cheerfully, as he hit the circle around him with a handful of coppers;
"but there is no doubt about it that they're all blind. Which is the
more to be pitied," he asked the Consul-General, "the man who has
still to be found out and who can see, or the one who has been exposed
and who is blind?"
"How should he know?" said Carroll, laughing. "He's never been blind,
and he still holds his job."
"I don't think that's very funny," said the Consul-General.
A week of pig-sticking came to end Holcombe's stay in Tangier, and he
threw himself into it and into the freedom of its life with a zest
that made even the Englishman speak of him as a good fellow. He
chanced to overhear this, and stopped to consider what it meant. No
one had ever called him a good fellow at home, but then his life had
not offered him the chance to show what sort of a good fellow he might
be, and as Judge Holcombe's son certain things had been debarred him.
Here he was only the richest tourist since Farwell, the diamond
smuggler from Amsterdam, had touched there in his yacht.
[Illustration: The boar hunt.]
The week of boar-hunting was spent out-of-doors, on horseback, and in
tents; the women in two wide circular ones, and the men in another,
with a mess tent, which they shared in common, pitched between them.
They had only one change of clothes each, one wet and one dry, and
they were in the saddle from nine in the morning until late at night,
when they gathered in a wide circle around the wood-fire and played
banjoes and listened to stories. Holcombe grew as red as a sailor, and
jumped his horse over gaping crevasses in the hard sun-baked earth as
recklessly as though there were nothing in this world so well worth
sacrificing one's life for as to be the first in at a dumb brute's
death. He was on friendly terms with them all now--with Miss Terrill,
the young girl who had been awakened by night and told to leave Monte
Carlo before daybreak, and with Mrs. Darhah, who would answer to Lady
Taunton if so addressed, and with Andrews, the Scotch bank clerk, and
Ollid the boy officer from Gibraltar, who had found some difficulty in
making the mess account balance. They were all his very good friends,
and he was especially courteous and attentive to Miss Terrill's wants
and interests, and fixed her stirrup and once let her pass him to
charge the boar in his place. She was a silently distant young woman,
and strangely gentle for one who had had to leave a place, and such a
place, between days; and her hair, which was very fine and light, ran
away from under her white helmet in disconnected curls. At night,
Holcombe used to watch her from out of the shadow when the firelight
lit up the circle and the tips of the palms above them, and when the
story-teller's voice was accompanied by bursts of occasional laughter
from the dragomen in the grove beyond, and the stamping and neighing
of the horses at their pickets, and the unceasing chorus of the insect
life about them. She used to sit on one of the rugs with her hands
clasped about her knees, and with her head resting on Mrs. Hornby's
broad shoulder, looking down into the embers of the fire, and with the
story of her life written on her girl's face as irrevocably as though
old age had set its seal there. Holcombe was kind to them all now,
even to Meakim, when that gentleman rode leisurely out to the camp
with the mail and the latest Paris _Herald_, which was their one
bond of union with the great outside world.
Carroll sat smoking his pipe one night, and bending forward over the
fire to get its light on the pages of the latest copy of this paper.
Suddenly he dropped it between his knees. "I say, Holcombe," he cried,
"here's news! Winthrop Allen has absconded with three hundred thousand
dollars, and no one knows where."
Holcombe was sitting on the other side of the fire, prying at the
rowel of his spur with a hunting-knife. He raised his head and
laughed. "Another good man gone wrong, hey?" he said.
Carroll lowered the paper slowly to his knee and stared curiously
through the smoky light to where Holcombe sat intent on the rowel of
his spur. It apparently absorbed his entire attention, and his last
remark had been an unconsciously natural one. Carroll smiled grimly as
he folded the paper across his knee. "Now are the mighty fallen,
indeed," he murmured. He told Meakim of it a few minutes later, and
they both marvelled. "It's just as I told him, isn't it, and he
wouldn't believe me. It's the place and the people. Two weeks ago he
would have raged. Why, Meakim, you know Allen--Winthrop Allen? He's
one of Holcombe's own sort; older than he is, but one of his own
people; belongs to the same clubs; and to the same family, I think,
and yet Harry took it just as a matter of course, with no more
interest, than if I'd said that Allen was going to be married."
