But twenty days cannot stretch to infinity, even at sea. The _Peru_
entered the Golden Gate early in the forenoon on the 9th of August,
and Elliott, having no baggage to worry him, hurried at once to the
offices of the Eastern Mail Steamship Company.
He waited anxiously while a youthful clerk flipped over the letters
and telegrams in the rack, but English honesty was vindicated. There
were two brown cable messages for him, and he ripped them open
nervously. The first was from Henninger. It had been forwarded from
Hongkong, and read:
“Will search. Come Zanzibar immediately.”
This was not what he wanted, but the second proved to be from
Margaret, saying:
“Sailing twenty-eighth, steamer _Imperial_.”
Elliott felt as if a mighty weight had been heaved off his breast.
Margaret must be then at sea, but her passage would be longer than his
own. The ships of the Imperial line called at Yokohama and Honolulu,
and on investigation he learned that the steamer _Imperial_ was not
due at San Francisco until the last day of August. He had nearly three
weeks to wait, but of course he would wait for her. The treasure was a
secondary issue just then, and then the question arose of how he was
to meet her with the word of her father’s death.
For the actual fact he could feel but little regret. Laurie was not a
man for this world; he was too high, or too low, as one pleased to
regard it; and as a guardian for his daughter he was totally
worthless. Sooner or later open disgrace was certain, and the grief
would have been worse to Margaret than her father’s death. It was
better that he had died when he did, with his halo untarnished—to his
daughter’s eyes at least.
Elliott spent the next days in feverish unrest. He had nothing to do,
and could not have done it if he had, and he half-longed for
Margaret’s coming and half-dreaded it. He would have to tell her the
whole story of the treasure and of the murder. How would she receive
it? And would it, or would it not be taking an unfair advantage of her
helplessness to tell her that he loved her and wished nothing so much
as to protect her for the rest of her life?
He was rapidly becoming worn out by these plans, doubts, and problems,
and half-poisoned with the number of secrets and difficulties which he
had to keep locked up in his own breast, when a sudden recollection
came to him with relief. Bennett was in the city.
Or, at least, he should be here. According to the arrangement he was
to go to San Francisco as soon as he could leave the hospital in St.
Louis, and surely his broken bones must have mended long ago. He was
to have wired his address to Henninger, and probably he had done so,
but Henninger was far away, and the fact would not help Elliott to
find his former travelling companion.
He dropped a note to Bennett, however, in the city general delivery,
and also wrote to him in care of the hospital, on the chance that the
letter would be forwarded. Two days passed; it was evident that the
former letter had not reached him, and it would be necessary to wait
till an answer could arrive from St. Louis.
Elliott waited, feeling that he had merely added another uncertainty
to his already plentiful store of them. He waited for ten days, and
then as he entered the lobby of his hotel he saw a man leaning over
the desk to speak to the clerk, and his back looked somehow familiar.
Elliott stepped up to the man, and touched his shoulder.
“Bennett! Is this you?”
The man turned with a start. It was indeed the adventurer, but dressed
in a style indicating almost unrecognizable prosperity. He stared at
Elliott for a moment, and then gripped him with both hands, emitting
an explosively inarticulate ejaculation.
“By thunder!” he cried. “I couldn’t place you. I never saw you in a
boiled shirt before. Let’s get out of this. I never was so glad to see
a man in my life.”
He stepped out of the line and they left the hotel. As soon as they
were in the street he clutched Elliott’s arm.
“Have you got it?” he demanded, under his breath.
Elliott laughed a little wearily. “No, we haven’t got it. I’ve given
up thinking that we ever will, though Henninger has just wired me that
he’s going to search the whole Mozambique Channel.”
“Isn’t Henninger with you?”
“No, he’s in Zanzibar, and the other fellows are strung out all along
the East Africa coast. It’s a long story, and there’s not much comfort
in it, but let’s go over to the park and I’ll tell you.”
“Start it as we walk along. Man, I’ve been hungering and thirsting for
some news from that job.”
So on the street Elliott began the story, of the great game in
Nashville that had financed the expedition, of the voyages of the
party, and of his own adventures on the train in Bombay and Hongkong.
He finished it on a park bench, with the killing of the missionary,
and the high-class form of “shanghaing,” of which he had himself been
the victim. Of Margaret he judged it best to say nothing.
