The Message

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER VIII

  SHOWING HOW MANY ROADS LEAD THE SAME WAY

  Next day, her mind restored to its customary equipoise, Evelyn thoughtshe would be acting wisely if she gave Warden some hint of recentdevelopments. Too proud to ask for an explicit denial of RosamundLaing's claim, she saw the absurdity of letting affairs drift until thehoped-for meeting at Madeira. At first, she thought of resigning herpost as Beryl's companion, and returning to Oxfordshire, but she setthe notion aside as unreasonable and unnecessary. Most certainly Wardenshould not be condemned unheard. Without pressing him for a definitestatement with regard to Mrs. Laing, it was a simple matter to put thepresent situation before him in such guise that he could not choosebut refer to it. So, after drafting a few sentences, and weighing themseriously, she incorporated the following in a letter of general import:

  "Yesterday we had three new arrivals whose names must appeal to youpowerfully. First, a Mrs. Rosamund Laing came here from London, andshe lost no time in telling me, among other things, that she was awareof our meeting at Cowes. Her informant, I am sure, was Miguel Figuero,and you will be even more astonished to learn that he and Count vonRippenbach turned up by the same train as Mrs. Laing. The latter, bythe way, said that you called on her at Lady Hilbury's when in London.Is that true? There are some hidden forces in motion at Lochmerigwhich I do not understand. Mr. Baumgartner tackled me openly at dinnerwith regard to my journey from Cowes to Oxfordshire. We know fromPeter that Figuero saw us together that morning, and your Portuguesefriend evidently recognized me at once. But Mr. Baumgartner's pointedreference to Langton as my destination was rather puzzling. How doesit strike you? I expect my news will prove rather in the nature of athunderbolt, and that is usually a very striking article. I assure youI am somewhat shaken myself. Mrs. Laing's personal attributes remindone of those galvanic batteries you see at fairs in the country--themore you try to endure her magnetic influence, the greater yourcollapse."

  Before sealing the envelope, she re-read Warden's latest letter. Sheeven read it aloud, and the straightforward, honest, loving wordsassumed a new significance. Then she turned to her own effusion, andviewed it critically. To her surprise, she detected a jarring, somewhatcynical, note in those passages which she regarded as all-important.To her judgment, events in the near future would follow a well-definedcourse. Her lover would say whether or not he had met Mrs. Laing inLondon, and give the clearest reasons for his omission of her name fromthe subsequent recital of his adventures. Evelyn would count the hoursuntil that reply reached her hands. Perhaps Mrs. Laing's curiosityanent Warden's skill in "wriggling" would then be sated. She might evengive an exhibition of the wriggler's art in her own behalf.

  Evelyn refused to admit now that she had ever yielded to doubt oranxiety. The hysterical outburst of last night was natural, perhaps,under the circumstances, but quite nonsensical. Even Warden himselfmust be made to believe that Mrs. Laing was only indulging an exuberantsense of humor in claiming his fealty. Meaning, therefore, to tonedown any apparent asperity in the paragraph referring to the threenewcomers, she added a few lines beneath her signature.

  "The Men of Oku have not yet appeared. I am longing to see them. Theyare really the most picturesque villains in the piece. I am just goingfor a stroll by the side of the loch, and I shall not be a little bitalarmed if I find a decorated calabash sailing in with the tide."

  There is nothing new in the fact that the most important item in awoman's letter is often contained in a postscript, but never did thewriter of a harmless and gossipy missive achieve such amazing resultsas Evelyn Dane brought to pass by the words she scribbled hurriedlyafter the magic letters "P.S."

  For others than Evelyn Dane were taking thought that morning.Baumgartner, von Rippenbach, and Figuero--locked in the library, andseated round a small table drawn well away from the door--were settlingthe final details of a scheme that aimed at nothing less than a verygrave alteration in the political map of the world, while RosamundLaing was planning an enterprise which should have an equally markedeffect in the minor sphere of her own affairs.

  Yet the fortunes of these five people gathered at Lochmerig, and ofmany millions in other parts of the earth, were absolutely controlledby one of those trivial conditions which appear to be so ludicrouslyout of proportion with ultimate achievement.

  Baumgartner, being a rich man, objected to delay where his interestswere concerned. Refusing to await the tardy coming of a countrypostman, he kept a groom in the village to which the mails were broughtby train, and it was this man's duty to ride in each day with thepost-bag for Lochmerig Lodge and return some hours later with the firstout-going budget. The house letters were dropped into a box in theentrance hall, and a notice intimated that the time of clearance was atnoon. To an unscrupulous woman, such an arrangement offered the meansto do ill deeds that makes ill deeds done. Rosamund, ready to dareanything now to save herself from contumely, actually set out to findEvelyn and taunt her into an admission that she had written to Warden.

