The following day Captain von Hardenberg left Friar’s Court. He had
more reasons than one to be anxious to return to London.
The robbery and the outrage at the bungalow had sadly interrupted Mr.
Langton’s studies. Nearly a month elapsed before the Judge took up his
old researches, and then it was that for the first time he discovered
that the Sunstone was missing. Search where he might, he could find it
nowhere. The evidence was against Jim Braid, and there was no one to
speak up on his behalf, for by then Harry Urquhart had returned to
school. On the night Braid was wounded, only his coat pockets had been
emptied, and, since the whole of the money had been recovered, no
further search had been made. The Judge had little doubt in his mind
that, as well as the contents of the cash-box, the boy had stolen the
Sunstone, though poor Jim could have had no idea as to its value.
Mr. Langton was determined to recover the relic at all costs. He spent
a great deal of money on advertisements, and gave a full description of
Braid to the police; but no trace of the boy could be found. It was not
until Christmas had come, and Harry Urquhart was again at Friar’s Court,
that the Judge told his nephew of his suspicions.
And though Harry was sure of Braid’s innocence, he could not convince
the Judge. Mr. Langton’s mind was the mind of a lawyer; he based his
conclusions upon the testimony of facts, and never allowed his personal
opinions to influence him in the least.
Though the police had failed to discover any trace of Braid, Harry was
determined to find him. Since he had now left school, he obtained
permission from his uncle to go to London. He felt perfectly certain
that Braid was somewhere in the great city where it is possible for a
man to hide himself from the eyes of the world, even to bury his
identity.
In the meantime, Captain von Hardenberg had presented himself before
Peter Klein, the informer, and a long interview had taken place between
them.
Peter listened to the whole story of the Sunstone, doubted it one
moment, believed it the next; and fingered the strange jade ornament,
first with reverence, and then almost with suspicion. He examined it
through a magnifying-glass, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and
found it impossible to make up his mind. Von Hardenberg made no secret
of the fact that he was determined to undertake a journey through the
German colonial territory of the Cameroons to the Caves of Zoroaster, to
recover the jewels that were hidden in the vault. With the treasure
once in his possession, he swore that he would pay Klein, not only the
full amount that was due to him, but ten per cent of the total profits.
Now, Peter Klein was a usurer—as well as a butler and a spy—one who
drove a hard bargain, who was relentless to his victims. He said that
he himself was tired of cities, that the suspicions of the British
police authorities had already been aroused in regard to his occupation,
and that therefore he also would like to travel. He would accompany von
Hardenberg to the West Coast, which was once called the White-Man’s
Grave; he would penetrate the bush to the Cameroon peaks, even to the
Caves of Zoroaster. But he would require more than ten per cent: they
would share and share alike.
Von Hardenberg was in no position to refuse. This man had him in his
clutches. Klein knew well that the Prussian was ruined for life if ever
his conduct was made known to the departmental heads of the German
Secret Service. And, moreover, in a few days Klein had gained the whip
hand by enlisting in his services an Arab whom he found starving in the
vicinity of the docks.
This man, though he was poor, in rags, and well-nigh perishing in the
cold, was learned in many things. Like all his race, he was a nomad—a
man who had roamed the world throughout his life, who had even been
all-powerful in his day. He had sold ivory in Zanzibar; he had stolen
cattle in the neighbourhood of Lake Chad, and driven his capture across
the great plains to the east; he had hunted for slaves in the Upper
Congo and the Aruwimi. Though he was starving, he boasted that he was a
sheik, and said that his name was Bayram. He said he had been to the
Cameroons River, and that he despised the Negro from Loango to Zanzibar.
He was confident that, provided he was rewarded, he could render
invaluable services to his employer. He had never before heard of the
Sunstone, but, from rumours he had heard, there was a treasure hidden
somewhere in the mist-shrouded mountains that guard Lake Chad to the
east.
To return to Jim Braid. All these winter months he wandered the streets
of London. He found the greatest difficulty in getting work. He had no
trade but that of a gamekeeper, and such business was at a discount in
the midst of the great, seething city. He was out of work for some
weeks; then he obtained work in the docks; after which he was again
unemployed for nearly a month. By that time he had got to the end of
his money, and was obliged to pawn his clothes. He thanked Heaven when
the snow came; for, though the frost was severe, and his clothes in
rags, he saw employment in sweeping the pavements and the roads.
Then the thaw followed, and he was starving again. One night he found
himself in Jermyn Street. He had had no food that day. A taxi-cab drew
up before a doorway, upon which was a brass plate bearing the name
"Peter Klein".
Jim was conscious of the fact that he had heard the name before, he
could not remember where. Just then, starvation, ill-health, and the
misery in his heart had broken the boy completely; it was as if his
senses were numbed. All that interested him was the taxi, by the side
of which he remained, in the hope of earning a copper by opening the
door. Presently a manservant came from the house, carrying a box. Jim
volunteered to help him, and the man agreed. Together they put the box
upon the taxi-cab, and Jim noticed that it bore the same name, "Peter
Klein", and several steamship labels, upon each of which was written the
word "Old Calabar". Jim Braid saw these things like one who is
half-dazed, without understanding what they meant.
There were several other boxes to be put on to the cab, and when the
work was finished, and the driver had strapped them securely together,
two men came from the house, followed by one who wore a turban, and
shivered from the cold.
Jim’s attention was attracted by the native. He was very tall and thin.
He had a great black beard, and his eyes were like those of a bird of
prey. They were cruel, bloodshot, and passionate.
One of the Europeans, who wore a fur coat, got into the cab. The other
paused with his foot upon the step and looked Jim Braid in the face.
Near by a street lamp flared and flickered, and in the light Jim
recognized the features of Captain von Hardenberg, the man who had been
his accuser.
He stared at him in amazement. He had not the power to speak. He
thought, at first, that he, too, would be recognized. He did not know
that misfortune had so changed him that his own mother would not have
known him. He was thin and haggard-looking; his rags hung loosely upon
his gaunt form; his hair was so long that it extended over his ears.
"Are you the man," said von Hardenberg in his old, insolent way, "who
helped to carry the boxes?"
"Yes," said Jim, "I am."
"There you are, then. There’s sixpence, and don’t spend it on drink."
At that the Prussian jumped into the taxi, telling the driver to go to
Charing Cross. The Arab followed, closing the door, and a few seconds
later the taxi was driving down the street.
Jim Braid stood on the pavement under the street lamp, regarding the
sixpence in his hand. He was starving; his bones ached from physical
exhaustion; his head throbbed in a kind of fever. He knew not where he
would sleep. This sixpence to him was wealth.
For a moment he was tempted, but not for longer. With a quick,
spasmodic action he hurled the coin into the gutter, and walked away
quickly in the direction of the Haymarket.
He knew not where he was going. The streets were crowded. People were
going to the theatre. Outside a fashionable restaurant a lady with a
gorgeous opera-cloak brushed against him, and uttered an exclamation of
disgust. He walked on more rapidly than before, and came presently to
Trafalgar Square, and before he knew where he was he found himself on
the Embankment. Slowly he walked up the steps towards the Hungerford
footbridge; and there, pausing, with his folded arms upon the rails, he
looked down into the water.
At that moment the sound of footsteps attracted his attention. He
looked up into a face that he recognized at once. It was that of Harry
Urquhart, his only friend, the only person in the world who had believed
him innocent.