

find it out before long."

"I'll wait until I do," she decided. "Come along. This morning I need

movement. It isn't nearly so hot, and there hasn't been any one to do

things with the last few days. We'll play deck tennis on the upper deck,

and then go for a swim."

They passed the whole morning together. The doctor, seeing them, waved

his hand cordially. The captain stopped and exchanged a few

good-humoured words. Everything seemed to be once more as it should be.

Gregory was quite as distinctly the best-looking and most attractive

young man on board as Claire was the most charming girl, and nearly

every one seemed pleased that the little misunderstanding which had kept

them apart was apparently removed. Gossip, not ill-natured, but natural

enough, recommenced. Gregory, heir to a baronetcy, poor, perhaps, but

with a romantic career for a young man, and Claire, whose uncle was a

partner in the great firm of Johnson and Company--a most suitable

affair. Late in the afternoon they found a cool corner in the bows, and

Gregory read poetry. His voice, naturally a beautiful one, with its

slight Oxford peculiarities, fascinated Claire. She listened with joy as

he passed from Shelley to Keats and wound up with Swinburne. Afterwards

the captain took them into his room for tea and they sat talking until

it was almost time to change. They descended from the bridge together.

"To-night," Claire exclaimed happily, "we dance."

Gregory made no reply. For a single moment a little shiver seemed to

pass through him. She turned and smiled reassuringly.

"I am looking forward to it so much," she murmured. "I'm sure we are

both going to love it."

The doctor swung by as Gregory was changing for dinner. Gregory hailed

him.

"Just one moment," he called out.

The doctor paused and put his head in the stateroom--a large one on the

upper promenade deck and easily accessible.

"I want to thank you," Gregory said earnestly, "for speaking to Miss

Endacott."

"Everything all right again?" the other asked, smiling.

"Quite, thanks to you," was the well-satisfied reply. "I hope to God I

don't give myself away again! Come in and have a look at my evil

genius."

The doctor came a little farther into the room and examined the Image

through his eyeglasses.

"Jove, it's amazing," he exclaimed; "amazingly powerful!"

"Diabolically!" Gregory muttered.

The doctor was clearly fascinated by the Image. His fingers passed over

it with the soft touch of a connoisseur. He stood back and viewed it

from another angle.

"Ballaston," he said, "there isn't a sculptor in the West to-day who

could produce a piece of work like that. It's stupendous!"

"I think I shall tell my steward to send it down below into safe

keeping, somewhere," Gregory suggested, turning away and lighting a

cigarette. "Don't you think it would be a good idea?"

The doctor shook his head.

"I think it would be a damned bad idea," he answered. "Now, look here,

young fellow," he went on, putting his hand on Gregory's shoulder, "how

old are you?"

"Thirty-one."

"If at your time of life," the doctor continued, "you once begin to give

way to what your brain and real consciousness tell you is an idea,

you'll be a victim to what they call 'nerves' all your life. You've

never been affected before like this, have you?"

"Never," Gregory declared earnestly. "One doesn't want to talk about

oneself, but I got my medals in France, and a jolly close shave of the

big thing. I've shot big game and I've come out of tight corners once or

twice without turning a hair. That's why I don't understand this."

"Good!" the doctor exclaimed. "That confirms me in what I was saying.

Square up to it, man! Don't be all the time flinching away, like you are

now. Look at it. Look at it with me, arm in arm. It is just a damned but

wonderful representation of wickedness. There is nothing alive about it,

except its art. It isn't going to do you any harm, and it isn't going to

do me any harm. Let it stay where it is."

Ballaston fastened his tie slowly, considering the advice thoughtfully.

"You mean that, Doctor?" he demanded. "You see, when I'm sane, I have

the utmost respect and--I can say it to you--affection for Miss

Endacott. She's only a child, of course, but she's wonderful. It's such

a horrible thought that I might----"

"Chuck it!" the doctor interrupted tersely. "You won't. Remember, if you

give way now you will give way all your life. Come in and have a last

drink with me before you turn in to-night and I bet you'll be jolly glad

you've stuck it out.--I must get along now. Got a patient expecting me

before dinner."

He swung off, large, buoyant, diffusing an atmosphere of confidence.

Gregory finished his dressing, strolled along the deck, and found Mrs.

Hichens and Claire. He took them all into the little lounge where they

drank cocktails together. Gregory was suddenly in joyous spirits, and

Claire thoroughly responsive. They made plans for the next few days and

ended up with a race round the deck, the course being kept clear by a

little handful of amused passengers. The captain, coming upon them,

breathless, just as the bugle sounded, invited Gregory to his table for

dinner, and Gregory, his unsociability altogether dispersed, proved a

most attractive guest. Of his own exploits he tried to talk as little as

possible, but the Ballastons had been a family well known in sporting

and political circles for generations, and there were plenty of

anecdotes to be told of English life for Claire's amusement. A general

engaged him in kindly reminiscences of France, and he found an old

Etonian, and a junior diplomat on his way home from Japan. They sat at

table until long after the others had left, and the music had already

commenced when they trooped up the gangway.

"What a wonderful evening!" Claire exclaimed delightedly. "And now we

are going to dance!"

The orchestra welcomed them back again with kindly smiles. The lanterns

which enclosed the little space of deck were like fairy lights. The

music streamed out to them, even its ordinary melodies somehow

beautified by their own sense of well-being and the glamour of their

surroundings. Claire danced from pure love of graceful movement, from

that age-long impulse of rhythm which passes behind history into legend;

Gregory, a born athlete and light-footed as an Indian, suffering nothing

from his ignorance of the more modern steps. Once or twice they rested,

but always impatiently, always with their senses tingling with the joy

of rhythmical motion. It was not until the end of the programme that

Claire realised suddenly that her companion had been dancing during the

last few minutes with unusual stiffness. He was pale and breathing more

quickly than usual.

"How selfish of me!" she exclaimed. "Of course you are tired! Let us sit

out for a few minutes--somewhere where the music doesn't haunt us."

They found two chairs in a retired corner. Gregory seemed to have thrown

off his reserves, to have become once more fluent and discoursive. His

voice, lowered because of occasional promenaders, had developed an

almost passionate timbre. There was a light in his eyes which half

puzzled, half thrilled her. His hands sought her fingers underneath the

rug which they shared. She suffered him to hold them for a moment before

she drew them gently away.

"I have never forgotten," he told her, "how I saw you first. You came

into that crazy old warehouse with its piles of silks and rugs and

carpets, and shelves of jade and china, and its quaint odour, the

perfume of China and the East. You threaded your way through that group

of Chinamen in that spotless white dress of yours, in the hat with the

yellow flowers, like something fresh and sweet from a new world--from a

world where the sun didn't bake and shrivel everything to dust, or those

dank, humid mists make slime of the ground underneath."

She laughed softly.

"I think the poetry of this afternoon is lingering in your brain," she

said. "Still, I dare say it was strange to see an American girl with a

New York frock amongst all that medley. You must have thought our little

house stranger yet. Can you imagine my uncle, surrounded with all those

beautiful things, living between bare walls and with oil-cloth upon the

floor, and--am I very greedy--with such a terrible cook? Are you shocked

at me for my materialism? You know I never pretended to be anything

else. I love life as it comes to me day by day, with just the things it

brings."

"And I love life as I find it now," he whispered. "It seems too

wonderful to think that you too are on your way to England, and that

we're going to be almost neighbours."

"But you are never at home," she reminded him, with a smile.

"I've had nothing to keep me at home," he rejoined. "In the future it

may be different. Already I begin to feel that my love of wandering is

finished."

"Perhaps," she suggested softly, "we had better dance."

She rose to her feet and he acquiesced at once. As he leaned towards

her, his face as white as marble in the moonlight, he was undoubtedly

handsome, yet once again she caught a glimpse of something in his eyes

which filled her with a vague uneasiness.

"Yes, we'll dance," he assented. "You're teaching me to understand what

dancing means. The last time--when was it?--Alexandria, I believe----"

He stopped abruptly, confused by a turbulent flood of memory. They moved

away to the music, in and out of the string of lights, rocking now in an

unexpected night breeze. Claire danced still with the joy of her

youthful strength and gracious temperament. Once or twice, when

Gregory's arm seemed to be drawing her a little closer, she freed

herself slightly. Once she caught a flash of that disturbing glint in

his eyes, but she only laughed at her own uneasiness.

"Please don't look so terribly in earnest," she begged him. "Dancing is

one of the happiest things in the world. We must keep that feeling

always with us."

The music came to an abrupt finish. Claire looked across at the leader

of the orchestra in dismay, but it was too late for intervention.

Already the first notes of "God Save the King" had been struck.

"Well, it has been lovely," she declared. "I suppose I must go and look

for Mrs. Hichens."

"Come and have a lemon squash first," he begged.

The steward served them out on deck. Gregory drank a whisky and soda as

though it had been water.

"Let's sit out for a time," he suggested. "It is too warm to sleep down

below. I'll fetch some more rugs."

She shook her head and rose regretfully to her feet.

"It has been delightful," she admitted, "but after all it is eleven

o'clock."

They strolled along the deck. Suddenly he gripped her by the arm. They

were passing his stateroom. Perkins was moving about and the light was

lit. He pointed in through the wide-open door, only a few feet away.

"Let me show you my evil genius," he begged.

She hesitated for a moment. Then, with the steward smilingly standing on

one side for her to enter, her hesitation seemed ridiculous. She crossed

the threshold as Perkins disappeared with a suave good night. Gregory

stood by her side and pointed to the Image. She gave a little gasp. For

several moments neither of them spoke. They both gazed at it intently;

Claire with wondering horror; Gregory fighting against some sympathetic

suggestion in the cynical brutality of the thick mocking lips.

"What a ghastly thing to own," she cried.

The hand which had been holding her arm was suddenly round her waist.

"Look at it by moonlight," he whispered in her ear.

The forefinger of his other hand touched the switch. They were almost in

darkness. His eyes suddenly seemed to be blazing into hers. She felt the

burning of his lips even as they drew near. There was something sweet

but vaguely evil in his tone.

"Claire, you are adorable!"

She wrenched herself free--free from arms which had seemed to be closing

like a vice round her, away from lips whose very proximity seemed to

scorch. She staggered through the door. As she stood there on the deck,

the light flashed out again, and Gregory, suddenly, it seemed, almost

calm, stood upon the threshold, a courteous but sardonic farewell upon

his lips.

"Good night," he said. "You realise now, perhaps, what it is for a man

to live with so evil a thing."

She swayed as she neared the companionway and steadied herself in her

descent by the banisters. When she reached her room she locked the door

behind her and threw herself upon the bed.--Gregory had moved back into

his stateroom. His fist, hard and clenched, was within a few inches of

the leering mouth.

"You damned swine!" he exclaimed, with all his calmness gone, a hoarse

fury breaking his voice. "You--you accursed spirit!"

His voice suddenly failed. An overpowering impulse seized him. He took

the Image into his arms, rushed through the open door across the deck,

and leaned over the rail.

"Find your own hell!" he shouted, and dashed it downwards.

CHAPTER VIII

In the morning Gregory awoke after a wonderfully sound sleep. It was

still very early. There was a delightful pearly light in the sky,

visible through his open porthole. The glitter of the barely risen sun

lay faint upon the ocean. He remained for a few minutes, breathing

quietly, trying to recall the events of the night before. They came back

to him with a shock, followed by an immense sense of relief. He

remembered what he had done without a thought of regret. He had cast

away the fruits of his enterprise, the possibility of wealth, and he was

full of rejoicing. In those few seconds of glad thought, the world

seemed a different place, wealth, after all, but a trifling part of its

joys, youth and love suddenly great and wonderful things. A clearer

light seemed to be pouring in upon some possible future, a new

atmosphere of happiness encircling him. He sprang out of bed. He would

have an early bath and send a note round to Claire. She must forgive.

She must understand. She must realise the sacrifice he had made. Then,

as he reached for his dressing gown, he felt as though he were turned to

stone. Up on its accustomed place, its eyes meeting his, its lips

mocking him, was the Image. He stood looking at it, for once genuinely

terrified. Then he pressed the bell feverishly, and stood there with his

thumb upon the knob until Perkins came running in.

"Where the hell did that come from?" he demanded, pointing to the Image.

Perkins smiled with the air of one who imparts good tidings.

"The bos'un sent it up early this morning, sir," he explained. "It was

in one of the lower boats, swung out from the main deck--gone right

through the canvas but there isn't a scratch on it."

Gregory drew on his dressing gown and staggered out on to the deck. He

walked up and down for an hour and a half, fighting a distinct and

definite battle, and with every step he took it seemed to him that he

became saner. His waking idea took shape, gave him encouragement and

life. With his craving for what it might have to give abandoned, the

power of the Image, too, for evil, must decline. He wanted those jewels

no longer. He was ready to face life and all its possibilities from a

new standard. He went down to his bath, visited the barber, and dressed

before any of the passengers were astir. Then he made his way into the

writing room and drew paper and ink towards him. He wrote fluently, and

without hesitation. All that he wished to say seemed so clear:

These few lines, dear, bring my prayer to you for pardon. The

doctor talks of nerves. Well, I never suffered from them, and I

would as soon believe in the supernatural. I believe that there

is evil in my treasure. Last night, in a fit of self-disgust, I

tried to throw it overboard, but it was caught by one of the

canvas-covered boats on the lower deck and when I awoke this

morning it was back in its accustomed place. If your answer to

this note is what I pray for, it will be overboard before we

meet, and overboard in such a place that it will sink to the

bottom of the sea.

Will you marry me, Claire, as soon as we reach England, and my

father and your uncle can meet and give their consent? I don't

pretend that I am a particularly desirable person, but I am, at

any rate, not too bad to realise that you are the dearest and

sweetest thing I have ever met, or to fail in keeping my word

when I promise that you shall never regret it if you say "yes."

I haven't a great deal to offer you, beyond my love, but that I

offer to you, not in the spirit of last night in the shadow of

that accursed Image, but earnestly, and faithfully, and

eternally.

Please send me just a line. The black Buddha waits to know his

fate, and I mine.

GREGORY.

Perkins took the note, and after his departure Gregory climbed to the

upper deck and stood there leaning over the rail, forgetting even to

smoke, watching the sun mount a little higher and spread its gleams a

little farther across the ocean, watching the blue haze of coming heat

blot out the clearness of the horizon, waiting with an eagerness utterly

unfamiliar, with a sense of having suddenly changed personalities with

some simpler and stronger being. At last the head and shoulders of

Perkins appeared, coming up the ladder.

"Your breakfast is in your room, sir," he announced, as he handed over

the note he was carrying.

Gregory made no reply. He was looking at the handwriting upon the

envelope; rather faint and delicate, not too legible. For a moment or

two he turned the note over. He absolutely feared to open it. A wave of

pessimism had seized him. Then he suddenly tore the envelope across and

read:

DEAR MR. BALLASTON,

I am so sorry but I cannot say "yes." I appreciate your letter

and I try to sympathise with what lies behind it, but, to be

quite honest, I cannot just now believe in you. I do not myself

believe in the supernatural, nor can I bring myself to believe

in the superstition of which you speak. I can, therefore, only

think of you as one whom I was beginning to like very much

indeed, but who has disappointed me bitterly.

I am sorry, but that is how I feel, and it is useless for me to

pretend otherwise. If you wish to be kind, please keep away. It

is foolish, of course, but you see I am a little lonely here,

and, after what has happened, I shall feel so much happier not

to find myself alone with you again.

CLAIRE ENDACOTT.

Gregory read the letter twice, then sent it fluttering away in little

white fragments, watching them fall like snowflakes upon the sea.

Afterwards he descended to his stateroom. He sat on his camp stool,

stirred his coffee, and looked across at the Image. Then, with his left

hand, he kissed his fingers to it.

"I give you best, my friend," he groaned. "Count me your disciple."

Gregory was on deck even before his accustomed time. He showed unusual

interest in the ship's run and greeted Claire, when she appeared very

late and looking pale and tired, with the casualness of a steamer

acquaintance. He talked lightly with Mrs. Hichens, exchanged remarks

with his other fellow passengers, and, notwithstanding the slight air of

aloofness which was habitual to him, he took a prominent part in the

sports of the day. He conducted an auction pool with success and he

refused no man's invitation to drink. At night, though, when the dancing

started, he obstinately refused to leave the smoking room, pleaded a

weak ankle and confessed to an inordinate thirst. The doctor came in and

sat beside him.

"More trouble?" he asked quietly.

Gregory shrugged his shoulders.

"No particular trouble," he replied. "I'm rather fed up with dancing,

besides which I have worn through the soles of my only pair of patent

shoes."

"Is Miss Endacott in a similar predicament?" the doctor enquired. "I see

that she is not on deck."

"Miss Endacott is probably reading one of Paley's sermons to Mrs.

Hichens," he answered a little sarcastically. "I wonder why the devil

some one doesn't look after your libraries on board ship, Doctor. There

are no less than eleven different volumes of sermons there. No doubt you

got them cheap, but who wants them, especially on a voyage where one is

supposed to send one's morals overland."

The doctor rose to his feet.

"There is nothing I can do for you?" he asked.

"Nothing," Gregory replied. "Have a drink."

The doctor shook his head.

"I am in earnest," he persisted. "I am still at your disposal. If you

want a sleeping draught, I'm your man, or an ambassador--well, I'm here.

Otherwise----"

"It happens to be otherwise," Gregory declared, a little brutally.