  "Miss Dane is not in the house, madam," said the London footman on dutyat the door. "She went out some time since--in that direction," and hepointed toward the glistening firth that brought the North Sea intothe heart of Inverness.

  Mrs. Laing pouted prettily.

  "Oh, dear!" she sighed. "I do hope she has not forgotten to write. Ishall never find her in time. _Did_ you happen to notice if she posteda letter?"

  The footman sought inspiration by stroking his chin.

  "Yes, madam," he announced, after a pause. "I'm almost certain MissDane went to the box. Yes, I'm sure of it."

  Madam was very much obliged, and tipped him half-a-crown, informing himwith a most charming smile that she did not on any account wish MissDane to believe that she was suspected of forgetfulness. It was thensome few minutes after eleven, and this gracious lady was sympatheticenough to inquire if the footman did not become very tired of remainingon duty so many hours in one place.

  "Oh, it's nothing compared with London, ma'am," said he. "Here we havesunshine--if the weather is fine--an' fresh air all the time. I onlycame on duty at nine o'clock, an' I go off at 11.30 for the firstservants' dinner."

  Mrs. Laing was talking to Billy Thring in the hall when the postmangroom came to clear the letter-box. She darted forward with thatirresistible smile of hers.

  "I'm so glad I happened to be standing here," she exclaimed. "I havejust remembered that I have stupidly left out of a letter the verything I most wanted to say. It would never have occurred to me if Ihadn't seen you. The letter is addressed to Captain Warden. May I haveit?"

  The man was Baumgartner's servant. He had never before set eyes onMrs. Laing, but he knew the Honorable Billy quite well, so he raisedno objection to this smartly dressed lady's eager search for herincomplete letter. Though her hands fumbled somewhat, she soon pickedit out.

  "Here it is!" she cried delightedly, "this one--Captain Arthur Warden,Poste Restante, Ostend. Now, that will save me a heap of trouble. It_was_ so nice of you to come in at the right moment. You have saved mea lot of trouble."

  The groom grinned as he pocketed half-a-crown. Some ladies were easypleased, to be sure. Even Billy Thring, experienced hunter of gildedbrides, was bewildered by Mrs. Laing's excited manner.

  "Seems to me I've made a killin'," he mused when she gushed herselfaway. "I s'pose old Baumgartner can be relied on. He is all there as arule when he talks dollars an' cents, but he's a perfect rotter everyother way. By gad, I'll kid him into wearin' kilts before the end ofthe month."

  The notion tickled him. He lit a cigarette and strolled out through theopen door. A glorious sweep of moorland and forest spread beyond theloch, whose wavelets lapped the verges of the sloping lawn and gardens.A little to the left the _Sans Souci_ lay at her moorings. A steamlaunch was tied to a neat landing-stage. A string of horses and moorponies returning from exercise crossed a level pasture at the headof the loch. The letter-carrying groom was clattering down the broadcarriage drive toward the distant station, an
d a couple of gardenerswere cutting and rolling the green carpet of grass in front of thehouse.

  "He talks of buyin' this property," communed the Honorable Billy, whowas thirty-five and had never earned a penny in his life. "Can't be tenyears older than me, though he looks sixty, bein' podgy. Now, why can'tI have a stroke of luck an' rake in a stack? Then I might have a cut-infor the giddy widow."

  Evelyn's trim figure emerged from a tree-shrouded path. She walked witha lithe elegance that pleased Mr. Thring's sporting eye.

  "Or marry a girl like _that_," he added. The wild improbability of everachieving any part of this fascinating programme brought a petulantfrown to his handsome, vacuous face.

  He strode up to one of the gardeners, a red-whiskered Caledonian, sternand wild.

  "Where the devil is everybody?" he yawned. "No shootin', no yachtin',not a soul in the billiard-room--where's the bloomin' crowd?"

  The dour Scot looked at him pityingly.

  "Aiblins some are i' bed," he said, "an' there's ithers wha ocht to bei' bed."

  "Bully for you, Rob Roy," cried Thring, who never objected to beingscored off. "Aiblins some people are cuttin' grass wha ocht to be underit, because they don't know they're alive, eh what?"

  "Man, but ye're shairp the day," retorted the gardener. "Whiles I'mthinkin' there's a guid pig-jobber lost in you, Maister Thring."

  "Pig-jobber, you cateran! Why pigs?"

  "Have ye no heerd tell that fowk a bit saft i' the heid have awonderfu' way wi' animals, an' pigs are always a fine mairket."

