"I suppose I must," Brassey sighed unhappily. "But tell me, John, your agents never saw any trace of actual dishonesty in Marjorie's conduct at our laboratories?"
For a fraction of a second Ransome hesitated. "Only this," he admitted reluctantly. "We learned conclusively that Miss Driscott's real object at Brassey House was to discover, if possible, the origin of those spores your brother sent you."
"Then that puts her in the same class as the rest of the spies," Brassey acknowledged hopelessly. "Poor Marjorie! But," he reiterated defiantly, "I still believe she is innocent, no matter what she has done."
"So do I, Charles, until we have proof beyond all question. I know it is a hard thing to say," he continued, "but in my profession we cannot believe in the innocence of anyone until it is established. I neither condemn nor approve her conduct. Miss Driscott, at this moment, is no more to me than is Alfred Jamieson. For all I know," he continued frankly, "they may be working together, although I consider this as wildly improbable. Still, it is no more absurd than it would be to condemn or acquit either of them without further evidence. And, I may say," he concluded, "if Jamieson is a fool, then I am bitterly disappointed in him."
For long Brassey did not reply. At last, looking up into his friend's anxious face, he put his perplexed question.
"When you said that Vartan was your man, you meant that he would discover what Marjorie is really doing?"
"Not quite so strong as that, Charles. It will take an expert in human nature to decipher our charming friend. No; what I meant was this. The ordinary young man would have fallen an easy victim to Miss Driscott's obvious attractions. Not so, Vartan. When he cabled, 'Driscott reports slides found. True?' he was not taking her word for anything. When I advised you to cable a plain 'No' in reply, I knew well what I was doing.
"Whether Miss Driscott was or was not intentionally dishonest in that little episode, is of no importance. She may have been deluded by some message from our enemies. All I cared about was the opportunity it gave me of putting Vartan on his mettle. After a flat denial like that of one of her stories, would he be likely to believe the next? Mind," he added, "I do not for a moment assert that Marjorie did not receive such a lying message from our enemies. The cabled news that Shane's slides had been found ought well have been sent as a trap for her. I shouldn't be a bit surprised to learn that Jamieson was responsible for it. However, only time will show. I'm counting on that unimpressionable young chap Vartan to tell us something. Well, Charles, it's getting late. Shall we stroll back to the inn and have dinner?"
"I suppose so," Brassey muttered, "although I doubt whether I shall ever enjoy another meal until those three are found."
"Ah!" Ransome exclaimed. "That's better. You said 'until'. So you are beginning to believe with me that our friends will be found sooner or later. Those boys in the planes are some of the best pilots in India. They'll find our three."
While Brassey and Ransome tried to sleep that night, the planes were soaring high over the Karakorum passes, intent on their search for the chasm with the hot springs. Their descent into the inferno early the next day, and their subsequent escape with the three refugees, were no more nerve-trying than the sleepless, foodless watch which Brassey and Ransome maintained after their first futile endeavor to await the outcome calmly. Although both knew that their fretting could do no good, they sat for hours together in uneasy silence, or paced the lanes of the valley in moody thought for hours on end without a word. Neither could touch the food he tried to eat, and both early realized that sleep would be an impossibility until the planes were heard from.
All went well with the returning planes until the moment when the leader began soaring up toward the great pass, eighteen thousand feet high, in the barrier range between them and the first, far beginnings of civilization. The engine began missing, and the pilot glanced anxiously down in the moonlight to see what, if anything, lay beneath him. A saddle-shaped depression of smooth, deep snow, gave him courage. If he must land, he probably would not kill himself and his passengers. The engine continued to miss. Glancing back, the pilot saw Shane nodding, half frozen and almost asleep. At his feet a dark, huddled figure was groping about where he had no legitimate business. To waken Shane, the pilot took a sudden dive and instantly zoomed up again. Shane roused from his doze. In a flash he suspected what was happening. Old White Horse was rummaging about in the hope of finding something he could tamper with to disable the plane and force the pilot to come down on the one safe landing they had as yet flown over. Reaching down, he jerked the – shaking man into a sitting posture.
