The Sapphire by A. E. W. Mason, from Project Gutenberg Canada (2025)

by A. E. W. Mason

The characters in this book are entirely imaginary,and have no relation to any living person.

CONTENTS

I. In the Forest

II. The Packet

III. First Appearance of the Sapphire

IV. Prisoners of the Sun

V. The Door Closes

VI. Children at Play

VII. Uncle Sunday

VIII. The First Ascent of the Dent du Pagoda

IX. On Adam's Peak

X. Again the Shadow

XI. The Magic Pipe

XII. Fear and Imogen

XIII. The Indian

XIV. A Council at the Rock Temple

XV. The Last of the Peak

XVI. The Silent Room

XVII. The Man from Limoges

XVIII. Imogen Asks Questions

XIX. Jill Leslie

XX. The First Night of Dido

XXI. A Summary

XXII. At the Masquerade Ball

XXIII. Letty Ransome's Handbag

XXIV. The Fourth Theft

XXV. The Crown Jewel

XXVI. Crooks All

XXVII. The Last

Chapter I
In the Forest

I cannot pretend that the world is waiting for this story, for theworld knows nothing about it. But I want to tell it. No one knows itbetter than I do, except Michael Crowther, and he, nowadays, has timefor nothing but his soul.

And for only the future of that. He is not concerned with its pasthistory. The days of his unregenerate activities lie hidden in a cloudbehind his back. He watches another cloud in front of him lit with thesilver--I can't call it the gold--of the most extraordinary hope whichever warmed a myriad of human beings. But it is in that past history ofhis soul and in those activities that the heart of this story lies. Iwas at once near enough to the man and far enough away from him toaccept and understand his startling metamorphoses. I took my part inthat dangerous game of Hunt the Slipper which was played across half theearth. Dangerous, because the slipper was a precious stone set in thosecircumstances of crime and death which attend upon so many jewels. I sawthe affair grow from its trumpery beginnings until, like some mightycomet, it swept into its blaze everyone whom it approached. It roaredacross the skies carrying us all with it, bringing happiness to some anddisaster to others. I am Christian enough to believe that there was apattern and an order in its course; though Michael Crowther thought sucha doctrine to be mystical and a sin. Finally, after these fine words, Iwas at the core of these events from the beginning. Indeed I felt thewind of them before it blew.

Thus:

My father held a high position in the Forest Company and I was learningthe business from the bottom so that when the time came I might take hisplace. I had been for the last six months travelling with the overseerwhose province it was to girdle those teak trees which were ripe forfelling. The life was lonely, but to a youth of twenty-two the mostenviable in the world. There was the perpetual wonder of the forest; thechanges of light upon branch and leaf which told the hours like thehands of a clock; the fascination to a novice of the rudiments oftree-knowledge, the silence and the space; and some very good shootingbesides. Apart from game for the pot, I had got one big white tiger tenfeet long as he lay, a t'sine, and a few sambur with excellent heads. Ihad the pleasant prospect, too, of returning to England for the monthsof the rainy season, and giving the girls there a treat they seldom got.

I parted from the overseer in order to make the Irrawaddy at Sawadi, alittle station on the left bank of the river below Bhamo, but above thevast cliff which marks the entrance to the Second Defile. The distancewas greater than a long day's march, but one of the Company'srest-houses was built conveniently a few miles from the station. Ireached it with my small baggage train and my terrier, about seveno'clock of the evening. A small bungalow was raised upon piles withsteps leading up to the door, and a hut with the kitchen and asleeping-place for the servants was built close by. Both the buildingswere set in a small clearing. I ate my dinner, smoked a cheroot, putmyself into my camp bed and slept as tired twenty-two should sleep, withthe immobility of the dead.

But towards morning some instinct alert in a subconscious cell began toring its tiny bells and telegraph a warning to my nerve centres that itwould be wise to wake up. I resisted, but the bells were ringing tooloudly--and suddenly I was awake. I was lying upon my left side with myface towards the open door, and fortunately I had not moved when Iawaked. The moon rode high and the clearing to the edge of the trees layin a blaze of silver light. Against that clear bright background at thetop of the steps, on the very threshold of the door, a huge blackpanther sat up like a cat. His tail switched slowly from side to sideand his eyes stared savagely into the dark room. They were like hugeemeralds, except that no emerald ever held such fire.

"He wants my terrier dog, Dick," I explained to myself. I could hear thepoor beast shivering under the bed. "But that won't help me if hecrouches and springs."

My rifle lay on a table across the room. To jump out of bed and make adash for it was merely to precipitate the brute's attack. Moreover, evenwere I to reach it, it was unloaded. So I lay still except for my heart;and the panther sat still except for his tail. He was working out histactics; I was hoping that I was not shivering quite so cravenly as myunhappy little terrier dog beneath my bed. As I watched, to my utterhorror the panther began to crouch, very slowly, pushing back hishaunches, settling himself down upon them for a spring. And that springwould land him surely on the top of the bed and me.

I found myself saying silently to myself, and stupidly:

"Here I finish. This is where I get off. I hope it won't hurt....People who have been mauled say that it doesn't. I shall know aboutthat, however. He'll probably smash my face in. Beastly!"

But while my thoughts were stupid, my right hand was acting verycleverly. It slipped down to the floor on the far side of my narrow campbedstead. It sought, found, and grasped one of my heavy walking shoes.Until that moment it seemed to have been acting quite independently ofme. But as I felt the weight of the shoe, I took command of it. I sat upsuddenly, yelled with all my voice and threw with all my strength. Bygood fortune my aim was straight. The heavy, nailed heel struck thebeast hard between the shining eyes when he was on the very point ofspringing. No doubt the shoe hurt, but the panther even so was morestartled than hurt. He uttered one yelp, turned tail, and streakedacross the clearing into the forest, black and swift as some incarnationof Satan overtaken by the dawn. I was out of bed the next instant; Islipped a dressing-gown over my pyjamas, put on my shoes, and fixed aclip of cartridges in my rifle.

I fumbled over that proceeding. For now that the moment of danger hadpassed, I felt the animal's great pad slapping down on my face andwiping it away. I smelt its fetid breath. And I probably felt and smeltmore acutely than I should have done had it actually leaped. However,the clip was shot into its sockets at last. Then I waited on theverandah in the hope that my panther might return. And I waited. And Iwaited.

I had an odd feeling that the forest was waiting for him too, listeningfor the tiniest rustle of its undergrowth, watching for him to chargeout of that tangled wall. I had never known silence so complete. I wasprepared, of course, for my camp servants to sleep through that or anyother racket. It would have needed the last trump to rouse them and theymight have overslept themselves even then. But the hush was so deep thatI was aware of it less as a negation of sound than as a new form ofactivity. I tried my pulse; it was now perfectly steady. I was notexcited. There was not a drop of sweat upon my forehead. Nor do I thinkthat I am particularly vain. But for the rest of that night I feltmyself to be the axis of a world in suspense.

The panther did not return. My fox-terrier crept out, and stillwhimpering and shivering, nestled close against my side. The glamour ofthe moonlight took on a shade of grey. The clearing, the crowded bolesof the great teak trees were bathed now in a spectral and unearthlylight. Then darkness came, black and blinding, like a cloak flung overthe head. There was no longer forest or clearing. There was nothing butone man with a rifle across his knees of which he could only see thespeck of its ivory foresight. But during all these changes my sense ofexpectation never lifted. It changed, however, as the night changed. Ino longer waited for my panther. My mind had lost sight of him, as myeyes had lost sight of the forest. What it was I waited for I had noidea. But it was for something big, forming somewhere out of the reachof knowledge. Nor did the morning help me. I marched into the littlevillage of Sawadi merely conscious that I had passed the oddest night inall my experience.

On the stern-wheel steamer Dagonet I made the acquaintance of itsCaptain, Michael Crowther.

Chapter 2
The Packet

During the morning Captain Crowther stood beside his helmsman at thehigh wheel on the roof of the steamer. The Second Defile with itsmonstrous, high cliff, its racing waters, and the unmanageable greatrafts of teak wood floating down to Rangoon presented always a delicateproblem in navigation. But Captain Crowther certainly knew his business.He edged his steamer in here, thrust a raft aside there, and bylunch-time the hills had fallen back and we were thrashing down thebroader waterway to Schwegu. At luncheon Crowther took the head of thetable and I found that a place had been laid for me at his elbow. He wasa man of thirty-six years or so, and he had the sort of hard, leering,and wicked face the early craftsmen were so fond of carving on thegroins and pillars of French cathedrals. I took a dislike to him at myfirst glance.

"You are Mr. Martin Legatt of the Forest Corporation," he said to me asI took my seat.

"Yes."

"I am Michael D. Crowther, the Captain of the Dagonet"; and he spokewith so violent an American accent that I felt sure at once that he wasan Englishman.

"Press the flesh," said I, extending my hand, and equal, I hoped, to theoccasion.

The stewards placed great basins of soup in front of each of us. Therewere eight passengers besides myself, so far as I remember. MichaelCrowther consumed his soup with a little finger crooked from a suburbanpast and almost an excess of good breeding. When he had finished--and hedeserved every drop of it for his skill in wriggling so quickly throughthe Second Defile--he said:

"A solitary life yours, Mr. Legatt. Gee, I don't think that I couldstick it for a week."

I had all a young man's inclination to make his ways look magnificentand unusual; and the presence of the eight tourists was a temptation toembroidery. But Captain Crowther was the last man in the world to whom Iwould have tried to explain the magic which forest life then held forme. So I answered with a show of indifference:

"There are compensations, Captain. I don't suppose, for instance, thatthere is a single person on board who is feeling half the pleasure I amat this moment from simply stretching my legs out under a civiliseddining-table with the knowledge that I have nothing to do all theafternoon except lounge in a long chair and watch the river-banks goby."

"Well, each man to his taste," Captain Crowther remarked. He was kindenough to look me over with approval. "I should have thought that ayoung fellow like you, however--why, holy snakes! I reckon you nevercame across a bird from one end of the month to the other."

For a moment I was mystified, but the knowing wink with which Crowthersupported his remark was a sufficiently explanatory footnote.

"Nary a bird," I answered.

The tourists looked up intelligently. They were going to obtaininformation at first hand about the forests of Burma. Two ladies ofmiddle age sat opposite to me--the two inevitable English ladies to bemet with on any steamer and any train within the world's circumference.One of them, the younger I suppose by a couple of years, said eagerly:

"Not a bird! Now isn't that strange? Would you say that that wasparticularly Oriental?"

"My dear!" the friend chided her by the right of, say, her two years'seniority. "After all, we have our birdless grove at Goodwood--or ratherthe Duke has his."

She was standing up gallantly for her country. Privately she might thinkit was down and out, publicly you couldn't beat it. Even if it came to acomparison of birdlessness, the gorgeous East had nothing on England.Wasn't there the famous Grove?

The junior of the pair, however, objected to corrections at thedinner-table. She bridled and answered with a definite tartness.

"I have heard grave doubts thrown upon that story----" she began, but Ithought it time to stop a rift which might in the end split a pleasantfellowship. I interrupted her.

"I am afraid that the birds of Captain Crowther's vocabulary are not thebirds which nest in trees."

The ladies were puzzled; Captain Crowther was noisily delighted. Heslapped the flat of his hand upon the table.

"That's a good one! That's a witticism, that is, Mr. Legatt!" He felt inhis pockets. "I keep a little book to jot down the wise-cracks I hear.'Not the birds...'" And pulling out his book he wrote my poor littleremark down, with a final stab of his pencil at the end which no doubtit deserved. "And not a pal to hobnob with over a glass of something?"he continued.

"A pal to hobnob with from time to time, yes, but not a glass ofsomething. And talking of glasses"--I turned towards the steward--"Iwould like a whisky and soda."

"With me," said the Captain.

I sat up.

"Oh no, please!"

"With me," Crowther repeated, waving a hand to the steward; and therewas an end of the matter. I couldn't make a scene, of course, but I grewhot with resentment and I talked no more until the end of the banquet.All the meals upon the Irrawaddy steamers are banquets, even thebreakfasts which are little trifles of four set courses. I watched,however, and noticed that the other passengers were as uncomfortable asmyself. Michael Crowther was behaving like a profiteer pressing drinksupon his poorer friends in his new nickel-plated yacht. I should have tocome to an understanding with him before the hour of dinner.

All through the afternoon, however, Captain Crowther stood by the highwheel driving his steamer down the stream. It was very pleasant on thegreat triangular porch in front of the saloon. The chant of the two menwith the sounding-poles announcing the depth of the water, the thud andthunder of the great stern-wheel; the banks now falling back in flat,green rice-fields, now closing up with jungle-clothed hills, and perhapsa great white-legged buffalo knee-deep in the water; a village here, avillage there, and always a pagoda; the red poles marking the channelupon the one side and the white poles upon the other; the long raftswhere the steersman seated on a high throne with an immense sweep in hishands looked like the steersman of a Greek trireme in a picture; all theaccessories of sound and prospect filled the long afternoon for me withenchantment.

But towards evening Crowther came down from his sentry-box on the roofto the second wheel on the porch. Here was my opportunity, but for themoment I was too lazy to take it. The huge headlight in the bows wasturned on. For the moment it threw merely a grey and rather ghostly beamdown the river, a beam hardly noticeable except when it struck asand-bank. Then it became a radiance. But the darkness rushed upon us,the sky blazed with stars and the beam became a thick column of brightgold along which myriads of white moths, like the flakes of a heavysnow-storm driven by a high wind, streamed to their death on the burningglass of the projector.

I got up from my chair then and went to the Captain. He was standing bythe wheel, but the First Officer was steering so that he was free. Isaid:

"Captain, I want to be clear about this. I'm a passenger on an Irrawaddysteamer, and if I ask you at some odd time to have a drink with me oryou ask me to have one with you--that's all in order. But if you insiston paying for what I drink with my meals you're going to force me todrink nothing but water till we reach Mandalay, and I'm tired of water."

I expect that it sounded rather priggish, but most young men have atouch of the prig in them and I like the others. Captain Crowther wascertainly taken aback, but he had no time to answer me. For at thatmoment we rounded a bend of the river and a petrol storm-lamp upon thebank lit up a little square of sand, a group of people in bright silkskirts, and a few booths backed by trees.

"Tagaung," said the First Officer. He rang the engine-room bell, set theindicator at half-speed and put his helm up. I had said my say and wasglad to pass on to another subject.

"We stay the night here, I suppose?" I said.

Captain Crowther looked at me quickly and queerly. The First Officergrinned.

"No," Captain Crowther replied curtly.

"It looks as if there were a good many rice-bags waiting, sir," said theFirst Officer.

The First Officer was puzzled now. There was indeed a parapet ofrice-bags built up on the shore.

"All the more for the next boat then," said Crowther sharply. "I'll waithalf an hour here. I have orders to reach Mandalay as early as possibleto-morrow, so I shall push on to Thabeikyin to-night."

The First Officer was utterly at a loss. His eyebrows went up to theroots of his hair. I thought indeed that he was on the point ofprotesting. But Michael Crowther stood with his underlip thrust out anda black look upon his face which would have stopped any subordinate fromquestioning his commands.

"Very well, sir," said the officer, and the Dagonet sidled up to thebank and was made fast. The great headlight was swung round towards theshore and lighted up the little settlement, the great tamarinds andfig-trees behind it and the groups in the open square. It was like atiny scene upon a stage fantastically bright, set in a proscenium ofebony. A general scene of coloured movement to prepare us for theappearance of the principal characters. I walked aft and, leaning uponthe rail of the ship, watched it; the long prison wall of the brownrice-bags melting down to a garden wall and then here and there withoutany order, to a terrace parapet as though a bombardment had blownbreaches through it; a procession of men tramping down the mud-bank andup the gangway to the lower deck with the bags upon their heads, andthen back again with no bags at all, purposeful as ants. I lifted myeyes to the illuminated square and I suddenly saw the principals takethe stage.

Captain Crowther first. He came from the darkness of the huts behind thesquare and for a moment I doubted whether it could be he, soimperceptibly had he vanished from his ship, and so completely had myattention been engrossed by the busy spectacle. But it was the man. Irecognised the shortish, thick-set figure; I could see the gold badgeupon his cap and count the gold stripes upon his sleeve. He was notalone. The First Officer's grin when I asked whether we were to stay thenight at Tagaung and his perplexity when the Captain definitely answered"No," were explained to me. For here was Captain Crowther the centre ofa small family group. A young and pretty Burmese woman in a gay tartanskirt of silk with a rose in her black hair, walked at his side. And sheheld by the hand a little girl whose hair was fairer than her own andher skin less brown. The pretty Burmese woman was pleading earnestly atone moment, and coaxing daintily the next with a small, appealing handlaid upon his arm. The little girl whom I took to be about eight yearsold, every now and then added her entreaties, setting the palms of herhands together in prayer, catching hold of the hem of his jacket andjumping up and down on her toes. There could not be a doubt of theirrelationship. The mother, though her feet were bare, had put the childinto white socks and little brown shoes to emphasise that she was white,and their supplications were as easy to understand as they would havebeen had they been uttered within my hearing. They were all in the oneword: "Stay!"

I looked at Crowther. He was a picture of compunction and regret. Helooked at his ship. He took off his cap and scratched his head and shookit. I could see his face clearly now. He was the most woebegone man onecould ever see. A martyr to duty. He would stay if he could, but he wasonly a servant. He had his orders. He must go. On the next trip he wouldnot be so hurried. Et cetera. And et cetera.

I should have thought it the prettiest little romantic scene ofhappiness deferred if I had not had a conviction that Michael Crowtherwas merely giving a performance. I had no belief in those orders. He hadonly to make an early start on the next morning and running downstreamhe could reach Mandalay before noon. The young woman ceased to plead,her face lost its vivacity and then crumpled like a child's when thetears come. A movement of irritation and a sharp order from the Captainchecked her, and the next moment the child plucked at her skirt. Itseemed to me that she was reminding her mother of something which, inher distress, she had forgotten. Certainly the trio turned aside fromthe lighted space. They were just visible still but they were amongstthe shadows and I could no longer distinguish their movements or theexpressions upon their faces. They stood thus for a few minutes and thenCaptain Crowther emerged again into the light, but alone. He walkedquickly down the slope of the bank to the gangway and he carried a smallpackage in his hand. It should have been a box and the name of the ladywho gave it to him should have been Pandora. So many troubles andmisfortunes tumbled out of it for all of us.

Chapter 3
First Appearance of the Sapphire

The great headlight was switched on to the channel, the Dagonetshook and rumbled from stem to stern, the gap widened between it and theshore. I stood by the rail of the ship aft of the saloon. In a fewminutes nothing of Tagaung was visible but the storm-lamp on the groundin the tiny square. It diminished to a spark. A cool wind blew throughthe ship. The spark on the shore flickered. I suppose that I had beenmore deeply moved by the odd episode than I was aware; and there'salways, I think, a particular sadness, not of separations but of leavingpeople behind. Anyway, that little shaking flame in the heart of thedarkness seemed to me the very image and symbol of a soul in greatdistress. I turned to find Michael Crowther at my elbow. He, too, waswatching the tiny flame wavering, pleading, desperately calling. A bendof the river hid it from our sight.

I wondered what Crowther's reactions would be to its utterdisappearance. I turned and looked at him. His face was one wide smileof gross content.

"That's that," said he, and followed his words with a great gasp ofrelief. He slapped the pocket of his jacket and I noticed that it bulgedunnaturally. He winked cheerfully at me and strode forward through thesaloon. He took the wheel himself, smiling like a man fresh out ofprison, and between the white poles and the red he drove his steamerdown to Thabeikyin. The river was low and now and again the steamergrounded with a bump upon a sand-bank and must go astern and wriggleitself clear.

"I'll dine afterwards," Crowther said to the steward when thedinner-bell rang; and the dinner for the passengers was over when theship was moored to the bank. Thabeikyin is bigger than most of thevillages along the upper river. It is the port of the Ruby Mines sixtymiles away over the hills at Mogok. It has a Government rest-house, atelegraph office and a row of shops along the river's edge. The otherpassengers accordingly trooped on shore, leaving the saloon to theCaptain and the cool, dark porch to me. But I was not to enjoy mysolitude for long. Crowther was laughing aloud whilst he ate. He was inone of those moods of high spirits and relief when he must confide orburst. Anyone with a pair of ears would have served, and mine were theonly pair handy. He turned round towards the open door and called to me.

"Won't you join me, Mr. Legatt?" he asked.

I rose reluctantly.

"If you'll take a liqueur with me," I answered.

"A double one, if that'll make you easy." Was there a hint of contemptin his voice? There was. "You're a very sensitive, delicate-minded youngman, aren't you?" he continued, and then shouted to the steward.

"At Mr. Legatt's expense," he shouted.

I was all at sea with this man. I spoke to him like a meticulous prigand he showed me that he thought me one, and there I sat with no morepower of repartee than an owl. I ordered a cup of coffee and a glass ofbrandy for myself, and for a while Crowther forgot me. He wagged hishead and chuckled and winked, and every now and then his hand stolesecretly down to his side pocket and felt it. The side pocket stillbulged. The little packet which I had seen in his hand at Tagaung wasstill concealed there. I had not a doubt of it and I became possessedsuddenly by a quite unreasonable curiosity to know what it contained. Idid not have to ask, however. For as I leaned upon the table Crowthernudged my elbow with his.

"Tagaung!" said he. "I saw you on the deck and you saw me on the beach.You can put two to two and make four, eh? Well, this time you've only tomake three."

It dawned upon Crowther that he had cracked a joke.

"By Jiminy, that's a good one!" he roared, and he flapped his hand uponthe table. "Two and two make three! I call that wit, Mr. Legatt. Cripes,I do! Just as smart as your birds in the trees, what? Two and two makethree. Me and Ma Shwe At and little Ma Sein."

"Ma Sein's the child, I suppose?"

"That's so, Mr. Legatt. Little Miss Diamond. Pretty kid, eh?"

He cocked his head sideways at me, seeking admiration not so much forlittle Miss Diamond as for himself, who had been clever enough to begether.

"Yours?" I asked indifferently.

Michael D. Crowther was hurt.

"Well, what do you think?" he cried indignantly. "Didn't I tell you shewas a pretty little kid? Of course she's mine."

One day or another, nine or ten years ago, young Crowther, newlyappointed to the Irrawaddy Service with a single gold stripe upon hissleeve, had made the acquaintance of Ma Shwe At. He may have been theJunior Officer on one of the Bazaar boats, those travelling shops which,while carrying passengers, supply the river-side population. And Ma ShweAt may have come aboard to haggle merrily and daintily and very firmlyfor a strip of silk to make a new skirt or for some household implement.He may have been attached to a mail-boat which tied up at Tagaung forthe night, and stepping ashore when his duty was done, have bought sometrifle at her booth. I do not remember ever to have heard how theill-assorted pair began its fateful courtship. It was difficult for meat the time to picture Michael Crowther without his arrogance and hisleer, his loud laugh and his essential vulgarity. But no doubt youth hadlent him its seemly mask and Ma Shwe At was flattered by the white man'sattentions. A trip or two more up and down the river and they contracteda Burmese marriage, as the phrase runs. Marriage has no ceremonial inthat country. The religion of Buddha sets no seal upon it and offers noobstacle to divorce. Both states are matters of consent between theparties. The worldly wisdom of the village headman and the wishes ofparents have in practice an influence, but there is no binding authoritybehind them.

"Of course she's mine," Crowther repeated. He drank a little of hisbrandy. I should be painting an untrue picture of the man if I did notstate clearly that at that time when he was at his worst he was always atemperate drinker. He just took a sip of his brandy and his mind slippedaway from this trifle of his fatherhood. He nudged me again with hiselbow.

"I'll give you a word of advice, Mr. Legatt. Watch out! You haven't gotmy authority, of course, behind you. On the other hand you have somelooks I haven't got," he was kind enough to say. "These Burmese girlswith their white teeth and the roses in their dark hair. Pretty littleplaythings, all right, all right! But passionate, too! Take care theydon't get their hooks into you! The taste of the flesh, what?" And hedrew in his breath with a long, sucking sound which was simplyrevolting. He drew a line with a stumpy forefinger on the cloth. "Toyson this side! The things of life and death on the other!"

Very sound advice, no doubt; but whilst he was speaking I was wonderingwith all the conceit of my youth how incredible it was that thisblatant, leering creature should have inspired passion into any woman.But the vision of Ma Shwe At with her flower of a face crumpling intotears and ugliness rose before my eyes. It was not incredible. It wasintolerable.

"Full of fun, too!" Captain Michael D. Crowther continued. "The tricksof a kitten! Make you laugh till your sides ache. But, by Jiminy----!"And he let himself go in a paroxysm of mirth, a gross and shakingfigure. He rolled in his chair, he choked and he bellowed till the tearsran down his cheeks. If there had been any real heartiness or genialityin his laughter I might have called it Homeric, it was so loud andencompassing. But he was applauding himself for his cunning andcongratulating himself upon his astonishing good luck.

"Of all the good laughs Ma Shwe At ever gave me," he explained, "thebest she gave me to-night."

He pushed his coffee-cup and his glass away. He slipped his hand at lastinto the bulging side pocket which had so provoked my curiosity and drewout of it a little bag of pink silk with the mouth knotted tight by apink silk string. He laid it on the table in front of him and it rattledas he set it down.

"This surely is my lucky day," he said. "Who could have guessed thatjust at this time--when we're on this trip--not the last one and not thenext one, a band of dacoits should start in robbing the houses roundTagaung? Fairly providential, I call it."

He fell to chuckling again and to pushing about the little bag with thetip of his forefinger like a cat playing with a mouse.

"Can you tell me what this little silk bag holds, Mr. Legatt?"

I had an idea of what it held. For his words had given me a clue. But hewanted to tell me, not to hear me guess correctly. So I merely shook myhead. Michael D. Crowther was pleased. He looked at me tantalisingly.

"Not a notion, eh?"

"I can't say that. I've got a notion."

But Crowther did not propose to hear it. He interrupted me quickly:

"Well, I had better tell you at once and put you out of your misery, Mr.Legatt. This bag holds all the little bits of jewellery and ornamentwhich I have given to Ma Shwe At during the last ten years."

He looked at me for an exclamation. So I made it.

"Really?"

It was not very adequate, but then Michael D. Crowther's generosity hadnot been very adequate either.

"Yes," said he.

"And since there were dacoits busy in her neighbourhood Ma Shwe At gavethem to you to keep safe for her?"

He sat back in his chair and his shoulders heaved with his merriment. Itwas a very dainty affair, that little bag, made from a piece of silkwoven, no doubt, by Ma Shwe At herself, and then delicately embroideredwith her name and fitted with a silk string to match; all so that itmight make a fitting tabernacle to hold the gifts of her lover. Itseemed to me shameful that after so many hours and so much loving carespent upon it, it should serve only for mocking laughter in the saloonof the Dagonet.

"Just made on purpose!" Crowther exclaimed. "Don't that add to thejoke!"

"Yes, I want to hear that joke," said I.

Captain Crowther wiped his eyes.

"It's a corker of a joke. A pound to a penny you'll never guess it,quick as you are."

"That's very probable," said I.

"Well, it's this!" cried Crowther, and once more the humour of thesituation overwhelmed him. "I'm never going back to Tagaung. I'veresigned from the service. This is my last passage. I'm for home."

The news did take me by surprise. I pushed my chair back.

"You're going to England!"

"I am that, and by the first boat, sir. I've been here sixteen mortalyears and I've got to run or I'll never get away." And I found myselflooking at a stranger. The Crowther I knew had already run away. Thetriumph had gone from him. His laughter had died away. His arrogance haddwindled to a pin's point. Behind the sham and the shoddy I suddenlytouched something real and big--fear. Fear was bright in his eyes. Hisvoice was uneasy. His shoulders took black care upon them and threw itoff again and took it on again blacker than ever. I was never to forgetthe startling change in him.

"It turns my heart right over when I remember the young fellows I'veseen come out to the East slappin' their chests, going to found greatbusiness houses and make great fortunes, and in a few years the sun andthe indolence and the ease have melted their bones to putty. Prisoners,Mr. Legatt! Prisoners of the sun!"

"Lots succeed," I rejoined.

Crowther nodded his head gloomily.

"The to-and-fro people. The men who can go up into the hills. A few ofthe others too, extra hardwood men. But for the ruck and run ofus--we're the little grey flower Ouida used to write about. We flourishabove the snow line. Look here!"

He took out of his breast pocket a short stubby nigger-black cheroot.

"Do you see that? A cheroot. A Watson Number One. Twenty for twopence.That's the proper emblem of Burma--not a pagoda nor an elephant nor animage of Buddha nor a pretty-pretty girl in a silk skirt--but just this,a cheap, ugly, strong black cheroot. For why? Because once you've gotthe taste for it, the finest cigar out of Havana'll be nothing to youbut brown paper in a schoolboy's pipe. This is what you'll want. No,sir, I'm not going to wander up and down the Irrawaddy in the sunshineany more. I'm afraid. What with my commissions and my pay and a luckyspeculation or two I've made a bit. Often there's a tourist on boardwho'll put you on to a good thing. So whilst Michael D. Crowther stillremembers the flavour of a Havana, he's going to quit the cheroot."

He stopped, struck a match, lit his cheroot and inhaled deeply the smokeof it. I do not know what vague association of ideas made me askidiotically:

"What does D. stand for?"

He looked at me blankly.

"Eh?"

"Michael D. Crowther," I said, throwing all my weight on to the D. Uponmy word, he didn't know. His ignorance suddenly enlightened me. Hisover-emphasised American accent, his use of American colloquialisms, theMichael D. Crowther--they were all tokens of his enthusiasm for thegreat legend of American hustle. For myself, I have never been able tobelieve that when things had to be done the Americans are really muchslippier than other races. People still make a song about it, but I havebeen to New York. You may see two gentlemen any morning hurrying alongFifth Avenue to keep an appointment. But it does not necessarily followthat they are so bolstered and crammed with business that they have nota moment to spare. It may just mean that they have been drinking acocktail in the office. And I know no country where it takes longer tocash a cheque except France. However, Captain Michael D. Crowther wasobsessed by the notion of an abnormally slick, swift race of men, whosemethods he meant to transplant in London.

"I'm going to be a hundred per cent Englishman. Got me?" he said. "I'mgoing to be an outside broker. I am going to rattle up that old StockExchange in Throgmorton Street till it's dizzy. See here, Mr. Legatt!When you read a fine notice of a company put on the market by Michael D.you come along to me and you'll hit the sky. I've taken a liking toyou."

I could not respond in the same hearty spirit but I did my best, for Iwas grateful for the odd little glimpse he had given me of another manwhom, as yet, I did not know at all.

"That's very kind of you, Captain," I returned. "But meanwhile, what ofMa Shwe At and Ma Sein?"

Captain Crowther stared at me.

"What do you mean?"

"You're going to leave them in the lurch?"

"I bequeath them here and now to you," he replied with a grin.

His anxieties had slipped off his shoulders. He was back again in allthe enjoyment of his impish vulgarity. "But you must make your ownpresents. I can't have you handing out mine as if you had paid for them,can I now? It wouldn't be reasonable."

He turned his eyes again to the little silk bag. He took it up anduntied the strings and dipped his fingers into it as if it were a luckybag at a bazaar. He brought out a filigree bracelet. "I bought that atMandalay." Then came a silver necklet. "I bought that cheap from apedlar in Rangoon, so cheap that I reckon he stole it." A pair ofnadoungs of gold, the plugs with which the women ornament their ears,followed; then a jade pendant and an acorn of a deep red amber slungupon a gilt chain. "I bought those at Bhamo. Cost me a sovereign thelot." He drew out an anklet next, then an elephant, that, too, carvedfrom amber, with a dead fly in the middle of it, and finally, tiring ofhis examination, he emptied the bag on to the cloth. It was, after all,a trumpery collection of trinkets hardly worth stealing from a girl by aman who proposed to go home and upset Throgmorton Street. But MichaelCrowther gloated over it, pushing the shining, tinkling little gifts ofhis about as if he had recovered the lost treasure of the Cocos Islands.Suddenly he bent forward. He made a wall about the heap with his hands.He sat with his mouth open and his eyes staring out of his head like theeyes of a fish.

"My Gawd!" he whispered.

Then he scattered the trinkets here, there and everywhere with a sweepof the palms, and sat back. Burning on the white cloth by itself lay abig sapphire. It was certainly, if not the most precious, the mostlovely stone which I had ever seen. By some miracle of nature it was aperfect square; it was thick through; and in colour it was the deepbright blue of tropical seas. Crowther lifted it reverently, stood upand held it against the lamp swinging above the table. It was flawless.Crowther's limited vocabulary of oaths held nothing which could copewith his amazement. He could only sit down again and stare, speechless.

"Well, one thing's clear," said I. "That's not one of your presents toMa Shwe At."

Crowther looked at me as if he knew me for a born fool.

"I give her that! Why, Mr. Legatt, that stone's worth money." He pulledat his moustache for a moment. "It comes from one of the native workingsup to Mogok, I'll bet." He jerked his thumb landwards. Sixty miles awayon the far side of the mountain chain lay the great ruby mines, wheresapphires, spinels, zircons and all sorts of minor gems were to be foundamongst the rubies. As you drew near to the town on that undulating roadthrough the forest where the monkeys played, you passed on this side andon that, native claims with their primitive equipments. But,nevertheless, every now and then some stone of real value was retrievedby those native equipments from the earth. "Yes, that's where it comesfrom," Captain Crowther repeated, and his face darkened. "Only, who gaveit to her?" He thumped the table with his fist and added to the naturalunpleasantness of his face another degree of unpleasantness. "Who gave astone like that to Ma Shwe At? By gum, I'd like to know that!" And hisvoice descended to a whisper or rather a hiss between his closed teeth."Jiminy, but I would!"

He sat, obviously trying to remember the people who might have made thegift, and brooding over their names like a man with a crime to becommitted upon his mind. He shook his head in the end and made astatement which, coming from him, paralysed me by its stupendoussimplicity.

"Anyway, these Burmese girls have no morals," he said.

But his mood relaxed. He smacked his lips noisily. He had discovered acompensation for their deplorable deficiency, and he added:

"But I am bound to say they're lousy with sex appeal."

As soon as I had recovered my balance I remarked:

"The problem is, how are you going to return the sapphire to her?"

Michael D. had looked at me before as if I was a fool. He now recoiledfrom me as if I was a dangerous lunatic.

"But she give it to me!" he cried. "You were on the deck when I was onthe shore. You saw her. She give it me with her own hands."

I rose from my chair. I looked at him with dignity and cold disdain--or,to speak truly, with as much of both those manifestations as I couldproduce. It was the moment for one final annihilating phrase.Unfortunately Captain Crowther discovered it before I did.

"You're spluttering, Mr. Legatt," he said pleasantly.

I was, too. The man was just a common thief. But so many epithets weretumbling over one another in my mouth that not one of them would giveright of way to the other. I stood and spluttered and was saved by achirrup of voices from the beach.

The passengers were returning from their explorations. Captain Crowtherhurriedly swept his trinkets together and dropped them back into thesilk bag. He tore a scrap of linen from his napkin, wrapped the sapphirein it, and put that into the bag more carefully. Then he tied the pinkstrings tight about the mouth and back went the bag into his pocket. Hewent out of the saloon and in a moment or two I heard him giving acheery welcome to his passengers as they climbed the companion from thelower deck to the porch. I had no further speech with him that night.After all, I argued, it was really no concern of mine whether he stolethe sapphire or returned it to its owner. But my argument left me stilluncomfortable and I did not sleep in my cabin until late.

Long before I awaked the next morning, the Dagonet was rumbling downthe river to Mandalay. I was slow in coming to the breakfast-table, forI did not wish to meet Captain Crowther. But I need not have been at somuch pains. He was long since perched beside the helmsman at the uppersteering house, and though the water was low he never touched asand-bank. We reached the big town before noon and I confess to somedisappointment at Michael D.'s proficiency at his job. I should haveliked him to have run plump on a sand-bank in midstream in full sight ofall the water-side people and to have wriggled there helplessly like abutterfly with a pin through its body, an offence to his Company and ajoke to the rest of the world. But he ran neatly up to the river port.It was crowded, steamer upon steamer moored to the bank and just onesmall space half-way down the line. I did not think that Crowther couldpossibly sidle into it without doing a lot of damage. But he did. Hemight have been commanding an ocean-going mail-boat with twin screws, soeasily did he gentle his stern-wheel machine up to the bank. There shewas moored, her bows almost touching the stern of the steamer ahead, andher stem almost touching the bows of the steamer abaft.

"Not so bad, Mr. Legatt," said Crowther genially, as he descended to theporch. I was waiting for my baggage to be taken ashore. "Have a drinkbefore you go?"

"I think not," said I, towering frostily.

I caught a gleam of amusement in Crowther's eye.

"I believe you've got a come-over against me, Mr. Legatt," he said. "Youthink I've not treated that girl up the river as a gentleman should. Youdo indeed! I fancy you'll appreciate me better when you have moreexperience of this country. But it's clear you don't appreciate me atall now and I have a real respect for you, Mr. Legatt. I want you tohave the same for me."

"That's quite out of the question," I returned, looking him in the eye.

Crowther poked his head forward very earnestly.

"No, Mr. Legatt, you're wrong there. I can prove to you that youmisjudge me."

I laughed, scathingly I hoped.

"How?"

"This way."

Crowther took the small silk bag from his side pocket and balanced it onthe palm of his left hand. He made it dance a little so that thetrinkets which it held tinkled.

"I'll hand this bag over to you with all its contents, here and now, oncondition that you with your own hands return it to Ma Shwe At atTagaung."

He was as impressive as a man working the confidence trick, but I wasnot to be taken in so easily. I shook my head.

"With all its contents--yes. But without the sapphire."

Captain Crowther drew himself up. He was dignified, he was hurt thatanyone should hold so low an opinion of his probity. With the neatnessof a conjuror demonstrating that there was no trickery in his magic, heuntied with his right hand the string of the bag and opened the mouth.

"Please, see for yourself, Mr. Legatt."

"I don't wish to."

"You accuse me. I ask you to be fair."

I had let myself in for this test. I did not see what else I could dobut obey him. I shrugged my shoulders and dipped my fingers into thebag. The first thing which I pulled out was a stone wrapped in a stripof linen.

"Will you open the wrapping and make sure that I haven't tricked you?"

I had not a doubt now that it was the sapphire which I held. The stonewas square, about the right thickness and the right size. Yet I feltthat I had been tricked--tricked into making a fool of myself. I droppedthe stone back into the bag.

"That's all right," I said reluctantly, and still more reluctantly: "Iam sorry."

"Now will you take it back to Tagaung?"

"I will not," I cried.

I was angry. I was on my way home. I had a few days' work waiting for mein the office at Rangoon which I must complete before I started.

"I'll have nothing to do with it," I added.

"One day and one night upstream," said he.

"Your affairs are no concern of mine, Captain Crowther."

Captain Crowther appeared to be perplexed. He tilted his cap back withhis right hand and scratched his forehead.

"Yet you seemed to take a very definite interest in them, Mr. Legatt.Come! Oblige me!"

He was still holding the little bag balanced on his outstretched palm. Icould not help wondering what would happen if I then and there took itand agreed to return it. It was possible that Crowther had thought overhis conduct during the night and come to a more honest mind. I might bewrong and hasty in my judgement. He had already surprised me once by hisfear of this easy and indolent country. Why not a second time? I wastempted. I could not, however, sail upstream until to-morrow. It wouldtake me a day and a night to reach Tagaung, and there I should have towait perhaps the best part of a week for a steamer to bring me backagain. No, certainly not! Besides, though I seemed to recognise a signof grace in this proposal of Captain Crowther's, I wished that no linkof any kind should bind us together. I thrust my hands into my pockets.

"You've a surer way to return those ornaments."

"How?" Crowther asked earnestly.

"By handing them to your First Officer." I remembered the smile withwhich the First Officer had heard my remark to Crowther that I supposedthat he was meaning to tie up at Tagaung for the night. "He'll recogniseMa Shwe At, and I shouldn't. Give the bag to him."

"With that fine sapphire in it? Not on your life, Mr. Legatt."

"Seal up the bag then and trust it to one of your brother captains."

"To no one but you, Mr. Legatt. I don't want the whole world to think medippy just as I'm stepping off on a new career. It's up to you or up tono one."

He shook the bag again at me till the ornaments inside of it clinked andtinkled. Then with a sigh of resignation he dropped it again into hispocket.

"Here's to-day's good deed sticking out a yard and we're both of usturning our backs upon it. You were in such a taking last night, Mr.Legatt, that I felt sure you'd oblige me this morning. However, I can'tsay I'm sorry," and he suddenly burst into a laugh and made agutter-boy's grimace at me. My word, he had been laughing at me thewhole time! He had seen my baggage being taken on shore and carried upthe beach. He was confident that I would never turn round and go back toTagaung.

"Captain Crowther," I said, "I think that you are the most detestableperson I have ever met."

"Well, you do surprise me," replied Captain Crowther.

It was odd, but it was true. I must suppose that he expected me to takehim for a humorist. He was not speaking with any sarcasm. He really wassurprised.

Chapter 4
Prisoners of the Sun

I spent the first year after my return to England in the London officeof my Company, acquiring knowledge of its internal economy, and enjoyingmyself in the intervals. But the forest had set its seal on me and Icould never hear the wind rustling the leaves in a town square withoutflying back upon the carpet of my dreams to the vast woodlands of theIrrawaddy and seeing the elephants carry and arrange the huge teak logs.At the beginning of the second year my father died, and what with thesettlement of his estate and the new dispositions which his deathentailed, I could not hope to find my way back again to Burma foranother eighteen months. I was thus two years and a half in England andchiefly in London. Yet during all that time I neither met nor heard ofMichael Crowther. For all I knew he might be entertaining the greatworld in Mayfair or occupying a cell in Maidstone Gaol. I thought thelatter alternative the more likely. If he had rattled the StockExchange, as he promised to do, he had done it very quietly. But I couldnever quite forget him, for from time to time I felt a foolish twinge ofremorse in that I had not taken him at his word and carried the silkenbag with its trinkets and its sapphire back to Ma Shwe At at Tagaung. Idid have the time, and I might at all events have sustained her pride bypretending that in the interval Michael Crowther had died. But thatsmall opportunity had gone.

It was not, then, until the decline of the third year that I could withany honesty towards my Company propose another visit to Burma. I made myplans to leave England during the second week of December, beingpersuaded to that date chiefly because it would save me from thefestivities of Christmas, an uncomfortable season for a man without afamily. My luggage was packed days before it was to be collected by theShipping Company's agents; and on the afternoon of a dank, raw Sunday,the darkness beginning to fall and the air heavy with mist, I wanderedout from my lodging into a small neighbouring street of garages andreconstructed houses much favoured by film stars. The hub of thatstreet, however, is a mighty church, and as I passed its door thethunder of its organ called me in.

I stood at the back, facing the great altar ablaze with the golden lightof its many candles; and a tall priest with a red stole upon hisshoulders mounted into a pulpit set aloft above the congregation againstthe farthest pillar of the nave. He preached in a high, clear voice upona text from Hosea about the valley of Achor and the door of hope. Somuch I remember, and then my attention was diverted. For in front ofwhere I stood, at the end of the last row of benches, separated from meby an open passage-way, sat Michael Crowther. It was the last place inthe world I should have expected to find him. I could only imagine that,like myself, he had wandered by chance into the church as a refuge fromthe chill and gloom outside. I noticed, however, that he sat very still,like a man enthralled, and I wondered whether he had got religion, asthe saying goes. His head, with its thick and bristly hair, stood out inrelief against the distant candles on the altar and never moved. Hisface was turned towards the preacher so that I could just see his heavyjaw thrust out as I had seen it when he was feeling his way amongst thesand-banks on the porch of the Dagonet. I made up my mind to speak tohim as soon as the service was over. But I did not get the chance. Foras the offertory plates began to be handed along the benches and thechink of coins to be heard, Michael Crowther rose without shame to hisfeet, and stalked past me out of the church. I said to myself: "That'sMichael D. He may not have rattled the Stock Exchange, but he's true totype."

