stayed an instant longer, half thinking that he saw something stir among
the mita shrubs. He turned his glasses on the spot, but decided that he
had been mistaken: there was nothing there. “Yet it looked like a face,”
he said; “like the face of a little evil elderly man, such as Mr. Harker
described.”
Now that the light was off the day, the place looked forbidding. He saw,
for the first time, how easy it would be to creep up to the house
unobserved, and how hard it might fare with them if people did creep up,
for revenge or lust. “Of course, it is absurd,” he said to himself, “but
I will walk round the house before we settle in. I will make sure that
that was not a face in the mita shrubs.”
He picked up a stick, in case of snakes, and stepped out into the garden
towards the shrubs. The world had already taken the night like a
garment: the bats and wood-owls were abroad: the frogs in the marsh were
singing: the sparks of fireflies burned and died among the dusk. He
thrust into the shrubbery to the place which had made him doubt; he beat
all round it with his stick. No one had been there; no one was among the
rocks beyond the shrubs, nor on the beach between the arms of the rocks.
The place was as deserted as it always was at such a time. The ships’
lights shone out from the anchorage. He heard some men in a fishing boat
a mile away. Nothing there told of anything but quiet and of day telling
day; no wind, no sea, no tumult: nothing but night at the end of toil.
He could see no footprints on the beach.
In the covert on his way round the house he paused to listen. He heard
nothing but the noises of the anchorage: a hail, a clanking of something
coming to anchor, the hush and hiss of waves on the beach. Listening
intently, he heard the noise of the lesser world: the snake moving; the
rat roving; the insect’s shrilling. The night seemed all whispering and
stealthy; he did not like it. He was glad to see his sister’s lit window
in the upper floor, with his sister’s shadow against the blind. “This
will not do,” he told himself. “Very likely that ruffian Coghill is
watching to see me go round the house. That devil Coghill is always
springing his rags: then watching to see how they take. I will work a
rag on him before I leave the coast.”
When he had walked through the covert all round the house, finding
nothing suspicious, he looked into the ruins of the out-houses, where
the Martinez’ slaves had lived in old time. They were plainly given over
to the rats and scorpions; there was nothing suspicious there, except
that in one of the ruins there was a faint smell of tobacco, as though
someone had smoked there during the day. “And who could have smoked
there? Who could have, or would have? No one living here.” He could see
no cigar-stub, nor cigarette-end, no match, nor sign of smoker; there
was nothing there except the memory or ghost of tobacco; it was hardly
even a smell, hardly a flavour. By opening his mouth and breathing in,
Hilary felt the record of tobacco against his palate. Then, on the wall,
he saw a faint luminous streak, which at first he thought to be one of
the centipedes which glow with the decay they live in. Looking at it
with a light, he saw a match streak. Someone had struck a wax match
there, probably during the day, since the phosphorescence still showed.
Who could have been there with a wax-match? No native, no one employed
about the house. “That limits it,” he said, “to members of the Club,
like Coghill.”
When he left the out-houses, he walked along the foot of the perron to
the verandah. All seemed quiet there: the night was darker, the stars
brighter, and the harbour lights twinkled more, but the sea-breeze was
not setting in. “It is a lovely night,” he said. “All this rag business
is absurd. I will not give it another thought. I will send Ramón, or one
of the boys, down to the police, perhaps, for Margaret’s sake; but I
will see that Coghill is paid for this. What is that white thing on the
shingle there?”
The white thing lay on the ground near the steps leading to the
verandah, in such a position that he must have seen it, had it been
there when he left the house. “It was not there when I came down,” he
said. It was a large, coarse, dirty-white linen handkerchief with a
coloured border.
“This will be Ramón’s,” he said.
He went into the house, and called for Ramón, but received no answer. At
his fourth call, his sister answered over the railings of the floor
above: “Ramón has gone out,” she said. “He went into the garden five
minutes ago, to look for you. Did he not find you?”
“No; nor did I hear him. I will call him.”
He went out and called Ramón three times, but received no answer. “It is
very odd,” he said, “he does not reply.”
“Probably he has gone to the lodge; and he is a little deaf.”
Hilary came within the house to examine the handkerchief by the lamp in
the hall. It was a man’s pocket handkerchief with a blue border: in one
corner the initials A.B. were roughly stitched with black cotton: the
stitching looked liker a laundry mark than a mark of the owner.
“Margarita,” he said, “I found this handkerchief in the gravel outside.
It is marked A.B.”
“It must be Ramón’s.”
“Ramón’s would not be marked A.B.”
“Then it must be your friend’s: the man who was here must have dropped
it.”
