Anxious as I had been to see him, and eagerly as I had sought his
presence, now that Pharos stood before me I was as frightened of him as
I had been on the night I had first set eyes on him at the foot of
Cleopatra's Needle. I stood looking at his queer, ungainly figure for
some seconds, trying to make up my mind how I should enter upon what I
had to say to him. That he was aware of my embarrassment I could see,
and from the way his lips curled I guessed that he was deriving
considerable satisfaction from it. His face was as crafty and his eyes
as wicked as ever I had seen them; but I noticed that on this occasion
he leaned more heavily upon his stick than usual.
"I presume it is to my kind friend Sir George Legrath that I am indebted
for the pleasure of this interview," he said, after the short pause that
followed his introductory speech; "for I need not flatter myself you
will believe me when I say that I was fully aware, even before I met you
in Lady Medenham's house the other day, that we should be talking
together in this Temple within a week."
The palpable absurdity of this speech gave me just the opportunity for
which I was waiting.
"Monsieur Pharos," I said, with as much sternness as I could manage to
throw into my voice, "successful as you have hitherto been in deceiving
me, it is not the least use your attempting to do so on the present
occasion. I am quite willing to state that it was my friend Sir George
Legrath who put me in the way of communicating with you. I called upon
him on Tuesday morning and obtained your address from him."
He nodded his head.
"You will pardon me, I hope, if I seat myself," he said. "It seems that
this interview is likely to be a protracted one, and as I am no longer
young I doubt if I can go through it standing."
With this apology he seated himself on a block of stone at the foot of
one of the graceful columns which in bygone days had supported the
entrance to the Temple, and, resting his chin on his hands, which again
leaned on the carved handle of his stick, he turned to me and in a
mocking voice said: "This air of mystery is no doubt very appropriate,
my friend; but since you have taken such trouble to find me, perhaps you
will be good enough to furnish me with your reason?"
I scratched in the dust with the point of my stick before I replied.
Prepared as I was with what I had to say to him, and justified as I felt
in pursuing the course I had determined to adopt, for the first time
since I had arrived in Naples a doubt as to the probability, or even the
sanity, of my case entered my head.
"I can quite understand your embarrassment, my dear Mr. Forrester," he
said, with a little laugh, when he saw that I did not begin. "I am
afraid you have formed a totally wrong impression of me. By some
mischance a train of circumstances has arisen which has filled your mind
with suspicion of me. As a result, instead of classing me among your
warmest and most admiring friends, as I had hoped you would do, you
distrust me and have nothing but unpleasant thoughts in your mind
concerning me. Pray let me hear the charges you bring against me, and I
feel sure--nay, I am certain--I shall be able to refute them. The matter
of what occurred at Cleopatra's Needle has already been disposed of, and
I do not think we need refer to it again. What else have you to urge?"
His voice had entirely changed. It had lost its old sharpness, and was
softer, more musical, and infinitely more agreeable than I had ever
known it before. He rose from his seat and moved a step toward me.
Placing his hand upon my arm, and looking me full and fair in the face,
he said:
"Mr. Forrester, I am an old man--how old you can have no idea--and it is
too late in my life for me to begin making enemies. Fate, in one of her
cruel moments, has cursed me with an unpleasing exterior. Nay, do not
pretend that you think otherwise, for I know it to be true. Those whom I
would fain conciliate are offended by it. You, however, I should have
thought would have seen below the surface. Why should we quarrel? To
quote your own Shakespeare, 'I would be friends with you and have your
love.' I am rich, I have influence, I have seen a great deal of the
world, and have studied mankind as few others have done. If, therefore,
we joined forces, what is there we might not do together?"
Incredible as it may seem after all I had suffered on his account, such
was the influence he exerted over me that I now began to find myself
wishing it were not necessary for me to say the things I had come to
say. But I had no intention of allowing him to suppose I could be moved
as easily as he seemed to imagine.