Towards the end of the week I travelled overland to Marseilles andembarked for Rangoon with two complete years ahead of me before I neededto return. I spent the first year in the forests of the Salween River.But at the beginning of the second, I had occasion to travel again tothe upper waters of the Irrawaddy. I took the night train from Rangoonto Mandalay, saw my baggage placed in my cabin on the steamer and then,having still a few hours to spare, I took the usual walk towards theZegyo Bazaar. I say "towards," for I never reached it. In the street ofshops which led to it, a name upon a board caught my eye. The boardstretched above a shop and I should probably not have noticed it at allbut for the queer circumstance that at this very busy hour of themorning a boy was putting up the shutters. Once I had noticed it I couldnot turn my eyes away. For the name painted in bold white letters on ablack ground was:

There might be two Michael Crowthers of course, and both linked withsome sort of shackle to Mandalay. Coincidences are after all more usualin life than in fiction. Or the great assault upon the Stock Exchangehad failed and its strategist had fled back to the lines he knew. Itoccurred to me that if that were the case, the sooner I pushed along tothe Bazaar the less risk I had of being annoyed. To this day I don'tknow why I loitered. But I did. I waited amongst the creakingbullock-carts and the streams of passers-by: now a Shan from the hillswith an enormous hat upon his head, now a group of girls with tuberosesin their black hair and silken skirts, and more gaiety in their laughterthan even in their clothes, a monk in his yellow robe with a shavenhead, a party of tourists holding above their helmeted heads whiteumbrellas which would have condemned them to the stocks in King Thibaw'sday. I waited there in the blazing sunlight, and gradually and slowly Iwas bewitched by an intense and inexplicable expectation. The feelingwas vaguely familiar to me. Yes, some where and when I had experiencedit before. It could really have nothing to do with Crowther's name upona board, I argued, for I had seen Crowther himself in the Farm StreetChurch and not a nerve in me had thrilled. Yet here was I in a street ofMandalay--enthralled. A man with a terrier dog at his heels pushed byme, and I remembered when this same sense of expectation had possessedand controlled me. It was in a moonlit clearing of the forest north ofthe Second Defile. There I had waited for a panther--and something else.Here I waited for Michael D. Crowther--and something else. There nothinghad happened. Here Michael D. Crowther did. For as I stood and waited,he came bouncing out of his shop.

"Of all people, you!" he cried, and I drew back with a little jump. Itwas perhaps the oddest circumstance, at all events at that time in ouracquaintanceship, that though he was often in my thoughts, the moment Iheard his voice I wanted to break away. "Now isn't that a piece ofluck?" he continued eagerly.

"Is it?" I asked. "For whom?"

Michael D. grinned.

"Cold!" he said, wagging his head at me. "Oh, very cold and biting, Mr.Legatt. You know all the talk there is of Gandhi and his Untouchables.Well, when I read of the Untouchables I always think of you."

"Thank you!" said I. "Good morning!"

As I moved on all the truculence left him. He ran after me and caught meby the arm, and his hand shook as he held me.

"Please don't go!" he implored, with so notable a change of voice and sohumble a prayer in his eyes that I could not but stop. "I withdraw everyword. My tongue ran away with me. It often does with witty people. ButI've got to speak to you. I'll get a hat and give an order to my boy. Iwon't be a second."

He was back in his shop almost before the sound of his words had ceased.I thought: "What a fool I was not to slide past the shop with my headturned the other way!" I asked myself immediately upon that: "After all,aren't you a bit of a prig? Why shouldn't you stop and listen to him?"And by the time I had put those questions Crowther had rejoined me.

He led me to a café. We sat in the open under an awning. In front of usacross the road the wide, lily-starred moat slept about the walls ofFort Dufferin; and as each of us drank a cool lime squash Crowther wentback with a curious eagerness and flurry to the last conversation we hadheld four years before.

"You must have been surprised to see me here, Mr. Legatt?"

It was a difficult question to answer. I sought unwisely to put him athis ease by suggesting that he had suffered no more than the common lot.

"Oh, I don't know," I answered. He was up in arms in a second. You mightdisapprove of him, but you must not forget him. Above all you must notfind him uninteresting and become indifferent as to whether he failed orsucceeded.

"You can't have forgotten all those ambitions of mine," he criedindignantly.

I in my turn was a little nettled.

"I really don't see why I shouldn't have."

He glared at me. Then he chuckled.

"But you haven't, anyway."

I laughed and climbed down.

"No, I haven't."

"Then you must have been surprised to see me," he insisted with somepetulance.

"All right. I was surprised. I ought not to have been, but I was," Iacknowledged.

But Crowther was not appeased.

"And why oughtn't you to have been surprised, if you please, Mr.Legatt?"

"Because I have been three years in London and never once in business orany other circles did I hear your name."

Here was something Crowther could not question. He sat back in his chairand nodded his head gloomily.

"I've been a great disappointment to myself, Mr. Legatt. I had stayed inthe East too long. I was a prisoner of the sun after all. Funny!Governors and soldiers and big business chiefs can go back and holdtheir own--men really of the same calibre as myself. I suppose that I ammore sensitive than most people, what?" I was careful not to interruptand to keep a very straight face. "Yes, I had got the habit of thecheroot, and Havanas made me ill. I didn't realise it at first. No. Ihired a little flat in South Kensington and stood in Piccadilly Circusand made a noise like Dick Whittington. I looked up all the smartfellows I had any sort of link with. Queer thing! Most of them were agood deal more cordial to me as a Captain on the Irrawaddy than as a manstarting in their own line of big business. There was one, the head of agreat financial family, who fairly sickened me, Mr. Legatt. I sent in mycard one morning and I was shown into the holy of holies, and he satback in his chair and looked at me without a word. I said to myself:'That's good! That's the way! I'll make a note of that. He puts me at adisadvantage.' So I started in on him. I had come home to put a littlepep into English methods, and he just looked at me. I could help him andhe could help me; I said Michael D. Crowther was going to get to work;and he looked at me. I reckon I lost my head a bit then, but he onlylooked at me, and I just had to come away. And he had never spoken oneword. I tell you I wondered for a moment whether pep didn't really meansimply saying nothing. However, others put bits of business in my way.But here's the amazing thing. They were little bits of business, but Ididn't bring them off. No, sir, I didn't succeed."

He was now merely Michael Crowther, a woebegone Englishman consolinghimself by the recital of his experiences. He had meant to be the bignoise; he was not even the baby's gurgle. He had planned to hit theskies; he had not even flapped up off the earth.

"Other things besides the hustle made me shudder. The east wind, theclear brown fog ten foot high and the miles of black soot on the top ofit, the cars bearing down on you and hooting death at you, and above allthe utterly damnable, chilly, disobliging loneliness of it all. I beganto pine for the colour and the ease and the good humour of the life Iknew here under skies which really laugh and a sun which really warms. Iwanted to hear the copper-smith bird tell me a real summer is coming.Yes, Mr. Legatt, I had Burma in my bones, and the want of it made meache from head to foot. I'd have given all the hooting motor-cars inPiccadilly for the creak of one bullock-wagon in Mandalay. The Havanacigar--you can have the crop. What I wanted was a Watson Number One";and as though he had forgotten it in the need to pour himself out from abottle and hold himself up in a glass against the light, he pulled acheroot from the pocket of his white drill jacket and lit it.

"I can understand all that," I said. "I am not so deeply rooted inEngland myself. What bewilders me a little is not your return, but yourname over a shop."

Before now Michael Crowther had looked at me as if I was not all there.I hate to be taken for a congenital idiot when I am making a perfectlyreasonable remark; and mine was a reasonable remark--in spite of MichaelCrowther and his question.

"Why should that bewilder you, Mr. Legatt?"

"Because"--I was huffy but I meant to be fair--"because from what Iremember of your navigation, you could have got another steamer byasking for it. Or if there wasn't a steamer, an agency to keep you goinguntil there was."

Crowther's manner changed completely. There was a warmth in his voice, agratitude in his eyes.

"That's kind of you, Mr. Legatt. It is indeed. When your self-esteem hashad the bumps which mine has, an unexpected bouquet here and there isvery welcome."

"What are you going to sell, Captain?" I continued. "Antiquities? You?You're the last man to be interested in dead and gone things. If I wereyou I shouldn't drop down to a shop."

Crowther remained silent for a little while. He looked straight acrossthe moat to the machicolated walls of the Fort. I thought that he mustbe considering my advice. But I was wrong. He was merely considering me;happily, however, from a new angle. I say happily, because on lookingback, I can see that our acquaintanceship took a turn at this corner. Itis too early to say that friendship began here, but at all events wewere on the road to it.

"I am going to sell nothing at all," he said. "We'd better have anotherdrink. We have got time"; and when the cool lime squashes stood on thelittle table between us, he continued: "I have been brooding by myselfso long over my story that I have come to think the world knows it aswell as I do. Just wait a second!"

He put his thoughts into an order of words before he spoke them. He wasnot selecting what he should tell me and what he should keep to himself.Reticence was a word omitted from his dictionary. He was so interestedin himself that everyone within his reach must know all about him andexactly.

"I was a failure. I hadn't made any friends. I was cold. I used towander about on Sunday afternoons into the Park to listen to thespouters and then through the dead streets to get myself dog-tired.Well, one dreadful afternoon, so damp that you felt your bones were wetinside you and as cold as the Poles and South Ken in one, I found myselfin a queer little street, garages and oldy Englishy houses and achurch."

I sat forward.

"Farm Street," I said.

"Oh? May be. I never knew its name. But there were lights in the churchwindows, and there would be people in there and it'd be warm. So I wentin. A man preached about a valley. He was a sensible sort of man--that'swhat made me listen. He said this valley bloomed once and was desolatefor a few hundred years. You could work out the chronology for yourselfif you liked--for himself he wasn't interested very much inchronology--that's what took me in the man--a very few hundred yearswould do for him--sensible, what?--after that it bloomed again, a doorof hope."

"The valley of Achor," I interrupted.

"Very likely," said Crowther. "I didn't catch on to the name." Suddenlyhe stopped and stared at me. "Say! You know a lot about the Bible."

"I was there that afternoon," I said.

"You?"

"Yes."

"In that church?"

I nodded my head.

"A little more than a year ago. I saw you in the back pew."

"That's right. Now isn't that odd?" He looked at me reproachfully. "Youmight have spoken to me, Mr. Legatt."

"I hadn't a chance to. You nipped out before the collection reachedyou."

"Instinct, Mr. Legatt," said Crowther smiling. "Nothing more thaninstinct. But in that case you can realise how hard that sermon hit me."

"I'm afraid that I can't," I answered. "I wasn't listening closely. Iwas watching you."

That seemed to Crowther very natural. No further explanation wasrequired, and he went on:

"Then I must tell you something about it. The valley of Achor was a doorof hope. It had bloomed once and hundreds of years afterwards a secondtime under the smile of God. That was the phrase which took me by storm.A valley all a-bloom under the smile of God. The valley of theIrrawaddy, eh? Where everyone smiles--not only God. I suppose that everyfeeling I had of darkness and failure and loneliness and cold, had beenworking up to this moment, had become so much tinder waiting for a sparkto set it ablaze. And here was the spark--a phrase spoken by a preacheron a black, dreary afternoon in Farm Street--a valley under the smile ofGod. I went back to my little furnished flat in a back lane of South Kenlike a man who has had a call--a call to lovely things instead of awayfrom them. I sat in my dingy sitting-room with its ugly deal furnitureand its bit of Brussels carpet, and I tell you, Mr. Legatt. I heardmusic. I was going to wind things up and go back."

He could hardly spare the time that evening to eat his dinner. He hadthe table cleared the moment the meal was over, and going into hisbedroom rummaged in his big trunk. At the bottom of it lay Ma Shwe At'slittle silk bag with its embroidery and its pink string and its jinglingtrinkets. In his hurry to set his foot on the neck of London, he hadtucked it away amongst his odds and ends and forgotten all about it. Nowhe carried it back into his sitting-room and rolled out the ornaments onto his red baize table-cloth, just as he had three years before on tothe white linen of the Dagonet. They were all there even to thesapphire in its strip of napkin. The ornaments were tarnished and dullas pewter, but the sapphire glowed with a spark of fire striking upthrough the blue of tropical seas; and the walls of his room fell away;and a lorry which passed and shook the house was the rumble of hisstern-wheel as it thrashed the water of the Irrawaddy.

"Jiminy! I was glad that you hadn't taken me at my word, Mr. Legatt, andcarried the bag back to Tagaung. I knew that I ran a risk, but youcarried your nose so high that I could almost see the vocal cords--nowdidn't you?--and I had got to show you you were thinking of yourself allthe time like everybody else. But you gave me a jar, Mr. Legatt, I won'tdeny. You did stand hesitating whether you'd behave like a medievalknight in an opera or not."

Frankly I did not like his simile. I had no wish to be a knight in anopera, medieval or otherwise. I prided myself upon my actuality. I was ayoung man of my age with a fair share of hard common sense. I might havegone to Oxford or Cambridge. But I had gone to the forest instead. Homerand heroics meant nothing to me. Wild beasts and the loneliness of greatwoods meant a great deal. I was annoyed with Crowther absurdly. For Ihad been on the point of starting back for Tagaung to return to aBurmese girl I didn't know the presents of a man I detested; and ifthere's one thing a man's heartily ashamed of it's an experiment inquixotics. I grew a little hot and uncomfortable. I felt at adisadvantage with Crowther, as I had done on one or two occasionsbefore.

"You might get on with your story and leave me out of it," I saidtartly.

The momentary gleam of his old-time impishness faded out from Crowther'seyes.

"No offence intended, Mr. Legatt," he cried hurriedly. "I resoom. Therewere the ornaments in front of me and I spent the evening polishing themuntil they shone like a lady's nails before she's dabbed the blood onthem--the silver ring which Ma Shwe At wore round her tiny ankle, thefiligree bracelets for her wrists. I tell you, the warmth of her wasthere in my drab little sitting-room with the red baize table-cloth. Icould feel her arms round my neck and see her dark eyes and white teethlaughing at me an inch off my nose. The taste of the flesh, eh?"

Crowther leaned back in his chair, his teeth closed over his lower lipand sucking in his breath.

"You wouldn't know, but these Burmese girls have got a trick of sendinga little ripple down their arms from their shoulders to theirfinger-tips, and when their arms are round your neck at the time"--herelapsed into his Americanisms and rubbed his hands together--"oh boy,oh boy!"

I hope that the tip of my nose didn't rise priggishly into the air. ButCrowther certainly hurried on.

"But there was ever so much besides. The fun of her, the chatter, andlittle Ma Sein dancing up and down on her feet as if she was apuff-ball."

Yes, I too remembered little Miss Diamond dancing up and down on thesand of the little square at Tagaung. I saw the tiny village, booths andsquare and pagoda, and the great tamarinds behind lighted up with thegolden brilliancy of the headlight and rounded into a circle by theheadlight's shape. I saw it as one sees a scene of marionettes throughthe spy-hole of a peep-show.

"I remember," I answered with a smile.

"And even that wasn't all." He turned sideways in his chair and leanedacross the table, once more surprised by himself. "Do you know that Ihad been wanting her desperately all this time without knowing it? Therewas an ache somewhere inside me, something missing, always missing, likesomeone you have dearly loved, who has been dead for a long while, butyou don't think what it is that's missing until now and then someassociation brings you full-face with the knowledge. Well, Ma Shwe Atwasn't dead. I hugged myself when I had worked back to that one vitalfact. Ma Shwe At and Ma Sein--Mrs. Golden Needle and Miss Diamond--werestill at Tagaung. Those presents were a promise--the preacher's door ofhope. My mind took a hop, skip and a jump--there I was landing from thegang-plank. There they were laughing and waving their hands. The ankletwas warm with the warmth of Ma Shwe At as I held it in my hand. I heardmyself saying: 'Beloved Golden Needle, born of the lotus and themoon'--you know the sort of thing--'here is the treasure you asked me tokeep safe for you.'"

"Oh ho!" said I. Here was a Michael Crowther whom I did not know, proudof his cunning--that was old--but eager to make restitution--that wasnew.

"So you are going back to Tagaung!" I said.

"To be sure. That's why I've opened a shop."

"That's why you've closed a shop," I corrected.

Crowther raised his eyebrows. He was always astonished if I did notfollow at once the working of his mind. He explained compassionately:

"You haven't got it at all, Mr. Legatt. I'm not going to stay atTagaung, nor is the shop for me. I've got money enough to wait until agood job comes my way. I'm going to bring Ma Shwe At and little MissDiamond down to Mandalay, and then there's a shop here to amuse them.All these little Burmese girls love keeping shop. If you trotted intothe big Bazaar over there you'd find lots of them selling silks andspices who could well afford to stay at home. They adore having a littlebusiness of their own. They make it pay too, I can tell you."

He laughed with a heartiness which I had never heard in his voicebefore. It had a ring of enjoyment like the laugh of a friendly manwatching children playing cleverly.

"When do you go?" I asked suddenly.

"This morning. On the Moulmein."

"So do I."

"I guessed that," he returned, and to my amazement I caught a note ofwistfulness in his voice. "You won't object, will you? Or call me downif I offer you a drink?"

It was my turn to laugh. Michael Crowther could not live withoutexplaining himself. Conversation was a mirror in which he saw a veryinteresting person experiencing strange adventures and developing in oddways through unexpected phases of life.

"I shan't object at all," I said. "On the contrary! I find you very muchmore human than I did before."

Michael Crowther stared at me and slapped his hand down upon the table.

"That's the most extraordinary thing," he cried. "For I was going to sayprecisely the same thing of you."

We settled our bill. Crowther's boy brought to him the key of the shop,and said:

"Master's bag on board."

"Good," said Crowther, and we walked together to the gangway of theMoulmein.

"The door of hope," said he. "A sensible fellow, that padre," and hewent forward on to the lower deck.

Chapter 5
The Door Closes

The Moulmein was a Bazaar boat. It dragged, lashed alongside of it,a big double-decked lighter furnished with shops and stalls and occupiedby steerage passengers. It put in at the smaller villages and stayedlong enough for the villagers to make their purchases. It was,therefore, not until the forenoon of the second day after we leftMandalay that we tied up against the bank at Tagaung. No storm-lampflickered a welcome; no headlight transformed the village into a goldenspot of fairyland. It was a little place of thatched hovels enclosed bygreat tamarinds, and fig-trees, with a glimpse of a few bigger houses ina grove at the back. And a miserable, puny pagoda of bamboo and straw atthe corner of the square indicated to all men the extremity of itsindigence.

The Moulmein with its travelling shops was expected; for the centralspace was thronged. Michael Crowther stood at my side on the open deck,shifting his weight from one foot to the other and running his eyeseagerly over the crowd. A look of disappointment clouded his face.

"I don't see them," he said. "Do you?"

"No."

"Yet they would naturally have met the Bazaar boat. Even if they didn'twant to buy anything, it's the place for gossip. Of course I wasn'texpected."

He repeated that consolation as, leaning over the rail, he watched themen and women file along the gangway on to the steamer and across thelower deck on to the lighter beyond.

"I wasn't expected. That's it, of course." But he was uneasy. It lookedas if the whole valley had turned out with the exception of Mrs. GoldenNeedle and Miss Diamond. Crowther turned to me. "Are you coming?"

I had not meant to go ashore at all. But Crowther wanted support and badnews might be awaiting him. After all, young people did die in thevillages of the Irrawaddy as elsewhere in the world.

"Yes, I'll come," I replied, and then, less carelessly, I added! "Icertainly will come with you, Captain."

For when my eyes moved from him to the shore it suddenly struck me therewas something unusual in the aspect of the place. There were no womenleft by the landing-place. That was to be expected. They were all bythis time chattering and bargaining upon the lighter. But there was alarge group of men, and these men, instead of sitting about on the sandindolently talking according to their habit, stood and watched thesteamer in silence.

Crowther descended to the lower deck and I followed him.

"Of course I wasn't expected," he repeated.

But he was wrong. I had an impression that he was expected even beforehe stepped off the gangway. But the moment he did, the impression becamea certainty. For at once the group moved and according to a plan. Itspread out, deploying into a line at the edge of the bank and asCrowther walked up the slope, the flanks of the line moved forwards andinwards, enclosing him and barring him from the village. They were allso far quite silent and their faces were quite impassive. Perhaps it wasfor those reasons that I felt the whole position to be dangerous. I waswalking just behind Michael Crowther's shoulder. And from a slighthesitation in his movements, I realised that he, too, was disturbed.When he reached the top of the bank and could go no farther withoutjostling one of these sentinels, an old man with a thin straggling whitebeard spoke, smiling softly:

"We are happy to see the thakin again. It is a long time since thethakin was here and it does us good to see him. And now he will shakehands with us and go back again upon the steamer."

Crowther looked from one face to another.

"You expected me?"

"A friend brought us word by the last boat that the thakin was coming tosee us."

"To see Ma Shwe At."

Michael Crowther corrected the old man in a loud and rising voice, sothat the name of his mistress rang out across the hovels and the booths.It was a call to her, wherever she was hidden, the call to the mate,heard in forest and jungle and trimmed garden, and wherever manners havenot cloaked passion. But it was a cry for help too, so sudden, sopoignant that it took my breath away. A dreadful terror of lonelinessinspired it. I suppose that it was because I was behind Crowther andcould not see his face. But I almost believed that someone else haduttered the cry, some unknown man breaking under the compulsion of painand fear. Then he stood still, listening with both his ears, and itseemed to me with every tense nerve in his body, for an answer, howeverdistant, however faint.

But no answer came--unless a quiet constriction of the circle about himcould be called an answer.

"Ma Shwe At will not hear," the old man said gently. "It is four yearssince the thakin went away and in four years many things must happen. MaShwe At suffered and was unhappy. Ma Sein cried through many nights. Butall that is over now."

"Over? But I am here to fetch them both to my home----" began Crowther.

The old man shook his head.

"Ma Shwe At is married to a man with many rice-fields. She is happyagain. I beg the thakin to shake hands with us all and go away."

Crowther looked from face to face. There were young men there and therewere old. There was no ill-will in their looks; but they pressed abouthim, not touching him but hampering him. He was shut within a round wallof living people. He could not have burst through that close-drawncordon had he possessed the strength of Hercules, so near they stood andready. But he didn't try. He drew back a step and his right hand flasheddown into the side pocket of his jacket.

I gasped at his folly. He could not have made a more dangerous mistake.Even I knew that these pleasant, peaceable village folk would retaliatewith the cruelty of children. From the beginning of the interview it hadbeen obvious that behind the old man's smooth words was a quiet threat.Policy should have heard the threat, and as a rule Crowther had at hiscommand a blatant but effective policy. He was now a prisoner. For in atwinkling a man upon each side of him seized his arm. Not one of thegroup but held a stick in his hand, although no one raised it. A boyplunged a hand into Crowther's pocket. Had he pulled out a pistol,Crowther--I haven't a doubt of it although not a stick as yet wasraised--would have been beaten out of human shape then and there by wildmen dancing in a frenzy. All that the boy did pull out, however, was alittle soiled bag of pink silk tied at the mouth with a pink silkcord--a bag which rattled as he pulled it out.

The turmoil died down as quickly as it had spurted into life.

"Is that all?" the old man asked.

"That's all," the boy answered; and the old man took the bag andbalanced it upon his palm, just as Crowther himself had done in theporch of the Dagonet.

"That small bag was worked by Ma Shwe At," said Crowther in a queer,broken voice. He could not but know how near he had been to a cruel andhorrible death but the break in his voice was not caused by fear. "Shegave it to me to keep for her. There was a dacoity in the neighbourhood.It holds the presents I had given to her. I wish to return it."

"Ma Shwe At no longer needs the thakin's presents. I beg him to takethem again."

Crowther put his hands behind his back.

"There is more than my presents in the bag," Crowther protested. "Thereis a jewel worth them all a hundred times."

The old man smiled.

"We are all happy that the thakin should keep it."

He gave the bag back to the boy who slipped it again into Crowther'spocket.

It was just then that the steamer blew its warning; and Crowther,without another word, turned upon his heel and walked down the bank tothe gangway. He looked straight in front of him. His face was grey andfixed like the face of a paralytic. I did not wonder. Apart from thedanger which he had run, who within so short a time has enduredhumiliation so deep? But humiliation was only one part of his distress.Possess a thing, it dwindles to nothing. Lose it, it grows into a world.Against his corroding failure and his four desolate years he had set themirage of Ma Shwe At and the child Ma Sein. Than Ma Shwe At with herlaughing face and small, flower-like hands, and Ma Sein jumping up anddown in her glee, nothing was ever so passionately desired by theone-time Captain of the Dagonet. But he had lost them. The door ofhope had closed.

Chapter 6
Children at Play

A good many pairs of inquisitive eyes watched Michael Crowther as hecame on board. But he never returned a look. People were so much ship'sfurniture to him. He walked in and out amongst them, unaware of anyone,and marched through the saloon on to the deck behind it. He sat downthere on a seat by the side of the rail; and after I had given him alittle time I wandered aft myself and stood beside him. He lifted hishead and pleaded:

"You won't talk for a bit, will you?"

"I didn't come along to talk," I answered.

"I know that. Thank you for coming."

I cannot put into words the dejection of the man. I had nothing to saywhich could help him. He had failed as the hundred per cent Englishmanhe had boasted himself to be, who was going to trample in hobnails overhis inefficient countrymen. Now he had failed again as the orientalisedEuropean. I could not imagine a future ahead of him. The shop inMandalay would be ridiculous as an occupation for him; and he was notthe man to take to drink. All I could do was to offer him the sympathyof a silent companionship.

It was he, therefore, who spoke first. The Moulmein had edged outclear of the bank. Its great wheel was thrashing the yellow water intofoam.

"That was a bad affair, wasn't it?" he said with a rather pitifulbravado and an attempt at a smile. But he could not keep to thatpretence. "The smile of God!" he cried in a voice of such bitterness asI had never heard. Then his head drooped again and he clenched his handsso tightly together that the skin beneath the tips of his fingers waswhite.

"What am I going to do now?" he asked in a whisper, and repeated hisquestion: "What am I going to do?"

I answered him foolishly. He was not thinking of an occupation but ofhow he was going to live through the succession of days until the day ofhis death.

"You ought to try to get another ship in the Irrawaddy Flotilla," Isaid.

"Perhaps so," he answered listlessly; but he only knew that I wasspeaking and did not hear what I said. It was just as well. For nocareer in the world could have been so repugnant to him at this moment.

The steamer beat upstream past a wall of rice-bags and began to round alow bluff which reached out into the river. I saw Crowther rise slowlyto his feet and grasp the rail with both his hands; and I drew closer tohim. I had a fear that he was going to fling himself headlong overboardto be beaten to death by the great stern-wheel; he stood poised upon histoes in so tense an attitude. But his eyes turned towards the headlandand at once were riveted there; and from that moment, whilst it remainedin sight, he had no thought but for what was happening on its broad,flat top.

"My God!" he whispered, as though his throat was parched, and again, buton so low a note that the whisper died away and only his lips finishedit: "My God!"

His body relaxed, a great weakness overtook him so that his kneessagged, and though his hands still clung to the rail, they clung to keephim standing, not to give spring to a leap. If he had a thought ofjumping overboard he had given it up and I could, myself, safely turn myeyes to the bank.

On the headland a group of children was playing a round game under theinstructions of one of them; and the noise of their young voices andshrill laughter floated across the water very happily. It couldn't bethat Crowther grudged them their glee. It might be that they broughtback to him with an intolerable poignancy the memory of Ma Sein dancingup and down upon her toes. But it seemed to me that a grief deeper thanthat of memory gave to his face its look of anguish. There had been someone final shattering blow to deal him, and God had not forgotten it.

The steamer was now abreast of the promontory and I distinguished atlast the small significant circumstance which had caught Crowther's eyefrom afar and laid yet one more trouble upon his troubled soul. The gamewhich the children played involved a winding in and out in the patternof a dance. Many mistakes were made and corrected amidst peals oflaughter. But the little girl who corrected the mistakes and set all theplayers once more in their order wore a sun-helmet upon her head andwhite socks and brown shoes upon her feet. I remembered suddenly thatfour years ago little Miss Diamond had decked herself out just in thatway. She had worn a sun-helmet even after the sun had set, even afterdarkness had come, and shoes and socks into the bargain. She had beenestablishing the whiteness of her blood. She had been showing off to allwith eyes to see and brains to understand that she was the daughter ofthe white Captain of the Irrawaddy Company. All the other little girlsmight skewer their hair to the tops of their heads and come to no harmeven at midday. She, Ma Sein, must wear a helmet even after dark to keepoff sunstroke. The others might run barefoot over hard-baked ground andtake no bruise. She must wear socks and shoes according to the habit andnecessity of her race. Ma Sein had been eight years old then, and thelittle girl now laying down the law with unquestioned authority wasolder than that. Twelve? I was not very experienced in judgingchildren's ages, but twelve would be right or near to right.

No wonder Crowther was clinging to the rail of the Moulmein with hiseyes fixed upon the group of children. It was Miss Diamond who was theBeau Nash of the ceremonies at Tagaung--the little daughter whom he hadcome to fetch and whom he was never to see again. She had cried allnight, the old man upon the river-bank had told us, but all that wasover now. It certainly was over. Ma Sein, lording it delightfully overher friends, was enjoying her game as though the tiniest memory of herfather had been obliterated from her thoughts.

Crowther suddenly turned his back and fixed his eyes upon the seams ofthe deck so that this last and unendurable vision might pass from themthe sooner.

"Tell me when----" he said.

"I will," I answered.

The steamer rounded the bend of the river. The land crept forward like ascreen between the headland and the ship. The sound of the treble voicesceased to pluck at his heart-strings. In another minute there were nolaughing children to sear his eyes.

"It's all right," I said.

"Thank you."

He sat down again upon the bench, but even so hardly daring to looktowards the shore. We were quite alone. The luncheon-bell had rung as wemoved away from the bank. The passengers were all in the saloon. And acuriously subtle change crept over Crowther. There was a gentleness inhis face, a submission in his bowed shoulders which astonished me.Michael D. had ceased to live. And when he spoke, as he did to himselfand not to me, it was on a note of pure remorse.

"They were right.... Of course they were right.... I made amistake.... I hadn't thought of it."

The words were so much Greek to me. I touched him on the shoulder.

"Come and lunch!"

Crowther shook his head.

"Not hungry."

"Please!"

"No! You run along. I'll stay here by myself for a little while."

I left him there and went forward to the saloon wondering what was thismistake which he had made and what it was that he had not thought out.

I got some part of the answer from the Captain of the Moulmein.Luncheon was half over when I took my seat at his elbow and in a littlewhile he and I were alone. He said:

"You had an awkward moment down there at Tagaung, hadn't you?"

"Yes," I answered.

"I was keeping an eye on you both," he continued. "But we shouldn't havehad time to do much for Crowther. Crowther ought to have known better."

I pricked up my ears at that statement. It might hold the secret ofCrowther's riddle.

"He might not have thought it out," I rejoined.

The Captain of the Moulmein smiled.

"He might, you mean, have refused to remember," he returned. I offeredhim a cigar, and after he had lit it, he resumed: "Crowther's story is,of course, known to a good many of us on these steamers. These Burmesemarriages, as they call them, are not such simple affairs on the upperreaches of the river as you might think. They have their own primitiveethics. The Burmese girl who lives with a white man acquires prestige.It isn't a life of sin, as we should call it, in the eyes of her ownpeople. Not a bit. She is the more honourable and--the importantthing--more sought after in marriage when she and her white man haveagreed to differ. Odd, isn't it?"

"Yes," said I.

"Well, Mr. Legatt, here's something still odder. She's still moremarriageable, her social position, if one may use such a phrase, isstill higher, if she has a child by a white man. It was fairly certain,then, that Crowther, coming back to Tagaung after deserting his girl forfour years, would find her comfortably married to someone worth while."

All this topsy-turvydom was news to me, but I was not fool enough todisbelieve it. The Captain of the Moulmein knew very much more of thepeople on the upper Irrawaddy than I should ever know if I lived to be ahundred.

"Crowther was only ignorant of that because he wanted to be." TheCaptain smoked his cigar for a moment or two and asked:

"Did you notice some children playing on the top of a bit of a hill justoutside the village?"

"Yes, I did," I answered, sitting up. "Ma Sein with the sun-helmet onher head was their leader."

"Ma Sein. Is that her name? I didn't know. Crowther's child, anyway."

"Yes."

"You were right, Mr. Legatt. She was their leader. She gave the law. Shewas IT. Prestige, you see. An odd thing, prestige! Ma Sein will have itall through her life, that is, of course, if she remains on the upperriver." And with the utterance of that proviso he climbed up to thewheel upon the roof.

I had there the answer to my riddle. The thing of which Crowther had notthought--prestige. The mistake which Crowther had made--hisforgetfulness of its importance on the higher water of the Irrawaddy.Yes, but I was not content, not by any means. If Crowther had forgottenthe importance of prestige he had been roughly reminded of it on thebeach of Tagaung. He could not have been unaware of it when he returnedalong the gangway and climbed to the upper deck. There he had sprung tohis feet and poised himself for a leap. The more I recalled the scenethe more confident I felt that he had meant to dive headlong over therail and finish with everything. But he had not. He had caught sight ofthe children on their playground and he had changed his mind. Somethinghad changed it--some gentler thought had touched him, some new concernfor the happiness of that gay dancing little daughter of his, MissDiamond, who had cried all night--"only that was over now."

"They were right.... Of course... they were right."

I had only heard remorse in his voice. But in that remorse there wasrenunciation, too. Could any facet of prestige shine with a light sorevealing? I wondered.

If I set out my speculations so fully it is because I am now sure thatthe picture of those children playing on the headland under theleadership of little Miss Diamond marked a moment of revolution inCrowther to which the incidents of four years had been tending. "Thingshad worked together," he had told me, to produce his little hour ofinspiration when the words of the preacher in Farm Street had smittenhis ears. Now other things had been added and amongst them this lastlittle baffling circumstance.

I slept ill that night, but Crowther slept worse. The Moulmein wasmoored that night at Katha, the headquarters of the district, andCrowther went off by himself on shore and came back again when everyonewas in bed. I did not in fact see him until my baggage had gone ashoreand I myself was saying good-bye to the Captain. He waited on one sideuntil the farewells were spoken. Then he came forward, his eyes heavy,his face ravaged.

"You're getting off here?"

"Yes. I'm going up by train to Myitkyina."

"I'm sorry." He was silent for a second or two. "For myself, I shall goup to Bhamo on this boat and straight down again."

"To Mandalay?" I asked.

"Yes."

"And then?"

"I don't know. I haven't an idea."

He drifted along with me to the companion and suddenly turned round andfaced me.

"They were quite right, Mr. Legatt, those men at Tagaung," he said, in asubdued and gentle voice. "I should have been a brute--shouldn't I?--ifI had taken Ma Sein away with me. I never thought of it until I saw herplaying up there on the hill. But it was clear enough then. What wouldshe have been back there at Mandalay? A despised little half-castebastard. Plain language, Mr. Legatt," he added, as I rather flinched athis description. "But that's what she would have been, and in a year ortwo every pomatum-smeared clerk would have been leering at her over thecounter of her shop, thinking her easy fruit. But up there at Tagaungshe's the Great White Queen." He even smiled as he spoke, findingpleasure and consolation and--yes!--even a trifle of amusement in thechild's magnificence. For the moment Ma Shwe At and the humiliating endof his love affair with her were out of his mind. Little Miss Diamondheld his thoughts and his heart in the hollow of her tiny hand.

"The Great White Queen," he repeated, and now he laughed openly. I shookhim by the hand and went off down the gangway. I turned and waved to himonce I was on land. The humour, however, had all gone from his looks. Itseemed to me that again there was death in his mind and in his face. Sothere was, too, but it turned out to be not the kind of death which Iexpected.

Chapter 7
Uncle Sunday

I descended the Irrawaddy a few months later, just in time to avoidthe rains; and though Mandalay was intolerably hot, I stayed a day therein the hope that I should run across Michael Crowther. But the board wasdown from his shop and the shop sold. I made enquiries of the newtenant, a little Chinaman who was selling what Crowther, in hisDagonet days, would have called "notions." The Chinaman had noknowledge whatever of Crowther, for he had bought the shop from agents.

"Do you remember the name of the firm?" I asked.

"I lemember till I die," said he, and he allotted to the firm's femaleancestry an extremely degraded rank in the animals' order of merit.

I felt that I was immediately upon the heels of my friend. Crowthermight be sunk in woe, but woe wouldn't stop him from driving as hard abusiness bargain as he could. I drove in a ticca-gharri to the addressin Hodgkinson Road, and called on Mr. Styles. Mr. Styles was a littleround man, very hot, but not busy.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked.

"I want to find Michael Crowther."

The little man looked at me with a sudden interest and tilted his chairback against the wall.

"Do you, now?" said he. "But I can't help you. For I don't myself knowwhere he is."

"You sold a shop of his near the Bazaar."

"But that was some months ago, Mr.----I haven't got your name, I think."

"Legatt," said I, and he brought the forelegs of his chair down upon thefloor with a bang and stared at me open-mouthed.

"Mr. Martin Legatt?"

"Yes."

He looked me over as if he already had a description of me in his mind.

"Yes," said he, satisfied at last. "Well, I'll tell you what you oughtto do. You ought to run along to the bank in B Street. You see, Crowtherwas a close-fisted sort of fellow and bought little bits of land inMandalay when it was a good deal cheaper than it is now. I know, forI've realised all of it for him----"

"All of it?" I interrupted.

"Yes."

"And lately?"

"Within the last few months."

"And yet you don't know where he is?"

"I haven't one idea. But I'll tell you what," said Mr. Stylescomfortably. "I think that when you do find him, you'll find he's barmy.Brain all gone to greengage jam, you know. Yes, the sooner you do findhim, Mr. Legatt, the better. For an ex-captain of a steamer he's apretty warm man, you know."

I went on to B Street, wondering why the announcement of my name shouldhave so startled Mr. Styles, and discovered that it produced just thesame effect upon the manager of the bank. He came hurriedly from hisprivate room.

"Mr. Martin Legatt?"

"The same," said I.

He took me into his office, seated me in a chair.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Legatt," he said genially. "Upon my word, Iam very glad to see you."

All this excitement and cordiality was very mysterious to me. Themanager was a fair-haired, youngish man, who could hardly have reachedhis position without ability. Why, then, the hysteria?

"It's very nice of you to welcome me like this," I said. "But I reallyonly came to ask you where I could find Michael Crowther."

The bank manager--as far as I remember, his name was Halfin--Mr. Halfin,stared at me.

"You mean to say that you don't know where he is?" he gaspedincredulously.

"I do not," I answered.

"Well, that's very disappointing," said Mr. Halfin. "For I don't,either. You see, we hold a good deal of money of his on deposit. I thinkhe realised everything, and it had been growing in value for some time."

"But didn't he spend a good deal in England?" I asked.

Mr. Halfin shook his head.

"I think he cut things pretty fine there. Might have done better verylikely if he hadn't."

I got up from my chair.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Halfin," I said.

"But you'll leave me an address, won't you, Mr. Legatt?" he pleadedrather than asked. "I might want it in a hurry, for all I know."

I gave Mr. Halfin my address in London and the address of our office atRangoon. But I do not like mysteries. So when he had neatly blotted hisbook, I asked:

"Will you tell me why you all go up in the air when you hear my name?"

I see no reason why I should be taken for a lunatic more often thanother people, but I do seem to find myself continually suffering fromthat misconception. Mr. Halfin gaped at me, and then reassured himself.

"You are joking, Mr. Legatt. Ha! ha!" and he joined in the joke.

"I'm not joking at all, Mr. Halfin."

"You mean to say that you don't know?"

"I definitely don't know."

Mr. Halfin at last accepted my statement.

"Very well, then," said he. He became precise, formal, a creature oflimitations and prohibitions.

"Yes?" said I, encouragingly.

"I can't tell you, Mr. Legatt. Good morning!"

By the merest chance, just outside the door of the bank, I ran into theCaptain of the Moulmein.

"Here! Stop!" I cried, catching hold of his arm. "Why does everybody gooff the deep end when I ask them about Crowther?"

"Don't you know----" began the Captain, goggle-eyed in a second, likethe rest of them.

"No! No! No!" I exclaimed. "I don't know, and though I'm not off myhead, I shall be unless you answer me."

At last the answer came.

"Crowther's left you all his money in his will. I know, because I wasone of the witnesses, and Styles, the agent, was the other. The bankmanager has got it with, I believe, a letter of instructions to bedelivered to you after Crowther's death."

So that was the secret. I am bound to say that I was a little staggeredmyself.

"When did he make his will?" I asked.

"After that trip up to Bhamo."

"And where is he now?"

The Captain of the Moulmein pushed back his helmet and reflected.

"I did hear that he had been seen at Prome, down towards Rangoon--youknow--the place with the Shwe Tsan-Dau Pagoda, but I haven't run acrosshim for months and months."

And ask questions as I might, I could learn no more of Crowther thanthat. A total eclipse had hidden that shattered man, and I, a littleannoyed that I should be so pestered by troublesome recollections ofhim, followed his example and vanished out of Burma.

I remained for the next eighteen months in England, dividing my timebetween the office in London and a house which I had bought nearWoodbridge, in Suffolk. At the end of that time we were negotiating fora new lease with the Government of Burma, and it was necessary that arepresentative of the Company should go out and come to terms on thespot. I claimed the right to go. Internal questions of administrationdelayed the settlement of my business, and finding that I had a coupleof months with nothing to do, I decided to spend them in the forestcountry which had never ceased to appeal to me. Thus once more I foundmyself with a brace of rifles and a shotgun, heading for the upperreaches of the Irrawaddy. I was twenty-nine years of age, heart-free andfoolishly proud of my freedom. I could and did say to myself, adaptingCrowther's derisive phrase; "I am one of the Untouchables." This was tobe the last holiday of the kind which I should have for many years and Idetermined to make the most of it before settling down to the humdrumlife which apparently awaited me.

I travelled on the old Moulmein. She had a lighter alongside and westopped at many villages; and I noticed that at each stopping-place nowone, now two monks in their yellow robes, came on board with theirsleeping-mats, their beggar bowls and their acolytes, and squatted uponthe lighter's deck. I was astonished at this unusual traffic and theCaptain explained it to me.

"There's to be a great pongyi byan up at Schwegu. An old gaingok diedthere last year, and since he was a very holy abbot, they have kept himin honey--by the way, you don't eat honey whilst you are in Burma, doyou?--until they could collect enough money to give him a propersend-off. They've got it now and there'll be three days' gaming andplay-acting and dancing, and the big fireworks at the end when thebody's burnt."

A new idea occurred to the Captain. He looked at me curiously andsmiled.

"Yes, you travelled with me nearly two years ago, didn't you?"

"As far as Katha."

"Yes, and I met you afterwards in Mandalay."

"Outside the bank."

"That's right, Mr. Legatt, isn't it? Take a walk!"

He led me forward and pointed to a monk on the lighter who sat a littleapart with his boy servant in front of him. His back was towards us andhe was as immobile as a coloured figure in stone. His Talapot fan andhis rosary of Indian shot seeds lay on the edge of his mat at his side.His eyes were fixed upon a great palm-leaf book which he held upon hisknees, but whether he was reading it or lost in contemplation I couldnot tell. Certainly he never turned a page whilst we watched him. In aword he was as orthodox as a monk could be.

"There's a friend of yours," said the Captain.

I had an acquaintanceship, by now, with a good many Buddhist monks upand down the country, but I could not remember any one of them whom Ihad the right to call a friend. I shook my head.

"I'm right, Mr. Legatt," the Captain repeated with a laugh.

I moved to one side so that I might catch a glimpse of my friend's face.It was square and rather fleshless and in a vague way familiar. But evenso I didn't recognise him until I began to ask how did the Captain ofthe Moulmein know that the monk was my friend. I had only oncetravelled on the Moulmein and there had only been one man on board ofher whom its Captain could call my friend. I ran down to the lower deckand crossed on to the lighter. I ran up the companion to its upper deck,and there, wrapped in the yellow robe, reading his great book, satMichael Crowther.

I leaned against the rail by the side of him.

"Good morning, Michael," I said.

"Good morning, Mr. Legatt," he returned, lifting his eyes from his bookand laying a finger on the passage at which his reading broke off. Buthe looked ahead of him and not at me. "I saw you come on boardyesterday."

"You might have given me a sign."

"My name is U Wisaya now," he said, explaining in this simple way thatwith his new world I had nothing whatever to do.

But I was not to be put off so easily. I sat down on the deck by theside of him. I found that I was not so astonished by this new evolutionof his character as I had expected to be. Michael Crowther was naturallyviolent. He swung between the extremes, but never hung between them. Hewould be at one or the other before you could wink. He was all Englandone day, and all Burma the next, and for anything I could be sure about,in a month's time he might have enlisted in the Foreign Legion andalready have deserted from it.

"You may call yourself whatever you like, Michael. Uncle Sunday is avery good name too," I said comfortably. "But you'll excuse me if I talkthe lingo you used to like. I'm from Missouri and you've got to showme."

Crowther, still keeping his finger on the paragraph of his book,explained.

"There was an American a good many years ago. Just a tourist. He cameout sightseeing. The River, Mandalay, the Shwe Dagon and pagodasgenerally--that sort of thing. But he didn't go away. The country tookhim, the sun, the good humour, the pleasant lazy life. He came up theIrrawaddy several times with me on the old Dagonet. He was alwaysgoing back, but he never did. He shot for a season or two and then gaveit up. He travelled out to the Shan States, then up the Chindwin to thejade mines. Just seeing the place--before he went away for good. Butafter the country, the religion took him--see, Mr. Legatt? I knew thathe was in a monastery down at Prome or Pagan; and after you got off atKatha I began to wonder about him--yes, and about me. I had come to theend of things--see?"

So Crowther, on his return to Mandalay, had liquidated his belongingsand set off for Prome and from Prome again to Pagan, that dead city ofpagodas. There his search had ended.