* * * * *

"Perkins," Gregory Ballaston asked, sitting up in his bunk a few

mornings later, and gazing distastefully at his tea, "was I very drunk

last night?"

"No more than usual, sir," was the man's somewhat gloomy answer. "The

chief steward in the second class sent for me and I brought you up

myself."

Gregory sighed.

"Bad, Perkins--bad!" he admitted. "I ought not to have gone there at

all. Was I--er--misbehaving more than usual?"

"You seemed to be making a little free with the young women down there,

if I might say so, sir," Perkins replied.

Gregory poured himself out some tea.

"Well, it was the last night, anyhow," he said, with an air of relief.

"I am landing at Marseilles."

"I have packed most of your things, sir," the man announced. "I expect

they'll bustle the overland passengers off the ship as quickly as

possible. We're a good many hours late as it is, and the train will be

waiting."

"I am going the other way," Gregory confided. "I have a strange feeling,

Perkins, that I am likely to win at Monte Carlo. I have been there twice

before and lost pretty well all I possessed at the moment. This time I

feel like winning. Anyway, I am going to try my luck."

"When shall I be able to finish your packing, sir?"

"Whenever you like and as soon as you like. I don't care for this ship,

Perkins. You're a good fellow and you've looked after me very well, but

I don't like the rest of them any more than they like me. You wouldn't

say that I was a popular person on board, would you, Perkins?"

The man made no reply for a moment. He was occupied thrusting the trees

into some evening slippers.

"If I might make so bold, sir," he said at last, "you have only yourself

to thank for what people think. You have acted queerly more than once,

sir."

"A fact," Gregory murmured; "a damnable fact!"

"And I don't hold," the man went on, "with this sitting in the smoking

room, taking a drink with anybody who comes along, and going down to the

second class, when there's plenty of your own sort on board, sir."

"You're a sound fellow, Perkins," Gregory admitted, as he swung out of

his bunk. "Is my bath ready?"

"Waiting, sir."

"And, Perkins," Gregory continued, as he struggled into his dressing

gown, "some time this morning I want you to bring me some packing cloth

and get the carpenter to find you a box. I can't take my Image about

like that. I'm going to send it home to my father--a little souvenir of

my visit to China. I think it might brighten up the household."

"I'll fetch you the packing cloth and box, sir, with pleasure," Perkins

assented, looking up at the Image dubiously, "but if it belonged to me I

know what I should do with it."

Gregory paused enquiringly. The steward was still looking over the rail

of the bunk with an expression of disgust.

"I should chuck it overboard and have done with it, sir."

"But it is valuable," Gregory expostulated, swinging his towel; "worth a

lot of money, Perkins. No one knows quite how much but it's worth a

great deal of money."

"'Tain't for its looks, anyway," the man muttered.

Gregory went through his usual morning routine--his bath, the swim, the

gymnasium and the coiffeur. Afterwards he made a leisurely toilet in his

stateroom, slipped out on to the deck at a moment when it was almost

deserted, and walked across to the smoking room with swift footsteps,

lithe and graceful, notwithstanding the debauch of the night before,

carefully dressed as usual, his eyes as bright as ever, no sign of evil

living in his clear complexion. Yet, for all his presentability, no one

knew better than he that he had gradually become the most unpopular

person upon the ship. The captain had taken to looking the other way

when he passed. The doctor's nod was of the curtest. Mrs. Hichens never

pretended not to cut him. Claire alone, on the few occasions when they

passed or met face to face, bowed gravely, sometimes even exchanged a

word of greeting. She still spent the time on deck as usual, but always

with Mrs. Hichens by her side. One or two of the women with whom he had

exchanged a few civilities still looked wistfully for him when the

dancing began--his grass widow had indeed boldly attempted to waylay him

one evening on his return from the dining saloon. Gregory, however, lied

with cynical impudence, declared that he had sprained his ankle and

would not dance again for the rest of the voyage, and then promptly

walked alone for an hour through the summer darkness on the upper deck.

On another occasion an enterprising young woman, whose courage was

greater than her discretion, sought him out in the smoking room and

tried to gain his confidence. She rejoined her friends after a very

brief absence, a little ruffled. Gregory's politeness was icy, but on

one point he seemed to have made up his mind: He was ready to gamble

with any one, to drink with any one, but so far as the women were

concerned--the women of his own quarter of the ship--he avoided them

with a finality which admitted of no advances. He played cards all

through the long summer days and moonlit, Mediterranean nights, for

stakes much higher than the ship's officers approved of, but he never

approached the dancing spaces or entered the music room where the ladies

congregated. Rumour went about that he had been sent to Coventry, and,

as was natural, on an Eastern liner, there were no end of scandalous

stories. One of them, and a name, he happened to overhear, and he gave

the smoking room something to gossip about for the rest of the day. He

rose from his seat and approached the little group.

"May I ask your name, sir?" he enquired of the man who had told the

story; a large man, well under medium age, but puffy and loud-voiced.

"Why, you surely may," was the prompt reply. "Richard Thomson. We've

played cards together more than once."

"Well, Mr. Thomson," Gregory said, "I have to tell you that I dislike

the mention of ladies' names in a smoking room. I dislike it so much,

especially when allied with scandalous fiction, that I am going to throw

you out on to the deck."

The man tried bluster, but he fared the worse for it. He picked himself

up, sprawling, from somewhere near the rails, and spent his morning

trying to interview various officers of the ship. The purser at last was

commissioned to approach Gregory.

"I have a complaint, Mr. Ballaston," he announced, a little stiffly,

"from Mr. Thomson. He asserts that you used violence to him in the

smoking room."

"Quite correct," was the deliberate reply. "I don't like him. I shall

probably throw him out again if he comes in."

"An affair of this sort is not to be treated so lightly, sir," the

purser declared. "I must request some sort of an explanation or else

that you apologise to Mr. Thomson."

Gregory considered for a moment.

"Very well," he said, "I will offer you this much of an explanation. I

heard Mr. Thomson make use of the name of a young lady in the smoking

room. He coupled her name with a story, which, although it may not have

reflected any positive discredit upon her, was yet untrue. I object to

the use of ladies' names in a smoking room, and I did what I should have

done at any time in my life, and what I should do again this afternoon

and again to-morrow if necessary--I threw him out. As to apologising to

him--I will fight him with one hand or standing on one leg, or I will

shoot at him and let him shoot at me from any mark he likes, or give him

what is termed 'satisfaction', in any such manner as he can suggest, but

sooner than apologise I would throw him overboard first and spend the

rest of the voyage in irons myself if necessary."

The purser's face relaxed.

"I will report your explanation to the captain, Mr. Ballaston," he

promised.

Nothing more was heard of the matter. Thomson somewhat ostentatiously

played bridge out on deck with his friends, and Gregory, suddenly sick

of his smoking-room companions, invaded the ship's library and abjured

cards. He drew a great sigh of relief when at last, amidst the screaming

of tugs and a strange silence in the engine room, they were brought in

to Marseilles docks. He lingered about for an hour after the gangways

were down, hoping to be the last to leave the ship. In the customs shed,

however, when he made his belated appearance there, he came face to face

with Claire and Mrs. Hichens. The latter ignored him; Claire held out

her hand.

"Good-by, Mr. Ballaston," she said.

Gregory was taken aback. He could not refuse her hand, but he could find

no words. Mrs. Hichens walked on. They were for a moment alone together.

"I am very sorry," she continued, "that I had to answer your letter as I

felt. I am trying to forget all that is disagreeable in our friendship,

and remember only how thoroughly we enjoyed the first part of the

voyage. Will you please do the same--and good-by!"

She was gone with a friendly little nod before he could gasp out any

more than a muttered monosyllable. For a moment he almost followed her.

Then he realised a certain finality about that gesture and turned away.

Before he had finished with the customs the Paris train had left. He

stood for a while at the barrier, looking after it almost wistfully, his

thoughts travelling homeward. It was late spring now. There would be a

scent of violets in the air, cowslips coming up in the meadows,

honeysuckle in the hedges, and sweeter than anything, the wild roses

making their faint appearance. He thought of the rambling, stately

gardens at the Hall, the odour of the late hyacinths, the warmth of the

sun on the day when the gardeners opened the potting sheds and brought

out the geraniums. He could hear the lazy humming of the mowing

machines, the soft splash of water from the fountain on one of the

terraced lawns. It was a very beautiful home there, waiting for him;

poverty-stricken, perhaps, a little silent, a long way aloof from the

throb and thrill of life, the will-o'-the-wisp of happiness which he had

pursued so tirelessly, which he was in quest of again, even now. Then he

had a sudden vision of Claire, and of showing her the house, the

gardens, the park, the woods beyond, the peace of it, the softly flowing

waters of the trout stream, the hum of insects. He had a vision of

Claire too, seated at the carriage window, looking out, perhaps herself

not wholly happy, perhaps even at that moment with a tear in those still

tender eyes. The sweetness of her, the sweetness which he had terrified,

the childishness which that accursed Image would have had him disturb!

It was like a black cloud upon his mind and thoughts. Then a raucous

voice in his ear:

"Il faut vous dépêcher d'enregistrer vos bagages pour Monte Carlo,

monsieur. Le Rapide arrive."

His fit of dreaming passed, and he came back to the world of small

everyday things, went through the tiresome formality of registering his

luggage, found a place in an empty compartment, dozed and dreamed a

little more, and finally was dragged behind a screaming locomotive into

the curiously unimpressive station of Monte Carlo, the hills behind

glittering with lights, the long sea front curving away into Italy. He

shook himself and, descending, made his way to the hotel, bathed and

changed and sat down to write a few momentous lines home:

Hotel de Paris,

Monte Carlo.

MY DEAR FATHER,

I have come here from Marseilles for a few days, perhaps

longer--it depends upon the luck. Meanwhile you will receive

from Tilbury, soon after the ship docks, the Image we got away

with. You won't like it. If I were to tell you how I loathed it

you would think I was mad, but from the practical point of view

everything that I heard in China confirms your story. In either

this Image or the other one, which, alas, fell into the hands of

a firm called Johnson and Company who have branches nearly

everywhere in the East, are packed the whole of the treasures of

the Yun-Tse Temple. Have an expert examine it, but don't do

anything about breaking it up until I return. There are reasons

against this.

I suppose everything is as usual--no money, heavier taxation,

plenty of debts, and Uncle Henry denying himself even a new suit

of clothes. I hope Madame progresses, and that her new doctor

will be able to work the great miracle. Here is an amazing

coincidence, of which you will hear more before you see me. In

the last letter I wrote you I told you about my adventure on the

Yun-Tse River and Wu Ling, the Chinese trader who rescued me.

Well, Wu Ling is a member of the firm of Johnson and Company,

the great Eastern merchants, and one of his partners is Ralph

Endacott, who used to have a Chair at Oxford, a great Oriental

scholar, and--as you perhaps know--Madame's brother. He has a

very delightful niece whom I saw something of on the voyage

home. He himself is winding up his affairs and coming to England

shortly. They have some idea, I believe, of taking a house in

Norfolk. Endacott himself is a somewhat austere person who

looked upon my enterprise with a good deal of disfavour, and

myself, I am afraid, with more. The niece, however, is perfectly

charming.

Well, I shall be home for the summer. I got through all right

without a scratch, as you know, but for the first time in my

life I think I have a touch of nerves. The shadow of our elms

ought to help. I'll write again as soon as I have decided when

to come home.

Thanks for your last letter. I don't think you need send any

money. If I want it I'll wire.

Ever yours,

GREGORY.

Gregory dined alone, receiving the warm welcome of the maîtres d'hôtel

with whom he was acquainted, and the other supernumeraries of the great

hotel. Afterwards he went across and took out his cards of admission to

the Casino, flung a few counters on one of the outside tables in the

"Kitchen" and, losing them, came out, called in at the office of the

Sporting Club for his ticket and presently mounted the front stairs,

prepared for such serious gambling as he could afford. There was

something almost allegorical in the wide opening of the doors as he

entered. He seemed engulfed once more into the world of pleasurable

adventure. Only for the first time the whole thrill of it was wanting.

The tables themselves he eyed with all his old appetite, as he counted

his money and planned his campaign. His inherited love of gambling was

undeniable. The green cloth, the patter of the cards, the call of the

croupiers, the rattling of the roulette ball, each had their

fascination. It was the other things of which he seemed to have suddenly

tired, which somehow, in a moment of presentiment as he looked through

one of the great windows towards the moon, hanging down over the

harbour, he knew would never appeal to him in quite the same way again.

The following morning he supplemented his letter home by a telegram:

To Sir Bertram Ballaston, Baronet, Ballaston Hall,

Norfolk, England.

Don't send any money have won hundred milles very bored going

Rome with Carruthers to-night shall return within a month.

GREGORY.

END OF BOOK ONE

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER I

It was in a sense a dinner of celebration at Ballaston Hall in which

these four men were concerned, although, with the exception of one

guest, it was a family party. At the head of the table sat Sir Bertram;

thin, long and hard-jawed, with brilliant dark eyes, almost black, lips

and mouth sometimes cruel, sometimes humorous, a famous spendthrift, an

occasional libertine, but without a doubt a great sportsman. On his

left, Gregory, an almost startling reproduction of his father, but with

uncertainties in his face and expression which time as yet had not

moulded. Next to him, his uncle, Henry Ballaston; a smaller man, stiff,

cold, courtly and formal in speech and manner, with greater capacities

for kindliness but entirely devoid of that humorous twitch to the mouth.

He wore old-fashioned side whiskers. His dress waistcoat showed less

than the usual amount of shirt front, and his tie was almost a stock. On

the opposite side of the table sat Mr. Borroughes, the agent to the

estates; a mixture of sportsman, man of affairs and sycophant, never

altogether at ease with his host and, in consequence, rather overdoing

the assumption of such a state. Below the little party was a vast

expanse of polished but empty mahogany, for dinner had been served in

the great banquetting hall where places had often been laid in the past

for as many as sixty guests.

Rawson, the butler, ponderous yet light-footed, emerged from the shadows

of the apartment, carrying a second decanter of the port which they had

been drinking. He placed it reverently before Sir Bertram, who lifted it

first to the light, poured a little into his glass, sipped it and then

passed the decanter on to his son.

"Excellent!" he pronounced. "Almost as good a bottle as the first. A

wonderful bin! Henry--my dear Henry!"

His brother handed the decanter across the table to Borroughes.

"You are aware, Bertram," he said, "that two glasses of wine after

dinner are all I care for."

His speech was rather like that of an old-fashioned lawyer--prim, a

little clipped, extraordinarily precise. Sir Bertram sighed.

"I wonder whether there is anything in the world," he murmured, "which

would ever induce Henry to diverge from a habit?"

"It is less prejudice than a partiality," the latter pronounced. "Two

glasses I enjoy. More, so far as I am concerned, bring me no pleasure. I

agree with you, Bertram, that it is an excellent bin. I always enjoy

this wine, and I have been happier than usual in drinking it this

evening, on account of our pleasure in welcoming Gregory home again."

"Tell me about our new tenants at the Great House," Gregory enquired

presently, addressing Borroughes.

"Very desirable--very desirable indeed," the latter replied, delighted

at the chance of entering into the conversation. "Mr. Endacott,

curiously enough----"

"Endacott!" Gregory interrupted. "Did you say Endacott?"

Gregory, whose first enquiry had been a casual one, had set down the

glass which he had been in the act of raising to his lips and was

staring at Borroughes incredulously; staring at him and yet through him,

convinced in his heart, suddenly realising what had happened.

"Yes, Ralph Endacott," Borroughes continued. "Curiously enough, he

belongs to an old Norfolk family, although he has lived all his life in

China. Madame de Fourgenet, whom every one round here calls 'Madame', is

his sister. He is a great Oriental scholar, I believe. A famous man at

Oxford, in his day. Then there's his niece--Miss Claire Endacott--very

good-looking girl. That's all the family. They have taken the place just

as it stands, furniture and all, for three years."

"And paying the full rent, too, thank God!" Sir Bertram added. "I meant

to have told you, Gregory, but we've scarcely had a minute together yet.

You met the old chap in China, didn't you, and of course you travelled

home as far as Marseilles with the girl."

"Mr. Endacott was a partner in the great Eastern firm of Johnson and

Company, with branches at Alexandria, Tokio, and at several places in

China," Mr. Borroughes went on. "I made use of his banker's references,

and was given to understand that he was a man of great wealth."

"He knew to whom the property belonged before he took the house, I

suppose?" Gregory enquired.

"Naturally," the agent replied. "It was his sister who wrote to him

about it."

"Quite a remarkable coincidence your having come across him in China,"

Sir Bertram observed, moving the decanter once more towards his son. "I

wonder if he knows anything about your new possession, Gregory?"

"He knows more about it," was the somewhat grim response, "than any

other man breathing. His firm, as a matter of fact, bought the twin

Image from one of the robbers who held up and looted the train from

Pekin."

"A small world indeed," Sir Bertram murmured. "Tell us more about your

coming into touch with these people Johnson and Company. I am

interested."

Gregory glanced into the shadows. Rawson was out of sight at a huge

sideboard only dimly visible at the other end of the room, and the

footmen had already departed.

"Well, I've told you, haven't I, the story of my rescue on the river by

Wu Ling?" Gregory proceeded. "It seems this fellow is one of the firm

and does all the native trading for Johnson and Company. Naturally I

called upon him before I sailed and found him in their warehouse--the

most astonishing place! I told him of what had happened to poor Hammonde

and that only one of the Images had turned up. He listened to my story

without a smile or a single word. Then he took me into a sort of holy of

holies the firm had--a secret treasure house at the back of the

warehouse, filled with a marvellous collection of curios--turned on the

electric light--what an amazing anachronism it seemed!--and there,

smiling at me, was the other Image we looted from the temple, and which

had been stolen from the train--the one they called the Soul."