"Before there can be any talk of friendship or even of association
between us, Monsieur Pharos," I said, "it will be necessary for me to
have a complete understanding with you. If I have wronged you, as I
sincerely hope I have done, I will endeavour to make amends for it. Are
you aware that on the night of Lady Medenham's 'at home' a diabolical
murder was committed at the old curiosity shop at the corner of the
street adjoining that in which my studio is situated?"
"One could hardly read the English papers without being aware of it," he
answered gravely; "but I scarcely see in what way that affects me."
Here he stopped and gazed at me for a moment in silence as if he were
anxious to read what was passing in my mind. Then he began again:
"Surely you do not mean to tell me, Mr. Forrester, that your dislike to
me is so great as to induce you to believe that I was the perpetrator of
that ghastly deed?"
"Since you are aware that a murder _was_ committed," I said, without
appearing to notice his interruption, "perhaps you also know that the
deed was supposed to have been done between the hours of midnight and
one o'clock. You may also have read that an individual was seen leaving
the house by the back entrance almost on the stroke of one, and that he
was believed to have taken refuge in my studio."
"Now that you recall the circumstance, I confess I did see something of
the sort in the paper," he answered; "and I remember reading also that
you informed the inspector of police, who called upon you to make
inquiries, that to the best of your knowledge no such man _had_ entered
your house. What then?"
"Well, Monsieur Pharos, it was a few moments after the hour mentioned
that you made your appearance before me, breathing heavily as though you
had been running. Upon my questioning you, you offered the paltry excuse
that you had been for a walk after Lady Medenham's 'at home,' and that
you had missed your way and come quite by chance to my studio."
"As I shall prove to your satisfaction when you have finished, that was
exactly what happened."
"But you have not heard all," I replied. "While in my rooms you became
desirous of possessing the mummy of the Egyptian magician, Ptahmes. You
expressed a wish that I should present it to you, and, when I declined
to do so, you hypnotised me and took it without either my leave or my
license--a very questionable proceeding if viewed in the light of the
friendship you profess to entertain for me. How the law of the land
would regard it doubtless you know as well as I do."
As I said this I watched his face closely, but if I hoped to find any
expression of shame there I was destined to be disappointed.
"My dear Forrester," he said, "it is very plain indeed that you have
developed an intense dislike to me. Otherwise you would scarcely be so
ready to believe evil of me. How will you feel when I convince you that
all the ill you think of me is undeserved? Answer me that!"
"If only you can do so," I cried, clutching eagerly at the hope he held
out. "If you can prove that I have wronged you, I will only too gladly
make you any amends in my power You can not imagine what these last few
days have been to me. I have perjured myself to save you. I have risked
my good name, I have----"
"And I thank you," he answered. "I don't think you will find me
ungrateful. But before I accept your services I must prove to you that I
am not as bad as you think me. Let us for a moment consider the matter.
We will deal with the case of the mummy first, that being, as you will
allow, of the least importance as far as you, individually, are
concerned. Before I unburden myself, however, I must make you understand
the disadvantage I am labouring under. To place my meaning more clearly
before you, it would be necessary for me to make an assertion which I
have the best of reasons for knowing you would not believe. Perhaps I
made a mistake on that particular evening to which we are referring,
when I induced you to believe that it was by accident I visited your
studio. I am prepared now to confess that it was not so. I was aware
that you had that mummy in your possession. I had known it for some
considerable time, but I had not been able to get in touch with you.
That night an opportunity offered, and I seized it with avidity. I could
not wait until the next day, but called upon you within a few hours of
meeting you at Lady Medenham's 'at home.' I endeavoured to induce you to
part with the mummy, but in vain. My entreaties would not move you. I
exerted all my eloquence, argued and pleaded as I have seldom, if ever,
done to a man before. Then, seeing that it was useless, I put into force
a power of which I am possessed, and determined that, come what might,
you should do as I desired. I do not deny that in so doing I was to
blame, but I think, if the magnitude of the temptation were brought home
to you, you would understand how difficult it would be not to fall. Let
me make my meaning clearer to you if possible."
