The Arrow of Gold: A Story Between Two Notes

by Joseph Conrad

  CHAPTER VII

  My brain was in a whirl. I am safe to say that at this precise momentthere was nobody completely sane in the house. Setting apart Therese andOrtega, both in the grip of unspeakable passions, all the moral economyof Dona Rita had gone to pieces. Everything was gone except her strongsense of life with all its implied menaces. The woman was a mere chaosof sensations and vitality. I, too, suffered most from inability to gethold of some fundamental thought. The one on which I could best buildsome hopes was the thought that, of course, Ortega did not know anything.I whispered this into the ear of Dona Rita, into her precious, herbeautifully shaped ear.

  But she shook her head, very much like an inconsolable child and verymuch with a child's complete pessimism she murmured, "Therese has toldhim."

  The words, "Oh, nonsense," never passed my lips, because I could notcheat myself into denying that there had been a noise; and that the noisewas in the fencing-room. I knew that room. There was nothing there thatby the wildest stretch of imagination could be conceived as falling withthat particular sound. There was a table with a tall strip oflooking-glass above it at one end; but since Blunt took away hiscampaigning kit there was no small object of any sort on the console oranywhere else that could have been jarred off in some mysterious manner.Along one of the walls there was the whole complicated apparatus of solidbrass pipes, and quite close to it an enormous bath sunk into the floor.The greatest part of the room along its whole length was covered withmatting and had nothing else but a long, narrow leather-upholstered benchfixed to the wall. And that was all. And the door leading to the studiowas locked. And Therese had the key. And it flashed on my mind,independently of Dona Rita's pessimism, by the force of personalconviction, that, of course, Therese would tell him. I beheld the wholesuccession of events perfectly connected and tending to that particularconclusion. Therese would tell him! I could see the contrasted heads ofthose two formidable lunatics close together in a dark mist of whisperscompounded of greed, piety, and jealousy, plotting in a sense of perfectsecurity as if under the very wing of Providence. So at least Theresewould think. She could not be but under the impression that(providentially) I had been called out for the rest of the night.

  And now there was one sane person in the house, for I had regainedcomplete command of my thoughts. Working in a logical succession ofimages they showed me at last as clearly as a picture on a wall, Theresepressing with fervour the key into the fevered palm of the rich,prestigious, virtuous cousin, so that he should go and urge hisself-sacrificing offer to Rita, and gain merit before Him whose Eye seesall the actions of men. And this image of those two with the key in thestudio seemed to me a most monstrous conception of fanaticism, of aperfectly horrible aberration. For who could mistake the state that madeJose Ortega the figure he was, inspiring both pity and fear? I could notdeny that I understood, not the full extent but the exact nature of hissuffering. Young as I was I had solved for myself that grotesque andsombre personality. His contact with me, the personal contact with (ashe thought) one of the actual lovers of that woman who brought to him asa boy the curse of the gods, had tipped over the trembling scales. Nodoubt I was very near death in the "grand salon" of the Maison Doree,only that his torture had gone too far. It seemed to me that I ought tohave heard his very soul scream while we were seated at supper. But in amoment he had ceased to care for me. I was nothing. To the crazyexaggeration of his jealousy I was but one amongst a hundred thousand.What was my death? Nothing. All mankind had possessed that woman. Iknew what his wooing of her would be: Mine--or Dead.

  All this ought to have had the clearness of noon-day, even to the veriestidiot that ever lived; and Therese was, properly speaking, exactly that.An idiot. A one-ideaed creature. Only the idea was complex; thereforeit was impossible really to say what she wasn't capable of. This waswhat made her obscure processes so awful. She had at times the mostamazing perceptions. Who could tell where her simplicity ended and hercunning began? She had also the faculty of never forgetting any factbearing upon her one idea; and I remembered now that the conversationwith me about the will had produced on her an indelible impression of theLaw's surprising justice. Recalling her naive admiration of the "just"law that required no "paper" from a sister, I saw her casting loose theraging fate with a sanctimonious air. And Therese would naturally givethe key of the fencing-room to her dear, virtuous, grateful,disinterested cousin, to that damned soul with delicate whiskers, becauseshe would think it just possible that Rita might have locked the doorleading front her room into the hall; whereas there was no earthlyreason, not the slightest likelihood, that she would bother about theother. Righteousness demanded that the erring sister should be takenunawares.

