A Fascinating Traitor Part 35

Before the morning dawned on the sea-girt coast of La Manche, Marie Victor had duly telegraphed Major Hawke's impending departure for India to the beautiful recluse who now cheered the lonely bride of "the Moonshee," at the old Norman chateau, embowered in its splendid gardens, within a league of the Banker's Folly.

Alan Hawke, closely shaven, and masquerading in a French commis-voyageur's modest garb, was seated at ease in Etienne Garcin's death-trap at the Cor d'Abundance, in foggy Granville. His darkened locks and nondescript garb thoroughly effaced the "officer and gentleman." One of the old French villain's wickedest and prettiest woman decoys was coquettishly serving Hawke's breakfast as he read the burning words of Justine Delande's message from the heart. The last greeting, tear-blotted, and promptly sent to the Hotel Binda.

"It's a wild day, a wild-looking place, and a wild enough sea," grumbled Major Hawke, gazing out of the grimy window at the rolling green surges breaking, white-capped, far out beyond the new pier, where the black cannon were drenched and crusted with the salty flying scud. Far away, a little side-wheel steamer was laboring along over the strait from the blue island of Jersey, rising and dipping half out of sight, with a trail of intermittent puffs of dense black smoke.

"There is the enemy's stronghold, and now for Jack Blunt's plan of campaign! I wonder if he'll come over to-day, or to-morrow? He must have had my telegram last night!" Alan Hawke amused himself with the bold, black-eyed French girl's vicious stories of olden deeds done there in Etienne Garcin's gloomy spider's den. He even laughed when the red-bodiced she-devil laughingly pointed down at the loosened floor-planks in the back room, underneath which mantrap the swish of the throbbing waves could be heard.

Then the sheeted, cold driving rain hid the promontory, with its heavy, lumpy-looking fort, the old gray granite parish church, and the cl.u.s.tered ships of the harbor, now dashing about and tugging wildly at their doubled moorings, soon to be left high and dry on the soft ooze when the thirty-foot tide receded. "There's where we find our best customers," laughed the French wanton, as Alan Hawke drew her to his knee, and they laughed merrily over the golden harvest of the sea, the price of the recovered dead. Through the narrow stone fanged streets lumbered along the heavy French hooded carts, driven by squatty men in oil skins and sou'westers, and laden down with the spoils of the whale, cod, and oyster fisheries. Stout women in huge blue ap.r.o.ns, with baskets on their rounded arms, gossiped at the protecting corners, while the shouts of Landlord Etienne Garcin's drunken band of sea wolves now began to ring out in the smoky salle a boire.

It was two o'clock when the burly form of Etienne Garcin was propelled unceremoniously into Alan Hawke's room. A grin of satisfaction spread over the bullet-headed old ruffian's face, and his round gray pig eyes twinkled, as he noted the already established entente cordiale between Jack Blunt's pal and the wanton spy who was the absent Jack's own especial pet. But, Alan Hawke was temporarily blind to the universally offered charms of the soubrette as he read Joseph Smith's careful report.

"That's the talk!" joyously cried Hawke. His heart bounded in a fierce thrill. "By G.o.d! Simpson shall be 'done up' in short order. The drunken old dog. He cut off the payment of my drafts with his blabbing tongue!

"Yes, over the cliffs he goes, and we will make sure of him--forever--before he takes his last tumble! Jack! Jack! You are a hero!" he mused, as the triumphant words of Jack Blunt's great discovery were read again and again. And then, he carefully burned the letter, before the astonished eyes of the tempting companion of his waiting hours. "These fools of employers!" cheerfully muttered Alan Hawke. "They always think that 'Servant's Hall' has no eyes. That the maid in her cap and ap.r.o.n has not the same burning pa.s.sions as idle Madame in her silks and laces. That the man has not his own easy-going vices just as alive and masterful as the base appet.i.tes of the swell master."

While Alan Hawke thus exulted at Granville, there was gloom and jealousy in the heart of Prof. Alaric Hobbs, of Waukesha University, Wisconsin, U. S. A.

A tall, lank, bespectacled "Westerner," nearly thirty-five years of age, the blue-eyed country boy had dragged himself up from the obscurity of a frontier American farm into the higher life. Uncouth, awkward, and yet resolute and untiring, he had justified his first instructor's prediction:

"He has the head of a horse, and will make his mark!" Newspaper trainboy, chainman, a.s.sistant on Government frontier surveys, and frontier scout, he early saved his money so as to complete a sporadic university curriculum. A trip to Liberia, a dash down into Mexico, and a desert jaunt in Australia, had not satisfied his craving for adventure.