"It would, perhaps, be as well," I answered, with a touch of sarcasm,
"for at present I am far from being convinced."
"You have been informed already by our mutual friend Sir George Legrath
that I am of Egyptian descent. Perhaps you do not understand that, while
the ancient families of your country are proud of being able to trace
their pedigrees back to the time of the Norman Conquest, a beggarly
eight hundred years or thereabouts, I, Pharos, can trace mine, with
scarcely a break, back to the nineteenth dynasty of Egyptian history, a
period of over three thousand years. It was that very Ptahmes, the man
whose mummy your father stole from its ancient resting-place, who was
the founder of our house. For some strange reason, what I can not tell,
I have always entertained the belief that my existence upon this earth,
and such success as I shall meet with, depend upon my finding that mummy
and returning it to the tomb from which sacrilegious hands had taken it.
At first this was only a mere desire; since then it has become a fixed
determination, which has grown in strength and intensity until it has
become more than a determination, a craving in which the happiness of my
whole existence is involved. For many years, with a feverish longing
which I can not expect or hope to make you understand, I searched Europe
from end to end, visiting all the great museums and private collections
of Egyptian antiquities, but without success. Then, quite by chance and
in a most circuitous fashion, I discovered that it was your father who
had found it, and that at his death it had passed on to you. I visited
England immediately, obtained an introduction to you, and the rest you
know."
"And where is the mummy now?" I inquired.
"In Naples," he replied. "To-morrow I start with it for Egypt, to return
it to the place whence your father took it."
"But allow me to remark that it is not your property, Monsieur Pharos,"
I replied; "and even taking into consideration the circumstances you
relate, you must see yourself that you have no right to act as you
propose doing."
"And pray by what right did your father rifle the dead man's tomb?"
said Pharos quietly. "And since you are such a stickler for what is
equitable, perhaps you will show me his justification for carrying away
the body from the country in which it had been laid to rest and
conveying it to England to be stared at in the light of a curiosity. No,
Mr. Forrester, your argument is a poor one, and I should combat it to
the last. I am prepared, however, to make a bargain with you."
"And what is that bargain?" I inquired.
"It is as follows," he replied. "Our interest in the dead man shall be
equal. Since it was your father who stole the mummy from its
resting-place, let it be the descendant of the dead Ptahmes who restores
it. As you will yourself see, and as I think you must in common honesty
admit, what I am doing in this matter can in no way advance my own
personal interests. If I have taken from you a possession which you
valued so highly, set your own figure upon it, and double what you ask I
will pay. Can I say anything fairer?"
I did not know what answer to make. If the man were what he said, the
veritable descendant of the king's magician, then it was only natural he
should be willing to sacrifice anything to obtain possession of the body
of his three-thousand-years-old ancestor. On my part the sentiment was
undoubtedly a much weaker one. The mummy had been left me, among other
items of his collection, by my father, and, when that has been said, my
interest in the matter lapsed. There was, however, a weightier issue to
be decided before I could do him the favour he asked.
"So much for the mummy incident," I said. "What you have to do now is to
clear yourself of the more serious suspicion that exists against you. I
refer to the murder of the curiosity dealer."
"But surely, Mr. Forrester," he said, "you can not be serious when you
say you believe I had anything to do with that dreadful affair?"
"You know very well what I do and what I do not believe," I answered. "I
await your reply."
"Since you press me for it, I will give it," he continued. "But remember
this, if I have to convince you of my innocence, your only chance will
be gone, for I shall never feel the same toward you again."
As he said this the old fierce light came into his eyes, and for a
moment he looked as dangerous as on that evening in the studio.
"I repeat, I ask you to convince me," I said as firmly as my voice could
speak.
"Then I will do so," he replied, and dived his hand into his coat
pocket. When he produced it again it held a crumpled copy of a
newspaper. He smoothed it out upon his knee and handed it to me.