  All the above is the analysis of one short moment. Images are to wordslike light to sound--incomparably swifter. And all this was really oneflash of light through my mind. A comforting thought succeeded it: thatboth doors were locked and that really there was no danger.

  However, there had been that noise--the why and the how of it? Of coursein the dark he might have fallen into the bath, but that wouldn't havebeen a faint noise. It wouldn't have been a rattle. There wasabsolutely nothing he could knock over. He might have dropped acandle-stick if Therese had left him her own. That was possible, butthen those thick mats--and then, anyway, why should he drop it? and, hangit all, why shouldn't he have gone straight on and tried the door? I hadsuddenly a sickening vision of the fellow crouching at the key-hole,listening, listening, listening, for some movement or sigh of the sleeperhe was ready to tear away from the world, alive or dead. I had aconviction that he was still listening. Why? Goodness knows! He mayhave been only gloating over the assurance that the night was long andthat he had all these hours to himself.

  I was pretty certain that he could have heard nothing of our whispers,the room was too big for that and the door too solid. I hadn't the sameconfidence in the efficiency of the lock. Still I . . . Guarding my lipswith my hand I urged Dona Rita to go back to the sofa. She wouldn'tanswer me and when I got hold of her arm I discovered that she wouldn'tmove. She had taken root in that thick-pile Aubusson carpet; and she wasso rigidly still all over that the brilliant stones in the shaft of thearrow of gold, with the six candles at the head of the sofa blazing fullon them, emitted no sparkle.

  I was extremely anxious that she shouldn't betray herself. I reasoned,save the mark, as a psychologist. I had no doubt that the man knew ofher being there; but he only knew it by hearsay. And that was badenough. I could not help feeling that if he obtained some evidence forhis senses by any sort of noise, voice, or movement, his madness wouldgain strength enough to burst the lock. I was rather ridiculouslyworried about the locks. A horrid mistrust of the whole house possessedme. I saw it in the light of a deadly trap. I had no weapon, I couldn'tsay whether he had one or not. I wasn't afraid of a struggle as far asI, myself, was concerned, but I was afraid of it for Dona Rita. To berolling at her feet, locked in a literally tooth-and-nail struggle withOrtega would have been odious. I wanted to spare her feelings, just as Iwould have been anxious to save from any contact with mud the feet ofthat goatherd of the mountains with a symbolic face. I looked at herface. For immobility it might have been a carving. I wished I knew howto deal with that embodied mystery, to influence it, to manage it. Oh,how I longed for the gift of authority! In addition, since I had becomecompletely sane, all my scruples against laying hold of her had returned.I felt shy and embarrassed. My eyes were fixed on the bronze handle ofthe fencing-room door as if it were something alive. I braced myself upagainst the moment when it would move. This was what was going to happennext. It would move very gently. My heart began to thump. But I wasprepared to keep myself as still as death and I hoped Dona Rita wouldhave sense enough to do the same. I stole another glance at her face andat that moment I heard the word: "Beloved!" form itself in the still airof the room, weak, distinct, piteous, like the last request of the dying.

  With
great presence of mind I whispered into Dona Rita's ear: "Perfectsilence!" and was overjoyed to discover that she had heard me, understoodme; that she even had command over her rigid lips. She answered me in abreath (our cheeks were nearly touching): "Take me out of this house."

  I glanced at all her clothing scattered about the room and hissedforcibly the warning "Perfect immobility"; noticing with relief that shedidn't offer to move, though animation was returning to her and her lipshad remained parted in an awful, unintended effect of a smile. And Idon't know whether I was pleased when she, who was not to be touched,gripped my wrist suddenly. It had the air of being done on purposebecause almost instantly another: "Beloved!" louder, more agonized ifpossible, got into the room and, yes, went home to my heart. It wasfollowed without any transition, preparation, or warning, by a positivelybellowed: "Speak, perjured beast!" which I felt pass in a thrill rightthrough Dona Rita like an electric shock, leaving her as motionless asbefore.