Bennett listened feverishly, interrupting the story with impatient
questions. When Elliott had finished he sat in meditation for a couple
of minutes.
“Henninger is right,” he pronounced at last. “The only thing now is to
search the channel. Are you sure the address your old missionary gave
was a fake?”
“I can’t believe it was anything else. Why else would he have risked
killing rather than have it tested?”
“It looks so. His directions must have been somewhere near the right
spot, though; I’ve been looking at maps. Anyhow, I’ll know the island
again when I see it.”
“The wreck will mark it, won’t it?”
“The wreck has probably broken up and sunk out of sight by this time.
That’s a point in our favour, for the worst danger is from the coast
traders and Arab riffraff. Let’s start right away for Zanzibar, by the
next steamer.”
“I can’t leave for a week or so,” Elliott confessed, and he explained
his reasons for delay.
“I don’t like any women in this thing. This is strictly a man’s game,”
commented Bennett.
“Oh, Miss Laurie won’t be in it. But I wired her to come here, and
I’ve got to meet her. Why, she thinks her father is alive and here
with me.”
“Yes, I suppose you’ve got to wait,” said Bennett, and was silent for
several seconds. “But, damn it! this is awful!” he exploded, suddenly.
“Every minute counts. Henninger’ll be waiting for us. That other gang
must be half-way there by now, and when they don’t find the wreck on
Ibo Island they’ll look somewhere else. They’ve got three weeks’ start
of us, with ten thousand miles less to go.”
“They won’t find anything,” Elliott attempted, soothingly.
“How do you know they won’t? They’ve got as good a chance as we,
haven’t they? Better, by thunder! Besides, there are all sorts of Arab
and Berber craft sailing up and down the channel. It seems to me
you’ve done nothing all through but waste time.”
“If you’re not satisfied with my ways, you’d better go and join
Henninger by yourself,” said Elliott, growing irritated. “You can
count me out of it. I’m staying here for the present.”
Bennett looked for a moment as if inclined to take Elliott at his
word, and then his face relaxed and he began to laugh.
“Don’t be an idiot, you old jay!” he exclaimed, finally. “Of course
I’ll wait for you. You waited for me in St. Louis, didn’t you?
Only—well, I’ve been waiting now for four months, and it’s getting on
my nerves.”
“Have you been here all that time?”
“Oh, no. The first month I spent in the hospital, where you had the
pleasure of seeing me wrapped in splints. But as soon as I got out I
made a bee-line for the Pacific coast. I left a forwarding address at
the hospital, and I expected to have you fellows wire me. I’ve written
to every point I could think of to catch some of you.”
“Got any money?”
“You bet I have. I got—what do you think?—eight hundred dollars out of
the railroad for my wounds and bruises. I asked for two thousand and
got eight hundred. I had to give half of it to my lawyer, though,” he
added, regretfully. “Then, a couple of weeks ago, a fellow put me on
to a good thing at the race-track out here. It was at five to one. I
plunged a hundred on it, and she staggered home by a nose. He’s going
to give me another good tip on Saturday—get-away day, you know, and a
long shot.”
“Don’t you touch it,” said Elliott. “We’ll need all your spare cash.
I’ve got none too much myself, and we’ve got a long way to go.”
The prospect of all the weary miles of sea and land that he must still
travel on the treasure hunt, in fact, had come to oppress him. He had
already all but encircled the globe, and he sickened at the thought of
another month-long voyage. He was tired, mortally tired, of stewards,
and saloon tables, and smoking-rooms, and he told himself that if he
ever found himself once more in some silent, sunshiny American village
he would contentedly vegetate there like a plant for the rest of his
days.
But before that he would have to think of how to meet Margaret, who
would be there in a week, and of some words to prepare her for the
final explanation. This week passed as swiftly as the two first had
slowly. He spent it in lounging about uneasily, and in long
conferences with Bennett, and on the afternoon of the twenty-ninth he
heard that the _Imperial_ had been sighted. She was, in fact, then
entering the harbour.
But he was still without a speech prepared when the gangplank was
opened, and the flood of passengers began to pour down. He saw
Margaret, and waved his hand, but even from a distance he was shocked
at her pallor, and startled by the fact that she was wearing complete
black. He waited for her outside the customs enclosure.