“He would not have had a rag like this.”
“Then it’s Lotta’s; she is the woman at the lodge; feckless enough for
any rag.”
“What would she be doing in front of the verandah?”
“Dropping her handkerchief. Leave it. She will come back for it.”
“I will.”
When he had laid the handkerchief upon the shingle, he examined the
floor of the verandah for footprints, but found none that he could read.
He entered his study somewhat ill at ease. When he entered, he stood
still for a few seconds listening intently: then he looked under the
table, behind the chair, behind the curtains and into the outer passage.
Finding nothing suspicious, he returned, locked the window door and drew
the curtains across it.
“All the same,” he said, “it is just as well to be on the safe side. It
probably is a rag, but, as that Harker fellow said, ‘it’s better to be
sure than sorry.’”
His sister entered the room behind him.
“What are you looking at, Hilary?”
“Just the bay,” he answered. “We’re in for a storm.”
“It feels close enough for a cyclone,” she answered. “Who was your
friend who was here?”
“No friend of mine. A Mr. Harker, a sailor.”
“Had you seen him before?”
“No.”
“What did he come about?”
“Just a minute,” he said. “If we are in for a cyclone, would you not
prefer to go into town for the night? This forest will be a dree place
in a gale.”
“It will be sheltered here,” she said. “I’d rather be in a forest than
in a city during a cyclone.”
“I’m not so sure,” he answered. “These pine trees wail so.”
She looked out upon the darkness beside him.
“What did the sailor man come here for?” she asked.
“The sailor? Oh, nothing much. It was some rag of that bounder
Coghill’s, I think. They said he was planning to get a rise out of us.”
“Do you mean Mr. Colin Coghill?”
“Yes.”
“He went up the coast to San Felipe three days ago. His brother has just
died there.”
“How do you know?”
“Mrs. Pennington told me.”
“Oh, well, it was some other fellow’s rag, then.”
“He did not look to me to be the sort of man concerned in a rag. You say
that his name was Harker? It seemed to me that I had met him somewhere.
His face seemed familiar. Won’t you tell me what the rag is or was to
be?”
“Yes, Margarita, of course; but it seems so absurd.” He told her in
outline what Sard had said, omitting anything which might frighten her.
He made his tale as light as possible, but he saw that she became very
grave.
“Why are you so solemn, Pearl?”
“I was thinking of what you said.”
“Do you think that it is anything but a rag?”
“Yes, I do, Hilary. The man who came here this evening was in earnest.”
“You did not see him.”
“Yes, I did. I saw him in the garden. I noticed him very particularly,
because I thought for a moment that he was someone else, a Mr. Chisholm.
The only thing which puzzles me is the lack of motive. Why should
burglars come here? There is nothing to steal here.”
“It is that which makes me think it is all a rag.”
“There was a case in Greece last Christmas of English people being
kidnapped and held to ransom. We might be the . . . the swag, in this
case.”
“Mr. Harker thought that the people were not burglars nor bandits, but
rum-runners from Santa Barbara. He said that they spoke as if they all
knew about us and that a Mr. B., or Sagrado B., apparently their
director, had a score to settle with me. I cannot think of anyone of
that name or nickname.”
“Sagrado B.? Sagrado? The holy or sacred.”
“Yes. It means nothing to you, does it?”
“Yes; it does, Hilary; at least it suggests something. It came into my
mind directly you began to speak of this, and it explains it. You
remember how, when you were a fresher, I went to Paris for a year? Well,
when I was there, I met a man who tried to make love to me; a horrible
man, who practised magic among other things. He wanted me to help him in
a rite, and when I refused, he said that he would make me help him.”
“What was the rite?”
“Oh, one of the last infamies. It is unspeakable. When we were in Cuba
last winter, I heard that the negroes practise it.”
“Who was this fellow?”
“He called himself the Holy One. His real name was Hirsch: I don’t know
what his nationality was: he talked all languages. He was evil if ever a
man was.”
“That was a good long time ago. He hasn’t bothered you since then, has
he?”
“No; but he said then that the hour for that rite came once in every
seven years, and it is now almost seven years since he made me that
offer in Paris.”
“Sagrado does mean the Holy One. Do you suppose that this Hirsch would
cherish a grudge or a desire for all that time?”
“Yes, I do. I know he would.”
“The sailor fellow advised me to take you into town to the Santiago,
till we sail. Suppose we do that? After all, it would be wiser. I’ll
send Ramón up to Paco’s for the buggy. We should be in the Santiago by
half-past eight.”
“It seems like running away. Besides, if we go, we shall be leaving
Ramón and his wife, as well as that lunatic Lotta, to meet whatever
trouble may be coming.”
