Without bestowing a second glance on either the carriage or its occupant
Carew jammed his hat down savagely over his eyes and leaped into another
cab that had drawn up expectantly beside him.
He leant back against the dusty cushions, his arms folded tightly across
his chest, scowling wrathfully at the busy streets. He had not seen the
look of hurt disappointment that flashed into the girl’s eyes when he
ignored her outstretched hand, nor heard the sharp sob that burst from
her trembling lips. He had been conscious only of the raging tumult of
his own feelings, of the intolerant anger that this second wholly
undesired meeting had provoked. It had been an effort to be even
civil—if indeed he had been civil at all, which he very much doubted.
How like a woman to forget one peril so readily and court further danger
without a moment’s consideration. Had the lesson of three weeks ago made
so little impression on her? The little fool—did she imagine that
Algiers was teeming with knights-errant seeking beauty in distress! His
fine lips curved contemptuously as he lit a cigarette and looked at his
watch with a deeper scowl. Though indifferent to his own meals he
disliked causing annoyance to others and the cheery little Governor was
a gourmet to whom a retarded dinner was a catastrophe. By now he should
have been starting for the Palace instead of toiling up the road to
Mustapha behind two extremely tired half-starved Arab hacks. It was
useless to urge the driver, the hill was steep and the miserable little
beasts were doing their best.
Stretching his long legs out more comfortably and pulling his hat
further over his eyes he settled himself to wait, his mind wandering
back to the desert he had so recently left but towards which his
thoughts were already turning eagerly. Time to complete his arrangements
for another protracted trip, to restock his depleted medical equipment,
and he could leave this confounded town again for the life he loved
best. A life of hardship and danger, but to him a life eminently worth
living. And in the end—far out amongst the sandy wastes, he hoped,
where the fierce sun would beat down scorchingly on the whispering
particles that would hold him in their shifting embrace, where the
jackals would wail their nightly chorus under the marvel of the eastern
stars—the requiem of the desert.
The desert! He drew a deep breath of heart-felt anticipation. It was
calling him more compellingly than it had ever done, bringing memories
of long hot rides beneath the burning sun, of the silver radiance of the
peaceful moonlit nights and the never failing glory of the dawn. He
smiled a little at his own enthusiasm. It was not all peace and beauty
and marvellous silence. There was battle and murder and sudden death,
cruelty that was inconceivable and suffering that made him set his teeth
as he thought of the needless agony he had witnessed more times than he
cared to remember. But despite its savagery he loved it. It was his
life. It was there he had found his chosen work, it was there he hoped
to die. Even the thought of it was soothing to him in his present mood,
and dreaming of it, he forgot the annoyance of the afternoon, forgot
everything but the irresistible charm it had for him.
The villa was reached at length, the sweating horses expending their
remaining reserve of strength in a final spurt of activity rushing the
last fifty yards of level ground under a storm of abuse from the Arab
driver who drew up at the nail-studded door, set in the enclosing wall,
with a self-satisfied grin that widened broadly as he caught the liberal
fee tossed to him. At the sound of the approaching wheels the door had
opened silently and Carew passed through and went swiftly along the
flower bordered pathway to the house. The single storied building was
the most beautiful in Mustapha Superieur. Built forty years before for
Carew’s delicate mother it was a miniature palace and stood in a garden
that rivalled even that of the Villa des Ombres. But, preoccupied, Carew
had tonight no eye for the beauty of either house or garden and he did
not linger as was his wont before entering the spacious mauresque hall
where Hosein was waiting for him in a state of visible agitation that
was foreign to his usual impassive demeanour.
“Praise be to Allah, my lord has returned,” he murmured, his gloomy eyes
lightening with evident relief. Carew stared at him for a moment in
puzzled astonishment, then he smiled a trifle grimly. Hosein too! This
was becoming monotonous. He was fully conversant with the rapidity with
which reports spread in a land of rumour and intrigue, but Abdul, who
had unorthodox proclivities, must have been drunk indeed to boast so
openly of his intentions.
“To Allah the praise,” he returned conventionally. Then he laughed and
shrugged indifferently. “ ‘The jackal howls where he dare not slay,’ ”
he quoted, adding over his shoulder as he moved away, “Telephone to the
Palace that I have been detained, that I beg His Excellency will not
wait for me. I will join him as quickly as possible.”
