"That is Gibraltar," said Marcus Stepney, pointing ahead to a grey shape
that loomed up from the sea.
He was unshaven for he had forgotten to bring his razor and he was
pinched with the cold. His overcoat was turned up to his ears, in spite
of which he shivered.
Jean did not seem to be affected by the sudden change of temperature.
She sat on the top of the cabin, her chin in the palm of her hand, her
elbow on her crossed knee.
"You are not going into Gibraltar?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"I think not," he said, "nor to Algeciras. Did you see that fellow on
the quay yelling for the craft to come back after we left Malaga? That
was a bad sign. I expect the police have instructions to detain this
boat, and most of the ports must have been notified."
"How long can we run?"
"We've got enough gas and grub to reach Dacca," he said. "That's roughly
an eight-days' journey."
"On the African coast?"
He nodded, although she could not see him.
"Where could we get a ship to take us to South America?" she asked,
turning round.
"Lisbon," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, we could reach Lisbon, but there
are too many steamers about and we're certain to be sighted. We might
run across to Las Palmas, most of the South American boats call there,
but if I were you I should stick to Europe. Come and take this helm,
Jean."
She obeyed without question, and he continued the work which had been
interrupted by a late meal, the painting of the boat's hull, a difficult
business, involving acrobatics, since it was necessary for him to lean
over the side. He had bought the grey paint at Malaga, and happily there
was not much surface that required attention. The stumpy mast of the
_Jungle Queen_ had already gone overboard--he had sawn it off with great
labour the day after they had left Cap Martin.
She watched him with a speculative eye as he worked, and thought he had
never looked quite so unattractive as he did with an eight-days' growth
of beard, his shirt stained with paint and petrol. His hands were grimy
and nobody would have recognised in this scarecrow the elegant habitué
of those fashionable resorts which smart society frequents.
Yet she had reason to be grateful to him. His conduct toward her had
been irreproachable. Not one word of love had been spoken, nor, until
now, had their future plans, for it affected them both, been discussed.
"Suppose we reach South America safely?" she asked. "What happens then,
Marcus?"
He looked round from his work in surprise.
"We'll get married," he said quietly, and she laughed.
"And what happens to the present Mrs. Stepney?"
"She has divorced me," said Stepney unexpectedly. "I got the papers the
day we left."
"I see," said Jean softly. "We'll get married----" then stopped.
He looked at her and frowned.
"Isn't that your idea, too?" he asked.
"Married? Yes, that's my idea, too. It seems a queer uninteresting way
of finishing things, doesn't it, and yet I suppose it isn't."
He had resumed his work and was leaning far over the bow intent upon his
labour. Suddenly she spun the wheel round and the launch heeled over to
starboard. For a second it seemed that Marcus Stepney could not maintain
his balance against that unexpected impetus, but by a superhuman effort
he kicked himself back to safety, and stared at her with a blanched
face.
"Why did you do that?" he asked hoarsely. "You nearly had me overboard."
"There was a porpoise lying on the surface of the sea, asleep, I
think," she said quietly. "I'm very sorry, Marcus, but I didn't know
that it would throw you off your balance."
He looked round for the sleeping fish but it had disappeared.
"You told me to avoid them, you know," she said apologetically. "Did I
really put you in any danger?"
He licked his dry lips, picked up the paint-pot, and threw it into the
sea.
"We'll leave this," he said, "until we are beached. You gave me a scare,
Jean."
"I'm dreadfully sorry. Come here, and sit by me."
She moved to allow him room, and he sat down by her, taking the wheel
from her hand.
On the horizon the high lands of northern Africa were showing their
saw-edge outlines.
"That is Morocco," he pointed out to her. "I propose giving Gibraltar a
wide berth, and following the coast line to Tangier."
"Tangier wouldn't be a bad place to land if there weren't two of us," he
went on. "It is our being together in this yacht that is likely to cause
suspicion. You could easily pretend that you'd come over from Gibraltar,
and the port authorities there are pretty slack."
"Or if we could land on the coast," he suggested. "There's a good
landing, and we could follow the beach down, and turn up in Tangier in
the morning--all sorts of oddments turn up in Tangier without exciting
suspicion."
She was looking out over the sea with a queer expression in her face.
"Morocco!" she said softly. "Morocco--I hadn't thought of that!"
They had a fright soon after. A grey shape came racing out of the
darkening east, and Stepney put his helm over as the destroyer smashed
past on her way to Gibraltar.
He watched the stern light disappearing, then it suddenly turned and
presented its side to them.
"They're looking for us," said Marcus.
The darkness had come down, and he headed straight for the east.
There was no question that the destroyer was on an errand of discovery.
A white beam of light shot out from her decks, and began to feel along
the sea. And then when they thought it had missed them, it dropped on
the boat and held. A second later it missed them and began a search.