  Till he shook the door handle, which he did immediately afterwards, Iwasn't certain through which door he had spoken. The two doors (indifferent walls) were rather near each other. It was as I expected. Hewas in the fencing-room, thoroughly aroused, his senses on the alert tocatch the slightest sound. A situation not to be trifled with. Leavingthe room was for us out of the question. It was quite possible for himto dash round into the hall before we could get clear of the front door.As to making a bolt of it upstairs there was the same objection; and toallow ourselves to be chased all over the empty house by this maniacwould have been mere folly. There was no advantage in locking ourselvesup anywhere upstairs where the original doors and locks were muchlighter. No, true safety was in absolute stillness and silence, so thateven his rage should be brought to doubt at last and die expended, orchoke him before it died; I didn't care which.

  For me to go out and meet him would have been stupid. Now I was certainthat he was armed. I had remembered the wall in the fencing-roomdecorated with trophies of cold steel in all the civilized and savageforms; sheaves of assegais, in the guise of columns and grouped betweenthem stars and suns of choppers, swords, knives; from Italy, fromDamascus, from Abyssinia, from the ends of the world. Ortega had only tomake his barbarous choice. I suppose he had got up on the bench, andfumbling about amongst them must have brought one down, which, falling,had produced that rattling noise. But in any case to go to meet himwould have been folly, because, after all, I might have been overpowered(even with bare hands) and then Dona Rita would have been left utterlydefenceless.

  "He will speak," came to me the ghostly, terrified murmur of her voice."Take me out of the house before he begins to speak."

  "Keep still," I whispered. "He will soon get tired of this."

  "You don't know him."

  "Oh, yes, I do. Been with him two hours."

  At this she let go my wrist and covered her face with her handspassionately. When she dropped them she had the look of one morallycrushed.

  "What did he say to you?"

  "He raved."

  "Listen to me. It was all true!"

  "I daresay, but what of that?"

  These ghostly words passed between us hardly louder than thoughts; butafter my last answer she ceased and gave me a searching stare, then drewin a long breath. The voice on the other side of the door burst out withan impassioned request for a little pity, just a little, and went onbegging for a few words, for two words, for one word--one poor littleword. Then it gave up, then repeated once more, "Say you are there,Rita, Say one word, just one word. Say 'yes.' Come! Just one littleyes."

  "You see," I said. She only lowered her eyelids over the anxious glanceshe had turned on me.

  For a minute we could have had the illusion that he had stolen away,unheard, on the thick mats. But I don't think that either of us wasdeceived. The voice returned, stammering words without connection,pausing and faltering, till suddenly steadied it soared into impassionedentreaty, sank to low, harsh tones, voluble, lofty sometimes andsometimes abject. When it paused it left us looking profoundly at eachother.

  "It's almost comic," I whispered.

  "Yes. One could laugh," she assented, with a sort of sinisterconviction. Never had I seen her look exactly like that, for an instantanother, an incredible Rita! "Haven't I laughed at him innumerabletimes?" she added in a sombre whisper.

  He was muttering to himself out there, and unexpectedly shouted: "What?"as though he had fancied he had heard something. He waited a whilebefore he started up again with a loud: "Speak up, Queen of the goats,with your goat tricks. . ." All was still for a time, then came a mostawful bang on the door. He must have stepped back a pace to hurl himselfbodily against the panels. The whole house seemed to shake. He repeatedthat performance once more, and then varied it by a prolonged drummingwith his fists. It _was_ comic. But I felt myself struggling mentallywith an invading gloom as though I were no longer sure of myself.

  "Take me out," whispered Dona Rita feverishly, "take me out of this housebefore it is too late."

  "You will have to stand it," I answered.

  "So be it; but then you must go away yourself. Go now, before it is toolate."