He crossed the open courtyard round which the house was built and
entered his bedroom, passing through to the dressing room beyond. There
he found the blind boy sitting on the floor, his hands folded in his
lap, his face turned towards the door with a look of strained attention.
As it opened he sprang to his feet and bounded forward impetuously. With
a word of warning Carew caught him and swung him high in his arms. “What
mischief to confess, O son of wickedness?” he teased, as he felt the
slender limbs trembling against him. But the time-honoured jest did not
provoke the peal of laughter he expected. Instead the little face was
grave and strangely set and Carew put him down with a quick caress.
“Who has troubled thee, Saba?” he asked quietly, moving across the room
to empty his pockets before changing. The boy followed him with
outstretched fumbling hands. “No man has troubled me,” he answered
slowly, “but, lord, my heart is sick within me. I dreamt a dream—an
evil dream. And, waking, the dream is with me still. There is danger,
lord, that threatens thee. In my dreams I saw clearly, but now I cannot
see—I cannot see—” he broke off with a sharp little wail of anguish. A
queer look crossed Carew’s face as his hands closed firmly over the tiny
fluttering fingers. It was not the first time that Saba had shown
himself to be possessed of an almost uncanny sensitiveness where the
safety of the man he worshipped was concerned. Ordinarily a happy,
healthy-minded child there was in him an odd streak of mysticism that
cropped up at rare intervals with curious results. On two previous
occasions he had had a presage of danger menacing his protector that
subsequent events had fully justified. Too familiar with the occultism
of the east to be sceptical Carew was not disposed to minimise the
importance of a warning that was identical with the plainer, more
substantial hints he had received that afternoon, but he was in no mind
to treat it with undue seriousness or show too great a credulity to the
nervous boy whose upturned sightless eyes were wet with tears. He
soothed him with the tenderness that marked his every dealing with him.
“Thou hast dreamt before,” he said gently, “and the danger has passed.
So will this danger pass—”
“If Allah wills.” The childish treble broke on a quivering sob and Carew
accepted the qualification of his assurance with a little smile. “All
things are with Allah,” he answered, “and it is written ‘seek not to
discover that which is hidden, for behold, when the day cometh all
things shall be revealed.’ And again, ‘no accident happeneth in the
earth, nor in your persons, but the same was entered in the book of our
decrees.’ ”
A deep sigh escaped the boy and he pressed his lips on the strong brown
hands clasped on his.
“So it is written—yet if thou die, I die,” he exclaimed passionately.
With wonderful gentleness Carew disengaged himself.
“Time to think of that when I die,” he said lightly. “Meanwhile I
live—and the French lord’s dinner grows cold while I chatter with a
dreamer of dreams,” he added, turning away to the dressing table.
He changed quickly, and flinging a black cloak over his evening clothes
paused irresolutely with his hand over a revolver that lay on the table.
He was not in the habit of carrying firearms in the town of Algiers but
tonight there seemed justification for so doing. He might have doubts as
to the truth of the warnings he had received but he would be a fool to
utterly ignore them.
Slipping the weapon into his hip pocket he left the room with a cheery
word to Saba, who was sitting mournfully amidst the discarded clothing
that littered the floor, and went out to his waiting carriage.
And as the spirited black horses drew him swiftly through the night his
thoughts were busy with the pathetic little figure left disconsolate in
the dressing room. If anything happened to him what would be the fate of
the blind boy whose whole life was bound up in his? It was a problem
that had often troubled him. He had made full provision for his
protege’s future and Hosein, while he lived, would serve him faithfully.
But Saba in his blindness and with his highly-strung mystical
temperament needed more than bodily comfort and faithful service. He
needed what apparently only Carew could give him. Without Carew he would
pine and droop like a delicate plant torn from the parent root from
which it draws its strength. For Saba’s sake, then it behooved him to
take precautions he would otherwise have neglected.
The town was quieter than it had been earlier in the evening and Carew’s
coachman, who was a noted whip, took full advantage of the empty
streets, driving with customary Arab recklessness but handling the
excited horses magnificently until, with a fine flourish, he drew them
foam-flecked to a standstill before the Palace.
The Governor, as Carew hoped, had taken him at his word. Dinner was in
full swing when he entered with apologies for his lateness and slipped
into the place reserved for him.