"The American was a full-blown pongyi and learned! I was ashamed afterall my years on the Irrawaddy to realise how little I knew," Crowtherstated. "He talked to me. I was very unhappy. To be nothing at all--noteven a separate conscious soul. That sounded pretty good, and worth athousand existences if so many were needed to fit one. All life wasmisery. All passions dragged you further and further from the GreatPeace. To feel compassion for all living creatures, but to know nocloser ties. He lent me some books. He preached to me the greatAllegory. Do you know it?"

"No," said I.

"You should," and a gleam of humour shone about his mouth. "There's aforest in it. A forest of glades and flickering lights and white, big,heavily-scented flowers, and golden-coloured fruits, and one rock pathout of it, and a Keeper with a whip, Time. He lets no one rest in thoseglades. Lie down and the lash falls. All must run and run nowhere butwhere they ran before. The fruits have thorns which wound and the scentof the flowers cloys and the lights flickering between the trees dazzle,and fatigue comes and there's no end to it but to follow the rock pathand the steady star, as at the last all men must."

I felt a little bewildered and no doubt my face showed it. For he turnedto me with a real smile.

"You're thinking, Mr. Legatt, that you might hear just the same kind ofallegory at a Revivalist meeting in the East End of London, aren't you,now?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"But you're wrong. All men must at the last take the rock path and seethe steady star and escape the lashes of the whip. There's thedifference. It may be after ages in hell, a thousand lives as animal orwoman, but in the end all--do you follow that?--all--all withoutexception will make the great Renunciation and enter into the GreatPeace."

Crowther was speaking with so quiet a simplicity and a sincerity soobvious that I began to wonder whether my easy judgement of him as a manwho must rush from pole to pole and back again was correct.

"But who am I to expound the law?" he continued. "I, a mere upazin andnovice who has not yet mastered the two hundred and twenty-sevenprecepts of the Book of Enfranchisement."

He tapped the big palm-leaf volume upon his knees and at that moment agirl with a silk scarf about her shoulders and her lustrous hair securedwith a jewelled pin passed him on her way to the bows of the ship. Shewas powdered with thanakah, she wore gold tubes in the lobes of herears, she smoked a big green cheroot, and as she passed she gave thatodd little kick of the heel which knocks upon the heart of so manyBurmese gallants. But Michael Crowther did not see it. At the firstglimpse of her up went his palm-leaf fan before his face in the orthodoxway, so that no fleeting desire might disturb his meditations and sethim back a mile or so on his rock path.

"She has gone, Michael," I said, and some imp nipped me till I asked:

"And what of the sapphire, Uncle?"

Michael Crowther's body stiffened, and he remained silent, looking onthe ground six feet ahead of him according to the rules. Oh, thatAmerican monk at Pagan had grounded his neophyte very well! I began tofeel remorseful at awakening old memories, but so far from taking myquestion amiss, he answered gently:

"I am glad that you asked that question, Mr. Legatt. The sapphire andall the other ornaments hang round the spire of a pagoda in themonastery grounds at Pagan, high up, and just under the swellingdiamond-bud at the very top."

I felt ashamed of my question now. It is not, as the world knows,uncommon for the devout to give such votive offerings for the decorationof their temples. But I was still a little under the persuasion that Iwas merely a witness of one of Michael Crowther's more violentagitations; and was not prepared for his consecration of theseornaments.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"There is no need for regret," he continued. "I shall tell you the planin my mind. I live a mendicant with my begging bowl and pledged never tohandle gold and silver for any of my needs, I, U Wisaya. But meanwhilethere is money in the bank at Mandalay standing in the name of MichaelCrowther. There it will stand and grow."

"For what purpose?" I asked.

"In ten years' time when I am admitted into the class of pongyis I shalltake all that money and build at Tagaung a white pagoda decorated withgold----"

"To the glory of Ma Shwe At," I suggested with a smile.

"To the glory of our Lord Buddha," he answered seriously. "And when thatis done I shall ask permission to remove the sapphire and the ornamentsand I shall hang them high on the spire of my pagoda at Tagaung amongstthe little silver bells. I shall rest in its shadow, hearing those bellsring with every breath of wind, until I pass on into another life if Ineeds must."

I understood now why Michael had bequeathed to me his little fortune.The tenor of his letter of instructions was as clear to me as if I hadbroken the seal and read the words. If Michael died before he was afully-fledged monk, I was to build his pagoda for him at Tagaung. Totell the truth I was a little moved by his trust in me. I had notcovered myself with dignity during this conversation, and conscious ofit, I was trying to fix the blame on Michael. But I had not discovered apretext when the Moulmein swept in sight of the island of Schwegu withits golden spires gleaming against a background of dark trees like acity in a fairy tale.

But as we drew near to it, it became gaudy as a fair. On a wide, openspace between the river and the town, booths with sides of matting andthatched roofs and projecting eaves had been built. There would begaming and feasting and a play which would take the three days at thelast to perform. At one side of the space stood a new pagoda ofpasteboard and gilt-paper, on the upper floor of which the abbot and hiscoffin would finally be burnt. Close by the side of this glisteningoutrage was a tiny temple in the same appalling taste which would carrythe coffin on guy ropes up to the place of burning. A little apart stooda painted truck with a great rope of jungle grass at each end, on whichthe coffin in its tiny temple would first be placed for thetug-of-war--the great attraction of the festival. Anybody might join inand on either side, and anybody might leave off at any moment and take arest. It would be very much like the race in Alice in Wonderland. Atone end there would be cries of "We must bury our dead!"; at the other"You shall not take our friend from us!" The tug-of-war might last forthree hours or for the whole three days, with an armistice at eachnightfall. In the end, of course, the burial party would win, and thosewho had the luck or the foresight to be hanging on to the grass rope atthat end of the truck would achieve great merit and shorten the numberof the lives which stood between them and Nirvana. Around this openspace rockets were planted ready to be touched off on the evening of thethird day. They were aimed more or less at the gilt-paper pagoda and oneof them no doubt would start the cremation; though to be sure severalpeople might be killed first. There the whole construction stood in theblazing sun, as complete an affair of gimcrack and gingerbread as aprimitive imagination could devise.

I glanced at Michael as he picked up his rosary and handed his mat tohis acolyte. How in the world could he reconcile this showman's stuffwith the simple faith he had been explaining? I was careful this timenot to ask my question, but Michael answered it without so much as alook at me.

"All religions collect tinsel," he said, "just as all ships collectmolluscs. The ships and the religions are not hurt. They just wantcleaning from time to time."

I put it down to his fasting and his abstinence. But he was becominguncomfortably quick in understanding the unspoken thoughts in acompanion's mind. He walked along the gangway to the shore, his eyesfixed on the ground six feet ahead of him, as indifferent to the crowdwhich thronged the bank as to me. But his indifference affected me notat all. For once more the old spell was upon me. As I climbed back fromthe lighter on to the Moulmein, I was as certain as he was of his newFaith that I had not done with him nor he with me.

Chapter 8
The First Ascent of the Dent du Pagoda

The decision, indeed, was taken out of our hands. It was made for usduring the previous night whilst our steamer had been lying at Katha;and by men whom Uncle Sunday would have pitied and I should havearraigned.

A few days before, whilst Michael was still sitting at the feet of theAmerican monk at Pagan, two men came to the monastery. They had shavenheads and both wore the yellow robe. No one challenged them. Theydeclared themselves to be students and novices, and they were both of anage in the late twenties. They had the right to lodge there, so long asthey observed the Ten Commandments, just as they had the right to departwhensoever they wished; and without question or complaint. They spreadtheir sleeping-mats on the floor of the great hall and, rising with theothers at the time when there was just light enough to see the veins ofthe hands, they lined up behind the abbot before the image of Buddha inthe order of their degree in the brotherhood, and joined in chanting themorning service. They then helped in the household work, filtering thedrinking-water so that no living thing might be destroyed when it wasdrunk, sweeping the floors and watering the plants in the enclosure; allvery dutifully and neatly. They then studied the book of Weenee whichdescribes the Whole Duty of the Monk. This for an hour. Towards eighto'clock they took their begging bowls, and in single file behind theabbot and again in their due order of precedence, they marched round thetown, receiving, with a proper absence of gratitude, the food which thecharitable, acquiring merit, heaped high in their bowls. Their last mealof the day eaten before noon, or, let us say, supposed to be eatenbefore noon, they passed the long afternoons in study and meditation. Ifa head nodded, who should notice it? If eyelids closed, was notabstraction more complete? Were not all thoughts fixed upon the Law andthe Assembly and the attainment of Nirvana? A slow and pensive walk forhealth's sake followed upon the afternoon. And while you contemplatedsuch majestic opacities, would a voice in your ear call you back toearth or even the nudge of an elbow in your ribs? Not a well-fed pongyianyway. Towards evening, meditation lost its hold. From time to time thebow must be unbent or it will snap.

These two new-comers received monastic names. They were called in thesecular tongue Nga Pyu and Nga Than; and they were very, very glad to becalled something else, since the prefix Nga has associations to whichthey were anxious not to draw attention. They were two very bad men butthey became Pyinya and Thoukkya, excellent names for a pair of jugglersin a music hall or for novices in a brotherhood.

Their great moments were after nightfall, when the great doors of theteak stockade were closed and perhaps the abbot or the American monk,Nageinda, or one of the elders, would discourse. Pyinya and Thoukkyawere second to none in their attention. And when the evensong wasintoned at nine before the image of the Buddha, they were second to nonein the humility of their voices. They would ask, thereafter, devoutquestions about the new white pagoda in the compound, which reared itstwo hundred glistening feet of spire to the golden, umbrella-shaped Hti.

"A great lady gave it? Surely in her next life she will have deserved tobe a man?" one of them would ask.

"Or perhaps she will enter at once into Peace?" asked the other.

"Who shall say?" would be the answer. "The noble lady has acquired greatmerit."

"Is it true that a great diamond is set in the Hti?" Pyinya enquiredwith awe.

"Gifts have the same value if they are equally proportioned to the meansof the giver," U Nageinda answered. "Thus, the sapphire and the silverornaments of our brother U Wisaya confer no less merit upon him than thegreat diamond upon the lady."

"And those too are on the Hti?" asked Thoukkya with a glance ofadmiration towards Michael, reading his book in a corner.

"They encircle the spire like a bracelet just below the Hti," said UNageinda proudly. He was still unregenerate enough to dislike anydepreciation of his own particular convent.

Pyinya and Thoukkya wandered out on to the wide platform and, sitting onthe steps, gazed upwards to the top of the soaring spire. There wasstill a scaffolding about it, for the great lady was decorating it witha string of electric light bulbs, which on dark nights, to people on theriver far below, would glow amongst the stars.

But the nights were not dark now. The moon lit up the enclosure, the twopagoda slaves who watched the night through whilst the scaffoldingstood, and the palm trees, till all was as light as day.

"To-morrow the scaffolding will be down," said Pyinya in a whisper, lesthe should disturb the serenity of the night.

"And the pagoda servants in their huts on the river-bank," repliedThoukkya.

"We shall see the pagoda in its beauty," said Pyinya joyfully.

"For a week, Brother," Thoukkya warned him with a regretful shake of thehead. "Only for a week. Then there will be no moon."

Pyinya sighed, and then, like a man who has a happy thought, he smiled.

"But even if there is no moon, there will be the chain of electriclights from the top of the pagoda to the ground. It will be a comfort tous all to see it still."

Thoukkya was very sorry to dash the pious hopes of his fellow novice.But it was better that he should know the truth. Thoukkya had madediscreet enquiries. Economy had been considered.

"The lights will not burn after nine," he said.

The two men gazed upwards to the Hti two hundred feet above the ground.

"The bulbs are hung upon a strong wire rope," said Thoukkya.

"A doubled rope," Pyinya added; "so that when one of the lamps fails itcan be lowered and replaced."

"Yes," Thoukkya agreed. "It is all very beautiful."

And both men, in spite of their concentrated meditations, had been veryobservant.

"It is a pity that we cannot see from so far below the great lady'sdiamond sparkling in the moonlight and thus understand the better thegreatness of her merit," said Thoukkya after a pause.

"Yes, it is a pity," Pyinya agreed. "But at all events we know that itis there. Instead of regretting, shall we not hope that the workmen toohave achieved merit by setting it irremovably in the Hti?"

Thoukkya bowed his head.

"Yes, we must hope for that. But we know that workmen scamp even themost meritorious work."

"Alas and alas!" said Pyinya. "But we shall learn the truth of all thiswhen the moon has hidden her face."

Thoukkya looked upwards to the soaring spire and thought how strange theworld must look, if you were perched upon the top of it.

"I am dizzy," he said. "I think that I am going to be sick."

"These long meditations," said Pyinya sympathetically.

It was nine o'clock now and behind them the lights were beingextinguished in the hall. The two men rose and went within and unrolledtheir mats; and but for the blaze of moonlight at the open doorway themonastery was given over to darkness and to sleep.

But in a week there was no moon and only a star or two entangled in thebranches of a tree showed to any wakeful monk that there was an opendoorway at all. But the monks, with the exception of two, were notwakeful. These two, certainly, made up for the rest, for they were verybusy indeed. Very quietly--one might have thought that they had beentrained in stealthiness--Pyinya and Thoukkya would slip on hands andknees through the doorway and meet in a corner of the enclosure behind agreat banyan-tree. There a long bamboo pole, detached, surely by pioushands for a pious purpose, from the scaffolding before it was removedfrom the enclosure, lay hidden under leaves. It was twenty-five feetlong, and for a couple of hours on two consecutive nights these devoutnovices worked upon it, splicing to one end a strong iron hook andstrengthening the pole and making it easier to handle by coiling ittightly about with cord at intervals of three feet.

"It will be for to-morrow," said Pyinya in a whisper; and the two menput their heads together for a little while.

"Muhammed Ghalli, the Indian, will meet us in the morning. It will allbe easy," Thoukkya said in conclusion, and they crept back like shadowsto their mats in the great hall.

The next night was as dark as any marauder could have wished for. At twoo'clock in the morning Pyinya and Thoukkya carried their pole to thefoot of the pagoda. Seven small ledges, representing the sacred sevenroofs of the great monasteries, broke the line of the cone at intervalsof twenty-five feet, and from the topmost of them the final spire ofgilded iron sprang with an ever-diminishing girth for fifteen feet andat that height expanded to its umbrella top. Pyinya dropped his robe andhis waist-cloth on the ground. He rested the claw of his pole upon thelowest ledge near to the wire rope on which the lamps were hung. He wasas lithe and silent as a lizard. With one hand holding the wire rope andthe other grasping the bamboo, he crawled up, his toes clinging to thestone of the pagoda. On the first of the seven ledges he rested andbreathed, his face and his body flat against the cone. So far theexpedition had made no great demands upon him. A few minutes later asound of breathing beneath his feet, a quiver of the wire rope at hisside, and a rattle of an electric globe against the stone, and Thoukkyastood beside him.

It needed the strength of both to draw up the pole, steady the butt ofit upon the ledge on which they stood and catch the hook on to the ledgeabove them. Then they mounted to the next stage.

The great cone tapered as they climbed. Both men blessed the darknesswhich hid from their eyes the height to which they had reached. They hademptiness now on each side of them as well as behind them. Their breathcame in labouring spasms which threatened to burst heart and lungs;their bodies ran with their sweat. Upon each one of them in turn camethe almost irresistible impulse to let go, plunge down to earth with ashriek of fear, and so finish, meat, not man. Had there been one, so hewould have died. But every now and then, a whisper or a touch kept themastoundedly aware that they were still alive, clinging like lizards tothe spire. And above all their natural fears, there was this: At thevery apex might there not be waiting a guardian spirit, the Nat of thepagoda, who would smite them with a colic, cramping their stomachs in anagony which no strength could resist?

They stood on the last tiny ledge, clinging to the final spear of gildediron which rose fifteen feet to the gold mushroom at the top. And asThoukkya whispered in a sobbing voice: "I am finished. I dare not," theyheard in a faint stir of wind the little gold bells tinkling above them,so near now, so near! To Pyinya they were a call, an encouragement. Theytinkled so prettily! If there was a Nat up there, he was on their side.Very likely there was one. Very likely the great lady had offended it.Nats were very easy to offend and never forgot to let you have a nastyupper-cut in return.

"I'll go, Nga Than," he said. "Cling tight! A few minutes and we can buyRangoon."

The iron lance shook as he swarmed up it with knees and feet and hands.Every inch of his body seemed to cling close to it and support him. Hemounted by the friction of muscle and flesh rather than by foothold andhandhold. Thoukkya, gasping, and clinging with bruised hands on the tinyshelf below, suddenly heard above him a jangle of bells, as though theytossed in a storm. So loud they seemed to him that he glanced down interror, expecting to see a lamp glimmer far beneath him in the compound,to hear a cry tear the still night. But no light shone, no cry washeard. There was nothing but the black emptiness below him and abouthim. His stomach was turned upside-down within him. Once let him feelsolid earth beneath the soles of his feet and see it stretching out allround him--which he would never, never do--he would not even climb thesmallest of garden trees for a diamond as big as an abbot's paunch.Thoukkya sobbed. He waited for a thousand years and then a scufflingnoise sounded just above his head. He looked up; against the dark sky adark bulk was just visible. Pyinya slid down beside him.

Thoukkya asked no questions. For around his companion's arm ornamentsglistened. For a little while Pyinya leaned against the iron spearbreathing and catching his breath like a man who has run a race andreached the end of his strength. Then he said:

"Let us go down, very carefully. For I am very tired." But Thoukkya wasmore tired by fear than Pyinya by exertion.

The descent, however, was easy compared with the climb. The coils ofcord about the pole gave grips for hands and feet. So long as neitherleaned back and dragged the hook from the ledge there was no danger forthese men. But between the fourth and the third ledge a small mischanceoccurred. Pyinya knocked with his elbow one of the glass bulbs on thewire rope. It clashed too hard against the stone of the pagoda andtinkled down to the ground in fragments. Both men stopped where theywere, their hearts in their mouths, one on the ledge flattened againstthe pagoda, the other clinging like a monkey. As each thin sliver ofcurved glass leaped against the spire and was shattered again, it seemedto them that cymbals clashed and loud enough to wake the dead.

"Be quick!" Thoukkya whispered from the ledge, his teeth chattering, hisbelly turned to water. "Oh, be quick, Nga Pyu!" And indeed on such anight sound travelled like voices over water.

"It is well," answered Nga Pyu. "It will not be noticed until the lightsare turned on to-morrow night, and by then we shall be very far away."

They were at the base of the pagoda on the ground. Thoukkya felt thesoil with his toes. It was incredible. He stretched out a foot gingerly.Surely it would touch nothing. It touched soil. He was like a man whocomes down to the lowest tread of a flight of stairs in the dark. Thefloor jars him.

At the base of the pagoda they put on again their waist-cloths and theirrobes. Silently they carried the bamboo pole back to its hiding-place.They waited in the darkness of the compound until the violence of theirbreathing ceased. Then they wriggled through the monastery doorway totheir corner of the hall and in a few moments were asleep.

When the keeper of the monastery at daybreak beat upon his wooden gongand roused the monks, the two devout novices performed the sacredoffices with the others. Only when all had scattered upon theirhousehold duties did they move quietly to the open gate of the stockade.They passed out, and with their eyes dutifully fixed upon the ground sixfeet ahead of them, but their ears most unmeditatively alert, they paceddown a narrow lane to the river's edge. On the bank one man squatted, alarge bundle by his side. The two novices paid no heed to him. Theydropped their robes upon the ground close to him and bathed in theriver. As yet no one else was abroad. The hovels of the pagoda slaveswere still shuttered and a mist hung upon the water. There were justthose three, the two novices bathing and the third man who spread outhis bundle. In the bundle were two skirts of pink cotton, two whitejackets. He wrapped in his bundle in their place the yellow robes, laidupon them a heavy stone and tied up all securely. He stood on the brinkof the stream and looked this way and that. Then he flung the bundle in.The men of the pagoda mounted the slope. Nga Pyu and Nga Than warmlygreeted their old fellow-convict, Muhammed Ghalli, the Indian, anddressed themselves in the usual cheap garments of the poor.

When Uncle Sunday returned from the burial of the Abbot of Schwegu hesaw from the steamer's deck, with a throb of alarm, that the scaffoldingwas once more erected about the pagoda. He hurried to the monastery in agrowing agitation. His American friend, U Nageinda, was waiting for himand drew him aside.

"They were released convicts, of course," he said. "None but monks andconvicts have shaven heads. It is a common practice for convicts ontheir release to take the yellow robe. Then, after a few days, they cango back to the world saying they had no vocation for the priesthood, andno one can point the finger at them. They are novices who have foundthemselves unequal to the monastic life."

"They stole, then?"

U Nageinda looked upwards to the spire.

"They were men of great strength and daring. The great diamond theycould not reach. It is inset on the very summit above the overhang ofthe Hti. But your offering was suspended like a girdle below."

"And that they have?" said Crowther.

"Yes."

He sat on the ground, his hands clasped together and the fingersworking, his eyes moody and his face like a mask.

"Nga Pyu... Nga Than..." he said very softly, and again:"Nga Than... Nga Pyu...."

U Nageinda shook his head. He seemed to hear a note in that softrepetition of the names which was anything but monastic. He said gently:

"Let us remember that for so great a crime against our Lord Buddha andthe Law, those two poor creatures may live for a thousand years in eachof the eight Hells."

Apparently the words brought no consolation to Michael Crowther. He satby himself and brooded for the greater part of that day, and just beforenightfall he got to his feet. U Nageinda observed the movement and wasin two minds whether he should himself stir a finger or no. Each manmust follow the steady star along the rock path of his own volition. Toproffer advice was not within the four corners of his creed. Moreover,it could amount to nothing more than a plea that his pupil should notsully this newly-found soul of his by any passion, whether it be torecover a stolen thing or to avenge the theft. But his glance, loweredthough it was, warned that such advice would be unprofitable. Therestood Uncle Sunday hardening before his eyes into Michael Crowther, hishead lifting, his shoulders squaring. But U Nageinda could help a littleout of his long experience--if he would. He saw Michael take a step andhe did. With a most unpriestly hurry he bustled to Michael's side.

"Our monks travel far," he said, "and they hear much, and they carrytheir tidings to other monasteries. Wherever you go you will find eyesand ears and tongues which will aid you. Use them so that you may comeback to us the sooner."

Michael turned to the old American with a smile.

"I thank you," he said; and he strode through the gateway of thestockade and was gone.

Chapter 9
On Adam's Peak

I have described the rape of the sapphire in its order of time,although I only heard of it later, and of the perils and terrors whichbeset the robbers later still. But its proper place in the story is, Ithink, where I have put it. For in that way only a few circumstances inwhich at the time I saw no danger can carry their true meaning. In asentence, I believed Ma Shwe At's anklets and Ma Sein's filigreebracelet and the sapphire still to be decorating the empty air twohundred feet above the earth; and my business finished, I returned toRangoon on the date arranged under that belief.

I had left myself a clear month to do with as I chose. I could shudderover the un après at Monte Carlo, or simply luxuriate in Paris. I didneither of these things. It was clear to me that many years must passbefore I could again find myself eastward of the Gulf of Aden, and Idetermined to realise a dream which on every voyage had beset me, whilstI still had the strength and zest for such adventures. I sailed forCeylon. I spent a couple of days at the Galle Face outside Colombo, mademy arrangements, hired a car and rode inland to Hatton in Dickoya, thelittle capital of the tea district. There a great wonder awaited me. Ibooked my room at the hotel and had hardly moved a couple of yards fromthe door when a clear, rather high voice suddenly called out on a noteof welcome and surprise:

"Darling!"

I knew the voice. A snake couldn't have turned quicker than I didtowards it. There, on the opposite side of the road, her arms stretchedwide apart, stood Imogen Cloud, her face one adorable smile. AllImogen's friends were darlings, and I, alas! no more so than any other.

"Imogen!"

I ran across to her, took her hands and laughed. "This is the world'sbirthday. Let me look at you!"--and I held her away from me.

Imogen Cloud was always amusing to look at. In London, some queer littletip-tilted hat or another trickery of the fashion tickled onepleasantly. Here it was something else. The sun was low and Imogen woreno hat. The glossy ripple of her golden, shingled head and the vermilionof her lips were deliciously at odds with her small sun-browned face.

"Martin!" she cried. "What are you doing here?"

"What you are, I hope," I answered. "I am going up Adam's Peakto-morrow."

It was indeed that mountain, seen so often from the deck of a steamerafar and apart in the light of an evening sky, which had brought me toCeylon. I had read all the descriptions of it upon which I could lay myhands. I was well grounded in its romantic and immemorial associations.It had become important to me. But I had never dreamed how real thatimportance was to become, or what unforgettable associations of my own Iwas now to add to those which history recorded in the books.

"Lovely!" said Imogen. "So are we."

She slipped her arm through mine and took possession of me. How manyfriends of hers--again, alas!--had I seen swell with pride at theflattery of this annexation! Also, she danced up and down a little aslightly as the eight-year-old Miss Diamond in the sandy square ofTagaung.

"Yes," she said. "I am here with Pamela Brayburn. We ran away from thefogs together." Pamela Brayburn was a girl of Imogen's age, twenty-twoor thereabouts. They were both among the livelier spirits of the day:Imogen, the daughter of a West Country squire who had put his money intoships in the great age of shipping and had retired in time to keep it,and Pamela Brayburn, her cousin and the child of a famous judge.

"We shall start at midnight," said Imogen.

"And go to bed at nine," I added.

"Carefully putting on our bed-socks first," said she.

We were standing in the road outside the door of the hotel. I have avague recollection now that I did see someone, a native of the islandperhaps, a man of the East, anyway, slip by us from the direction of theservants' quarters. I was hardly aware of him, or indeed of anyoneexcept Imogen. But the next moment my attention was attracted, as anysmall familiar thing happening in an unfamiliar place will attract itwhether it's my attention or another's. I heard some words spoken behindme, and I spun round on my heel. The words meant nothing at all to me.They were as commonplace as words could be.

"Muhammed is already at Ratnapura."

That was all. Ratnapura had a sound of Ceylon even to one who haddisembarked at Colombo only three days before. But I had never seen theplace, and the name of Muhammed, of course, east of Cape Spartel was asone grain of sand in a Sahara. But the words were spoken in Talaing, thelanguage of the old kingdom of Pegu, still the vernacular of a quarterof a million people in Lower Burma. We were after all four days'steaming from Rangoon. It seemed odd that I should hear this tongueimmediately in this upland town of Dickoya. I only saw the backs of twomen, however. They were moving away, but one of them was reading atelegram--a telegram, no doubt, from one Muhammed who had arrived atRatnapura.

"Do you know those men?" Imogen asked curiously.

"No. But they are from Burma."

Then an explanation of their presence occurred to me.

"The guide-books tell us that Hatton is the headquarters of the teadistrict. There are likely to be a good many coolies of all races herefrom the plantations."

"I don't think they are coolies," said Imogen. "They are more probablypilgrims for the Peak."

"Why?" I asked, only interested because Imogen was too.

"I rather think that I saw them in Kandy," said she.

There is a mark on the flat summit of the mountain which vaguelyresembles the imprint of a giant's foot. Who first discovered it, no oneknows. But the Buddhists claim it for a footstep of Gautama, the Hindushold that Siva passed that way, the Mohammedans say quite simply thatAdam made it. Thus eight hundred million Eastern men venerate Adam'sPeak for one of three reasons and send their annual contingents to watchthe dawn break upon that high shrine. It was very likely that the twoBurmans were bound upon the same journey as ourselves.

"Of course, that's it!" I agreed. "Why were you curious about them?"

"I was thinking that we shall want a man or two, shan't we?" Imogenreplied. "I'm told that before morning it is very cold up on the top.One or two to carry wraps. If they're from Burma you might prefer tohave them. They would make their pilgrimage and earn a little money atthe same time."

"That's true."

It would be an advantage to have them. For I could talk their languageand I could not do that in the case of a Cingalese. I turned about againto call to the men. But they had disappeared into some alley. We waitedfor a few moments on the chance that they might reappear and then walkedon again.

"It can't be helped, my dear," I said. "After all, if we take a guidefrom the hotel, he'll know the way and be reliable besides."

But I did not finish the word "besides." I broke off with a cry.

"Imogen!"

"Yes."

She stopped and faced me, puzzled, as indeed she well might be. For Ihave no doubt that my face spoke my consternation as loudly as my voice.

"Martin! What's the matter?"

Imogen was wearing a coat and skirt of a thin tussore silk with a whitesilk shirt open at the neck so that her slender throat rose free. Roundit was fastened a light platinum chain, and dangling as a pendant to thechain was a large square sapphire, a quite flawless stone of a deep andlovely blue. I had not noticed it until this moment. I don't think,indeed, that it could have been noticeable. It must have lain againstImogen's breast underneath her shirt, and some movement must have nowrevealed it. But there it hung, darkly gleaming, with just that spark offire in its depths which had burned in the stone that Crowther hadrolled on to the table-cloth of the Dagonet from Ma Shwe At's pinksilk bag. Of course, it was not the same stone. I told myself that overand over again. It could not be. That one hung far out of reach on thespire of a pagoda a couple of thousand miles away. And Crowther sat atthe foot of it reading in his big Book of Enfranchisement. But thissapphire about Imogen's throat was its very twin, even to the fire-sparklike some tiny lantern shining sharply in the deep of Indian seas. Itwas its twin--yes--discovered, very likely, in the same native claim onthe road to Mogok--but not the same. I would not have it so--no, not forthe world.

"Where did you get that sapphire?... Please!" I asked, a littlebreathlessly.

"Darling!" she answered. Some trifle of concern caused by my agitationclouded her face for a moment. Her fingers closed upon the stone. Eventhough I knew it to be merely the sister stone, I hated to see Imogentouch and hold and claim it. "Darling, I bought it."

"Where?"

"At Kandy."

"When?"

"A week ago."

"You are sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. You don't think sapphires like this are lying aboutin heaps. I saw it in a jeweller's shop under the hotel, and since therewas no generous young man within range of my flashing eyes, I gavemyself a present."

I drew a breath of relief. It was not so long ago since I had partedfrom Michael at Schwegu; and Michael within that time had assuredly notrecanted. Besides, Crowther's stone was unset. I remembered thatclearly. It was still unset when Crowther had discovered it stillwrapped in its strip of napkin at the bottom of his trunk after hisreturn from Farm Street. Imogen's sapphire, on the other hand, was setsimply and beautifully in a perfectly plain, thin, square frame ofplatinum. No, they couldn't be the same stone. I was catching at everypossible argument, you see, which would dissociate the sapphire whichCrowther had stolen from Ma Shwe At from that which now gleamed againstImogen's breast.

"I am very glad," I stammered. "I mean that I should have adored to havegiven it to you--if you would have taken it. But I'm glad that it wasbought at Kandy.... Oh, you must think me a perfect idiot."

I was furious with myself. The sight of that duplicate stone--on noaccount would I allow that it could be anything but a duplicate--hangingfrom Imogen's neck had given me a sharper shock than I was ready tomeet. Crowther and his sapphire had been growing to be elements rathertoo disturbing to suit me. I didn't want to meet them at every corner ofthe road. I was all for an equable level life if I could get it--orrather if I could keep it. Storms of the soul, whirlpools of passionwhich sucked the heart down in dizzy spirals and then flung it up and upinto thin air--anyone might have my share of these raptures who wantedit. I did not want to be disturbed by Crowther and his sapphire. Thejewel had brought nothing but unhappiness to little Mrs. Golden Needleand Miss Diamond, to Crowther himself, and it had seemed in a queer,sinister way to be trying to entangle me. As though some malignantspirit lived in its blue loveliness--that spark of fire, for instance,shooting out always its tiny ray. I had been getting obsessed by it inBurma. It was setting a spell upon me; and all the way to Ceylon I hadbeen growing more and more conscious of relief, like a man throwing offa malady. Fear--yes, I will be frank--fear had begun to fall away fromme as we dropped down the river from Rangoon; and each new day upon thesea was another door to freedom. Miles away Crowther and his sapphire,and more miles with every hour. And now, suddenly, here in Ceylon, wasthe very image of that stone, resting lovely and menacing against thebreast of the last person in the world whom I wished unhappiness tothreaten. Oh, yes, I was troubled, and no doubt my face showed it. Itwas as if the original sapphire spoke:

"You don't get away from me like that! See where I am? Here's a friendof yours going to do some work for me now."

Not if I could help it!

But it was Imogen who spoke and not the sapphire. She used those verywords. She glanced at me. No doubt I had spoken rather strenuously. Shetucked her arm again through mine and gave it a little squeeze.

"You can't get away from me like that. I shall want to hear about thissapphire," she said.

"When we are back in England."

Imogen shook her head decidedly.

"Before that!"

"I am going to refuse," said I.

"Martin, darling"--she was apparently arguing with an unreasonablechild--"you can't keep jewel-stories to yourself when there's a youngwoman at your elbow."

I knew that it would be difficult when the young woman was Imogen Cloud.Did I say that she was lovely? She had a broad, low forehead, eyes of agolden brown which grew bigger and bigger the longer you looked at them,with long eyelashes which had an upward curl at the end of them and wereset there to entangle hearts. Her eyes were set wide apart, with adelicately-chiselled nose between them. She had a short upper lip, rowsof white teeth and a little firm chin. She was slender and supple andjust the right height; tall enough not to look small, and small enoughnot to over-tower you; and her ankles and wrists were sculpture at itsbest. But a description of her features is no more than a catalogue. Itis perhaps more illuminating to say that young men went down before herlike so many ninepins; that the middle-aged at the sight of her thoughtof the fine things which they had done and wished that she could know ofthem; and that the aged, in the same position, thanked their stars thatmodern hygiene had turned senility into a legend of the past. The truthis there was a grace of soul in her which matched the grace of herlimbs. Though she had a quick eye for a foible and a sense of humourwhich made play of it, she was kind. Those who talked with herunderstood very soon that she considered them. But I make no furtherexcuses for the deplorable exhibition which I made later on thatevening. We dined together, Imogen, Pamela Brayburn and myself. Imogendid not harry me until dinner was finished and we were smoking over ourcoffee.

"Now," she said.

"No," said I.

"What?" asked Pamela Brayburn.

"Nothing," said I.

Imogen turned to Pamela.

"Martin's all up in the air about this sapphire I bought at Kandy," shesaid. "He has got a story about it and wants to keep it to himself."

"I haven't got a story about it," I declared in desperation. "I have gota story about a quite different sapphire."

My declaration did not help me at all. For Imogen rejoined:

"Then we'll hear the story about the different sapphire."

"Not now," I answered. "It's a very long story--very, very long andtedious. Some afternoon when we're half-way across the Indian Ocean I'lltell it you."

"I don't think that we can all go home on the same ship unless we'retold this jewel-story to-night," said Pamela Brayburn. She was abrown-haired girl of Imogen's age and no doubt attractive. At the momentI resented her.

"Very well, we'll go on different ships," I returned.

Pamela looked at me. I might have been a nonesuch. She smiled at Imogen.

"I think Martin's stupid," she said sweetly.

What can you do with people like that? Argument was out of the question.There was a big clock upon the wall and I pointed to it.

"It's nine o'clock," I said. "The difference between enjoyment andfatigue to-morrow means two and a half hours in bed now with yourclothes off."

Pamela looked at me broodingly, and turned with a nod to Imogen.

"He's a sexual maniac, I suppose."

"I'm nothing of the sort," I cried hotly, and stopped. I was not goingto be betrayed into behaving still more like an idiot than I had beendoing for Pamela Brayburn's amusement.

"But, Martin, darling," Imogen asked, "how can you expect us to go tobed and sleep with that untold story upon our minds?"

"You must put it out of your heads altogether," I explained with perhapsan accent of the instructor. For I saw Imogen's cheeks dimple suddenly."And the best way is five minutes' general conversation and then tobed."

"Yes," said Pamela.

"Yes," said Imogen.

And they both waited, with their eyes round and serious upon my face,for me to begin. They were baiting me--these two girls. If they had beentigers in the jungle they wouldn't have dared to do it. But I couldn'tsay that. It would have sounded boastful and it wouldn't have beengeneral conversation. I had to think of something which would set theball rolling and so I made as lamentable a remark as any man gravelledfor lack of a subject could have let slip. I said:

"Is not the peacock a beautiful bird?"

The reaction of my companions was immediate. Imogen clapped herhandkerchief to her mouth and rolled and shook in her chair. Pamelaopenly screamed her delight so that everyone in the room looked at us.It was the end of my resistance. I began to think that I was after allmaking too much of a coincidence. I had no wish to infect the girls withmy forebodings. So out the whole story came, the history of the sapphireand Ma Shwe At and Ma Sein at Tagaung and the evolution of Michael D.into Uncle Sunday.

"I think that I should like to meet your Uncle Sunday," Imogen said in avery quiet voice when I had finished.

"I hope that you won't," I exclaimed fervently.

Imogen's eyes rested for a moment upon my face.

"But you think I will," she replied quietly.

"No! I don't!" I cried.

But did I? Was the violence of my denial due to an unacknowledged fearthat she would at some destined time meet Michael Crowther and be sweptup into a web of peril and misfortune, at the heart of which the deepblue of a sapphire softly gleamed? I cannot tell. All I know is that Ifelt a chill creep along my spine and I shuddered. Somebody was walkingover my grave. "Let us go," I said, and I got up.

We met again in the dining-room at a quarter to twelve, drank somecoffee, and started as the clock struck midnight. We took a guide fromthe hotel to show the way and carry the wraps, and we drove in my hiredcar the first fourteen miles to Laxapana. There we left the car andwalking up a glen with a river rushing down it like a Highland valley,we mounted by the rock steps and jungle paths towards Oosamalle at thefoot of the final peak. It was a clear and moonless night with the skyone soft blaze of stars; and above us and below us in the zigzag pathswere little bands of pilgrims, their lanterns flashing in and outamongst the trees, their voices chanting as they went.

"I have never known anything so lovely," said Imogen.

She and Pamela Brayburn had given their warm cloaks to the guide. Theywere both dressed in shirts open at the throat, shorts, stockingsgartered below the knees, and stout shoes. They had the look of a coupleof schoolboys. Our guide carried the lantern just ahead of us, Imogenbehind him and I at the tail. Here and there the steps cut in the solidrock were steep and disappeared into caverns; here and there werechains. The mountain-side was alive with lights and vocal with hymns.The hymns floated down to us airy and delicate as though they were sungby the spirits of the Peak, and rose up from the valley reverberatinglike the music of water. We left the trees beneath us. The Peak toweredstraight above us now, a huge blunt mass of rock, hiding from us halfthe starlit sky. We traversed a ledge with a chain for a hand-rail; ascramble up over broken rocks; at the end a rough ladder clamped to acliff face, and we stepped over a low brick wall on to the flat summitof the mountain.

I never saw anything stranger or more memorable than the top of Adam'sPeak. To men with their blood thinned by the tropics, the air at thatheight was cold as an Arctic night; and on the flat, square surface, ofa hundred and fifty feet, great bonfires flung their sparks and flamesinto the darkness. They blazed at the corners, in front of the woodencanopy which sheltered the sacred footprint, and here and there in nosort of order upon the platform. Above, the stars bright as diamondscrowded the skies; around us stretched the empty black of the night; andthis little square, eight thousand feet above the sea, was oneflickering crimson glare in which shifted and crossed and halted, asthough engaged in some fantastic dance, a throng of coolies in rags,Mussulmen in snow-white robes, Buddhist monks in yellow gowns and threeEuropeans--ourselves. For there were no other Europeans but ourselvesupon the Peak that night.

The two girls hurried towards one of these fires, Pamela taking hercloak from the guide as she hurried. The men about the fire made way forthem. I held Imogen's thick sable coat for her and as she thrust an arminto a sleeve, the red light played not only upon her face but upon ablue jewel gleaming darkly against her throat. I buttoned the coat closeabout her neck.

"Better keep warm," I said.

"And hide the sapphire," she added with a slow smile.

"Yes, I meant that too," I said, and I turned to Pamela Brayburn. Shewas already muffled to the ears.

"We shan't have long to wait," I said, and I suddenly felt Imogen's handcling to my arm. I blamed myself for a fool. In my haste to hide thejewel at her throat I had really alarmed her, and no doubt to a girlfresh from the guarded ways of England, the throng of strange, darkpeople upon that lonely summit might well have been alarming.

"It's all right," I said.

This bonfire was towards the eastern corner of the platform and therethe crowd was thickest. I drew Imogen and her cousin away. Along thesouthern parapet there were empty spaces, and we walked across to one ofthem. From this parapet the mountain dropped in a precipice; to our lefta spur projected and that spur was gemmed with the lights of movinglanterns and articulate with hymns.

"You are not giddy?" I asked of the two girls. Pamela stood a foot ortwo behind, Imogen was at my side, her knees touching the low parapet.

"No," she said.

But where we stood, we looked down a sheer wall. Our guide was with us.He stood beside us, so that we were all four looking down themountain-side.

"That is the more difficult path," he said. "Those who come that wayacquire a greater merit."

"Where do they come from?" I asked idly.

"From Ratnapura!" he answered, stretching out his arm. "It lies far awayin the jungle."

Ratnapura? I had heard the name, and as I was remembering where I hadheard it, a great wave of crimson colour swept across the mountain-topand someone stumbled against Imogen. Stumbled so roughly that she waslifted off her feet. Fortunately, too, she uttered a cry, and as shepitched forward I flung my right arm across the front of her waist andheld her. I set her again upon her feet. The man who had stumbled was onhis knees on the ground behind us. But before I could lay a hand on him,he had mumbled some words and slipped away into the darkness. But I hadcaught the words. They asked for pardon; they talked of an accident. Butthey were spoken in the Burmese tongue.

I should not have followed the man if I could. I should have stayed withImogen and her cousin in any case. But I could not have caught him evenif I had pursued him. For at that moment a great clamour rang out fromend to end of the rock and there was a rush towards the eastern corner.A faint and tender light was welling out of the east. A moment or twomore and the sky was broken. Broad bars of cloud edged with gold stoodout against a glowing crimson radiance. Prison bars above the mountainsof Kandy. The whole effect was violent and lurid. Not a soul upon thePeak but turned his face towards them and so stood immobile and silentwhilst the sun rose and the daylight came.

I looked at the rock surface on which we stood. There was not a fissurenor a ridge which could make a man stumble. Then I turned again andleaned over the southern wall. I heard Imogen shiver behind me, and Ifelt the clutch of her hand. But there was no one near to us now.

"There's no danger," I said.

And there was none. But the cliff plunged sheer for hundreds of feet toa sloping eave which overhung the ground below. Had Imogen fallen fromthat parapet she must have been dashed to pieces in the fall!

Behind me she gasped and uttered a cry. I had been holding her away sothat she should not see. Even if she had now seen, I turned about andstood between her and the wall so that she should see no more. But shewas not looking down the precipice. She was looking straight outwards tothe west and her eyes were filled with wonder instead of fear.

I, too, gasped when I saw what Imogen saw--the miracle of the shadow. Itwas flung out across the white morning mists in the shape of a perfectcone. It was gigantic and lay across the world, its apex touching thedistant clouds. It was transparent, for the mists thinned awayunderneath and green jungle and brown rock and the sparkle of the seaswam into view. There it rested whilst the sun rose behind ourshoulders, a pyramid of gauze so exactly edged and pointed that it mighthave been carved out of stone. Then at a certain moment it began not somuch to fade as to foreshorten. It came back on us as we watched it fromthe wall; and quicker with each second which passed. It was as thoughthe Peak drew it in and consumed it impatiently. In the end it rushedlike a shutter which a spring releases and was gone. Below us stretchedrock and shining forest, and far away the sparkle of the sea.

Imogen caught Pamela with one hand and me with the other.

"I am glad I saw that," she cried. "The shadow! Everyone has talked ofit. But I couldn't imagine it was anything so wonderful!"

"Nor I," said Pamela.

The shadow had been lifted too from Imogen. The bonfires had died downand though the air was sharp the sunlight lit up the platform from endto end. The pilgrims, their pilgrimage over, were crowded about theladder. We moved to the chain which guarded the sacred footprint, in thevery centre of the flat summit.

"Well, I'll say this for his nibs"--thus Pamela irreverently referred toGautama or Siva or Adam--"he didn't pinch his feet."

Since the foot was five feet long and thirty inches broad, we could allagree with her.

"And I'll say this for myself," Pamela added. "If the whole of himmatched his feet, he still couldn't want his breakfast more than I do!My mother gave me two pieces of advice when I left home. 'DarlingPamela,' she said, 'first, never go without your breakfast, for if youdo your gastric juices will eat you like alligators; and secondly, ifyou find yourself with four kings in a little poker game on board aliner, throw your hand in for the dealer has four aces.'"

"I should like to meet your mother," I said.

Pamela shook her head.

"You would not. For if mother heard that you had taken two weak, lonelygirls up to the top of a mountain without so much as a sandwich in anewspaper, she'd drive you screaming from the house."

I nodded my head two or three times.

"You'll eat those harsh words before the morning's out."

"They'll be something to eat, anyway," said Pamela.

We laughed. Imogen seemed quite to have forgotten her moment of danger.Pamela Brayburn, it seemed to me, was forcing her humour in order toobliterate that moment and, judging from the steadiness of Imogen'sface, was successful.