  "A bit heavy, McToddy. Trem yer whuskers an' change yer trousies for akelt, an' mebbe ye'll crack a joke wi' less deeficulty."

  The under-gardener chortled, for the Honorable Billy could imitate theScots dialect with an unction that was decidedly mirth-provoking.

  "Ma name's no McToddy," began the other.

  "Well, then, McWhusky. I ken the noo from yer rid neb that there'smichty little watter in yer composition."

  Snorting defiance, but not daring to pour forth the wrath that boiledup in him, the man pushed a mowing-machine savagely across the lawn.

  "Routed!" smiled Billy. "Bannockburn is avenged!"

  "What is amusing you, Mr. Thring?" asked Evelyn, who had walked overthe grass unheard.

  "I have just discovered my lost vocation," he said. "I am a buffoon,Miss Dane, an idle jester. The only difference between me and amusic-hall comedian is that my humor is not remunerative."

  "Why, when I left you last night you were on the verge of proposing toMrs. Laing, a most serious undertaking."

  "Jolly nice woman, Mrs. Laing. No nonsense about her. We've bintogether the last half hour, an' I'm under the starter's orders, at anyrate."

  "Why not go in and win?" demanded Evelyn, taking a kindly interest inthe Honorable one's matrimonial prospects. If he and Mrs. Laing made amatch of it, that would provide a very agreeable close to a disquietingincident.

  "I'm afraid it'll only be to make the runnin' for some other Johnny,"sighed he. "I was gettin' along like a house a-fire, when all at onceshe remembered she hadn't said what she wanted to say in a letter toa Captain somebody at Ostend, an' off she waltzed to her room. She'sprobably writin' sweet nothings to him now. Same old story--BillyThring left at the post. Gad, that's funny! See it, eh, what?"

  Thring was so amused by his own wit that he did not notice theexpression of pain and fear that drove the brightness from Evelyn'sface. But she herself was conscious of it, and looked away lest heshould peer into her eyes, and wonder. So Mrs. Laing was writing toArthur! She knew his address! How strange, how unutterably strange,that he had not once mentioned her name! The girl, as in a dream,affected to be watching a boy, the son of the village post-mistress,coming up the avenue. For the sake of hearing her own voice in suchcommonplace words as she might dare to utter, she drew her companion'sattention.

  "Here is our telegraph messenger," she said.

  Thring glanced at his watch.

  "It's for me," he announced. "There's a chap at Newmarket who is thechampion loser-finder of the world, an' I'm one of his victims. This isLeger day, an' if you wait a moment I'll put you onto a stiff 'un, surething. Then you must turn bookmaker at lunch, and win gloves right andleft--in pairs, in fact. I'll stand your losses if my prophet has gonemad an' sent a winner."

  The boy made straight for him, and commenced to unfasten the pouchslung to his belt.

  "See? I told you," laughed Billy, opening the message.

  Evelyn hardly understood him. She was grateful for the high spiritsthat prevented him from paying any heed to the tears trembling underher drooping eyelashes. Despite her brave resolve to disregard RosamundLaing's unbelievable story, a whole legion of doubts and terrors nowtrooped in on her. She asked herself how she could endure to live inthe same house as her rival, for five long days, until Arthur's answercame. Would he receive the two letters by the same post? Could there beany real foundation for her rival's boast? The thought made her sick atheart. Fighting down her dread, she turned to Thring hoping to find amomentary oblivion in listening to his cheerful nonsense.

  She found oblivion, indeed, but not in the shape she anticipated.Shading his eyes with one hand and holding the telegram in the other,her companion was gazing at it in a dazed way. His cheeks werebloodless, the hand gripping the scrap of flimsy paper shook as thoughhe were seized with ague, his whole attitude was that of a man who hadreceived an overwhelming shock.

  "Mr. Thring!" she cried, startled beyond measure, "what has happened?"

  "My God!" he wailed, with the tingling note of agony in his voice thatcomes most clearly from one whose lips are formed for laughter. "MyGod! And I was jesting about them only last night!"

  "Oh, what is it?" she cried again, catching his arm because he swayedlike one about to faint.

  "Read!" he murmured. "Fairholme an' the two boys! May Heaven forgiveme! To think that I should have said it last night of all nights!"

  Evelyn took the telegram from his palsied fingers, and this is what sheread:

  "With deepest regret I have to inform you that the Earl of Fairholmeand his two sons were killed in the collision at Beckminster Junctionlast evening. Their private saloon was being shunted when the downexpress crashed into it. Letters found on his lordship's body gave meyour address. Every one here joins in profound sympathy. Please wireinstructions. James Thwaite."