It was, in compliment to his known peculiarity, a strictly bachelor
entertainment, enlivened by the presence of Patrice Lemaire and another
equally light-hearted attache.
The Governor, hospitable to his finger tips and still pleasantly excited
with the success of the day’s work, was overflowing with good humour.
Even General Sanois had relaxed somewhat of his usual gravity and
condescended to occasional bursts of heavy pleasantry. But he was
obviously distrait and his spasmodic attempts at conversation were
punctuated by lengthy silences during which his eyes wandered frequently
to Carew who was sitting opposite to him. And towards the close of
dinner, when the Arab servants had left the room, he leaned forward with
a sudden remark that was fraught with more meaning than the actual words
implied.
“Your friends in the Casbar were exigent, it seems.”
But Carew, who knew him, was not to be drawn. General Sanois was usually
possessed of more knowledge than he was willing to admit, and his
seemingly inocuous questions were often actuated by a deliberate policy
and were rarely as guileless as they appeared. And tonight his thinly
veiled curiosity met with scant success. Carew had no intention of being
trapped into saying more than he wished to say, or of imparting what he
preferred to withhold. He met the General’s intent gaze with a tolerant
smile.
“Don’t jibe at my friends, _mon général_,” he replied. “As I said this
afternoon, they are useful. They serve you through me and they know
it—most of them. But I picked up one piece of information this evening
that will interest you—”
“Tomorrow,” interrupted the Governor hastily, “tomorrow, my dear Carew.
Business tonight is taboo. If our good Sanois once starts talking of his
eternal affairs he will talk all through the opera, and I shall behave
badly. Yes, badly, I warn you. I—” The remainder of his protest was
lost in the shout of laughter that burst from his irrepressible nephew.
“Latest news from Algeria,” chanted Lemaire in the shrill nasal tones of
the street newsvendor. “Regrettable scene witnessed last night at the
opera. Fracas in the Governor General’s box. His Excellency and the
Commander-in-Chief engaged in mortal combat in the presence of an
excited audience. The Governor not expected to recover. General Sanois
has fled to the desert and proclaimed himself ‘Emperor of the
Sahara’—My dear General, I offer my service as Aide-de-Camp. I’m bored
to extinction with writing Uncle Henri’s despatches,” he added with an
ironical bow, dodging the dinner napkin the Governor flung at his head.
And in the general laugh that followed they rose from the table.
They were late in reaching the opera house and the first act was in
progress when the Governor, a music lover at heart, tiptoed silently
into his box and settled himself attentively to listen to a work he had
already heard a score of times.
Carew, sitting on his left, drew his chair into the shadow of the heavy
side curtain and leant back to pursue his own thoughts which the
mediocre company on the stage failed to distract. The house was full,
one box only—that directly facing the Governor’s—being empty. Carew’s
gaze turned to the crowded seats with indifferent interest. It was more
than two years since he had last visited the garish little theatre; it
would probably be another two years before he was in it again, he
reflected, as his mind ranged back to the all absorbing topic of the new
expedition he was scheming. And now it seemed possible that his schemes
might meet with an unexpected check. The information he had promised
General Sanois at dinner, which he had gleaned that afternoon during his
interview with the old chief in the Casbar, had in a measure upset his
original calculations. It might mean a total change of plan. The needs
of the Government had not been included in his forthcoming trip. He had
purposed a tour that should be wholly devoted to his own work, and he
viewed with some dismay the possibility of further political activity.
He was a free lance, of course. He could take or reject any work offered
him, but the mere fact of his freedom seemed to make the sense of his
moral obligation more binding. He would have to go if it became really
necessary—devoutly he hoped that the necessity would not arise. He was
tired of intrigue and the endless palavers of political negotiations. He
was anxious to pursue his own vocation unhindered, and to travel where
inclination took him rather than follow a definite route in furtherance
of Government schemes. There was a district, far away in the southwest,
he had long wanted to visit. A district inhabited by a tribe he had
heard of but with whom he had never yet come in contact. His plans of
the last three weeks had centered more and more round this unknown
locality that seemed to promise everything he demanded in the way of
work and adventure. A strange and hostile people who guarded the secret
of their desert fastness with jealous activity, fiercely resenting not
only the advent of foreigners but also the encroachment of contiguous
tribes. The tales he had heard of the impregnable walled-in city—a
medieval survival if all the extraordinary stories anent it were
true—had fired him with a desire to penetrate its hidden mysteries, to
gain a footing amongst its prejudiced population. His calling had proved
a passport to other inhospitable tribes, he counted on it confidently to
win his admission to the secret City of Stones—the name by which it was
known to the nomads who avoided its vicinity. The thought of it moved
him deeply. Surely there was work for him within that rocky fortress
could he but once pass its closely guarded gateway. The call seemed
imperative, the call of suffering ignorant humanity whose misery he
longed to alleviate. The need must be great, and alone he could do so
little. Still even the little was worth his utmost endeavour, was worth
the hazardous experiment. He could but try, and trying, succeed or fail.