"My ethical sense," Sir Bertram observed, "in the question of 'meum and

tuum', has always been a little elastic, but did you possibly suggest

that he was a buyer of stolen goods?"

"My previous acquaintance with Wu Ling saved me from wasting my breath,"

Gregory replied drily. "From what he said, however, I gathered that he

did not immediately, at any rate, intend to dispose of the Image."

"Mr. Endacott mentioned in the course of conversation," Borroughes put

in, "that the business, although it had been immensely prosperous, was

being wound up. The Image that you are speaking of, therefore, is

certain some time or other to come upon the market."

Sir Bertram rose to his feet.

"We will have our coffee served in the library," he suggested. "Then we

can pass into Henry's sanctum and examine our new possession. You

haven't seen it yet, Borroughes, have you?"

"Not yet, Sir Bertram."

They left the room, crossed a fine tapestry-hung hall, and entered the

great library with its arched roof and famous stained-glass window; a

room of magnificent proportions. There were bookshelves reaching to the

ceiling, and opposite the fireplace a wonderfully carved Jacobean

sideboard on which coffee and liqueurs were already arranged. They

lingered here for a few minutes. Then, with a brief word of invitation,

Sir Bertram led the way to an inner door.

"You don't mind our invading your sanctum for a minute or two, Henry?"

he asked, looking round towards his brother.

"By no means," was the slightly formal reply. "I was expecting your

visit."

They passed through into a much smaller apartment, furnished with the

most complete and unexpected severity. There was a touch even of

monasticism in the bare, white stone walls, the high oriel windows and

the furniture of austere shape and design. Here, again, were bookcases,

containing, however, works of a different order from the calf-bound

volumes in the library. There were books on heraldry, on china, on

silver, on ancient furniture, books on all the various forms of art,

starting from the Renaissance, to the most modern period, and one entire

shelf was taken up by manuscript records, each stamped on the outside

with the arms of Ballaston. On a pedestal of black oak, standing in the

farther corner of the apartment, was the Image of the Body. Henry held a

lamp above his head and the four men looked at this new family

possession in silence.

"As a specimen of allegorical carving," Sir Bertram mused, "it is a

marvellous piece of work. One could conceive that this might be the

countenance of a man, even of a god, from whom every element of

spirituality was entirely absent."

"A piece of work of great constructive merit, I have no doubt," Henry

Ballaston observed. "As a subject for daily contemplation, I find it

displeasing."

"Most people would, I think, agree with you, Henry," his brother

conceded. "All the same we must not forget, the family fortunes being

what they are, that, although the expert whom we have had down rather

scoffs at the idea of there being jewels concealed inside, he expressed

his opinion that the Image as it stands, with as much of its history as

one would like to make known, is probably exceedingly valuable."

"A specimen of your purchases in China, Mr. Gregory?" Borroughes

enquired.

"I didn't buy it; I stole it," was the young man's cool reply. "One does

that sort of thing over there. I stole two of them. My friend and

accomplice had his throat cut, however, and only one of the Images got

through to the coast--the wrong one, I am afraid."

The agent looked doubtfully at his young host. It was a continual source

of discomfiture to him that he never knew when a Ballaston was in

earnest.

"I give you all warning," Gregory continued, "that this Image when

separated from its companion is a pretty dangerous possession. According

to the legend it is supposed to have a debasing and malevolent effect

upon its owners."

"Well, there's only Henry in this house to be corrupted," Sir Bertram

observed, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. "Nothing could make my

reputation in the County worse than it is, could it, Borroughes?"

The agent looked uncomfortable. He was a person who laughed a great deal

but who was utterly devoid of a sense of humour. Henry Ballaston frowned

in troubled fashion.

"Your life is not a careful one, Bertram," he said, "and you are not

exactly a pattern to your neighbours. Actual wrong-doing, however, is a

different thing. No man yet has ever found opportunity to say a word

against the honour of a Ballaston."

"That may come," his brother predicted, stretching out his hand towards

the cigarette box. "We can't go on much longer without money, can we,

Borroughes?"

"It is a difficult proposition, Sir Bertram," the agent replied gravely.

"Swindling to a city millionaire is second nature," Sir Bertram sighed;

"financial acumen, I believe it is called. A county squire, however,

finds few opportunities.--Off already, Borroughes?" he added, as the

latter approached with outstretched hand.

"If you will excuse me, Sir Bertram. It's a darkish ride home and I have

a sale in Norwich to-morrow and some accounts to look through to-night.

Glad to see you back again, Mr. Gregory. Good night, Mr. Ballaston."

"I will accompany you to the door," Henry Ballaston announced, rising to

his feet. "I may possibly not return," he added, turning to his brother.

"You will naturally have a great deal to say to Gregory."

The two men left the room together. Gregory took an easy-chair with his

back to the Image. His father refilled his glass with liqueur brandy,

drew a box of cigarettes to his side and seated himself opposite his

son. These were almost their first few minutes alone.

"Well, Gregory, old man, you couldn't quite bring it off then?" he

observed.

"Not quite, sir," his son acknowledged. "We did our best."

"No doubt about that. You had a narrow shave of it, as it was."

"And all for nothing, I am afraid."

Sir Bertram rose to his feet.

"I'm not so sure about that," he rejoined. "The man they sent down from

Christie's spent over an hour examining that Image. I've never seen a

fellow so interested in my life. He had to give it up in the end, but he

wasn't any more satisfied than I am."

Sir Bertram had wandered off into the other room, lifted the Image from

its pedestal and, bringing it back, placed it upon his knee. The

lamplight flashed upon its black, polished surface. To Gregory, its

expression seemed, if possible, even more vicious than ever.

"Gregory," his father continued thoughtfully, "you know who told me the

story. He was a man absolutely incapable of falsehood, and he knew what

he was talking about. He was the greatest man in China in those days. I

am as certain as I sit here that either this Image or the other one

contains the whole of the treasure of the temple."

"Why not have this one broken up?" Gregory suggested.

"And risk getting blown to pieces?"

The young man shook his head.

"A bit too thick, that," he protested. "I have a wonderful amount of

faith in the story, but I should think any explosive that was ever put

inside there would be a little mouldy by this time."

"I'm not so sure," Sir Bertram reflected. "Those priests were always

devils at protecting themselves against marauders. Besides, in any case,

the thing as it stands is worth something."

"Let's sell it then?" Gregory proposed eagerly.

His father's eyebrows were slightly uplifted.

"Has the old gentleman been exercising his malevolent influence upon

you?" he enquired, with a faintly sardonic smile. "Is that why you sent

it me home in such a hurry?"

Gregory frowned gloomily.

"I simply know that I detest it," he declared vigorously.

Sir Bertram's expression, cynical only at first, suddenly developed

humorous qualities.

"One might almost imagine you terrified by the superstition, my ingénu

son," he murmured, turning the Image around and gazing into its

features. "Gad, you're ugly, though! Different style, of course. Our

vices are, after all, the vices of gentle people. Here we have an

eloquent personification of brutality and bestiality. In real life I

doubt whether this fellow would even be able to conduct an orgy with

distinction."

"Put the damned thing down, Father," Gregory begged suddenly. "I lived

with it for three weeks and I hate it like hell."

Sir Bertram strolled into the inner room and replaced the Image upon the

pedestal. Then he came back to his son and laid his hand for a moment

upon his shoulder.

"Gregory," he said, "you're not going to tell me in cold blood that you

actually believe in the superstition."

"Of course I don't believe, but listen. I wanted the other Image.

Johnson and Company wanted mine. I wouldn't sell--not likely, after all

we'd been through. It was no good their naming a price for theirs,

because we had no money. Do you know what Wu Ling, the Chinaman who

rescued me and who apparently is one of the principals in the firm,

suggested?"

"Well?"

"He offered to gamble with me--the winner to have both statues."

"How like a Chinaman," Sir Bertram murmured. "It was a good sporting

offer, anyway."

"He got a pack of cards," Gregory continued. "Well--he won! I was to

send this Image back from the steamer. I swear that when I left the

warehouse I meant to do so. I had lost fairly, I suppose, and it seemed

to me from the first like a debt of honour. I returned on board the

ship. Then I looked at the Image and looked at it, and somehow the thing

didn't seem so clear to me, and--damn it, I sent the coolies away and

kept it!"

"Anything else?" Sir Bertram asked, after a moment's pause.

"Yes. You know that this man Endacott's niece was on board on her way

back to England--Madame's niece, too, I suppose, by-the-by. Lord, what a

mess-up!--Dad, we talk about most things pretty nakedly to one another,

but we don't often talk about women."

"One doesn't," his father murmured.

"Listen then," Gregory went on. "She is young, entirely innocent,

entirely adorable. I like her better than any girl I have ever come

across in my life. We became great friends. Then we danced at night. You

know what that means when you get near the Red Sea, and the Canal, and

all the rest of it. Of course you do. We danced every evening, and all

the time, down in my stateroom, that Image was leering at me. I began to

feel that I was losing control of myself. I tried to keep away from her.

She wouldn't have it. I made an ass of myself once and she forgave me.

She thought that she herself had perhaps misunderstood. I was so ashamed

of myself that, fortune or no fortune, I tried to throw the damned thing

overboard."

"And what happened?"

"It pitched in an outslung boat and was brought back to me," Gregory

explained grimly. "Afterwards--well, I offended again."

Sir Bertram sighed.

"I suppose God gave us the instincts," he murmured, "but the devil has

toyed with them since."

"She scarcely spoke to me again," Gregory concluded, "except out of her

sweetness when we met face to face on the dock at Marseilles. It was

because of her I went on to Monte Carlo, instead of coming straight

home, and of course I won. I played baccarat at Rome and won again. I

brought home more pocket money than I ever had before in my life. But I

hate that Image like hell. Now you know everything."

Sir Bertram moved to the sideboard, helped himself to a whisky and soda,

and returned to his place.

"Confidence for confidence," he said, stretching himself out

comfortably. "I'm not going to even comment upon your little confession,

Gregory, because I don't know what sort of a fellow your friend Wu Ling

was and I've never seen a Chinaman yet I'd trust for five seconds with a

pack of cards. I've bad news for you, though, I'm afraid. We are pretty

nearly broke. We can't go on more than a few more months."

"As bad as that!"

"I don't know how it is," Sir Bertram continued, "but luck always seems

against the gambler who takes the big chances--especially when it really

matters. If any man knows the points of a horse, I do. If there's any

amateur understands racing, I do. I bought my yearlings right. I trained

with Sam Roscoe, and there's none better, and the luck of old Harry's

pursued me this year, just as it did last. Up to three days before the

race Little June--you remember her--was favourite for the Derby. When

you left England you know what I was doing. I wasn't waiting for

starting price. I put on all I could at long odds. I got forty, thirty,

twenty, and at eighteen I left off. Then, without any rhyme or reason in

the thing, she went lame. She's done for. She'll never race again. It

isn't worth telling you the whole story. I've finished--haven't a horse

left. And I still owe Roscoe a thousand or two. You know old Mason, the

bookmaker--well, I owe him seven thousand. 'Pay me when you can, Sir

Bertram,' he said, 'and shake hands on it.' And I shook hands with him,

but, Gregory--God forgive me--I've never paid him. The lands bring us in

about thirteen thousand, taxes five thousand, interest on the mortgages

a little more than the rest. Query--how do we live? God knows!"

There was a short silence. Gregory had thrown away his cigarette and his

hands were clenching the arms of his chair. His face was set. The ghost

of this threatened horror had risen up between them.

"It means breaking the entail, I suppose?" he muttered at last. "You and

I can do it."

Sir Bertram rose to his feet, fidgeted for a moment upon the hearth-rug,

then stooped down and laid his hand upon his son's shoulder. So far as

it was possible for him to show emotion, he was showing it then.

"My lad," he said, "I am the sixteenth baronet. You would be the

seventeenth. Sentiment, but hell all the same, isn't it? And, mark you,

before we can sign the papers, I swear that Henry will shoot us. He's

living in a panic. I feel his eyes upon me wherever I go."

"Is there any other way out at all?" Gregory asked despairingly.

His father once more disappeared into the inner room and returned

carrying the Image.

"Gregory," he confided, "I believe in the legend. If the jewels aren't

in this one they are in the other."

There was something in Sir Bertram's eyes which spoke of

enterprise--something definite to be attempted. Gregory responded to it

at once.

"I'll go back to China and have another try if you say so," he declared.

Sir Bertram glanced round the room as though he feared a listener. His

voice, which was always low, became a whisper.

"You needn't," he confided. "The Soul is up at the Great House."

CHAPTER II

Ralph Endacott, erstwhile professor of Oxford University and partner in

the great Oriental house of Johnson and Company, now an English country

gentleman, sat before wide-flung French windows leading out on to the

lawn, sunken gardens and miniature park of the Great House at Market

Ballaston. In front of him was an oak writing table upon which were pen

and ink and a steel-clamped coffer, apparently of great age but attached

to which was a modern Bramah lock. Upon the blotting paper were a few

sheets of yellow, unfamiliar-looking, thick paper, covered with weird

hieroglyphics; in his left hand a pair of magnifying glasses. The scent

of the roses from outside had disturbed him in the midst of his labour.

He rang a silver bell which stood upon the edge of the table--rang it a

second time. Claire, a flutter of cool white, swung herself out of a

hammock close at hand and approached lazily.

"What is it, Nunks dear?" she enquired. "You know very well that none of

the servants can hear that bell, only me."

"It was you I wanted," her uncle declared. "Tell me, child, in what

devil-sent spirit of idiocy did I waste all those years in a musty,

God-forsaken country, whose only charm is that no one can understand it

and no one ever will. Was I a fool or am I a fool now?"

She laughed softly, leaning against the side of the open window.

"You were a fool," she decided. "I was a fool too, because I didn't

believe in England. I didn't believe in the green, or the trees, the

flowers, the softness, the rest of it all."

"You were too young to be foolish," he said. "It is only the old who can

find the way to folly. Do you know that during the last few days I have

discovered some manuscripts which, if I had been seated in that

musk-scented den in the corner of the warehouse, with the smell of the

East in my nostrils and the soft, purring call of mystery all the time

in the atmosphere, would have sent me into a state of wild excitement.

Here, to-day, I am gently and pleasantly interested. I have learned

values."

"Tell me about the manuscripts," she begged, passing finally through the

window and throwing herself into an easy-chair close at hand.

"There is a love poem here," he confided, "written in his own

handwriting by an emperor to a singing girl. I shall lock it away. It

was not meant to be read by barbarians. Here are the details of the

first plot to overcome the monarchy, and here," he went on, "is a

document more interesting than any I have yet come across--more

difficult to decipher, because there are priestly words in it and

phrases not used in modern Chinese. However, I have mastered it so far

as to know what it is about. In this atmosphere it is strange even to

dream of it."

He paused for a moment. It was a lazy hour in a July afternoon. Even the

birds had ceased to sing, but there were bees humming amongst the

flowers and the sound of a reaping machine in a meadow on the other side

of the red brick wall. Every now and then the roses bent their heads in

a flutter of the light west breeze and lent wafts of perfume to an air

already sweet with the odour of verbena and heliotrope.

"What about that last manuscript?" she asked.

He tapped the strange piece of thick, stained paper beneath his fingers,

yellow in places, drooping at the edges, covered with what seemed to her

to be meaningless hieroglyphics in the faintest of pink-coloured ink.

"This," he said, "is the letter of the High Priest of the Temple of

Yun-Tse, addressed to the Emperor, and telling him what means he had

adopted for guarding the secret jewels."

"Yun-Tse," she murmured, "the home of the Body and the Soul?"

He nodded.

"These few lines," he continued, smoothing out the paper thoughtfully

with his long, bony forefinger, "to any one who can understand them,

might easily be worth one of the great fortunes of the world."

"What are you going to do with it?" she enquired curiously.

He made no immediate reply, first folding up the letter and replacing it

in the coffer, which he carefully locked. Then he rose to his feet and

led the way out into the gardens.

"Tell me about that letter," she begged once more, as they seated

themselves under the cedar tree.

"Part of the old story, at any rate, seems to be true," he confided.

"Those two Images have always contained a secret hiding place, and

somewhere inside them are stored the jewels of the temple. On the back

of the document are instructions in the cipher of the priests, which as

yet I have not been able to translate. I am not sure that I shall ever

attempt to."

"But why not?" she asked wonderingly.

"If I did," he murmured, "I should know how to appropriate the jewels."

"But don't you want them?" she persisted. "Wouldn't that be very

wonderful?"

He looked up through the boughs of the tree; a worn, tired-looking man,

over whose high cheek bones the skin seemed tightly drawn. In ordinary

European costume he appeared somehow to have shrunken, to have lost

flesh and a certain amount of presence.

"It is nothing," he said. "Since I arrived in England it has cost me

many a weary hour to invest my money. Yesterday I heard from the

accountants who are winding up the affairs of Johnson and Company, and

it seems that there are still great sums to come."

"All made in that strange warehouse!" she exclaimed.