Presently it lit the little boat, and it did something more--it revealed
a thickening of the atmosphere. They were running into a sea fog, one of
those thin white fogs that come down in the Mediterranean on windless
days. The blinding glare of the searchlight blurred.
"_Bang!_"
"That's the gun to signal us to stop," said Marcus between his teeth.
He turned the nose of the boat southward, a hazardous proceeding, for he
ran into clear water, and had only just got back into the shelter of the
providential fog bank when the white beam came stealthily along the edge
of the mist. Presently it died out, and they saw it no more.
"They're looking for us," said Marcus again.
"You said that before," said the girl calmly.
"They've probably warned them at Tangier. We dare not take the boat into
the bay," said Stepney, whose nerves were now on edge.
He turned again westward, edging toward the rocky coast of northern
Africa. They saw little clusters of lights on the shore, and he tried to
remember what towns they were.
"I think that big one is Cutra, the Spanish convict station," he said.
He slowed down the boat, and they felt their way gingerly along the
coast line, until the flick and flash of a lighthouse gave them an idea
of their position.
"Cape Spartel," he identified the light. "We can land very soon. I was
in Morocco for three months, and if I remember rightly the beach is good
walking as far as Tangier."
She went into the cabin and changed, and as the nose of the _Jungle
Queen_ slid gently up the sandy beach she was ready.
He carried her ashore, and set her down, then he pushed off the nose of
the boat, and manoeuvred it so that the stern was against the beach,
resting in three feet of water. He jumped on board, lashed the helm, and
started the engines going, then wading back to the shore he stood
staring into the gloom as the little _Jungle Queen_ put out to sea.
"That's that," he said grimly. "Now my dear, we've got a ten mile walk
before us."
But he had made a slight miscalculation. The distance between himself
and Tangier was twenty-five miles, and involved several detours inland
into country which was wholly uninhabited, save at that moment it held
the camp of Muley Hafiz, who was engaged in negotiation with the Spanish
Government for one of those "permanent peaces" which frequently last for
years.
Muley Hafiz sat drinking his coffee at midnight, listening to the
strains of an ornate gramophone, which stood in a corner of his square
tent.
A voice outside the silken fold of his tent greeted him, and he stopped
the machine.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Lord, we have captured a man and a woman walking along by the sea."
"They are Riffi people--let them go," said Muley in Arabic. "We are
making peace, my man, not war."
"Lord, these are infidels; I think they are English."
Muley Hafiz twisted his trim little beard.
"Bring them," he said.
So they were brought to his presence, a dishevelled man and a girl at
the sight of whose face, he gasped.
"My little friend of the Riviera," he said wonderingly, and the smile
she gave him was like a ray of sunshine to his heart.
He stood up, a magnificent figure of a man, and she eyed him admiringly.
"I am sorry if my men have frightened you," he said. "You have nothing
to fear, madame. I will send my soldiers to escort you to Tangier."
And then he frowned. "Where did you come from?"
She could not lie under the steady glance of those liquid eyes.
"We landed on the shore from a boat. We lost our way," she said.
He nodded.
"You must be she they are seeking," he said. "One of my spies came to me
from Tangier to-night, and told me that the Spanish and the French
police were waiting to arrest a lady who had committed some crime in
France. I cannot believe it is you--or if it is, then I should say the
crime was pardonable."
He glanced at Marcus.
"Or perhaps," he said slowly, "it is your companion they desire."
Jean shook her head.
"No, they do not want him," she said, "it is I they want."
He pointed to a cushion.
"Sit down," he said, and followed her example.
Marcus alone remained standing, wondering how this strange situation
would develop.
"What will you do? If you go into Tangier I fear I could not protect
you, but there is a city in the hills," he waved his hand, "many miles
from here, a city where the hills are green, mademoiselle, and where
beautiful springs gush out of the ground, and there I am lord."
She drew a long breath.
"I will go to the city of the hills," she said softly, "and this man,"
she shrugged her shoulders, "I do not care what happens to him," she
said, with a smile of amusement at the pallid Marcus.
"Then he shall go to Tangier alone."
But Marcus Stepney did not go alone. For the last two miles of the
journey he had carried a bag containing the greater part of five million
francs that the girl had brought from the boat. Jean did not remember
this until she was on her way to the city of the hills, and by that time
money did not interest her.
THE END.
* * * * *
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.
The following typographical errors in the text were corrected as
detailed here.
In the text: "Had she known Mr. Marcus Stepney as well as Jean knew him
... " the name "Joan" was corrected to "Jean."
The words "mud-guard" and "taxi-cab" are inconsistently hyphenated in
the original.
In the text: '"Poor soul," said Jack dryly. "but ... "' the period
after "dryly" was corrected to a comma.
* * * * *