And as he meditated on the chances of the success he earnestly hoped
for, the little theatre with its crowded seats seemed to fade before his
eyes. He saw instead an endless stretch of undulating waste, sun
scorched and shimmering in the burning heat, and a caravan that wound
its tortuous length across the wavy ripples of the wind-whipped sand
labouring towards the mirage-like battlements of the secret city
towering grimly against the radiance of the western sky. The imagery was
strangely clear, singularly real. The gloomy pile stood out against his
mental vision with almost photographic distinctness, and as he gazed at
it wonderingly he seemed to feel between his knees the easy movements of
the big bay stallion, to hear the voices of the men who rode behind him,
the grunting protests of the lurching camels, the creak of
sweat-drenched saddles and the whispering murmur of the shifting sand.
The desert smell was pungent in his nostrils, his eyeballs ached with
the blinding glare . . . .
The burst of applause that greeted the fall of the curtain woke him
abruptly from his abstraction and he turned with a momentary feeling of
confusion to join in the general conversation that ensued. Would he ever
in reality come so near to the mysterious city as he had seemed to be in
imagination five minutes ago, he wondered, as he declined the Governor’s
invitation to smoke a cigarette in the corridor. He was still pondering
it when, left alone, he rose to stretch his legs, cramped with the
confined space. He made a noticeable figure standing in the front of the
box, a figure that attracted universal attention. But with the complete
unselfconsciousness that was so markedly a trait in his character he was
unaware of the interest he aroused. Incurious himself with regard to
others, and reserved even with his intimate friends, he had no knowledge
of the extravagant reports that for years had circulated about him, or
of the excitement caused tonight by his appearance at the opera. That he
was the subject of endless speculation, that he was the most discussed
personage in Algiers, had never entered his head. And now, absorbed in
his own thoughts, he was totally oblivious of the opera glasses and
lorgnettes turned in his direction.
But his wandering attention was caught at last by the arrival of late
comers in the opposite box—a man who stopped in the doorway to argue
noisily with the theatre attendant, and a slim white-robed girl who
moved slowly to the front of the box without heeding the stormy
altercation behind her. She stood looking down on the crowded seats with
a curious little air of detachment as if her thoughts were far away,
toying nervously with the long curling feathers of a huge ostrich fan,
her heavy sable cloak slipping from her shoulders. And with the same
strange irritation, the same wholly unreasonable anger he had felt
before Carew found himself staring at the pale sensitive face of the
woman from whom he had parted only a few hours ago. Was he never to be
free of her, never to be free of the haunting eyes he had striven for
three weeks to banish from his thoughts? Was the remainder of his peace
of mind to be wrecked by the continual remembrance of a woman he had no
desire to remember? Surely her very womanhood was sufficient reason for
forgetting her. He hated women. And in the intolerant antagonism that
filled him he felt that above all others he hated this particular woman
whose need had forced him to lay aside his prejudice and break the oath
he had sworn so many years ago. Young and beautiful, she was the
incarnation of all he distrusted and despised. His face darkened and he
made a movement to return to his seat. But something that was stronger
than his hatred stayed him. Despite himself his gaze lingered on the
slight girlish figure. And presently, as if drawn by some subtle
telepathic influence, she seemed to become aware of the compelling stare
fixed on her and slowly raised her head. For a second, across the width
of the theatre, her eyes met his. But though the quick blood flamed into
her face she gave no sign of recognition and turned, as from the
unwarrantable scrutiny of a total stranger, to the man who was with
her—the husband, Carew presumed, to whom she had alluded so briefly and
with such evident constraint on that first night of meeting. The husband
who doubtless knew nothing of the hours she had spent in his camp; who,
probably, also knew nothing of this evening’s incident in the rue
Annibal. His lips curled in a sneering smile and he turned with cynical
amusement to look at the heavy figure lounging beside her. But the smile
faded swiftly and his amusement gave place to a rush of feeling he did
not at the moment understand as his eyes ranged over Geradine’s massive
almost ape-like limbs and coarse sullen features. An odd look swept
across his face and he drew his breath in sharply. For the first time in
twelve years he felt pity for a woman. But he had no time to ponder it.