“You see I’ve come. I hoped you would meet me,” she said.
“Of course I would meet you,” he protested, unsteadily, dreading the
expected inquiry for her father. On a nearer view her face was even
more drawn and haggard than he had thought; she looked as if she had
not slept for a week, but she had met him with a brave smile.
“I know all about it,” she added.
“All? What?” stammered Elliott.
“Everything. They found my father’s body the day after I got your
letter. It was in an empty house. I saw him buried in Happy Valley.”
“Margaret, I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t dare—”
“Oh, yes, I know; it was kind of you. And oh! I was so glad to get
away from that awful city. But for your letter I think I should have
died. I thought at first that you had deserted us, and I was all
alone. That night of waiting—can I ever forget it! The consul and his
wife were very kind—but I was all alone.” Her voice was choking, and
she was trying hard to keep the sobs down.
“Don’t cry, for heaven’s sake,—dear,” said Elliott, in deep trouble.
“The worst is over now. I’ll see that everything is right. Just depend
on me.”
“I suppose the worst is over,” she said, drying her eyes. “But I feel
as if it were only beginning. How can I live? My whole life feels at
an end, somehow. But I will try to be strong. I was brave in Hongkong,
when I had everything to do—but now. Never mind, I will be brave
again, as my poor father was, and as he would want me to be.”
“That’s right. Here’s your hotel. There’s a good room engaged for you,
and you’ll find they’ll make you very comfortable. Ask for everything
you want,” said Elliott.
“You must tell me first all you know about father’s death.”
Elliott shuddered. “Not to-day. You’re tired out; you must be. I’ll
tell you to-morrow.”
“No. Now—at once,” she said, impatiently. “I can’t sleep till I know
it all. Then I’ll never ask you to speak of it again.”
Elliott, thus cornered, told her somewhat baldly the story of how the
missionary had been decoyed to the house on the slope of the mountain,
and how he had met his death. He touched lightly on the torture, and
said nothing of the treasure. The latter was too long a story.
“They stabbed him because he would not tell them something that they
believed he knew. In reality he knew nothing of it. I think it was
really by accident that he was wounded. I do not believe that they
intended to do more than frighten him.”
“And you saw it all?”
“I was lying tied hand and foot on the floor. They drugged me
afterward and put me on a ship for San Francisco.”
“What was it that they wanted him to tell them?”
“It was a business matter,” Elliott said, hastily. “Something that he
knew nothing about, but they thought he did. I don’t quite understand
the details of it myself.”
He had feared a terrible scene, but Margaret took the story
courageously.
“What became of the—the murderers?” she asked, after a silence.
“I have no idea. Did you hear of any one being arrested?”
“No. There was an inquest—but no one arrested, at least before I
left.” She was twisting her handkerchief into shreds between her
fingers. “Thank you,” she said, suddenly, trying to smile again. “It
was kind of you to tell me. You have been so good to me! Now—now,
please go!”
Elliott fled from the hotel, immeasurably relieved that it was over.
The next day, he said to himself, he would send her back to her aunt
in Nebraska, where she would probably wish to go, and he himself would
sail with Bennett for Africa. When he returned it would be with his
share of the great treasure. He felt the need of it now; he wanted it
more than ever—not for his own sake, but for Margaret’s.
Next morning, when he called on Margaret, she made no reference to her
father. She was very pale and evidently dispirited, and he took her
out driving. She attempted to talk on casual topics, but with
indifferent success, and she did not speak of leaving San Francisco.
It was the same on the next day, and the next. Margaret no longer
cared either to drive or to walk. She received Elliott in her
sitting-room at the hotel when he came to see her. She was listless,
languid, paler than ever. As she was, in a manner, his guest, he could
not well suggest to her that she return to Lincoln, but he saw clearly
that she would be ill unless she were given a change of scene, and
something to divert her mind. San Francisco still was too suggestive
of Hongkong, and he noticed that she shrunk painfully from the sight
of a Chinaman. She must leave the city, he thought; but perhaps she
did not have even enough money for her ticket to Lincoln.
After long pondering, he broached the matter on the fourth day.
“If you’d like to go back to your aunt at Lincoln, Margaret,” he said,
“I know a fellow here in the Union Pacific office, and I can get you
transportation without its costing you a cent.”