"If you will look at the third column from the left, you will see a
heading entitled 'The mysterious murder in Bonwell Street.' Pray read
it."
I took the paper and read as follows:
MYSTERIOUS MURDER IN BONWELL STREET.
EXTRAORDINARY CONFESSION AND SUICIDE.
"Shortly before nine o'clock this morning, a tall, middle-aged man,
giving the name of Johann Schmidt, a German, and evidently in a weak
state of health, entered the precincts of Bow Street Police Station, and
informed the officer in charge that he desired to give himself up to
justice as the murderer of Herman Clausand, the curiosity dealer of
Bonwell Street, the victim of the shocking tragedy announced in our
issue of Tuesday last. Schmidt, who spoke with considerable earnestness
and seemed desirous of being believed, stated that several years before
he had been in the deceased's employ, and since his dismissal had nursed
feelings of revenge. On the day preceding the murder he had called at
Bonwell Street, and, after informing Clausand that he was out of
employment and starving, asked to be again taken into his service; the
other, however, refused to entertain his request, whereupon Schmidt very
reluctantly left the shop. For the remainder of the day he wandered
about London, endeavouring to obtain work, but about midnight, having
been unsuccessful, he returned to Bonwell Street and rang the bell. The
door was opened by Clausand himself, who, as we stated in our first
account of the murder, lived alone. Schmidt entered, and once more
demanded employment, or at least money sufficient to enable him to find
shelter for the night. Again Clausand refused, whereupon the man picked
up a dagger from a stand near by and stabbed him to the heart.
Frightened at what he had done, he did not stay to rob the body, but
made his way through the house and out by the back door. Passing into
Murbrook Street, he saw a policeman coming toward him, but by stepping
into a doorway managed to avoid him. Since that time, up to the moment
of surrendering himself, he had been wandering about London, and it was
only when he found starvation staring him in the face that he determined
to give himself up. Having told his story, the man was about to be
searched prior to being conducted to a cell, when he drew from his
pocket a revolver and placed the muzzle to his forehead. Before the
bystanders could stop him he had pulled the trigger; there was a loud
report, and a moment later the wretched man fell dead at the officer's
feet. The divisional surgeon was immediately summoned, but on his
arrival found that life was extinct. Inquiries were at once made with a
view to ascertaining whether the story he had told had any foundation in
fact. We have since learned that the description he gave of himself was
a true one, that he had once been in Clausand's employ, and that on the
day preceding the murder he had openly asserted in a public-house in the
neighbourhood of Soho his intention of being revenged upon the dead man.
"The coroner has been informed, and an inquest will be held to-morrow
morning."
* * * * *
After I had read it, I stood for some moments looking at the paper in my
hand. Then I turned to Pharos, who was still seated on the block of
stone watching me intently. Since this miserable wretch had confessed to
the crime, it was plain that I had wronged him in supposing he had
committed it. A weight was undoubtedly lifted from my mind, but for some
reason or another the satisfaction I derived from this was by no means
as great as I had expected it would be. At the back of my mind there was
still a vague impression that I was being deceived, and, do what I
would, I could not rid myself of it.
"That, I think, should convince you, Mr. Forrester," said Pharos, rising
and coming toward me, "how very unwise it is ever to permit one's
feelings to outweigh one's judgment. You made up your mind that you
disliked me, and for the simple reason that I had the misfortune to lose
my way on that particular evening, and to reach your studio about the
same time that that terrible murder was committed, you were ready at a
moment's notice to believe me guilty of the crime."
"What you say is quite true," I answered humbly. "I acted very
foolishly, I admit. I have done you a great wrong, and you have behaved
very generously about it."