Meakim gave a low, comfortable laugh of content. "It makes me smile,"
he chuckled, "every time I think of him the day he came up them
stairs. He scared me half to death, he did, and then he says, just as
stiff as you please, 'If you'll leave me alone, Mr. Meakim, I'll not
trouble you.' And now it's 'Meakim this,' and 'Meakim that,' and 'have
a drink, Meakim,' just as thick as thieves. I have to laugh whenever I
think of it now. 'If you'll leave me alone, I'll not trouble you, Mr.
Meakim.'"
Carroll pursed his lips and looked up at the broad expanse of purple
heavens with the white stars shining through. "It's rather a pity,
too, in a way," he said, slowly. "He was all the Public Opinion we
had, and now that he's thrown up the part, why--"
The pig-sticking came to an end finally, and Holcombe distinguished
himself by taking his first fall, and under romantic circumstances. He
was in an open place, with Mrs. Carroll at the edge of the brush to
his right, and Miss Terrill guarding any approach from the left. They
were too far apart to speak to one another, and sat quite still and
alert to any noise as the beaters closed in around them. There was a
sharp rustle in the reeds, and the boar broke out of it some hundred
feet ahead of Holcombe. He went after it at a gallop, headed it off,
and ran it fairly on his spear point as it came toward him; but as he
drew his lance clear his horse came down, falling across him, and for
the instant knocking him breathless. It was all over in a moment. He
raised his head to see the boar turn and charge him; he saw where his
spear point had torn the lower lip from the long tusks, and that the
blood was pouring down its flank. He tried to draw out his legs, but
the pony lay fairly across him, kicking and struggling, and held him
in a vise. So he closed his eyes and covered his head with his arms,
and crouched in a heap waiting. There was the quick beat of a pony's
hoofs on the hard soil, and the rush of the boar within a foot of his
head, and when he looked up he saw Miss Terrill twisting her pony's
head around to charge the boar again, and heard her shout, "Let me
have him!" to Mrs. Carroll.
Mrs. Carroll came toward Holcombe with her spear pointed dangerously
high; she stopped at his side and drew in her rein sharply. "Why don't
you get up? Are you hurt?" she said. "Wait; lie still," she commanded,
"or he'll tramp on you. I'll get him off." She slipped from her saddle
and dragged Holcombe's pony to his feet. Holcombe stood up unsteadily,
pale through his tan from the pain of the fall and the moment of fear.
"That _was_ nasty," said Mrs. Carroll, with a quick breath. She
was quite as pale as he.
Holcombe wiped the dirt from his hair and the side of his face, and
looked past her to where Miss Terrill was surveying the dead boar from
her saddle, while her pony reared and shied, quivering with excitement
beneath her. Holcombe mounted stiffly and rode toward her. "I am very
much obliged to you," he said. "If you hadn't come--"
The girl laughed shortly, and shook her head without looking at him.
"Why, not at all," she interrupted, quickly. "I would have come just
as fast if you hadn't been there." She turned in her saddle and looked
at him frankly. "I was glad to see you go down," she said, "for it
gave me the first good chance I've had. Are you hurt?"
Holcombe drew himself up stiffly, regardless of the pain in his neck
and shoulder. "No, I'm all right, thank you," he answered. "At the
same time," he called after her as she moved away to meet the others,
"you _did_ save me from being torn up, whether you like it or
not."
Mrs. Carroll was looking after the girl with observant, comprehending
eyes. She turned to Holcombe with a smile. "There are a few things you
have still to learn, Mr. Holcombe," she said, bowing in her saddle
mockingly, and dropping the point of her spear to him as an adversary
does in salute. "And perhaps," she added, "it is just as well that
there are."
Holcombe trotted after her in some concern. "I wonder what she means?"
he said. "I wonder if I were rude?"
The pig-sticking ended with a long luncheon before the ride back to
town, at which everything that could be eaten or drunk was put on the
table, in order, as Meakim explained, that there would be less to
carry back. He met Holcombe that same evening after the cavalcade had
reached Tangier as the latter came down the stairs of the Albion.
Holcombe was in fresh raiment and cleanly shaven, and with the radiant
air of one who had had his first comfortable bath in a week.
Meakim confronted him with a smiling countenance. "Who do you think
come to-night on the mail-boat?" he asked.
"I don't know. Who?"
"Winthrop Allen, with six trunks," said Meakim, with the triumphant
air of one who brings important news.