"Shall we go?" she asked.

The enclosure was emptying fast, and we could hear, already far down thehill-side, the cries of the pilgrims returning to the valleys.

"In a second," I answered. In spite of Pamela's appetite we might aswell be the last to go. But Pamela raised no objection. We were all, Ithink, determined that no other accident should imperil Imogen, and alittle alarmed, too, by a sort of composite recollection of all thelegends which attribute curses to jewels. However, dawdle as we might,we were still not the last to leave. The guide climbed down the ladderfirst, Imogen followed him, next came Pamela, and I last, taking verygood care that no one should pass me. In the same order we made ourtraverse across the ledge and descended to the tree-line. Half an hourlower down the interminable steps were interrupted by a path and a gladewith one or two enormous images of stone scattered about it. I neverlearned how they came to be there. It looked as if a thousand slaves ofa bygone king when Rome was young, being bidden to carry these images tothe mountain-top had got so bored with their task that they had thrownthem down and preferred there and then to die. However, I recognised theplace of these monstrosities in the long chain of purpose when I sawImogen and Pamela spreading their cloaks on the ground in front of oneof them. The slaves might not have known what final cause made themcease to do, and die, but I hoped that looking down from Paradise theynow saw Imogen and Pamela leaning their backs restfully against a hugestone gentleman and understood the wise order of events and werecontent. Trees made a pleasant shade above our heads. Outside the ringof their foliage every pebble flashed like glass. Within our view andcall stood a row of huts and along the path in front of them passedfamily after family of pilgrims, happy in the consciousness of the greatmerit which that day they had achieved.

"Breakfast," said I rather proudly.

"Such as?" asked Pamela, turning up her nose.

I had selected the breakfast and the guide had carried it. I thoughtvery well of it. Without a rejoinder I spread it out in front of them.It consisted of sardines, a loaf, chicken, pâté de foie gras, fruit,and a bottle of champagne. And when we had finished them, we, too, wereconscious of merit. Pamela reclined on her elbow smoking a cigarette,and nodded her head at me.

"You may meet my mother after all. When I was a baby she always said tome: 'Pâté de foie gras is more nourishing than Glaxo.'" Then shestretched herself.

"Think of all the other tourists!" she cried with an infinitecompassion. "Poor people! I shall express my pity to them over and overagain in no uncertain terms."

"You will be popular," said I.

"They'll hate me," Pamela returned, with a glow of satisfaction.

Imogen was lying stretched upon her back, her head resting upon herhands, her face upturned to the shading trees. She looked more like aslim schoolboy than ever.

"We might drive down to Kandy this afternoon and begin the good work,"she drawled.

I sat up and looked at her. She had tucked her sapphire well out ofsight. I had an intuition that she was really anxious to get away fromthe neighbourhood, however carelessly she spoke. She had, after all,been within a hand's breadth of a quite horrible death. Nothing could bemore natural than that she should wish to put a wide distance betweenherself and the spot where an accident so nearly fatal had happened.

"I'll drive you both down," I said, and from under her half-closedeyelids her eyes shot me a glance of gratitude. "You have a maid withyou?"

"Yes."

"She can take your luggage by train."

So it was arranged and we descended the rest of the steps and trampeddown the glen to the car by the bridge across the tumbling stream. I hadleft a second bottle of champagne hidden amongst the cushions; and thus,more conscious of our high merit than ever, we reached Hatton by elevenand Kandy before the night fell.

Over dinner that night we debated plans. At least I debated and theydecided. I suppose that if people in love can possibly make a mess oftheir love-making in the early days of their courtship, they generallydo. I followed that rule.

"Couldn't we keep together?"

That was good and asked with a modest eagerness. But I must spoil it allby adding:

"We must, of course, give a day or two to Kandy."

"You can 'ave Kandy," said Pamela, adapting the unforgettable aphorismof the lamented moneylender almost before I had finished.

"We are going to Anuradhapura by car in the morning," Imogen said in thesame breath. "You see we've already spent some time in Kandy."

Imogen had the nerve to say that.

"Ah, yes," I said slowly. "Yes, I see."

"We've got to have a look at that old brass palace and the big man'sbo-tree," Pamela continued.

"Of course you have," I agreed, as heartily as I could.

To tell the truth I was terribly hurt. The two girls had been looking upthe guide-books whilst they changed for dinner. They had made theirplan; they had come down prepared to declare it at the first moment andrather aggressively. And their purpose would have been plain to a blindman. They did not want to see any bo-tree. The brass palace could be amass of iron junk so far as they were concerned. No, they wanted to befree of me. So they put quite definitely as many miles as possiblebetween us. Very well! They certainly should not be prevented. I had nowish to be their parasite.

"I am sorry," I said, rather proud of the indifference of my tone. "Butwe shall meet, no doubt, one day in London."

There was a definite interval of silence. Pamela looked at Imogen andImogen looked at Pamela. Pamela lifted her eyebrows. A question: "ShallI?" Ever so slightly Imogen shook her head. I was not going to distressmyself. They had tried me out for a day and found me wanting. They werequite entitled to. There was no need for Pamela to ask of her friendwhether they oughtn't to be civil. Not the slightest, and Imogen wasperfectly right to answer "No." I had no wish to be let down easily byPamela Brayburn. In the end it was Imogen who spoke.

"But, Martin, you'll be coming to Anuradhapura. You can't come to Ceylonand not see one of the Buried Cities, especially when I ask you tocome!"

A little too late that final clause. Still, it was rather like her handon my sleeve. But I shook it off. No cajolements for me!

"No doubt I shall roll along there some time," I replied. "I havepromised to put in a couple of days with a friend here."

There was not a word of truth in what I said. I had no friend in Kandy,and if I had had one I should have broken every promise to him at a realnod from Imogen. I was aching to go on to Anuradhapura. But I did notget that real nod. I just got a conventional politeness. She said:

"Very well, we'll wait for you there. You'll be two days here, you say."

"Two or three," I answered. "You'll want three, I am sure."

Now Imogen was offended, although, upon my word, I couldn't see theslightest excuse for offence in my words or my manner. I was careful tobe studiously polite. But none the less we passed a stiff anduncomfortable evening. They retired early, as indeed after this long daywas to be expected. But I did not expect the outburst of indignationfrom Pamela which followed upon our formal "Good night."

Imogen was half-way up the stairs, and Pamela just behind her. I wasstanding in the lounge, wondering whether after all Crowther wasn'tright, and to cease to exist as a separate entity wasn't the final idealone could aim at. Suddenly Pamela stopped. She turned, she came runningdown the stairs, her face in a flame. She ran straight up to me andstamped her foot.

"Can't you see an inch before your nose?" she asked. "Can't you guesswhat happened this morning?"

"What happened this morning?" I repeated, and as I stared at herblankly, she flung at me:

"I think you are the world's perfect idiot."

I was staggered. I could think of no rejoinder but one which CaptainCrowther had used to me. I said:

"You do surprise me."

And like Captain Crowther I really was surprised.

Chapter 10
Again the Shadow

I sulked about Kandy for three days. I did every proper thing. I sawthe sacred Tooth and I visited the Peradeniya Gardens and I drove alongLady Horton's road under the arches of high bamboos. I admired the lakeand the library and the opulence of the flowers and the fire-flies atnight and the blue of the afternoons. At intervals of five minutes Isaid to myself with determination: "I wouldn't have missed this forworlds. The only way to see things really is to be alone." And at theend of the third day I could have wept.

On the morning of the fourth day I awoke with a curious exhilaration. Iexplained it to myself very reasonably.

"That means that I am looking forward immensely to seeing at last thefamous Brazen Palace at Anuradhapura."

I dressed quickly, ate my breakfast more quickly still, ordered my carto be brought round and strolled out of the hotel. There I suffered theworst shock of my life. For on the stone parapet which bordered thelakes, at a point just opposite to the door of the hotel, sat UncleSunday--no, I am wrong--sat Michael Crowther--no, I am wrong again--satMichael D. I was so dumbfounded that I had to pass through thesesuccessive phases of recognition before I could place this oddapparition in its proper class. It was Michael D. at his worst. MichaelD. in a mufti which dubbed him Michael D. as surely as a king's sworddubs a squire a knight.

I had never seen a panoply so outrageous. Yet no passer-by was evenannoyed by it. I had to remember that the miracles of the West are thecommonplaces of the East. He wore a sun-helmet, of course, like the restof us, but nothing else like the rest of us. He was clothed in a jacketof dark tweed so thick and heavy that it made me perspire to look at it,a white cotton shirt very open at the throat, with enormous wings to thecollar which covered the lapels of his coat. The Moore and Burgess shirtwas caught in at the waist by a cricket belt of the I. Zingari coloursand below the belt white drill knickerbockers decorated his knees andthighs. He wore, with the white knickerbockers, thick, dark woollenstockings and--horrible, most horrible--white canvas shoes withpatent-leather toe-caps and patent-leather fancy strappings.

At the first glance I could not believe my eyes. At the second I did notwant to. For the first time I rejoiced that Imogen was eighty miles awayat Anuradhapura. For the second time I feared that neither distance noreffort could keep her out of this man's orbit. I was going to do what Icould, however. I set off at a brisk pace down the road as if I had notrecognised him--a foolish manoeuvre, for I should have to come back formy car, and Michael D. would still be waiting on the parapet above thewater. So I stopped in front of a jeweller's window and pretended toexamine its contents. Out of the tail of my eye I saw my car brought tothe hotel door and my baggage placed in the back of it. Then I strolledback. Michael D. sat still, quietly and absolutely certain that I shouldbe compelled to approach him. I had no such intention. I grew hot overhis conceit. If he imagined himself to be a magnet, I knew that I wasthe silver churn. He could not attract me. I took my seat in the car andthen he rose from the balustrade and crossed the road to me. It gave mea little pleasure that he had to make the move. It encouraged me, too. Isaid to myself: "You take me for a pongyi's acolyte, do you? I'll showyou." But I saw his face now, and both my resentment and my satisfactionbecame, in a second, trivial and mean. For it was not Michael D. wholooked at me, but Uncle Sunday--Uncle Sunday all the more Uncle Sundaybecause of his absurd clothes--and with so poignant a distress in hissharpened face that pity must go out to him. I had not the heart even tobe witty about his dress.

"I was waiting for you," he said.

"So I saw," I replied.

I sat in my seat for a moment. There was nothing for it. I nodded myhead and got down from the car.

"I shall be a little while," I said resignedly to the porter. "Pleaselook after the car."

We walked away from the lake across the green square to the precinct ofthe Garden Temple, and sitting down upon a stone bench amongst thepagodas and the banyan-trees, Crowther told me of how he had returnedfrom Schwegu to find his votive offering stolen from the high spire atthe monastery door.

His story was a dreadful shock to me. I heard it with a distress not tobe stilled by any argument that there might be two sapphires of exactlythe same shape and size and colour. The sapphire which Imogen possessedwas the sapphire from the pagoda spire at Pagan. I was convinced of itand on the top of that conviction a cloud of dim fears moved across mymind. I had as yet no details. I had drawn no deductions. I had notreasoned. I was simply frightened. Imogen had been drawn into the orbitof the sapphire. And my fear, although I am not more sensitive thanother people and very probably not as sensitive as most, showed itselfto me in a succession of the vague, rather meaningless and altogetheralarming pictures which are apt to afflict the dreams of children.Before I could put a question to Crowther, he added as a corollary tohis story:

"You will understand, then, Mr. Legatt, that I am obligated to repairthat sacrilege."

I was on edge. I turned upon him. It ought, of course, to have been hissmug concentration upon himself which made me turn. But if you are onedge, it's the trumpery irrelevance which suddenly makes lifeimpossible.

"You mustn't talk like that, Michael D.," I shouted violently.

"Long ago I dropped the D.," Crowther answered meekly.

"You can't," I insisted. "You're obligated to keep it, so long as you'reobligated to anything."

Crowther was penitent. There was less of Michael D. in him than therehad been at any time.

"I should, no doubt, have said obliged. I think that probably theclothes I am wearing--I bought them without much thought atRangoon--have lent some of their vulgarity to my speech. What I meantwas that I felt bound to restore my offering to its place."

I had cooled down by then.

"Believe me, Michael, I should be very pleased to hear that you hadrestored it," I said cordially.

Michael was moved by my warmth of tone, but utterly misunderstood it.

"A kind thought confers merit upon the thinker," he replied.

"It wasn't kind. It was purely selfish."

For the last shape which my fear had taken was oddly enough the shadowof Adam's Peak, and it seemed to stretch not westwards to the sea, butnorthwards to a buried city in the jungle, and was now less a shadowthan a pointing finger.

I asked for details of the theft and I got them. They made my heart jumpinto my mouth.

"There were two convicts in the monastery?" I asked.

"Yes. Nga Pyu and Nga Than."

"Burmese, then?"

"Yes," said Crowther. "But there was an accomplice who was not."

I sat up stiff on the bench.

"What's that, Michael? There was a third, then?"

"Yes."

"And a foreigner?"

"An Indian. Muhammed Ghalli."

Of course, there were millions of Muhammeds, I said to myself, and Ikept on saying it until the words meant nothing at all. Millions ofthem! Millions of them!

"You are quite sure there was a third accomplice?" I darted at himhopefully.

"Quite. He was with the other two in the same prison. He was releasedwith them. He went up the river on the same steamer with them toNyaungu. He had the clothes they changed into on the river-bank. Theywere together in Prome and took the train from there to Rangoon. Theysailed from Rangoon on the same ship for Ceylon."

I began to think with a little burst of relief that Crowther wasromancing. He was as detailed in his story as Robinson Crusoe. Surelyvigils and fasting had made him fanciful. The objection to my theory wasthat neither vigils nor fasting have any place in the routine of aBuddhist monastery.

"How do you know all this?" I asked.

Crowther smiled.

"There are many monasteries and many monks moving from one to the other.There are many visitors and much talk during the afternoons. If we wantto know anything it is not so difficult."

"I see. A secret service ready made."

I had no doubt of the explanation. The ramifications of the brotherhoodwere everywhere. There were thousands of pairs of eyes with the time towatch and of ears with the time to listen.

"They came to Ceylon, then! Yes--the three of them, Nga Pyu, Nga Thanand Muhammed Ghalli," I agreed.

"After I landed," Crowther continued, "I traced them up from Colombo toKandy by the same means."

"Yes?"

"At Kandy they sold what they had stolen."

I turned to him quickly.

"To whom?"

"To the jeweller under the hotel. You were looking into his shop windowa few minutes ago."

I thought that I saw a flaw here in the link of his story.

"But how could you know that all the ornaments were sold to him? Themonks could hardly help you there. They buy nothing. They have no moneyto spend at jewellers' shops."

"I didn't need them," Crowther replied. "I saw the filigree bracelet andthe amber acorn myself, displayed in the window. I went into the shop.He had all the presents I had given to Ma Shwe At. I bought them allback."

I jumped up in an excitement of relief.

"All! That's fine!" I cried.

"All that I had given to Ma Shwe At," he repeated, spacing his words tosignify that he meant just what he said and no more. "The sapphire hadbeen sold."

My heart sank again. The sapphire was not one of Crowther's presents.They were all insignificant--images in amber, bits of jade, trinkets offiligree silver. The sapphire was the one thing of value amongst thelot.

"To whom had it been sold?" I cried. "No doubt you asked."

"Oh, yes, I asked all right!" Crowther returned. "He sold it to a youngEnglish lady. She had another young lady with her. She said to him thatshe was going to give herself a present."

There could be no longer, then, the least doubt in my mind that thesapphire which had shone on Imogen's throat was the sapphire fromTagaung. I had never really disbelieved it. But I did not want tobelieve it. No doubt I was allowing myself to be tormented by the merestfancy. But I could not help myself. I was sure that there was misfortunein that stolen jewel, and if Imogen possessed it, the misfortune wouldbe hers too. There would be attacks which would look likeaccidents--nay, had not one example happened already? I could after allput two and two together. Two Burmese ex-convicts and an Indian namedMuhammed Ghalli for a third--two of them at Hatton and the third comingup from Ratnapura to the foot of the precipice below Adam's Peak. Mightnot the next one succeed and be fatal? I had got to be sure that Imogenhad Crowther's sapphire--sure beyond the slightest possibility of adoubt--so much danger shone in it, so much menace made its setting.Common sense, of course, declared that the question whether Imogenpossessed Crowther's sapphire or its twin sister made no differencewhatever. Imogen ran precisely the same risk in either case. But I hadin front of me Crowther--the bumptious, thieving, ignoble Michael D.evolving through failure and disappointment and loneliness and miseryinto Uncle Sunday of the yellow robe. Common sense had a very tinyunconvincing voice to my hearing in that precinct of the Garden Templeunder the great trees. I had to be sure about that sapphire. I got up.

"Let us go to the jeweller."

Michael nodded and we walked quickly across the space of green to thehotel and down the slope beside it. The jeweller was a stout,bespectacled, comfortable, greasy Cingalese, with long hair dressed highon his head and held so by a big tortoise-shell comb. He describedImogen sufficiently. I made a last effort to dissociate her from thejewel.

"How was the sapphire set when you sold it to the young lady?" I asked.

The jeweller explained that he had bought it without any setting at all.

"It was plain--like a sweetmeat that you pop in your mouth. I myselfmounted it according to the young lady's wishes. I fixed a tight plainband of platinum round the rim and hung it as a pendant to a platinumchain."

No wish, however urgent, could argue against that statement. Imogen'ssapphire was the sapphire given long ago by Ma Shwe At to the Captain ofthe Dagonet that it might be kept safe from the dacoits.

"Thank you," I said, and after buying a small trinket in gratitude forthe man's amiability, I went out of the shop and sat with Michael on thebalustrade above the water.

"There were two men who spoke Burmese at Hatton," I said slowly.

"Two men," Crowther repeated. He was not very interested.

"Yes. I took them to be coolies from the plantations or pilgrims."

"Did they wear turbans?" Crowther asked. He was kicking the heels of hisappalling shoes against the stone parapet as he sat bent forward, withhis elbows on his knees. But he was still really unconcerned.

I looked at him sharply. The point to me suddenly became of crucialimportance. Burmans wore long hair, skewered up on their heads. Butturbans, no! If these two had worn turbans they would have been wearingthem to hide a stubble of new hair on a shaven scalp. They would be theex-convicts for a certainty. But had they worn turbans? I tried tovisualise the scene--the hotel at Hatton, the broad street outside,Imogen with her arms stretched wide--Imogen without a turban, the two ofus standing side by side--I could feel the pressure of her hand in thecrook of my elbow--one man pushing past us, the other saying: "Muhammedis at Ratnapura," my turn-about, and the two men walking away, theirbacks towards us and one of them reading a telegram. Yes, they had wornturbans. I had not seen their faces, but their backs--yes.

"They did wear turbans," I replied. "Thank you, Michael! That's a veryimportant point."

"I don't think it's important at all," Michael rejoined, still knockingthe backs of his shoes against the parapet. They would not stand verymuch of that usage, but I did not stop him. They were an offence againstthe world and the sooner he kicked them on to the dust-heap the moremerit he would acquire.

"They talked of a third man," I went on. "An Indian, already atRatnapura--an Indian Muhammed."

"You are not following me, Mr. Legatt," Crowther explained with a quitehuman testiness. "What does it matter whether the Burmese were at Hattonand the Indian at Ratnapura?"

"It matters a very great deal to me," I said.

"But the Burmese had sold the sapphire. We have been to the shop whereit was sold. We know it. They and the Indian are now out of the picturealtogether."

"I wish they were," I answered gravely.

"You have your wish," said Crowther. "The important question is: Who isthe young lady who bought it?"

"That's an easy one," said I.

Crowther turned incredulously towards me.

"You can answer it?"

"Of course."

"You know her, perhaps?"

"I do."

It was his turn now to jump with excitement, mine to remain impassive.

"And you can sit there as cold as an icicle," he began, staring at me inhis indignation.

We were completely at cross-purposes. He was occupied only with hisself-imposed mission. He thought only of the restoration of his offeringto its high place on the pagoda spire in far-away Pagan. I was troubledwith a more immediate problem.

"You have given me very bad news this morning, Michael," I said.

That stumble on the top of Adam's Peak took on a very ugly look in thelight of what he had told me--all the uglier because there had been noexcuse for the stumble. I had looked at the spot where it had occurredimmediately Imogen was safe. There was no break in the smooth surface ofthe rock--not a pebble to stub a toe upon. Had those two men been on thePeak with us that morning? Was one of them the man who stumbled?

"Two men on the Peak waiting for their opportunity." I put the casealoud for my own benefit rather than for Crowther's. "The third mancoming up from Ratnapura and he, too, waiting--at the foot of theprecipice below the overhang.... They knew the stone could bemarketed. They had sold it once. They could sell it again--if they couldsteal it again. A crude way of stealing it? Yes. A rather childish way?Yes. And murder? Yes. But that's Burma.... And it nearly came off."

I shut my eyes and in that hot sunlight shivered. The next moment I wassitting up stiff and straight with one question clamouring for ananswer. Had Imogen understood at once what had been made clear to meonly now? I saw the two girls side by side in the hotel on the eveningafter the ascent. I heard them speaking almost in one breath andaccording to plan. They must go to Anuradhapura first thing in themorning. To see the Brazen Palace? As if it was likely to uproot itselfand fly away? No. To put as quickly as possible as wide a distance aspossible between the robbers and themselves? Yes. Surely, yes! And I hadtaken offence! The world's perfect idiot, said Pamela.... Well,Pamela was right. I jumped down from the parapet.

"I'm off," I said, and I crossed the road to my car.

Crowther ran after me.

"But you'll tell me the young lady's name?" he pleaded.

"I will not," I replied.

"Where she is, at all events?"

"Nor that," I cried and I slipped behind the wheel into thedriving-seat. "But listen to me, Michael! I want you to have thatsapphire back. I want it tremendously. There's only one thing in theworld which I want more. I'm going to try to get it back for you. And Ithink I can--and at once, too."

I shut the door of the car with a bang. Crowther's face cleared asmagically as a summer's day. He must not thank me, of course. That wouldhave been altogether improper and absurd. I should be acquiring enormousmerit for myself by restoring to him the stolen jewel. I might savemyself a hundred existences by this good deed. But he had thanks on thetip of his tongue and was in quite a bother to keep them unspoken.

"I am going north," I continued. "I'll meet you the day after to-morrowin the morning. At some quiet place."

I did not want Michael Crowther to march in upon Imogen and Pamela andmyself at Anuradhapura. For if I would not allow that he was a magnet tome, he might very well be one to Nga Pyu and Nga Than and MuhammedGhalli; and in his reach-me-downs a conspicuous magnet, too.

"I'll be at the Rock Temple at Dhambulla," he said.

The Rock Temple, as all the world knows, is a famous resort of tourists.If you travel to Ceylon you must visit it or endure derision upon yourreturn and some scepticism as to whether you ever got beyond Paris onyour journey out. It would be, therefore, a natural place for me tojourney to. I could meet Michael Crowther upon its terrace withoutarousing any attention.

"It is to the north?" I asked.

"Half-way between Kandy and Anuradhapura," said he.

"You have been there?"

Michael nodded his head, or rather bowed it. For there was a reverencein his gesture.

"Once. It is very wonderful. It stands high above the forest and aloof."

"The very place then," I cried. "I'll meet you there at eleven in themorning."

I shot the clutch in and started. The best of the day had gone and I hadeighty-four miles to cover. I was in a desperate hurry now, for I hadsuddenly become aware that I must reach Anuradhapura before dark. TheBrazen Palace was a very long way from the top of Adam's Peak, no doubt,but a fact overlooked till this moment had disclosed itself whilstMichael was speaking and with every minute took on a more enormousimportance. Nga Pyu and Nga Than and Muhammed Ghalli had money. They hadsold the stolen sapphire. They were rich. If they wanted to travelswiftly, they could. If they knew where Imogen and Pamela Brayburn hadsought refuge, they would. And away in the north of the island werethose two girls alone and defenceless against them and confident thatthe eighty-four miles between Kandy and the Buried City meant safety. Idrove down from the hills in a panic to the flat country and on througha land of shining green.

Chapter 11
The Magic Pipe

But I did not, after all, see the Brazen Palace; nor the greatmoonstone at the steps to the Queen's door; nor the oldest tree in theworld. A tyre burst on account of the great heat when I had been an hourupon the road, and at four o'clock in the afternoon I was still somethirty-odd miles this side of Anuradhapura. The road ran through theheart of the jungle between shrubs of scarlet lantana. Creepers withgreat flowers like painted trumpets laid their stranglehold upon thetrees, and butterflies more richly blue than Imogen's sapphire flickeredin squadrons through the sunlight and the forest gloom. The car wasrunning silently and to my surprise I heard suddenly from somewhere uponmy left, but very near at hand, the music of a pipe. It sounded oddly inthat lonely place and perhaps, had there been no further reason, Ishould still have slowed down my car in spite of the hurry I was in. Butthe music had a singularly delicate and airy pitch. There was anenchantment in it, a purity and--I have no other word--a singleness, andin addition a compulsion, so that I must go gently and listen as I went.Thus, I thought, Paris must have piped upon Ida. I peered into theforest but the undergrowth was so thick and so blazed with colour thatmy eyes could not pierce the screen. I drove on again and after a fewyards the road swung round to the left in a wide curve, and I lost themusic. But I came upon a long, low, rest-house, set back behind a whitegate in a green twilight. The tallest tamarinds I had ever seensheltered it and only here and there through the thick foliage broke alance of gold. No halting-place more charming could be imagined; and asI looked at it, I used Pamela's phrase:

"You can 'ave the Brass Palace. It's here that I should find Imogen."

On the instant a voice in front of me cried: "Stop!" and there, in themiddle of the road, stood Pamela Brayburn, with a kodak in her hands. Istopped the car, slipped out of my long dust-coat, got out, and crossedto her.

"You are staying here?" I cried.

"Yes."

"You and Imogen?"

"Yes. We took a car and came here yesterday."

I was immensely relieved. The two girls were safe. The shadow which hadhung over my spirits vanished as swiftly as the shadow of the Peak.

"But I might have missed you!" I cried.

"And whose fault would that have been?" she exclaimed unpleasantly.

"Mine?" I asked. "I like that! I was to join you at Anuradhapura."

Pamela drew in a long breath.

"Heaven keep me from falling in love, if it's going to make me such asimpleton!" she prayed earnestly.

I felt that I was growing red. I think that I shouted at her.

"Who says that I am a simpleton?"

Pamela hardly let me finish the sentence.

"No one, little boy," she rejoined. She seemed to be exasperated. "Noone has any need to. It's sticking out like an ectoplasm at a séance."

She changed her style then and attacked me.

"Why didn't you come with us to Anuradhapura?" she cried.

I was indignant. Pamela was too unreasonable for words.

"How could I?" I exclaimed. "You made it impossible. The moment Isuggested that we might spend a day or so at Kandy----"

"Looking at an old horse's tooth!" she interrupted irreverently.

"--You both cried in one voice: 'We're off the first thing in themorning to see the bo-tree'."

"We neither of us could have said anything so ridiculous," said Pamela.

"Well, words to that effect," I answered. "It seemed obvious that youwanted to be rid of me."

Pamela shook a finger at me triumphantly.

"That's vanity--that is," she said. "But men are terribly vain."

I laughed--sardonically is the right word.

"Men don't examine themselves in looking-glasses all day."

"They daren't," said Pamela. "They'd cut their throats if they did."

I laughed. It only amounted to a snigger after all, and it seemed evenas a snigger rather contemptible even to me. Pamela leaned towards mewith a superfluity of kindliness.

"Did you ever," she asked, "see any of those pictures which newspapersare always publishing of men in the eighties and early nineties--menwith big sprawly beards and short frock-coats and stiff strawhats--boaters you call them, I think."

"Awful!" I said, falling into her trap.

"Yes, awful," she agreed. "But are you quite sure that the awfulnessended with that era? To put it plainly--may I put it plainly?" Her voicewas full of honey.

"Yes," I said.

"Looking at things objectively, aren't men awful now? Spats, forinstance. Will you consider spats, Martin, as a method of adornment? Bigfeet in shiny boots and glaring white spats to wrap them up and crinklytrousers above them? Are you really sure, looking down through the ages,that men aren't always awful?"

I felt myself to be a fit subject for pathos. For whenever I was notworried out of my life by Imogen, I was quarrelling with Pamela. But Ihad the better of her in this argument. I could afford to laughdisdainfully.

"My dear Pamela, you must go to Burma," I said.

Pamela answered rudely.

"To get my wits polished," said she sarcastically.

"To learn a very bitter home truth," I rejoined. "You will have to bere-born a man as a first step towards entering into the Great Peace."

"Then give me the Great Hullaballoo!" said Pamela.

I must admit that as I looked her slim figure up and down, I recogniseda certain attractiveness in her appearance which made me doubt thedesirability of Buddha's rules. However, it seemed that there wasnothing to be gained by pursuing the controversy. I had put Pamela inher place--or I had not. I should get no change out of it anyway. Istarted off briskly upon a different topic.

"Anyway, Pamela, I hope that you enjoyed yourselves in Anuradhapura."

"We didn't," Pamela answered uncompromisingly. "We haven't enjoyedourselves since you deserted us at Kandy----"

"Well, of all the----" I could not go on. Pamela's serene distortion ofthe truth took my breath away.

"Except," she continued, "for one hour this afternoon when a conjurerwith several cobras in a bottle turned up here and made them dance forus."

"Cobras!" I exclaimed. I have hated all snakes all my life, anyway.

"Cobras de capello," Pamela repeated firmly. "They were charming. Heblew a little pipe and they wiggled their heads about and they lay flaton the ground when he told them to, and he beat the ground close to themwith his stick and they never moved. He was a magician."

I stood up straight.

"I heard his pipe, I think, just before I came round the corner there."

"Then he was repeating his performance for the chauffeur and theservants behind the bungalow," said Pamela. "He had finished with us anhour ago."

I looked back along the road. Yes, it bent round the bungalow to itsfront. I could not hear a sound of the piping where I stood. No doubt hehad repeated his performance in the service quarters behind.

"An hour ago? Where's Imogen, then?" I asked.

"She went to lie down in her room as soon as the snake-charmer hadfinished," Pamela answered. She looked at me, her eyes hard withaccusation. "Imogen didn't sleep last night."

"Oh!"

But I must suppose that I expressed in that exclamation distress and notcontrition. For again she shook a finger and there was steel in hervoice now as well as in her eyes.

"Of course she didn't."

My heart made a foolish jump. She had missed someone, then. Who? It wasnot for me to say.

"Why didn't she sleep?" I asked, as innocent as a man could be.

Pamela flung up her hands.

"Have you no idea why we bolted from Kandy?"

Yes, I had an idea to account for that--an idea which had only lost itsterror since I had found the two girls safe in this forest bungalow. ButI could not see what in the world that could have to do with Imogen'sinability to sleep at Anuradhapura.

"Then you did bolt!" I cried.

"Then you knew we had bolted," cried Pamela.

"No, I didn't," I returned hotly. "I may be an idiot but I don't cart myfriends. I hadn't a suspicion that you were bolting until this morning.Even now it's only a suspicion."

Pamela looked at me for a few moments.

"Very well. If you'll drive your car into the enclosure and secure aroom--we're alone here now, but some other party of tourists may comealong at any moment--I'll tell you."

I got into the car again, drove between the gate-posts and handed overmy baggage to the keeper of the rest-house, whilst Pamela followed me.

"It's just as well that you should know before Imogen joins us," shesaid. We sat down in long chairs on the verandah. Pamela drank lemonade,I something with lemon in it and no "ade." We sat in cool shadows. Faraway great rocks like huge uncut blue jewels cropped up above a sea ofgreen and gold. The very peace of the scene was enough to take the heartof terror out of any tale however terrible. And the danger was over. Istretched out my legs on the long wooden arm of the chair. Pamela washere. Imogen was asleep. I was at my ease. But I was sitting up straightbefore she had half finished her story of what had actually happened onAdam's Peak and I was on my feet when she had reached the end.

"You told us over dinner at Hatton of the marvellous resemblance ofImogen's sapphire to the sapphire of your friend, Crowther. But youweren't comfortable. You were afraid, and fear's horribly contagious.Although we both made light of the resemblance we were a littlefrightened, too. And we had more reason to be frightened than you. Yes,we had. For you had pointed out before two men in the street who weretalking Burmese. And we had seen those two men outside the shop in Kandywhere Imogen bought the sapphire. Now they were outside our hotel atHatton. We were alarmed."

I interrupted her here.

"Yet Imogen wore the sapphire the next morning when we climbed themountain," I said.

"I know. You see she had worn it always, ever since she had bought it,and not to wear it now was to own to fear. And Imogen didn't want to dothat. It wasn't bravado. It was a feeling that once you acknowledgefear, you're likely to crumble altogether. Can you follow that? So shewore it. No doubt she thought, too, that since you were with us weshould be safe"--Pamela put her nose in the air--"the poor simp!"

"Well, you were safe," said I indignantly.

"Hansard reports at these words, sardonic cheers from the Opposition,"Pamela continued. "Do you remember that when we stepped out on to thePeak we stood in front of a great bonfire to warm ourselves?"

"I do."

"Has it dawned upon you--but it must have; you're as quick as a littlesnake, aren't you? Then it must have dawned upon you that as Imogenslipped on her cloak--and honest to goodness, I've never seen a cloak soclumsily held in all my long life--the sapphire was showing at herthroat."

"I did notice that," I exclaimed. "I buttoned Imogen's coat high underher chin on purpose."

"But too late," said Pamela.

It was then that I began to sit up in my chair.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Opposite to her on the far side of the bonfire," Pamela explained,"were the two men who spoke Burmese. Something of a shock, eh?" Pamelanodded her head at me. She was serious, like one who has seen a greatdanger just avoided. "You see? The two men outside the shop at Kandywhen Imogen came out with the chain round her neck, then outside thehotel at Hatton, then on the top of the mountain--and your story of thesapphire. Imogen hadn't a doubt that your friend's sapphire had beenstolen and sold and was to be stolen again. But even then she was onlyafraid. She hadn't a suspicion as to how for the second time it was tobe stolen."

For a moment I did not answer. I saw the broad surface of themountain-top, the flames of the bonfires licking the black air, thewaves of red colour lighting up the throng of dark faces and whiterobes. I drew Imogen and Pamela again to the empty space at theprecipice's edge. I cried:

"Then the pilgrim who stumbled against Imogen----"

"He was one of the two. He didn't stumble at all. He was making sure ofher and of the sapphire. If you hadn't been there close beside her, hewould have made sure."

"How?"

"He took her by the ankle and flung her forward off her feet."

"What!" I cried.

"Nothing could have been more deliberate than that stumble. The manwasn't trying to save himself. His hand closed round Imogen's ankle astight as a band and she was thrown--up and out."

And the third man--the man from Ratnapura, was waiting below theoverhang at the foot of the precipice. I did not mention the third manto Pamela, partly because I did not wish the two girls to visualise anymore clearly than they already did the cruel murder from which Imogenhad been saved, but chiefly because I was marvelling at Imogen's courageand spirit. Of the three of us, she was the only one who had asuspicion--and she was certain--that an attempt had been made upon herlife. She must have seen herself whizzing downwards, must have felt inall her nerves the smash of bone and flesh upon the pent-house slope ofrock, the destruction in a moment of her grace and beauty.

"And yet Imogen never said a word."

There she had stood whilst the dawn broke and the shadow ran out overjungle and sea, and hung there, and raced back again into the mountain.There Imogen had stood without a glance behind her, and so far as Icould remember without a tremor of her hand upon my arm.

"Oh, Imogen was in a panic," Pamela explained. "But we were alone upthere, Imogen, you and I--just the three of us on a terrace crowded withfanatics. She dared not be afraid. She had to keep her head."

"Bless her, she did!" I answered.

How long had we stayed after the attempt upon the Peak? An hour? An hourand a half? We had certainly not started down until the day was broad.Then there was a rickety ladder against a cliff to be descended and atraverse across the face of the rock and a pathway of rough, steep rocksteps through a cavern of trees, which made a twilight even of noonday.

"Even afterwards she didn't make a sign, didn't say a word, of theordeal she had been through!"

I pictured her again lying upon her back after breakfast, the smoke ofher cigarette floating upwards under the trees.

"There was no use in talking about it," said Pamela. "Talking about itmeant fear, and fear mustn't be. That's Imogen's creed. Once be afraidand you have nothing under your feet. You're a straw in the air. Youmust show yourself you're not afraid and then perhaps you won't be.That's why Imogen wore the sapphire up the mountain. You must showeverybody else, too, that you're not afraid, otherwise you will be.That's why she wouldn't let me ask you to come along with us toAnuradhapura. You must come on your own suggestion entirely."

"You didn't give me much encouragement," I grumbled.

"You were too prickly for words," Pamela rejoined calmly. "And afterall, in my day young men didn't want encouragement. We couldn't keepthem off with a gatling gun."

"Said she modestly," I added.

But I was not proud of my performance or my perspicacity at our dinnerin the Hatton Hotel. I was anxious to get away from the subjectaltogether.

"Well, however much you may blame me, you were all right atAnuradhapura," I said comfortably.

"Were we?" Pamela asked. "Oh, I am so glad to know that!"

"Weren't you?" I asked anxiously.

I could never be sure whether to take her words as a statement of factor a provocation to battle.

"Then why are we here?" she demanded, and with a sweep of her arm shedramatised the isolation of the bungalow. "What do you take us for,Martin? Shy nudists?"

"I do not," I said firmly. "I can't accept the 'shy'."

Pamela laughed. Then in a quieter voice she explained: "We were followedto Anuradhapura"--and I jumped.

"By the same men?"

Pamela nodded.

"The two men of Kandy and Hatton and the mountain. I don't suppose wewere difficult to trace. The servants at the hotel in Kandy knew. So didthe people at the garage where we hired our car. Imogen saw them atAnuradhapura from the balcony outside her window the night before last.They were standing on the grass outside the hotel. The light from a lampfell upon their faces."

Imogen had turned out her light and had called Pamela into her room.Together they had recognised the two men, watched them from the darknessas they whispered together on the plot of grass below. The hotel wasoutside the city with a tiny park in front of it, and beyond this openspace a high grove of rain-trees.

"I would have liked Imogen to throw the sapphire and the chain out tothem and have done with it," Pamela related. "But Imogen wouldn't givein. She clasped the chain about her throat."

The two girls had stayed in the same room that night, behind theirlocked doors, and kept watch in turn until the daylight came.

"It was no use complaining," said Pamela. "We had no real evidence ofthe attack on Imogen on the mountain; we couldn't even prove that we hadbeen followed. We should just have looked like a couple of bright youngspirits advertising themselves in the usual way. We had noticed thisrest-house on the way to Anuradhapura. We went sightseeing in themorning as if we were settled in the place for some days. Then in theafternoon we bolted again."

The rest-house was certainly a place of secrecy and peace. And yet wasit not a trifle too secret--too peaceful? Here was the afternoon waningand never a glimpse of Imogen. I was beginning to be tormented byanxiety.

"How many men followed you to Anuradhapura?" I asked.

Pamela stared at me frowning.

"Two, of course. I told you two. The two outside the jeweller's shop andoutside the hotel at Hatton."

"Yes, but there was a third," I said.

"A third--accomplice?" Pamela asked, holding her breath.

"Yes. A man who was to come up to the foot of the Peak fromRatnapura--who was waiting at the foot of that precipice."

Pamela started back in her chair. Then she rejected my statement.

"Too childish a plot!" she said.

"Yes," I agreed. "Too childish and too cruel. In fact, thoroughlyBurmese."

And whilst Pamela, her face pale, her forehead drawn, sat in startledsilence, I said to myself: "Yes, but the third partner in this crime wasnot a Burman"--and suddenly I seemed to hear again the airy music of apipe. I heard it only in my memory. For there could never be a deepersilence than the silence which here held bough and bird and the winditself in thrall. In another hour the jungle would be shrill withcicadas, and the murmur of innumerable insects would throb with thethunder of a drum. But now there was silence and more than silence.There was suspense. Once, years before, in a clearing of the teak woodby the Irrawaddy and again in a street of Mandalay I had been consciousof it, a sharer in the expectancy which hushed all nature.

"Tell me!" I said. "Who was this conjurer with the cobras."

"I don't know."

"A Cingalese?"

Pamela shook her head.

"No. He wore a turban. He told us that he was an Indian fromCoromandel."

It was then that I started to my feet.

"An Indian? Did he give you a name?"

"No."

The two Burmese at Hatton and Muhammed Ghalli at Ratnapura. The twoBurmese at Anuradhapura and Muhammed Ghalli at the forest bungalow.Snake-charming--not so rare a gift! Cingalese, Indians, Egyptians--whothat has ever travelled hasn't seen one of them at his work?

"You are so still," said Pamela uneasily.

"Don't you think," I asked--and I tried to give to my voice the mostlevel and commonplace of notes--"don't you think that we might rouseImogen?"

Apparently I had not succeeded. I did not look at Pamela lest my faceshould betray the terror of my heart. But I heard her draw in her breathin a long, fluttering sigh.

"You know her room, of course?" I said.

We both stood up, and with a pitiable mimicry of nonchalance we walkedinto the passage of the house.

Chapter 12
Fear and Imogen

On our left as we entered the bungalow was the big living-room. Oncebeyond it the corridor ran to right and left, like the cross-bar of acapital T. Pamela turned to the left, and facing us at the end of thebuilding was a closed door.

"That's Imogen's room," she said. "Mine is just this side of it beyondthe living-room."

We walked to it. My shoes were soled with crêpe rubber; Pamela's lightfeet made no noise whatever. At the door we halted. It was so still thatthe sudden hum of a dragon-fly, flashing in from the verandah and outagain with a gleam of metal, startled us both like artillery. Pamelastood for a moment with her hand at her heart, catching her breath; andI leaned back against the wall no better off. Pamela, indeed, was thefirst to recover.

"Imogen may be still asleep," she said in a whisper; and very carefullyshe turned the handle of the door and pressed. But it did not open.

"It's locked," she said in the same low voice, and she leaned an earagainst the panel. I saw a look of bewilderment overspread her face andshe turned the handle back, so that the latch fitted again into itssocket, without a sound. She drew back a step or two, and as I joinedher she said:

"I don't understand. Imogen's there in the room, but she might have beenrunning a mile."

Could there be a statement more alarming? She might have been running amile. That might mean unconsciousness, pain, terror--anything butnatural sleep. In my turn I stepped forward, but my heart was beating sonoisily that I could hear nothing else. I called quietly, my mouthagainst the panel of the door.

"Imogen! Imogen!"

I was answered by a sob and even that was subdued, as though someonelistened, someone who was blind, and dangerous. I flung my shouldersagainst the door, but the lock held, and above the rattle and thudImogen's voice rose in a broken scream.

"Don't, Martin! It's no good! Please! Please!"

There was such urgency and such panic as I had never heard in humanvoice. If Imogen had held fear at arm's length on Adam's Peak, it hadgot her by the throat now--and by the limbs. For there had not been thesound of a movement within the room. I swung round to Pamela.

"Which way does Imogen's window look?" I whispered.

"To the back of the bungalow," said Pamela.

I was aghast. It was from the back of the bungalow that the thin, faintmusic of the snake-charmer's pipe had reached my ears.

I called again through the door:

"Hold on, my dear, for a second," and again Imogen's voice ran up anddown the scale of terror.

"No, Martin. You can't do a thing!"

I beckoned to Pamela. We hurried back along the corridor and on to theverandah and round the corner of the rest-house to the rear of it. Agreat hedge of lantana shut us off from the outbuildings. In front of uswas a window with its shutters closed. I moved forward and touched them.At the touch they fell apart. They had not been bolted fromwithin--therefore not bolted at all; and the window was open. I lookedinto the room.

There was a bedstead on my right hand with its mosquito curtains foldedon the top of the frame; and no one had rested on the bed. There was theusual furniture, a sun-helmet on a table, a mat by the side of the bed,a brown teak floor--and Imogen. I shall never forget the sight of her.She was standing upright against the wall opposite to the bed, with herarms a little outspread and the palms of her hands pressed against thepanelling to keep herself upright. She had thrown off her hat. She waswearing a dark blue coat and skirt, with a white shirt, beige stockingsand blue shoes to match her dress, and the shoes and her ankles werepressed tightly together, to occupy as little room as was possible. Hereyes were wide open and fixed upon some spot on the floor a yard or soin front of her. She was in a trance, if terror can cause a trance. Forfrom head to foot she was bound fast by terror.

As the shutters opened she cast one swift glance towards them. Then hereyes went back to the floor.

"Martin," she whispered. "Don't move, Martin! It'll strike if you do. Hewarned me. Move and it'll strike!"

And there was nothing at all on the floor.

I sprang over the window-sill.

"Imogen----" I began.

"Keep away! Keep away!"

She had leaned a little forward and her voice rose to a scream. So Itook a stride and stood deliberately on the very spot on which her eyeswere fixed. For a second she giggled like a schoolgirl--I never heard asound more distressing--and then, without any warning, slid sidewaysdown the wall. I was just in time to catch her as she fell.

