They had been two days in Srinagar, waiting for the last details of their transport to be perfected. As usual nowadays, all travelling arrangements had been delegated to a firm of experts whose business it was to outfit expeditions of all degrees of danger or difficulty, from an easy tourist jaunt of two weeks into the mountains, to elaborate caravans whose precise destination in the heart of Asia was nebulous, but which expected their explorations to occupy any time from two to five years. The Brassey expedition was of the latter variety. Messrs. Brathwaite, the outfitters, were instructed by Brassey's agents to provide transport and supplies for a scientific expedition lasting two years, much of it probably through unexplored mountainous regions, with possibly a short digression into desert territory. The sterling reputation of Brassey House, and its honorable record of many previous seed collecting expeditions brilliantly carried through without the loss of a single life, opened official doors and made the issuing of passports and letters of recommendation to governors of provinces a matter of routine. As for the rest, the purchase of supplies and the hiring of porters, Messrs. Brathwaite took all bother off their hands. The start, at any rate, would he as simple as stepping aboard a Pullman.
There remained, at this late moment, only the most urgent question of all. Should they go on with it? If Brassey's "No" to Vartan's query had settled one uneasy question in Vartan's mind, reading of his strange "confession" had raised a host to supplant it. And there was the matter of Marjorie's alleged publicity campaign which cast a sinister shadow over the whole doubtful venture.
Marjorie had calmly explained her part on their first afternoon in Srinagar. In answer to Vartan's question why her first dispatch to the press was dated from Darjiling, instead of from Srinagar whence the actual start would be made, Marjorie had elucidated her role with charming frankness.
"Mr. Brassey has told you," she reminded her companions, "that he has been troubled for years by spies infesting his business. You yourselves saw one instance. For very good reasons, he suspects that these same spies will spare no pains to learn the outcome of our expedition. On Mr. Brassey's orders, I have advertised profusely for over a year that our expedition is to start from Darjiling and gradually work its way to the highlands of Tibet. That, of course, is not at all the direction we shall take. But it is the region, we hope, in which our enemies will begin searching for what we hope to find."
"Which is?" Shane interrupted.
"Not now," she smiled. "Mr. Brassey told you –a shovelful of earth from a particular place. To throw our competitors completely off the scent, Mr. Brassey devised a simple, ingenious scheme. He instructed me to advertise widely our contract with Northfields' for news and movie rights. According to my stories we are taking with us a powerful radio outfit to send back at least weekly progress reports to the nearest British station. This of course is to be supplemented by runners when the expedition gets so far into the mountains that the radio becomes ineffective.
"Now," she continued with charming frankness, "all this of course is just a fairy story. We have no radio, and we shall send back no runners. But Northfields' will continue to receive fairly regular reports – not too regular, of course, or the realistic effect would be spoiled – of our terribly exciting adventures in the wilderness. The public will eat them up. I know, because I have written all the reports myself, and I have a pretty fair knowledge of what the average stay at home likes beside the evening fire. You, Mr. Shane, will break a leg by a fall into a crevasse exactly three weeks from today. Our heroic commissar, none other than the redoubtable Mohammed – all organizers and leaders of caravans are called Mohammed in the proper technique – will risk his own life, and almost lose it – twice – to fish you safely out of the evil crack in the glacier. Then you will be patiently carried on a litter by four sturdy hillsmen for six weeks of silent suffering, while you heroically direct the collecting of innumerable plant fossils hitherto unknown to science."
"But I say," Shane interrupted, "what the devil am I to do when the Paleobotanical Society asks to see the fossils when we get home?"
"I have thought of that too," she laughed. "You are just getting strong again, and able to walk, although a trifle shakily, when a stupid porter lets his pony train slip over an icy precipice, dumping all your priceless specimens into a raging, boiling mountain torrent. In your grief at the loss, you plunge into the cataract–"
"By jumping off the precipice? It's a bit too thick."
"Of course not. You are lowered by ropes, and just escape drowning. It is all useless however, and your unique fossils are irretrievably lost."
"And what about me?" Vartan asked. "I break my neck, I suppose, and am brought back to life by an eight hundred year old lama in a Tibetan monastery?"
"Not quite. You eat wild rhubarb, although Mohammed warns you not to, and you have a terrible time – out of your head for weeks."
"Is that all?" Vartan asked drily.
"Not quite. I must leave something to Northfields' readers' imaginations. Then, when you and Mr. Shane are both worthless, I assume charge of the expedition. My public now really begins to take notice. Can't you see the headlines? I can, because I have written them all myself. 'Girl Leader Braves Blizzard. Blown Over Precipice On Kinchinjinga. Rescued By Porter.' The stories I have written while I am in command will double Northfields' innumerable circulations. Not one of them is true," she concluded simply.
"You mean to say," Vartan asked, "that all your publicity is to be nothing more nor less than a gigantic hoax?"
"Why not call it a joke instead? Northfields will get what they are paying for – a thriller. The public will enjoy it far better than a dreary account of the truth – 'thirty miles today; barometer so-and-so; wet bulb thermometer the same; wind eighty miles an hour from the northeast; two porters with lame backs, one with trench feet.'"