All thought of the girl was swamped in the wave of strange and terrible
emotion that was pouring over him, shaking him with a force he had never
before experienced—a sudden overwhelming sense of hostility that had
sprung into violent life within him at the sight of the man in the
opposite box, a fierce instinctive hatred such as he had never
conceived. The realisation of it staggered him. There was no reason for
it, he told himself angrily. It was preposterous, absurd. He had heard
of hatred at first sight, and laughed at it. But he did not laugh now as
he dragged his eyes from the face of the man he felt he hated from the
bottom of his soul. He was very far from laughter. He was conscious
instead of a feeling of fear—fear of himself, fear of the consequences
of the appalling forces which seemed suddenly let loose within him. He
had thought himself to be possessed of a perfect self-understanding. He
wondered now did he know anything about himself at all. Nothing, it
seemed. Nothing that had ever led him to imagine that some day, for no
apparent cause or reason, he would contemplate the destruction of an
utter stranger. For that was what it amounted to—the violent impulse
that was actuating him was a passionate desire to kill. God in heaven,
what had happened to him! Had his whole nature undergone some sudden and
horrible metamorphosis—had the wild life he had led in the desert been
influencing him unconsciously until at last he had himself succumbed to
the savagery and lawlessness of the people amongst whom he lived? What
devil was prompting him? His mission was to save life, not to destroy
it. True that during the course of his wanderings there had been
occasions when he had been forced to take life, but that was different.
He had killed in self-defence or in the defence of others, as he would
unhesitatingly kill again if need be, as he would without compunction
have killed Abdul el Dhib if it had proved necessary in the deserted
village three weeks ago. But there was a wide gulf between justifiable
homicide and murder. Murder! Perspiration gathered in icy drops on his
forehead as his rigid lips framed the word. Was he going mad! He knew
that he had never felt saner in his life. It was not madness that
possessed him but an inexplicable feeling of deadly enmity that was
almost overmastering in its intensity.
The atmosphere of the theatre seemed suddenly stifling. The blood beat
in his ears and with a sense of suffocation he brushed his hand before
his eyes trying to clear the bewildering mist that had risen before
them, blurring the crowded seats and the rapidly refilling orchestra. To
sit out the remainder of the opera seemed an impossibility, but to
surrender weakly to the impulse of the moment and leave the building was
equally impossible. Gripping himself he turned to go back to his seat.
But as he moved a hand was thrust through his arm and Patrice Lemaire’s
eager voice sounded close beside him, murmuring in his ear.
“Look, _monsieur_, in the opposite box. The compatriot of whom you
spoke—Lord Geradine, and his wife. Beauty and the beast, _hein_? _La!
la! quelle brute!_”
For a moment Carew stood motionless, then, with a tremendous effort he
forced himself to glance naturally in the direction indicated by the
interested attache. A glance of the briefest possible duration. Freeing
himself from the nervous clasp of the impressionable young Frenchman who
he knew would have had a great deal more to say had his auditor been
other than himself, Carew drew back with a shrug of assumed
indifference.
“As you say—a brute,” he said coldly, “for the rest, you are more
competent to judge than I.”
Lemaire accepted the retort with a little laugh of perfect good temper.
“Each to his taste, _monsieur_. For you—horses, and for me—the
ladies,” he replied gaily, and continued to stare with undisguised
admiration at the fair occupant of the opposite box until the entrance
of his uncle and General Sanois drove him to his own seat there to
evolve schemes, with his more sympathetic fellow attache, for obtaining
an introduction to the beautiful Englishwoman who reigned, for the
moment, supreme in his susceptible and fickle heart.
To Carew the time dragged out with maddening slowness. He envied Sanois
who, screened by the curtains as he was himself, was frankly nodding.
His whole body was still throbbing from the rush of extraordinary rage
that had swept him, his head was aching with the effort to understand
his own feelings, to find some sane and logical reason for the mental
disturbance that had seized upon him with such cataclysmic suddenness.
