Hindwood's face had gone ashen--not through fear for his own safety,
but for hers. He was determined not to believe a word of what he
had heard, and yet he was curious to learn. There was such an air of
complete conviction about the stranger; it was impossible to doubt the
integrity of his intentions. What he hoped was to discover some flaw in
his logic. Sinking back into his chair, he stared in silence at the man
who believed he knew everything.
Remembering that his cigar had gone out, he commenced searching through
his pockets for a match.
“They're at your elbow,” the stranger informed him. “No, not there. On
the table. I've upset you more than I intended.”
Again they lapsed into silence.
At last Hindwood said: “I owe you an apology. I've been insulting, but
the blame is partly yours. You didn't explain yourself; you withheld
your identity. I was expecting a kind of policeman. But I think you
understand. Anyhow, I regret my rudeness. Now tell me, who are you?”
“I'm Major Cleasby, formerly of the Indian Army. My main hobby is
studying the Asiatic.” Hindwood looked up sharply. He remembered the
impression Santa had made on him, that if her eyes had been darker, she
could have passed for a Hindoo princess.
“I don't see what studying the Asiatic has to do with the disappearance
of Prince Rogovich,” he said. “If we're going to arrive anywhere, what
we need is frankness. I think you ought to understand my side of the
affair.”
The Major nodded.
“Then, to start with, I'm unmarried--not that I'm a woman-hater, but my
life has been too packed with important undertakings to leave me much
time to spare on women. I've been a kind of express, stopping only at
cities and rushing by all the villages. On the _Ryndam_ I was forced to
come to rest; it so happened that Santa Gorlof was the village at
which I halted. The _Ryndam_, as you know, isn't one of these floating
palaces; she doesn't attract the flashy type of traveler. The company
on this last voyage was dull--dull to the point of tears. The Prince and
Santa Gorlof were the two exceptions. I got to know her first and the
Prince later. It was I who introduced her to him. We were each of us a
bit stand-offish at first; we drifted together against our wills, in an
attempt to escape from boredom. Then we began to expect each other, till
finally--We were two men and a woman, with nothing to distract us;
it's an old story--the usual thing happened. I suppose you'd call it a
three-cornered flirtation in which the Prince and I were rivals.
“At first Santa was strictly impartial; toward the end it was the Prince
she favored. I'm afraid I got huffy, which was distinctly childish, for
none of us was serious. We were two men and a beautiful woman at loose
ends, rather dangerously amusing ourselves. At Plymouth, if things had
terminated normally, we should have come to our senses and gone our
separate ways. At most we should have said good-by on reaching London.
In none of our dealings had there been the least hint of anything
serious--nothing that would suggest a love-affair. Speaking for myself,
my interest in Santa had been on the wane for several days before we
landed. I should have parted with her on the dock without compunction,
if this extraordinary disappearance hadn't occurred. It was that that
again drew us together. Neither of us was willing to believe the worst;
we both tried to persuade ourselves that he'd changed his plans at the
last moment. At the same time we were both a little anxious lest we
might be bothered with questions and detained. Probably it was to avoid
any such annoyance that she dodged her breakfast engagement with me and
escaped so early this morning.”
The Major thrust himself forward, resting his chin on the handle of his
cane. “That wasn't her reason.”
“You're presuming her guilt. Why wasn't it?”
“You forget the foreigner who wore goggles and pretended he couldn't
speak English. She couldn't possibly have sent him word. The necessity
for her escape must have been foreseen and the means prearranged.”
Hindwood puzzled to find some more innocent explanation. “He might have
been her husband.”
“He wasn't.”
“You speak as though you knew everything.” Then, with a catch in his
breath, “She isn't arrested?”
“If she were, I shouldn't tell you.”
“Then what makes you so positive that he wasn't her husband?”
The Major drew himself erect, smiling palely. “Because _I_ am her
husband.”
V
Hindwood rose and moved over to the window. He felt mentally stifled.
He leaned out, gazing down into the pool of blackness, along whose
floor, like the phosphorescence of fishes, lights drifted and darted.
The sight of so much coolness quieted him. When he turned, the Major had
not moved a muscle; he was sitting as he had left him, erect and palely
smiling.