"It seems to me," Vartan objected quietly, "that this comes pretty near plain fraud."
"What about the spies who have made poor Mr. Brassey's life miserable all these years?" she flashed. "We are on an important mission. Why should we deliberately court failure when we can avoid at least one danger with harm to nobody?"
"The end justifies the means? Very well; if that is your philosophy and Mr. Brassey's. I have nothing to say. All philosophies are on a par; yours is as good as any of them. So these bogus progress reports are to be released one at a time on the gullible public after we have left?"
"If you choose to put it rudely, yes. I have left the complete series, enough for two years, with representatives in India whom Mr. Brassey knows he can trust. And further, if you really care to know," she added defiantly, "the same agents are keeping a complete and exciting battery of films to be exhibited after we return. They were taken five years ago by the Brassey expedition to the Pamirs, and have never been shown outside our London offices, where they were exhibited to an audience of exactly five. I was one. That, partly, is why I have done so well on my radio reports. When you read them, you will admit the same."
Although Shane's loyalty to Marjorie made him more lenient than Vartan, it did not blind him to the queer color of the whole crooked transaction. Had Marjorie been a man, and not a charming young woman with whom he was in love, the impulsive Shane would forthwith have punched her on the jaw and told her to go to hell with her fishy game. His common sense however was blinded by his emotions, and he failed to realize that a doublecrosser is but seldom particular in the choice of victims.
Vartan, on the other hand, was intrigued by Marjorie's candid avowal of a shrewd business move. Like her, he believed in safeguarding his employer's interests so long as he accepted wages. But there is a limit, even to loyalty, and Vartan seriously doubted whether he, in a similar case, would have gone to the length that Marjorie did to play Brassey's game for him.
The decisive factor in Vartan's case was Brassey's "No" to his telegram. Crooked dealing or straight, he would stay with the game and see Brassey, the plaything of a remorseless fate, through to as happy a con
clusion as possible. That monosyllable "No" was more persuasive than volumes of fervid eloquence. It moved Vartan to his decision, which was to change forever the current of life for one of their party, where labored explanations and irrefutable logic would have but left him cold.
All this came back to Vartan as he tramped the lanes about Srinagar. His decision had crystallized. He had wrestled in the dark nearly ten hours. The first fires of the coming dawn kindled the cold peaks of the mountains, long before the valley hinted of light, and here and there an anxious bird, sensing the advent of its god, chirped shrilly to welcome the tardy sun. Vartan wheeled to face the mountains before turning his back on them to make his way to the hotel. Their morning splendor had come upon them suddenly. Involuntarily he uncovered his head, and stood at attention.
"Into it!" he said, turning away at last.
Only two porters and the night clerk were about when he reached the hotel. From the kitchen wing the clatter of an occasional pot or pan presaged the stately ritual of breakfast, but it was still two hours in the future. For once in his life Vartan felt that he could relish an English breakfast of the classic type. He hurried off to his room to shave, bathe, and change his dew-sodden clothes.
Neither Shane nor Marjorie suspected him of an all-night vigil. They rallied him, however, on his Himalayan appetite. Marjorie was in high spirits.
"A clerk from Brathwaites' left this at the desk for me," she announced, exhibiting a pink slip. "It says that we can start tonight, if we like."
"Shall we?" Shane asked.
She hesitated before replying. "It depends," she said, between sips of steaming coffee, "on Mr. Vartan."
"How?" Vartan demanded bluntly.
"Let's enjoy our breakfast first," she pleaded. But Vartan was obdurate.
"Explain yourself," he said coldly.
Quick to note the change in his manner, she became efficient, but in a charmingly feminine way.
"Don't you remember, Mr. Vartan?" Her tone was intensely serious. "We cannot start until you treat Mr. Brassey as fairly as he has treated you."
"I have decided," Vartan declared, "to read the rest of Mr. Brassey's charge to us. Is that what you mean?"
"It is necessary. But not sufficient. After you have heard our side, we must hear yours. Before we can start, you must tell us precisely what your 'sealed orders' are. Have you forgotten? We reached such an agreement before we left the hotel in Bombay."
"Oh, of course! Excuse me," he begged ironically, "for forgetting." He turned to Shane. "Do you happen to remember exactly what I was saying that day when I lunched with you at Brasseys', just before your precious old white horse brought in the coffee?"
"Sure," Shane responded. "It was something about sealed orders."
Vartan turned to Marjorie. She met his gaze unflinchingly.
"Get the point?" he asked.
"I do," she retorted with a show of anger. "And I shall insist that you cable to Mr. Brassey the moment we rise from this table. Ask him whether I am trustworthy. You can get an answer by noon today."
Vartan dropped his eyes. "I apologise," he said. "It will be unnecessary. Is that enough?"
Marjorie was too angry to reply. Shane shuffled uneasily and kicked Vartan under the table. Vartan took the hint.
"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Driscott," he apologised. "I really didn't know you're out of sorts this morning – you look just like a Cashmere almond in blossom; so it isn't my fault. Am I pardoned?"