Conversation was impossible in the roar of the propeller. Nevertheless Jamieson contrived to give an excellent imitation – if indeed it was not real – of a man completely unnerved by his first airplane ride, and determined at all costs to get back to solid earth while the opportunity was reasonably good.
Shane did not argue. Professing to accept old Horse Face's cowardice at its alleged value, he roughly shoved him into a sitting posture at a safe distance from temptation. Jamieson, however, was so badly out of his head that he refused this exhibition of reason and dropped to the floor.
Shane almost lost his temper. He was even moved to exhibit the pistol which the pilot had lent him. This argument told, almost too effectively. Jamieson reached into his clothes for his own pistol. To all appearances he was clean out of his head with fright. Shane left no doubt of his own intention. Taking careful aim, he neatly drilled a small hole through the fuselage at Jamieson's feet. Jamieson saw the point. His own hands grasped his shaking knees in full view of all spectators. Thereafter Shane dozed no more. Only when the freezing dawn broke did he permit the gibbering man at his feet to crawl out and try to warm his stiff arms in the frosty sunlight.
"If that man's as great a fool and as big a coward as he pretended to be," Shane muttered to himself, "I'm twice everything that he is. All right, Marjorie; I'll take care of Jamieson for you."
CHAPTER 23
THE MOTIVE
The whole population of Srinagar turned out to greet the planes as they whirred and droned down the pass, but only two of the crowd were permitted to approach them when they landed. Ransome had used all his police skill, without actually betraying his identity, to induce the officials of the sleepy little town to make the necessary arrangements for holding back the curious.
Shane was lifted out first. Brassey, thoughtful as ever, had brought the lame man's walking sticks.
"You take charge of Shane, will you?" he asked Ransome. "I must see Marjorie."
She was the next on the ground. Staggering slightly in the natural effort to regain her ground legs, she hurried over to Shane.
"Is he with you?"
"Who?"
"Jamieson."
"Of course. He lost his head and might have jumped out, if I hadn't persuaded him not to, but here he is. All whole, as you see. Is he very precious to you, Marjorie?"
"Infinitely. Don't let him out of your sight for an instant. I'll tell you later why. Don't say anything to Mr. Brassey yet.
"Here he comes."
Overcome by exhaustion, she all but fell into Brassey's arms.
"There, there," he soothed. "You will be all right after a nice hot bath, a glass or two of warm milk, and a long sleep. Everything is ready. Don't try to tell me now. Wait till tomorrow."
"I can't!" she cried. "This must all be settled now. Oh, can't you understand? I'm not out of my head. Things are desperate, desperate, I tell you! We have almost won, but we may lose it all at the last moment through carelessness. Have you some brandy – anything?"
"John!" Brassey called. "Where are the stimulants?"
"Here," Ransome answered, hastening toward them. "All ready." He poured her a sizable drink in the flask cup and handed it to her. While she was drinking, Vartan joined the group. "Have one?" Ransome invited.
"No, thanks. All I want is a gallon of water. Nothing to drink for days but dried berries. Better give her some water too."
Somehow they managed to make their way through the crowd to the waiting cars, leaving the disappointed populace to wreak its enthusiasm on the hapless aviators. Ransome contrived to sit in the rear seat of the first car, alone with Jamieson and Shane, while Marjorie, Brassey and Vartan were whisked off in the second.
"Everything satisfactory, Jamieson?" Ransome ventured as they shot off.
"Quite," Jamieson snapped. "We found where James Brassey got his spores. James is dead and the place will burn for the next thousand years."
"James is dead, you say? Poor Charles will be relieved."
"Not when he hears the story." In a few harsh sentences he outlined the essential facts of their stay in the caves. "You will have to tell him. I can't."
"Very well. I suppose I must; I'm his oldest friend. Poor Charles!"
"Yes. Poor Charles. And Poor James. Both of them mad as hatters."
"Charles is the sanest man I ever knew," Ransome asserted quietly. "You are making a mistake, Jamieson."