"No, really now," said Holcombe, laughing. "The old hypocrite! I
wonder what he'll say when he sees me. I wish I could stay over
another boat, just to remind him of the last time we met. What a fraud
he is! It was at the club, and he was congratulating me on my noble
efforts in the cause of justice, and all that sort of thing. He said I
was a public benefactor. And at that time he must have already
speculated away about half of what he had stolen of other people's
money. I'd like to tease him about it."
"What trial was that?" asked Meakim.
Holcombe laughed and shook his head as he moved on down the stairs.
"Don't ask embarrassing questions, Meakim," he said. "It was one
_you_ won't forget in a hurry."
"Oh!" said Meakim, with a grin. "All right. There's some mail for you
in the office."
"Thank you," said Holcombe.
* * * * *
A few hours later Carroll was watching the roulette wheel in the
gambling-hall of the Isabella when he saw Meakim come in out of the
darkness, and stand staring in the doorway, blinking at the lights and
mopping his face. He had been running, and was visibly excited.
Carroll crossed over to him and pushed him out into the quiet of the
terrace. "What is it?" he asked.
"Have you seen Holcombe?" Meakim demanded in reply.
"Not since this afternoon. Why?"
Meakim breathed heavily, and fanned himself with his hat. "Well, he's
after Winthrop Allen, that's all," he panted. "And when he finds him
there's going to be a muss. The boy's gone crazy. He's not safe."
"Why? What do you mean? What's Allen done to him?"
"Nothing to him, but to a friend of his. He got a letter to-night in
the mail that came with Allen. It was from his sister. She wrote him
all the latest news about Allen, and give him fits for robbing an old
lady who's been kind to her. She wanted that Holcombe should come
right back and see what could be done about it. She didn't know, of
course, that Allen was coming here. The old lady kept a private school
on Fifth Avenue, and Allen had charge of her savings."
"What is her name?" Carroll asked.
"Field, I think. Martha Field was--"
"The dirty blackguard!" cried Carroll. He turned sharply away and
returned again to seize Meakim's arm. "Go on," he demanded. "What did
she say?"
"You know her too, do you?" said Meakim, shaking his head
sympathetically. "Well, that's all. She used to teach his sister. She
seems to be a sort of fashionable--"
"I know," said Carroll, roughly. "She taught my sister. She teaches
everybody's sister. She's the sweetest, simplest old soul that ever
lived. Holcombe's dead right to be angry. She almost lived at their
house when his sister was ill."
"Tut! you don't say?" commented Meakim, gravely. "Well, his sister's
pretty near crazy about it. He give me the letter to read. It got me
all stirred up. It was just writ in blood. She must be a fine girl,
his sister. She says this Miss Martha's money was the last thing Allen
took. He didn't use her stuff, to speculate with, but cashed it in
just before he sailed and took it with him for spending-money. His
sister says she's too proud to take help, and she's too old to work."
"How much did he take?"
"Sixty thousand. She's been saving for over forty years."
Carroll's mind took a sudden turn. "And Holcombe?" he demanded,
eagerly. "What is he going to do? Nothing silly, I hope."
"Well, that's just it. That's why I come to find you," Meakim
answered, uneasily. "I don't want him to qualify for no Criminal
Stakes. I got no reason to love him either--But you know--" he
ended, impotently.
"Yes, I understand," said Carroll. "That's what I meant. Confound the
boy, why didn't he stay in his law courts! What did he say?"
"Oh, he just raged around. He said he'd tell Allen there was an
extradition treaty that Allen didn't know about, and that if Allen
didn't give him the sixty thousand he'd put it in force and make him
go back and stand trial."
"Compounding a felony, is he?"
"No, nothing of the sort," said Meakim, indignantly. "There isn't any
extradition treaty, so he wouldn't be doing anything wrong except
lying a bit."
"Well, it's blackmail, anyway."
"What, blackmail a man like Allen? Huh! He's fair game, if there ever
was any. But it won't work with him, that's what I'm afraid of. He's
too cunning to be taken in by it, he is. He had good legal advice
before he came here, or he wouldn't have come."
Carroll was pacing up and down the terrace. He stopped and spoke over
his shoulder. "Does Holcombe think Allen has the money with him?" he
asked.