“No trouble threatens them, apparently. But I will explain it to them:
if they wish, they can come with us. All the same, Ramón is a fighter.
He was with General Martinez, under Juarez, in Maximilian’s time; he
will not be easily moved from here. I’ll go send Ramón to Paco’s; he
must be back from the lodge by this time. I’ll ring.” He moved over to
the mantel and pulled the bell.
“Of course,” he went on, “if we can’t have the buggy, we can walk. If I
put on a sombrero and you a mantilla, we should pass for two greasers.
We will each take a revolver, of course, but we aren’t likely to meet
any bad characters before midnight.”
“I’m not so sure of that; but I’d rather meet them than stay here for
these others.”
“The roads are safe enough. Colonel Mackenzie told me that there had
been no serious crime for over three months. Las Palomas is reformed. Of
course twenty years ago people disappeared every night.”
“Where?”
“The quicksand out at Melilla is supposed to hide a good many. Now we’ll
just take our things for the night and be ready to start. Ramón is a
long time answering that bell. I’ll ring again.” He rang again, then
walked to the window and peered out into the darkness.
“You never told me about Hirsch,” he said.
“He is not a fit topic for conversation.”
“I’m sorry that our happy stay here should end in a scare.”
“I am not scared. I am thinking about the people who disappeared. Do you
think that any of them were women?”
“Good Lord, no! Don’t be distressed, my dear. They were these drunken
diggers from Palo Seco at the time of the gold-rush. They were just
floating men. Every nation has thousands of them, who cannot settle
down. They wander off to sea or to drive cattle, and they get caught in
a gold-rush or stuck with a knife in a brawl, or fall off a train or
something. They have a run for their money. The solid fellow sticks at
home and grows fat and bald and warlike in an office. The floating life
has more dash about it.”
“If you want dash,” she said, “you should give up a planet and try a
comet.”
“Ramón might try a little dash. I have rung twice. He must be in now.
I’ll try a third. There; he cannot say that he didn’t hear that.”
“Listen.”
“I don’t hear him in the kitchen.”
“It is odd that he should be away at this time.”
“And on this night, too, Margarita. I will see what he is up to.”
He went into the corridor calling “Ramón,” but had no answer and heard
no sound.
“Ramón!”
He went into the kitchen. The light was burning; the table was covered
with the preparations for supper; grape-fruit, a dish of limes, mint,
the long glasses with the crushing spoons for julep, eggs for an
omelette, the patty-pans for hot bread.
“Ramón! Tia Eusebia!”
No one answered, but in the silence the clock ticked and the cazuela in
the earthern pot began to boil over.
“Aren’t they there, Hilary?”
“No.”
“And they left the cazuela on the fire? Tia Eusebia never did such a
thing before. Where can they be?”
“They must have gone to the lodge.”
“They would never have left these things like this. They would never
both have gone.”
“They might, Margarita, with an urgent call, for a moment or two.”
“What urgent call has there been?”
“We ought to have heard any. Or Ramón would have told us.”
“They must have been gone ten minutes. Sudden death alone would make Tia
leave her cooking.”
“I must go to the lodge to see what has happened.”
“Wait for one moment, Hilary; they may be upstairs. Tia may have swooned
or Ramón had a stroke.”
“Tia! Tia Eusebia!”
“Ramón!”
They went upstairs together, into all the rooms, but the servants were
not there.
“They must have been called to the lodge,” Hilary said.
“How? Without our hearing?”
“Lotta or one of her children ran to the window instead of coming to the
door. We should not have heard that.”
“No. And of course if the call were very urgent, Ramón would not have
stopped to tell us that he was going.”
“Put on a mantilla, then, Margarita; we will go together to the lodge.
But before we start, we had better be a little cautious. Those
rum-runners may have enticed them out.”
“I don’t think so,” his sister said. “Ramón went out to look for you,
while you were in the garden.”
“What did he want with me?”
“He did not say. I thought he had something to ask you about supper. I
don’t believe he ever came in again. I haven’t heard him. I believe that
he has been out ever since; Tia Eusebia went on cooking, but at last
became anxious, and then went out to look for him.”
“She would have called.”
“No she wouldn’t, Hilary. Ramón is rather deaf. She never calls him: she
always goes to him. Old General Martinez has trained them both to be
silent.”
“You’re right, I expect, Pearl,” Hilary said. “Most mysteries have
commonplace explanations. But the question is, what has happened to poor
old Ramón? He is an old man and may have had a stroke or a fall, and
broken a bone.”
