THE END OF THE PUZZLE
The elder brother tried to push past George, but old Mortimer caught him
by the shoulders and dragged him back.
"Let me go!" he cried, his voice nasal and high. "Do you hear me? Let me
go!"
"Mr. Mortimer," said George, without turning his head or letting his eye
waver, "keep him back. Thanks." George stepped over the threshold. "Now,
gentlemen, I shall shoot the first man who makes a movement."
And Ryanne, who knew something about George, saw that he meant just what
he said. "Steady, every one," he said. "My friend George here can't
shoot; but that kind of a man is deadliest with a pistol. I surrender."
The brother was struggling. "The telephone! The telephone! I demand to
call the police. This is accessory to the fact! I tell you, let me go!"
"Mr. Wadsworth," replied George, "if you do not be still and let me run
this affair, I'll throw the pistols to the floor, and your brother and
his friends may do as they bally please. Now, step back and be quiet.
Stop!" to Ryanne, whose hand was reaching out toward the table.
[Illustration]
"Don't shoot, Percival; I want only a final glass of wine." Ryanne
calmly took the slender stem of the glass between his fingers, lifted it
and drank. He set it down empty. From his outside pocket he drew a
handkerchief and delicately dried his lips. He alone of his confederates
had life. It was because he alone understood. Prison wasn't staring them
in the face just yet. "Well, Arthur, old top, how goes it? Nearly got
your money-bags, didn't we? And we surely would have but for this
delicious vintage."
"Damn you and your wine!" roared the Major, shaking with rage. This
adventure had been no joke to him, no craving for excitement. He wanted
the gold, the gold. With what would have been his share he could have
gambled at Monte Carlo and Ostend till the end of his days. For the
first time he saw long, thick bars of iron running up and down a window.
And all for a bottle of wine!
"Damn away, old sport!" Ryanne reached for the bottle and filled his
glass again. "Percival, I'm blamed sorry about that olive-tree of
yours." He waved his hand toward the bags. "You can see that my
intentions in regard to refunding that hundred pounds were strictly
honorable. Now, what's on the ticket?"
"I suppose your luggage is outside in the automobiles?"
"Right-O!"
"Well, I need not explain my reasons; you will understand them; but I am
going to give you all two hours' time. Then I shall notify the police.
You will have to take your chance after that time."
The circling faces brightened perceptibly. Two hours--that would carry
them far into Jersey.
"Accepted with thanks," said Ryanne.
"I refuse to permit it!" yelled the brother. "Mr. Jones, you will rue
this night's work. I shall see that the law looks into your actions.
This is felony. I demand to be allowed to telephone."
"Percival, for heaven's sake, let him!" cried Ryanne wearily. "Let him
shout; it will soften his voice. He will hurt nobody. The wires were cut
hours ago."
Mortimer felt the tense muscles in his grasp relax. Arthur Wadsworth
grew limp and reeled against the jamb of the door.
"You had better start at once," George advised. "You three first," with
a nod toward Wallace (his bulbous nose now lavender in hue), the butler
and the first-man. "Forward march, front door. Go on!"
"What about me?" asked Ryanne.
"In a moment." George could not but admire the man, rascal though he
was. There was a pang of regret in his heart as the thought came and
went swiftly: what a comrade this man would have made under different
circumstances! Too late! "Halt!" he cried. The trio marching toward the
door came to a stop, their heads turned inquiringly. "Here, Mr.
Mortimer; take one of these guns and cover the Major. He's the one I
doubt." Then George followed the others into the hall and ironically
bade them God-speed as he opened the door for them. They went out
stupidly; the wine had dulled them. George immediately returned to the
library.
Neither Fortune nor her mother had stirred in all this time. A quality
of hypnotism held them in bondage. The mother could not lower her glance
and the daughter would not. If there was a light of triumph in Fortune's
eyes, it was unconsciously there. And no one will know the full
bitterness that shone from the mother's. She could have screamed with
fury; she could have rent her clothes, torn her skin, pulled her hair;
and yet she sat there without physical sign of the tempest. This offers
a serio-comic suggestion; but it was tragedy enough for the woman who
was in the clutch of these emotional storms. It was not her predicament;
it was not that she was guilty of a crime against society; it was not
that she had failed. No. It was because she, in leaving this house for
ever, was leaving her daughter behind, mistress of it.
On her side, Fortune knew, that, had there been a single gesture
inviting pity, she must have flown to her mother's side. But there was
no sign. Finally, Fortune stepped back, chilled. It was all too late.
"Fortune," said George, terribly embarrassed, "do you wish to speak to
your mother, alone?"
"No." It was a little word, spoken in a little, hushed tone.
Mrs. Chedsoye rose and proceeded to put on her furs, which she had flung
across the back of her chair.