"In that case we will say no more about it," he replied. "It is an
unpleasant subject; let us forget it and never refer to it again. As I
asked you to believe when last I saw you, my only desire is that you
should think well of me and that we should be friends. As another proof
of my kindly feeling toward yourself, I will go further than I
originally intended and say that I am willing to restore the mummy I
took from you. It is here in Naples, but, if you wish, it shall be at
once returned to your house in London."
This was more than I had expected from him, and it impressed me
accordingly.
"I could not dream of such a thing," I replied. "Since you have been so
generous, let me follow your example. I have wronged you, and, as some
small return, I ask you to keep the king's magician, and do with him as
you please."
"I accept your offer in the spirit in which it is made," he replied.
"Now, perhaps, we had better be going. If you have nothing better to do
this evening I should be glad if you would dine with me. I think I can
promise you a better dinner than you will get at your own hotel, and
afterward, I have no doubt, we shall be able to induce my ward to give
us some music. You had better say 'Yes,' for, I assure you, we shall
both be disappointed if you refuse."
"You are really very kind," I began, "but----"
"With your permission we will have no 'buts,'" he replied, with a wave
of his hand. "The matter is settled, and I shall look forward to a
pleasant evening. My carriage is at the gate, and if you will drive back
with me I shall be doubly honoured."
If there had been any way of getting out of it, I think I should have
taken advantage of it; but as I could not discover one, I was perforce
compelled to accept his invitation.
"I wonder if this city has the same fascination for you, Mr. Forrester,
that it has for me?" said Pharos, after I had given my consent to the
arrangement he proposed. "For my own part I never come to Naples without
paying it a visit; but how very few are there of the numbers who visit
it weekly that really understand it! What tales I could tell you of it,
if only they interested you! How vividly I could bring back to you the
life of the people who once spoke in this forum, bathed in yonder baths,
applauded in the theatre nineteen hundred years ago! Let us follow this
street which leads toward the Temple of Isis, that Temple in which the
Egyptian goddess was worshipped by such as pretended to believe in her
mysterious powers. I say _pretended_, because it was the fashion then to
consult her oracles--a fashion as insulting as it was popular."
By this time we had passed out of the Temple of Mercury and were making
our way along the time-worn pavement toward the building of which he
spoke. The sun was sinking in the west, and already long shadows were
drawing across the silent streets, intensifying the ghostliness of the
long-deserted city. Reaching the Temple, we entered and looked about us.
"See how its grandeur has departed from it," said Pharos, with a note of
sadness in his voice that made me turn and gaze at him in surprise.
"Time was when this was the most beautiful temple in the city, when
every day her courts were thronged with worshippers, when her oracles
boasted a reputation that reached even to mighty Rome. On this spot
stood the statue of the goddess herself. There that of her son, the god
Horus. Here was the purgatorium, and there the bronze figure of the bull
god Apis. Can you not picture the crowd of eager faces beyond the rails,
the white-robed priests, and the sacrifice being offered up on yonder
altar amid the perfumes of frankincense and myrrh? Where, Mr. Forrester,
are these priests now? The crowd of worshippers, the statues?
Gone--gone--dust and ashes, these nineteen hundred years. Come, we have
lingered here long enough, let us go further."
Leaving the Temple we made our way into the Stabian Street, passed the
Temple of AEsculapius, and did not stop until we had reached the house of
Tullus Agrippa. Into this Pharos led me.
"O Tullus Agrippa!" he cried, as if apostrophizing the dead man, "across
the sea of time, I, Pharos the Egyptian, salute thee! Great was thy
wealth and endless thy resources. Greedy of honour and praise wast thou,
and this house was the apex of thy vanity. Here is that same triclinium
where thy guests were wont to assemble when thou didst invite them to
thy banquets. Here the room in which thou didst condemn thine only son
to perpetual banishment. In those days, when the sun was warm and the
table was laden with the banquet, and friends crowded about thee and
praised the beauty of thy frescoes, the excellence of thy wine, the
cunning of thy cook, and the service of thy slaves, little didst thou
dream that nineteen centuries later would find thy house roofless, dug
up from the bowels of the earth, and thy cherished rooms a show to be
gaped at by all who cared to pay a miserable fee. Least of all didst
thou think then that Pharos the Egyptian would be standing in the room
where once thou didst rule so absolute, telling thy faults and follies
to a man of a race that in thy day was well-nigh unknown."