"There and in Alexandria," he replied. "I went out to China, Claire, as

your father may have told you, giving up a Chair worth eight hundred a

year at Oxford, and owning, perhaps, a couple of thousand pounds. I

became sort of unofficial adviser to Johnson and Company simply because

there were things about China which no other European knew. I was very

useful to them without a doubt, and in the end they made me a partner.

Now that we are winding up the business, it seems that my share is worth

something between three and four hundred thousand pounds."

"Amazing!" the girl gasped.

"Here," he continued, "in these few sentences may lie another fortune. I

am an old man, and I ask myself what good could it do to me to place

those secret jewels in the markets of the world, to hang them round the

necks and the shoulders of American millionairesses and the world's

courtesanes? We cannot breathe sweeter air than this, or more delicious

perfumes. We cannot look upon fairer scenes. We could not eat more,

drink more or sleep more. For your clothes and such pleasures as you may

care to indulge in you have already carte blanche. You are not one of

those who will need money to buy herself a husband. So tell me, child,

what could we do with more money?"

"I can think of nothing," she acknowledged.

"Then, for the moment, at any rate, we will let the fortune remain where

it is," he decided, "and keep our fingers unstained from sacrilege. Is

this a fairy prince, Claire, or a very handsome young man in grey

tweeds?"

She drew a little, fluttering breath. Her fingers closed over his.

"Nunks," she said, "it is Gregory Ballaston."

"That is a young man," her uncle observed, "with whom I might have

something to say. Wave to him, Claire. He need not tug at that bell."

Gregory Ballaston, hat in hand, and probably less at his ease than on

any previous occasion in his life, crossed the lawn towards them.

Claire, leaning forward, watched him intently; her uncle with subdued

and somewhat sardonic amusement. His attitude towards them both was

entirely tentative. Claire offered her hand which he took gratefully.

"I have come," he announced, "to welcome you to Ballaston."

"Your obvious duty as our landlord," Endacott remarked, also offering

his hand. "Pray sit down."

Gregory dragged up a wicker chair, with an air of relief.

"When you spoke of settling down in Norfolk," he observed, turning to

Claire, "I had no idea that we might possibly become such near

neighbours."

"Nor I, at the time," she answered. "How beautiful your house is. I

spent quite half an hour this morning looking at it from the other side

of the garden."

"I hope," he said, a little anxiously, "that you are going to give us

the pleasure of seeing you there this evening."

"Your father has been kind enough to ask us to dine," Mr. Endacott

rejoined. "I have just despatched a note, accepting with much pleasure."

"I think you are very generous," Gregory declared, with a certain

contriteness in his tone.

"The adjective seems to me to demand explanation," Mr. Endacott

ruminated.

"You know very well, sir," Gregory continued, "that there are

circumstances which would have justified you in refusing this invitation

and refusing to meet me anywhere."

"Ah!" Mr. Endacott murmured. "That affair of the Image, of course."

Claire rose to her feet. Gregory waved her back again.

"Please listen, Miss Endacott," he begged. "I want you to hear what I

have to say. You know what happened?"

She assented gravely.

"My uncle has told me," she admitted.

"I can assure you, sir," Gregory went on, "that when I left those

extraordinary premises of yours, I meant to send you the thing straight

back. I had one last look at it, however, and the longer I looked, the

more uncertain I felt about the whole business. I kept telling myself

that it was a debt of honour. Then I kept on finding poisonous ideas in

my brain--ideas which I honestly believe I have never had before. I was

parting with perhaps a great treasure just on the turn of a card--a

Chinaman's turn of the card, too."

"You don't suggest," Mr. Endacott began----

"I suggest nothing," Gregory interrupted. "All I know is that my moral

self--if I may use rather a grandiloquent term--was completely upset. I

locked myself into my cabin with the Image. Soon after the ship sailed.

Of course I know," he went on, "this must all sound stupidly inadequate,

but there it is. Superstition or no superstition, I swear that that

Image has an evil influence. I have proved it."

Claire looked thoughtfully up into the trees; her uncle stroked his chin

with an air of profound meditation.

"Well," he enquired, "have you found the fortune yet?"

"Not yet," Gregory admitted. "My father has had an expert down and he

can discover no trace of any hiding place in it."

Mr. Endacott smiled very faintly.

"You must find that disappointing," he observed, "after all your

efforts."

"If the jewels are not in this one," Gregory said, "they are probably in

the other."

"Ah!" Mr. Endacott murmured.

"If it is not an impertinent question, sir," he proceeded, "is it true

that Johnson and Company are relinquishing the business?"

"Quite true."

"Then the other Image----?"

"The other Image is not for sale," Mr. Endacott said calmly.

"Who has it?" Gregory ventured.

"Well," Mr. Endacott confided, "the members of the firm were Wu Ling, a

nebulous Mr. Johnson and myself. When I consider," he continued, "the

extreme measures which you and your friend took to possess yourselves of

these Images--measures, by the way, which may be justified by precedent

but hardly by morality--I can scarcely, do you know, bring myself to

reveal whether it is the domicile of Wu Ling, the possible mansion of

Mr. Johnson in Alexandria, or my very conveniently near abode here,

which might be indicated as the scene of your future adventures."

Gregory was already sunburnt, but he felt his cheeks grow hotter.

"Well, I suppose I asked for that," he admitted grimly. "What about the

Image, which is at present in our possession? To whom do you consider

that it belongs?"

"The firm being now dissolved," Mr. Endacott mused, "the matter perhaps

requires reflection. I will answer you later on. In the meantime, I

shall leave you and my niece to better your acquaintance. My Eastern

habits prevail. I desire to sleep."

He made his way towards the house; a lank, shambling figure, yet not

without a certain dignity in his abstracted movements. Gregory glanced

anxiously towards his companion. She remained seated in her chair,

munching some chocolates from a box.

"Have one?" she invited, holding it out towards him.

He declined, but was conscious of a poignant sense of relief. With the

airy tact of her sex she had demonstrated her position. It was to be

peace, not war; oblivion, if not forgiveness.

"What an extraordinary stroke of fortune it is," he declared, "that you

should have chosen this particular corner of Norfolk to settle down in."

"It makes the world seem a small place, doesn't it?" she remarked,

frankly licking her delicately manicured fingers and placing the lid

upon the box with a great air of determination. "It was my aunt living

here, of course, which decided us."

"Madame," he confided, "has been the one picturesque figure in this

neighbourhood for years. She was always beautiful, and she is always on

the point of being cured. I believe that my father looks upon her as his

greatest friend."

"She is very attractive," Claire admitted. "She wears the most beautiful

clothes I have ever seen. I wonder whether it is a proof of vanity or of

an immense sense of self-respect which leads a woman who spends her

whole life upon a couch to take such pains with her appearance."

"If it be vanity, there is a leaven of philanthropy in it," he observed,

"because every one loves looking at her. Besides, I believe now she

really is going to get well. This new doctor who comes over from Norwich

has performed some wonderful cures. It isn't as though the weakness had

been born with her. It was all the result of that motor accident, you

know."

"It would be wonderful if she got well," Claire murmured.

They talked for a while of trifles; the absence of other neighbours, the

country around.

"When one gets over the spell of this lotuslike existence," she asked

him, "what is there to do here--in the way of exercise, I mean?"

He looked down at the sunken lawn.

"Your tennis court used to be good," he said. "One of ours is quite

playable and there are plenty of golf links a few miles away."

"Where does one buy horses?"

"At Norwich. Dad will tell you all about that. The hunting isn't bad. My

father is master of one of the packs that hunt near here. They begin

cubbing at the end of next month. The shooting parties will give you

plenty of exercise too, if you are fond of walking."

"I like all these things," she admitted, a little more earnestly, "and I

love this garden. The peace of it is almost stupefying. I feel somehow

or other that I should like to grow old in this atmosphere."

"You never would," he rejoined.

She laughed at him. Suddenly she was serious. She leaned forward in her

chair.

"In a few minutes," she said, "I must go in to see Madame. Before you

leave, though, I want to ask you just one thing. What was the chief

reason which made you in the first instance come over to China on that

mad adventure?"

"Money," he answered bluntly.

"But why do you need money? You have the most beautiful home I ever

saw."

He laughed with a bitterness which he took no pains to conceal.

"It is to keep that home," he explained, "that we need money. Perhaps

you scarcely understand the troubles that a certain class of English

people have had to face lately, especially people who come of

extravagant stock, like my father and me. It wasn't pure love of

adventure that took me out to China. It was the hope of saving Ballaston

if I succeeded."

"Is it really as bad as that?" she asked sympathetically.

"Worse," he rejoined. "I believe that my father has finally made up his

mind that there is no chance of saving the place."

She was thoughtful for several moments, affected even perhaps more than

she realised by the note of dejection in his tone. His enterprise, which

had presented itself before to her imagination as a sort of buccaneering

feat, not exactly reprehensible but faintly tinged with sordidness,

suddenly showed itself in a new light. She realised alike the chivalry

of it and the pathos, and how near he had been to success.

"Unless, after all, you discover the jewels," she observed, a little

abruptly.

"I am afraid there isn't much chance of that," he sighed. "Somehow, over

here it seems absurd to take these superstitions seriously, but I can't

get away from the feeling that if the jewels are in existence they will

never be discovered so long as the Images are separated."

She leaned a little towards him.

"The jewels do exist," she assured him softly.

A touch of the old frenzied earnestness came back to him. His eyes

glistened, not altogether with cupidity, but with the adventurer's pride

in success.

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

She hesitated for a few moments. Yet, after all, why should there be any

secrecy? The adventure, such as it had been, was finished. Here in this

quiet backwater of life there seemed something grotesque about it all.

Nevertheless she spoke uneasily, almost reluctantly.

"My uncle has discovered a manuscript," she confided. "The jewels are

there."

"In which Image?" he enquired breathlessly.

She shook her head.

"I cannot tell you any more," she said. "In fact, I do not know any

more. Everything rests with Uncle. If you can persuade him to let you

have a copy of the manuscript or to tell you what is in it, perhaps,

after all, you will find yourself rich again. If I can help I will."

"If one only knew in which Image!" he muttered.

"Why, what difference could that make?" she asked, smiling. "If they are

in yours, well, some day or other I am sure you will be able to secure

them. If they are in his, then I am afraid your adventure will have been

in vain."

The sunlight caught her hair as she leaned once more back against the

cushions. Gregory suddenly forgot the jewels. He was uneasy, unsure of

himself, curiously stirred by an unexpected wave of feeling. His sense

of proportion diminished. There had been a cataclysm and nothing

remained on earth but this old-world garden with its elm trees and its

odorous cedar, and Claire!

"It will never have been in vain," he declared, with a curious little

break in his tone.

CHAPTER III

If at times Mr. Endacott seemed a little out of his milieu at Ballaston

Hall that evening, Claire, on the other hand, was an instantaneous and

gorgeous success. In the Jacobean banquetting hall where she sat at her

host's right hand, her fresh, girlish beauty, with its additional charm

of a constant and piquant enthusiasm, seemed in exquisite contrast to

her majestic but gloomy surroundings; the great, dimly lit room, the

stately rows of oil paintings, the cumbersome but magnificent furniture,

impressive not because of any intrinsic art of selection, but because it

was true to its period and had grown old with the house. Sir Bertram,

whose attentions to the other sex, apart from times of necessity, had

become rarer with the years, was, before the evening was over, proving

himself not only a courteous, but even a devoted host, and Henry, who

voluntarily never addressed a woman at all, actually waited for

opportunities to attempt conversation in his old-fashioned, Thackerayan,

but courtly fashion. Gregory watched her success with complacent

amusement, content with temporary effacement, and resigned himself to

the entertainment of her uncle.

After dinner they entered upon a general and informal exploration of the

house, of the great picture gallery with its shining oak floor and its

circular carved balustrade, leading down to the hall below, the

Victorian drawing-room, its colourings quaintly sweet by the light of

the lamps, its perfume a fragrant mixture of lavender and potpourri,

curiously reminiscent of brocaded gowns, hooped skirts and vinaigrettes.

They looked into the powdering closet on their way out and lingered for

a few minutes on the south terrace, from which stretched a moonlit

panorama of Italian gardens with tall cypresses, broad walks leading

down to the lake. Claire became almost silent. She and Gregory had

drifted a little apart from the others.

"At least," she murmured sympathetically, "I realise now how terrible

the very thought of parting with your home must be."

"It has been ours since 1380," he told her. "Uncle Henry could tell you

the exact date and the name and record of every Ballaston since. I can't

pretend that my memory is as good. I never had much head for detail, but

we are all alike in our love for the place."

"I know I am very ignorant," she said, a little hesitatingly, "but your

pictures--the Gainsboroughs and Corots and Romneys, and all those

treasures too--surely they must be worth a great deal--a very great deal

of money."

"They are all heirlooms," he explained, "just as the land is entailed.

They belong to us as Ballastons only. We could not sell a single

picture. I don't know why I should tell you all this," he went on,

"except that just now and then you seem to think that I was only an

ordinary fortune hunter. I wasn't, you know, really. I went to China to

try to get the money to keep us going. It may have been the wrong way,

but it was the only way I was any good at. We haven't the instincts, any

of us, for making money by legitimate methods."

"You should do like so many young Englishmen," she suggested. "Come over

to the States and marry one of our millionairesses."

He made a little grimace.

"We all, even the worst of us, have our code," he reflected.

"Personally, I would sooner rob a man. Besides----"

She turned towards the open windows through which was an impression of

the faded but stately drawing-room, fine davenports and costly china,

with little pools of shaded light falling upon stretches of carpet

delicately blue, though threadbare in places.

"I think we had better go inside," she said, with sudden decision.

"Nevertheless," he murmured, as he followed her, "there is a 'besides'."

They found the others in the smaller library, standing in a little

semicircle round the Image of the Body. They had evidently only just

arrived, for the door of the main apartment was open behind them and

through it was a vista of liqueur glasses and coffee cups.

"You are an authority, I believe, Mr. Endacott, upon all matters

connected with the East," Sir Bertram remarked to his visitor.

Endacott nodded. He had adjusted his more formidable-looking spectacles,

through which he was steadfastly regarding the Image.

"I think," he admitted drily, "that I might be said to know more about

Chinese art and Chinese objets d'art than any other man alive."

"I gather from my son," Sir Bertram continued, "that you are acquainted

with the history of this particular Image."

"Intimately," was the somewhat sardonic reply. "The fellow statue to

this one--the Soul--was acquired, after the desecration of the temple,

by the firm with which I was connected in China. Their antiquity alone,

apart from their history, makes these twin Images intensely interesting.

They are reputed to have been the work of Yun-Tse, the priest after whom

the temple was named, and to have been fashioned for the purpose of

concealing the jewels and treasures of the temple in times of danger. I

see no reason to doubt the truth of the story."

"Amazing!" Sir Bertram murmured.

"Yun-Tse," Endacott proceeded, "was the first apostle of Chinese

arrestment. He preached the doctrine that China had advanced far enough

along the great avenues of art and science and knowledge. He looked

still farther ahead and he saw that material progress meant actual

retrogression in feeling, in beauty, in genuine achievement. It was he

who started the crusade against foreigners."

"From an æsthetic point of view," Henry Ballaston ventured a little

stiffly, "one can find little to admire in this very extraordinary piece

of work."

Endacott turned towards the speaker, his thin lips protruding.

"Only by contrast with its fellow," he retorted sharply. "It was the

wish of the sculptor, a wish which has been zealously kept through the

centuries, that the two statues shall never be separated. Each is the

complement of the other. Body and Soul commingled make one life. The

artist dragged aside the component parts and separated them. Here in

this one we have all that is gross and evil, unredeemed by any strain of

virtue, and in the other statue there is charity and spirituality

without a trace of the defiling qualities. They are parted now, perhaps

for ever. I cannot say that I regard with equanimity the action of the

person responsible for this deed of vandalism."

There was a moment's silence. Endacott's voice was contemptuous, almost

provocative. Gregory was on the point of speech, but Claire's fingers

suddenly pressed his arm.

"Your point of view, Mr. Endacott," Sir Bertram admitted courteously,

"is easily understood. Yet I am afraid that the spirit of loot has been

rampant in Englishmen throughout history, else the British Empire could

scarcely have existed. And speaking of loot," he went on, "we come to

the one really serious question concerning our possession here. Do you

honestly believe that at the present moment it is as it stands the

receptacle for a portion of the jewels of the temple?"

"I certainly do," was the curt reply.

Again silence; a little tremor of excitement amongst the group. Sir

Bertram laid his long, slim fingers upon the broad, shining edge of the

Image.

"But, my dear sir," he pointed out, "what possible place of concealment

could there be in, say, this particular Image? Examine it as carefully

as you will, you cannot find any sign of a join or aperture."

"The Chinese have with justice been called magicians," Endacott observed

drily. "At least, when they hide they hide. If there had been, as you

remark, any aperture or join to be seen, theirs would have been a clumsy

device at the best."

"If the jewels are there," Sir Bertram reflected, "and we can find no

other way, then the statue must be broken up."

Endacott turned towards his host. His manner and expression were alike

displeasing. The glance which flashed from behind his heavy spectacles

was one of utter contempt.

"You carry vandalism beyond the conceivable limits of thought," he

declared. "The person who could destroy work such as that would deserve

the fate which would probably befall him."

"There are times," Sir Bertram rejoined, "when necessity is compelling.

Let us turn this from an abstract to a concrete discussion. My son

risked his life to obtain this Image and the one which was unfortunately

lost--risked it in the belief that it contained jewels of great value.

Am I not right in saying, Mr. Endacott, that you could, if you would,

assist us in the matter of obtaining those jewels?"