  I didn't condescend to answer this. The drumming on the panels stoppedand the absurd thunder of it died out in the house. I don't know whyprecisely then I had the acute vision of the red mouth of Jose Ortegawriggling with rage between his funny whiskers. He began afresh but in atired tone:

  "Do you expect a fellow to forget your tricks, you wicked little devil?Haven't you ever seen me dodging about to get a sight of you amongstthose pretty gentlemen, on horseback, like a princess, with pure cheekslike a carved saint? I wonder I didn't throw stones at you, I wonder Ididn't run after you shouting the tale--curse my timidity! But I daresaythey knew as much as I did. More. All the new tricks--if that werepossible."

  While he was making this uproar, Dona Rita put her fingers in her earsand then suddenly changed her mind and clapped her hands over my ears.Instinctively I disengaged my head but she persisted. We had a shorttussle without moving from the spot, and suddenly I had my head free, andthere was complete silence. He had screamed himself out of breath, butDona Rita muttering: "Too late, too late," got her hands away from mygrip and slipping altogether out of her fur coat seized some garmentlying on a chair near by (I think it was her skirt), with the intentionof dressing herself, I imagine, and rushing out of the house. Determinedto prevent this, but indeed without thinking very much what I was doing,I got hold of her arm. That struggle was silent, too; but I used theleast force possible and she managed to give me an unexpected push.Stepping back to save myself from falling I overturned the little table,bearing the six-branched candlestick. It hit the floor, rebounded with adull ring on the carpet, and by the time it came to a rest every singlecandle was out. He on the other side of the door naturally heard thenoise and greeted it with a triumphant screech: "Aha! I've managed towake you up," the very savagery of which had a laughable effect. I feltthe weight of Dona Rita grow on my arm and thought it best to let hersink on the floor, wishing to be free in my movements and really afraidthat now he had actually heard a noise he would infallibly burst thedoor. But he didn't even thump it. He seemed to have exhausted himselfin that scream. There was no other light in the room but the darkenedglow of the embers and I could hardly make out amongst the shadows offurniture Dona Rita sunk on her knees in a penitential and despairingattitude. Before this collapse I, who had been wrestling desperatelywith her a moment before, felt that I dare not touch her. This emotion,too, I could not understand; this abandonment of herself, thisconscience-stricken humility. A humbly imploring request to open thedoor came from the other side. Ortega kept on repeating: "Open the door,open the door," in such an amazing variety of intonations, imperative,whining, persuasive, insinuating, and even unexpectedly jocose, that Ireally stood there smiling to myself, yet with a gloomy and uneasy heart.Then he remarked, parenthetically as it were, "Oh, you know how totorment a man, you br
own-skinned, lean, grinning, dishevelled imp, you.And mark," he expounded further, in a curiously doctoral tone--"you arein all your limbs hateful: your eyes are hateful and your mouth ishateful, and your hair is hateful, and your body is cold and vicious likea snake--and altogether you are perdition."

  This statement was astonishingly deliberate. He drew a moaning breathafter it and uttered in a heart-rending tone, "You know, Rita, that Icannot live without you. I haven't lived. I am not living now. Thisisn't life. Come, Rita, you can't take a boy's soul away and then lethim grow up and go about the world, poor devil, while you go amongst therich from one pair of arms to another, showing all your best tricks. ButI will forgive you if you only open the door," he ended in an inflatedtone: "You remember how you swore time after time to be my wife. You aremore fit to be Satan's wife but I don't mind. You shall be my wife!"

  A sound near the floor made me bend down hastily with a stern: "Don'tlaugh," for in his grotesque, almost burlesque discourses there seemed tome to be truth, passion, and horror enough to move a mountain.

  Suddenly suspicion seized him out there. With perfectly farcicalunexpectedness he yelled shrilly: "Oh, you deceitful wretch! You won'tescape me! I will have you. . . ."

  And in a manner of speaking he vanished. Of course I couldn't see himbut somehow that was the impression. I had hardly time to receive itwhen crash! . . . he was already at the other door. I suppose he thoughtthat his prey was escaping him. His swiftness was amazing, almostinconceivable, more like the effect of a trick or of a mechanism. Thethump on the door was awful as if he had not been able to stop himself intime. The shock seemed enough to stun an elephant. It was really funny.And after the crash there was a moment of silence as if he wererecovering himself. The next thing was a low grunt, and at once hepicked up the thread of his fixed idea.