"Charles sane?" Jamieson scoffed. "Then why does he let a third rate spy like Miss Driscott turn him inside out?"
Shane took his first part in the conversation.
"Mr. Jamieson, or Mr. Arbold, or whatever your right name is, let me remind you that I have a pistol in my pocket."
"You won't use it," Jamieson sneered.
"I will, Mr. Arbold. I have always disliked you. Intensely. If you make another slighting remark about Miss Driscott, this automatic in my pocket will go off by itself and fill your fat thigh full of slugs. You will be hurt, not killed. Can I help the damned thing going off on this jolting excuse for a road? Now, can I, Mr. Ransome?"
Ransome smiled. "I think the road will be smoother from now on." He turned to Jamieson. "You have found out why our enemies were so anxious to get hold of James Brassey's seeds – or to learn where they came from?"
"No," Jamieson admitted sourly. "It is all as crazy a puzzle as it ever was. We saw the flowers – thousands of acres of them. For all I know, any one of those varieties might be worth a fortune to a seedgrower. But, even if so, I can't see that mere trade rivalry would go to the lengths, and spend the time and money, that our enemies have."
"So we are still at the beginning of things?" Ransome quizzed with an air of disappointment.
"Except that we did find the source and cut off the possible supply. Whoever wants those seeds so badly won't find any. The last of them burned up days ago."
"Well," Ransome sighed, "that is something. We probably shan't be bothered by spies again at Brassey House. Hadn't we better publish a brief statement of the wholesale and final destruction of all those much – sought spores?"
"I think we might as well," Jamieson agreed. "I'm sick to death of this whole slow, irritating case. Thank God I can go back to my real work tomorrow. This ends the Brassey case. Ten mortal years of my life wasted on it."
"We must first investigate Charles Brassey's agents before we finally close up the docket," Ransome reminded him. "It's all right, Mr. Shane. The road is still smooth. I was not alluding to your friend." He resumed his quizzing of Jamieson. "I take it that you are rather disappointed with the outcome of your ten years at Brassey House?"
"Who wouldn't be, in my situation?" Jamieson flared. "The work of my department handed over to subordinates for ten dreary years of futility? When I get back into the harness, I shall find that some nincompoop I never knew has stepped into my shoes."
"You'll feel better," Ransome assured him goodhumoredly, "after a warm bath and a meal fit for an epicure. Here we are. Your room is ready; the water will be in the tub when you get there, and the table all set for action when you're dry. I'll ask them to send you up a steaming hot toddy. Hurry."
"Hold on a second," Shane ordered, hobbling after the retreating Jamieson. "I need a bath too." He went up to the great chief of the India secret service and whispered one short command in his ear.
"Tell Ransome you want dinner at once, or I'll blow your leg off."
Ransome stood watching the pair intently. Jamieson's face betrayed the natural alarm of a man arguing with a dangerous lunatic; Shane's was grim with a devil-may-care determination. Shane gave the answer to his own ultimatum.
"Mr. Arbold says he would like a good stiff drink at once in the dining room. He doesn't want to bathe and change till after dinner."
"Of course," Ransome assented readily, with a questioning, private glance at Jamieson. The latter nodded, with a peculiar significance. As plainly as if he had spoken, he told Ransome that it would be best to humor this wild Irish-American whose 'girl' he had unwittingly insulted.
In the private dining room which had been prepared for them, the trio sat sipping drinks till Marjorie, Charles and Vartan joined them some forty minutes later. The thoughtful Charles had made arrangements for suitable raiment for Marjorie. Pale and shaky, but otherwise looking like any young woman about to sit down to a formal dinner, she took the place which Charles indicated on his right. As she took her seat, she glanced at Jamieson.
"I see you did not bother to change," she remarked, with a smile of warm appreciation, not at Jamieson, but at Shane. "You were sensible, although I did enjoy warm water after all the weeks of cold."
"Mr. Jamieson was too hungry and too tired to change before dinner," Shane elucidated. "At least that is what he made me believe without undue persuasion." He turned to Jamieson with a devilish grin.