"I could," Endacott replied quietly. "I have at the present moment a

manuscript in my possession which I believe would solve the riddle."

"You will not refuse your help then," Sir Bertram persisted.

Endacott did not hesitate for a moment. His tone was acid, his manner

brusque to the point of rudeness.

"I do most certainly and absolutely refuse," he said. "To have removed

the Images at all from their resting place was an unforgivable action.

This spirit of loot you speak of presents itself to me as an act of

common robbery. I refuse to countenance it. I refuse my help."

There was a brief silence; awkward, yet in a sense dramatic. Henry

Ballaston, who had been standing a little in the background, took a step

forward, then paused. The parchment-like pallor of his face was almost

ghastly. There were pin-pricks of fire in his cold, blue eyes.

Nevertheless, he said nothing. Such words as had risen to his lips he

repressed. Sir Bertram for a moment had looked frankly angry. He too,

however, remained silent. Mr. Endacott turned his back upon the Image

and strolled across towards the side-board.

"May I be privileged," he asked, "to smoke one more of your excellent

cigarettes? After which, I will beg you to excuse my niece and me. We

have the habit of retiring early."

Sir Bertram was at once the courteous host. The discussion was closed.

"I shall not attempt," he said, "to do my few treasures the injustice of

showing them by this light, but I hope, Mr. Endacott, that you will give

me another opportunity of asking your opinion on them--you and your

niece," he added, turning with a smile to Claire. "You know we have

quaint customs in England," he went on. "We have laws by reason of which

we become only the custodians of all our treasures. There are pictures

here of great value and great beauty, and three generations of my family

spent fortunes in collecting china."

"I shall be very happy to see your collection," Endacott assented. "I

know little about pictures; something, perhaps, of china."

"My brother Henry is our showman," Sir Bertram observed. "He gives the

whole of his time to the care of our treasures. By-the-by, my

sister--Lady Annistair--will be here on Sunday afternoon. You will,

perhaps, bring your niece to tea. It would be a good opportunity for a

preliminary inspection."

Endacott accepted without enthusiasm, but with a certain measured

politeness, which was as far as he ever progressed towards geniality.

Gregory escorted the departing guests to the already wide-flung hall

door. Claire made a little grimace at him, as they dropped behind for a

moment.

"I am so sorry," she whispered. "Perhaps he'll change his mind."

"In any case," he answered softly, "thank you for being sorry."

He walked out with them into the scented twilight and Claire waved him

another little farewell as they rolled off in the hired car. When he

returned to the library he found his father and his uncle both standing

before the Image. They turned at the sound of his approaching footsteps.

There was something a little suggestive in their unnatural silence.

"Pleasant fellow, your friend Endacott!" the former remarked easily.

"It is much to be hoped," Henry Ballaston said, in a low tone, "that he

will not persist in his present most unreasonable attitude."

CHAPTER IV

Sir Bertram, very lithe and debonair in his grey flannels and Panama

hat, issued from his front door, whistled to dogs who seemed to come to

him from all directions, and, humming snatches of music from an almost

forgotten Italian opera, stepped down from the terrace and strolled

across the park, keeping as far as possible in the shade of the great

oak trees. Arrived at the boundary he vaulted over the stile, exchanged

greetings right and left as he passed down the village street, and,

turning along the lane to the right, pushed open the gate of the Little

House and knocked at the door with his ash stick. At a word of command,

the dogs settled down to watch wistfully for the end of their vigil, and

Sir Bertram, admitted by an elderly and ungracious-looking domestic,

entered the little hall, where he laid his hat and stick upon an oak

chest, and afterwards passed into the long, low room, the door of which

the maid had opened. A woman lying upon a couch held out both her hands;

long, beautiful hands, ringless and almost transparently white. He

raised them to his lips and drew a chair to her side.

"You grow more beautiful every day, Angèle," was his greeting.

The faintest tinge of colour stole into her ivory pale cheeks, and her

eyes filled with a very affectionate light. There was not a single grey

thread in her carefully arranged golden-brown hair, yet it was obvious

that she was no longer a young woman.

"And you," she murmured, "I listen here sometimes for your footsteps,

and I look down the lane, and I can never tell whether it is you or

Gregory who comes. You are a wonderful person, especially considering

the life you lead," she added, with a little grimace.

"My dear," he said, "we are all the victims of predestination. It is

such a comfortable doctrine that I have embraced it permanently. I am a

Ballaston and Gregory will be one after me."

"So far as that is concerned, Henry also is a Ballaston," she reminded

him.

"Henry," he pointed out, "is not an elder son. It is the elder sons who

inherit the full measure of the virtues and vices of our family. Henry,

I admit, is a freak, God bless him!"

"So you had my relatives to dine last night," she remarked. "Tell me

what you think of my niece."

"The most amazingly attractive young person whom I have ever met in my

life," he replied, with what was for him enthusiasm. "As a rule I find

extreme youth overpowering--a mixture of shyness and precocity, you

know."

"She is certainly beautiful," Madame murmured. "Presently I shall get

used to her and like to have her near me. Just now I find youth a little

depressing. Gregory has altered."

"It is disappointment," his father sighed. "He had a stirring adventure,

though. I suppose he has told you all about it."

Madame nodded.

"After all," she said, "he brought one of the Images home."

"And a lot of good to us it is," Sir Bertram remarked ruefully. "There

is only one man who could help us, Angèle."

"Ralph?"

He nodded silently.

"A most impossible person," Madame sighed. "His feet are on the earth,

his head in the clouds and his heart in China. I am afraid, as a matter

of fact, that he utterly disapproved of Gregory's enterprise."

"Dog-in-the-mangerish, I call it," Sir Bertram grumbled. "You can't say

that jewels collected by the priests of a temple, which have been hidden

for practically a hundred years, belong now to any one in particular. I

am afraid I still have sufficient of the Francis Drake outlook to claim

that they belong to whoever has the courage and the wit to find them."

"The buccaneering spirit," she observed, with a faint smile of

amusement. "You always had it, my dear Bertram. Nothing, I am sure,

except the most rigid sense of honour, has kept you from robbing your

friends."

"I shall probably have to end my days doing that," he sighed, "in some

Continental Spa or other. Another year will see us through at

Ballaston."

She took his hand and held it.

"We won't believe that," she said softly. "Something must happen."

"I don't exactly see what."

"You ought to have married," she declared. "When I think of the young

women--heaps of them with any amount of money--who were in love with

you! You ought to have married again."

"I had the best reason in the world, dear Angèle, for remaining single,"

he replied. "We won't speak of that."

She turned her head towards the window and her beautiful eyes were for a

moment a little less clear. The window looked out on to a very pleasant

strip of garden, almost of the cottage variety, crowded with flowers and

with a long, narrow pergola still hung with roses. Inside, the room

itself, with its grey walls and hangings, its few French etchings, the

cabinet of choice china, seemed to possess also some measure of the

distinction of its owner.

"Bring me my mirror and vanity case from the table, please, Bertram,"

she begged. "Smoke, if you will. You will find your own make of

cigarettes there."

He did her bidding, his head almost touching the ceiling of the low room

when he rose to his feet. Madame busied herself with a very exquisite

little gold case, peering at herself meanwhile in the mirror.

"I have an idea," Sir Bertram remarked, as he lit a cigarette, "that

your brother dislikes me."

"Why?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose he has every reason to, Angèle, from a brother's point of

view, and most other people's, too."

"If any other person said that to me," she rejoined quietly, "I should

be very angry with them indeed. You have given me all that I have had

worth having in life--more than I ever dared to hope for. You give me

now what keeps me alive."

He took her fingers in his and held them. They were interrupted by the

entrance of a maid who brought a little tea table to her mistress' side;

a very dainty affair, with a Queen Anne silver teapot and two Sèvres

cups, thin bread and butter, cream and lemon.

"Miss Besant still going on all right?" he enquired, as soon as they

were alone again.

"She is good after her fashion," Madame acknowledged. "She is a

discontented creature with queer humours, and the usual moodiness of the

unmarried girl of thirty. God knows I'm trying enough! One can't blame

her if she gets jumpy sometimes. She does her best."

"And Sir James," he enquired; "has he been down this week?"

"He comes again on Monday," she answered. "I am keeping up

everything--massage, baths and diet. As a matter of fact, I think I'm

getting fat. Anna and Miss Besant were quite out of breath when they

carried me to my room last night. What do you think?"

She threw on one side the beautiful lace wrap which had covered her, and

her eyes looked towards him with faint, provocative enquiry. He passed

his hand along her arms, and gently over her body. She had the figure of

a thin but graceful child of fourteen, except that her feet and ankles

were more beautiful.

"I see no change in you," he assured her, "during all these years.

Illness seems to have kept you young. Do you know that you are still

very beautiful, Angèle?"

Again the faint flush, the gleam of softening happiness in her face.

"You mustn't turn my head, please," she begged.

"Then I must leave off talking," he replied, "for you are fast turning

mine. Shall I read to you?"

"De Musset, please. The little volume of later poems. I kept them for

you."

He read for half an hour, sympathetically and well. When he laid down

the volume her eyes thanked him.

"You are missing Ascot," she remarked, as he made preparations for

departure.

He nodded. "Between ourselves," he confided, "I owe my bookmaker just a

little beyond the limit of the amount with which I care to allow him to

credit me. I haven't a horse running, as you know, or in training. It

seems to me I shall have to get through the summer on golf and tennis. I

am going to try and keep the hounds, although of course it will be the

last season."

"Poor dear!" she murmured. "And poor idiot too! You know I have money,

Bertram--a great deal more than I need. I don't spend half of it, and

Ralph says there is more to come to me. Why mayn't I help?"

He bent down and kissed her tenderly.

"My dear," he said, "if ever the day comes when I can call myself your

husband, I may accept your bounty. Until then--well, we won't talk of

such matters."

A delicate little wrinkle of dissatisfaction furrowed her brows. She

shook her head at him.

"You are terribly obstinate," she sighed. "You will come on Thursday?"

"Without fail," he promised.

The dogs rose up from all sides as he passed out. He lingered for a

moment to talk to the rather sulky but not unpleasant-looking girl, who

was cutting some roses in the strip of front garden.

"Madame looks well," he observed. "I hope that you are still content

with the neighbourhood, Miss Besant?"

"I like it very much," she assured him.

"If the doctor decides to permit Madame's visit to the Hall next week,"

he added, "we shall have, I hope, the pleasure of seeing you there."

She thanked him a little stiffly. Sir Bertram whistled to his dogs,

gazed for a moment at the high red brick wall opposite, which encircled

the domain of the Great House, and, with a little bow of farewell,

turned towards the village.

CHAPTER V

That evening Endacott, in response to an urgent summons, rose somewhat

reluctantly from his chair under the cedar tree, finished his coffee and

offered a grudging explanation of his departure.

"Your aunt has sent in to say that she wishes to see me particularly,"

he confided to Claire. "Just the hour of the day when I like to rest!"

"What a pity!" she murmured. "Shall I come with you?"

He shook his head.

"No need for two of us to go on a fool's errand," he grumbled.

He crossed the lawn, passed down a gravel path, and, opening the postern

gate, made his way into the lane which divided the Great House and the

Little House. A moment or two later he was ushered into Madame's

drawing-room.

"You did not mind coming, Ralph?" she asked a little anxiously.

"As a rule," he admitted, selecting a chair close to her couch, "I

prefer my evenings undisturbed. Since you expressed a wish to see me,

however, I am here."

His tone seemed scarcely propitious. She looked at him wistfully. The

years, she decided, had treated him hardly. There was little of sympathy

in his face, little left of gentleness. Almost from the first she felt

that her task was hopeless.

"Sir Bertram came down to see me this afternoon," she began.

He nodded without speech, and waited.

"He comes down every other day when he is at Ballaston," she went on.

"No one in the world, Ralph, has ever been so kind to me."

"That," he rejoined, "may be a matter of opinion."

"But Ralph," she pleaded, "it isn't a matter of opinion at all. It is a

fact. I ought to know, oughtn't I? Look at me. What am I but a poor

invalid woman, the victim of a terrible accident. My limbs have been

almost useless for years. Even now I can scarcely move. I am a

depressing sight for any one. What but real affection and kindness could

bring him here day after day?"

"Did kindness," he asked bluntly, "prompt him to take you away from your

husband?"

"Bertram never took me away from Maurice," she expostulated. "Maurice

left me--left me for some Algerian dancing girl, for whom he bought a

villa at Cannes and on whom he squandered half his fortune. All the

world knows that. Bertram brought me back from Paris a crushed,

humiliated woman. It wasn't his fault that he was in the motor when the

accident happened."

"There have been different versions of the affair," Endacott declared

moodily.

Madame's eyes suddenly flashed.

"If you dare tell me that I may not love Bertram--that I do not love

him--that there is any sin in my loving him, then you are a fool!" she

cried. "Of course I love him. No one in the world could ever have been

so wonderful to a woman as he has been to me."

"His reputation," Endacott began----

"Ralph!" she interrupted indignantly. "You are too great a man to talk

such shibboleth. I dare say he has been a roué, and a profligate and a

great gambler. I dare say he has squandered his money, has been reckless

and selfish, but don't you understand, Ralph, he is of the sort of men

who could never treat a woman badly? I wish I could make you understand.

At least, believe me that Bertram has treated me from the moment we

first met--even when I was desperate, willing in my heart to consent to

anything--as though I were a thing almost sacred. He kept my

self-respect alive. I'm a broken creature now, but all there is in my

life worth having I owe to him."

Endacott moved a little uneasily in his chair.

"Well," he said, "we will not dig into the past. It is scarcely

profitable, anyhow. Your message said that you wished to see me

particularly this evening."

"Ralph," she begged, "we have drifted a long way apart, but we were

children together. Can't we talk in a little more friendly fashion?

Can't you look as though you remembered that we are still brother and

sister?"

He took her hand a little awkwardly.

"My dear Angèle," he pointed out, "the very fact that I chose to come

here is proof that I remember it. I returned to England partly for

Claire's sake, and partly because I wished to be near you. I admit that

I did not know that you were living in the shadow and the lustre of the

Ballaston régime, but that is nothing--prejudice, without a doubt. I

came. If I could make your life easier, I would be glad. Is it money? I

have plenty."

She shook her head.

"I want to save the Ballastons," she confided.

"Are they in any particular danger?" he asked coldly.

"You can't have lived here even this short time without knowing it," she

answered. "Bertram's father was a great gambler, and Bertram himself has

gambled. Quite true. He has raced and made a failure of it. That also is

true. He has kept expensive establishments everywhere, spent money like

water, lived altogether beyond his means. All quite true. Other men have

done this, Ralph, who are not worthless, and Bertram Ballaston is not

worthless. Every acre of the estate is mortgaged now. Unless they can

raise money within the next few months there is nothing left for them

but to break the entail, pay their debts and disappear."

Endacott was unmoved, his indifference apparent.

"Would the world be any the worse?" he ventured.

"We will leave the world out," she entreated. "It would break my heart."

"What can I do about it?" he asked, after a moment's pause.

"Perhaps nothing," she admitted. "I do not ask you to attempt

impossibilities."

"What do you ask?" he persisted doggedly.

"Bertram believes," she went on, "that in that Image which Gregory went

out to China to try to secure is hidden a treasure."

"Secure," he sneered, "is a quaint word."

"I won't argue with you about that, Ralph," she said. "The fact remains

that it was a dangerous adventure for a young man and it was undertaken

for a worthy object. He risked his life, didn't he, a dozen times over?

Perhaps he failed. You know best."

"What do I know?" he demanded.

"Whether he really has a chance of finding the treasure--whether the

story is true."

Endacott was silent for several moments, no longer indifferent, gazing

into the lamplit recesses of the room, the muscles around his eyes more

than once twitching.

"Supposing that it is true," he suddenly burst out, his long frame

distended, his thin lips parted so that his yellow teeth almost

protruded, his eyes steely--"supposing it is true that he has, say, a

portion of them in his grasp--the treasures which the priests of Yun-Tse

have collected through all the centuries--what are they but the emblems

of self-sacrifice, the gifts of men aiming towards spirituality, denying

themselves to give to some shadowy god? Think of it, Angèle--century

after century, denying themselves, those poor creatures who lived with

their heads bent to the land, feeding like cattle, living and dying like

sheep, denying themselves for the sake of that strange vein of

spirituality that runs through all so-called heathen races. Is all their

self-denial, all they went through, the result of it all, to go to

reinstate in luxury and prosperity a family of foreign roués and

gamblers?"

"Why go into the history of the treasure?" she demanded. "What about all

the treasures of Peru and Mexico, brought into the old world? Where did

they come from? Who asks? Who cares? What about the adventurers all the

world over, who wrenched from the new countries they risked their lives

to discover, gold and gems and metals and brought them to the

melting-pot of life? You were not always a sentimentalist, Ralph," she

went on, after a moment's half-choked pause. "You know perfectly well

that if the gems are there, whatever their history may be, they are no

good to any one hidden and unseen. If, on the other hand, they belong to

any one to-day, any one family, any one power, they belong to the family

who learned of their existence and whose son went out and risked his

life to acquire them."

"You are very eloquent, Angèle," he observed in a noncommittal manner.

"Every one who believes what they say is eloquent," she rejoined.