  "You will have to be my wife. I have no shame. You swore you would beand so you will have to be." Stifled low sounds made me bend down againto the kneeling form, white in the flush of the dark red glow. "Forgoodness' sake don't," I whispered down. She was struggling with anappalling fit of merriment, repeating to herself, "Yes, every day, fortwo months. Sixty times at least, sixty times at least." Her voice wasrising high. She was struggling against laughter, but when I tried toput my hand over her lips I felt her face wet with tears. She turned itthis way and that, eluding my hand with repressed low, little moans. Ilost my caution and said, "Be quiet," so sharply as to startle myself(and her, too) into expectant stillness.

  Ortega's voice in the hall asked distinctly: "Eh? What's this?" and thenhe kept still on his side listening, but he must have thought that hisears had deceived him. He was getting tired, too. He was keeping quietout there--resting. Presently he sighed deeply; then in a harshmelancholy tone he started again.

  "My love, my soul, my life, do speak to me. What am I that you shouldtake so much trouble to pretend that you aren't there? Do speak to me,"he repeated tremulously, following this mechanical appeal with a stringof extravagantly endearing names, some of them quite childish, which allof a sudden stopped dead; and then after a pause there came a distinct,unutterably weary: "What shall I do now?" as though he were speaking tohimself.

  I shuddered to hear rising from the floor, by my side, a vibrating,scornful: "Do! Why, slink off home looking over your shoulder as youused to years ago when I had done with you--all but the laughter."

  "Rita," I murmured, appalled. He must have been struck dumb for amoment. Then, goodness only knows why, in his dismay or rage he wasmoved to speak in French with a most ridiculous accent.

  "So you have found your tongue at last--_Catin_! You were that from thecradle. Don't you remember how . . ."

  Dona Rita sprang to her feet at my side with a loud cry, "No, George,no," which bewildered me completely. The suddenness, the loudness of itmade the ensuing silence on both sides of the door perfectly awful. Itseemed to me that if I didn't resist with all my might something in mewould die on the instant. In the straight, falling folds of thenight-dress she looked cold like a block of marble; while I, too, wasturned into stone by the terrific clamour in the hall.

  "Therese, Therese," yelled Ortega. "She has got a man in there." He ranto the foot of the stairs and screamed again, "Therese, Therese! Thereis a man with her. A man! Come down, you miserable, starved peasant,come down and see."

  I don't know where Therese was but I am sure that this voice reached her,terrible, as if clamouring to heaven, and with a shrill over-note whichmade me certain that if she was in bed the only thing she would think ofdoing would be to put her head under the bed-clothes. With a final yell:"Come down and see," he flew back at the door of the room and startedshaking it violently.

  It was a double door, very tall, and there must have been a lot of thingsloose about its fittings, bolts, latches, and all those brassapplications with broken screws, because it rattled, it clattered, itjingled; and produced also the sound as of thunder rolling in the big,empty hall. It was deafening, distressing, and vaguely alarming as if itcould bring the house down. At the same time the futility of it had, itcannot be denied, a comic effect. The very magnitude of the racket heraised was funny. But he couldn't keep up that violent exertioncontinuously, and when he stopped to rest we could hear him shouting tohimself in vengeful tones. He saw it all! He had been decoyed there!(Rattle, rattle, rattle.) He had been decoyed into that town, hescreamed, getting more and more excited by the noise he made himself, inorder to be exposed to this! (Rattle, rattle.) By this shameless"_Catin_! _Catin_! _Catin_!"

  He started at the door again with superhuman vigour. Behind me I heardDona Rita laughing softly, statuesque, turned all dark in the fadingglow. I called out to her quite openly, "Do keep your self-control."And she called back to me in a clear voice: "Oh, my dear, will you everconsent to speak to me after all this? But don't ask for the impossible.He was born to be laughed at."

  "Yes," I cried. "But don't let yourself go."

  I don't know whether Ortega heard us. He was exerting then his utmoststrength of lung against the infamous plot to expose him to the derisionof the fiendish associates of that obscene woman! . . . Then he begananother interlude upon the door, so sustained and strong that I had thethought that this was growing absurdly impossible, that either theplaster would begin to fall off the ceiling or he would drop dead nextmoment, out there.