“Don’t you know?” she answered. “My aunt is dead. She died shortly
after you left Lincoln. She was caught out in that storm that found us
at Salt Lake—do you remember it?—and took cold, and died of pneumonia.
I have no one in the world now. That was the chief reason why I went
to Hongkong.”
“No, you never told me that,” said Elliott, startled, and worried. He
would have liked to say what he felt that, under the circumstances, he
had no right to say; he had trouble to restrain it; he wanted to
relieve her at once from all her material troubles.
“And this brings me to what I should have said long ago,” she went on.
“I am—it’s humiliating to confess it—but I have no money. All I had I
spent in Hongkong. I want to get work here. I’m strong; I can do
anything. Have you any idea where I could try?”
Elliott started with horror; the confession wrenched his heart. But it
occurred to him that he could subsidize some one to take music lessons
from her.
“Why, yes,” he said. “I’m glad you spoke of it. I know one girl here,
at least, who wants music lessons. She’ll pay well for them, too—four
or five dollars an hour.”
“Oh!” gasped Margaret. “Do they pay such prices in California? But
they will want something extraordinary.”
“No, you’ll do splendidly,” Elliott assured her. “Then I have to go
away myself,—on that hunt for the easy millions I spoke of in
Hongkong.”
“And you never told me just what it was,” said Margaret. “But, before
you go, I want you to tell me just what it was that those men wanted
my father to tell them.”
Elliott reflected. “Yes, I might as well tell you,” he said, slowly.
“It is mixed up with my own venture, too. I cut the story short the
other day, for fear of hurting you too much.” And for the third time
Elliott told the story of the wrecked gold-ship, and of his own
efforts in the chase.
“They killed him because he would not tell where the wreck was?” she
soliloquized, when he had finished.
“He could not tell them what he knew nothing of.”
“But my father did know where that ship was wrecked,” she said,
looking him full in the face.
“What? Impossible!” cried Elliott, staggered.
“He knew where it was wrecked. That man who was in the boat with
him—the mate—told him before he died, and gave him the exact position,
with the latitude and longitude. My father told me of it. He had
planned to go there sometime and see if anything could be recovered
from the wreck. I found the map, with the place marked, among his
papers. But he thought that no one else knew of it.”
Elliott, still half-dazed, reflected that the missionary had not
ceased to astonish him, even after death.
“He intended to give you a share of it. Do you remember that I once
said that he might be able to do something great for you?”
“Well, in that case,” said Elliott, trying to focus this new aspect of
events, “did he tell those fellows the right place? If he did, it’s
too late to look.”
“Did he tell them anything?”
“He said the wreck was on Ibo Island, latitude and longitude
something. I supposed that he said it merely to save himself—the first
place he could think of. Do you remember where the exact spot was?”
“No. But I have the map in my trunk.”
“Would you mind getting it? Of course,” he added, “you’ll have an
equal share in whatever we get out of it. But if you really know the
right spot there isn’t a minute to lose.”
She sat without moving, however. “Come and see me this afternoon,” she
said, finally. “I want to think it over.”
Elliott was astonished at this request. Surely she could not distrust
him, though unquestionably it was her secret. He reflected dubiously
that there is never any knowing what a woman will decide to do with a
delicate case.
“You said that one of your friends—one of your partners—was in the
city,” she said, as he left. “Please bring him with you this
afternoon. I think it would be right.”
More bewildered than ever, Elliott went away to find Bennett, who was
able to throw no light on his perplexity. But they returned together
to the hotel at three o’clock, where Margaret received them with a
manner which was more animated than in the forenoon.
“This is the map,” she said, holding up a folded piece of paper,
spotted and stained. “I have just been looking at it again. What place
did you say my father told them?”
“Ibo Island, latitude south twelve, forty something. I forget the
longitude,” replied Elliott. “Do you think that’s it?”
She consulted the map again.
“No. It isn’t Ibo Island, and it isn’t latitude twelve, forty, at all.
It’s nearly a hundred miles south of that, I should think. It must be
nearly two hundred miles from Ibo Island.”
“I thought he wasn’t telling the truth,” said Elliott, tactlessly.
“No,” the girl flashed back. “He died with an untruth on his lips for
my sake. He thought I might still profit by this gold. Tell me,” she
went on, after a nervous pause, “have those other men any right to
it?”
“No more than we have.”