I carried her to the bed and laid her upon it. Then I unlocked the doorand called to Pamela. Pamela bathed her forehead whilst I got somebrandy from my flask; and in a few minutes Imogen opened her eyes. Shelooked at us both as if we were strangers. Next she made a mockinglittle grimace at us and reaching out her hand smoothed it down my armand gave me a squeeze. Apparently she was now satisfied that she haddone enough for us. For she turned over on her side with her backtowards us, stretched out her slim long legs and immediately was fastasleep. I searched the room--it was easy enough with its bare floor andscanty furniture--and I found nothing. There was nothing there to find.Pamela pushed me out, managed, somehow, to undress her Sleeping Beautyand get her into bed. Imogen slept without a break in her slumber untilthe sun was high on the next morning. There had been no need for eitherof us to keep a watch. For the platinum chain with its sapphire pendanthad gone.

"For good and all, I hope," I said to Pamela Brayburn as we breakfastedtogether in the cool of the morning. I had no thought for MichaelCrowther at that moment. Never before or since have I uttered a prayermore sincere.

"I, too," returned Pamela, but her voice trailed off as if she hardlybelieved that good fortune so marvellous could befall us. "Imogen willtell us when she's up."

Upon Pamela Brayburn in her turn the shadow of the sapphire had spreadits canopy.

Chapter 13
The Indian

What had happened? Imogen, lying in a low and restful chair, told us apart of it on the verandah after luncheon. All that she knew she told,but it was not all that there was to be told; and we who listened had toput the rest of it together as best we could, in the belief that thecommonplaces of one race are the miracles of another. Imogen's longsleep had restored the colour to her cheeks and the buoyancy to herspirits. And if once or twice she flinched in her narrative, sherecovered her spirits the next instant with a shake of the head whichreminded me of a swimmer coming up into the sunlight after a deep divebeneath the water. She smoked a cigarette whilst she talked. Her mindwas smoothed out. She, at all events, was now free from the shadow ofthe sapphire.

* * * * *

Imogen had stayed on the verandah after the snake-charmer's departure.She and Pamela had discussed the performance, wondering whether thecobras were tame and whether their poison-ducts had been extracted; andwhat qualities a little rod of nagatharana could have so to frightenthem; and if the dark, porous snake-stone which had been shown to themwas a genuine antidote for a snakebite. The Indian was an old,unbelievably lean, tall man with a grizzled beard, who wore nothing inthe way of clothes except a loin-cloth and a turban; and certainly therewere twin scars upon his wrists and upon his breast which only the fangsof a serpent seemed able to account for.

"We were perhaps twenty minutes talking about these things," saidImogen. "Not more. Then I got up and went away to my room. I was verysleepy."

She opened the door or, more exactly, turned the handle and threw itopen. The door was set in the wall opposite to the wall against whichthe bed was placed, and at the inner end of the room. It opened inwardsand downwards, that is, towards the window. Thus, if you entered theroom you had a wall upon your left, the window at the end of the room onyour right, and the bed upon the right of the window at a diagonal withthe door. Imogen, then, flung open the door and walked in. She had hersolar topee in her hand and she laid it on a round table which stoodagainst the upper wall opposite to the window. The window was open, butthe shutters were closed, and since that side of the bungalow was inshadow and the eaves of the roof were wide, little more than twilightcrept through the lattices into the room. Imogen, coming straight fromthe verandah and the prospect of a green ocean of forest shining in thesun, was for a second or two blinded. She stood still for the darknessto clear away, but it had not quite cleared when she began again tomove. She took two or three steps towards the window in order to openthe shutters. And something flickered behind her and quite noiselessly.

Imogen felt her heart jump into her throat. The Indian had been waitingfor her, hidden behind the door. As she turned she saw him close thedoor and slide the bolt into its socket. She did not scream, althoughshe was about to scream. For as her mouth opened something elseflickered in the dusk of the room and Imogen's heart whirled down withinher. In the uncertain light it might have been taken for the neck andflat head of a swan; and it hissed as an angry swan will hiss. It wasalmost white, too, but it had the sheen of hard scales rather than thesoftness of down.

"Miss Sahib not to scream," the Indian said softly. "Or I make cobrapunish her."

Imogen could not have screamed now. Her throat was dry, her nervesparalysed by terror. She had felt her heart leap into her throat as theIndian bolted the door; it stood still now in her horror of the snake.The passage of a minute had altered the world. She had walked lightlyfrom the verandah, quite free from the anxiety of these last days. Shehad opened a door and fear bound her limbs, and death was an inch fromher throat.

She was not aware that she had moved, but she found herself uprightagainst the wall, between the window and the door, her small feet in theblue shoes making themselves smaller, the palms of her hands pressedagainst the panels to keep herself from falling. Had the cobra slitheredan inch towards her across the floor, she must have fallen, and infalling must have screamed.

But the reptile merely swayed its head from side to side, a venomousflower upon a white stalk. In the gloom its eyes were bright as diamondsand held her, so that her eyes, too, must swing from side to side in ahorrid slavery. Suddenly the sound of the Indian's pipe, playing a musicwhich was plaintive and yet had a cadence curiously voluptuous, washeard in the room. The music was low. It reached me in my car because Iwas just passing on that winding road the corner of the bungalow whencethe music floated. The Indian was kneeling upon one knee facing thecobra and close by Imogen's side. From the fold of his knee his littlestick of nagatharana stuck out ready for use. And he piped. And Imogen,her wits all scattered, swung her head from right to left and from leftto right in a synchronism with the head of the dancing cobra, brown eyesriveted upon diamond eyes glittering evilly beneath the expanded hood.

"I remembered, in a meaningless way," said Imogen, "what I had read inbooks on the voyage to Ceylon. That the cobra--even the king-cobra withthe silvery neck and head which this one had--was a coward; that littlevedda boys would think nothing of capturing one and taming it; thatcobras had been kept by Cingalese as house-dogs, fatal to thieves andharmless to the inmates. But with those little eyes glancing likefire-flies in the twilit room, yet never, like fire-flies, vanishing, Icould not believe."

The piping stopped. The Indian snatched his little stick from the gripof his knee and stretched it out. The cobra ceased to sway. It seemed tothe girl clamped by her danger against the wall, that its eyes dimmed.It sank and uncoiled and with a thud its head hit the teak floor. It laystretched out, a knotted branch fallen from a tree but a branch witheyes.

The Indian spoke in a low voice:

"The Miss Sahib will raise her hands gently and unclasp the jewel fromher throat and drop it in my hand."

Imogen obeyed him. He held the stick in his left hand over the snake'shead, and the palm of his right hand was cupped at Imogen's side. Intothat cup she dropped the sapphire and the Indian tied it in a knot ofhis loin-cloth, using but the right hand.

"I leave my cobra to guard the Miss Sahib," he continued.

"Oh, no," Imogen moaned, and at the sound of her voice the eyes of thereptile brightened.

"The Miss Sahib no speak, no move and no hurt. In a little whiles I callmy servant and he follow."

He chanted in a low sing-song some hymn or order which Imogen did notunderstand. Then he slipped out of the window as if he were a snakehimself. He left the cobra behind him on the floor of the room--Imogenswore to it. When he opened the shutters, and let in for the flash of asecond the afternoon light, she saw the snake like the bough of a silverbirch--plain as plain could be against the rich brown of the teakplanks. It remained there and never moved--just as she never moved.Imogen swore to it. It was on that same spot--again she swore toit--when near upon an hour later I threw open the shutters. It was therewhen she warned me not to move. It was there till the very moment when Istood on the exact spot where it was supposed to lie. I have known a manride his camel knee-deep into the waters of a mirage before the watervanished and he rode over a desert of pebbles. In the same swift magicalway the cobra had vanished from Imogen's sight.

This was her story. At what point had the Indian lured his cobra backinto his wicker-work bottle? Had he left it behind him and called to itto follow? Had he taken it away with him, and yet left her with thevision of it stretched on the floor like a branch and its diamond eyesclaiming hers, binding her hand and foot in the paralysis of fear? Noneof us could answer these questions. We talked a little of the famousrope-trick and whether any living being had really seen it and of awagon-load of illusions. But when we had comforted ourselves with ourWestern superiorities and proved that that which had been could not be,I retained, nevertheless, very vividly the terrible picture of a girlcrucified by fear, her small white face and startled eyes fixed, asthough they had been moulded in wax a second after an agonising death.

* * * * *

Anyway, the sapphire had gone, and if I could manage it it would keepgone. Crowther could chase it if he liked. That was his affair. But wethree here in the rest-house in the jungle were emancipated, and weregoing to remain emancipated. Imogen, it was true, had lost a lovelyjewel and friends of hers might have been expected to show some regretat her loss. I had no such feeling. The stone was compacted by anearthquake on a night of eclipse. It was accursed. Its setting wasmisery, not platinum, and the spark which gleamed in it was the verysoul of malevolence. In other words I was elated to know that neveragain would Imogen wear it about her slender throat. She had bought itand paid for it--that was true enough. But on the other hand I had not adoubt that she would have given it back to Michael if he had talked toher for five minutes.

But even that conversation was not going to happen if I could help it. Ishould have to tread delicately, of course. A certain amount ofdiplomacy would be needed. But whilst we had been talking I had thoughtof a plan.

"About to-morrow," I said. "There's one place you've got to see, ofcourse--the city on the mountain, Sigiri. It's on the way from here tothe south. I must tell you about it. There was a King----"

"Darling," Imogen interrupted plaintively, "we, too, have a guide-book."

"Then that makes it all right," I said heartily. "I'll leave you both togo up by the gallery whilst I roll along to see a friend of mine, andcome back again for you."

I saw the two girls sit up straight. They looked at me intently. I lit acigarette with great indifference.

"Yes, that's the plan," I said.

"I suppose it's the same friend you had to put in two days with atKandy," Pamela suggested sweetly.

"Not at all. I have lots of friends," said I.

Pamela went off to her bedroom and came back with her Murray's Handbook.

"It's the map we want," said Imogen.

The unfolding of the map made me uneasy. For on a bare white space inprint distressingly clear, there were marked, fairly close together,Sigiri and Dhambulla. Imogen put her finger on a spot.

"That's the place, I think," she said cheerfully, and then she turned tome. "For how long do you propose to leave us at Sigiri, Martin? Anhour?"

"No," I answered.

"Less than that?"

"More than that. About two hours altogether," I said indifferently.

The two girls stared as though I had committed some enormity. Then theybent their heads again over the map.

"That's the place," said Imogen, dabbing the tip of her finger on themap as if she were smashing a mosquito.

"Yes," Pamela agreed, "he's got a date at Dhambulla with a colouredlady."

"I have nothing of the sort," I cried.

"But you're going to Dhambulla," cried Imogen.

I suppose that an intellectual would have found a way out of the ditch Ihad jumped into. My reply was simply fatuous. I said:

"Well, I might look in at Dhambulla."

After that they played animal, vegetable, mineral with me untilCrowther's name was yielded up.

"You have seen him?" they both cried with one voice.

"At Kandy."

"It was his sapphire, then?"

"Yes. It was stolen from the top of the pagoda."

"And he has come after it?"

"Yes."

"And what time is your appointment to-morrow?" asked Imogen.

"Eleven o'clock."

"We'll go with you to Dhambulla," said Pamela.

I had to make the best of it.

"I'm delighted, of course," I said. "My business won't take a minute.I'll leave you both in the car--it's a bit of a climb to theterrace----"

"As steep as the gallery at Sigiri, Martin?" Imogen asked innocently.

"I don't know. I haven't seen either one or the other," I repliedfirmly. "But it's steep, and I'll run up and tell Crowther thesapphire's stolen again and then the three of us can roll along toSigiri."

Imogen and Pamela exchanged glances of amusement.

"But, darling Martin," Imogen said sweetly. "You don't think that you'regoing to put it over us like that, do you? We're both going to see theRock Temple and we're both going to see your Mr. Crowther."

I wanted to keep them both apart from Michael Crowther. I did! There wasno longer, of course, any reason for uneasiness. The only link whichcould have caused them trouble--and, indeed, it had caused troubleenough already--was broken. Still, I did not want them to meet.

"Oh, Crowther's nothing to write home about," I grumbled.

"But, Martin, we don't want to write home about him," said Imogengently. "We're just going to meet him to-morrow on the terrace of theRock Temple at Dhambulla."

"But you haven't an idea what you're going to meet," I exclaimed. "Iknow him of old, so it doesn't matter to me what he looks like. But he'stoo awful"--and I gave them a description of Michael as I remembered himkicking his heels against the parapet of the lake at Kandy. I thought mydescription to be sufficiently humorous, but not a smile illuminatedtheir faces; and when I had done Pamela declared:

"My mother used to say to me: 'Pamela, darling, when the moment comes toselect one of your innumerable suitors, always remember that if youchoose a man wearing an I. Zingari belt, you have chosen a gentleman.'"

I threw up the sponge.

"Very well. We start at nine."

Anyway, the sapphire had gone. Nothing could alter that.

Chapter 14
A Council at the Rock Temple

The way led upwards over bare shelving slabs of gneiss. As we mounted,the blue hills of Kandy came into view in the south, a coronet of sharppeaks encircling the royal city. We wound about the mountain and climbeda short flight of steps with a lantern fixed upon a pillar at the side.Now a slender satin-wood tree with delicate foliage sprang here andthere from a crevice in the slabs like a plume of lace. We came outagain upon the crest of the ridge and the vast jungle streamed awaybefore us to the north. It was broken by great rocks with the bloom ofplums, and by vivid patches of fresh green where some primeval villagehid; and across ten miles of it the huge rounded pebble of Sigiri roselike an island from the sea. A few trees grew now on that high summitwhere once a king had built his capital, and the line of the longgallery, which alone had given access to the gates, ran plainly alongthe pebble's side like a fissure in the rock. Now the steps which wemounted broadened and rose in a welcome shade of trees.

"Listen!" said Imogen, and we stopped; and we heard a wild elephanttrumpeting far away in the jungle.

We crossed more slabs and passed between the white-washed pillars, andbeneath the brown-tiled canopy of the temple's gates. A bell hung withina stand upon our left. A bo-tree stood in a stone enclosure protected bya parapet. A long wall, above which two high tamarinds rose, enclosedthe five temples and the terrace in front of them. And as we stepped onto the terrace a man rose from a stone seat in the wall and came quicklytowards us.

"Crowther," said I.

He had changed his dress since I had last seen him. Gone were the whiteknickerbockers and the vivid glory of his belt and the worstedstockings. He wore a thin grey suit and brown shoes, a silk shirt with asmall collar and a restful tie. He was vastly improved but not improvedenough to appease me. All the resentment under which I used to labour onhis steamer on the Irrawaddy had returned to me during the last twodays. I blamed him for all the anxiety and the peril to which Imogen hadbeen put; and I was quite logical in my censure. If he had been honestwith Ma Shwe At he would not have deserted her without a word, he wouldnot have taken back his trumpery presents, and the sapphire would neverhave gleamed darkly on the white table-cloth of the Dagonet or beenstolen from the spire of the pagoda at Pagan. I was altogether againstCrowther this morning, and with a foolish hope that I could keep thegirls apart from him, I stepped forward as he approached.

"At all events you don't make me hot to look at you, Michael," I begangrudgingly. "That's a blessing"; and, of course, Imogen and Pamela werealready one on each side of me.

"This is Miss Pamela Brayburn," I said reluctantly, "and this is MissImogen Cloud who bought your sapphire at Kandy----Oh!"

The "Oh" was an exclamation of annoyance. Although the sun was highabove the rock, we were standing in the shade of one of the great treesand Crowther had taken off his helmet. I had meant to say all in onebreath:

"This is Miss Imogen Cloud who bought your sapphire at Kandy and it wasstolen from her yesterday at a rest-house and I wish you good morning."

But I found that I could not say it. I wanted to believe that since, inhis pursuit of his sapphire, he had discarded his yellow robe, he hadpassed completely out of another phase of his violent career. But now Icould not believe it. He had taken his hat off. I suppose that we haveall known men devoted to one calling, to whom the slow sculpture of theyears has given dignity, breeding, even beauty. But I have never knownanyone in whom the change has been so swift, so definite, so obviouslypermanent. There was no trace left of Michael D. Even with the stubbleof new stiff hair upon his crown he had the look of a saintly, asceticand prayer-worn Cardinal. I said gently:

"I am sorry, Michael. I have no good news for you. The sapphire wasstolen yesterday from Imogen and by the Indian."

Crowther looked down upon the ground. He made no movement. He uttered noword. His very impassivity made the fullness of his disappointment clearto us as no outcry could have done.

Imogen broke into an account of the robbery. Crowther listened to theend with his eyes set hungrily upon her face.

"Yes," he said with resignation. "Muhammed Ghalli is bad. He is known.He has great powers and uses them wickedly. It will be long before hefinds his way out of the forest to the rocky path."

Imogen looked puzzled, as well she might. She had never heard of thatallegory which Michael Crowther had related to me on the deck of thelighter, lashed to the side of the Moulmein steamer on the way toSchwegu.

"But if you still had the sapphire," he asked, "you would have given itback to me in return for the price you paid?"

"I would have given it back to you gladly," Imogen answered quietly."But I would not have taken a farthing of the price I paid."

A very disarming smile took all the severity from Michael's face.

"The wish will be counted to you, Miss Cloud," he replied.

I intervened at this point hurriedly. I had a fear that he was going topoint out to her that as a reward for her goodwill she might findherself a man in her next life, and by this change of sex ever so muchnearer to her great Release. And I did not think that this point of viewwould commend itself to her at all. I said:

"Look here, Michael. I've got something to say about all this. Let's sitdown!"

We sat down on one of the stone seats cut out of the wall. There wasjust room for the four of us. We were high above the world. In front ofus the temple carved out of the hill-side. On our right hand rose themonstrous pebble of the Lion Rock of Sigiri where for eighteen years, inthe last days of the Roman Empire, a parricide reigned splendidly andwell. And below us to our left and our right spread the vast green oceanof the jungle. I began to argue.

"What I think is this. Your sapphire, Michael. It's a symbol ofrenunciation. A symbol of your renunciation. But in the end it's just asapphire found in a native working near Mogok. It has no real sanctityof its own and no history. That's what I mean. It's not a great diamondstolen out of the forehead of an image of Krishna, for instance. It hasno romance, no curse upon it"--that, by the way, I did notbelieve--"it's just a very beautiful sapphire. Do you follow me?"

"You are my friend," replied Crowther, and it was a very disturbingreply. It might just mean that "the obligations of friendship compel meto listen to any idiotic remarks you may feel disposed to make." Oragain it might mean that whatever a friend says has a decided worth. Ipreferred the latter alternative and resumed:

"Secondly----"

Pamela broke in with a wail:

"Martin, you are not going to preach a sermon, are you?"

I crushed her with a look. At least, I meant to; and since she did notmeet my look but was gazing at Michael Crowther, I claim that I did.

"Secondly," I repeated firmly, and went on: "The sapphire, howeverlovely, is not one of the premier stones. It does not compete with thepearl and the diamond and the emerald and the ruby. It is of the secondcru. Allowed? Allowed?" I turned from one girl to the other to bear meout. Neither answered, and indeed I noticed traces of impatience inPamela Brayburn.

"Well, then, since your sapphire, Michael, is first of all a secondarystone----"

"No, no," said Pamela wearily. "It was secondly a secondary stone. Ifyou must be dogmatic, Martin, you should also be correct."

I was exasperated, but Imogen took a side now.

"Pamela's right, Martin. It was firstly a stone without associations."

"And even that," Crowther added with a smile, "is not quite correct. Forit has very definite associations for me."

"Very likely," I cried with some triumph. Here was my chance to get alittle of my own back. I wagged my finger at him. "But not the sort ofassociations you ought to be thinking about nowadays."

"Oh!"

"Oh!"

Two shocked feminine voices protested in one breath.

"Martin!"

Imogen was gently reproachful.

"Not nice."

Pamela was quite definite about my bad taste. I ought never to have toldthese girls as much as I had done about Crowther's murky past. That wasmy fault. My good or bad taste was my affair.

"I wanted to come up here alone," I exclaimed. "I wanted to talk toMichael without any interruption. And I am going to say what I meant tosay in spite of you. Michael can buy another sapphire and string it upon his hti. Michael has money. Michael's going to build a pagoda atTagaung and live by the side of it."

I was very much in earnest about this. I did with all my heart desirethat Ma Shwe At's sapphire should vanish as utterly as if it had beenflung by somebody blindfolded into the middle of the sea. There was ashadow to it. Its deep clear blue which had no clouds meant clouds forthose who handled it. I was afraid of it.

"Buy another, Michael. Buy one like it. It's merely a matter of lookingabout a bit."

Imogen scanned my face with anxiety.

"But, Martin, darling," she remonstrated with the upward inflexion ofextreme surprise, "you are not on the map at all."

"I won't be baited," I said, digging my toes in.

"Baited! You're not a horse," said Pamela scornfully, "although there isan animal I could mention, if I had not been well brought up."

They were both siding with Michael, of course, against me. I might haveknown that they would. This was my unlucky day.

Then Crowther himself intervened.

"For me," he said with a smile of rare sweetness, "there can be no othersapphire. Firstly,"--and his lips twitched again--"it is a symbol ofrenunciation. You yourself, Mr. Legatt, used the phrase and it is so,believe me!--a true description. But that jewel is the symbol, notanother jewel like it. Secondly, there is that bad thought of mine tobuild a pagoda for myself."

I threw up my hands. I could not keep pace with the variations ofMichael's belief.

"So that's a bad thought now!" I exclaimed.

"It always was a bad thought," Michael answered; and at this pointPamela must chip in and add to the confusion.

"It certainly was," she agreed serenely. "My mother used to say to me:'Pamela, dearest, if I had got to do one or the other, I'd build anaquarium.'"

Uncle Sunday beamed upon her.

"Did she say that?" he asked admiringly; and for the first time in ouracquaintanceship I saw Pamela Brayburn disconcerted. She had not an ideahow to take the question. Was Crowther chaffing her? But his manner wastoo simple and sincere. Was he asking seriously a literal question? Butthe question was too idiotic. Pamela was unaware that in Michael's creedthe destruction of life was a great sin, and the preservation of it agreat merit. An aquarium preserved fish from being gobbled by biggerfish or caught in nets or hooked on lines--a highly deserving business.Michael was asking his question in absolute innocence. I am bound to saythat I had noticed already that his new religion had killed his sense ofhumour. He continued quite eagerly:

"And did your mother build many?"

"What?" Pamela asked, still more at a loss. She looked towards me forhelp. I grinned at her with pleasure. I wasn't going to get her out ofher trouble.

"Build many aquariums?" said Michael.

Whatever qualities Pamela possessed, effrontery was the chief of them.

"Only two," she answered calmly. "One at Brighton and the other underthe shadow of Westminster Abbey." And she got away with it. By somelucky chance Michael, during his three years in London, had never heardof the one or the other.

"But to build even two was most meritorious," said he. "On the otherhand, to build a pagoda and a tiny monastery beside it for myself? Noman may do so overweening a thing. A monastery for others--yes. Apagoda, too--for the greater glory of Gautama. But to feed a man'sconceit, to sit by the side of it and hear men say: 'That is U Wisayawho built it, sitting there in the shade'--no, a thousand times. It isforbidden. The mere thought of it a sin--one amongst many to be atonedfor. And the recovery of this sapphire is for me the way of atonement."

If Crowther had used one false note or one fantastic phrase whichsuggested that his little speech had been made up to deceive us, if hehad licked his chops over his bygone wickedness or dished up hisrepentance with a garnish of oil, I should have been very much obligedto him. We should have been free of him. But he was so simple and directand effortless that no one could misdoubt him.

"It's laid upon me, as a task, a penance. I would much rather go back tothat safe harbour I had found at Pagan and sit down there and meditateuntil I got at the truth of the eternal laws and became blended with theultimate soul. But it seems to me that all the passions and desires ofthat earlier life of mine, of which you, Mr. Legatt, know, are buried inthe heart of that sapphire and may wake again unless I hang it once morehigh in its consecrated place."

He looked so forlorn that I was not surprised to hear Imogen encouraginghim.

"We will all help if we can," she said.

"But what can we do?" I cried. "Tell us!" Yes, I too had somehow fallenunder the old compulsion. "The sapphire has gone."

"It will reappear," said Crowther. "It will be sold again--not in Kandy,I think, but in Colombo."

"To a passenger on a ship," I added, and Crowther nodded.

That, without doubt, was the likeliest way of disposing of it. To offerit for sale for a second time in Kandy within so short a period mighteasily provoke enquiries. Colombo, with the great tourist liners comingin and going out, flinging ashore for a few hours their cargoes ofwealthy sightseers eager for mementoes of their voyage--Colombo was theplace now where the sapphire must be looked for.

"The first thing to do, then," Pamela argued, "is to inform the policeat Colombo."

This was the common-sense point of view, but it ignored Crowther. Thebrotherhood of Buddha had nothing to do with the social framework. Itbrought no actions, fought in no wars, asked for nothing at any timefrom anyone. How in the world Crowther now hoped to get his sapphireback I could not imagine.

But it would not be by prosecuting a criminal.

"No," he said.

Then he rose from his seat and inclined his head.

"As a man, I thank you all," he said with a smile. "As a monk, I do notthank you. But I say that by your goodwill you have acquired merit whichwill surely be rewarded."

He turned away from us more abruptly than any of us had expected. Ithink that he was alarmed by Pamela's suggestion that we should call inthe Civil power. Vague as, in many of its details, the creed he followedwas, this, at all events, was clear. He could pursue no criminal andbear no witness against one. According to the immutable laws, thecriminal would be punished without his puny help or ours. He walkedacross the terrace to the door of the first shrine, wherein lies hiddenin the darkness the vast, recumbent image of Buddha the Saviour as heentered into his eternal rest.

But Michael Crowther was not the only one of the party to disappear. Agroup of visitors was clustered about the entrance to the Great-KingCavern, the glory of Dhambulla, and Pamela Brayburn joined herself on toit. In another moment the great double doors were opened and Imogen andI had the terrace to ourselves. It suddenly occurred to me that thismight, perhaps--after all--not be my unlucky day. I stood up.

"Imogen!" I said.

"Yes?" said she, and in her turn she stood up.

I looked at her and she looked at me.

"Imogen!" I repeated.

She nodded her head. Then she laughed with a lovely lilt in her voice, alilt of pure joy.

"I've got to be told," she said. "Even in these days that's necessary."

"I love you," I said. "I love you very dearly"--and she was in my arms.I could feel the throb of her heart against my breast and the sweetnessof her lips upon mine. Blue mountains and green forest, the great pebbleof Sigiri and the high terrace of Dhambulla--it was my lucky day.

* * * * *

Some time afterwards, how long I cannot tell, Pamela rejoined us. Shelooked at Imogen and she looked at me.

"My mother used to remark----" she began, and I interrupted her.

"I have my doubts about your mother," I said, nodding darkly.

Both the girls rounded upon me at once.

"Oh!" cried Pamela.

"For shame, Martin," said Imogen.

"He's calling me a war-baby," exclaimed Pamela.

"I never heard anything so ridiculous! I said nothing of the kind."

"Practically you did, Martin," Imogen reproached me sorrowfully.

"I couldn't have. Pamela's too old. Much too old. Years and years tooold."

They did what they always did when I refused to be brow-beaten. Theyturned their backs on me and made derogatory allusions. This time it wasabout jungle-folk and how they must be uncouth. "But, of course," saidPamela, "if he'd go up into trees and swing from branch to branch by hisarms, he'd be too fascinating."

I rose and walked down the slabs to the car. But they caught me upbefore I reached the bottom.

"Your Crowther's a darling," said Pamela. "He's the first man I haveever heard say that it was meritorious to build the WestminsterAquarium."

We lunched at the rest-house, drove over to Sigiri and came back toDhambulla for the night. Imogen slipped her arm under mine as we sat inthe car.

"What fun we're having, Martin, aren't we?" she cried. "A lot of foolishlittle jokes, silly to other people, lovely to us, because behind themthere's the great peace."

Chapter 15
The Last of the Peak

It was curious to notice how deep an impression upon so small anacquaintance Michael Crowther had made upon the minds of my companions.It was disturbing, too. For however loudly I might crow over our presentfreedom from the tyranny of his sapphire, I had all along a secretpresentiment that its shadow would run out over our heads again; andthis presentiment was, willy-nilly, strengthened by the clearrecollection which the two girls retained of its owner.

We arranged to sail for home on the same ship in a fortnight's time, andduring the fortnight we travelled together, wandering from marvel tomarvel of that glossy and multifarious island. But nothing that we saweffaced the picture of Uncle Sunday in his mufti; he was surrounded withso visible an aura of loneliness and disappointment.

We played a round of golf on the English-summer land of Nuwara Eliya,and as we sat at luncheon in the hotel, Imogen, after a few moments ofsilence, cried out in a little voice of exasperation:

"I never saw a face so thin."

Pamela Brayburn explained it.

"Fastings and vigils and visions."

"You're all wrong," I protested. "I once made that mistake. Pongyisdon't fast. They mustn't fast. They mustn't eat after midday--that'strue. But they can make up for it in the morning. They've got to keepfit."

"To get their Blues, I suppose," said Pamela sardonically.

"Well, Michael has got his, anyway," I exclaimed.

"Oh, Martin!"

"Oh!"

Again those shocked interjections reproached me. I was not nice. But Ididn't care. I went on:

"And as for vigils, they don't keep them. They have long, lovely nightsof sleep without fatigue from yesterday or anxiety for to-morrow. Theydon't even have the bother of undressing and no one knows better thantwo girls dolled up like you, how long that takes. And as for visions,if any one of them saw a ghost he'd be drummed out of the monastery inthe morning."

"Yes, darling," said Imogen soothingly.

We drove down from Nuwara Eliya and bought tortoise-shell presents atGalle. And Imogen asked--and this, too, after an interval of two days:

"Why, then, is he so thin, Martin?"

"Because he's like Martha," I answered, "if it was Martha. He's troubledabout many things."

"One of those things we ought to have helped him to get back," saidPamela; and that was that.

Towards the end of the fortnight we returned to the Galle Face Hoteloutside Colombo, and went over, one afternoon, to bathe at Mount Laviniaamongst the catamarans. We were drinking tea in the garden of the hotelafterwards when I said:

"We could only have helped him to get it back by going to the police,and that he wouldn't have at any price."

Both girls burst out laughing with sheer pleasure.

"Now you've begun it, Martin," cried Imogen; and to my surprise I had,indeed.

I had been wondering, now that we were again in Colombo, whether weshould run across Michael and hear whether or no he had brought thethieves to bay and recovered his treasure. I had a sneaking hope that weshould and an outspoken prayer that we should not. It was the prayerwhich was answered. We were in and out of the town for a couple of daysand not one of us set eyes on him or the Indian or Nga Pyu or Nga Than.We embarked on the Motor Ship Rutlandshire of the Bibby Line and movedout of the harbour late in the afternoon. Imogen stood by my side on theupper deck. We saw Adam's Peak rising up into the sky in a cleft of themountains. We watched the evening clouds swathe it about and withdraw itfrom our eyes. Once I used to watch for it with a ridiculous eagerness.Now I was glad to see the last of it. For it seemed to me that with itsshadow went the shadow of the sapphire.

There would be many years now before either Imogen or I saw it again, ifever we did see it.

"Yet we owe it a farewell," said Imogen waving her hand towards it. "Yousaved my life upon that mountain, Martin."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Since I was up there with you, I was bound to do the little I could tolook after you."

Imogen slipped her hand under my arm.

"Those who look after people sometimes find that looking after ends inloving," she said gently.

What she said was true, I think--at all events, so far as we wereconcerned. I looked back. I had seen her in London at dances, atdinner-parties, at theatres. I had never been in her immediate circle,but there had been a word or two here, a smile only, perhaps, there, amoment when her hand had rested on my arm as it did now. I had alwaysknown her for a friend as, I think, she had known me. But it had neededthat moment above the precipice of Adam's Peak, when she hung in my armand her life depended upon the strength of it, to warn me that my greatneed was the need of her.

"Ends in loving," I said. "And in being loved?"

Imogen laughed and said the most lovely thing which a man could hear.

"Oh, me? You were a little bit blind, Martin. I, on the other hand, usedalways to know you were about, when you were about."

The island disappeared. The lights blazed forth upon the deck. Thewater, sparkling with points of fire, swished past the ship's sides. Thestars were strung like lamps across the sky.

"You and I, Imogen," I said.

I thought with pity of the man who sought only to replace his offeringon the spire of his pagoda and then meditate in a hopeful solitude uponthe extinction of his soul.

* * * * *

We were four days out from Colombo. It was, and I suppose is, thepractice of the Bibby Line to convert its fore-deck into a skittlealley. We were starting upon a competition which must end before wereached Suez. It was my turn and, owing to a happy lurch of the ship atthe right moment, I knocked all the ninepins over with one shot. Therewas applause and I looked upwards to the higher deck as eager as anychampion in a tourney that my lady should smile her acknowledgement ofmy prowess. But, alas! though many ladies hung over the forward rail,watching us for want of something better to do, my lady was not one ofthem. My first thought was:

"What a pity. I shall never do that again."

My second had a touch of grievance.

"Imogen, darling, you might somehow have been there."

My third was one of sheer amazement and dejection. The ship, I shouldsay, had its full complement of passengers. Apart from the usualtourists, there were young men from the Burma Oil Corporation Settlementat Yenangyaung going home on leave, servants of the Forest Company,judges and barristers and Civil servants and commercial men with theirwives; so that even now one had not got them all definitely recognisedand named. Moreover, there was but one class so that we all had the runof the ship and it was possible for a passenger to find a corner uponone of the decks where he could remain unnoticed even by those assiduouspeople who go conscripting for the games. So for the first time since wehad left Ceylon I saw Michael Crowther. He was leaning over the forwardrail in a line of spectators and watching the players in theskittle-alley with a friendly amusement.

I did not seek him and I was careful not to say a word about him, but Ihad no hope that neither I nor my companions would remain free of him.He was my Old Man of the Sea and I began to think of him as clamped onto my shoulders for the rest of my life. I should have liked to have runacross him in Colombo and to have learned that he had recovered hissapphire and was on his way back with it to Pagan. But since he was onour steamer he had not recovered it and he was chasing it certainly asfar as Suez. And a day later Imogen ran across him. He had a cabin onthe small after-deck and for the greater part of the day remained in hischair beside it. Imogen found me leaning over the forward rail.

"Martin, guess who's on board?" she cried.

"I know," I answered gloomily. "He saw me knock all those ninepins overwith one shot."

"When I didn't," Imogen added remorsefully. I suppose that I had toldthe story once or twice to her and had managed to suggest in telling itthat a world could not be really well organised where such achievementswere not inevitably witnessed by one's womenfolk.

"You must come and talk to him," said Imogen.

"I suppose that I must," I answered.

"And shall we do it gracefully and with good manners, or shall we not?"said Pamela.

We did it at all events with what grace we could. We sought him out thenext morning.

"I'm the bad ha'penny, Mr. Legatt," he said.

"You're going as far as Suez, I suppose," I remarked.

"I'm going to England," said he.

Michael Crowther, however, took no more pleasure in his destination thanI did. England was another word in his vocabulary for failure andloneliness and cold.

"I have got to," he said. "I ran those men down at Colombo. I did a badthing. I threatened them with the law. They described to me, boastfully,how they had climbed the pagoda, failed to loosen the diamond and in theend must content themselves with my chaplet of gifts."

"They had the sapphire still, then!" I cried.

"No," Crowther answered. "They had sold it. A girl--very young--nottwenty I should think--came off a ship on one of the Round-the-Worldvoyages with a man--I should think a little older than you. They wentalong to the Galle Face Hotel for luncheon. Just outside the hotel thethieves offered them the sapphire with its platinum chain, and after theusual bargaining the man bought it and gave it to his companion."

"You found out who they were?" I asked.

"One of the porters remembered them."

"And you are following them?" Pamela asked.

"Yes."

"Like the Saracen girl who only knew her lover's Christian name," Iobserved. "It doesn't sound to me a likely proposition."

"But didn't the Saracen girl find him?" Crowther asked.

"One for his nob," said Pamela softly.

"London was smaller in those days," I returned.

"And we don't even know that they were going to London," said Imogen.

I was grateful to Imogen for her support against Pamela's quiteuncalled-for jape, but I definitely disliked the "we." Imogen hadobviously decided that we--she and I, at all events, and probablyPamela--were, upon our arrival in England, to spend our time and ourefforts in searching through the country for a man and a girl who hadbought a sapphire in Colombo.

"You know their names, perhaps?" Pamela asked.

"Yes, that's about all I do know," Crowther replied. "I got them fromthe hotel."

"What was hers?" Imogen enquired.

Crowther looked doubtfully at Imogen. He was disinclined to answer. Heshook his head.

"From what I could gather you wouldn't be likely to know her, MissCloud," he said rather stiffly.

It seemed a curious consequence of adopting the yellow robe that adevotee to American slang should become the primmest of Victorians. Buthe little knew Imogen who had a catholicity in her friendships which wasapt to stagger even her own generation.

"You never can tell," she remarked. "What's her name?"

"Jill Leslie," said Crowther.

"No, I don't know her," said Imogen.

"And what's his?" I asked.

"Robin Calhoun."

None of us knew a Robin Calhoun.

"Of course," said Pamela, who really could leave nothing alone, "hemight have been the girl's uncle."

For a second or two Michael Crowther tried desperately not to smile. Buthe failed. And having begun to smile he went on to laugh. There weremoments when Michael became very human.

"He might," he answered. "On the other hand he wasn't. As I told you, Imade discreet enquiries at the hotel. I did not, after all, navigate theIrrawaddy River for nothing. If I didn't acquire merit I acquiredknowledge, and you can take it from me that Robin Calhoun is not theuncle of Jill Leslie."

The luncheon-gong was beaten at that moment.

Chapter 16
The Silent Room

We travelled straight through upon one ship to the Port of London,arriving there on the morning of the last day of April. Then wescattered with the usual indifference of our race to thefellow-passengers with whom accident had cooped us for a month; andcomfortably confident that in a week's time we should not recognise oneanother in the street. I drove with Imogen and her cousin across Londonto Paddington, saw them off to the West of England and returned to myown lodging in Savile Row. I had not seen Michael Crowther that morning,and what with a press of work and the arrangements for my wedding whichwe had agreed should take place at the end of the Season, for some timeI hardly gave a thought to him at all. Moreover, Imogen's parents openedtheir London house in Hill Street, and taking one thing with another Iwas a thoroughly busy man.

I made it a rule, therefore, whenever it was possible, to walk to andfrom my engagements for the sake of exercise; and it happened inconsequence, on a good many occasions when returning from a supper-partyor a dance, that I passed on foot along Savile Row. There was a house inthe row which intrigued me; to be more correct, there was an upper partof a house. For the ground floor and basement were occupied by a tailor,as, of course, was the case with most of the houses. But at whateverhour I returned home, the first floor was usually alight, and discreetlyalight. I mean that the blinds and curtains were carefully drawn and thelight only leaked out at the sides or the tops of the two large flatwindows. But it was burning. I do not indeed remember more than two orthree occasions when late at night that first floor was dark. Severaltimes, however, I saw people arrive in small groups, women and men, andall of them dressed as though they had come from a theatre or anentertainment. I do not remember that I ever saw anyone going away. Atmy latest I was still too early for the homing of these gay pigeons.

But the most singular circumstance in connection with this mysteriousapartment was its silence. No noise whatever broke from it, no sound ofmusic, no babble of voices, never a song, never a cry. I did not noticethat peculiarity for some time; but once I had noticed it, it forceditself upon me afterwards each time that I passed the house. I wanted tohear something--anything; a signal that the company assembled behind thecurtains and the blinds was enjoying its presence there and wasassociated in some pleasant fellowship; or even in some fantasticconspiracy. But I never did, and the quiet of the place became to me inthe end sinister and a little alarming.

By this time May had turned London into a garden of lilac and sunlightand it was, I think, during the third week of the month and at seven inthe evening when my servant told me that a Mr. Crowther would like tosee me. He was shown up, of course, at once.

"Michael, have a cocktail," I said.

Michael shook his head with a smile.

"In a little while I shall have to, Mr. Legatt, I expect," he said. "Butto you I am still a monk."

"Well, sit down and watch me."

As I drank mine, he laughed.

"Do you remember, Mr. Legatt, how angry you were when I insisted onpaying for your drink on the Dagonet?"

"How I hated you!" I cried.

"I reckon that I was hateful," he replied with equanimity.

Michael had now a thick growth of hair en brosse, flecked with grey,which gave to his thin, ecclesiastical face an incongruous and comicalfinish.

"I wonder whether you will do something for me," he asked, and I smiledrather sourly. I knew that question was coming, just as I knew that Ishould help him if I could and that there would be no possibility ofdoubt that I could. The pertinacity of a man with a single end in viewwould twist the stars from their courses.

"Of course I will," I answered, with more of acquiescence that I shouldthan of eagerness that I would.

"Do you know a Mr. Jack Sanford?"

"I don't, Michael."

It seemed astonishing to me that I didn't, since Michael obviouslywanted me to know him.

"He lives in this street."

"He might live in Mandalay for all that means."

Crowther got up from his chair and wandered about the room, touching anornament here and a book there. He was very restless.

"What you want, Michael, is a Watson Number One," I said.

Michael laughed.

"I shall have, some day, to tell you what happens to Tempters. It is notpleasant." He turned and planted himself in front of me. "So you can'thelp me."

"I can't introduce you to Mr. Jack Sanford, if that's what you mean."

He nodded his stubbly head.

"I thought that since you run about London at night you might have theright of entry there," he said, and I sat up in my chair.

"Oh! Has he got the upper part of a house about six doors down?"

"He has."

"Rather a mysterious place, isn't it?"

"No," said Crowther simply. "It's just a gambling hell."

I was not surprised. I had not been able to see what else it could be.

"Something like Schwegu, in fact, when they are burning an abbot?" Isaid.

Happily Imogen and her cousin were not present. Had they been, I shouldhave had to listen to a chorus of: "Oh, Martin!" and reproaches that Iwas not nice.

"But I suppose," I continued reluctantly, "that if you gave me a littletime I could get myself presented."

Michael's face lit up with hope.

"And me, too?"

"Really, really," I began, and stopped abruptly. Michael was looking athimself in the mirror above the mantelshelf, with a wry smile upon hismouth.

"I should look odd," he said.

I was stricken with remorse. It was obvious that he wanted immensely togo to Mr. Jack Sanford's, as obvious, indeed, as the difficulty I shouldhave in explaining him.

"Oh, dolled up in our best gent's dinner-jacket with trouserings tomatch, you'll look fine, Michael," I said. "Where can I find you?"

He gave me the address of a private hotel in Bayswater, shook me by thehand and went out of the door. He did not thank me for the trouble I wasgoing to be put to. I was serving myself by any act of kindness I mightdo to him, though what kindness there could be in introducing a monkinto a London tripot I was not at this time able to imagine, except, ofcourse, that by some means or another he hoped there to get on to thetrack of his stolen sapphire.

However, I was taking Imogen that night to dinner at a restaurant and atheatre and I put the problem to her. She overleaped in a second theobstacle of an introduction and cried:

"I can manage that all right, and I am coming, too!"

"Imogen, it's no place for you," I protested.

"It's more a place for me than it is for Michael," she replied.

"Damn Michael!" said I heartily.

"Oh, Martin!" said she, and for the moment that was the end of thematter.

But two nights later she brought up to me at a dance an infinitely kindyoung man who regarded my elderly bufferdom of thirty years as somethingwhich demanded from him every consideration. He called me "sir," and thetitle cut me to the quick.

"This is Lord Salcombe," said Imogen.

"Imogen tells me, sir, you want one evening to trot along to JackSanford's," he said.

Did he look down at my legs wondering whether I should need two sticksto get me there?

"I should love to," said I.

"Well, we might make a party, what? The three of us!"

"But there's to be----" A fourth, I was on the point of saying when alook of incredulous amazement from Imogen brought me to an inconclusivestutter. Lord Salcombe, however, put it all down to senility, if henoticed anything out of the way at all.

"We'll dine and go to a cinema. Then we'll drop round to Savile Row andtry to draw the Muses. Pretty good, what?" And since I looked puzzled:"No? Cryptic, perhaps. I mean the nine." He seized--really seized byboth elbows, a very pretty astonished girl who was passing him. "Ourdance, Esmeralda! Not your name? You don't say! Never mind! Our dance,what?"

And in a moment they were half-way across the room. Imogen and I wentdownstairs to supper.

"You see, darling," she said sweetly, "what was wanted was a littlefinesse. Oh, of course, you have lots of finesse, really, and I am surewhen you were out in the jungle there wasn't an elephant that couldmatch you. But the noblest of men drop a brick from time to time, and ifI hadn't stared you would have dropped St. Paul's."

"How?" I asked humbly.

"The Salcombe boy wouldn't have thanked me for Michael. When he had seenMichael he would probably have suggested that we tour London by night ina charabanc. But if we go with the Salcombe boy by ourselves or withPamela, we shall get the entrée to Jack Sanford's and then we can takeMichael."