With the results of two years of professional lectures, he was now imbibing continental experiences, and plotting a bicycle "scientific tour of the world." Hard-headed, fearless, devoted, and sincere, he was a mad theorist in all his mental processes, and had tried, proved, and rejected free love, anarchy, Christian science, and a dozen other feverish fads, which for a time jangled his mental bells out of tune.

A cranky tracing of the lost Ten Tribes of Israel down to the genial scalpers of the American plains had thrown him across the renowned Professor Andrew Fraser, who had, on his part, located these same long mourned Hebrews in Thibet, ignoring the fact that they are really dispersed in the United States of America as "eaters of other men's hard-made 'honey'" in the "drygoods," clothing, and "shent per shent"

line. For, a glance at the signs on Broadway will prove to any one that the "lost" have been found in Gotham.

Smoking his corncob pipe the Professor paced his rooms at the Royal Victoria, and mentally consigned Prince Djiddin and his indefatigable Moonshee to Eblis, the Inferno, Sheol, or some other ardent corner of Limbo. "How long will these two yellow fellows keep poor old Fraser enchanted?" mused the disgruntled American, mindful of his hotel bill running on. "The old man is crazy after the two Thibetans, and I can't see his game. He does not wish me to publish my own volume first. That is why he has given me the 'marble heart,' and taken them into his house. Their wing of the Banker's Folly is now an Eastern idolaters'

temple. If I could only hook on to the 'Moonshee,' I might make a 'scoop'--a clean scoop--on old Fraser. G.o.d! how my book would sell if I could only get it out first. And yet I dare not offend this old scholar, Andrew Fraser. He must be true to me. He has read to me all the original ma.n.u.script of his own half-finished work. He must trust to me, and he has promised to give me a resume of their disclosures also after they leave. The Thibetan Prince will only be here two weeks longer."

"Then old Fraser will take me to his heart again." Alaric Hobbs reflected on his vain attempt to try the Tunguse, Chinook, Zuni, Apache, Sioux, and Esquimaux dialects on the handsome Prince Djiddin, whose Oriental magnificence was even now the despairing admiration of the two pretty housemaids.

"My august master cannot speak to any one but the great scholar whom he came here to see. He soon returns to his retirement in his palace in the Karakorum Mountains. And he never will emerge thence!" solemnly said the Moonshee, adding in a whisper: "He may, by the grace of Buddha, be re-incarnated as the Dalai-Lama. He springs from the loins of kings. I dare not break in upon his awful silence." The Moonshee's significant gesture of drawing a hand across his own brown throat had silenced the pushing American professor.

"By hokey!" he groaned, "it is hard to have to play second fiddle to this purblind old Scotchman." Alaric Hobbs had been a reporter upon that dainty sheet, The New York Whorl, in one of his "emergent" periods, and so he writhed in agony at being left at the post. "I must be content to tap old Fraser when he comes back from London with that embarra.s.sing lump of beauty, his millionaire niece. She would make a fitting spouse for this Prince Djiddin, for she never speaks a word--at least to me.

And this swell Prince, who comes 'only one in a box,' gets the same 'frozen hand.' Funny girl, that. But I must yield to old Fraser's moods." Alaric Hobbs then descended to the tap-room and instructed the pretty barmaid in the manufacture of his own favorite "c.o.c.ktail," an American drink of surpa.s.sing fierceness and "innate power," which had once caused "Bald-headed Wolf," a Kiowa chieftain, to slay his favorite squaw, scalp a peace commissioner, and chase a fat army paymaster till he died of fright in his ambulance, after Alaric Hobbes had incautiously left a bottle of this "red-eye" mixture with his aboriginal host on one of the "exploring tours." A powerful disturbing agent, the American c.o.c.ktail!

But for all Miss Nadine Johnstone's seeming aversion to men, and in spite of Prince Djiddin's inability to utter a word of any jargon save ninety-five degree Thibetan, "far above proof," on this very morning while the "Moonshee" was transcribing under the watchful eyes of the excited Andrew Fraser the disclosures of the evening before, the young millionairess was "getting on" very well in exhibiting the glories of the tropical garden to the august tourist from the lacustrine Himalayas.

Jules Victor adroitly busied the maid whom Janet Fairbarn had dispatched to "play propriety," and the other London girl had quietly stolen away to her own last rendezvous with her mysterious London lover, "Mr. Joseph Smith," otherwise "Jack Blunt, Esq., of the Swell Mob of the Thames."

The whispers of the stately young Prince brought crimson blushes to the face of the glowing girl, whose answering murmurs were as low as the siren voice of Swinburne's "small serpents, with soft, stretching throats." They had a double secret to keep now. A momentous, a dangerous one; for in the depths of the Tropical Gardens of Rozel, the pa.s.sionate hearted Alixe Delavigne was hidden, waiting this very morning to clasp again the beautiful orphan to a bosom throbbing in wildest love. Prince Djiddin, always on his guard, artfully turned back and busied the maid, when she was released from Jules Victor's vociferous bar-gaining, with a half-hour's choosing her "fairing," out of the lively peddler's pretty stock. The woman's vanity made her an easy victim. The "descendant of Thibetan Kings" could not, of course, speak intelligibly, but the yellow sovereigns which he carried were the magic talisman which opened at once the pretty maid servant's softened heart.