“I’m afraid that he may have turned down to the creek to find you and
been bitten by one of those horrible moccasins.”
“Oh, Lord! Well. Let’s get a light and come to look for him.”
“We can’t, Hilary. See. Tia Eusebia has taken the lantern.”
“Well, we will take those old copies of _La Nacion_ and light them up
for flares. We’ll go to the lodge first, for Lotta and her children may
be ill or something. You put on this mantilla and I’ll just get my
revolver from the drawer.”
He swathed her in her mantilla, but was rather a long time getting the
revolver.
“Buck up, Hilary,” she called.
“Just a minute,” he answered; “the catch of this beastly revolver seems
to have jammed, or something. I can’t get it open, to load it.”
“Let me have a try.”
“I’m afraid it’s rusted-in, or something. I ought to have oiled it when
I put it away.” He brought it to her. She thumbed at the catch, which
was fixed tight.
“I’ll give it a bang or two with the tin-opener,” he said. He gave it a
bang or three with the tin-opener, and then again with Tio Ramón’s
hammer, but failed to release the catch.
“Open, you divil,” he said. He gave it a good clout with the hammer and
cracked the catch across; a piece of metal fell with a clink upon the
floor.
“Now I’ve done it,” he said, “I’ve broken the beastly thing.”
“You were just a little rough with it, weren’t you?”
“Yes; but who would have thought the metal would have cracked like that?
It would have been dangerous work firing a thing as weak as that.”
“You have your pearl-handled pistol.”
“Yes, but the worst of it is, I’m afraid it won’t take these cartridges.
I meant to have bought some for it only this afternoon, but like an ass
I forgot.”
“Then we haven’t any firearms?”
“None that we can fire. We could use them as bluffs. And there’s a
machete here, that Ramón cuts vines with.”
“Very well, then. Take that. Now, light up a torch and let us start.”
They rolled up some copies of _La Nacion_ as torches and lit one of them
while they examined the outer steps. They called loudly, “Tia Eusebia!
Ho, Tia Eusebia!” but had no reply. They came down the steps into the
drive, by the light of the flaming newspapers, which Margaret lit one by
one as they proceeded. Small things crossing their track, scared by the
light, reassured them, since their presence showed that no strangers had
passed that way recently. It was dark night now. The shrubbery through
which they passed glistened like a lot of eyes. The depth of the wood
beyond was so ugsome, that it was a pleasure to them to turn the curve
in the drive and see the light from the open door of the lodge.
Hilary called aloud, “Tia Eusebia!” and “Lotta!” but no answer came from
the lodge or from the wood.
“There is something not quite right here,” Margaret said. “Jorge!
Marianela! Even the children do not answer.”
“We will soon find what is amiss. Hola! Tia Eusebia! I believe that the
lodge is empty.”
“That looks bad for Ramón; but we’ll soon know.”
They both ran to the lodge, calling.
“I’ll go in,” he said.
“Be careful, Hilary.”
“I will, my dear,” he said. “If one of these big black marimbas has come
in, there’ll be somebody dead here.”
He rattled with his machete at the door and then went into the lodge.
The oil lamp was burning on the table beside a pipkin full of frijoles.
The room was empty: the bunks at the side were empty.
“Lotta,” he called. “Marianela! It’s as I thought, Pearl. There’s nobody
here at all. But they’ve not been long gone; these frijoles in the dish
are warm.”
Margaret peeped in at the door. “Aren’t the children in their bunks?”
she asked.
“No, but they’ve been in their bunks. These blankets are warm still, and
the bichos are on the hop, too, still, good Lord!”
“Well, where are they?”
“It’s very odd; but it can’t be foul play; it is on too big a scale for
that: three adults and two children. Come to the door and let us both
shout together.”
They shouted and yodelled and clapper-shouted for the missing five.
“Now,” Hilary said, “anyone within three hundred yards must have heard;
even a deaf person must have heard. If they’ve been within hearing,
they’ve heard us. Keep quite still now. We may hear an answer.”
They kept as still as mice on the grass near the gate, but heard no
noise at all except the dropping and rustling never absent from the
forest at night.
“It’s the spring equinox, or near it,” Margaret said. “Just listen a
moment longer, Hilary; I seem to catch a noise like drums and a guitar,
very far away.”
“Yes, there is some sort of tom-tom going; it’s in the forest, to the
west, in that clearing called Los Jardinillos.”
“Well, Hilary, don’t you think it likely that the negroes have been
called to some fiesta of the equinox?”
“That doesn’t fit it. They would have told us. It’s more likely that a
priest has come with extreme unction, in need of a guide through the
forest.”