The whole thing was inexplicable, as inexplicable as the agitation of
mind that had possessed him for the last three weeks. Was there any
connection between them—was the one a corollary of the other? The
startling thought almost forced an exclamation from his lips and he
clenched his teeth as his eyes leaped involuntarily to the opposite box.
What possible connection could there be—what had he to do with either
of the strangely assorted couple who had each in their turn stirred him
so powerfully? Towards what was fate pushing him! He was conscious all
at once of a feeling of helplessness. Since the day that Micky Meredith
had come so unexpectedly, reviving memories of the bitter past,
everything seemed to be changed. He appeared to be no longer master of
himself. He seemed to have been plunged into a vortex of circumstances
over which he had no control, the end of which he could not see. The
sense of impotence was galling, and he repudiated it angrily. He was
damned if he was going to submit to any force of circumstance that ran
counter to his own inclination. And he was damned if he would take the
easy way out of the difficulty. Once before in his life he had played
the coward’s part and run away from a situation he was not morally
strong enough to meet. He could never, if he hoped to retain the least
shred of self-respect, do it again. And what, after all, was it he was
trying to evade? The problematical results of an extraordinary hatred
suddenly conceived for a total stranger, and the haunting recollection
of a woman’s face with which he had become obsessed—he, who hated
woman. Good Lord, what a fool! And reduced to the level of dispassionate
reasoning how futile it all seemed! It was time he got back to the
desert if this was the effect that civilization had on him. With a shrug
of self-contempt he turned for distraction to the stage he had hitherto
ignored. And until the close of the act he forced his attention to a
representation that appeared to him to be hardly more fantastic and
unreal than his own extravagant thoughts.
He welcomed the Governor’s decision to leave during the following
interval and followed him out of the box with a sigh of relief.
In the foyer, where His Excellency lingered for a few moments chatting
with his habitual courtesy to the director of the opera house, General
Sanois, whose policy was to strike while the iron was hot, seized on the
opportunity to draw Carew aside and ask point blank for the information
that had been promised during dinner. They were still talking when they
went out to the waiting carriages. The Governor paused with his foot on
the step of his victoria and beamed affectionately at the two tall men
towering beside him.
“You are going on to the Club—for a little game of bridge, perhaps?” he
enquired genially.
“The Club—yes. Bridge—no,” replied the General bluntly. “Carew and I
have some business to discuss.”
The Governor cast his eyes heavenwards. “Business at this time of
night—_grand Dieu_!” he ejaculated. “Cards I could understand, but
business—” he shook his head despairingly. “You are incorrigible—and
this good Carew who encourages you! Go and talk your business, my
friends. For me, I have had an exhausting day, a very exhausting day. I
shall go home to bed—at a reasonable hour for once in my life. It has
been a charming evening, a charming evening. My thanks to you both.” And
smiling and bowing he fluttered into the victoria and drove away.
As Carew’s carriage moved into place General Sanois, who had accepted
his offer of a lift, shot a glance of faint surprise at the two mounted
Arabs who were drawn up close behind it.
“You ride _en prince_, tonight, my friend,” he said, frankly curious.
And Carew who had himself only at that moment noticed the men, shrugged
with mingled amusement and annoyance. The idea of an escort would never
have occurred to him, but Hosein was evidently determined his master
should run no risk that forethought could prevent.
“It would seem so,” he replied curtly, “but you must blame Hosein, not
me, for this piece of theatrical nonsense.”
The General settled his angular frame into a corner of the carriage and
hitched his sword between his knees. “He probably has his reasons,” he
said, with a shrewd smile that left Carew wondering how much he knew and
how far his own steps were dogged by the secret police whose activities
extended over a wider district than was generally known. But he let the
comment pass unanswered. The General was his very good friend, but with
Sanois, friendship went by the board where the needs of the country were
concerned and even his most trusted agents were subjected to an
espionage that was all part of an elaborate and well-organized system.