"Yes, he's sure of it. That's what makes him so keen. He says Allen
wouldn't dare bank it at Gibraltar, because if he ever went over there
to draw on it he would get caught, so he must have brought it with him
here. And he got here so late that Holcombe believes it's in Allen's
rooms now, and he's like a dog that smells a rat, after it. Allen
wasn't in when he went up to his room, and he's started out hunting
for him, and if he don't find him I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he
broke into the room and just took it."
"For God's sake!" cried Carroll. "He wouldn't do that?"
Meakim pulled and fingered at his heavy watch-chain and laughed
doubtfully. "I don't know," he said. "He wouldn't have done it three
months ago, but he's picked up a great deal since then--since he has
been with us. He's asking for Captain Reese, too."
"What's he want with that blackguard?"
"I don't know; he didn't tell me."
"Come," said Carroll, quickly. "We must stop him." He ran lightly down
the steps of the terrace to the beach, with Meakim waddling heavily
after him. "He's got too much at stake, Meakim," he said, in
half-apology, as they tramped through the sand. "He mustn't spoil it.
We won't let him."
Holcombe had searched the circuit of Tangier's small extent with
fruitless effort, his anger increasing momentarily and feeding on each
fresh disappointment. When he had failed to find the man he sought in
any place, he returned to the hotel and pushed open the door of the
smoking-room as fiercely as though he meant to take those within by
surprise.
"Has Mr. Allen returned?" he demanded. "Or Captain Reese?" The
attendant thought not, but he would go and see. "No," Holcombe said,
"I will look for myself." He sprang up the stairs to the third floor,
and turned down a passage to a door at its farthest end. Here he
stopped and knocked gently. "Reese," he called; "Reese!" There was no
response to his summons, and he knocked again, with more impatience,
and then cautiously turned the handle of the door, and, pushing it
forward, stepped into the room. "Reese," he said, softly, "its
Holcombe. Are you here?" The room was dark except for the light from
the hall, which shone dimly past him and fell upon a gun-rack hanging
on the wall opposite. Holcombe hurried toward this and ran his hands
over it, and passed on quickly from that to the mantel and the tables,
stumbling over chairs and riding-boots as he groped about, and
tripping on the skin of some animal that lay stretched upon the floor.
He felt his way, around the entire circuit of the room, and halted
near the door with an exclamation of disappointment. By this time his
eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and he noted the white
surface of the bed in a far corner and ran quickly toward it, groping
with his hands about the posts at its head. He closed his fingers with
a quick gasp of satisfaction on a leather belt that hung from it,
heavy with cartridges and a revolver that swung from its holder.
Holcombe pulled this out and jerked back the lever, spinning the
cylinder around under the edge of his thumb. He felt the grease of
each cartridge as it passed under his nail. The revolver was loaded in
each chamber, and Holcombe slipped it into the pocket of his coat and
crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. He met no
one in the hall or on the stairs, and passed on quickly to a room on
the second floor. There was a light in this room which showed through
the transom and under the crack at the floor, and there was a sound of
some one moving about within. Holcombe knocked gently and waited.
The movement on the other side of the door ceased, and after a pause a
voice asked who was there. Holcombe hesitated a second before
answering, and then said, "It is a servant, sir, with a note for Mr.
Allen."
At the sound of some one moving toward the door from within, Holcombe
threw his shoulder against the panel and pressed forward. There was
the click of the key turning in the lock and of the withdrawal of a
bolt, and the door was partly opened. Holcombe pushed it back with his
shoulder, and, stepping quickly inside, closed it again behind him.
The man within, into whose presence he had forced himself, confronted
him with a look of some alarm, which increased in surprise as he
recognized his visitor. "Why, Holcombe!" he exclaimed. He looked past
him as though expecting some one else to follow. "I thought it was a
servant," he said.
Holcombe made no answer, but surveyed the other closely, and with a
smile of content. The man before him was of erect carriage, with white
hair and whiskers, cut after an English fashion which left the mouth
and chin clean shaven. He was of severe and dignified appearance, and
though standing as he was in dishabille still gave in his bearing the
look of an elderly gentleman who had lived a self-respecting,
well-cared-for, and well-ordered life. The room about him was littered
with the contents of opened trunks and uncorded boxes. He had been
interrupted in the task of unpacking and arranging these possessions,
but he stepped unresentfully toward the bed where his coat lay, and
pulled it on, feeling at the open collar of his shirt, and giving a
glance of apology toward the disorder of the apartment.