"Imogen, you're a marvel," I said. "You ought to be an Ambassador."

Imogen turned over a menu card and pushed it towards me.

"Please write that down and sign it," she said. "I'd like to show it tofather."

If I have chosen too often to present Imogen in her laughing mood, I begyour pardon. The prolonged and viscous kisses of the films teach me thatreticence is out of the fashion and I shall try to amend. But, in fact,we did keep a public reticence which was the very salt of our privatemeetings. Passion and a lovely comradeship went hand in hand with fun inImogen, and if my picture of her lacks those deeper qualities, set theblame upon the painter rather than upon his subject.

We went to the house in Savile Row one evening of the next week--a partyof four after all. But the fourth was Pamela Brayburn. Salcombe had nodoubt prepared the way, for we were admitted without question into adark hall and thence to a lighted one where we left our hats and coats.A large and portly butler--Crowther in other days would have called himan oldy Englishy butler--ushered us up a short flight of stairs into abeautiful oblong room. The inner wall of this room was broken by doubledoors which stood open, disclosing a second room at the back with a longbuffet. At once the silence which had so perplexed me was explained. Foralthough there was a buzz of talk from Mr. Jack Sanford's guests, it wascontained within that inner room. The outer one with the windows on thestreet was the place of business, and there quiet and decorum reigned,broken only by the phrases of the tables--"En cartes," "Baccara,""Rien ne va plus," "La main passe."

Mr. Jack Sanford stepped forward and Salcombe presented us in turn. Mr.Sanford was a plump, sandy little man with a few long fair hairs runningfrom front to back of his head. He had a white face, a button for anose, a heavy chin and a pair of shrewd small blue eyes.

"Lord Salcombe's friends are very welcome," he said. "There is a buffet,as you see, and you will play or not as you feel disposed. There are twotables, you will notice, one for baccara and the other for a smallergame of chemin-de-fer. When I play myself, it is usually at the smallertable"--and with that he left us to our own devices.

We watched the big table for a little while where the play certainly ranhigh. I recognised one or two racing men, a proprietor of theatres, somewell-known figures from the City, a Cabinet Minister and a youngFrenchman who was seated by a pretty girl with a rope of pearls abouther neck and some valuable rings upon her fingers. The banker was adark, good-looking fellow with a thatch of black sleek hair and a quickeye, and it seemed to me that the luck was running against him. But Ihad no great opportunity of making sure, for Salcombe said:

"I think we ought to play a little at the shimmy table. I see there aresome places vacant now."

We sat down, staked a little, took the bank in turn and did very littledamage either to ourselves or our fellow-players. Imogen won twentypounds; Pamela, after losing a five-pound note, wandered off withSalcombe to the buffet. I sat by Imogen's side, watching the clock andwondering what in the world Michael Crowther would be doing on thisgalley. The rooms certainly were as hot as Burma, but there must be someother attraction. But we couldn't see it.

It was three o'clock in the morning before Imogen and I discovered it.We discovered it at the same moment. Imogen was on my left hand and theshoe of cards had come round to her. She put five pounds in as her bankand I added another five, making the whole bank ten pounds.

"Banco," cried a voice across the table and both Imogen and I jumpedas if we had been shot, to the amusement of the company. But we did notjump at the brusque voice across the table. Between the croupier'sannouncement that there was a bank of ten pounds and the challenge ofthe man across the table we had heard another voice, Jack Sanford's, andhe was addressing the banker at the big table behind us.

"I think when you have exhausted those cards, Robin, we ought to close."

It was the name Robin which startled us. Robin was the key word to theenigma of Crowther's intentions. Robin must be that Robin Calhoun whohad bought Crowther's jewel for his lady-love outside the Galle FaceHotel at Colombo. Here he was taking the big bank at Jack Sanford'slittle hell in Savile Row and no doubt Jack Sanford's partner. Imogenslipped the cards quickly out of the box.

"We'll go and look," she said quietly, "as soon as my bank's over."

I agreed with a nod of the head. We would go into the room with thebuffet and look for a pretty girl with a beautiful sapphire on aplatinum chain. But as chance would have it, Imogen's bank went pilingup. It rose to sixty pounds and she thought it too mean a business totake her winnings and let the hand go, though she was now in a fever tohave done with it. The bank ran four more times and then she lost whenthere was very little money staked against her. She passed the shoe,stuffed her winnings into her bag and got up. We crossed to the buffet,and with a sandwich and a glass of champagne as an excuse, we examinedour fellow-guests. There were pretty girls certainly, but not one ofthem wore a sapphire on a platinum chain.

"We may have better luck next time," said Imogen. She led me by thesleeve to Mr. Jack Sanford, thanked him and asked: "May we come again?"in so wistful a voice that no man could have resisted her.

"We have a little chemin-de-fer game every evening," said Jack, hiswhite, plump face dimpling with smiles. "And three times a week we havea table of baccara--Sundays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I shall be happyto see you and Mr. Legatt whenever you have the time."

I drove Imogen to her house. As she took leave of me at the door shesaid:

"Your Michael's a clever old bird. I wonder what he's up to?"

We were both inclined to imagine that Michael had devised some subtlescheme by which his sapphire was to be restored to him without thecommission of any crime. But we were quite out of our reckoning. Michaelhad the simplest scheme in the world, if scheme it could be called atall.

Chapter 17
The Man from Limoges

"You must see that he's properly dressed, Martin! And pay attention tohis shoes! If he looks like a policeman out of uniform, we shall beasked to go. I think you had better take him to your bootmaker. And thenyou must give him a few lessons in chemin-de-fer. He'll have to play alittle, else why did we bring him? And he must have a few pounds to playwith. And above all, whatever he's after, he must promise not to make ascene."

Thus Imogen under the trees by the Row, on a morning in the first weekof June. We had returned twice to Jack Sanford's apartment sinceSalcombe had introduced us. We had not seen any girl wearing thesapphire or one answering to the name of Jill Leslie. We had learnedthat the young Frenchman was the Vicomte de Craix and that he had beenlosing heavily. We had struck up a sort of gambling-room acquaintancewith him and with a few of the other habitual visitors--the pretty girlwith the rope of pearls amongst them. She seemed to have a large circleof friends, for she brought a new one each time, and everybody calledher Robbie. In a word, we had established ourselves and acquired theright to bring a visitor.

I followed out my instructions dutifully, and on the Wednesdayappointed, Michael, dressed by my tailor and shod by my bootmaker, withhis hair now long enough to lie down upon his head, met Imogen andmyself in the grill-room of the Semiramis Hotel at half-past eight ofthe evening. We dined together and Michael was the least excited of thethree of us. I think that those of us who had willy-nilly fallen underthe compulsion to help him in his quest of the sapphire always found himan exciting personage--yes, even when he was most still.

"You must have no fear on my account, Miss Cloud," he said with a smile."I shall make no scene, and I can play chemin-de-fer and baccara, and Ihave money enough."

"You are sure of that?" Imogen insisted.

"Quite. Don't forget that I had money enough to build a pagoda. And Ithink that I am not so far now from the end of my search but that itwill last me out."

We were curious to know how he had discovered the whereabouts of RobinCalhoun and he told us as we ate.

"I went among my old acquaintances in the City. They were of the flashykind, I regret to say, Miss Cloud, and I had an idea that it waspossible that I might pick up a line on Calhoun amongst them. I waslucky. They knew quite a lot about Jack Sanford and his partner and howwell they were doing."

Imogen was a little restless throughout the dinner and it was not untilwe were half-way through that she explained her restlessness. Michaelwas drinking water.

"Don't you think that a glass of champagne would be helpful?" she asked;and Michael beamed at her.

"I might just as well, Miss Cloud," he said, "since I am eating at thisforbidden hour. I have laid aside my yellow robe for the time being, asI have quite a right to do, and I am committing no fault, whatever I eatand drink. But I claim the right of our race to be illogical and I'll goon drinking water."

He insisted that there was no demand to be made upon any of us thatevening, no scandal in which our names would figure.

"I want to see my man, perhaps the lady too, so that I may know themagain. I want to scrape an acquaintance with one of them at all events,if I can. I haven't a gun or a mask or a car to make a getaway. There'llbe no thrills, Miss Cloud, to-night."

But he was wrong. There were to be thrills, though they were not causedby Michael Crowther, and no man was more surprised than he when theyoccurred. The quest of the sapphire indeed was proceeding on theordinary plane of human affairs. Sometimes chance helped him, sometimesit thwarted him; and on this night it was unexpectedly to help him,although at the time not one of us was able to recognise any signs ofhis good fortune.

* * * * *

We went early to Savile Row in order to give Michael a chance of findinga seat at the big table. It was eleven when we entered the room and thetable was being actually made up, so that Michael could only find aplace at one end. There had been no trouble about his admission; andonce in the room he did not even provoke the least curiosity. The playwas the thing and, anyway, odder birds than he had found a welcome atJack Sanford's little casino. Imogen and I stood behind Crowther's chairand watched. We noticed that Monsieur de Craix had brought a couple offriends with him, one a thin, finicking, timorous, dilettante personwhom I heard addressed as Mr. Julius Ricardo, and the other a burlymiddle-aged Frenchman with a blue shaven skin, inclined to be a trifleboisterous. Both of them seemed to me astonishing companions for soobvious a member of the French Jockey Club as the spruce young Vicomtede Craix. Or rather, they would have seemed astonishing companions inany other gathering. But if misfortune makes strange bed-fellows, agambling-house makes stranger. Monsieur de Craix, who was seated next tothe croupier, introduced the Frenchman to Robin Calhoun across thetable.

"This is my very good friend, Monsieur Chaunard. I marked the place forhim next to you, Mr. Calhoun," and he laughed, adding: "He likes a game,I can tell you."

Robin Calhoun bowed to this new-comer upon his right, smiled, ran ashrewd eye over him and was content.

"You are of Paris?" he asked, and Monsieur Chaunard shook his headvigorously.

"No, no, my friend, look at me! I am of the Provinces. I make the chinapots at Limoges. Now I take my holiday from the business." He sat downin his chair and rubbed his hands together loudly. Close by my side Iheard a little prim voice:

"Vulgar! Vulgar!" and I saw that this new Mr. Ricardo was standing at myside and in quite a twitter lest the man from Limoges should misbehave.

The cards were brought in to Robin Calhoun who tore the wrappers fromthe packs and handed them across the table for the croupier to shuffle.By the side of the croupier on the one side, as I have said, was theVicomte de Craix, and on the other, exactly opposite to MonsieurChaunard, sat a man in the early forties whom I had seen and talked toonce or twice before, a partner in a famous firm of stockbrokers namedArnold Mann and a very level-headed person. Chaunard turned to hisneighbour on his right.

"You have the good fortune? Yes? No? For me, I think you shall seesomething to-night. Yes. I feel that I am in my veins."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," murmured Mr. Ricardo. "In the vein."

The murmur reached Monsieur Chaunard's ears, and he smiled blandly athis twittering Ricardo.

"No, no, you are wrong, my friend," he said simply. "It is a phrase. Iam in my veins. It means I am not the weathercock which turns South andEast and North and West. No, I go plong for the nine," and he slappedhis hand down on the table as though he pinned the famous card downthere for good. Mr. Ricardo was, I think, dazed by that wondrousconfusion of veins and vanes. He had no words and we no eyes for him.For the game was beginning.

We saw the cards, now one thick pack, passed back to Robin Calhoun. Heheld them tightly between his thumb and his fingers and extended them tothe right and the left across the table, offering at the same time withhis left hand a blank red card so that anyone could slip it into thepack and make a cut wherever he or she chose. I think the pack was cutsix times. There was an air of expectation in the room that night whichpassed from one to the other of us and held certainly those who stoodabout the table in a curious suspense. We waited for a great duellobetween the manufacturer from Limoges and Robin Calhoun. Imogen at myside, for instance, was standing with her lips parted, her eyes fixed onRobin Calhoun. There was something in her gaze which reminded me faintlyof the afternoon in the rest-house on the road to Anuradhapura, when Ihad seen her upright against the wall. Mr. Ricardo on the other side ofme was breathing hard and lifting himself ridiculously on his toes andso down again. I, too, was waiting for a curtain to go up. Or, rather,the curtain had gone up and I was waiting for the action to begin. Therewere the characters brightly illuminated; Jack Sanford looking oncomfortably with a big cigar between his lips; Robin Calhoun glancinground the table once with a question: "Is that staked?" when a chip wasa little too near the line; the impassive croupier opposite with hislong broad blade of very thin black wood; the young Vicomte de Craixnext to him with his eyeglass; and opposite, the big black man fromLimoges, his thumbs in the armholes of his white waistcoat, at his ease,completely in his veins, with a vast smile upon his face as though hewanted to kiss the world.

"I begin with the moderation," he said and pushed a ten-pound chip overthe line. Mr. Ricardo gulped audibly. It might have been his money whichwas pushed over the line. "Afterwards we shall see."

We did see. The man from Limoges took the cards for the right-handtableau, a financier from the Argentine those upon the left. I did notnotice the value of the cards, but I remember that the bank won from thefirst or right-hand tableau and was on an equality with the second. Atthe second coup he won from both tableaux. The bank had started withfive hundred pounds and it must now have amounted to double that sum. AsRobin Calhoun began to deal the third coup, the man from Limoges beganhis antics.

Calhoun dealt two cards to each tableau and two to himself. He dealtthem one by one, face downwards in the usual way, one to the right, oneto the left, one to himself, and so again. It was the croupier'sbusiness to lift the two cards for the right and left tableaux in turnon his long blade, still face downwards, and present them to the playerwhose turn it was to hold them. The two cards for the right hand werethus in the first instance dealt in front of Monsieur Chaunard, althoughit was the second player to his right who would handle them. MonsieurChaunard did not touch them. It was not his right. He was leaning backin his chair perfectly correctly. But he looked at the backs of them andsaid gently but clearly, so clearly that the croupier who had alreadystretched forward his blade to pass the cards on, stopped in the middleof his movement:

"Aha, we lose again. We have a bûche and a one. And our friends on theleft they have an eight and three, also making one. And the dealer hehas a bûche and a six. We must draw a card on our side, by the law."He looked round at an assemblage outraged into silence. "We shall drawagain the one, making us two. Our friend on the left, he too must draw.He will draw a two making him three. And the dealer having six will notdraw. So, as I say, he will win."

The silence was broken by the indignant voice of Mr. Jack Sanford.

"Really, Mossoo le Vicomte, your friend----"

"He has the bad flavour--yes," said the man from Limoges genially, andat my side Mr. Ricardo in a sort of agony:

"Taste! Taste!"

Robin Calhoun turned with a smile to Chaunard.

"You agree?" said he. "Not quite out of the top drawer, what?"

Chaunard moved his head forward quickly, and there was for a second aflutter of alarm about the table. But it seemed to me that as yet, atall events, there was no chance of trouble. Chaunard was not so muchgoaded by the insult as interested in the phrase. He, in fact, and RobinCalhoun were the coolest people present. Robin was marvellous.

"It is, of course, impossible to continue the game. I beg you all towithdraw your stakes."

He reached his hand out to the stack of cards leaning against the restin front of him. It was like good acting, quicker than life and veryneat but without any appearance of hurry. In a fraction of a second hewould have picked up the pack and scattered it in confusion over thetable. But he did not get that second. Monsieur Chaunard who, with hisblue chin, really looked like an actor, was by a fraction of a secondquicker. A very strong hand pounced upon Robin's wrist.

"Let the cards stay as they are," said Chaunard, and such authority rangin his voice that we were all taken by surprise--even Robin Calhoun. Forhe shrugged his shoulders and sat back in his chair. Then from theopposite side of the table, where, in fact, we were standing, anothervoice, very cool and quiet, was raised, Mr. Arnold Mann's.

"Yes, let the cards stay as they are, and, Jack, perhaps you had betterclose the doors to the buffet."

I never saw anything more sinister than the aspect of that table, withthe company still as a set of images and their eyes watching lestCalhoun's fingers should touch the stack of cards in front of him or thecroupier's blade the four cards still face downwards upon the table. Inthe other room voices were being raised, questions were being asked,there was an excited surge of people towards the double doors. Mr. JackSanford was just in time to prevent a rush into this quiet room.

"Just a moment!" he cried. "It is a little question. Stand back, please.In a moment I open again."

He managed to close the doors but he did not open again. The stockbrokerwith the cool voice continued:

"Let us see whether this gentleman is right. You said that your cardswere a ten and a one. Will you turn them up?"

Monsieur Chaunard obeyed. They were a ten and a one.

"And the second tableau was an eight and a three. Let us see them."

He reached across the table and turned them up himself.

"Yes, they are an eight and a three. Now let us see the dealer's."

But Calhoun did not move. To upset the big stack now would have been aconfession of guilt to a charge which no one had formulated. With hisown two cards he was not concerned.

"They may be any two out of the pack," said he.

"And what do you say they are, Monsieur Chaunard?" Arnold Mann asked.

"A bûche and a six."

Arnold Mann himself took the scoop from the croupier, and using infinitecare not to touch the big pack stacked against the rest, lifted daintilyupon the blade the two cards in front of Robin, and turning them overdropped them in the middle of the table. There they were, a King and asix.

Again there was a stir about the table. I wondered that Robin Calhounsat in his place so still. If he scattered the big pack even now, weshould take it as a confession, no doubt, but we should have no proof.But I think now that he was afraid. The stir was no longer to be putdown to fear. There was anger--yes, even amongst those well-dressedunobtrusive people of good manner, the dangerous anger of the mass.

"And the next cards to be turned up?" Mann asked, looking at Chaunard.

Chaunard looked round the table.

"With your consent..." he said, and with such light fingers that onecould hardly believe they belonged to such big strong hands, he pickedup the stack of cards and held them out to the stockbroker.

"The first card for our tableau here will be an ace and for theleft-hand tableau a two," he said.

Amidst a deadly silence Arnold Mann exposed the two top cards, an aceand a two. Here and there a cry of anger rose. It looked as though thestorm must burst. But the stockbroker and the man from Limoges betweenthem held the gathering in control.

"I think you should explain," said the stockbroker.

"I will do better. I will make you an experiment first. I will tell youthe cards you hold one by one, and one by one you shall turn them up."

No one had eyes now for either Jack Sanford who stood by the door aswhite as a perspiring ghost, if so strange a thing could be, or forRobin Calhoun who sat in his place with a mask for a face, a maskwithout an expression. Chaunard gave the value of a card and a card ofthat value the stockbroker turned up. So it went on in a monotonousexactitude until the pack was exhausted.

Our admiration of such a feat was immense, but Monsieur Chaunard did notwait for its expression. He beamed on us. He handed himself bouquets onthe instant--Caruso after singing "La donna è mobile" to an Italianaudience.

"That was good? Yes? Worthy of the bravos? I think so. Aha, MisterBanker," and he swung round upon Robin Calhoun. "Me--it may be--I do notcome out of the top of my drawers, but the memory, he does!"

"Revolting!" twittered Mr. Ricardo.

Imogen leaned forward right across me.

"Nonsense! He's an absolute darling!"

"Silence, if you please," said Mr. Mann.

"Yes, the silence, whilst I talk," Chaunard agreed enthusiastically."Monsieur de Craix, he comes to see me in Paris."

"At Limoges," said the stockbroker.

"I make the apologies. We are the mugs here to-night but I do not makeus at Limoges. No. I inhabit Paris. At times I come to stay with afriend in London"--and here Mr. Ricardo shifted his feetuncomfortably--"just to keep myself fresh in the idioms of yourlanguage. But that is all. M. de Craix, he says to me: 'There is a gameof baccara. Often it is--oblong.'"

"Square," said Mr. Ricardo.

"Well, square or oblong. 'But now and then there is a big killing.' Sohaving a holiday I come and I am lucky. For the first time I come thereis to be the big killing--the 705 system, as the old chief of myestablishment used to call it. I beg your attention."

He rose and walked across the room to a desk upon which some packs ofcards lay in their wrappers. As he rose Robin Calhoun rose, too, and atonce Arnold Mann, the stockbroker, spoke sharply.

"You will wait, if you please, Mr. Calhoun."

"Yes," said the Frenchman over his shoulder. "Certainly the gentlemanshould wait. Both the gentlemen should wait. For there may berestitutions."

Decorous as the whole conduct of this scandalous affair had been, thatone word restitutions sent a wave of brightness and hope throughout thecompany. Mr. Robin Calhoun resumed his seat with a shrug of theshoulders and a contemptuous face. Mr. Jack Sanford, holding tight tothe handles of the double doors, looked as if he were going to faint.

Monsieur Chaunard, no longer of Limoges, brought a pack of cards to thebaccara table and resumed his seat. He stripped the wrapper from thepack.

"I will arrange the cards in an order," and he turned over the top card.It was a seven. He looked at the second--it was a ten. He laughed andlooked at the third--it was a five. He rose and bowed with greatceremony to Jack Sanford.

"I thank you. My work is done for me, and then the wrapper replaced."

He laid out the cards face upwards in four lines of thirteen cards to aline. Counting the Court cards and the tens of no value, the object ofthe game being to get nine or as near to it as possible, the values ranas follows. For I made a note of them as the cards were turned up.

 7 0 5 9 0 2 6 0 4 1 3 6 0 8 0 1 2 6 9 0 8 7 0 9 7 0 4 9 0 2 5 0 4 8 0 3 2 0 8 1 1 3 5 5 3 4 0 0 0 6 0 7

Monsieur Chaunard contemplated the cards with a smile.

"This is the combination known to a famous chief of my establishment,Monsieur Goron, as 705. You see the very good reason," and he pointed tothe first three cards of the top row. "Yes, it is all correct. I havehim by the heart. Now I gather the cards all up in that order, beginningat the top row and working from left to right like the grousers from themoors in your illustrated papers. So!"

I had never seen a man so completely savouring the enjoyment of theleading part. He was Mounet-Sully and Coquelin and Henry Irving andLucien Guitry all rolled into one. He beamed, he--I find no other wordfor it--he listened to the deep silence of the room, he watched the eyesriveted upon his hands. He was happy.

"So!"

He had the pack in his hand, the cards now face upwards and the lastcard picked up showing a seven of spades. He turned the pack over sothat now the backs were uppermost and the top card, of course, was thefirst seven.

"Now," he said, "in that order, which was the order of the pack when itlay upon the desk there, the banker cannot lose one coup. Once or twicethere may be an equality. Every other time he wins."

Robin Calhoun laughed sarcastically.

"I think our unusual visitor is forgetting that the cards wereshuffled," he said.

To my amazement, and to Mr. Ricardo's disgust, the big visitor becameplayful. He turned and dug his long middle finger into Robin's whitewaistcoat at the level of his waist.

"That is the good one!"

"Ah," murmured Mr. Ricardo. "A good one."

"No, no, my friend," Chaunard continued, taking no notice whatever ofMr. Ricardo. "It is you who do the shuffle now with the words, and yourcroupier who did not do the shuffle with the cards then. I watch him.With my eyes, I watch him."

"Well, I don't suppose you watched him with your feet," said Robinsourly.

"Yes, I watch him. And he shuffle as a hundred tenth-rate conjurers canshuffle, without altering the lie of one card."

"But I cut the pack afterwards," cried a woman towards the end of thetable.

"So did I!"

"So did I!"

Other voices joined in but they left Monsieur Chaunard quite unmoved.

"And so you shall again, madame. And you! And you! And you!"

With an excellent mimicry of Robin Calhoun, he daintily extended thepack held tight between the fingers and thumb of one hand, and the redcard for the cut with the other. "As many as will. The cut, it makes nodifference. The 705 is a work of genius. Now you, monsieur! Now you!"

I think that he had the pack cut seven times.

"Will someone sweep those old packs off the table?" he asked, and assoon as that was done he moved the rest across from in front of Robin toin front of Arnold Mann.

"You are the banker. And you cannot lose!"

Arnold Mann slipped the cards off the pack to right and to left and tohimself, turned them face upwards, refused cards or drew cards as thehands required, when the pack was exhausted sat back.

"It is true. The banker wins every coup." He looked steadily for amoment or two at Monsieur Chaunard. "And what is this establishment ofyours of which you spoke?"

Monsieur Chaunard shrugged his shoulders.

"The Sûreté of Paris," he replied, and a movement rippled swiftly aboutthe table like a flaw of wind about a pond. "You have an establishmentof the same kind here. You call it the Q.E.D."

"No, no!" Mr. Ricardo was of too precise a mind to endure so ridiculousa variation. "The C.I.D.," he cried like a man suffering grievously fromthe toothache. "The C.I.D.," and he repeated the initials, spacing them,so that never such a mistake might occur again.

Monsieur Chaunard was charming, not at all annoyed by the unnecessaryinterruption, just dignified and firm, if I may use his admirablephrase, a man in his veins. He looked rather sorrowfully at Mr. Ricardo.

"My friend, you overstep a little. In the socialities I am at your feet.But in the matters of police, I know. I read your papers. I see greatriddles solved and at the end--what? Q.E.D. Ah, a fine tribute! ThePress--it gives us no such recognition in France."

"Very well," said Arnold Mann a trifle impatiently, "you belong to theQ.E.D. of France."

"It is so."

"And your name?"

"I am Hanaud." The reply was made with a superb simplicity. "In everygeneration our police has a Hanaud. I am he of this one."

There seemed to be nothing further to be said and Hanaud rose from hischair.

"You will understand, Mr. Sanford, Mr. Calhoun, that I am not hereofficially. If ever you came to France that would be another matter. Buthere I am the friend of Monsieur de Craix and all that I can do is torepeat one little word--restitutions."

He bowed ceremoniously and in a dead silence he went out of the roomwith Mr. Ricardo at his heels. He had hardly closed the door behind himbefore the spell was broken. A veritable clamour broke out. Thoseimprisoned in the buffet added their voices and their strength. Thedouble doors bent and broke. Jack Sanford was swept aside; a wave ofcurious, angry people surged in to mingle with the others. And all atonce that decorous assemblage became a mob, ugly, raw, deadly. JackSanford, shaking with fear, cowered against the wall. In front of him athrong of hysterical women and excited men threatened him. Fine clotheswent for nothing. It was mob-passion working up to the fling of thefirst stone; and of the two sexes it seemed to me that the women werethe more alarming.

"Ladies--gentlemen--we will put all right. It was a mistake--someone hastricked us all," Jack Sanford screamed in a high shrill feminine screamwhich made me feel sick. And at once jeers and cries interrupted him.But amongst them all was one in the room who kept his head. I caughtImogen to my side and drew her away towards the windows upon Savile Row.I looked about for Michael Crowther. He had disappeared. I said tomyself bitterly: "He has bolted. Pongyis don't fight even to protect thewomen they are with," and as the thought flashed into my mind, the dooron to the staircase was thrown open and Michael stood upon thethreshold. He cried in a voice which overtopped the tumult so that not aman nor a woman but must hear him:

"The police!"

It was a word of magic.

"The police!" he cried again and his voice rang with authority. He wasagain as in old days the captain of a ship and the ship in danger. Theshouts were hushed, the abuse and the threats died away in growls. Noone wanted the police brought into the affair. All turned towards thedoor; and with a spontaneous single movement the women fell back, themen ranged themselves in front of them. A bare space of floor litteredwith fragments of lace was left between the men and Crowther at thedoor.

"You?" said Arnold Mann. "You are of the police?"

Michael shook his head.

"There are no police," he answered quietly. "But in five minutes therewould have been."

A gasp of relief followed upon his words. A woman here and there evenbegan to repair her face and her toilet. There was suddenly a sense ofshame. In the midst of the silence Crowther stalked across the room. Helooked at Imogen and myself.

"You and I, at all events, have no reason to stay."

We followed him down the stairs without a word. Imogen and I got ourcoats from the cloak-room and went out. Even in that quiet street a tinycrowd had gathered. For once the silent room had spoken but it wassilent again now. I had parked my car a few houses away. Crowther wasstill in command. We drove away.

Chapter 18
Imogen Asks Questions

At the corner where Clifford Street runs into Bond Street Crowtherasked to be put down. I stopped the car but Imogen said:

"Please wait a moment, Michael."

It was a small car and we were all together on the one seat with Imogenbetween Michael and myself. She turned her face towards him.

"Didn't you feel to-night that you had a place in the world?" she asked.

Michael was silent.

"In this world--here?"

Michael moved his legs uncomfortably.

"And rather a fine place if you chose."

"I think I'll get down," said Crowther.

But he did not open the door. Imogen was still looking at him. I wasremembering small, long-forgotten things--not his bumptiousness nor hisdishonesty--but how completely he was master of his ship amongst theswirls and sand-banks of the Irrawaddy and with what neatness andcertainty he had edged her into the one tiny vacant space in the line ofsteamers at Mandalay. Thus we sat without speaking for a few moments.Then Imogen continued her questioning.

"How old are you, Crowther?"

"Forty-three," he answered.

"Not too old," said Imogen.

"To lose one's soul again? No. Not too old for that," he replied. Hishand moved towards the catch of the door, but Imogen had not done withhim.

"You were sure of yourself to-night, Crowther. One could tell it fromyour voice. You had authority. You were the Centurion who says unto one,Go, and he goeth and to another, Come, and he cometh."

Crowther's hand fell to his side again. It seemed to me that Imogen waspressing him rather cruelly.

"You enjoyed your moment to-night, Crowther."

Crowther did not answer, but Imogen pressed him.

"I could hear that, too, in your voice. You enjoyed it."

"Yes, I did."

Crowther made the admission reluctantly, remorsefully.

"Well, then!" cried Imogen.

"The more blame to me," Crowther answered. "It was vanity."

"It was power."

And with his next words Crowther's calmness broke up like the face of apool in a sudden storm. His voice was low but vibrant with passion.

"No! I tried here. I failed here. I was more unhappy here than Ibelieved it possible that a man could be."

Imogen caught him up.

"You tried... you failed... you were unhappy...." She repeated,weighing his words. Were there ever reasons so feeble? They sounded allthe more lamentable in that there was no contempt in Imogen's voice. Anote of surprise, perhaps, that the man who had dominated a room full ofhysterical and violent people should use such excuses, but no more thanthat.

"Service means nothing, then," she said gently, and Crowther started asthough she had slapped his face.

"I have only one thing to do here and then I'm through. Through! Do youhear that?" And in a gust of bitterness he added: "I hope I won't seeyou again."

He snatched at the handle of the door and flung himself out of the car.He banged the door to and stood for a moment on the kerb. The light of astreet-lamp showed us his face. It was white and his eyes weresmouldering with resentment. Then he turned on his heel and went back bythe way we had come--up Clifford Street towards Savile Row.

Imogen looked straight in front of her with her face set. She was hurt,and deeply hurt. I felt a swift unreasonable stab of jealousy. Whyshould Imogen be so concerned? Why should Crowther so disquiet us withhis lost sapphire?

"It might be the Kohinoor," I grumbled.

Imogen shook her head.

"It isn't a jewel at all. It's an idea," she answered.

It was at all events the symbol of an idea. But the idea had given usnothing but trouble and to Imogen had brought actual danger. Itstretched over our heads as the shadow of Adam's Peak stretched overRatnapura. I drove on slowly, wishing that I had never set foot on thegangway of the Dagonet nor made the acquaintance of her Captain.

Suddenly Imogen laid her hand upon my arm.

"Do you mean that, Martin?" she asked.

"I never said a word," I answered.

"You didn't have to. I knew what you were wishing and I don't want youto wish it. For I think we found our way to one another sooner than weotherwise should have done because of Michael's sapphire."

I had no answer to that. The morning on Adam's Peak, the day at therest-house in the jungle, the meeting on the terrace of the Rock-Templeat Dhambulla--they had made a whole world of difference to both of us.

"You're right, sweetheart," I said, and since at this time of night Icould drive across Mayfair with one hand, I slipped my left arm abouther waist. "We'll do what we can."

But I never looked upon Crowther with the same eyes afterwards, northought of him with the same regard. A little while ago he had growninto an aloof and romantic figure--the man who must recognise no ties,be moved by no love, and owe no duty. But four words spoken by Imogenhad stripped the romance from him. "Service means nothing, then?" Iwanted to be fair. I knew that the monks taught and taught well, butthere was no obligation upon them to teach. Their monastery grounds wereschool-rooms but they need not keep them open. Service was no part oftheir creed. Service meant nothing and I could not remember anythingworth devoting a life to into which service did not enter.

And Crowther bristled with anger. For he had no answer.

Chapter 19
Jill Leslie

The establishment of Jack Sanford was open for the last time on thenight when the man from Limoges had the bad flavour to demonstrate the705 formula. I might go home as late as I would, I saw no light slippast the edges of the curtains into Savile Row. All was dark in thatupper apartment. A board announced that a commodious flat was to let andone day the big vans of an auctioneer carried all the furniture away toa sales-room. Robin Calhoun had vanished. Michael Crowther and histroubles passed for a little time out of my knowledge and might,perhaps, have done so altogether but for one of Imogen's idiosyncrasies.

It was one of her pleasures to discover a new restaurant, and thesmaller the better. At once all her friends must try it. The cooking wasthe best in London, the cellar stocked with unparalleled vintages. Therenever had been a restaurant so choice, though there was certain to beanother one just a tiny bit better when in the course of a month or twoanother discovery was made. Late in June of this year Imogen discoveredsuch a paragon of a place in that capital of little restaurants, Soho.It was a long, low, frenchified room with cushioned benches against thewall and scrubby menus written out in copying ink, and it was called LeBuisson. Two little green trees in two little green tubs stood outsidethe window upon the pavement. There was a patron and severalspécialitiés of the maison which were quite marvellous; and, infact, it was quite indistinguishable from half a dozen similarrestaurants within a radius of a hundred yards. To Le Buisson I wasaccordingly taken on the very last day of June. We dined there at eighto'clock intending to go to a cinema afterwards, and as we took our seatsI noticed, a little way down the room, a young singer who was beginningto make her mark in the world. Letty Ransome. She was of a quitelustrous beauty with black hair and a pale, clear face romantic inrepose. She gave an entertainment single-handed with a piano to helpher.

"Won't she be late?" I asked of Imogen.

"No. She comes on late nowadays. I saw her at the Corinth a couple ofdays ago," Imogen answered. "You see who's with her?"

I had not seen more than the back of her head, for she was talkingearnestly to Letty Ransome, but she turned her face towards us at thatmoment.

"Why, it's the girl who was with De Craix at Jack Sanford's----" Andthen I stopped with a gasp. "Do you see what she's wearing?"

"Yes," said Imogen without any surprise whatever.

The girl carried about her neck the platinum chain with the sapphirependant. "Yes, that's Jill Leslie." And as she spoke the names shesmiled at the girl and gave her a nod of recognition.

"How in the world did you learn that?" I asked. "She was never withRobin Calhoun."

I remembered, indeed, that on the last evening she had come to the houseat the same time as ourselves, with a stranger.

"Yes, I know," Imogen agreed. "But she always had a word or two once ortwice with Robin Calhoun, a look or two more often. So I guessed evenbefore the night when Ricardo and his detective appeared. But that nightmade me certain."

Jill Leslie, meanwhile, had opened her big eyes with surprise atImogen's recognition of her, had flushed up to the top of her foreheadand then returned a little bow and a smile of thanks. Taken feature byfeature she could not have answered to any canon of beauty, I suppose,except for her eyes, which were big and clear and dark as pools in awood. Her hair was the most ordinary brown, her nose a trifletip-tilted, her mouth generously wide. But she had beautiful teeth and aMadonna-like oval of a face. What gave her charm was the contrastbetween this placid contour of a devotee and her humour and highspirits. She was quick in the uptake and had enjoyment ready at herfingers' ends. The right word, and the demure face was a tom-boy's--witha sparkle of champagne. At this moment in the restaurant, it wasgrateful and a little bewildered.

I asked Imogen what she would eat.

"Grapefruit, a trout meunière and a cheese soufflé," said she. "Itold you, Martin, darling, didn't I, that she was the one I was sorryfor?"

"You did, Imogen," I answered. "You have a catholic heart and the mostnarrow-minded appetite I ever came across."

"You see all her rings are gone."

I looked again at Jill Leslie.

"Now I see. There was a rope of big pearls, too, wasn't there?"

As we ate our dinner I began to be curious. I asked:

"You guessed that this girl was Jill Leslie pretty quickly?"

"Well--I don't know about that," Imogen replied.

"Sooner than I did, anyway."

"Darling, you didn't guess it at all. I had to tell you. You hadn't theslightest idea. Oh, I'm not disheartened about it. I've no doubt thatyou were thinking of higher things--how many elephants can push how manylogs into the Irrawaddy, if there was Summer Time in Burma. No, I amdelighted that you shouldn't see what's under your nose. It gives megreat hopes for our married life."

"When you've done," I said, "I should like to ask you a question."

"My other name's Sibyl," said Imogen. "My spiritual home is Delphi."

"Very well. You want Michael to get back his sapphire and hang it up onhis pagoda?"

"I certainly do," Imogen answered firmly. "I had a foolish moment or twowhen I tried to argue him out of his plan. But I was wrong. He has got abelief and that's much too tremendous a thing for little people tomeddle with. I've got an idea that Michael without his belief would bevery like a Pekinese dog close shaved, nothing very much to look atanyway. But with his belief he's the milk in the cocoanut. I shouldn'twonder if that big voice of authority which brought us all to our sensesin the house in Savile Row was nothing more than--what shall I say?--aby-product--I know that's a good word--of his belief."

I had not been prepared for this treatise on faith. I had to revise myown views a little by the light of it. I had lightly put down that voiceof authority to a renascent habit of command, a readiness for anemergency which the Captain of a ship must have. But, after all, theswirls and shallows of the Irrawaddy did not make such very heavydemands upon the quality of a Commander, whilst the manoeuvre of edging asteamer into a vacant space against the bank at Mandalay must fallwithin the routine of every voyage. No, I must look to something elsethan the command of a river steamer for the power which had come out ofMichael Crowther in volume enough to stop a riot.

"Very well," I said. "Then here's my question."

"Yes, darling?"

Imogen spoke indulgently like a schoolmistress encouraging the firstsigns of intelligence in a pupil.

"You didn't tell Michael which of the young women at Jack Sanford's wasJill Leslie?"

"No, darling."

"But you want Michael to get back his sapphire?"

"Yes, dear."

"Then why didn't you tell him who had it?"

Imogen looked at the wall across the room. There was a short silence.Then she said:

"Is not the peacock a beautiful bird?"

I expected that there would at all events be the picture of a peacockpainted on the opposite wall. But it was quite blank. Then I rememberedmy own attempt at general conversation after dinner at Hatton.

"The Socratic method of enquiry seems unpopular," I reflected aloud.

"And unreasonable," said Imogen. "Women are often right but seldomlogical."

At the table further down the room a waiter was presenting a bill, andLetty Ransome was redecorating her lips with the help of a littlehand-mirror. Imogen wrote a few lines on the menu, folded it, wrote aname upon it and handed it to our waiter.

"I've asked Jill Leslie to have coffee with us. You don't mind, Martin,do you? I'm curious about her--rather moved by her." Imogen laughed asshe added: "Besides, I'd like to find out for my own satisfaction why Ididn't tell Michael that she was the girl who had his sapphire."

The two girls walked down the room towards the door. As they reached ourtable I stood up and made a place for Jill Leslie by the side of Imogenon the bench against the wall. Letty Ransome said: "Good night! I musthurry," and passed along and out. The waiter brought a chair for mewhich he placed at the end of our little table. And Jill the next momentwas seated between us. I think that she had not meant to sit down. Shehad intended to make an excuse and go away with Letty Ransome. But shehad been taken by surprise and she looked from one to the other of uswith a wild fear. She was between us, she had been captured, she halfrose and sat down again. She cried out in a sharp, low voice:

"It's no good. There's nothing more. The others stripped us to theskin."

"We want nothing at all. Neither of us ever played at the big table," Isaid. "Imogen would like you to have coffee with us. That's all."

"Why?" asked Jill Leslie. She was still looking from one to the other ofus, less afraid but more bewildered. She gave me the impression of ananimal caught in a trap.

"Why? Why?" she repeated, and for answer Imogen laid a hand upon her armand ordered the coffee. Jill Leslie set her elbows on the table andburied her face in her hands.

"All those people there--most of them, anyway--they were horrible. Theythreatened us. Prison! Oh!" and her shoulders worked. "And lots of themhad won.... It was only now and then that Robin... Oh, why be kindto me?" She turned to Imogen. "I brought people there.... Yes, youguessed it.... But they had it all back... and more, too. They hadeverything."

"Your pearls, too?" said Imogen gently.

"Of course," answered Jill Leslie. "You see, there was Robin.... Theythreatened him. Everything had to go."

"Except the sapphire," said Imogen, and Jill Leslie's hand darted up toher throat to make sure that the chain was still about her neck.

"I meant to keep that if I could," she said in a low voice. "You don'tknow. Oh!----"

Jill Leslie was labouring under an excitement which I did notunderstand. Her hands fluttered, her eyes shone unnaturally bright. Thelittle restaurant was almost empty now, and Jill Leslie, moved byImogen's tenderness, poured out the strangest story to us, the strangersof an hour ago.

"I was in a convent school in Kensington--it's only two years ago. I wasstudying music. I can sing--I can really sing. I was eighteen. I used togo out, of course, for my singing lessons. A girl at one of my classesintroduced Robin to me. It wasn't just the sort of thing a schoolgirldreams about. At once it wasn't. From the first I knew that this was myman. He might be anything--all that the fine people in the room atSavile Row called him--it didn't matter. I belonged to him if he wantedme. And he did want me."

She had been talking under her breath with her hands pressed to herforehead and her head bent. But she lifted it up now. There were tearsupon her cheeks, but the glimmer of a smile about her lips.

"We had no plans. I suppose we felt that the world would fall down onits knees and make a path for us. I was allowed to go out at night everynow and then to concerts and the opera with my singing mistress. She wasa darling. One night, without telling her anything--I used a concert atthe Queen's Hall as an excuse and said that some friends had invited me.I went with Robin to a musical play at the Hippodrome. It was divine tome. I had all the colour and the bright dresses and the dancing and themusic in front of me, and Robin at my side. I was off the earthaltogether. There are times, an hour, a moment, when you live." Shelooked again from one to the other of us, but no longer in fear. "Iexpect both of you know--something like music itself--beyond words,beyond even thought which you can understand. We went on to a supperclub afterwards, Robin all fine in a white tie and shiny shoes, and mein a little schoolgirl's evening dress. The waiters knew him. My, but Iwas proud! There were lovely grown-up women in gorgeous gowns andjewels. I had to keep hold of Robin's arm, I was so sure one of themwould snatch him away from me. And my heart kept thumping away until Ithought I'd die. We danced. I was afraid to get up in my little whitesilk frock amongst all those goddesses. But Robin said that they'd allgive me their jewels and gowns in exchange for my youth and freshnessand have much the better of the bargain. So we danced. Oh, dear!--themoment we danced there was nothing anywhere but us two dancing. Nosupper-room, no people, just a sort of lovely swooning music and we twodancing to it in a mist. When we went back to our table... there wasa clock over the door exactly opposite to us--a big clock like a sunwith gold rays sticking out all round it. I looked at the clock. It wastwo in the morning."

Jill Leslie stopped to take breath. She had been pouring out her storyin a seething jumble of words. She had to tell it to the first pair ofsympathetic ears she met with; and here was Imogen, her friendly soulinviting confessions, her frank and lovely eyes promising at oncesecrecy and understanding. I offered a cigarette to Jill and handed toher a red lighter out of my pocket. The little flame lit up the girl'sface with its odd look of strain and wildness. Her hand so shook thatshe could hardly hold her cigarette still and the flame wavered so thatI thought she would never light it at all.

"Could I have something to drink?" she asked.

There was still a glass of champagne left in our bottle. I poured it outfor her.

"Will that do?"

Jill Leslie nodded her thanks and drank the wine down, throwing up herhead as though her throat were parched.

"I was frightened out of my wits for a moment. I couldn't go back to theconvent. It was too late. If I had gone, I might not have got in. If Ihad got in I should have been expelled the next morning," Jill resumed."But the next morning I was glad. It was up to Robin, you see. He tookme home with him. The flat in Savile Row was his then. He had lots ofmoney. I suppose he had made it in the same way. I didn't know. I didn'tcare. I was with him. He sent out for clothes for me the next morning.We went to Paris. He gave me my pearls there. In the autumn we startedoff round the world. We went to the West Indies, Panama, the South Seas,Tokio, Java--it was wonderful. We were two years on the journey. Imagineit! No school, no nuns, colour and heat and light, and new amusingthings to see every day. And at Colombo he bought me this sapphire----"

She broke off at this point abruptly.

"You brought a man with you to Savile Row," she said.

"Michael Crowther," said I.

"I didn't like him."

"Why?"

"He was"--Jill searched for a word--"secret. He was thinking all thetime of one thing but you weren't to know what it was until he sprung iton you."

I laughed.

"That's a pretty good description of Michael."

"I like people to be natural and friendly. I don't want them to crabother people or be sarcastic or mysterious. I like them to fit in andtake their part with the rest. They needn't be clever so long as they'rebright. But that man! He was an iceberg."

"But, my dear," said Imogen, "you hardly spoke to him. He went away withus."