He rose to his feet and walked to the further end of the room abruptly

and without excuse. For several moments he looked out of the window,

first across to the red brick wall bordering his domain, and then down

the narrow lane at the end of which half a dozen villagers were gathered

together, sluggishly gossiping. Above the roofs of the village was the

sloping park, but the moon had not yet risen and here was only a sea of

obscurity. On his way back he poured himself out a glass of water and

drank it.

"Angèle," he said, "our lives have lain very far apart. I have seen very

little of you, understood very little of you. Did you love De

Fourgenet?"

"I have loved only one man," she replied, "and I have loved him, not, as

you believe, for his unworthiness, but for his worthiness. De Fourgenet

turned my head for a week--and neglected me for years. I loved Bertram

from the first day we met. He knew it and never once took advantage of

the knowledge."

"I would to God I felt convinced," he exclaimed, almost passionately,

"whether you tell the truth or lie to shield the man you love."

"I tell the truth," she assured him with fervour. "Anything there might

have been between Bertram and myself would have been at my seeking, not

his. He is of the race of evil-doers, if you must call him an

evil-doer--God knows they exist--to whom women are sacred."

Endacott thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and sank almost

sulkily lower into his chair. It was as though he were being convinced

against his will.

"Well," he confided, "here is the truth--as much of it as I know. The

Ballastons have one of the two Images. I have the other. Nothing from a

structural and material point of view suggests the presence of treasure

in their interior, and yet I believe that the jewels are there. For

years there has been deposited with us a coffer of manuscripts which

came first from the Summer Palace of the Emperor and afterwards from the

Temple of Yun-Tse. One of those manuscripts which I am now deciphering

professes to give precise instructions as to how to secure the jewels.

There are only a few passages which I cannot master. I am going to

London in a day or two to obtain from the British Museum a dictionary of

Mongolian dialects, which is the only thing I need to help me to

complete certain phrases. You might think that I could guess at them. I

cannot, because even the manuscript is in code. I need the actual

letters. I believe that the jewels are in one or both of the Images.

Within a week I shall know how to extract them."

She laid her fingers upon his arm.

"Ralph dear," she begged, "when that time comes--you are wealthy----"

He stopped her. For a moment the expression of almost superb scorn in

his face lent him an unusual and unaccustomed dignity.

"Angèle," he interrupted, "you do not understand. If I were a pauper, I

would refuse to supply the material needs of life with the accumulated

offerings of these peasant worshippers. But as it happens, money is no

temptation to me. I am already rich. In fairness the treasure such as it

is should go back to China. If I were a younger, stronger man, the

crowning joy of my life would be to take it back and to choose for

myself how to distribute it. That, however, can never be. I will try to

be fair from your point of view. China has a claim to the treasure. That

young man, Gregory Ballaston, may be said to also have a claim--a claim

which I should never have admitted for a single moment but for your

prayers. Leave it to me. I will decide."

There was between them a long and rather wonderful silence. The church

clock behind the cottages in the background chimed twice before either

of them spoke. Madame was lying flat on her back, her eyes watching the

moon rising slowly over the top of the red brick wall. Endacott, as

though overcome with a curious fit of exhaustion, was seated almost

huddled up in his chair. Finally he rose wearily to his feet.

"I am tired to-night, Angèle," he confessed. "We understand one

another?"

"We understand and I pray," she answered, grasping his hand.

He left the house then and, instead of immediately entering the postern

gate opposite, turned his face towards the village. There were a few

lights burning in the windows of the irregular row of houses, scarcely a

person in the street. He walked to the corner of the lane and looked

down the main thoroughfare. At its further end was a trough and a market

cross, on the stone balustrade of which some boys and girls were seated,

plunged in eloquent silence. From behind one of the drawn blinds came

the sound of a gramophone, and through the open door of the Ballaston

Arms the wheezing of a concertina. Up in the background some scattered

lights flashed out from the far-spread windows of the Hall, the outline

of which was not yet visible. Endacott retraced his steps slowly. In his

ears was a faint tinkling of other music, grotesque, monotonous, yet

thrilling; before his eyes a strange admixture of roofs; beneath his

nostrils an odour which never sprung from the soils of Norfolk; in his

brain a confused tumult of thoughts.

Claire, a little bored, a slim, white figure in the violet darkness,

leaned forward and waved her hand as he entered the postern gate.

"Nunks, what ages you have been!" she exclaimed. "Have you been with

Aunt Angèle all this time?"

"Not all the time," he admitted.

"Where have you been then?" she persisted. "You look half asleep."

He sank back into his chair. Again he seemed to hear the echo of some

tinkling instrument, to find in his nostrils a perfume more pungent even

than the perfume of the cedar tree. To him there was something ominous

in what seemed to be almost a message of recall.

"A long journey," he muttered, a little vaguely.

CHAPTER VI

It was only after he had shown her around the picture gallery on the

following Sunday afternoon that Claire properly appreciated Henry

Ballaston. She listened to his last little dissertation--stiff perhaps

and a trifle pedantic, and yet in its way eloquent--as to a supposed

Romney, with something more than interest, almost enthusiasm. Here was a

man who spoke from his heart of things he loved, and a man whom no one

in the world, meeting him casually, would have suspected of possessing

such a thing as a heart.

"Tell me what first made you love these things so," she begged.

She had seated herself upon the huge divan at the end of the gallery

from which, in the afternoon light, was a wonderful view on one side of

the great oil paintings which lined the staircase, and on the other,

through the wide-flung mullioned windows, a curiously beautiful vignette

of the park with its beech and oak trees, and beyond, at the top of the

slope, the famous home covert.

"I have had no other life," he told her calmly. "At Eton I developed no

tastes either for athletics or affairs. At Oxford they spoke of the

Church. The suggestion was repugnant to me. I had some inclinations

towards Roman Catholicism, but the Ballastons have always been a

Protestant family. I considered the army and discarded the idea. All the

time, wherever I was, I wanted to come back to Ballaston. In the end I

came back. The old librarian here had just died, and somehow or other I

drifted into his place. That was twenty-seven years ago and it seems

almost like yesterday."

"A wonderful life!" she murmured.

"It would have suited few other men," he rejoined. "It has suited me. I

have activities out of doors as well as within. There is scarcely a tree

in the park, for instance, whose history I could not tell you, nor an

acre of the gardens I have not watched through the winter and summer; I

have helped to protect the fruits and flowers from the frosts, and tried

my best to gather in the sunshine for them. Indoors, of course," he went

on, after a moment's pause, "has been the scene of my real labours, if

labours they can be called. I have catalogued the pictures and the

china, the armour and the various curios, after a style of my own, with

the history, so far as possible, of each of the masters, the date and a

copy of such criticisms as have appeared in the press. The catalogues,

you observe, are all written by hand."

She pored over the vellum-bound manuscript book which he had been

carrying, turning the pages, and glancing at the extracts written with

great care in a stiff, clerkly handwriting.

"Why, this must have taken you ages," she exclaimed.

"There are thirty-two similar volumes," he confided. "The compilation of

those alone took me four or five years. I am very fortunate in my

tastes, because, you see, I am not an ordinary custodian. I was born

with these pictures, these Titians, and Corots and Murillos on the lower

staircase, and those others, just as great but with lesser names, that

hang upon the left-hand side of the galleries. On rainy days I have

walked from end to end and seen something different each day and each

day of each year. That is how, I suppose, affection for a home and its

treasures grows. That is how, at any rate, in me has grown up a great

love for this house and all that it contains. It will never be mine--I

do not wish that it should, but I have my share in it. I am a Ballaston

and even if I were turned away--and neither Bertram nor Gregory would do

that--I think that my spirit would still haunt these staircases."

"You make one realise," she sighed, "how we waste our lives caring for

indifferent things."

"The choice is always with us," he reminded her gently. "In youth,

however, there are other tastes and inclinations which it is as well for

us to gratify. For instance, I see they have commenced to play tennis,

and Lady Annistair is looking towards the house. Shall we go down?"

"Not yet," she begged. "I am loving being just here. Tell me some more,

please."

"You are very sympathetic," he acknowledged, "and you see I am disposed

to take advantage of you. Sometimes indeed it is a relief to talk of

one's hobby. Bertram loves his home and the traditions of his family

almost as I do, but he has lived outside, moved in the great places.

They are a sentiment to him, whereas they are a religion to me. And

Gregory too--he is a little like that. It is only natural. To me no sort

of career has ever appealed. I suppose that is why I have filled my life

with this one thing. To-day we have only spoken of and looked at the

pictures, but there are other treasures. Every Ballaston for many

generations has collected china. One day I must show you our collection.

There is something more to be appreciated there than its mere

appearance. I will show you what design can really come to mean, what

age can do to colouring. Then you will laugh at me, perhaps, but I am

almost as foolish about our cellars. I have watched the laying down of

all our clarets mid sherries and ports and Madeiras. Season by season I

have given away or disposed of all of every vintage that disappointed.

That is why every one in the county speaks of the Ballaston cellars. I

cannot, alas, bring the new things which make life so easy and luxurious

to Ballaston. We have no electric light or heating, and I am afraid you

would laugh at our bathrooms. But there are some of our bedchambers

which are wonderful. King James' room, for instance, with the rosewood

bedstead and original damask, and the tapestries which were sent from

the Palace, has scarcely ever been touched."

"Let me ask you something," she begged. "May I? You will not think it

impertinent?"

"Ask me what you will, by all means, my dear young lady," he answered.

"You have come here quite unexpectedly, but you have captured all our

hearts. It will please me to tell you anything you care to know."

"Tell me then--there isn't really any fear that all this may have to

go?"

His face was suddenly the face of an old man. The primness of it, the

self-control, the sphinx-like mouth, all seemed to fall away together.

It was an old man looking at death.

"I cannot answer that question," he confessed, and even his voice was

different, metallic and toneless. "Bertram entered life with great

ideas, and unfortunately his wife, who was a gracious and charming lady,

and who would have been a great heiress, died when Gregory was born.

Then Gregory grew up very much in the same fashion as his father. The

war came and no Ballaston ever knew how to save money, or to save

himself at other people's expense. We are in terrible financial straits,

and all the time there have been fresh mortgages. I myself am not an

expert at business, but I have spent weary days and weeks thinking and

adding up and wondering. Unless there is money soon, it seems to me that

the lands must all go, and the house be sold up."

"It would break your hearts," she said softly.

"It would be death," he answered. "If I could save Ballaston," he went

on, a little added strength in his voice, a glow, although a steely one,

kindling in his eyes, "I would commit any crime on earth. I would kill,

I would murder, I would destroy, I would plunge my soul into immortal

misery to save the vandals from the auction rooms in London from coming

and laying their hands upon the pictures and china and trees, or the

furniture, and tramping about the rooms where history has been made.

Sometimes lately I have awakened in the night and found myself crying

out with fear, found great drops of sweat upon my body, and it hasn't

been a knife at my throat or any horror of that sort, but men with

catalogues, little Jew men with pince-nez, peering at the pictures; fat,

coarse-looking men floundering through the rooms and looking at the

hall-marks of my china through magnifying glasses."

He paused suddenly. When he spoke again he was a different being.

"My dear young lady," he apologised, "I beg your pardon. It is not often

that I let myself go like this. In fact, to tell you the truth, it has

never happened before. Will you excuse me if I hurry you downstairs now?

I know that they are waiting, and I must not monopolise you."

She rose to her feet, still silent, curiously indisposed for speech,

feeling in her youth and inexperience that deep though her sympathy and

even her understanding, she still had no words to offer.

"You see how one gets," he concluded, as they descended the stairs,

"through dwelling on one subject and one subject only. I am a man with

one idea, but for that idea I am willing to live; for that idea I would

be quite willing to die.--Here is my nephew Reginald--a little angry

with me, I fear, as the others will be, for having kept you so long."

A tall, fair boy, Gregory's younger cousin, who had come over from

Annistair with his mother, met them in the hall disconsolately.

"I say," he complained, "I think Uncle Henry has been most unfair. We

are all waiting to play tennis with you, Miss Endacott. No one will play

another set until you come. Gregory is fuming, the tea is cold, and

Mother is quite convinced that you have fallen down an oubliette--there

is one somewhere about the place, you know. You're in disgrace, Uncle

Henry, I can tell you!"

They all strolled out on to the lawn, and Claire made her apologies at

the tea table.

"Please remember my transatlantic weaknesses," she begged. "A house like

this is more wonderful than any museum. It is just illuminating.--No

tea, thanks. Some lemonade and one of those cakes."

Sir Bertram, who had been playing a single at tennis, shook his racket

at his brother.

"Henry," he declared, "you are sent to Coventry. I appointed you showman

with considerable self-sacrifice, and gave you half an hour. You have

been away for an hour and a quarter."

"And we haven't finished yet," Claire insisted. "I have had the most

interesting afternoon of my life. I don't believe there is another house

like Ballaston in the world."

"Did you bring home any treasures from China, Gregory?" his cousin asked

him. "What is that horrible-looking wooden Image in Uncle Henry's room?"

"That's about the only treasure I did bring home," was the somewhat grim

reply. "Worth about a million, I believe, if you knew how to handle

him."

"A most unprepossessing-looking object, my dear Gregory," his aunt

observed. "It may be valuable--I hope for your sake it is, if you didn't

give much for it--but as an ornament it is absolutely repulsive."

"Just what it is meant to be," Gregory confided. "It typifies material

fortune cut adrift from all redeeming inspiration. Material fortune is

the one thing which we do not associate with this house."

"Don't get gloomy, Greg," his cousin drawled. "Here comes my beloved

sister at last. Let's have a four. Aren't you going to play, Uncle

Bertram?"

"The elders," Sir Bertram replied, "are going to watch your prowess this

set."

"A jeer!" Gregory exclaimed. "Don't ever let my father take advantage of

you that way, Miss Endacott. He can give me fifteen and owe fifteen and

beat me when he feels like it."

They trooped back on to the tennis lawn, played, sat about under the

cedar trees, talked and gossiped until nearly seven o'clock. Claire

excused herself from playing in the last set and found a chair near

where Henry Ballaston was seated.

"I haven't thanked you half enough for this afternoon," she said

gratefully.

"I am afraid you must have found me very prolix," he rejoined. "You must

excuse an old man with one idea."

"I think the man with one idea," she answered, "is the most satisfactory

person in the world. As a rule he makes something of it.--You spoke this

afternoon for a moment of Sir Bertram's wife. Tell me more about her."

"My dear, there is not a great deal to tell," he replied. "She was a

little younger than Bertram, very beautiful, and devotedly attached to

him. She was the daughter of the Earl of Rutland, who has an estate on

the other side of the county. She died when Gregory was born. If she had

lived eighteen months longer, she would have inherited a fortune of

nearly three quarters of a million pounds. It was very unfortunate."

"Was Sir Bertram very much in love with her?"

"Very much indeed. In fact, so far as I know, he has only looked

seriously at one other woman since, and she too has come under the

shadow of a tragedy. We are not a fortunate family, Miss Endacott."

"That may come," she ventured reassuringly. "The treasure of the Image

may materialise after all. Somehow or other, I believe that it will."

"My dear," he said, "it is a very fantastic story for a simple-minded

man to believe, but if there's truth in it--if there should be truth in

it, then I must confess that I am moved by the same spirit which

prompted my brother to conceive the expedition and Gregory to risk his

life in carrying it out. If the jewels are there, no superstition, no

confused sense of morality, no fear even of being branded as a

wrong-doer, would stop me for one moment from taking them. In this

matter I sympathise with the more bellicose side of my family."

There was something almost threatening in his words. His eyes were held

by an approaching figure. She looked towards the ring-fence which

bordered the park. Mr. Endacott had just passed through a little gate

and was advancing towards them. In his rather sombre attire and drooping

black felt hat, he presented a strange appearance; an appearance half

grotesque, half sinister. With expressionless face, he shook hands with

Sir Bertram, who came forward to meet him. Although the sun was still

very powerful, his cheeks were colourless, he showed no sign of unusual

warmth.

"I regret my tardiness," he said, in reply to some polite speech from

his host. "I became absorbed in some work. I failed to notice the hour."

Sir Bertram led him away to be introduced to his sister. Claire was

suddenly aware that her companion had lapsed into speechlessness. His

eyes had followed the newcomer's every movement. They were fixed upon

him now in a curious, set gaze. There was an expression in his eyes and

about his mouth, which, for a moment, made her shiver.

"Mr. Ballaston!" she exclaimed.

He did not appear to hear her. Instead, he seemed to be muttering

something to himself. She saw his lips move but heard no sound.

"Mr. Ballaston!" she repeated.

He was himself again. He rose to his feet.

"I beg your pardon," he apologised. "I permitted my attention to wander.

The coming of your uncle reminds me of a task which I still have to

perform."

He left her with a little bow, and turning towards the house, stiff,

formal, precise, keeping always in the middle of the path and ascending

the grey stone steps with measured tread, disappeared a few moments

later through the wide-flung oak doors. She watched him until he was out

of sight, unaccountably disturbed. Then Gregory came and claimed her.

There was to be still another set of tennis.

CHAPTER VII

Endacott laughed cynically but not altogether unkindly when Claire had

finished her carefully prepared little speech that night after dinner.

Their coffee had been served as usual out of doors under the cedar tree

and Claire had returned with her uncle to the study, still pleading the

cause which the events of the afternoon had made to her almost vital. He

went at once to the sideboard and helped himself to a whisky and soda.

"It is fortunate, Claire," he said, "that I am a person of even

temperament; fortunate for you, perhaps, that I appreciate your presence

here and your companionship so much. I have listened to you, I think you

will admit, with patience. I shall now be as frank with you as I was

with your Aunt Angèle last evening."