He stuck at nothing to obtain information he wanted and maintained that
any means justified a desired end. That he was intrigued by Carew’s
visit to the Casbar today was obvious but he was restricted from openly
voicing his curiosity by a compact that had been agreed between them
years ago. Though he knew, and had good cause to know that Carew was
whole-heartedly attached to the land of his adoption, he knew also that
the Englishman was governed by scruples that debarred him from certain
lines of action. Tonight Carew felt convinced that the General was on
the track of something other than the information he had been promised
and, for his part, he was equally determined to disclose nothing but the
matter in hand. Though his host of the afternoon might have been guilty
of certain indiscretions that had put him out of favour with the
Government his own visit to the Casbar had been a purely personal
one—and it could rest at that.
The Military Club was full when they arrived and it was some time before
the two men could find a quiet corner in which to continue the
conversation they had begun in the foyer of the opera house.
Ordering coffee the General produced the map that seemed to live
permanently in the inside pocket of his tunic and spread it out on the
table between them. For an hour or more they talked uninterruptedly, and
when at last General Sanois pushed back his chair with a little grunt of
satisfaction, the club had emptied of all but a small number of
inveterate card players whose voices echoed fitfully from an adjoining
room.
“It is understood, then, that you will act for us,” he said, refolding
the map carefully into its creases, “if it becomes necessary.”
“If it becomes necessary—yes,” said Carew, reaching for his cloak, “but
I would prefer that you arranged this affair without my assistance. I
have a scheme of my own on hand, and I am anxious to get back to my
work.”
“You can do your work and ours at the same time.”
But Carew shook his head. “Not conscientiously,” he said as he rose to
go, “and besides, you want me to go south. I want to go west.”
The General glanced up with sudden interest from the notes he was
hastily scrawling in a bulky pocket-book. “The City of Stones?” he
suggested, with the suspicion of a chuckle in his voice.
“Yes, the City of Stones,” the other admitted slowly, “but how did you
know?”
The General laughed. “I didn’t know. I guessed. It is a sufficiently
impossible undertaking that would naturally appeal to you. I have been
wondering when you would attempt it.”
Carew made a gesture of dissent. “I don’t think it impossible.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” returned Sanois dryly, “but it is impossible for all
that. Many people have attempted to penetrate into that very intriguing
and mysterious city—it has been told me that the charming inhabitants
use their bones to form a unique and picturesque embellishment to their
battlements.”
Carew swung his heavy cloak over his shoulders. “They are welcome to my
bones,” he laughed, “the probable alternative being jackals.”
“And your men—and the little Saba?” drawled Sanois, drawing patterns
with his pencil on the marble-topped table.
Carew eyed him with a faint smile. Sanois’ solicitude was touching but
not convincing.
“How much for my men and Saba—and how much for your own schemes,
General?” he retorted. The General grinned frankly, as he hoisted
himself on to his feet. “_Touché!_” he said with a little bow, “but my
schemes are less mad than yours, my friend. In the meantime we can count
on you?”
“Only if it becomes absolutely necessary,” Carew replied again quickly.
And unwilling to risk a total refusal by premature argument Sanois
reserved his inducements for a future time. “We can talk of it again,”
he said pleasantly, and shook hands with even more than his usual
cordiality. To Carew the cool night air was a welcome relief after the
heated atmosphere of the club. The fresh wind blowing against his face
seemed to clear his brain and enabled him to think more calmly of the
disturbing incidents of the evening. But calm reflection did not
elucidate the extraordinary and violent hatred that had come to him. It
was as much beyond his power of comprehension as it was beyond his power
to ignore it. It seemed burnt into him. And the girl—he swore at
himself angrily. He had thought enough about the girl. What had he to do
with her or any other woman—he, who had cursed all women. Had he no
strength of mind, no strength of purpose left? He sneered in bitter self
mockery as the carriage stopped before the villa gateway.
Utterly weary of himself and the turmoil of his thoughts he walked up to
the house wondering how he was going to get through the remaining hours
of the night. Sleep in his present state of mind seemed out of the
question. It was not rest he wanted but hard physical exercise that in
bodily fatigue he might forget the mental upheaval that had assailed him
during these last three weeks of comparative inactivity. He paused at
the foot of the verandah steps, looking up at the star-lit sky, and the
drifting scent of orange blossom made him think with sudden regret of
the camp he had left amongst the hills near Blidah. What a night for a
ride! If he started now he could be there by dawn. For a few minutes he
played with the idea and then reluctantly put it from him. Despite his
whole inclination something seemed to be dragging him back, something
that made it impossible for him to leave Algiers.
With a heavy sigh he went slowly into the house.