"Mother!" This came in a gasp from the elder Wadsworth. An understanding
of this strange proceeding began to filter through his mind. The young
girl's mother!
Mrs. Chedsoye drew on her gloves slowly. She offered them to the Major
to button. He flung the hands aside. He was not nice under the veneer.
But Ryanne was instantly at her service. And curiously she watched his
agile fingers at work over the buttons; they were perfectly steady.
Then, followed by the Major and Ryanne, she walked easily toward the
hall. Ryanne paused.
"Good night, Arthur. I'm sure you will not sleep well. That handsome
safe is irreparably damaged. I dare say you will find a way to cover the
loss without any injury to your own pocket. Old top, farewell! Who was
it, Brutus or Cæsar, who said: 'I go but to return'?" The banter left
his face and voice swiftly. "You sneaking black-guard, you cheater of
widows; yes, I shall come again; and then look to your sleek,
sanctimonious neck! You chucked me down the road to hell, and the pity
of it is, some day I must meet you there! Fortune, child," his voice
becoming sad, "you might remember a poor beggar in your prayers
to-night. Percival, a farewell to you. We shall never meet again. But
when you stand upon that bally old rug there, you'll always see me, the
fire, the tents, the camels and the desert, and the moon in the
date-palms. By-by!"
And presently they were gone. A moment later those remaining could hear
the chug-chug of the motors as they sped away. The banker was first to
recover from the spell. He rushed for the hall, but George stopped him
rudely.
"Two hours, if you please. I never break my word. Your money is all
there. If you do not act reasonably, I'll throw you down and sit on you
till the time is up. Sit down. I do not propose that my future wife
shall appear in court as a witness against her mother. Do you understand
me now?"
The banker signified that he did. He sat down, rather subdued. Then he
got up nervously and inventoried the steal. He counted roughly a
million. A million! He felt sick and weak. It would have wrecked the
bank, wiped it out of existence. And saved by the merest, the most
trifling chance! A bottle of wine! He resumed his chair and sat there
wonderingly till the time-limit expired.
The public never heard how nearly the Merchant-Mechanic had gone to the
wall; nor how six policemen had worked till dawn carrying back the gold;
nor that the banker had not even thanked them for their labor. The first
impulse of the banker had been to send the story forth to the world, to
harass and eventually capture his brother; but his foresight becoming
normal, he realized that silence was best, even if his brother escaped.
If the depositors heard that the bank had been entered and a million
taken from the vaults, there would naturally follow a terrific run.
When the last bag had been taken out of the library and the banker and
the police had gone, the bell rang. George went to the door. A messenger
handed him a small satchel and a note. There was to be no reply. The
note was from Ryanne. Briefly it stated that the satchel contained the
emeralds. There had been some difficulty in forcing the Major to
surrender them. But that much was due to George for his generosity.
Later in the day he--George--might inform his--Horace's--brother that
the _coup_ hadn't been a total fizzle. They had already packed away in
suit-cases something like two hundred thousand dollars in bills of all
denominations. "Tell that dear brother of mine to charge it to our
account. It will be less than the interest upon a million in ten years.
To you, my boy, I add: Fortune favors the brave!"
* * * * *
"George," said Mortimer, "you will not mind if I forage round in the
kitchen? A bottle of beer and a bit of cheese would go handy. It's
almost my breakfast time."
"Bless your heart, help yourself!"
And George turned to Fortune.
"Ah," she cried, seizing his hands, "you will not think ill of me?"
"And for what?" astonished.
"For not speaking to my mother. Oh, I just couldn't; I just couldn't!
When I thought of all the neglect, all the indifference, the loneliness,
I couldn't! It was horribly unnatural and cruel!"
"I understand, heart o' mine. Say no more about it." And he put his two
hands against her cheeks and kissed her. "Never shall you be lonely
again, for I am going to be all things to you. Poor heart! Just think
that all that has passed has been only a bad dream, and that it's clear
sunshiny morning; eh?" He held her off a ways and then swept her into
his arms as he had done on board the ship, roughly and masterly. "And
there's that old rug! Talk about magic carpets! There never was one just
like this. But for it I shouldn't even have known you. And, by Jove!
when the minister comes this afternoon...."
"This afternoon!"
"Exactly! When he comes, you and I are going to stand upon that
beautiful, friendly old rug, and both of us are going to be whisked
right away into Eden."
"Please!"
Silence.
"How brave you are!"
"I? Oh, pshaw!"
"Would you have shot one of them?"
"Girl, your Percival Algernon couldn't have hit the broad side of a
barn." He laughed joyously.
"I knew it. And that is why I call you brave."
And when the pale gold of winter dawn filled the room, it found them,
hand in hand, staring down at the old Yhiordes, the magic old Yhiordes
from Bagdad.