  Scarce knowing what she said, and still clinging desperately to thestricken man at her side, Evelyn whispered:

  "Are they your relatives?"

  And the answer came brokenly.

  "Don't you know? That's Ferdy and my nephews! And two such boys!Straight an' tall an' handsome. Good Lord! was that the only way?"

  Then she realized the horror of it. The crushed society butterfly, whowas like to fall to the ground but for her support, was now Earl ofFairholme. Calling Brown to her aid, they led him inside the house. Thebutler, impelled to disobey his master's strict injunctions, knocked atthe library door, and told Baumgartner what had happened.

  Von Rippenbach heard. He was a callous person, to whom the death ofthree Englishmen was of very slight consideration.

  "The very thing!" he murmured. "Now you have your excuse. You can emptythe place in twenty-four hours."

  Rosamund Laing, whose white brows wore unseemly furrows, was writingand thinking in her own room when a maid brought her the news. Beforeher on the table was Evelyn's letter, and the sharp-eyed Scotch lassiesaw that the lady nearly upset the inkstand in her haste to coversomething with the blotting-pad. Rosamund was shocked, of course.Finding that Thring was leaving for the south almost immediately, shethen and there wrote a sweetly sympathetic note, and had it taken tohim.

  "By the way," she said before the maid went out, "have you seen Mr.Figuero recently? I mean the dark-skinned man who came here yesterday."

  Yes, he had just left the library with the master and anothergentleman. Rosamund rose at once. If she were not greatly mistaken,Evelyn's harmless-looking postscript had given her
a clue to themystery of Figuero's presence in Baumgartner's house. She knew her WestAfrica, and the bad repute of Oku was one of her clearest memories.Yet she turned back at the door, took Evelyn's letter from her pocket,copied a portion of it, and locked the original in her jewel case.

  The luncheon-gong sounded as she descended the stairs, so perforceshe postponed the interview she promised herself with the Portuguese.And, for the success of her deep-laid schemes, it was as well.Sometimes there comes to the aid of evil-doers a fiend who contrivesopportunities where human forethought would fail. Rosamund, embarkedon a well-nigh desperate enterprise, suddenly found the way smoothedby Baumgartner's wholly unexpected announcement that businessconsiderations compelled him to leave Lochmerig forthwith.

  "My wife and I would have tried to arrange matters satisfactorily forour guests," he said, "but the gloom cast on our pleasant party by theunhappy tidings received this morning by one of our number rendersit almost impossible for any of us to enjoy the remainder of a mostmemorable and delightful sojourn in Scotland."

  He delivered himself of other platitudes, but Mrs. Baumgartner'sdejected air and Beryl's sulky silence showed plainly enough that themillionaire's fiat was unalterable. Polite murmurs of agreement veiledthe chagrin of people who had a fortnight or more thrown on theirhands without any prior arrangements. The meal was a solemn function.Everybody was glad when it ended.

  Rosamund met Figuero in the hall.

  "I am going to the village," she said. "Will you walk there with me?"

  He caught the veiled meaning of the glance, and agreed instantly. Whenthey were clear of the house, she commenced the attack.

  "Why are you and Count von Rippenbach and three men of Oku in England?"she asked.

  She did not look at Figuero. There was no need. He waited a few secondstoo long before he laughed.

  "You make joke," he said.

  "Do I? It will be no joke for you when Captain Warden informs theGovernment, if he has not done that already."

  "Why you say dem t'ing?" he growled, and she was fully aware of themenace in his voice.

  "You told me what you were pleased to consider a secret last night.Very well, I am willing to trade. Captain Warden knows what you aredoing. He probably guesses every item of the business you and the Countwere discussing so long and earnestly with Mr. Baumgartner in thelibrary before lunch. Oh, please don't interrupt"--for Figuero, drivenbeyond the bounds of self-control, was using words better left to thePortuguese tongue in which they were uttered--"I am not concerned withyour plots. They never come to anything, you know. If either Count vonRippenbach or Mr. Baumgartner had your history at their finger's endsas I have, they would drop you like a hot cinder. Yet, I am ready tobargain. Help me, and I will keep my information to myself."

  "What you want, den?"

  She glanced at him, and was surprised to see that his face was livid,almost green with rage and perplexity. It must be a grave matter--thisjumble of hints in Evelyn's letter.

  "Can you read English?" she asked, after a pause.

  "Yes, leetle piece--better as I can make palaver."

  "Read that then."

  She handed him the copy of that part of the fateful letter that alludedto himself and his affairs. He puzzled it out, word by word.

  "Where him lib for?" he demanded.

  "That was written by Miss Dane and intended for Captain Warden. I cameby it, no matter how, and I mean to make use of it in some way."