He took a long gulp of his drink, uncovered a tobacco jar and filled his

small pipe. Afterwards he exchanged his dinner coat for a dressing gown

which had been placed on a chair in readiness, tied it round him and

seated himself at the writing table. He dragged the steel-clamped coffer

of manuscripts to his side and produced the key from his pocket. He did

not at once open it, however. He swung around and faced Claire.

"You women," he pronounced, "stir my anger with these violent

partialities. God knows your Aunt Angèle has nothing to love those

Ballastons for. Yet she in her pleading was even worse than you. Father

and son, they are both of the same mould; selfish, intolerant, proud,

good to look at, if you will, but parasites in the great world of deeds

and thoughts. I will grant them courage but I deny them principle. I ask

myself in wonder why I find you pleading for them? Well, I know. They

have the gifts women love, the gifts which make women miserable. Fools!

Your Aunt Angèle is a fool! You are a fool!"

"I don't think we are anything of the sort, Uncle," she retorted

bravely. "I can't even see that it is foolish to ask a perfectly

reasonable thing for people whom you like. Sir Bertram may be everything

that you say. I only know that I like him. I don't like bad people as a

rule, but I like him."

"And what about the son?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing, his thin but

bushy eyebrows coming together.

"I like him too," she declared stubbornly. "I was very angry with him on

the steamer coming over, but since then I think that I understand him

better."

"You are not fool enough to be in love with him?" he asked.

She stood for a moment without replying. The hand which was gripping the

back of the chair against which she was leaning moved convulsively. Her

eyes were a little misty, her tone, when she answered, almost indignant.

"That is a horrid question to ask, Uncle," she declared. "You may be a

very learned man, but you know nothing about girls--American girls,

anyhow. We don't fall in love. We leave that to the men. Of course I

know that Gregory Ballaston is of the same type as his father and they

naturally are not the type which would appeal to you, but I like him. I

like to play tennis with him, I like to have him talk to me, I like his

friends. He treats me charmingly. And I love dear Mr. Henry. I have

never spent a more interesting hour than I spent with him this

afternoon. He is delightful--a wonderful personality. To me it is a

tragedy to think that they are going to lose their home. If the story of

this treasure is true and you can help them to get the jewels, why don't

you? You don't want the money. You said the other day that you had more

than enough. They have one of the Images. The other one Gregory risked

his life to obtain. You don't want yours. Let them have both and tell

them how to get the jewels."

Endacott puffed at his pipe steadily. He had the appearance of seriously

considering the matter.

"You talk well, child," he admitted. "You remind me of your father. You

talk sense too. That pleases me. You shall have the truth from me, at

any rate. I believe in the treasure. I believe that in twenty-four hours

from now I shall know exactly how to obtain it. When I know how, I will

reconsider the whole matter impartially. I promise you that. It is

practically what I promised your aunt."

She made a little movement towards him, a gesture, an exclamation of

gratitude. He waved her back.

"Let me warn you," he continued, "my present inclinations are to devote

the treasure which I may discover to building a university in Pekin for

the benefit of young Englishmen and Americans who wish to study the

inner history and the truth about the greatest nation in the world, and,

if the treasure should realise sufficient money, to build others in

Boston and London for the benefit of the young Chinese. Ask yourself

now, would not the money be better spent in that way than in handing it

over to this piratical, degenerate family, to gamble away on horses and

women and every manner of extravagance; to breed another generation of

dissolute Ballastons who would lead the same life, and another very

likely after them? What do you think, Claire?"

The girl answered without hesitation.

"I would rather the Ballastons had the money."

"You won't argue the matter?"

"I can't. I would rather the Ballastons had the money. A part of it, at

any rate, belongs absolutely to them."

"Although Wu Ling actually won back the statue Gregory took home with

him?"

She hesitated this time, but only for a moment.

"You mustn't be angry with me, Uncle, but I have always had it in my

mind that Wu Ling is a Chinaman and that he dealt the cards."

Endacott sat quite still for a moment, gazing at his niece. Then he did

what was for him one of the rarest things in life: he began to laugh. He

laughed until the tears stood in his eyes, until he was compelled to

remove his spectacles and wipe them. When he had finished, he took

another gulp of his whisky and soda.

"Claire," he said, "you please me. You have done your cause no harm, at

any rate. Now listen. Andrews and the servants know, but I forgot to

tell you. I am leaving for London by the 7:40 train in the morning."

"Going to London!" she exclaimed.

His face, now that the fit of mirth had passed, seemed unnaturally stern

and strained.

"There is still one visit which I must pay to the British Museum," he

confided; "one sentence alone which troubles me. I know where to look

for the key, however. I shall return by the five o'clock train. As I

have promised you, I will then, so soon as I am sure of the treasure,

make up my mind as to its disposition. You had better go to bed now. Let

me repeat that you have done your cause no harm by our conversation this

evening. On the contrary, you have probably done good, but I wish now to

be alone. Good night!"

She came over and kissed him, thankful for that episode of humour,

somehow or other aware of a vein of more complete humanity in him during

the last hour. He accepted her salute perfunctorily, patted her hand and

waved her towards the door. As soon as she had departed, he turned the

key in the coffer.

For at least a couple of hours Endacott worked in peculiar fashion.

Stretched out before him was the sheet of paper upon which he was

writing, above it the manuscript, yellowed with age, which he was

continually studying. On his left were the Chinese dictionary, a

vellum-bound manuscript dictionary of phrases, having the appearance of

great age, and a collection of notes mostly compiled at the British

Museum and secured with a paper fastener. On the sheet in front of him

were set out the letters of the Chinese alphabet. At times he slowly

transposed these. One whole sentence had already taken to itself

concrete shape. Then, in the midst of his labours, he suddenly paused.

His pen remained stiff, his head was upraised. He listened. Outside it

seemed to him that the breathless calm of a hot summer night had formed

the background for a slight noise, the faint rattle of a pebble

displaced; a footstep, it almost seemed. He listened again. The night,

though light enough, was moonless, and he could only see a few yards

through the window. He opened the left-hand drawer of his bureau, thrust

his hand into its furthermost recesses, and drew out a small revolver.

Then he rose stealthily to his feet and hesitated. He had not passed the

greater part of his life in an undisciplined country without learning

certain precautions. To stand in front of that window was to expose

himself, a clearly defined mark for assault, if indeed there should be

marauders about. He leaned over and turned out the electric light,

crossed the room swiftly with the revolver in his hand, and passed

through the window into the garden. He stood still, listening, with his

back to the wall. There was an owl calling plaintively in the little

grove of trees between the miniature park and the kitchen garden. Then

silence--the faint barking of a dog a long way off--silence again, and

at no time anything unusual to be seen. Nevertheless he lingered.

Pebbles can scarcely become detached without human agency. His eyes

tried to pierce the shadows. There was a dark shrub near the wire

fence--or was it a shrub? He was suddenly convinced that it was the

stooping figure of a man. He started forward, crossing the lawn with

swift footsteps which gradually slackened. As he grew nearer he was

disillusioned. The shrub took to itself shape. Its similitude to a man

disappeared. He stood and looked around him. Behind was the gloomy

outline of the house, with one light burning in a top window from the

servants' quarters. Of the village one or two roof tops alone were

visible, but the lights had long since been extinguished. Around him was

a dimly seen vista of trees and shrubs and flower beds, a perfume in the

air--but silence. He walked slowly towards the house, the butt of his

revolver still gripped firmly in his hand. There was nothing to be seen

nor any sound to kindle anxiety, yet he was never devoid of that

uncatalogued sense which bespeaks the close presence of something

concealed, something inimical. He took to walking in circles. He was

imagining always some one stalking him from the rear. He reached the

study windows, however, without tangible sign of any intruder. He pushed

them open and entered. The room was in darkness. He found his way to the

switch and turned on the light. Instantly all his vague premonitions

materialised. The papers upon his desk were in disorder, the curtain in

front of the Soul had been dragged aside, although the Image still

remained there, smiling down upon him. He switched on another light and

looked round the room searchingly, his firmly held revolver following

his eyes. The room was empty. He looked towards the window. Almost at

that moment he heard the soft swinging-to and closing of the gate

leading from the back avenue. The intruder had apparently taken alarm

and departed.

CHAPTER VIII

Gregory, on presenting himself at the Great House on the following

morning, received the news of Mr. Endacott's absence with marked

interest.

"Gone to London, has he?" he observed. "That means that you're left

alone for the day."

"Scarcely a tragedy," she smiled. "There's my aunt across the way whom I

must go in and see some time, a perfectly delightful new piano that only

arrived this morning, dozens of books to read and, if I feel energetic

enough, I am going to practise mashie shots with the club you gave me."

"A thoroughly selfish programme," he pronounced.

"Why selfish?"

"Because it is a solitary one."

"Improve upon it then," she suggested.

"Easily," he assented. "I brought my two-seater round, anyhow, hoping

for the best, but with your uncle away the thing is preordained. I have

given you six lessons at golf in the park. You're doing thundering well,

but not well enough. Let's go to some real golf links."

She considered the matter.

"Where?" she enquired.

"Cromer," he answered promptly. "It may be rather crowded there but we

shall arrive late. We can choose two or three vacant holes, have some

lunch at the club house and motor home another way."

"I should love it," she acquiesced enthusiastically.

"I'll go and tune up the old bus while you get ready," he suggested.

It was a day which she never forgot; a day when all the little things

went right, into which no jarring note of incident or conversation was

ever introduced, when the sun shone, when everything which happened

seemed to become an aid to further content. They motored lazily along

the country lanes to the links, where Gregory was obliged to go and

fetch the professional to see his amazing pupil. Afterwards they

selected clubs, lunched, sat on the terrace for a time and motored by a

devious way homewards. A mile or so from Ballaston, just inside the

park, crossing which had afforded them a short cut, he stopped the car

in the shadow of a great beech tree. She looked at him enquiringly.

"Puncture?"

"Sheer fatigue," he rejoined mendaciously. "Great strain driving a car

like this. Do you mind, just for a moment?"

"Why, surely not," she answered, leaning back and taking out her

cigarette case. "It's perfectly delightful here. Won't you smoke?"

He shook his head.

"Not just for a moment," he answered, looking straight at the mascot

upon the bonnet of his car. "I want to talk and I'm a jolly bad hand at

it, anyway."

"You're not so hopeless," she assured him encouragingly. "You can go

straight on. I'll help you out when it's necessary."

She spoke lightly enough but already a queer little sense of excitement

warned her to keep her face turned away from his. The things which he

might say seemed incredible. She was passionately anxious and yet afraid

to hear them.

"You see, Miss Claire," he began, "I made a jolly bad start with you and

that makes me extra careful. I never thought I was going to turn

superstitious, but I can assure you of one thing--I haven't trusted

myself alone in Uncle Henry's room with that Image since I got back."

"I hope your Uncle Henry's behaviour," she began, with a faint smile----

"Oh, don't chaff," he interrupted. "I think it would take the devil

himself to persuade Uncle Henry to step out of the narrow paths. This is

what I wanted to say--Claire."

He paused again, unrebuked. His eyes looked up the avenue towards the

house. His slim fingers played nervously with the steering wheel.

"We're in for a big family smash, we Ballastons," he confided. "What

little there is left when it comes will have to go, of course, to the

governor and to Uncle Henry. For me there won't be anything. I'm not

complaining. I'm young enough still. I have wonderful health and,

although I'm an ass at all the things that money's made out of, I can

ride, I understand farming and horses and all that sort of thing. I have

made up my mind what to do. I am going out to Canada."

"Canada!" she murmured under her breath.

"Yes. I know some fellows there who are doing quite decently. I shall be

able to get just the sort of start I want. Now of course," he went on,

"under the circumstances, I ought not to say what I'm going to say to

you, but I am going to say it all the same. I asked you to marry me

once, Claire. It wasn't any good, of course. You had only seen the

rotten side of me then, but you understood. To-day I can't ask you to

marry me, but I want to tell you that I have all that feeling which a

man should have when he asks such a thing, and ten thousand times more

than most men have."

He paused again. She said nothing. Her face was turned even a little

farther away. He went on.

"Of course, I've done no particular good in the world--have been all

sorts of a rotter from one point of view--but I've kept moderately

straight about girls and here's the truth, anyhow. I never came near

caring for one before, and I love you."

"Gregory!" she whispered.

At the sight of her eyes, the sound of her voice, he was suddenly swept

almost off his feet. It was amazing.

"Sweetheart, you mustn't," he begged, holding her hand firmly. "I know

I'm doing wrong to tell you. On the other hand, it seems to me that I

would be doing wrong if I went away and you didn't know. So there you

are! I can't ask you to marry me, but I'm going to work like a horse as

soon as I get away, and if I have any of the luck of the Ballastons they

used to talk about, I shall only value it for one thing. I'm not asking

you for anything--not for a thought even, much less a promise--but if at

the end of a few years I see my way--I wonder----"

"You dear thing, Gregory," she interrupted. "Kiss me at once."

"You know I didn't mean this, Claire," he said, a little remorsefully,

as he stopped the car at the gates of the Great House.

"I hoped you did," she answered demurely.

"Idiot!" he smiled. "Remember, we're not engaged. You haven't promised

anything. You've been sweet and dear and given me just the stimulus for

work I needed."

"Supposing," she whispered, "that you found the treasure; you might not

have to go to Canada."

He shook his head gloomily.

"I daren't trust myself to think about that," he said. "Your uncle seems

to have made up his mind not to help us, and I'm beginning to lose faith

in the whole story."

"Still," she persisted, "if the story should turn out to be true--and

Uncle believes it--your home might be saved, and you would not have to

go abroad at all."

"It would be wonderful," he admitted.

"Don't give up hope then," she whispered. "Uncle was quite sweet to me

last night--absolutely different. He's gone to London--but there,

perhaps I ought not to tell you. Just wait. Something pleasant may

happen, after all."

The door was thrown open by Andrews, the butler. She gave Gregory her

hand which he held for a moment and raised to his lips. Her farewell

glance lingered long in his memory.

CHAPTER IX

Endacott, although abstracted, seemed for him to be in an almost genial

frame of mind when he obeyed the summons of the evening gong and,

meeting Claire in the hall, waited to enter the dining room with her.

"A tiring day, Uncle?" she asked him.

"Not particularly," he answered. "I made only two calls. Phillpots kept

me some time at the British Museum, or I could really have caught the

earlier train.--How is the piano?"

"I haven't tried it," she admitted.

"Your aunt all right to-day?"

"More confessions, Uncle. I haven't even seen her."

Endacott, as he took his place, removed his spectacles for a moment,

rubbed his eyes wearily, and then looked across at his niece.

"What have you been doing all day then?" he demanded.

Claire summoned up all her courage.

"Mr. Ballaston called for me and I went over to the Cromer Golf Links

with him," she confided. "I had a lesson at golf, some lunch, and

afterwards we came home through Blakeney."

Her uncle, rather to Claire's surprise, made no comment. The service of

dinner appeared to interest him more than usual, and he certainly ate

with appetite.

"Railway travelling agrees with me, I think," he remarked. "I feel that

I shall enjoy working this evening. After dinner I shall have a pipe on

the lawn with my coffee, and then--the half-hour which I have been

looking forward to for so long."

"Did you get what you wanted from Mr. Phillpots?" she asked him, with a

queer little note of eagerness in her tone.

"I did," he admitted. "Unless I am very much mistaken, I can fill in all

the missing spaces in that manuscript within an hour. By-the-by, Claire,

you didn't come down again last night after you had gone to bed, did

you, or hear anything unusual?"

She shook her head.

"I was much too sleepy. Why?"

He toyed nervously with some bread upon his plate. His eyes sought hers

almost furtively.

"Just an idea," he said. "I left my work for five or ten minutes and

walked around the garden. When I came back, my papers were all

disturbed."

"I didn't stir out of my room after I went upstairs," she assured him.

"Was anything missing? Were there any papers there that mattered?"

"As it happened there were not," he replied. "If it had been

to-night--well, it might have been different, although a manuscript in

Chinese, even though translated, as it will be, would be scarcely likely

to attract an ordinary thief, would it?"

She moved in her chair a little uneasily.

"I should think not," she replied. "In any case, if you were only out of

the room for a few minutes, who could have entered without your seeing

them?"

"Just so," he agreed. "As you suggest, it might have been fancy, or a

breath of wind from outside, or the opening of a door."

"You mustn't sit up too late to-night," she told him. "You are looking

very tired."

He nodded gently.

"All the work I have to do," he said, "will be finished in an hour.

Afterwards I may write a letter while you go in and see your aunt."

His sudden fit of what was for him almost garrulity, left him and he

relapsed into his usual silence, punctuated only by monosyllabic replies

to Claire's remarks. He accompanied her into the garden, however, at the

conclusion of the meal, and whilst they sat together over their coffee

he asked her an abrupt question.

"How old are you, Claire?"

"Twenty-one," she told him, "twenty-one last May."

"You are a sensible girl," he went on. "When I heard that I was going to

have a niece to look after and that she was coming out to China for me

to take her to England, I must confess that I was terrified. Such an

upheaval in my daily life seemed to me calamitous. I have been agreeably

surprised. Your coming has been a pleasure to me, Claire. I only wish

that you had come before."

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. It was the first time he had ever

spoken to her in such a fashion.