He stopped for a moment, and then, turning to me again, recommenced with
fresh energy:
"The owner of this house, Tullus Agrippa, was avaricious, cruel, vain,
and sensual. He gave of his wealth only when he was assured of a large
return. He was hated on every hand, and by his own family and dependants
most of all. What did his wealth avail him on that last dread day, when
the streets were filled with flying citizens, when all was confusion and
none knew which way to turn for safety? The catastrophe found him
tossing on a bed of sickness and scarcely able to stand alone. With the
first shock of the earthquake he called imperiously for his favourite
slave, but received no answer. He called again, this time almost with
entreaty. Still no answer came. The walls of his house trembled and
shook as he rose from his couch and staggered out into the fast
darkening street. Like a blind man he groped his way to yonder corner,
calling upon the names of his gods as he went, and offering every
sestertia in his possession to the person who would conduct him to a
place of safety. A man brushed against him. He looked up and recognised
the gladiator, Tymon, the man he had encouraged and whose richest patron
he had been. Accordingly, he seized him and clung to him, offering gifts
innumerable if he would only carry him as far as the Marine Gate. But
this, as Tymon knew, was no time for helping others, with that terrible
shower of ashes pouring down like rain. The gladiator cast him off, but
the other was not to be denied. He struggled to his knees and threw his
arms around the strong man's legs, but only for an instant. Roused to a
pitch of fury by his terror, Tymon struck him a blow on the temple with
the full strength of his ponderous fist. The old man stumbled against
the wall, clutched at it for support, and at length fell senseless upon
the ground. The shower of ashes and scoria quickly covered him, and
nineteen hundred years later the workmen, excavating the ruins,
discovered his body at the base of yonder wall. Such was the fate of the
noble Tullus Agrippa, citizen of Rome, and once the owner of this
house."
Before I could reply or ask how he had become familiar with these
details, he had made his way outside and was in the road once more. I
followed him to the Street of Fortune, passed the House of the Fawn, the
Baths, and the Villa of Glaucus. Of each he had some story to tell--some
anecdote to relate. From the graphic way in which he described
everything, the names and characters he introduced, I might have been
excused had I even believed that he had known the city in its prime and
been present on the day of its destruction. I said as much to him, but
he only shook his head.
"Think what you please," he said. "If I were to tell you the truth you
would not believe me. For that reason I prefer that you should credit me
with the possession of an exceedingly vivid imagination. If I have
succeeded in making the last hour pass pleasantly, I am amply rewarded.
But it grows late; the guards are coming in search of us; let us return
to the gate."
Accordingly, we made our way back to the Porta Marina, and down the path
toward the entrance to the ruins. My companion was evidently well known
to the officials, for they treated him with obsequious respect, bowing
before him and inquiring if he had seen certain new excavations, as if
the success of the latter depended entirely on his good opinion of them.
In the road outside a carriage was standing, to which was attached a
magnificent pair of black horses. A coachman, dressed in a neat but
unpretentious black livery, sat upon the box, while a footman stood
beside the carriage door. The whole turn-out was in excellent taste, and
would have made a creditable appearance in the Bois de Boulogne or Hyde
Park. Into this elegant equipage Pharos invited me to step, and as soon
as I had seated myself he took his place beside me. Hot though the night
was, a heavy fur rug was wrapped round his knees, and when this had been
done he laid himself back upon the cushions with a sigh of relief, as if
the exertion of the afternoon had been too much for him.
"So much for Pompeii," he said, as the horses sprang forward. "Now for
Naples and the most beautiful creature it contains at present, my ward,
the Fraeulein Valerie de Vocsqal."