"Try another of these cocktails, Mr. Arbold? They are concocted in our own distilleries, and Miss Driscott recommends them particularly. She says you will find them much superior to the trade article."
Jamieson laughed in high good humor.
"Excellent," he said. "With training you might make a detective yourself. Don't you think so, Mr. Vartan?"
"No," said Vartan shortly. "And, what is more, I don't believe you would either, no matter how much training you got."
"Still mourning the lost Ali Baba?" Jamieson mocked. "It was a shame to pull the wool over your eyes like that. Miss Driscott never swallowed me whole as you did."
Ransome and Brassey followed this apparently trivial banter with rigid attention. What would Marjorie answer?
"I have swallowed you whole from the first day I went to work at Brassey House over six years ago," she replied coolly, eyeing Jamieson with a slight stare which just concealed her dislike. "Ah, thank Heaven," she broke off, "here comes solid food at last. May I never see fruit or vegetables again as long as I live."
The dinner passed in absorbing tales of adventure, as first Vartan, then Marjorie, humorously backed by the late Ali Baba, recounted – in heightened colors, perhaps – the days of their hopes and fears in the mountains and caves. Only when Jamieson seemed about to let slip some incautious reference to James did the others stiffen and warn him with a glance. To Brassey's eager questions as to the cause of the final disaster, they replied that an 'accident' had kindled the spiral river, and plunged once more headlong into their narrative. But, warned by an instinct which had fed for years on the secrecy of his brother's living death, Charles sensed the shape of the truth, if not its actual form and color. At last the adventures were all told, and only the truth behind their strange pattern remained unrevealed. Charles glanced at the heap of cigarette stubs on the tray before him, and turned appealingly to Marjorie.
"Is that all?" he asked.
She dismissed the others with a look which they could not misinterpret.
"We will join you in a moment," she said. "I want to give Mr. Brassey something I brought back for him."
Vartan and Jamieson rose immediately. Shane lingered, as if in doubt. Marjorie saw. Her slight nod told him to leave.
"I'll look out for Mr. Jamieson," he promised. "Our friend Vartan is still sore about that jam tart old Horse Face tried to make him eat."
"Thank you," she murmured, with a look which he read.
"Don't worry," Shane replied. Although he did not tap his pistol pocket, he almost did.
"We shall
be up in my sitting room," Ransome announced.
"Don't be too long. It is nice and cozy up there. I've got a roaring log fire going."
When the door closed behind them, Marjorie tiptoed to it, and turned the catch. Then, coming back to the table, she sat down. Drawing her chair close to Brassey's, she looked into his white, strained face and took both of his hands in her own. Then she told him.
Charles pushed back his chair.
"Poor James. If I had only known."
"It is better as it was. James gave his life to save England, and probably the world. Those spores can cross oceans."
"Is there more?" he asked in a dull voice.
"Yes. James was not dreaming when he spoke of the 'seeds of madness'. Shall we go upstairs and join the others? They must hear it too."
"Tell me," he said, pausing at the door and facing her. "Have you deceived me?"
"About your brother's death? No."
"I did not mean that."
She looked into his eyes and read the tortured question.
"Yes," she said. "I have deceived you from the first day I entered Brassey House."
Brassey groaned. "James. Poor James. I would have given my own life to have saved yours. But it is better as it is. You did not die in the dark, in cold and filth and misery. Oh, what lies!"
His fingers fumbled for the catch. She caught the groping hand in hers.
"You are happy," she said, "in spite of what I have told you. Don't you know that James was repaid in those last moments for all his suffering? You would have given your own life to save his. If you could have made misery like his impossible by a lie, would you have lied?"
"What do you mean?"
"Would you have lied to save others from your brother's life? Not all madness is inherited, as his was."
He stared at her uncomprehendingly.
"Answer me," she said. "You understand my question. Would you?"
"Yes," he sighed.
"Then let us go upstairs. Mr. Vartan knows that I am a liar. Now I will tell him why I bed."
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