A Son of the Sahara Part 11

There was silence again.

Lucille sighed.

She knew she had no hold over him other than her s.e.x, and never had had. Heroics, temper and entreaties had no effect on him whatsoever; he remained always unmoved and indifferent.

With a shrug she picked out a chocolate from a large box at her side.

Then she changed the conversation.

"What's the business, Raoul? I'd no idea you had any here. I thought ours was a pleasure trip, purely--or impurely."

"The business is strictly private," he replied, a savage note in his voice.

A month before, on leaving Paris, when Le Breton had asked Lucille Lemesurier, the actress, to accompany him on his yacht and spend a week or so in Grand Canary, it had been for pleasure solely.

But a few days ago a letter had reached him.

A letter to the effect that his enemy, now Sir George Barclay, had been appointed governor of Gambia. The Sultan Casim Ammeh was waiting in Grand Canary until certain that his man was _en route_ for his new post.

CHAPTER IV

On the balcony of her bedroom Pansy Langham stood, slim and boyish-looking in a suit of silk pyjamas.

Beneath, the hotel grounds spread, running down to the sh.o.r.e. Beyond, the sea stretched, a silver mirror, away to the sparkling, frosty mist of the horizon. In the milky sky the moon soared, a molten globe, touching the drooping palms and making their quivering fronds look like silver fountains. A little line of waves lapped murmurously on the sh.o.r.e, in a running ridge of white fire. The stone wall edging the garden was turned into marble. Here and there across the beach the taller trees threw thick, ebony shadows.

On the whole expanse of silvered sea, only one mark showed like a black dot in the distance.

Pansy had seen the mark when it had been much nearer the sh.o.r.e; a man's dark head. He had swum out and out, away into the mist and moonlight.

It was long after midnight. In the whole white world there was no sign of life except that dark head and the girl on the balcony who was watching the swimmer.

The black dot grew bigger, as, with powerful overhand strokes, the man made his way sh.o.r.ewards.

When about two hundred yards away from the beach the strong ease of his limbs altered suddenly. They grew contorted. He threw up his arms, and a moment later vanished completely.

Pansy gave a quick gasp of alarm.

But the man appeared again, trying to float, as a level-headed swimmer does when cramps seize him, in order to get air between the spasms that send him writhing under water; a hopeless task usually, unless aid is quickly forthcoming.

For just one second Pansy watched with horror and distress on her face.

Then she turned sharply and vanished into her bedroom. A moment or so later she was out of the hotel and running swiftly through the silent garden towards the sh.o.r.e.

To Le Breton out there with the water choking his powerful lungs, gasping and fighting for his life against a death that only his own nerve and wit kept at bay, that struggle seemed an eternity.

All at once, he was caught and held from behind, just on the surface of the water; a slight support, but sufficient to keep him from going under when the spasms were on.

Unlike the average swimmer in difficulties, he did not s.n.a.t.c.h at his unseen rescuer. For all his dire straits he had the presence of mind to let his preserver alone.

For another ten minutes or more the attack lasted. Then his muscles unknotted and strength came back to his limbs.

He turned himself over to see who had come to his aid.

Out of the misty moonlit sea a young face looked at him from under a mop of short curls.

"You didn't come a moment too soon, my boy," he said.

There was a tired look about Pansy, but that did not prevent her dimpling in an effort not to smile. And to hide her mirth she dived suddenly and struck out towards the land.

Le Breton struck out too. He reached the sh.o.r.e first.

Pansy, however, did not go in his direction. She turned off and landed where the shadows were the thickest.

From where the man stood, he saw what looked to be a slim, fragile boy of about fourteen, who staggered slightly with fatigue as he made towards the most shadowed pair of steps leading into the hotel grounds.

Quickly Le Breton went towards his rescuer, with the idea of lending a hand, for it looked as if the boy were thoroughly worn out.

By the time he reached her Pansy was leaning against the wall under cover of the thickest shadows.

"I'm afraid you've over-exerted yourself on my account," he said in a solicitous way.

"I don't usually get knocked out so quickly," she replied. "But I had a nasty accident some weeks ago, and I've not quite recovered yet."

The answer was in French, as fluent and Parisian as his own.

"You must let me help you back to the hotel," he said.

"Oh no, it's not necessary. I shall be all right in a moment."

"What you need, my boy, is a dose of brandy," he remarked. "That would soon put you right."

Pansy put her hand to her mouth to hide her smiles. Her short hair, pyjamas, and the shadows had deceived him completely.

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," she replied; "but I don't happen to have any."

"Ring for some, then, when you get back to the hotel."

"I wouldn't dream of disturbing people at this hour of the night," she said in an indignant tone of voice.

"What else are the servants there for?" he asked in a surprised and peremptory way.

"They're not there for me to root out of bed at two o'clock in the morning."

He laughed in an amused manner.

"I'm not so considerate of menials as you appear to be. But tell me the number of your room and I'll bring you some."

There was a brief pause.