“Does the treasure belong to any one? I mean, will it be defrauding
any one if we take it?”
“Apparently not. It’s treasure-trove. But where is it?”
She folded the map and stowed it inside her blouse. “I’ll take you to
it,” she said.
“You?” exclaimed Elliott. “You couldn’t.”
“You can’t find it without my help, it seems. I will give you this map
when our boat is out of sight of land—the boat in which we go to find
the wreck. You will have to take me with you.”
Bennett looked closely at the girl, and smiled quietly.
“But, great heavens! you don’t know what you’re asking,” cried
Elliott. “You don’t know what sort of a rough crew we’ll ship. It may
come to fighting.”
“I’m not afraid. And you know I can shoot.”
“It’s simply out of the question,” Elliott said, decisively. “You must
stay here or go back to Lincoln. You’ll give us the map, and we’ll
bring back your share for you. You can trust us, I hope?”
“It isn’t that I’m afraid. But I have no friends now nor money. No one
knows anything of me; what does it matter what I do? And I can’t stay
here. I think I should die if I had to stay in San Francisco. I must
do something—I don’t care what. Oh, set it down as a girl’s foolish
freak—anything you like!” she exclaimed, passionately. “But I go with
your expedition, or it goes without the map.”
Elliott looked helplessly at Bennett, who said nothing. Then a new
idea struck him.
“But we’re too late anyhow. Those other fellows have a month’s start,
and they will certainly search all the islands within two or three
hundred miles.”
“I was thinking of that,” said Bennett. “I don’t see why Miss Laurie
shouldn’t go with us if she’s determined to do it. But the time? Let’s
figure it out.”
“I’m afraid it’s hopeless,” said Elliott. “It’s three weeks from here
to Hongkong.”
“Well, let’s see. Suppose they sailed within a day or two after you
did. It’s about two weeks to Bombay. They’ll have trouble in getting a
steamer for the East African coast, because there isn’t any regular
service. They’re certain to be delayed there for ten days or two
weeks, and when they do sail it will be on a slow ship, because there
isn’t anything else in those waters. It’ll take them over a month to
get to Zanzibar.”
“They may be there by this time, then,” remarked Elliott.
“Well, suppose they are. It’ll take them nearly a month to fit out
their expedition, hire a vessel, get a crew, divers and diving-suits,
and they’ll be three or four days in sailing to Ibo Island. They’ll
spend a day or two there, and then they’ll begin to look elsewhere. If
the right place is over two hundred miles away, it’ll take them two or
three weeks to get to it. They can’t reasonably get to the _Clara
McClay_ in less than six to seven weeks from to-day.”
“But it will take us the same six or seven weeks to get there, not
speaking of the distance from here to Hongkong,” Elliott objected.
“Yes, if we go that way. But rail travel is quicker than land, and
we’re only five days from New York.”
“By Jove! I see,” cried Elliott, catching the idea.
“New York to London is seven days, if we make the right connections.
London to Durban is about seventeen days, isn’t it? It’ll take a few
more days to get to Delagoa Bay, and say another week to sail up the
channel to the wreck. Total about five weeks. It gives us a margin of
about one week. We’ll wire Henninger at once to get his outfit ready
at Delagoa Bay, and we’ll sail the moment we get there.”
“There’s just a chance, I do believe,” exclaimed Elliott. “But why not
start our expedition from Zanzibar? It’s nearer.”
“So it is, and that’s why Sevier will choose it. We don’t want to meet
him there or anywhere else.”
“Suppose we meet his gang at the wreck?”
“We must beat them off.”
“Yes, there’s a chance—a fighting chance, after all,” said Elliott,
getting up and beginning to walk about restlessly. “That is, if Miss
Laurie will be reasonable,” looking at her imploringly.
“I am perfectly reasonable.”
“You’ll give us the steering directions, then?”
“Not till we are on board, at Delagoa Bay. Come, we’ll argue the
question as we go. There’s no time to lose now. Can we get a train
to-night?”
“The Overland leaves at seven o’clock,” said Bennett. “It’s as she
says. There’s no time to talk. We’ve got just the narrowest margin
now, and our only chance is in knowing exactly where to go when we
sail from Africa.”
“I’ll be ready at six,” said Margaret, decisively. “We’ll talk it all
over on the train.”