“You'll not be surprised when I tell you, Major Cleasby, that your last
piece of information completely overwhelms me. You come to me in the
rôle of a secret service agent, and now you claim to be her husband.”
“I'm both.”
“Do you mean me to understand that you're accumulating the evidence that
will convict your wife?”
“Convict her and, I regret to say, hang her. Stated baldly, that is my
purpose.”
Hindwood perched himself on the window ledge and regarded his guest
intently. He didn't look a monster; he looked in all respects a kindly,
well-bred gentleman, and yet, if what he had just heard was correct,
there were few monsters in history who could compare with him. Hindwood
tried to picture him as Santa's husband. He couldn't. He was thankful
that he couldn't. For a reason which he did not distress himself to
analyze, he didn't wish to believe that she had ever had a husband. As
for the hints about her criminal record and her many lovers, he utterly
rejected them. Was it likely that a woman so royal and aloof could have
stooped to the gutter? But if these accusations were not true, what was
their object? Either it was a case of mistaken identity and there were
two Santa Gorlofs, or the object was to infuriate him with jealousy so
that he would blurt out all he knew.
He eyed the Major doubtfully. He wasn't insane. He didn't look a rascal.
And yet, what husband in his senses----? He began to notice details.
The Major was less old than he had fancied at first; he was more worn
than aged. Illness or tragedy might have whitened him. It was even
possible that he had made himself up for the part he was playing. His
eyes were clear, and his hands virile. With the mustache and imperial
removed----
“Major Cleasby, you ask me to accept a great deal on your bare word,”
he said politely. “You come to me with nothing to introduce you but the
most briefly formal letter. The moment you enter my room, before you'll
have anything to do with me, you inspect every hiding-place as though
I were a counterfeiter or an anarchist. You boldly announce to me that
ever since I landed in England you've had me followed and observed. You
use the results of your spying as a kind of blackmail to induce me to
present you with the sort of evidence for which you're searching. You
trick me into telling you about a shipboard flirtation with a woman whom
you say you want convicted of murder. No sooner have I told you, than
you declare that you yourself are married to her. I ought to refuse to
allow this interview to go further without calling in a lawyer. I don't
mean to be offensive, but your kaleidoscopic changes put a strain on my
credulity. I can't believe your story that you're a secret service agent
endeavoring to get your wife executed. When men tire of matrimony, they
find less ingenious methods of recovering their bachelorhood.”
The Major smiled with his patient air of affability. “It isn't my
bachelorhood that I'm trying to recover. It's my----”
“If you don't mind,” Hindwood cut in, “I'd like to finish my say first.
One of the things that you may not have learned is that I'm here on a
mission of international dimensions. It concerns more than one of the
governments of Europe. I can't afford to have my name mixed up in a
scandal and, what's more, I can bring influences to bear to prevent it
from being introduced. You may be anything you like; whatever you are
cuts no ice. I'm through with you and with whatever you may imagine took
place on the _Ryndam_. You seem to think that I'm concealing a guilty
knowledge that would enable you to bring this Gorlof woman to trial.
You're on the wrong tack. I have no such knowledge. The longer you
stay here, the more you waste my time.” The Major was on the point of
answering when the telephone rang shrilly. Grateful for a diversion,
Hindwood crossed the room. As he unhooked the receiver, he glanced
across his shoulder, “Excuse me.”
“Is this Mr. Hindwood?”
“It is.”
It was the hotel operator asking.
“There's a call for you, sir. It's from some one who's not on a
newspaper. Will you take it?”
“Certainly.”
There was a pause while the connection was being made; then a foreign
voice, a woman's, questioned, “Eees thees Meester Hindwood? Eef you
please, one meenute. A lady wants to talk wiz you.”
Coming across the distance, subdued and earnest, he caught the tones of
a voice which was instantly familiar.
“Don't be startled. Don't answer me. There's a man with you. Tell him
nothing. If you ever loved me, even for a second, don't believe a word
he says.”
She had not been arrested! A wave of joy swept over him. The uncertainty
as to whether she was arrested had been crushing him.
He waited, hoping she would speak again.
Shattering the spell with a touch of bathos, the operator inquired,
“Number?”
With that he rang off. As he raised his head, he had the uncomfortable
sensation that the Major had turned away from watching him.