It was a long half hour before the happy Nadine Johnstone returned to join the kinsman of the Maharajah of Cashmere. Her eyes were gleaming in a tender, dawning lovelight, her lips still thrilling with Alixe Delavigne's warm kisses. In her heart, there still rang out her mysterious visitor's last words: "Wait, darling! My own darling! Before another month the secret Government agent will have officially visited Andrew Fraser. We are all ready to act with crushing power when the happy moment safely arrives. And you shall then hear all the story of the past on my breast. You shall know how near you have been to my loving heart in all these weary years. The story of your own dear mother's life shall be my wedding present to you. Yet, a few days more of watchful patience," softly sighed Alixe.

"For we must not let Andrew Fraser wake for a moment from his frenzy of Thibetan study until we can force from him the permission which we will demand to visit you, and to free you from his control."

Prince Djiddin paced solemnly back toward the Banker's Folly, leaving the overjoyed maid to bundle up all her many gifts. A grateful wink to Jules Victor from the Prince rewarded the disguised valet, as he gayly sped away to meet his mistress, and to obtain her orders for the next day. This artful game of mingled Literature and Love had so far been safely played, but Jules Victor had secretly warned Nadine Johnstone against any confidences with her pretty London sewing woman. "She has found a sweetheart here. He is a curious looking fellow, he has money and is liberal, and, so, what you tell her she will surely tell her sweetheart. Trust to no one but the other maid, who is devoted to me,"

proudly said the dapper little Frenchman. Nearing the mansion, on this eventful morning, Prince Djiddin, at a hidden bend of a leafy path, whispered to his fair conductress, "For G.o.d's sake, darling Nadine, do not betray yourself! Those sweetly shining eyes are tell-tale stars!

Your heart happiness will struggle for expression. Go to your rooms at once. Pour out your happy heart in song, lift up your voice. But, watch over your very heart-throbs! Only a single fortnight more, darling, and we will clip the claws of this old Scottish lion who has you in his clutches!

"Anstruther will soon make his coup de main, for Hawke has at last gone back to India, and we will have a deadly grasp soon on the frightened Andrew Fraser. He must either give up his legal tyranny and yield you to us, or else face a future which would appall even a braver man. I dare not to tell you our secret yet. Only the Viceroy and Anstruther know it.

And, now, darling, above all, be sure not to betray yourself, in London.

Remember that Anstruther will have you secretly watched, from this gate to the very moment when you return to it! Any false play of old Fraser would lead to his detention by the authorities, and you would be freed at once by the law!"

In the three weeks of their long masquerade, neither Prince Djiddin, his scribe and interpreter, or else the two, as studious visitors, never left Andrew Fraser alone a single moment! The old scholar was thrilled at heart with Eric Murray's solemn rehearsing of Frank Halton's valuable notebooks and ingenious theories. He eagerly enforced Prince Djiddin's request that no curious strangers should be allowed to force themselves on him, no matter of what lofty rank. Prince Djiddin was wrapped in the veil of a solemn personal seclusion.

And to this end Simpson, now the butler of the "Banker's Folly," was especially a.s.signed to wait upon the austere "Prince Djiddin" as his "body servant." Only one visit of state was exchanged between "Prince Djiddin" and General Wragge, Her Majesty's Commander of the Channel Islands. The "Moonshee," with a sober dignity, had interpreted for the British Commander of the Manche, and in due state, a return visite de ceremonie to General Wagge's mansion and headquarters strangely found Captain Anson Anstruther, A.D.C. of the Viceroy of India, a pilgrim to St. Heliers, to arrange secretly for "Prince Djiddin's" safe conduct and return to Thibet. The curious society crowd and St. Heliers's beautiful women envied Captain Anstruther his three hours conference with the "Asiatic lion."

By day, in the vaulted library, Andrew Fraser pored over the weird stories of Runjeet Singh, of Aurung zebe, of King Dharma, and the Cashmerian priest who came with Buddha's first message to Thibet! The story of the marvelous royal babe found floating in the Ganges, in a copper box, a century before Christ, the tales of the "Konchogsum," the "Buddha jewel," the "doctrine jewel," and the "priesthood jewel" fed the burning fever of old Fraser's senile mind. He now felt that he lived but only in the past. At night, he labored alone till the wee sma' hours, depositing his precious ma.n.u.script in a secret hiding-place, where he now scarcely glanced at the "insured packet," which had been such a dangerous legacy of his dead brother. He had forgotten all his daily life and even his fears for the future in the fierce exultation of concealing his strangely gotten Thibetan lore from his rival, Alaric Hobbs.