  He stopped, uttered a few curses at the door, and seemed calmer fromsheer exhaustion.

  "This story will be all over the world," we heard him begin. "Deceived,decoyed, inveighed, in order to be made a laughing-stock before the mostdebased of all mankind, that woman and her associates." This was reallya meditation. And then he screamed: "I will kill you all." Once more hestarted worrying the door but it was a startlingly feeble effort which heabandoned almost at once. He must have been at the end of his strength.Dona Rita from the middle of the room asked me recklessly loud: "Tell me!Wasn't he born to be laughed at?" I didn't answer her. I was so nearthe door that I thought I ought to hear him panting there. He wasterrifying, but he was not serious. He was at the end of his strength,of his breath, of every kind of endurance, but I did not know it. He wasdone up, finished; but perhaps he did not know it himself. How still hewas! Just as I began to wonder at it, I heard him distinctly give a slapto his forehead. "I see it all!" he cried. "That miserable, cantingpeasant-woman upstairs has arranged it all. No doubt she consulted herpriests. I must regain my self-respect. Let her die first." I heardhim make a dash for the foot of the stairs. I was appalled; yet to thinkof Therese being hoisted with her own petard was like a turn of affairsin a farce. A very ferocious farce. Instinctively I unlocked the door.Dona Rita's contralto laugh rang out loud, bitter, and contemptuous; andI heard Ortega's distracted screaming as if under torture. "It hurts!It hurts! It hurts!" I hesitated just an instant, half a second, nomore, but before I could open the door wide there was in the hall a shortgroan and the sound of a heavy fall.

  T
he sight of Ortega lying on his back at the foot of the stairs arrestedme in the doorway. One of his legs was drawn up, the other extendedfully, his foot very near the pedestal of the silver statuette holdingthe feeble and tenacious gleam which made the shadows so heavy in thathall. One of his arms lay across his breast. The other arm was extendedfull length on the white-and-black pavement with the hand palm upwardsand the fingers rigidly spread out. The shadow of the lowest stepslanted across his face but one whisker and part of his chin could bemade out. He appeared strangely flattened. He didn't move at all. Hewas in his shirt-sleeves. I felt an extreme distaste for that sight.The characteristic sound of a key worrying in the lock stole into myears. I couldn't locate it but I didn't attend much to that at first. Iwas engaged in watching Senor Ortega. But for his raised leg he clung soflat to the floor and had taken on himself such a distorted shape that hemight have been the mere shadow of Senor Ortega. It was ratherfascinating to see him so quiet at the end of all that fury, clamour,passion, and uproar. Surely there was never anything so still in theworld as this Ortega. I had a bizarre notion that he was not to bedisturbed.

  A noise like the rattling of chain links, a small grind and clickexploded in the stillness of the hall and a voice began to swear inItalian. These surprising sounds were quite welcome, they recalled me tomyself, and I perceived they came from the front door which seemed pusheda little ajar. Was somebody trying to get in? I had no objection, Iwent to the door and said: "Wait a moment, it's on the chain." The deepvoice on the other side said: "What an extraordinary thing," and Iassented mentally. It was extraordinary. The chain was never put up,but Therese was a thorough sort of person, and on this night she had putit up to keep no one out except myself. It was the old Italian and hisdaughters returning from the ball who were trying to get in.

  Suddenly I became intensely alive to the whole situation. I boundedback, closed the door of Blunt's room, and the next moment was speakingto the Italian. "A little patience." My hands trembled but I managed totake down the chain and as I allowed the door to swing open a little moreI put myself in his way. He was burly, venerable, a little indignant,and full of thanks. Behind him his two girls, in short-skirted costumes,white stockings, and low shoes, their heads powdered and earringssparkling in their ears, huddled together behind their father, wrapped upin their light mantles. One had kept her little black mask on her face,the other held hers in her hand.