"I am a poor adviser for a young girl," he continued, a little

regretfully, "and I am afraid that your aunt is hopelessly prejudiced in

the matter. I cannot bring myself to believe, however, that the society

of this young man, Gregory Ballaston, is a good thing for you. I

distrust the family ethics. I cannot help thinking that he is hoping

through you to arrive at the information which so far I have refused his

father and his uncle."

"I was with him for several hours to-day, Nunks, and he never even

mentioned it," she ventured. "He is going out to Canada in a month or so

to earn his own living."

Endacott sighed.

"I am full of prejudices," he confessed. "The last twenty years of my

life have been spent in abstractions, have passed like a dream, away

from the world which counts, which one ought really never to lose sight

of. I should be an ill-adviser to any one.--Go and play something."

Claire disappeared into the house and soon the sound of her music

drifted out in little ripples of melody through the perfumed stillness.

Her uncle listened for some time without any sign of pleasure or the

reverse. Then he rose to his feet and looked up across the roofs of the

village, over the green slopes in the background, to where a few lights

were slowly appearing from the windows of the Hall. Presently the music

ceased and Claire stole out to him. She passed her arm through his.

"It is a very beautiful home that, Uncle," she said softly. "Don't you

think it would be a sin to have it all broken up?"

"A better race might follow," he muttered.

She shook her head.

"They belong," she said gently.

He turned away with a little grunt and entered his study. For a few

minutes Claire flitted round the garden. There was a nightingale singing

somewhere in the distance to which she stopped to listen. Even the

noises from the village, through the gathering twilight, became almost

melodious. Presently she passed through the postern gate, strolled

across the lane and entered the drawing-room of the Little House through

the wide-flung windows. Madame lay stretched upon her couch, listless

and weary. She welcomed Claire with only the ghost of a smile.

"Where have you been all day, child?" she asked.

"Enjoying myself, I am afraid," was the remorseful reply. "Gregory came

and fetched me and we went over to Cromer."

"How did he seem?" Madame enquired, with a shade of interest, almost

eagerness, in her manner. "Was he very depressed?"

Claire shook her head, thankful for the twilight.

"He seemed very much as usual," she answered; "if anything a little

nicer. I enjoyed my day very much. The only thing I felt was that I was

neglecting you."

Madame made a faint gesture of denial.

"I am very glad to think that you had such a happy day, dear," she said.

"I am glad you came in for a moment, though. I don't know why it is, but

to-night I have nerves. Where is your uncle?"

"Working away as usual at his Chinese manuscripts," Claire replied. "He

went to London this morning and came back at five o'clock."

Madame nodded.

"I saw the car go with him and bring him back. I don't know how it is,

but the sight of every one to-day makes me uneasy. Even Bertram seemed

queer. He sat with me for an hour this afternoon. As a rule he soothes

me. To-day, somehow or other, he frightened me. I feel as though there

were a sort of psychological thunder in the air."

"Aunt, you mustn't let yourself imagine such foolish things," Claire

begged. "Everything and every one is as usual. Uncle, as a matter of

fact, was in remarkably good spirits this evening."

"Can any one help fancies and presentiments, my dear, who lies here hour

after hour, day by day, as I do," Madame sighed. "I know it is silly,

but instinct is stronger than reason, and Bertram, at any rate, was

strange to-day. Every now and then he left off talking and there seemed

to be something always behind his eyes."

Miss Besant entered the room and Claire called to her. She began to make

preparations with firm, capable fingers, for moving the couch. Claire

bent over and kissed her aunt.

"No more morbidness, please," she insisted. "I'll be over early

to-morrow morning. I may have some news for you."

"Your uncle has found what he wanted in London then?" Madame asked.

Claire nodded assent.

"He told me a short time ago," she confided, "that in half an hour he

would know everything there is to be known."

She crossed the lane and passed through the postern gate, gazing

wistfully over the roofs of the village houses towards the park. Her

preparations for the night, when she finally reached her room, took her

longer than usual. It was late when, after she had turned out the

lights, she moved to the window and stood there for a moment looking

out. Suddenly the little reminiscent smile upon her lips changed to one

of actuality, of real and instant pleasure. The moonlight was as yet

faint, but, crossing the stile which led from the park, she caught a

glimpse of a white shirt. For a moment she was tempted. He might be

coming even as far as the gardens, late though it was. Then she looked

back at her neatly folded clothes and shook her head.

"Claire," she soliloquised, "you're a sentimental idiot!"

After which she turned out the light, got into bed and slept soundly.

When she awoke the sun was shining into her room, the thrushes and

blackbirds were singing and there were sounds of unusual movement

downstairs. Still only half awake, she sat up, listening to the

footsteps upon the gravel beneath her window. There were voices too,

muffled, yet agitated. Then she heard one word--a dramatic, horrible

slur against the background of the summer morning.

"Dead!--Cold dead he were!"

For a moment she shook herself. She felt that she must be in a

nightmare. Then she became conscious of the reality of those footsteps

below, the renewed murmuring of awe-stricken voices. She sprang out of

bed. Before she could reach the window, she heard the same hoarse,

shocked voice, with its quaint Norfolk inflexion.

"Shot right through the head, that's what happened to him. Writing there

at the table with his papers lying all over the place. There's a

revolver on the floor. Police Sergeant Cloutson won't have it touched."

She leaned, screaming, out of the window. Amongst the little crowd below

were the village policeman, both the gardeners, and Mr. Wilkinson, the

clergyman.

"Tell me what has happened?" she cried out frantically.

They seemed all stricken dumb.

"Tell me, tell me what it is?" she insisted.

Mr. Wilkinson turned towards the front entrance.

"If you will put on a dressing gown and come to your door," he said, "I

will speak to you."

She met him halfway down the stairs. Her knees were trembling, and she

clung to the banisters for support.

"Tell me what it is?" she demanded. "Is it Uncle?"

"My dear young lady," he announced solemnly, "a terrible thing has

happened. You must prepare yourself for the worst. Your uncle has been

shot through the head, apparently at some time during the night. The

doctor is with him now, but--but he is quite dead."

"Dead!" she repeated mechanically.

"All his papers are in a state of great disorder," the clergyman

concluded. "I am afraid--it is a terrible thing to say, but I am afraid

there is no doubt that your uncle has been murdered."

END OF BOOK TWO

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER I

The new tenant of the Great House, installed within twelve months of its

dramatic vacancy, issued one evening through the small postern gate, set

in the red brick wall which encircled his gardens, into the village

street. This was his first appearance since he had taken up his

residence in the neighbourhood, and he was consequently an object of

absorbed interest to such few loiterers as were about. An elderly

roadmender, who was making half-hearted assaults upon a broken piece of

road with a pickax which seemed too heavy for him, looked up curiously

and touched his hat. The postmistress, warned by a subordinate, hastened

immediately to the entrance of her establishment as though to consult

the church clock. Mr. Franks, the butcher at the corner of the street,

hurried out on the pretext of giving some parting instructions to a boy

who was just starting off on his bicycle with a special order for the

Hall, and Mrs. Moles, who kept a small general shop and was reputed to

know the genealogy, morals and predilections of every one within a dozen

miles around, stared unabashed over the top of her curtains.

The first impressions of the newcomer, to be privately exchanged within

the next hour or so, could scarcely fail to be favourable. Peter Johnson

appeared to be a man a little under medium height, sturdy, clean-shaven,

with bright, steady eyes, humorous mouth, brown, sun-dried complexion

and hair inclined to greyness. He wore a tweed knickerbocker suit, a

Homburg hat; he carried an ash stick, and his age might have been

anything between forty and fifty.

No one was more interested in their new neighbour who was now engaged in

making his leisurely way along the village street, than the three men in

the bar parlour of the Ballaston Arms. Conscious of their own

invisibility behind the muslin curtains, they yielded without restraint

to their curiosity.

"He do seem an ordinary kind of a man," Thomas Pank, the innkeeper

observed critically.

"A sportsman, maybe," Mr. Craske, the grocer, suggested, appreciating

the costume of the approaching figure.

Rawson, the butler from the Hall, shrugged his shoulders doubtfully.

Every one listened for his comment with interest. He was admitted to be

a man of the world and a person of considerable experience.

"I should say not," he decided. "He is wearing the clothes of a country

gentleman, but to my mind he wears them as though he weren't used to

them."

The only stranger in the neighbourhood, a young man of sandy complexion,

of silent habits, and with rather sleepy eyes, who had lodgings in the

farmhouse close by and was understood to be a schoolmaster taking a

prolonged vacation, set down his glass and intervened. He, too, was

watching the newcomer with some interest.

"He is asking for some shooting, Farmer Kershaw told me."

"That don't go to prove nothing," the innkeeper declared. "There's many

as shoots now out from Norwich and the big towns that don't know one end

of the gun from the other. What I say is that it's a queer thing that a

man with no friends around, a solitary man too, by all accounts, should

come and settle in a place like this, and in that particular house too.

Mysterious, I call it!"

"I am of the same opinion," Rawson agreed.

"Hold on, you chaps!" the innkeeper enjoined, in a tone of some

excitement. "He's coming right in here!"

The pseudo-schoolmaster, whose name was understood to be Fielding, was

the only one of the little company who did not show signs of

embarrassment as the latch of the door was lifted, the door itself

pushed open, and the subject of their conversation made his appearance.

The grocer had plunged rather too abruptly into the discussion of some

local topic with the butler, and the innkeeper was too taken aback to

conceal his astonishment at this unexpected visit. Mr. Johnson, however,

was one of those people who carry with them a composing influence and

the slight awkwardness was of very short duration.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he greeted them, glancing around with quiet

geniality. "I should like a whisky and soda, Mr. Landlord."

"That's right, sir," was the latter's prompt reply, as he turned to his

shelf.

"My name is Johnson--Peter Johnson," the newcomer continued,

establishing himself in a vacant easy-chair. "I have come to live for a

time at the Great House."

"Very glad to welcome you here, sir," Mr. Craske assured him civilly.

"Hope you'll find the place to your liking, sir," Rawson put in.

"I am very much obliged to you all," was the gratified rejoinder. "My

first impressions are entirely favourable. I have been a hard worker and

I need a little rest. So far as I can judge, this seems to me to be a

particularly tranquil neighbourhood."

There was for a moment an almost awkward hiatus in the conversation. The

innkeeper and the grocer exchanged glances. Rawson coughed.

"It has always been considered so in the past, sir," the latter

acknowledged.

"This being my first visit, you gentlemen will perhaps join me," Mr.

Johnson invited, as he received his whisky and soda.

Every one accepted the invitation, including the presumed schoolmaster,

who had not as yet spoken. Mr. Johnson observed him keenly from

underneath his rather heavily lidded eyes.

"Are you a native of these parts?" he enquired.

"I am more or less a stranger," was the somewhat reserved reply. "I,

like you, have come down for a little quiet."

"Can't say as your manner of living quiet would altogether suit me," the

grocer remarked cheerily. "The young gentleman's a naturalist, sir," he

explained, turning to the principal guest of the afternoon. "He goes

moth hunting with a net, round the mere side and across to Cranley Swamp

at night. That's not a job as would suit every one."

Mr. Johnson was politely interested. The young man smiled in

expostulatory fashion.

"I am only an amateur," he confessed, "and I only go out odd nights

during the week. I miss my sleep too much."

"You'll not be finding much company in these parts, I'm afraid," the

innkeeper observed, making polite conversation with the stranger.

"There's not so many of the gentry living round as there used to be."

Mr. Johnson showed signs of interest.

"Well," he said, "I'm a great reader and I'm fond of the country, so I

must make the best of it. Tell me something about my neighbours. Who

lives in the long, low house across the way from my garden gate?"

"That's what we do call the Little House, sir," the innkeeper replied.

"It belongs to a poor invalid lady, who don't seem to get any stronger.

De Fourgenet, her name is--or something like that--she having married a

foreigner. But most of the folk round here just call her 'Madame.' She's

an English lady but she have lived abroad a great deal. According to her

letters she do be some sort of a titled lady, but she don't seem to hold

to it herself."

"An invalid, eh?" Mr. Johnson enquired sympathetically.

"They do say, sir, that it's her spine," the grocer confided. "Anyway,

she's mostly lying down. Some time ago they took her to one of them

French places, but it don't seem to have done her much good."

"Aix-les-Bains, it was," the butler put in. "I've been there with my

gentlemen before now. In fact, it was through us, I think, that she went

there."

"Did it do her no good at all?"

"Some say it made a difference and some say it didn't," was the doubtful

reply. "Anyway, there's a physician comes to see her now once a month,

and she has massage regularly from Norwich. It looks as though there

were still some hope."

"Is she--er--inclined to be sociable?" her new neighbour enquired.

The grocer shook his head.

"I'm afraid she isn't disposed that way, sir," he declared. "She and the

Squire have been great friends all their lives, and he visits her

regular, but she don't see none of the other folk round if she can help

it."

"That doesn't sound encouraging," Mr. Johnson commented. "Does she live

quite alone?"

"She has a companion," the innkeeper answered--"a Miss Besant. A nice

proper-spoken young woman, but keeps herself to herself. There was a

niece too--lived at the Great House, she did--but she went away about a

year agone and she hasn't been in these parts since."

"As a neighbour," Mr. Johnson confessed, with a little sigh, "Madame

appears to be a wash-out. Let's hear about the rest of the folk."

"Well," the innkeeper continued, taking a modest pull at his own

tankard, "there do be the vicar, for sure, but he bain't no use to

nobody these days. A man more changed than he I never did see."

"A sombre, silent man he is now, surely," the grocer confirmed.

The butler nodded ponderous agreement.

"He used to dine with us once a week regular, but hasn't been near the

Hall since--not for eleven months. They say that he never stirs out of

his study now."

"I was looking over his garden wall only last night," the innkeeper

observed. "It do seem--the whole place--to be going to rack and ruin.

And he so proud of his garden, too."

"He has had some sort of a loss, perhaps," Mr. Johnson suggested.

"None as any one knows of," the butler affirmed. "He's a widower and

have lived alone ever since he came here. There are some who say that

he's had a falling out with the Squire, but if that be so, none of us

have heard of it."

"The Squire?" Mr. Johnson repeated hopefully. "And who might he be?"

The butler's manner betokened hurt surprise.

"The Squire, sir--my master--is Sir Bertram Ballaston of Ballaston

Hall."

"An old family?"

"The sixteenth baronet."

Mr. Johnson was properly impressed.

"Any family?" he enquired.

"One son--Mr. Gregory Ballaston. Then the Squire's brother--Mr. Henry

Ballaston--lives at the Hall with him," the butler added, after a

scarcely perceptible pause. "Not that he's much company for any one,

though."

"Indeed," Mr. Johnson murmured. "Is he too a recluse or an invalid?"

There seemed to be a marked disinclination to discuss the inmates of the

Hall. The innkeeper looked out of the window, Mr. Craske gazed into his

tankard, the young man remained still almost outside the conversation.

"Things up at the Hall," the butler confided, with some reserve, "are

not what they used to be. There have come a change over the place."

"A change indeed," the grocer sighed gloomily.

Mr. Johnson sensed reserves and prepared for departure.

"Well, I must be tiring you with all my questions," he declared

good-humouredly. "I'm going to ask you one more, though. Is it my fancy,

or wasn't this place--Market Ballaston--the scene of some sort of a

tragedy some time ago? The name--Market Ballaston--seemed familiar to me

directly I read the advertisement, but I couldn't recall what it was. If

it was anything serious, it must have been whilst I was abroad."

They all looked at him incredulously. The innkeeper picked up a glass

and began to wipe it. The grocer coughed nervously. Even the butler

seemed at a loss for words.

"You'll excuse us, sir," Mr. Craske said at last. "This is a very small

place, of course, and when a thing happens right in the midst of us like

what did happen, it seems to us somehow as though the whole world ought

to know about it. Still there was a lot of stir--a lot of stir in all

the London newspapers."

"I am a careless reader of the newspapers," Mr. Johnson confessed.

"Besides which, the last twenty years of my life, up to a few months

ago, have been spent, not only abroad, but a very long way abroad. Fill

up the glasses, Mr. Innkeeper. I have asked you so many questions that

you must allow me to be host once more. Now tell me what it was that

happened here."

They all exchanged glances. As though by common but unspoken consent the

butler became spokesman.

"There was a very terrible murder committed in this village, sir, just

about twelve months ago. A gentleman was killed in the night--shot

through the head, he was--and never a trace of the murderer from that

day to this."

"Good God!" Peter Johnson exclaimed, properly shocked. "I am beginning

to remember something about it."

"It was a gentleman of the name of Endacott, from foreign parts like

you," the butler continued, "own brother to Madame at the Little House.

He hadn't been here very long, but he was a harmless body and well

liked. He had dined with us at the Hall--him and his niece, a very

beautiful young lady--her as Mr. Pank spoke of, being also niece to

Madame--and it seemed as though we were going to become quite friendly.

One morning--there he was--seated at his desk where he used to work at

nights--shot through the head and stone dead, and a box of papers that

was by his side all scattered about anyhow. There was police come from

Norwich, and there was police come from Scotland Yard in London, but

from that day to this they do seem to have been fairly outwitted."

"What a terrible thing," Mr. Johnson exclaimed. "In a small place like

this, too! Where did it happen? Where did you say he lived?"

There was another embarrassed silence. This time it was the grocer who

intervened. There was a note of indignation in his tone.

"If the agent as let the property--Mr. Borroughes, I suppose it

was--said nothing about it, sir, then there's no doubt he was very much

to blame. The murder was committed in the Great House, where you've come

to live. Mr. Endacott and his niece were the last tenants."