"You are," she smiled, "although you don't deserve to be. Didn't what we read yesterday afternoon make any impression on your skeptical mind? Can't you see how terrible it is for one to coddle his suspicions? Think of what happened to poor James Brassey, and to our Mr. Brassey's father. As Shakespeare said 'that way lies madness'"
"I know," he admitted. "But," and he compelled her to meet his gaze, "I am not naturally suspicious."
She sized him up coldly.
"Will you cable?"
"I have said that it is unnecessary."
"When Vartan says that," Shane cut in, "it means 'nothing doing'."
"I insist upon a definite answer. Unless you give it, Mr. Vartan, I refuse to go on with this."
"You wish a plain yes or no?"
Marjorie nodded.
"It is unnecessary," Vartan repeated.
For a moment it seemed as if their project had suffered shipwreck. Shane saved the situation.
"Vartan has no manners, but he does have red hair. Ever try to make a redheaded man say 'No' when he really wants to, but doesn't know how?"
Marjorie laughed. The day was saved, and Vartan's masculine honor left intact. That, at least, was Shane's interpretation of the incident. Vartan had scored his point, simply because he was almost passionately obstinate. Marjorie, out of sorts, had yielded merely to avoid an unnecessary scene.
They rose to go into the lobby to smoke, as it was still rather chilly outside, and too early for a morning ramble.
"Shall we stroll out to that enchanted garden this morning and finish reading Mr. Brassey's will – as Mr. Vartan calls it?"
"I'm on," Shane agreed enthusiastically.
"All right. I'll run up and get the roll. The sun is tipping those poplars already."
"Don't trouble," said Vartan, rising. "We'll read the rest some night in camp. Tonight, possibly, if we're not too tired."
"What do you mean?" she flashed.
"Simply this. The expedition has started. Your things are packed. You told me so yesterday. So are ours. Except your personal effects, all of our gear is ready to go forward now. You have ten minutes to change your clothes."
"But we don't start till tonight," she protested. "Ali told us yesterday it is not safe to attempt the pass when the sun is up. Avalanches–"
"Shane and I know our business. We're no greenhorns at mountaineering."
"You don't yet know what route Mr. Brassey wishes you to take," she demurred with a trace of defiance. "And until I see fit to tell you, you won't guess."
"I don't need to guess. There is one and only one way out of this valley into the heart of the mountains, and over them, unless we head back to the plains of India. That would be foolish, as we just left them behind us. So we shall start up the Baltoro pass in half an hour. I'll give the headman his orders."
"I refuse to move!"
"Very well. Stay here."
"I shall cable at once to Mr. Brassey and he will cut off your supplies. A word from him will be sufficient to Brathwaites'. She moved toward the desk to take up the telephone.
"What are you going to do?"
"Telephone a message to the telegraph office."
"Better not, Miss Driscott," he advised, looking her steadily in the eyes. "Mr. Brassey put me in charge of this expedition."
"Your command to become effective," she retorted, her hand upon the receiver, "only when the pack train has actually started."
"You are wasting time," he said. "Shane, go and give the headman his order to start."
Shane turned on his heel like a soldier and walked out. Vartan was alone with Marjorie and the telephone.
"I suppose you think you are being very masculine and masterful," she scoffed. "The only impression you make on me is that of a rash young man exceeding his authority and disobeying his employer's instructions."
"Are you going to use that telephone?"
She searched his face with a level stare before replying.
"If I do," she asked, "what will you do?"
"I'll go that far to meet you," Vartan retorted, "although only a common decency and sense of fair play compel me to answer. You said you always play straight. So do I. If you use that telephone, I shall wait till you finish what you have to say."
"And then?"
"I shall use it."
She relinquished the instrument and turned away to go to her room.
"We both win," she laughed happily. "If you had backed down then I should have cabled Mr. Brassey to recall you. The man in command of our party
must have backbone."
"Enough to override technical orders when they become dangerous nuisances? This absurd stipulation of Mr. Brassey's, for instance, that we shall not start till we have heard the rest of his history?"
"Yes."
"Then that's settled." She had started to mount the stairs. "By the way," he called after her, "is there a telephone in your room?"
For a second she hesitated.
"Why do you hesitate?" he asked quietly, going up to her. A flash of animal fear lit up her eyes, and died instantly, leaving them calm and candidly blue, staring into his own.
"Because," she replied in a low tone, "I am afraid of suspicion."
"On account of Mr. Brassey and his brother James?"
"And their father."
"I see. Six years in the atmosphere of Brassey House. That's enough for any normal person."
"I knew you would understand," she breathed, the strange light again flickering uncertainly across her eyes. "To start fair, I shall send a chambermaid to my room to get my things."
"Perhaps you had better. You can change your clothes at Brathwaites'. There must be a room."
It was so arranged. Less than an hour later they were on their way toward the pass.
"What were you and Marjorie confabbing about so long?" Shane asked when he and Vartan were out of earshot of the pack train.
"Whether she would be permitted to take along a vanity case, or something of the sort, the size of a young trunk."
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