  The Italian was surprised at my blocking the way and remarked pleasantly,"It's cold outside, Signor." I said, "Yes," and added in a hurriedwhisper: "There is a dead man in the hall." He didn't say a single wordbut put me aside a little, projected his body in for one searchingglance. "Your daughters," I murmured. He said kindly, "_Va bene_, _vabene_." And then to them, "Come in, girls."

  There is nothing like dealing with a man who has had a long past ofout-of-the-way experiences. The skill with which he rounded up and drovethe girls across the hall, paternal and irresistible, venerable andreassuring, was a sight to see. They had no time for more than onescared look over the shoulder. He hustled them in and locked them upsafely in their part of the house, then crossed the hall with a quick,practical stride. When near Senor Ortega he trod short just in time andsaid: "In truth, blood"; then selecting the place, knelt down by the bodyin his tall hat and respectable overcoat, his white beard giving himimmense authority somehow. "But--this man is not dead," he exclaimed,looking up at me. With profound sagacity, inherent as it were in hisgreat beard, he never took the trouble to put any questions to me andseemed certain that I had nothing to do with the ghastly sight. "Hemanaged to give himself an enormous gash in his side," was his calmremark. "And what a weapon!" he exclaimed, getting it out from under thebody. It was an Abyssinian or Nubian production of a bizarre shape; theclumsiest thing imaginable, partaking of a sickle and a chopper with asharp edge and a pointed end. A mere cruel-looking curio ofinconceivable clumsiness to European eyes.

  The old man let it drop with amused disdain. "You had better take holdof his legs," he decided without appeal. I certainly had no inclinationto argue. When we lifted him up the head of Senor Ortega fell backdesolately, making an awful, defenceless display of his large, whitethroat.

  We found the lamp burning in the studio and the bed made up on the couchon which we deposited our burden. My venerable friend jerked the uppersheet away at once and started tearing it into strips.

  "You may leave him to me," said that efficient sage, "but the doctor isyour affair. If you don't want this business to make a noise you willhave to find a discreet man."

  He was most benevolently interested in all the proceedings. He remarkedwith a patriarchal smile as he tore the sheet noisily: "You had betternot lose any time." I didn't lose any time. I crammed into the nexthour an astonishing amount of bodily activity. Without more words I flewout bare-headed into the last night of Carnival. Luckily I was certainof the right sort of doctor. He was an iron-grey man of forty and of astout habit of body but who was able to put on a spurt. In the cold,dark, and deserted by-streets, he ran with earnest, and ponderousfootsteps, which echoed loudly in the cold night air, while I skimmedalong the ground a pace or two in front of him. It was only on arrivingat the house that I perceived that I had left the front door wide open.All the town, every evil in the world could have entered theblack-and-white hall. But I had no time to meditate upon my imprudence.The doctor and I worked in silence for nearly an hour and it was onlythen while he was washing his hands in the fencing-room that he asked:

  "What was he up to, that imbecile?"

  "Oh, he was examining this curiosity," I said.

  "Oh, yes, and it accidentally went off," said the doctor, lookingcontemptuously at the Nubian knife I had thrown on the table. Then whilewiping his hands: "I would bet there is a woman somewhere under this; butthat of course does not affect the nature of the wound. I hope thisblood-letting will do him good."

  "Nothing will do him any good," I said.

  "Curious house this," went on the doctor, "It belongs to a curious sortof woman, too. I happened to see her once or twice. I shouldn't wonderif she were to raise considerable trouble in the track of her pretty feetas she goes along. I believe you know her well."

  "Yes."

  "Curious people in the house, too. There was a Carlist officer here, alean, tall, dark man, who couldn't sleep. He consulted me once. Do youknow what became of him?"

  "No."

  The doctor had finished wiping his hands and flung the towel far away.

  "Considerable nervous over-strain. Seemed to have a restless brain. Nota good thing, that. For the rest a perfect gentleman. And this Spaniardhere, do you know him?"

  "Enough not to care what happens to him," I said, "except for the troublehe might cause to the Carlist sympathizers here, should the police gethold of this affair."

  "Well, then, he must take his chance in the seclusion of thatconservatory sort of place where you have put him. I'll try to findsomebody we can trust to look after him. Meantime, I will leave the caseto you."