"But he came back," said Jill.

I was startled.

"That night?"

"Yes."

"But he had lost nothing. One small stake, perhaps."

"He didn't come back for money," said Jill. "I didn't at that time knowwhy he had come back. He made an excuse downstairs that he had left hishat and coat behind. Otherwise the door-keeper wouldn't have let him inagain. When he came upstairs I was standing by Robin. I couldn't leaveRobin to face all that riot of people with only poor Jack Sanford. Jackwas just like a suet pudding, wasn't he? So I stood by Robin and whilstthe others were demanding their money your friend asked me if I was JillLeslie, and when I said that I was, he thought that if I gave him ouraddress he might be able to help us. I was sure there was a snagsomewhere, but we were up against it, anyway. Jack Sanford owned theflat. We two were living in Berkeley Street and I gave him the address.Of course, we have moved since. We are down and out."

She turned to Imogen.

"Do you know what he wants?"

"Yes," said Imogen.

"What?"

"The sapphire."

Jill nodded her head.

"Funny, isn't it? He offered quite a price for it. But it'll be the lastthing I'll let go. I never took it to Jack Sanford's because I wasafraid that I might lose it. I have only got to take it in my hand and Ican go all round the world again. And I'm hoping now that I shan't haveto let it go at all."

"So things are better," I suggested.

"A little. I told you I could sing, didn't I? I've got a small part in anew comic opera called Dido."

The newspapers had during the last week or two been discreetly pepperedwith details of that stupendous production to be. We were all on edgefor it, or supposed to be. We certainly should be when the night of thefirst performance came. We knew of the famous comedian who was to playthe pious Æneas, of the great producer already on his way from Berlin,of the witty libretto which had actually arrived from Hammersmith, ofthe dresses and scenery to be designed by the modish young artist fromChelsea. We had heard of the music--we were to have melodies instead ofa rhythm with a saxophone--and how all Europe was being ransacked for asinger who would graft on the wildness of lovely Dido the sparkle of anexquisite gaiety.

"You're to be in Dido?" I cried. "We'll come on the first night andcheer you."

"You won't notice me," said Jill. "I've a little bit of a part and justenough of a salary, I think, to allow me to keep my sapphire."

She got up; and all at once the life had gone out of her. Her face hadlost its colour, her mouth drooped, her eyes were dull.

"I must go," she said. She held out a hand to each of us. "You have beenvery kind. I thank you both very much. You have been sweet to me. But webegin to rehearse to-morrow, and I must go home and rest."

She went off with a listless step and passed out by the door into thetiny porch. Through the upper glass panel of the door we saw her openher handbag. She spilled something upon her thumbnail and then raised itto her nostrils.

"I was sure of it," said Imogen.

"Cocaine?"

Imogen nodded.

"Poor little girl!" said she.

Imogen was silent for a few moments afterwards. We were quite alone inthe little restaurant now and rather in the way. For a waiter in hisshirt-sleeves was removing the table-cloths and piling the tables oneupon the other with a quite unnecessary noise. Imogen, however, wasunaware of these resounding hints. She said:

"You'll understand now, Martin, why I didn't tell Crowther that she wasthe girl who had the sapphire. I wanted to have a talk with her."

"And now that you have talked with her?" I asked.

"Yes, there we are," said Imogen.

And there, indeed, we were. On the one side Michael and his far-awaypagoda and the compulsion we were all under to help him in his quest. Onthe other hand this little unhappy girl who had only to hold thesapphire in her hand to live again in the warmth and joy of her tropicaladventure.

"What are we to do?" cried Imogen. "I believe that she's the sort ofgirl who wouldn't sell but would give that sapphire back, once she knewMichael's story. And then be heart-broken because she had done it." Shewas troubled. "What are we to do, Martin?"

I looked at the wall opposite and said:

"Is not the peacock a beautiful bird?"

Chapter 20
The First Night of Dido

Jill Leslie had gone before it struck either Imogen or myself how muchof her story she had left out. Her life might have begun at her conventschool for all that she had told us. There had not been a word of a homeor of parents or of other friends that she had made for herself. Aftershe had gone off with her Robin, no enquiry seemed to have been made forher, and certainly no search. It was not as though she had beendeliberately separating one phase of her youth for us, and keeping therest secret. She had been talking without control. We could speculateabout it as we chose, but I was persuaded that Jill knew no more thanwhat she had told us, that outside the school she had no home and wasacknowledged by no parents. And we never did know any more. Jill stoodin a solitary relief against the social web with its infinite threads.She must make her own path and find her own counsellors. It was thiscircumstance, dimly surmised at once by Imogen and only now understoodby me, which so keenly enlisted our sympathies and rather dulled ourenthusiasm in Michael Crowther's behalf. Jill was no doubt a wayward andwicked little girl, but she was a good fighter, she was constant to herlover through good fortune and through ill, and for whatever harm shedid, she paid.

Jill, then, went off to her rehearsals, Imogen and I to the settlementof our affairs and Michael Crowther dropped once more out of sight. Ourmarriage was to take place towards the end of July.

"You see, if we arrange that," said Imogen, "we might go to Munich,mightn't we, for the first fortnight of August and the Wagner Festivaland then run down to Venice?"

"We might certainly do that," said I.

"Martin, why don't you suggest something?" she asked.

"Because, my darling, if anything goes wrong with our honeymoon, I wantto be able to blame you and not you me," I answered.

"I think I shall have to turn Pamela on to you," said Imogenthoughtfully. "She knows the right words."

Pamela was to be a bridesmaid, so I was not alarmed. I had the whip handof the bridesmaids. One word of insolence--even the right word--and theygot a bouquet instead of a diamond buckle.

It was just a week before the wedding when Michael Crowther paid me avisit. He was looking thoroughly discouraged. It was seven o'clock inthe evening. He would take nothing but a seat, and he dropped into thatas if he would never get up out of it again.

"You're tired," I said.

He nodded his head.

"Walking about." He bent forward with his hands clasped between hisknees. "I don't know what I am going to do."

"I can tell you one thing you can do," I replied briskly. "You can cometo my wedding."

Crowther shook his head.

"No, I can't do that."

His answer was immediate and decided.

"Oh, indeed! My mistake!" said I, and I suppose that my face and voiceboth showed that I had taken offence. For he hastened to add:

"You're not misunderstanding me, Mr. Legatt. If I were to go to awedding it would surely be to yours. But, of course, it's out of thequestion that I should go to any."

That, for a moment, puzzled me. Here were we in London with the sunlightpouring into the room and the low roar of the streets floating throughthe open windows. Here was Michael dressed in a dark lounge suit likeany other man of my acquaintance. It was difficult for one so full ofhis affairs as I was to realise that half a world stood between us twoand our creeds. I sat down opposite to him.

"Wait a moment, Michael."

I transported myself to Burma. The priests of his creed were in no senseministers. Their concern was with their own souls and the smoothest pathto extinction. They neither sat by the beds of the sick nor shared intheir rejoicings. And of all festivals to be avoided a marriage was thefirst. They looked forward to the cessation of life that is and not thecreation of life to be. Of course Michael would never come to mywedding.

"Yes, I understand now. But I am sorry."

Ever since the night when Imogen had tempted him to renounce his purposeI had had a suspicion that he might do so. He had so brusquely anddefinitely fled from her questions and her company. I am sure that hewas shaken, that he had savoured his moment of authority with a thrillof keen pleasure. But the weakness had passed. He was the man of theyellow robe masquerading as a denizen of the world and seeing his cornerin his monastery at Pagan still barred away from him like a harbourbehind a reef.

"You tried to buy back your sapphire," I said.

"And I failed. To-day I am farther away from it than ever."

"How's that?" I asked.

He drew out of a pocket a folded evening paper. He unfolded it andhanded it to me.

"Read!"

The first item of the issue which leaped to my eye was a picture of JillLeslie. Side by side were the pleasant chubby features of the famousmanager who was responsible for the production of Dido. Across the topof the two columns of letterpress which these pictures adorned wasprinted in large capitals:

I read that the discovery had really been made some while ago. Miss JillLeslie off the stage had all the qualities which the leading partrequired, a lovely voice, humour, liveliness, a note of passion and agrace of movement. If she could reproduce these gifts behind thefootlights Mr. Donald would have earned the gratitude of the public bypresenting to it a new young prima donna.

* * * * *

"'But,' said Mr. Donald smiling, 'to quote a manager who has precededme, there was the rub. Would Miss Leslie come over the footlights? Ifso, I had the ideal representative of Dido. In order not to alarm her bytoo big a task and perhaps dishearten her in the end, I engaged her fora small part. Then I asked her to oblige me, whilst I was negotiatingfor a leading lady, to read Dido's part at our rehearsals and in returnI would give her the understudy.'"

Miss Leslie, it appeared, obliged with the greatest success, triumphedover the nervousness natural to one in her position and gave Mr. Donaldconfidence that he need look no further.

"'Yesterday evening, just before our first dress rehearsal,' Mr. Donaldcontinued, 'I told her that she was to play the part and, of course,receive a salary commensurate with its importance. We open at Manchesteron Monday night, play the opera for a month in that town and come toLondon early in September.'"

* * * * *

I folded the paper again and handed it back. Jill Leslie was to have herchance and I was delighted, as Imogen would be when she heard the news.I was anxious, indeed, that Michael should go away so that I couldtelephone to Imogen. But on the other hand, if Jill made a success ofit, Michael was further from his sapphire than ever. I saw again JillLeslie clasping the jewel tight in the palm of her hand. It would onlybe dire want which would induce her to sell it.

"Of course," I said--I did not think it, I did not want it; but withCrowther's woebegone face in front of me I said what I could to comforthim--"Donald may be wrong. Jill Leslie may fail----"

"But I don't want her to fail," cried Crowther, lifting up his facetowards me. "That would be an evil wish."

He was very energetic in his repulsion of the idea and very sincere. Itmight mean a dozen more lives in a degraded form, for all he knew, werehe to let that meanness creep into his soul.

"I want her to succeed, of course," he exclaimed. "But what am I goingto do? I daren't fail again."

I did not like that phrase at all. Nor the look upon his face. He wasliving over again the three years of loneliness and defeat, hisconfidence and self-esteem draining from him like blood from his veins.No, he daren't fail again--lest he should find himself face to face witha way out which he must not follow. For he must take no life, not evenhis own.

I thought for a little while what answer to make to that question. Therewas an answer, but I felt more and more certain that it must not begiven now.

"I'll tell you what I think, Michael," I said. "You must wait. JillLeslie won't listen to you at the moment. She'll be taken up with herpart. She'll probably hate you for your persistency if you approach heragain. You are very likely to persuade her that she has got a talismanin that sapphire and you are trying to take it away from her. You havejust got to lie low until she has made her appearance in London. Ireckon that Imogen will want to go on the opening night. So we shall beback in town. We haven't got a house yet and we shall stay at somehotel. But we'll let you know. After all, if you remain another twomonths in England you'll miss the whole of the rains in Burma."

Michael Crowther took himself off and I rang down the curtain upon theQuest of the Sapphire for an interval of two months. At least, I thoughtI did. But that night there were still some words to be spoken whichwere to throw an unexpected but a most illuminating light upon one ofthe minor characters in our play.

* * * * *

Imogen and I dined in the grill-room of the Semiramis Hotel--a cornerwhere all the tides of London met. At one table you might see theleaders of Finance bending their heads in unison like the Mandarins of anursery. At another would be a party dining on its way to a theatre. Ata third, men from the north who had backed a play, with managers, allsmiles, who meant that they should never see again one farthing of thecapital which--let us use the blessed word--they had invested. Therewould be authors with a play in their pockets, and actresses and actorson the top of the flood, and people who just enjoyed a good dinner andthe to-and-fro of famous persons and infamous persons, and the vividenjoyment of country folk up for a few nights in town. We had a tablenear to the entrance with a pillar at our backs, and we had hardly takenour seats before a voice which had a vague familiarity reached our ears.

"It's just one of Donald's stunts."

Certainly the words could not provoke my curiosity. Donald's stunts werea normal element in the Londoner's life. If the lady had said: "Donaldcan't think of a stunt," then the metropolis would have held its breathuntil he did; and I should have looked up... as I did. But it was thesharp indignation in this faintly familiar voice which made me do it. Ilooked up and saw a pale, lovely, dark-haired girl standing by a tablenear to ours. Of course... Letty Ransome. I had heard her performanceonly yesterday. She was wrapped to the throat in sables and was speakingto the table's occupants.

"It's absurd, of course," she went on. "Jill will never play the part inLondon. You can take it from me."

Imogen had spoken of Letty Ransome as Jill Leslie's friend when we hadseen them dining together in Soho. Not much more than skin-deep, thatfriendship! But however frail, it did not account for the rancour inLetty's voice.

"You finished last night, didn't you, Letty?" asked the lady at thetable who was being addressed and in a voice which, perhaps, was atrifle too sweet. So there were claws at the table, too.

"Yes. Just for the moment. I am working out a new sketch." But the newsketch was not in her thoughts. "Yes, Jill opens in Manchester onMonday. It's rough on her, really. What can she do, with herinexperience, except something too tragic for words?" She suddenly sweptround. "Oh, darling," she cried enthusiastically, "I was afraid that youhad forgotten."

Jill Leslie had just entered the big room.

"I couldn't get away," said Jill, and she saw Imogen. Her face lightenedand as I stood up to greet her, I noticed with satisfaction thediscomfort which showed on Letty Ransome's face. She was probably notaware of the malevolence which had made her face ugly, and of thejealousy which had sharpened her voice till it rasped like an old saw.But she could not but know that we had heard every word that she hadspoken.

Meanwhile Jill had moved forward to our table and was speaking toImogen.

"If I can do it!" she said in a whisper.

"You will," answered Imogen. "I'll send you a telegram on Monday. I amreally, really delighted. So is Martin."

"You're good friends," said Jill Leslie. "I shall love to think that youare wishing me a little of your happiness."

She looked from one to the other of us and shook our hands.

"Letty, I've had nothing to eat all day," she said.

We heard Letty Ransome answer: "Poor darling, you must be starved!" andas they moved away: "Miaow!" said Imogen.

* * * * *

A few days afterwards we were married. We went to Paris, Fontainebleau,Munich, Venice. I am not to be blamed. Imogen must carry all thereproaches. She was definite.

"Forests, tigers and panthers are for bachelors," she declared. "If theyare clawed it's their affair and serves them right. Adam's Peak is formatrimonial possibles. But for honeymoons luxuries are required andluxuries are conventional."

So we travelled on Blue Trains and occupied royal suites in GrandHotels, and bathed in tepid seas from fashionable beaches, and knewourselves to be incredibly blessed. But all the more we were visitedwith twinges of remorse on account of the two troubled ones we leftbehind--Michael Crowther obsessed by his idea, Jill Leslie with theordeal of her debut in front of her. We returned to London, indeed,before our time in order to be present at the first performance ofDido.

There are many who will remember that first night. It was a riot--a riotof colour, of melodies, of dancing and broad comedy. From the openingchorus which began, so far as I can remember, thus:

Pious Æneas took his Daddy on his back--
Bless my soul what a lad!
He groaned: "It's too bad
My infernal old Dad
He swears that he's Troy
But he's avoirdupoy
And I'd dump him on the sand for a drach--
Ma! Ma! Ma!"

to the finale of the fireworks at the Carthaginian Crystal Palace, itwas a tumult and it ended in a tumult of an audience wild withenthusiasm. As Imogen and I made our slow way from the auditorium to thestreet, on all sides we heard:

"It'll run for a year."

"Sure thing."

"Wasn't that little girl good?"

And indeed from all the riot Jill Leslie had stood out daintily demureand exquisite, a Queen Dido without majesty, an Offenbach Dido, a Didoin high-heeled shoes. Whatever her faults she could sing, she appealedand she came right over the footlights with something oddly virginalabout her which took her audience by storm.

"Did you see?" said Imogen as we sidled this way and that through thecrowd which had gathered about the doors. I had seen very distinctly.All through the performance Jill Leslie had worn, shining darkly againstthe satin of her breast, the blue tablet of the sapphire.

"She'll never sell it to him," said Imogen.

"Not after to-night," I agreed.

There rose in front of me a picture of Michael Crowther's tortured face.I heard him saying: "I daren't fail again." Absurd? Yes. One particulardark sapphire. Whether it hung round the hti of a pagoda in Burma, orround the throat of a charming, vivacious little prima donna of ComicOpera in London--what in the world did it matter? But it did matter andenormously. It mattered to Michael, for it was an expiation. It matteredto Jill, for it was the token of her passion and the epitome of herhappiest days.

"I remember what you once said about it, Imogen," I observed.

"That Michael's only chance was to ask for it as a gift?"

"Yes."

"But I am a great deal less confident that Jill would give it to himnow," said Imogen thoughtfully. "You see, Martin, now it's an idea toher, too."

I did see--and I was afraid. For if Michael did not repossess himself ofit, he was as likely as not to destroy himself. Yes, I faced thatcontingency honestly for the first tune. There was no adequate reason,to be sure. But is there ever an adequate reason? Adequate, that is, toyou and me who stand apart and look on. I had once asked Michael what hedid with himself during these months of waiting.

"I take long walks in the City late at night, when the City's empty andthe streets are as hollow as a cavern," he had answered.

I could see him tramping restlessly along those narrow corridors sothronged by day, so silent by night that every footfall wouldreverberate and deride; trying to tire brain and muscle; trying to numbthe dreadful temptation to draw a razor across his throat and have donewith it.

"Yes, Michael might kill himself," I reflected, but I reflected aloudand Imogen turned to me with horror in her eyes.

"You don't mean that!"

"I do."

"Martin!" she whispered; and she stood in the side street whither we hadgone in search of our car, jostled by the passers-by and unaware thatshe was jostled. That tragic possibility had not occurred to her tillthis moment, but now that it did it frightened her almost as much as itdid me.

I say almost. For I was haunted by an odd sort of conjecture. Supposethat each man's creed were true for him, if he really believed in it!Suppose that belief actually created truth instead of coming out of it!Suppose, for instance--we had found our car now--that just at thisjunction where Whitehall and the Strand, the Mall and NorthumberlandAvenue flung their traffic into Charing Cross, some huge machine boredown on us and I believed, as I did believe, that we should still betogether--why, it would make very little difference. The finding of apath in a new world. The work of adapting ourselves to new surroundings.But if for Michael his creed were the truth, and he killedhimself--there would be ten thousand degraded lives to be lived throughas an expiation.

"We have got to stop that," I said with a shiver, and the next morning Isent for Michael.

"You have got to tell your story and ask for that sapphire as a gift," Isaid to him. "It's your only chance."

Michael Crowther looked at me gloomily. He was so worn withsleeplessness and anxiety that his skin had something of thattransparent look which the dying wear.

"Imogen once told me that you might very likely succeed. She thoughtJill had just that generosity which would give when it wouldn't sell."

I did not tell him that since last night her confidence had diminished.Michael's face lightened wonderfully.

"She thinks that?"

"She thought that, when she spoke to me," I said correcting him; andhurried on to add: "But you must wait for the right moment. You can onlyask once."

Michael drew in a deep breath.

"Yes, I can only ask once. I understand that." He stood in a thoughtfulsilence with his eyes upon the floor. "Yes, I'll choose my time. Willyou thank her from me?"

Chapter 21
A Summary

I need only summarise now the weeks which elapsed before a swiftsuccession of events brought the history of this sapphire to aremarkable conclusion. After the resounding success of Dido, RobinCalhoun slowly emerged from his hiding-place. At the first he was ratherlike a turtle which pokes its head out from its shell, watching on thisside and that for an enemy. But he took courage in the end and sat sleekand debonair by the side of Jill Leslie in public places. She was thebread-winner now and in the more honest way. There was a small group ofpeople amongst whom Jill Leslie, Letty Ransome and Robin Calhoun were,if not all the most prominent, the most frequent. Letty Ransome had madea success with her new sketch, and seemed to have quite reconciledherself to the idea that her friend might have a success, too. They madetheir headquarters at the grill-room of the Semiramis Hotel, and more tomy amusement than my astonishment, I saw Michael Crowther enrolled intheir group. They were obviously not difficult. It was a society of gayspirits and light hearts rather than of brilliant wits. If you werenoisy, that helped a little, but you might sit quiet if you chose. Youmust do your share of the entertaining--no great matter, anyway--youmust not put on any airs and above all you must not be mordant at theexpense of your companions. They hated sarcasm like a British soldier.Amongst them Crowther sat, kindly and gentle. He became something of apet.

I remember that one day in early October, when Imogen and I were takingour luncheon in the grill-room, Jill Leslie drifted across the room tous. Imogen asked her how Michael got along with them and her facedimpled into smiles.

"He's a lonesome old dear, isn't he?" she said. "Whoever of us makes himlaugh counts one."

"And the play?" I asked.

"Fine," said she, and she went off to her matinée.

Michael was very wisely taking his time. He had made friends and in thatsort of company, generous and accustomed to incomes with lengthyintermezzos, friendship had the predominant claim. Michael was at thatmoment paying the bill. He was sitting against the glass screen in theinner part of the grill-room and he had as his guests Letty Ransome,Robin Calhoun, Jill Leslie who had run off to the theatre and a youngauthor who this year had risen out of the waters.

"I wonder," I said as I looked at Michael.

"So do I," said Imogen. "I have been wondering some time."

"That settles it, then," said I, and I scribbled a line on the cardwhich had reserved our table and sent it across the restaurant. Michaellooked towards us and nodded, and when the little party had broken up hecame over and sat down with us.

"We are both a trifle worried," I said.

"Yes?"

"You've been in England some time now?"

"Five months."

"Longer than you expected?"

Michael saw now the drift of these questions. He smiled at us with asweetness of expression--I can find no other phrase, though I gladlywould--which wiped away as though with a sponge the customary gravity ofhis face.

"Not longer than I was prepared for," he said.

"You are quite sure of that?" Imogen asked--I think that I should saypleaded. "You see, we can help in that way."

Michael raised his eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead and said with awhimsical air:

"If I stay in this country much longer--I shall fall into the grosserror of thanking you. That would be altogether wrong. You are acquiringso much merit that you may be a king and a queen in your next life."

"Or we may even never marry at all," I cried enthusiastically.

"Or, if we did, we may by this time have got our divorce," cried Imogenwith an even greater fervour. "Any of these great blessings may be ours,Michael. Therefore, if your bowl is empty, you need only hold it outbehind you."

"But it isn't empty, Imogen," said he.

"Thank you, Michael," said she very prettily.

It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name, and shewas very pleased.

"It is still just full enough," he continued, "to last me out and carryme back to Pagan. For now I think that I shall not be long." He drew inhis breath with a gasp as he pictured to himself the moment when he mustput all to the test of a girl's generosity and whim. "One way oranother, I shall know very soon."

He spoke with so much certainty that I cried out to him:

"I believe that you have fixed a date."

"I have," he answered. "I could hope for no more likely moment for mypetition to succeed."

There was a confidence in his manner and a tiny note of boastfulness inhis speech. I must suppose that such trifles soothed my vanity, asindicating that we poor humans lived on a plane not so noticeably lowerthan Michael's. For indications that Michael was really one of us alwaysamused and delighted me. Imogen, however, was of the more practicalmind. She leaned across the table very earnestly.

"Take care, Michael! There's one amongst your new friends who won't letyou get away with that sapphire as a present, if she can help it."

"Letty Ransome," said Michael, pressing his thin lips together.

"Yes, Letty Ransome," Imogen agreed. "She's not quite the type to let asapphire as good as Jill's go out of the family without making a fightfor it. I don't fancy that you could persuade her that Jill wasacquiring merit by letting it hang round the top of a spire two hundredfeet from the ground."

"I have not mentioned the stone to her," Michael answered, "although shehas spoken of it to me."

"Oh, she has," Imogen said slowly. "She admires it?"

"Yes."

"Then more than ever I beg you to take care."

Nothing could exceed the earnestness with which Imogen spoke. We hadboth learnt to love Michael Crowther, queer as it must appear to anyonewho remembers him when he strutted the deck of the Dagonet. But weloved him with the kind of love which one gives to a child. We did notexpect his mind to work along the ordinary lines nor his heart to longfor the ordinary things. And since, to fulfil a penance which no one buthimself had imposed, he wanted this sapphire of Jill Leslie's, he musthave it as a child must have a toy. Otherwise there would be--yes,there, as Mr. Donald's predecessor had said, was the rub. In the case ofa child there would be a crumpled face, clenched fists, a torrent oftears and a wailing as of sea-gulls about an island of the Hebrides. Inthe case of Michael we could not even conjecture. We could only fear. Hehad said: "I dare not fail." We knew no more than that of what waspassing in his mind, but it was enough to light the way to some verydark and terrible conjectures.

"I am glad that we don't know exactly when he is going to ask," saidImogen as she watched him depart from the grill-room.

It was a cowardly thought. Then I was a coward, too. For I shared itwhole-heartedly. I had the apprehension which one feels for a dearfriend who must suffer the surgeon's knife. I was glad not to know themoment when the patient would be stretched upon the table, or to lingerin the waiting-room until the result should be announced.

Chapter 22
At the Masquerade Ball

But we were present when the moment struck. On the last day of themonth a ball for some charity was held in the Albert Hall. It was amasquerade ball, and those who attended it were bidden to dress in theWaterloo period or wear a domino. Imogen had a mind to return some ofthe hospitality which had been showered upon us during our engagement.So we hired a box and arranged for supper to be served in it. At threein the morning she was leaning over the edge of the box watching thethrong below and she turned round and called to me:

"Martin! Come here!"

She was excited by some incident happening upon the floor. I went to herand she caught me by the arm.

"Look! Look! Do you see?"

I saw many things and many people, and amongst the things, that peopledressed anyhow in the Waterloo period. I am all for liberty myself andif a warrior likes to wear plates of armour in a day of cannon-balls, byall means. Nor did I mind Henry the Eighth coming to life again andmultiplying himself six times, so long as none of him tried to snatch myImogen. I never saw such a medley of dresses. There were Greek goddessesand Sultans with scimitars; Mandarins who should have been nodding uponmantelpieces danced with girls from Alsace in satin clogs; Crusaders andTyrolese mixed amicably with Zulus and Cossacks.

"There! There!" cried Imogen, twitching my sleeve, and looking, Iperceived Letty Ransome dressed as a vivandière dancing with Thomas àBecket.

"It seems to me a very happy combination," I said.

"No, no, darling, I don't mean there. I mean there," cried Imogen, asshe nodded vigorously in exactly the same direction. I moved my eyes tothe right and then I moved them to the left, and at last I took in thetiny point in that huge scene at which I was intended to look. I sawJill Leslie with a man in a yellow domino. They were not dancing, norwas Jill talking. She was listening with a puckered forehead tosomething impossible to understand. They were standing, and every nowand then they took a few steps towards us and stopped again. Once Ilaughed and Imogen asked:

"What's amusing you, Martin?"

It would have taken days to explain. Jill was dressed in an impossiblydainty frock, Marie Antoinette down to her knees--or rather Madame deLamotte--her pretty shoulders already bared for the branding, thesapphire a great blot of blue fire upon her breast, and below the kneesher own slender and twinkling legs. And just at that moment she jumpedup and down on her toes with her feet together and with her handsclasped, just as little Miss Diamond had done long since on the beach ofTagaung, to this same man who was so eagerly talking to her. He waswearing a yellow domino now. He had been wearing the uniform of aCaptain in the Flotilla Company then. But it was he. For he had lookedup and I had seen his face. Miss Diamond had been trying to detain him.Miss Sapphire was trying to understand him.

"Crowther," I said. "Crowther at a masked ball at the Albert Hall!"

"He has chosen this time of all times--why?" Imogen asked.

It did seem unreasonable. Yet without a doubt he had Jill's attention.

"He has some queer reason at the back of his head," I answered, and,remembering a word he had dropped here and there: "This was a date hehad planned."

They came to a halt just beneath our box. I leaned over, but there wassuch a hubbub of voices that not one word of what Crowther was sayingrose as high as our ears. Something of real significance occurred,however, for we saw Jill lift the blot of blue fire from her breast andlook at it, and from it to Michael. And then a fisherman or anice--anyway, a Neapolitan, ran forward to claim her for a dance. Shenodded her head and had actually started to dance. But she stopped, andrunning to Michael laid a hand upon his arm. She spoke a few quickwords, waved her hand at him with a smile, and was off with her partneracross the floor. Imogen leaned over the edge of the balcony.

"Michael!"

In a momentary lull her voice reached to him, and he looked up.

"Come up, Michael," and she gave the number of our box. Neither of usdared to put a question to him when he did come. Was that parting smileof Jill's a consolation or a promise, or a vague encouragement to hope?Michael for a time gave us no enlightenment. He sat, his chin proppedupon his hand, his eyes roaming over the fantastic scene, and every nowand again his breath catching in his throat as though he saw--what? Thewhite spire of his pagoda across that foam of dancers, or death stalkingamidst them with his scythe.

Imogen filled a glass of champagne and took it to him. He smiled and putit aside.

Imogen thrust her small face forward--and I knew that Michael was goingto add an extra life or two to his tally, however earnestly he mightresist.

"Drink it!" said Imogen. She took the glass and put it into Michael'shand.

"It's a sin," he answered.

"Commit it!" said Imogen.

"I disobey the Law," he pleaded.

"Well, I get fined for leaving my car about," said Imogen. "Drink!"

Michael looked at the glass winking invitingly in his hand, and lookedat Imogen, and his face broke up in a smile.

"Imogen, here's your very good health." And he drank the glass dry. Alittle colour came into his face and the tension of his body relaxed.

"Now, Michael, we want your news," said Imogen, and she took a seatbeside him.

"There isn't any," Michael returned. "But there will be to-morrow. Idon't think Jill Leslie understood what I meant quite. I mean I don'tthink she understood the reason why I made a petition so unusual."

"I'm sure she didn't," I interrupted. "I was watching you both from thisbox."

"It was my fault," Michael continued. "When you have had for a long timeone idea in your head, you begin to think other people are familiar withit. You leave out the necessary details. I expect that writing a bookmust be always presenting that sort of difficulty."

"But Jill didn't turn you down?" Imogen asked anxiously.

"No!" Michael returned. "But she couldn't hear me out. There was toomuch noise and too much whirl for her to give her attention. I canunderstand that, can't you?"

"What I can't understand is why you ever chose a time and a place likethis," said Imogen.

"Perhaps I was wrong," Michael replied slowly. "But I thought, to-nightshe will be at her happiest. She has her success, her love, all thiscolour and light and gaiety, and she'll look a picture in her prettyfrock and know it and she is kind. With all that dark hard time justbehind her, within reach of her memory, she'll be in the most likelymood."

"What's the result then?" asked Imogen.

"She said that I was to call upon her to-morrow afternoon at half-pastthree and she would have no one there. I wonder whether----" And all hisfears came back upon him and he looked from one to the other of us, hiseyes as wistful as a dog's.

"Where does Jill live now?" Imogen asked.

"She has for the moment one of the small flats in the Semiramis Court."

"Very well," Imogen continued. "You shall lunch with us at half-past oneat the Semiramis Grill Room."

"Wait a moment," said I. "Let me look at my diary!"

"Darling," Imogen observed gently, "don't be absurd! Michael will lunchwith us at half-past one at the Semiramis Grill. Afterwards, athalf-past three o'clock, you might go up with Michael to Jill's flat,and I'm quite sure that your tact will tell you at once whether you maystay and help Michael or not."

Michael stood up with every expression of relief upon his face.

"That's what I wanted desperately. Thank you!"

He shook us warmly by the hand and went off. I looked grimly at Imogen.

"Coward!" I said.

"Well, you wanted to get out of it, too. You go about in forests andshoot harmless little tigers. You're the strong man and very persuasive,dearest, too."

Thus mingling sarcasm with flattery Imogen had her way. It was not quiteso unusual as you might think. We were to give Michael luncheon on themorrow, and afterwards he would learn his news. Our work was done. Wewent down on to the floor, danced, and Imogen disgraced herself. We werewaltzing and approached the steps of one of the gangways to the floor.On the second of these steps a fat, red, pompous, bald man stood,dressed elaborately as a Roman Emperor--golden greaves upon his legs, apurple toga with the end flung across his shoulder and a wreath oflaurels upon his crown. He had come in state, for two lictors with theparaphernalia of their office stood behind him. One could not imagine aman more conscious of the perfection of his dress or of his fitness towear it. The Emperor surveyed the Albert Hall with a placid satisfactionas though he had just built it with slave-labour brought from asuccessful campaign upon the Danube. As we came close to him Imogenstopped. She was dressed as Columbine and in white from the flower inher hair to her feet. There were others in the hall pretending to beColumbine--that was to be expected--but Imogen was Columbine.

"Just wait a minute," she said, and leaving my arm she ran up to theEmperor with the most eager expression upon her face.

"You'll excuse me, sir," she said very clearly, "but can you tell me atwhat hour you're to be thrown to the lions?"

The fat man who had begun to listen with a smile, turned away with asnort of disgust. He was furious at the gibe. On the other hand it madeImogen's evening for her. She gurgled with pleasure as we resumed ourbroken waltz and her anxieties for the morrow were forgotten.

Chapter 23
Letty Ransome's Handbag

There were, after all, four who took their luncheon the next day atour table in the grill-room of the Semiramis. But we began as three,assembling in our proper order of unpunctuality: Michael Crowther to theminute, myself next, Imogen last. We sat for five minutes or so in thelounge, I with a Bacardi cocktail, Imogen drinking it and Michaellooking on benevolently. Then, through the swing doors Letty Ransomeburst in. She was in a fluster but there was nothing discomposing inthat. A fluster was as much a complement of Letty Ransome as her skirt.She could not move about in public without either. She swung into thegrill-room and out again, she jingled some bracelets at Michael andpoured out some ecstatic words to another group. Imogen whisperedquickly:

"Ask her to have a cocktail, Michael!" and since he hesitated, she addedan imperious: "Be quick or I'll make you drink one yourself."

Michael rose and, blushing--he who had once been Michael D., the Captainof the Dagonet!--said timidly: "Letty, will you join us?"

Letty was at the age which thrives on long nights in dusty rooms. Shewas radiant of face, and for the rest of her, shiny as lacquer from hersmooth hair to the points of her shoes. She was introduced to Imogen andmyself and was kind to us; and I ordered a large clover-club for her.

"I saw you both at the ball. Wasn't it wonderful?" she cried. "I neverenjoyed myself so much. Have you seen Jill?"

"No," said I.

"I thought that Jill and I might lunch together," said Letty.

"I don't think that she's coming down for luncheon," Imogen observed.

"Oh?" Letty was a trifle put out. She looked about the small lounge, andImogen said:

"Won't you lunch with us? We're going in now."

"I'd love to," said Letty. "But I must run up to Jill's flat." A shadowof annoyance flitted across Imogen's face. It was just to avoid such acontingency that Imogen had asked her to lunch with us. Once let LettyRansome offer her advice about the destination of the sapphire andMichael Crowther went out at a hundred to one. Ideas, the vitamins ofthe soul, meant nothing to her practical mind. Imogen might call asapphire an idea, if she were crazy enough to think it one. Letty knewit for a colourful piece of corundum with a definite market value.

"You see," Letty explained, "a party of us drove back to Jill's flat atseven o'clock this morning. Jill had a bath and went to bed and then weall had breakfast in her bedroom. I left my handbag there when we wenthome. I won't be a second."

She sprang up and ran out into the hall; and she was away a longer timethan we expected. We all watched the hands of the electric clock jump asa minute elapsed, then wait ever so long, then jump again.

"Oh, I do hope----" said Imogen and stopped there lest Michael should bedistressed by her fears. But, oddly enough, Michael was the leasttroubled of the three of us. He had ascended to some plane of faithwhither neither of us could follow him.

"If I were to describe Letty Ransome and Jill Leslie," he said with asmile, "I should quote Monsieur Chaunard's difference between himselfand his memory."

He made us laugh, anyway, and got us over one of the clock's jumps.

It was a quarter to two when Letty Ransome left us and ten times theminute hand made its tiny leap before Letty reappeared and when she didwe were all a little shocked at the change in her. She was breathing asthough her lungs were choked, she was distracted with the effort tobreathe. Her colour was patchy; where the rouge did not flare, her skinwas the hue of tallow and the scarlet of her lips was not an ornamentbut a parody. She dropped into her chair.

"I was a fool," she said with a gasp. "The lift was up at the top of thebuilding. I didn't want to keep you. I ran up the stairs. It's only thethird floor but I've been warned against stairs." She smiledappealingly. Her beauty had all gone, so it was, perhaps, the morenatural that she should pray:

"Will you give me a moment?"

"Take your time, of course," said I. "We're in no hurry. Michael has anappointment at half-past three----Oh!" My grunt was due to a lusty kickon the ankle delivered by the small but capable foot of my wife.

"This is the bag?" she asked. "It's pretty."

It was lying on the small table between them. Imogen was not at allinterested in the bag nor did she think it especially pretty. But shehad to keep her blundering husband quiet if she could. She reached outher hand and took the bag up just a second before Letty Ransome reachedout hers; though Letty's movement was a swift dart made in a spasm offear. She drew back her hand at once when the movement had failed, butthe fear remained in her eyes. "It's just an ordinary bag," she saidwith a little catch in her voice. But it was not quite an ordinary bag.It was a charming affair of old tapestry, and a medallion of blue enamelwas let into the centre of it on each side. Imogen turned it over,admired it, and put it back on the table again.

"Shall we go in now?" she asked, and she led the way into thegrill-room. She turned round at the door and looked at Letty. "Ah!" sheremarked. "You haven't forgotten it this time. I was afraid that you hadleft it on the table."

She nodded towards the bag which Letty was now carrying clasped tightlyin her hand.

"Not twice in twenty-four hours," Letty returned with a laugh. "I am toohelpless for words without it."

I asked them in turn what they would like for luncheon.

"Something simple," said Imogen.

"Me, too, please," said Letty.

"Quite so," said I, and knowing the sort of simple food which wouldappeal to Letty, I ordered blinis, Homard à l'Americaine, cold grousewith a salad and an apple flan. Letty had by now quite recovered herspirits and she rattled away about the ball and how much she had enjoyedit. I could not bring myself to believe that in reality she ever enjoyedanything. Spite was so large an element in all her thoughts. Everycomment must carry its little stab, planted viciously with howeverlittle dexterity. We were told that Carrie Baines looked lovely, and ifshe had only dared to smile she would not have given everyone theimpression that her loveliness was a mask of enamel. As for dear oldLord Pollant, wasn't he a marvel? When he danced his râtelier sochattered that the castanets in the orchestra weren't wanted at all,were they? And having had my fill of this talk, I broke in ratherabruptly:

"Did you find Jill awake when you went up?"

Letty Ransome was in the middle of saying: "Minnie Cartwright--they tellme she used to be lovely," and she repeated with a stammer: "--used tobe lovely--" and then the clatter of her voice died away altogether andonce more her face was as patchy as a Spanish shawl.

Something had happened then up the stairs in Jill's flat whilst theminute hand of the clock jumped ten times. All that agitation underwhich Letty had laboured when she re-entered the lounge was not due tohurry nor to any malady of the heart. For here it was, renewed.Something terrible had happened. Silence for a little while held us all.We tried not to look at Letty's terror-stricken face. Then I repeated myquestion.

"Was Jill awake?"

"I don't know," Letty Ransome answered sullenly. "I had left my bag inthe sitting-room on a chair by the door. I snatched it up and ran downagain."

But she had been ten minutes away. Three would have sufficed for allthat she had done; even if she had not hurried. Letty was lying.

"Had the maid who let you in called her?"

"Nobody let me in," Letty replied. "The outer door was on the latch.Jill told the maid to leave it like that and asked us to see to it, whenwe left her this morning. The waiters don't have keys. Jill said thatshe might need something and didn't want to get out of bed to unfastenthe door. I fixed the bolt back myself."

Letty was on surer ground here. She spoke with a growing confidence. Itwas eight o'clock, or near to it, before Jill's friends had left her.She was very likely, at that hour of the morning when the servants wouldbe about the corridors, to leave her door so that she should not bedisturbed to open it if she wanted anything. Letty was speaking thetruth now. We were all certain of it--and all the more certain,therefore, that we had been right in believing that she had lied before.Suddenly Letty began to babble in a low, quick voice:

"I want you to do something for me. I shall have to go in a minute. Ihave a matinée this morning--and I think something of importance iscoming along. Someone is coming to see my show and I want a little timealone before I appear. If it comes off it's going to make a greatdifference to me. And I want to keep myself up, if you understand." Shewas fairly babbling now. "If people hear that you're running about allnight and get home at eight in the morning, you lose it again. You losetheir respect. They won't take you seriously. That's what I mean. Theywon't believe you're a serious actress."

She was asking us to believe her now. I had no idea of what was comingbut she was speaking or rather pleading very earnestly. It was clearthat something was at stake for her--something important; just as it wasclear that something terrible had happened during her ten minutes'absence from the lounge.

"What do you want us to do?" I asked.

"I want you not to mention to anyone that I left my bag up in Jill'sflat this morning," she said.

The prayer sounded rather an anticlimax to the careful preparation forit. None of us was likely to go about advertising that the brilliantyoung actress, Letty Ransome, had left her handbag behind her in agirl-friend's flat at eight o'clock in the morning after a ball. Norcould I see that it would have done her all the damage she feared if wehad. I told her that she was exaggerating but she would not have it.

"No," she argued. "The suburbs for one thing and the managements foranother, would say at once: 'Oh, she's just like the rest. Anything fora good time.' I should lose caste. It would do me actual harm if it wasknown that I had left my bag behind me in Jill's flat at eight o'clockthis morning."

I disbelieved every word she was saying. She had not been at alldisturbed by any such fears as those which she was now expressing whenshe had announced in the lounge her intention of running up to Jill'sflat. It was only since she had come down from it that we had beenshowered under with these excuses. It seemed to me better to be clearabout it all.

"What you want is that we shouldn't say you had run up for it at aquarter to two this afternoon," I suggested.

Letty Ransome got suddenly very red. She shrugged her shouldersimpatiently and turned a pair of dark eyes on me which were hard assteel and as angry as a wild-cat's.

"Of course," she said pettishly. "It's the same thing. If I hadn't leftmy bag upstairs this morning I couldn't have run up to fetch it thisafternoon, could I? I should have thought anyone might have seen that."

She got up as she spoke. She was holding her bag in her hand. Shecomposed her face to a semblance of civility as she turned to me.

"I thank you for my very good lunch," she said.

"But you have had no coffee," said I.

"I can't wait. I daren't."

She was now in a hurry to be off.

"Good-bye!" And as she moved she turned again towards us.

"You'll remember what I asked--won't you? It's nothing, of course, butstill--you'll remember."

Fear and an effort to make light of her fear--a not very successfuleffort--then she was gone. The waiter brought coffee for the three of uswho were left and we sat wondering what we should do. I was uneasy andinclined to go up at once to Jill Leslie's flat. On the other hand,Michael's appointment was for half-past three and it was only a quarterpast now. If he went up before his time he might very well seem a trifletoo importunate and receive in consequence a blank "No" to his petition.On the other hand--there was Letty Ransome's face as she came back intothe lounge and again as she appeared towards the end of our luncheon. Ithink we were all of us in a quandary. Meanwhile the minutes passed. Icalled the waiter and ordered the bill and paid it--and meanwhile theminutes passed. I turned to Imogen.

"We might go up now," I suggested. "Michael and I?"

Imogen looked at the clock on the wall. There were still eight minutesto the half-hour.

"Yes," she said, "but wait outside the door until the exact time."

Neither Michael nor I had thought of that most excellent device.Michael, indeed, was thinking of nothing but his petition. All throughluncheon he had been framing sentences and selecting words. I had seenhis lips moving at other moments than when he was eating and drinking.

"Very well."

I got up and touched Michael on the shoulder.

"Let us go!"

We went through the lounge into the hall. I said to the porter:

"Mrs. Legatt's car, please."

He ordered a chasseur to fetch it and Imogen bade us go upon our errand.

"But I'd like to see you afterwards," she added. "I shall expect you,Michael. You'll bring him along, Martin."

"Right!" said I.

Michael and I turned to the lift in the corner.

"The third floor, please," said I.

The liftman looked sharply at each of us in turn. But he said nothing.He ran us up to the third floor and we walked along the corridor.

At the door of Jill's flat stood a policeman.

Chapter 24
The Fourth Theft

The policeman barred the way.

"I am sorry, gentlemen."

We were utterly taken aback. Of all the possibilities which had crept inand out of my mind during the last hour and three-quarters, that weshould be stopped by a policeman was certainly not one.

"We have an appointment with Miss Leslie," I said.

The policeman looked at us for a moment or two without speaking. He wasslow rather than suspicious and it was impossible to infer from hisexpression whether the reason for his presence at the door was triflingor serious.

"Will you give me your names?"

We gave them and he continued:

"If I take them in I must rely upon you to see that no one enters whileI am away."

"We promise," I said.

"Thank you."