"A remarkable mind," growled old Fraser, "but a Yankee--and so untrustworthy." At last, unwillingly, with a quaking heart, lest Prince Djiddin should decamp in his absence, he obeyed an imperative legal summons and proceeded to London with Nadine Johnstone, leaving his house under the charge of that sphinx-eyed Scottish spinster, Janet Fairbarn.

To the "Moonshee," and to the rubicund veteran Simpson, the departing Andrew Fraser said solemnly, "The Prince is to be the master here until my return." With a joyous heart the London sewing girl embarked as Miss Johnstone's one personal attendant, forgetful of her devoted lover, Joseph Smith, who had temporarily disappeared, gone over to France "on business." For she was herself going back to the dear delights of her beloved London, and her liberal lover had already given her his address at the Cor d'Abondance.

"You must telegraph to me, Mattie, where you are staying, and when you leave London to return. I may run over to Southampton and come back on the same boat with you. Write to me, my own girl, every day, and here's a five-pound note to buy your stamps with." On his sacred promise of honor to write to her himself every day, and to let no black Gallic eyes eclipse her "orbs of English blue," Mattie Jones allowed her lover an extra liberal allowance of good-bye kisses.

While Professor Andrew Fraser, Miss Nadine Johnstone, and the lovelorn Mattie Jones, were escorted to London by a head clerk of the estate's solicitors, Prince Djiddin and the "Moonshee" unbent their brows and rested from the nervous strain of the three weeks of continued deception.

While the happy "Moonshee" escaped to his own fair bride, Prince Djiddin, under Simpson's guidance, examined minutely the superb modern castle, and even microscopically examined all the beautiful surroundings of Rozel Head. "It may come in handy some day," mused Major Hardwicke, "especially if we have to aid Nadine Johnstone to escape." The pseudo-Prince was glad to often steal out alone to the headland overlooking Rozel Pier, and there watch the French luggers beating to seaward sailing like fierce cormorants along the wild coast of St. Malo.

He was glad to fill his lungs with the fresh, crisp, salt air, and to commune in safety at length with the faithful Simpson.

Securely hid in an angle of the cliff, they talked over all the mystery of Hugh Fraser's b.l.o.o.d.y "taking off," and of the dreary three years of Death in Life left before Nadine.

"As for the old master, he was an out and out hard 'un," stolidly said Simpson. "Who killed him, n.o.body knows and n.o.body cares. I've always suspicioned that there Ram Lal and yer fancy friend, this Major Alan Hawke."

Hardwicke started in a sudden alarm. "Why so?" he demanded.

"I believe that they tried to blackmail him about some of his old Eurasian love affairs, or else some official secret they had spied out.

You see the n.i.g.g.e.rs in the marble house were all Ram Lal's friends, and any one of them could have left the murderers alone to do their work and then let 'em out of the house. I believe that Hawke did the job, and Ram Lal got away with some of the missing crown jewels. I'll tell you, Major Harry, General Willoughby and the magistrates had me under fire there for many a day."

"See here, Simpson," said Major Hardwicke, "a man who would murder the father, would rob the daughter! I'll give you a thousand pounds if you instantly notify me, if Hawke ever is found creeping around here. There may be some ugly old family secrets, you know."

"I'm your man! Pay or no pay!" cried Simpson. "Only they think of giving me a three months' leave on pay to visit my people."

"Don't go! Don't go! till I tell you!" cried the Major.

"I am glad this fellow Hawke, whom you say has been dropped, is now on his way back to India," said Simpson.

"Yes, but he might show up here devilish strangely," mused Hardwicke.

"He is just the fellow for a dirty fluke. Watch over Nadine, Simpson,"

cried Hardwicke, "for I've sworn to make her my wife, within three months, uncle or no uncle!"

"I will," growled Simpson. "I've an old grudge to settle with the Major, and I'll tell you some day," said the veteran. "Let us go in. There are some curious people here. I'll tell you all when I'm your own man, and the young mistress is Mrs. Major Hardwicke!"

On this very evening, as the gray mists hid the Jersey outline from the windows of Etienne Garcin's den, Jack Blunt and Major Alan Hawke were seated in the Major's bedroom in the cabaret. They were cheerfully discussing two steaming "grogs," but there was doubt and a shifty lack of thorough confidence between the two scoundrels as yet.

"So you think the boat will do?" flatly demanded Jack Blunt, offering some exceptional cigars.

"Just the thing," carefully replied the Major. "And your terms for a two weeks charter?"