  With a rapid movement, he stuffed the sheet of note-paper into a pocket.

  "I keep dem letter," he announced.

  "Certainly. It is only a copy. Savvy? I have the real one safely putaway."

  Figuero swallowed something. His thin lips were bloodless, and histongue moistened them with the quick darting action of a snake.Rosamund, who was really somewhat afraid, trusted to the daylightand the fact that they were traversing an open road, with cottagesscattered through the glen.

  "You cannot humbug me," she went on, "but I want to assure you againthat I am no enemy of yours. Now, listen. I mean to marry CaptainWarden, but I have reason to believe that he is engaged, promised, toMiss Dane. I am trying to stop that, to break it off. Can you help?"

  "You ask hard t'ing--in dis place. In Africa, we get Oku man makeju-ju."

  She shuddered. The cold malevolence in his words recalled stories shehad heard of those who had died with unaccountable suddenness when "Okuman make ju-ju."

  "I don't mean that," she cried vehemently. "Tell me what is takingplace, and how it will affect Captain Warden. Then I can twist eventsto my own purpose. I can warn him, perhaps prove myself his friend.Above all--where are you going to-morrow? Mr. Baumgartner sails in the_Sans Souci_, I hear. Does Miss Dane go with him, or is she to be sentaway because she is aware of your plans?"

  Figuero did not answer during a whole minute.

  He saw light, dimly, but growing more distinct each instant. Wardenwas a deadly personality in the field against him, and his activeinterference was now assured beyond cavil. But, with two women asfoils, both beautiful, and one exceedingly well equipped with money,there was still a chance of circumventing the only man he feared.

  "You steal dem letter?" he said unexpectedly.

  "At any rate, it has not gone to Captain Warden," was the acid reply.

  "An' you write 'im. What you say?"

  "Oh, nothing that affects the case."

  "You tole him me here?"

  "No. That can wait," which statement, as shall be seen, was strictlyuntrue.

  "Well, den, dem yacht lib for--for somewheres to-morrow. Dem girl, MeesDane, go wid me. You tole him dat t'ing as you say las' night. I makewife palaver to dem girl."

  "What good will that do?" she said. "In a week, ten days, he will hearfrom her again."

  "No. I take dem letter. You gib me Captain Warden writin', an' I keepeye for dat. Savvy?"

  "But can you carry out what you promised?"

  "Two, t'ree months, yes. After dem yacht lib for Madeira, no. P'rapsdem girl be wife den."

  Rosamund's dark eyes narrowed to two tiny slits. If Figuero couldreally keep Warden and Evelyn apart during so long a period, theutterly hopeless project on which she had embarked in a moment ofjealous rage might become feasible. Of course, the suggestion that hewould marry Evelyn was preposterous, but there was no reason why sheshould hurt his pride by telling him so. Her heart throbbed madly,while her active brain debated the pros and cons of the all-importantquestion--should she post the letter already written? Yes. It was theoutcome of her earliest thought. She would follow it up with anotherin different strain. The two would be vastly more convincing than one,and the dates would have a significance that no mere contriving couldimpart.

  By this time they were at the post-office, from which mails weredispatched by a later train than that caught by the groom. Rosamunddropped her letter in the box. She was quite pale with suppressedexcitement. Her boats were burnt. She heard the fall of the envelopeinto the receptacle, and the appalling notion possessed her that thesound resembled the fall of earth on a coffin. She breathed heavily,and pressed a hand to her bosom. Figuero was watching her.

  "Now you done dem t'ing," he said, "you dash me some money."

  She started. Did he mean to levy blackmail for his services?

  "Why?" she asked, summoning all her strength of character to meet hisgaze without flinching.

  "Me buy present for dem girl. If I make wife palaver dat cost manydollar."

  "I am not buying your help. You trade with me one thing for the other.If you refuse, I write to the Government about the men of Oku."

  The Portuguese laughed more naturally than she had yet heard him. Ifhis arch-enemy, Arthur Warden, was well acquainted with the mission heand the chiefs had undertaken, this pretty and passionate woman countedfor very little in the scale against him.

  "You dash me one hunner' poun'," he said cheerfully. "Jus' dat, nomo'. If you say 'no,' dem girl no lib for yacht. Mr. Baumgartner say goone-time. Me tell 'im take dem
girl--savvy?"

  Mrs. Laing savvied. She gave him thirty pounds--all she could sparefrom her purse--and promised to send the balance to an address inLondon. He was fully satisfied. He was sure she would not fail him.When he needed further supplies she would pay willingly. In an intriguebased on such lines Miguel Figuero was an adept.