Beyond the door a narrow passage stretched to another door. An electriclight burned in the passage. The policeman passed in and closed theouter door upon us. He was away for five minutes at the least. Then heopened the door again, admitted us, and himself went out, once more tostand on guard. In the sitting-room a man in a black frock-coat with awhite edge to the opening of his waistcoat was looking out of thewindow. He turned as we entered and bowed to us.

"I am the manager of the hotel," he said. But the explanation was hardlynecessary. His dress declared him.

"Mr. Walmer," said I.

"Yes."

He was a young man, distressed but not flurried.

"This is a dreadful business," he said quietly. "If you wouldn't mindwaiting for a minute, the inspector would like to speak to you."

"Inspector?" I cried in dismay.

"Yes."

It was clear that he meant to answer no questions. So I put none. Ilooked at Michael. He, too, was completely at a loss. But I think thathe was harassed by a doubt whether after all he would be able to makehis carefully rehearsed petition. We remained thus in the greatestuneasiness for the space of five minutes, and then the inner door, whichI presumed gave on to the bedroom, was opened just wide enough to allowa complete stranger to pass through. He was a thick-set, middle-aged manwith a rugged face, dressed in a double-breasted blue suit, and he spokewith a note of culture in his voice which I had hardly expected from hisappearance.

"Mr. Legatt?" he asked looking from Michael to me.

"Yes," said I.

"Mr. Crowther?"

"Yes," said Crowther.

"I am Inspector Carruthers."

We bowed and waited.

"I understand that you gentlemen had an appointment here with MissLeslie."

"At half-past three," said I.

"Will you tell me when the appointment was made?"

"Last night at the Albert Hall."

"Can you give me any idea of the nature of the appointment?"

"It was of a private nature."

The inspector nodded his head as if he found that statement quitesufficient.

"I am afraid that the appointment cannot be kept," he said gravely.

Michael made a startled movement.

"But it was of the greatest importance," he protested.

"Death cancels even appointments of the greatest importance," said theinspector.

"Death!"

It was Michael who repeated the word. I must do him the credit ofstating that though his cry had the very note of despair, the selfishfear that he had thereby lost his sapphire had nothing to do withinspiring it. It was too deep and true. And just because it was deep andtrue it astonished me. For I seemed to hear the very abnegation of hiscreed. Here was the man who, by the annulment of his own life, hadproclaimed louder than words could do that existence was misery anddeath release, now bewailing death as the immitigable ill. But I waswrong. I looked more closely into that tortuous mind. Grief at theelimination of a life young and bright and generous accounted for notthe smallest element in his distress. But that she should not have donethe good deed of repairing a great sacrilege before she died--that,indeed, was matter for tears. By your good deeds you cease to live.

For my part, I was thinking of Jill as we had seen her last night, a gayand sparkling little figure. Then another picture rose in front of me,one rather sinister and not to be obliterated--the picture of LettyRansome's haggard face when she had joined us in the lounge below afterrunning up to these rooms.

"When did Jill die?" I asked.

"Half an hour ago, perhaps. Not more," the inspector answered. "MissLeslie gave orders that she should be called at half-past two. The maidfound the door ajar at that hour and went into the bedroom. She wasalarmed, and telephoned to the manager here, Mr. Walmer. Miss Leslie wasstill alive when the doctor arrived. You would not wish to make anystatement about the nature of your appointment?" Inspector Carruthersrepeated his question almost casually.

"I don't think so," I answered.

"No, I suppose not," Carruthers agreed.

"Of what did Jill Leslie die?" I asked.

"The doctors will tell us. There is a police-surgeon in with the hoteldoctor. Meanwhile, do you know who are her relations?"

"No," I said.

"She will have friends who might know, I suppose."

"I rather doubt it," I replied. "Her nearest friend is Mr. RobinCalhoun."

The inspector held a pencil poised above a little note-book for anappreciable time. Then he wrote the name down.

"Thank you! I think we know that name, don't we?"

"I shouldn't wonder," said I.

"His address?"

I looked towards Michael, for I had not an idea where Robin Calhounlodged now that Savile Row knew him no more. Crowther, however, knew andhe gave the number of a house in a street of Bloomsbury.

"A friend of his?" Carruthers asked.

"An acquaintance," answered Michael.

Carruthers turned to the manager.

"Perhaps, Mr. Walmer, you would telephone and see if you can get hold ofhim."

"I'll see to it at once," and Mr. Walmer went out into the corridor.Inspector Carruthers took his place at the window and drummed with hisknuckles on the window-pane. "Curious that the maid found the front dooropen, isn't it?" he asked of the world in general. "Curious, and onewould have thought a little dangerous, eh? A big hotel. All sorts ofpeople staying in it. Asking for trouble, what?"

I made a tiny movement with my hand to check any impulse to reply whichMichael might be feeling. For if ever I had seen the net spread in thesight of the bird, it was now. Let one of us answer: "The door was leftopen at eight this morning by Jill's own wish," and round the inspectorwould swing. "Yes, I know that, because I asked the maid who attended toJill Leslie when she got back to the Semiramis at seven o'clock thismorning. But how did you know?" and out must come the story of LettyRansome's handbag and all the complications which that might involve. Iwas not prepared to tell that story yet. I was not sure that it wouldever be necessary to tell it. I wanted to know a little more as to howpoor Jill Leslie died, before it was told; so I made my little signal toMichael Crowther to walk delicately.

The indolent inspector at the window noticed it, however. He strolledacross the room and planted himself in front of Michael, legs apart andhands behind his back.

"Could you explain that to me?" the quiet, cultured voice pleaded. "Itwould be so helpful if you could. A girl in a big hotel orapartment-house going to bed and leaving her front door open allnight--yes, all night, mark you, Mr. Crowther. Odd, eh? Yes, and risky?"

He lifted himself on to his toes and let himself down again. His eyesrested upon Michael's face hopefully. He was asking for help from afriend. Every moment I expected Michael to answer eagerly and helpfully:"Yes, but Inspector, the door wasn't open all night. Jill Leslie didn'tget back until seven, when the servants were about." But Michael was notsuch an innocent as I was assuming him to be. Imogen and I had falleninto the habit of construing Michael as a child. But we were wrong. Hehad moments, such as this one, when he was once more the Captain of theDagonet. He looked quite stolidly at Inspector Carruthers.

"Young people, Inspector! They don't take the precautions which weelders do. They don't expect danger."

"No, I suppose not," Inspector Carruthers agreed.

If he was disappointed he betrayed not a sign of it.

"We shall be clearer about the position when the doctors have finished,"he added.

The doctors nearly had finished. We heard the water running into thewash-basin in the bathroom a minute or two afterwards, and after aminute or two more they came into the room--the hotel doctor, a smalldapper fellow, the police-surgeon, a tall loose-limbed man with a greymoustache and a powerful, clean-cut face.

"Dr. Williams," Carruthers introduced to us the hotel doctor, "and oursurgeon, Mr. Notch."

I was very interested to see Mr. Notch. He was one of my heroes, apioneer in the early days of Alpine exploration, to whom one of thegreat Aiguilles of the Mont Blanc range had fallen on his nineteenthattempt.

"We shall have to make a post-mortem," said Mr. Notch. "But we have verylittle doubt as to the cause of death."

"Very little," Dr. Williams agreed.

"Yes?" said Carruthers.

"It seems to be a clear case of cocaine poisoning," said Mr. Notch.

Carruthers nodded his head.

"In that case the question of the open door ceases to be of importance,doesn't it?" he remarked, his eyes sliding carelessly from my face toMichael's. Did he look for a sign of relief? He certainly did not getit.

"There will have to be an inquest, of course," Mr. Notch continued. "Andit may as well be held as soon as possible, if you agree, Inspector."

"Certainly."

"The day after to-morrow, then. I'll arrange with the Coroner and sendfor an ambulance at once. If you don't want me any more I'll go down andtell the manager now."

He was already at the door. As he opened it I repeated a question whichI had already put to Inspector Carruthers.

"At what hour did Jill Leslie die, Mr. Notch?"

"She was dead before I arrived," and he looked at Dr. Williams.

"About a quarter past three," Dr. Williams declared.

"And up to what hour could she have been saved?"

The surgeon and the doctor both shook their heads.

"That's too difficult for us," Mr. Notch replied. "There are no fixedrules, you know. It depends on a number of things. I have known some whowere certainly dying three or four hours before they died. Some, on theother hand, have been brought back to life certainly within an hour anda half of the moment when they would have died if they had not beenattended to." He stood for a moment or two. "Poor little girl! What awaste, eh? I saw her the other night in her comic opera. She was sopretty in it, so engaging!"

He nodded to the inspector and went out into the passage. I wasdisappointed. It was ridiculous to be disappointed, especially at thismoment. But the ridiculous, unsuitable idea always does seem to occur atmoments made for tears. I certainly did not expect Mr. Notch to open awindow and climb down a rain-pipe. None the less, for him, a hero of thehigh Alps, just to go out by the door like all the rest of usearth-clinging people, seemed to me an insufficient exit. I was rousedfrom this foolish reflection by Inspector Carruthers.

"I wish you would tell me why you asked that last question--up to whathour could she have been saved?" he said.

I replied:

"I was uneasy, you see. I was wondering whether Jill could have beensaved if we had come up to this flat before our time. We had anappointment at half-past three. We have been kicking our heelsdownstairs with nothing to do. We were just marking time until half-pastthree."

Certainly that possibility had crept uncomfortably into my mind. But itwas the recollection of Letty Ransome with her face as patchy as aSpanish shawl which had prompted my question. Letty Ransome had been inthis room at ten minutes to two--an hour and a half before Jill Lesliedied. She had just snatched up her bag, she had said, from a chair bythe door... only the knowledge that the indolent inspector seemedindolently to remark every ripple of my muscles stopped me from anobvious jerk. For there was no chair by the door. More, there could havebeen no chair by the door. The room was rectangular, and the door at theend of a wall within the angle. Open it and at your right elbow a sidewall ran straight forward to the windows. There was no place for a chairthere. It would have blocked the entrance had it stood there. Behind thedoor on the other side stood a long sideboard which occupied the wholespace of the wall. Letty had lied. She had not picked up her bag from achair by the door. From the table in the centre of the room, then? Ifshe had, wouldn't she have been contented just to say that and no more?Why embroider and falsify so natural and likely an action? I began tosuspect that the bag had not been left behind in this room at all, butin the bedroom where Jill now lay dead and had then lain dying.

"You gentlemen did not breakfast here with Miss Leslie, I suppose," saidCarruthers.

So he knew about the breakfast-party! Then he knew, too, that Jill hadnot left her outer door open during the night. He had undoubtedly beensetting a trap for us.

"No," I answered.

"Several people did, and I want their names. For they will have to giveevidence at the inquest."

"Mr. Calhoun is the most likely person to be able to give them to you,"I said.

"But you both saw this young lady at the ball?" the inspector continued.

"Yes."

"Well, then--I don't like to ask it--but there is something whichtroubles me in spite of the doctors, who seem very confident."Carruthers opened the door of the bedroom and looked in. Then he cameback to us.

"Yes. I must trouble you, I am afraid. I want you to remember what MissLeslie wore at the Albert Hall and to tell me anything which younotice."

He led the way into Jill Leslie's bedroom. The doctors had drawn a sheetup over her head. For the rest the room was in disorder. Jill's gayfrock and underclothes were thrown on to a couch, her stockings weretossed on to a chest of drawers, her shoes lay on their sides and apartas she had kicked them off, and about her bed chairs had been thrustaside as though the doctors had found them drawn up for thebreakfast-party and had pushed them away. I looked at thedressing-table. There were pots of cream, a great crystal powder-bowlwith a big puff on the top of the powder, bottles of scent, combs andhairbrushes all in disarray; and one open, empty, jewel-case. But whatI, and no doubt Michael, looked for upon that dressing-table was notthere. Inspector Carruthers made no suggestions and pointed to nothing.He left us to survey the room for ourselves, and when we had finished hetook us back into the sitting-room.

"I wonder," he said, "whether you gentlemen noticed what I noticed."

"There were no ornaments," said I.

"Exactly. Not one piece of jewellery however small or inexpensive. Itdoesn't seem to me reasonable."

"But there is a reason," I explained. "Jill Leslie had a good deal ofjewellery a few months ago. But Calhoun got into difficulties and shesold it."

"Did she indeed? Calhoun was her lover?"

"Yes."

"I remember something of Mr. Calhoun's difficulties. We heard of themofficially. You relieve my mind, Mr. Legatt, when you tell me that shesold everything to get him out of his scrape."

The inspector laid just enough emphasis upon the "everything" to makesure that I could not disregard it. The question I had been anxious toavoid ever since I had looked about the bedroom was actually put to meand I had to answer.

"I didn't say everything, Inspector."

The inspector smiled.

"No, I did."

"She kept one thing back."

"Only one?"

"So far as I know, only one," I replied.

"There was only one jewel-case on the dressing-table," Carruthersagreed. "What was it she kept back?"

"A large square sapphire on a platinum chain."

"Did Miss Leslie wear it last night?"

"Yes."

Carruthers turned to Michael Crowther.

"Did you, too, notice it?"

"Yes," said Crowther.

"And it has gone now," said Carruthers.

There certainly had not been a sign of that blue stone on Jill'sdressing-table.

"I don't like that," said Inspector Carruthers. "Not one little bit."

"Jill may have lost it," I suggested. "At the ball, or on the way home."

"Do you think she did?" the inspector asked.

I wished that he would not ask me questions like that. I expected him tosay: "Yes, that is a possibility," or "As an advertisement, isn't thatplayed out?"--something, at all events, which would lead us away on tothe safe ground of general conversation. But he would not thus indulgeme. We were not to ride off on the method of: "Is not the peacock abeautiful bird?" No--he must put the most inconvenient and directquestion, and wait dumb until he got his answer.

"No," I answered. "I do not think she did. I heard her once speaking ofit. I saw her as she spoke of it. I am certain that if she had lost itshe wouldn't have gone to bed until she found it."

"It was a valuable stone?" he asked.

Now, since my marriage I had learned a good deal more about the value ofjewels than I had known previously. It was natural, therefore, that Ishould put on a few airs. One's prestige as a man can be more or lessmeasured by one's knowledge of the value of things which women love. SoI preened myself and answered:

"In the order of stones the sapphire stands below the pearl and theemerald and the diamond. It is nearest to the ruby. But if it is bigenough and flawless, it can compete with any of them. Now, thisparticular sapphire was very big and quite flawless."

"And of a beautiful colour, I suppose," said Carruthers.

I smiled importantly.

"It was. But I must point out to you, Mr. Carruthers, what you with yourexperience must, indeed, already know, that the synthetic sapphire wortha shilling a carat may have a lovelier depth of colour than the genuinestone."

"Oh!" said the inspector. I hoped that he was going at once to take outhis pocket-book and make a note of that valuable fact. But he did not.He lifted himself once or twice upon his toes.

"It was valuable, then," he said, "and Miss Leslie wore it last night,and Miss Leslie is dead this afternoon, and the valuable thing hasdisappeared."

"And from that you infer----" I said.

"That we mustn't infer," he replied. Then he flung out his hands andslapped them against his thighs. "Only we must hope that the doctors'post-mortem confirms their first examination, and that we have only todeal with a case of theft."

I was in one respect like Carruthers. I could say: "I don't like that.Not one little bit." For if the sapphire had been stolen again, I knewquite well who had stolen it.

Chapter 25
The Crown Jewel

Carruthers opened the door of the sitting-room and went out to theuniformed policeman in the corridor.

"Armstrong!"

"Yes, sir."

"I shall want to see the man who was in charge of the lift when MissLeslie and her friends came back from the ball, and, if he was relievedafterwards, the liftman who has been on duty since. I shall also want toput a few more questions, now, to the chambermaid in charge of thisroom. Will you get those people here as soon as possible?"

"Very well, sir."

Armstrong hurried off upon his errand and Carruthers turned towards us.A subtle change had come over the man since this plain and simple casehad been complicated by the certainty of a theft and the possibility ofa murder. His movements were quicker, his eye brighter, he was vitalisedbody and mind. He looked dangerous now.

"I want to know from you two gentlemen----" he began briskly, but wewere spared the question. For the door was burst open and Robin Calhountumbled rather than ran into the room.

My first sensation was one of relief. I felt sure that I could put intowords the inspector's interrupted demand. "I want to know from you twogentlemen whether you know of anyone else besides yourselves who had anappointment with the dead girl or any reason to visit her this morning."It was not that I had any desire to spare Letty Ransome the consequencesof what must have been on the most lenient view, a cruel and beastlycrime. But I saw tremendous difficulties ahead for Michael Crowther andI wanted to talk them over with Imogen before I was forced into adecisive statement.

But when I saw Robin Calhoun's face that sense of relief vanishedaltogether. It was ravaged with grief. He was unshaven, unwashed, andthe colour of lead. His clothes were all tumbled as though he had jumpedout of bed and slung on to his body the first habiliments which werehandy. Of the sleek and debonair adventurer, neatly trimmed for thetrimming of mankind, nothing was left. He was just an ordinary poordevil of a lover struck down by the death of his mistress. His words,too, were the words of melodrama.

"I can't believe it. If such things can happen, there's no God! But it'snot true, is it? This is a joke, of course. Jill's played me up. Weshall have a laugh over it--in a minute--shan't we?" And he broke awayfrom his pleading. "My God, how can you three stand staring at me likemummies? Hasn't one of you a tongue?"

The inspector looked at me.

"Mr. Calhoun?"

"Yes," I answered.

There was a good deal of curiosity in the inspector's glance as his eyesturned again to Robin Calhoun. He obviously knew more than a littleabout Robin Calhoun and expected to find in his relations with JillLeslie a business partnership rather than a union of passion.

"I am sorry to say that it's true, Mr. Calhoun," he said gently.

Calhoun dropped into a chair at the table and buried his face in hishands. Then he drew his hands down until his eyes looked over the tipsof his fingers at the bedroom door.

"Jill's in there?" he asked, and now very quietly.

"Yes."

"Can I see her?"

The inspector opened the door and Calhoun rose and walked towards it. Inthe doorway he swayed a little as he caught sight of the small, shroudedfigure upon the bed.

"Will you leave me here alone, please?"

"For a little while, Mr. Calhoun," said Carruthers, and Calhoun wentinto the room and closed the door behind him.

By this time Armstrong, the policeman, had assembled two liftmen and thechambermaid in the corridor; and at a word from Carruthers he broughtthem into the room. But their evidence from the inspector's point ofview was unhelpful. One of the liftmen had come on duty at seven in themorning. He remembered taking up Jill Leslie and a party of friends soonafter seven, to the third floor. No, he did not know any of their names,but one of the gentlemen he had taken up several times before and one ofthe ladies. He had been on duty until one o'clock. Although he had,during the six hours, taken up several people to the third floor, he hadtaken up no one who gave the number of Jill Leslie's flat or asked inwhat direction it lay.

The second liftman had come on duty at one. He knew Miss Leslie bysight, of course, and some of her friends by sight and by name. Mr.Calhoun, for instance, Miss Ransome the entertainer, and this gentlemanhere, Mr. Crowther. He had brought none of them up since he had come onduty until just now.

The chambermaid, as she had told Mr. Carruthers already, had left theouter door open at Miss Leslie's request. As far as her work had allowedher, she had kept an eye upon it, and she had seen no one at all enterit. But she had a number of flats to attend to and it was only now andthen that she was within sight of it.

"Did you go in at all?" the inspector asked.

"No, sir. Miss Leslie did not wish to be disturbed."

Inspector Carruthers nodded his head.

"That all seems clear enough. You will probably be wanted at theinquest. You'll receive a notice."

He dismissed the servants and sat down at the table and took hisnote-book from his pocket. He made a few notes in shorthand and lookingup at Crowther, remarked:

"You said, I think, that you were not present at the breakfast-party."

"I was not," Crowther answered.

"Right," said Carruthers.

He continued to write, and as I watched his fingers and thehieroglyphics forming on the page, I took the courage to make asuggestion.

"The sapphire might have been hidden by Jill Leslie in the chest ofdrawers amongst her linen."

Inspector Carruthers observed:

"You are married, I take it, Mr. Legatt," and he went on writing.

I drew myself up a little.

"I am. And what, then?"

"This, then. If the young lady had hidden it away in a drawer amongsther linen, wouldn't she have put it back in its case first?"

The question stumped me.

"I suppose she would--unless she was too tired." I saw an argumentthere. "And she must have been tired after dancing all night."

"Tired enough, certainly, to take her bath and jump into bed before shehad her breakfast. Where were her friends, do you think, when she washiding her sapphire?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"All over the flat, I expect."

Carruthers smiled--a rare thing with him that afternoon.

"I should think that's just about the truth." He looked up at me. "Doyou really believe that she hid the jewel and left the jewel-case out?"

"I don't say that I do," I answered. "It's only a suggestion and if it'sunwelcome, I withdraw it."

Inspector Carruthers leaned back in his chair.

"You may be right, Mr. Legatt. But neither you nor I believe it. Icertainly shouldn't have left Mr. Calhoun in there alone if I had," hesaid watching me shrewdly. "Anyway, we shall know very soon. As soon asthat poor girl is taken away there will be the usual routine: search,finger-prints, photographs. If the sapphire is tucked away anywhere inthat room it will be found this afternoon."

He turned a page of his note-book and became at once very businesslikeand brisk.

"And now, gentlemen, if you will kindly sit down, I'll take from you astatement of the nature of the private business with Jill Leslie whichbrought you up to this flat at half-past three this afternoon."

There was no question any longer of whether we would like to make astatement. We had to make it. Michael Crowther recognised the necessityas clearly as I did. And with the utmost simplicity of voice and word,he told the story of the sapphire, tracing it from Tagaung to the pagodaat Pagan, through Ceylon from Kandy to the rest-house on the road toAnuradhapura, and from the rest-house to England and Jill Leslie.Inspector Carruthers took it all down in shorthand, filling page afterpage of his book and lifting his eyes from time to time with a wonderingglance at Michael Crowther.

"That brings us down to three o'clock this morning when you last saw thestone hanging on the chain round Miss Leslie's neck." He looked at me."You have nothing to add, Mr. Legatt?"

"No. Michael has told you everything."

"Very well. I will have a copy of this statement made in longhand andI'll ask you to sign it, Mr. Crowther, and you to witness it, Mr.Legatt. I have your addresses, I think. Yes. Then I need not detain youany longer."

But we were not done with yet. For Robin Calhoun's voice spoke from thedoorway:

"Wait a minute, please."

Crowther had been so occupied with the telling of his story, I soattentive to check it, and Carruthers at so much pains to keep hisfingers up to the pace of it that not one of us had an idea how long thebedroom door had been opened and Calhoun listening. Calhoun came forwardand drew a fourth chair up to the table. He was very quiet now, and hisface a better colour. The greatness of his distress had draped him in adignity which, I felt sure, he had never worn before. He commanded ourrespect.

He leaned forward on his elbows clasping his hands together, and hespoke to Michael Crowther.

"I heard everything," he said. "It's as queer a story as I've everheard. But it comes out of the East where our standards don't run. Andhearing you we must know that what you said is true----"

He looked down upon the table unwilling that we should see his face, anddistrustful of his voice; and none of us interrupted him or hurried him.

"If Jill had been alive she would have given you her sapphire. She wasthe loveliest little girl... quick of heart... and too good forme. But in this one little thing which I can do, I shall do what shewould have done. I shall give you her sapphire very willingly."

And the man had not a farthing--and he had been living on Jill'ssalary--and his prospects were of the poorest. If there were truth inMichael's creed, surely Jill had earned the Great Release.

"But we think it has been stolen," said Carruthers.

"It must be recovered," Robin Calhoun replied.

The inspector folded up his note-book.

"Then Miss Leslie made a will," he said, and Robin Calhoun stared athim.

"A will?"

"Yes, leaving all that she possessed to you."

"A will!" Calhoun repeated scornfully. "Of course she made no will. Ishould have heard of it if she had." For a moment he smiled. "Jillmaking her last will and testament! I can see her sitting on one footwith her tongue in her cheek, writing out her will like a schoolgirlwriting an essay----" And as the picture which he described rose up infront of him, he broke off with a sob.

Carruthers, however, could not leave the matter there.

"If she made no will," he said, "the sapphire will go of necessity toher next of kin."

"She has no next of kin," cried Calhoun. "Who they are I don't know. Shedidn't know. Someone paid for her schooling in the convent--we don'tknow who it was. Since she came away with me none but the friends sheherself made have had anything to do with her. Not a visit. Not aletter. She was alone."

Inspector Carruthers was troubled. He frowned, he drummed on the tablewith the butt of his pencil in a real exasperation.

"The position becomes more difficult than ever," he said.

"Why?" Robin Calhoun demanded.

"Because, you see----" I never expected to see Carruthers souncomfortable as he was then. "You see, Mr. Calhoun, if Miss Leslie madeno will and has no next of kin, the sapphire, with everything else whichshe possesses, belongs to the Crown."

We all sat back in our chairs. Michael's high, slender pagoda spirewhich had just begun to show white with a gleam of sunshine in a cavernof the clouds, faded again behind the mists.

Chapter 26
Crooks All

Michael and I walked away from the Semiramis in a gloomy mood and werenear to the top of the Haymarket before either of us spoke.

"Do all the jewels left to the Crown go to the Tower?" he asked.

"Oh, Michael! Michael!" I said. "Even Nga Pyu and Nga Than would fightshy of the Tower. The days of Captain Blood are past."

History was not Michael's long suit. Mundane history, I mean, for he wasthoroughly well up in the history of the bo-tree and its ramifications.

"You haven't answered my question," he said simply. "Do all the jewelswhich fall to the Crown go to the Tower?"

"No, Michael. Very few of them. Most of them go to Christie's."

Michael stopped.

"To be sold?" he cried, his face lighting up.

"To the highest bidder," I answered, and gloom resumed its sway. "We'llgo and talk it over with Imogen."

We were still living in the hotel by the Green Park, and whilst Imogengave us some tea we told her of Jill's death and the disappearance ofthe sapphire. Imogen was shocked by our narrative.

"Jill was a child," she said, "and just when her troubles, for themoment at all events, were over----" She did not finish the sentence andwas silent until Crowther took his leave. She went with him to the doorof our set of rooms.

"You needn't be down-hearted, Michael," she said as she let him out."This is our affair now. We'll see what we can do."

But though she spoke valiantly, there was something quite mouselike inher quietude when she returned. She threw that off, however, very soon.

"Martin, let's push it all away for a few hours. Couldn't we go out anddine together alone--not too early--nineish? And we could talk thingsall over and hammer out what we are to do."

"Splendid, darling. Where shall we dine?" And I had a brain-wave. "Oh, Iknow!"

"Where, then?" Imogen asked.

"Le Buisson," I replied triumphantly. For was it not at that littlediscovery of Imogen's in Soho that we had first got to know Jill Leslie?

But Imogen frowned. Le Buisson had ceased to mean anything to her formany a week. It was just one in a monotonous row of restaurants, alllow-roofed and narrow and frowsty, all with little green trees in littlegreen tubs at the door, all once, each in turn, declared to be the lastword of Bohemian witchery, all now condemned as tedious and shoddy.

"Not Le Buisson," she said. "No, Martin."

I waited for her choice with some anxiety. There was a new bar in OxfordStreet, painted bright red, with high stools and a counter. Imogen hadlately been setting her friends up on those high stools and forcing themto munch sandwiches and drink dark beer. I was determined not to dinethat way even if my refusal involved a divorce on the ground of mentalcruelty. Happily Imogen was in a mood for fine clothes and chose theEmbassy.

"Meanwhile, Martin, dear, before you sit down to lose money at yourstuffy old Club, do you think that you could find out where LettyRansome lives?"

"I'll try," said I.

Periodicals and newspapers exist in which the people of the stageadvertise their addresses. A dramatic Who's Who is published eachyear. If these means should fail me, Michael Crowther might help, and,indeed, in the end it was from Michael Crowther that I got theinformation. Letty Ransome had rooms in Cambridge Terrace.

I had this piece of news to my credit at dinner. We talked ways of usingit through the meal and after it. We came to two definite conclusions.We must at all costs see Letty Ransome before the inquest and we mustleave our line of argument to be settled after we knew whether we or oneof us was to be called into the witness-box, or whether neither of uswas wanted at all.

This latter question was settled for us the next morning. I received aletter from Inspector Carruthers, stating that the post-mortemexamination proved conclusively that Jill Leslie had died from cocainepoisoning and that since the inquest was only concerned with the mannerof her death, it was proposed to call only those who had been present atthe breakfast-party.

"Letty Ransome, then," said Imogen.

"Yes, surely," said I. "Now, how to get hold of her?"

"I think that you had better leave that to me, darling," said Imogen.

"I will, indeed," I agreed fervently.

Leave the dirty work to the woman is the golden rule of married life,and I went off to my bath. I heard the telephone at work whilst I wassoaking in hot water, and I was still wrapped in towels when Imogenbegan to shout through the door.

"Martin! Martin! Letty Ransome's coming here after her rehearsal."

"When's that?"

"At five this afternoon."

"But, Imogen, I'm not sure that I can get away."

"Don't be absurd," said Imogen. "Darling, if half a dozen old teak treesstand up one day more, it can't really matter so very much."

Imogen's conceptions of the work of my very important Company were atonce primitive and contemptuous. But I consented to be at home by fiveand actually Letty Ransome and I met on the stroke of the hour at theentrance to the hotel. It was an embarrassing moment for both of us butLetty carried it off the better of the two. She had more nerve or lessshame.

"Come up and have some tea, won't you?" I said brightly as though we hadmet by the merest chance and this grand idea had suddenly dawned on me.

"But I can only stay for a moment, I'm afraid. I'm so busy," Lettyanswered, all smiles and dimples. She was looking pretty enough to meltan iron heart and though her tailored suit, the fur round her neck, hershoes and stockings and the rest of her dress were just what other girlswere wearing, she herself made them different. She gave them a specialdistinction. Imogen's judgement failed to recognise the distinctionalthough, believe me, it was there. People turned and gazed when Lettypassed. Imogen used barbed words instead--words spoken with the gentlestvoice, but definitely barbed. However, the barbed words were reservedfor me; to Letty Ransome she was sweet. For instance, as she poured outthe tea, she said to Letty--she said, her voice dropping sugar:

"You came up in the lift this time, I suppose."

Letty turned pale and pushed her chair back. If I could have sidledunnoticed from the room I should certainly have done so. The only one ofthe three who was at ease was Imogen. And she had battle in her eyes,and enjoyment in her face.

"You haven't mentioned that!" said Letty leaning forward, her facestrained, her fingers twitching.

"No! No!" said I.

"Not yet," said Imogen.

Letty chose to ignore the "yet."

At the same time she took no notice of me whatever.

"I was sure of that," she declared.

"Why?" asked Imogen.

"You wouldn't have sent for me if you had," Letty replied rathershrewdly, I thought. The invitation would never have been sent had notsome accommodation been contemplated. It was a threat and an offer todeal in one. Letty had scored a small point for what it was worth. Butshe must needs spoil it. For she added:

"Besides, you wouldn't break a promise."

"I hope not, if I made one," Imogen answered. "I remember that you askedfor one. I can't remember that we gave one."

Letty now turned appealingly to me but before she could speak Imogen gotin something very nasty.

"On important occasions, of course, my husband speaks for himself. On atrumpery little sordid affair like this, I venture to speak for him. Hegave you no promise. Did you, darling?"

"I did not, Imogen," I said stoutly in the tone of one who adds: "AndGod defend the right!"

"No promise was made," Imogen resumed.

Letty changed her ground. She took the way of pathos but I cannot thinkthat she was wise. If a woman wants to act pathos to anyone she shouldselect a man. Letty's eyes filled with tears. She said in a voice ofstudious resignation:

"You must do what you think best, of course, but you can't have realisedwhat this affair means to me. I am beginning to make a little positionfor myself----"

"So you told us," Imogen interrupted, never without a sweet kind smile.

"And if it's known that I was mixed up with a little singing-girl whodoped--well, you can see the harm it must do me."

Imogen looked at once utterly perplexed.

"But I can't see," she said. She hitched her chair forward. She was justasking earnestly and innocently for a little information which--oh, shewas certain about it--would clear away all her mystifications in asecond. "You are going to give evidence at the inquest, anyway."

Letty stood up as though a spring had been released. But the spring hadno strength and she sank down again.

"Oh, you know that!" she said.

"Of course I know that," Imogen returned. "How could I help knowing it?"

There was a delicate suggestion here that she was being called herself.

"You have to allow that you had breakfast with--what did you callher?--the little singing-girl who doped. What additional harm to youcould it do to admit that you left your handbag behind and went to fetchit at luncheon-time?"

"I can't admit that," said Letty stubbornly.

"But why?" Never was a woman at such a loss to understand. "You must seehow awkward it is going to make it for me! What am I to say?"

Oh, Imogen, Imogen! I admired her nerve and deplored her duplicity. Sofrank and ingenuous she was, Letty Ransome could not but believe thatshe was to be summoned as a witness.

"Say nothing," said Letty Ransome.

"To a coroner as busy as a little bee? My dear! And a jury ofironmongers sniffing at a scandal in theatrical life? Not so easy to saynothing. I should just be seeing you in front of me as you joined uswith your bag in the grill-room. You haven't an idea how strange youlooked! And on top of that, your asking us to promise never to mentionit! You see, they would be certain to ask why we hadn't told theinspector-man about it at once. Of course, if we understood--but asthings are, it's bewildering."

All the natural colour ebbed from Letty Ransome's face. From a pair offrightened eyes she stared at Imogen.

"I see," she said slowly.

And we all saw. No one was puzzled any more. Imogen's last sentencesmeant nothing if they did not mean a threat. Letty Ransome, to borrowthe jargon suitable to the subject, had got to come across with ahistory of what she did between a quarter and five minutes to two on theafternoon before at the Semiramis Hotel. If she held her tongue she mustrun whatever risk there was to run that we should inform the police andthe coroner of her visit to Jill Leslie's flat.

Letty Ransome came across.

"I think that I had better tell you everything," she said, passing hertongue between her lips.

"It would be wise, I think," said Imogen.

"When I went into Jill's flat she was still living."

It was the statement which we expected, yet it shocked us both as if ithad been some dreadful news flung at us unexpectedly over the wireless.

"Yes," said Imogen. "Then you went into Jill's bedroom."

"I had left my handbag there," Letty answered.

"Yes," Imogen agreed. "There wasn't any chair near the door of thesitting-room."

"I didn't look," said Letty Ransome. "I told you a chair by the door as,at that moment in the lounge, I would have told you anything."

"Except the truth," Imogen remarked.

"I was frightened out of my life," Letty pleaded.

"Naturally," Imogen explained to her, "since you had left your friend todie alone without calling for help."

Letty Ransome shrank back in her chair. I got an impression that thechair had widened and grown higher and that Letty had dwindled. Shelooked so small, so diminished from the arresting figure I had seen nothalf an hour ago on the door-step of the hotel.

"It would ruin me if that were known," she whispered; and somecomprehension of the abominable nature of her excuse entered her mind asshe heard herself utter it. "Oh, there was nothing to be done," shecried. "Jill was unconscious. She was breathing--horribly. Her breathwas roaring--yes, roaring in great long gasps, and her chest rose andfell beneath the bedclothes with a violence which I didn't think anyheart could stand. I didn't dare to go near her. For a few moments, too,I couldn't run away. I was held there as if my feet were chained. It wasawful. That room--the sun outside--and the horrible sound from thebed--I was frightened out of my wits. I was suddenly mad to get away. Isnatched up my bag from the dressing-table----"

"Oh!" Imogen interrupted. "It was on the dressing-table?"

"Yes," Letty ran on, hardly noticing the interruption. "I snatched itup. I remember that I had seen no one in the corridor, that I had run upthe stairs instead of using the lift. I wondered if I could get away. Ilooked into the corridor round the edge of the front door. It was stillempty. So I ran--oh, I ran! I didn't say anything to you. It couldn'thave done any good."

"Why not?" asked Imogen.

"Jill was actually dying."

"How do you know?" asked Imogen. "How do you know that she wouldn't bealive now if you had called for help at once?"

Letty did not answer. She sat and stared and stared at Imogen, and thena little sigh fluttered from her lips. I was just in time, I think. Inanother second she would have slipped off the chair on to the floor.

"We must get her some water," I said, and Imogen ran for it.

"She'd better have some brandy, too," said Imogen.

We had, therefore, an adjournment of the witness's cross-examinationwhilst the waiter was summoned, sent to fetch brandy and brought backwith it. During that adjournment, Imogen and I both and quite separatelycame to the conclusion that Letty Ransome had not realised in theslightest degree that there might, by prompt action, have been a chanceof saving Jill Leslie's life. I don't even know that there was a chance.The police-surgeon, with all his experience, would not commit himself. Ihad no doubt that Letty, standing in that room with the sunlight comingin at the window and all the summer sounds of birds and insects, andwith the shrouded figure on the bed gasping out its life like someoverwrought machine, never dreamed but that Jill was actually dying andbeyond recall. The conviction certainly made a difference in ourjudgement of Letty. We were able, if not to believe, to assume that hadLetty imagined that Jill could have been saved, she would have rousedthe whole of the Semiramis Court rather than let her friend die. Letty'snext words, indeed, strengthened our assumption.

"Do you mean to say that Jill could have been saved?" she asked in ashaking voice.

"No one can say that," Imogen answered gently; and at once ourassumption began to lose its strength. For with the utterance of thosewords Letty's assurance began to return. Her eyes became less guilty andmore wary.

"Then I don't think you ought to have suggested it," she cried on a noteof indignation.

"Let's go back to the handbag," said Imogen coldly; and the suggestionbrought Letty Ransome low.

"Why the--the handbag?" she stammered, and was lost.

"Because Jill's big sapphire was stolen from her dressing-table thatmorning, and the police know it," said Imogen, deftly mingling fact andprobability to make one convincing indictment.

"Jill's big sapphire!" Letty repeated with round, incredulous eyes.

"And the platinum chain," said Imogen.

Letty shrugged her shoulders.

"They had better search the chambermaid's trunks," she saiddisdainfully. I had been somehow quite sure that this would be LettyRansome's reply. No doubt Imogen was prepared for it too, for she wasready with her rejoinder.

"And your handbag, Letty."

"You think I stole it!"

"I'm sure you stole it."

"You dare----" Letty Ransome rose to her feet. "I'll not stay hereanother moment." She whisked across to the door. "It's outrageous!" Shelaid a hand upon the door-knob, and then she stopped and looked round.She saw me drawing the telephone instrument nearer to me. It stood upona side table and I had only to turn my chair to reach it.

"Who are you going to telephone to?" she demanded.

"Need you ask?" I returned.

"You see, Letty," Imogen resumed, "you fetched your bag from Jill'sdressing-table and you came back to us in the lounge, not quiteyourself. You told us that you found it on a chair in the sitting-room.That wasn't true. You asked us not to mention your visit to the room.You asked us very urgently, and you gave us a ridiculous reason. When Ipicked up the bag to admire it I could see you were so nervous that yourfingers were twitching. You were afraid that I was going to open it,Letty. When we went in to luncheon you sat on it. When you went away youwere clutching it--just as you are now."

Slowly and very sullenly Letty Ransome came back into the room.

"I didn't mean to leave the bag behind again," she answered. "It's myonly one."

Neither Imogen nor I made any rejoinder. As a matter of fact we were nottoo comfortable. Now that the police were quite certain that Jill haddied from an overdose of cocaine, a drug to which she was addicted, theywere not really interested in the theft of the sapphire. No one hadmoved them to take any action. It had nothing to do with the inquest. Adirect threat to raise it at the inquest might be beating the air. Ourhope was that Letty dare not run the risk of allowing us to try.

"Why do you want the sapphire?" she asked.

It would, of course, have been too ridiculous to have tried to explainto Letty Ransome the dreams and hopes which had gathered about thatstone. She would not have understood them in a thousand years, and whenshe had understood them she would have thought us all liars. Imogen tookthe simplest way.

"That's our affair," she said, and I saw Letty Ransome's face change.She looked from one to the other of us with an easiness which she hadnot shown before. A smile glimmered on her lips and spread. She began tolaugh with a real amusement.

"I see," she remarked. "Birds of a feather, what? I must now have yourpromise."

"You'll have it, but you won't need it," I answered. "What can we say,if we've got the sapphire?"

Letty Ransome thought that over and it seemed to her reasonable. Thievesbetray thieves, certainly, but not to convict themselves. She suddenlyopened her bag, took out of it a twist of tissue-paper and laid it onthe table. In the twist of paper lay the sapphire and its chain.Imogen's hand darted out and grasped it--oh, greedily enough to persuadeLetty Ransome that she had nothing any longer to fear from us. She shutup her bag with a snap. She looked at us derisively.

"You make me tired, you two," she said, and she sauntered out of theroom.

Chapter 27
The Last

I was indignant. Letty Ransome had hardly closed the door before Icried:

"Did you hear that, Imogen?"

"Of course I did, darling," she answered.

"She thinks we are a couple of crooks," I said.

"Well, aren't we?" she asked, playing with the sapphire.

"We are not. Just listen to me!"

"I will. But, dearest, don't you think you had better have a whisky andsoda first?"

The advice was sound and I always take sound advice. But I was not to bediverted. I had lunched at my club which was conveniently placed betweenthe officialdom of the West and the solid interests of the East. I hadsat beside a King's Counsel to whom I had put our problem; and nowreinforced by his judgement, I was prepared to prove to Imogen that mycapacities were not limited to cutting down half a dozen old teak treesin a forest. Over my whisky and soda I expounded the law.

"The sapphire is not the property of the Crown. If Jill died intestateand without kin, the property of which she died possessed would belongto the Crown. But the sapphire was taken from her whilst she was alive.Therefore she was not possessed of it when she died."

Imogen nodded.

"I was always certain that if we went down to the House of Commons andsent for the Chancellor of the Exchequer and told him that there was asapphire for him to sell, he would be bored to tears," she said.

"I don't think you are quite following my argument, Imogen," I said.

"Word by word, darling," Imogen insisted.

"Very well."

I took a drink and Imogen sat with her eyes upon my face and her handsin her lap, suspiciously dutiful.

"The only person really in a position to take action is Jill herself;and she's dead. The sapphire's in the air. To establish ownership to itamongst the living would be impossible."

"I think you're marvellous, Martin," said Imogen. "It's such a comfortto know that we shall not be acting illegally when we do what we aregoing to do, anyway."

We took the sapphire with its chain to a jeweller the next day and gothim to put a price upon it. Then we sent for Robin Calhoun and persuadedhim to take the price. He made a little show of a fight against takingit, but Jill was gone and he had the cost of her burial to discharge andhis circumstances were distressful. In the end he took it and went hisway. After he had gone:

"I think," I said, "that we had better buy a passage to Rangoon and giveit to Michael with the sapphire, don't you?"

Imogen agreed.

"So you, too, noticed that his clothes were getting shabby and his shoeswanted heeling, and his face was longer every day," she said tucking herhand through my arm.

"I shouldn't think that there's much to spare in Michael's pocketnowadays," I said.

I think that Michael had actually a narrower margin than we imagined. Wetelephoned to his address in Bayswater the day after the inquest, askinghim to call. I shall never forget the look upon his face when Imogenhanded to him his sapphire and his steamer-ticket and he knew that hislong pilgrimage was at an end. It was like a clean, clear morning aftera hopeless night of rain. He could not speak. He made a few littlewhimpering noises of joy and the water stood in his eyes. I thought thathe would burst into tears. He made a forward movement with his headtowards Imogen and checked himself.

"You may, Michael," Imogen said with a smile, and she lifted her cheekto him.

But he passed the privilege by. He stood up straight, although with aneffort. His face lost--not all at once but by subtle gradations--thewarmer human looks which it had worn during his quest and our endeavoursto help him. We saw Galatea returning to stone. He became not stern butaloof, an ecclesiastic set apart amongst his solitary imaginings. So Ihad seen him twice--once on the steamer at Schwegu and once on theterrace of the Rock Temple at Dhambulla. So Imogen had seen him once.Michael D. had gone long ago. Michael went now. Uncle Sunday remained.He did not thank us. Why should he? The little we had done in obedienceto the inexorable Laws would be of immense advantage to ourselves. Hejust said: "Good-bye!" and went away.

As soon as he had gone Imogen did what was for her the rarest thing. Shesat down and cried--really cried, with the great tears rolling down hercheeks.

"I had an idea," she said between her sobs, "--I am too ridiculous and Iam making myself hideous--I had an idea that we might have gone down tothe docks and seen him off. But he doesn't want us." She turned andclung to me whilst I slipped an arm about her. "Oh, Martin, you mustnever go back to Burma. I can't have you sitting about any old pagodaand perfectly happy. No, I can't!"

I reassured her as best I could. We did the wise thing we had learnt todo in conditions of stress. We went out and dined together alone in arestaurant gay with lights and lovely people. But in the midst of thegaiety and the lights we had glimpses of another and a distantworld--the shadow stretching out over earth and sea from the summit ofAdam's Peak, the bungalow in a glistening jungle where Imogen hadcrouched against a wall with the terror of death at her heart, and thehigh terrace above Sigiri where I had first held her in my arms.

THE END

[End of The Sapphire, by A. E. W. Mason]