“No. That doesn’t fit it. The man who fetched the priest would be the
guide. And the priests here need no guide to any of their flock.”
“A revivalist preacher would draw these negroes,” Hilary said.
“Not these Catholics, and certainly not without telling us,” his sister
answered. “It must be one of two things, Hilary. Either there has been
some miraculous appearance in the wood, which would draw them out to
worship, or these rum-runners have devised something. I begin to be
afraid, Hilary.”
“I’m not afraid,” he said. “Do not you be afraid. Listen a moment. That
tom-tom noise seems louder.”
They listened, while the thudding resolved itself into the plodding of a
trotting carriage-horse coming from the direction of the port.
“A carriage,” she said. “It may be Paco with his buggy.”
“It’s more likely to be Colonel Mackenzie,” he said.
They listened, while the jog-trot of the horse drew so near that they
could hear the noise of the wheels behind him. A carriage lamp shone
through the trees. One of the city caleches came to a standstill before
them. The driver told his fare that this was Los Xicales.
Hilary lit a new copy of _La Nacion_, so that he might see this fare.
The man got out of the caleche and came towards him. He was a
sleepy-looking man with a face seemingly made of wood. He blinked as he
spoke. His speech came from somewhere in the northern midlands.
“Is thy name, Kingsboora?” he asked, “and has oor Mr. ’Arker bin ’ere?”
“Yes,” Hilary said; “he’s been gone from here an hour and a half.”
“Dostha know which way ’e went?”
“No.”
“Oor Captain Cary sent me to find oor Mr. ’Arker. Tha see, there’s a
norther coomin’ on. We’re in the _Pathfinder_, sailing. We don’t want to
wait all night, tha see. Did ’e go back into the town, choom?”
“He went back to his ship, I think,” Hilary said. “You must have crossed
him.”
“That’s it, tha see,” the man said. “’E didna coom by t’reet way. Look,
choom, if ’e coom ’ere again, will tha tell ’im to coom aboard? Ma neem
is Dorney. Now, lad,” he added to the driver, with pantomime instead of
Spanish, “tak’ me back to Jib and Foresail, will tha?”
The driver turned his caleche and carried Mr. Dorney away into the
darkness. When the wheels were almost out of hearing, Hilary suddenly
remembered.
“We were asses,” he said. “We might have gone into Las Palomas with
him.”
“I was thinking that,” she said. “But we couldn’t have gone, not knowing
about Ramón. I hope that Mr. Harker has not met with any trouble on his
way.”
“Not he,” Hilary said. “He took a short cut and passed this Mr. Dorney
on the road somewhere. Let us call those negroes again.”
They called, but had no other answer than the distant drumming noise,
which seemed to be a part of the tenseness of the night.
“It began with Lotta,” Hilary said. “Her handkerchief proves that Lotta
came for Ramón. Any folly may have come from Lotta. We have given them a
fair chance, now we will go.”
“Listen.”
“No; there’s no one.”
It was close, still, tense night, save for the sighing in the pines and
that beating, like a heart-beat, from the distant drum.
“Come along, then, Hilary,” she said. “We will take Paco’s buggy and go
into town.”
They set out for Paco’s estancia. They were both glad to be out of the
grounds of Los Xicales. When they had gone about a hundred yards, they
stopped and looked at each other.
“We’re both thinking the same thing,” Hilary said. “We can’t leave quite
like this, without knowing what has happened to these people. We had
better go round the estate before we go to Paco’s. Or how would it be if
you went to Paco’s alone, while I went back to the house? Or wait: I’ll
walk with you to Paco’s, get Paco and the buggy and Paco’s son Enrique,
with their guns, and then we’ll all come back together, search the
estate and then go to Las Palomas. Let’s do that: come along.”
“No,” she said. “All that will take time. I’m afraid that Lotta, or one
of her children, or her imbecile man, or poor old Ramón, is in extremis
somewhere. And our losing time may be fatal. I don’t like leaving the
estate. I’m not afraid of desperadoes. If they were about, why did they
not set upon us when we were shouting at the lodge?”
“I wondered that, myself, at the time,” he said.
“Surely it shows that they are not here. Besides, it is full early for
desperadoes to be abroad.”
“I see all that,” he said. “We owe it to Ramón to be sure about him
before we leave. We will turn down here, along the creek, and so circle
back to the house. We shall have newspapers enough to light us there.
But I don’t think we shall find him on this side of the house.”
“We may find him at the house,” she said.
“If he be not there, and if we do not meet him or learn about him within
the next ten minutes, then, Pearl, you and I will go off to Las Palomas,
by Paco’s buggy or on foot. Is that agreed?”