"The night was so warm," he said, in explanation. "I have been trying
to get things to rights. I--" He was speaking in some obvious
embarrassment, and looked uncertainly toward the intruder for help.
But Holcombe made no explanation, and gave him no greeting. "I heard
in the hotel that you were here," the other continued, still striving
to cover up the difficulty of the situation, "and I am sorry to hear
that you are going so soon." He stopped, and as Holcombe still
continued smiling, drew himself up stiffly. The look on his face
hardened into one of offended dignity.
"Really, Mr. Holcombe," he said, sharply, and with strong annoyance in
his tone, "if you have forced yourself into this room for no other
purpose than to stand there and laugh, I must ask you to leave it. You
may not be conscious of it, but your manner is offensive." He turned
impatiently to the table, and began rearranging the papers upon it.
Holcombe shifted the weight of his body as it rested against the door
from one shoulder-blade to the other and closed his hands over the
door-knob behind him.
"I had a letter to-night from home about you, Allen," he began,
comfortably. "The person who wrote it was anxious that I should return
to New York, and set things working in the District Attorney's office
in order to bring you back. It isn't you they want so much as--"
"How dare you?" cried the embezzler, sternly, in the voice with which
one might interrupt another in words of shocking blasphemy.
"How dare I what?" asked Holcombe.
"How dare you refer to my misfortune? You of all others--" He stopped,
and looked at his visitor with flashing eyes. "I thought you a
gentleman," he said, reproachfully; "I thought you a man of the world,
a man who in spite of your office, official position, or, rather, on
account of it, could feel and understand the--a--terrible position in
which I am placed, and that you would show consideration. Instead of
which," he cried, his voice rising in indignation, "you have come
apparently to mock at me. If the instinct of a gentleman does not
teach you to be silent, I shall have to force you to respect my
feelings. You can leave the room, sir. Now, at once." He pointed with
his arm at the door against which Holcombe was leaning, the fingers of
his outstretched hand trembling visibly.
"Nonsense. Your misfortune! What rot!" Holcombe growled resentfully.
His eyes wandered around the room as though looking for some one who
might enjoy the situation with him, and then returned to Allen's face.
"You mustn't talk like that to me," he said, in serious remonstrance.
"A man who has robbed people who trusted him for three years, as you
have done, can't afford to talk of his misfortune. You were too long
about it, Allen. You had too many chances to put it back.
_You've_ no feelings to be hurt. Besides, if you have, I'm in a
hurry, and I've not the time to consider them. Now, what I want of you
is--"
"Mr. Holcombe," interrupted the other, earnestly.
"Sir," replied the visitor.
"Mr. Holcombe," began Allen, slowly, and with impressive gravity, "I
do not want any words with you about this, or with any one else. I am
here owing to a combination of circumstances which have led me through
hopeless, endless trouble. What I have gone through with nobody knows.
That is something no one but I can ever understand. But that is now at
an end. I have taken refuge in flight and safety, where another might
have remained and compromised and suffered; but I am a weaker brother,
and--as for punishment, my own conscience, which has punished me so
terribly in the past, will continue to do so in the future. I am
greatly to be pitied, Mr. Holcombe, greatly to be pitied. And no one
knows that better than yourself. You know the value of the position I
held in New York City, and how well I was suited to it, and it to me.
And now I am robbed of it all. I am an exile in this wilderness.
Surely, Mr. Holcombe, this is not the place nor the time when you
should insult me by recalling the--"
"You contemptible hypocrite," said Holcombe, slowly. "What an ass you
must think I am! Now, listen to me."
"No, _you_ listen to me," thundered the other. He stepped
menacingly forward, his chest heaving under his open shirt, and his
fingers opening and closing at his side. "Leave the room, I tell you,"
he cried, "or I shall call the servants and make you!" He paused with
a short, mocking laugh. "Who do you think I am?" he asked; "a child
that you can insult and gibe at? I'm not a prisoner in the box for you
to browbeat and bully, Mr. District Attorney. You seem to forget that
I am out of your jurisdiction now."
He waited, and his manner seemed to invite Holcombe to make some angry
answer to his tone, but the young man remained grimly silent.
"You are a very important young person at home, Harry," Allen went on,
mockingly. "But New York State laws do not reach as far as Africa."