The City in the Clouds Part 24

"Let my presumptuous desires be forever silent," he chanted. "'East is east and west is west,' and I erred gravely. But, worship is worship, and worship is sacrifice."

I could hardly speak, my voice was hoa.r.s.e, his words had given me such a picture of Juanita up there in the clouds.

"Prince--"

"I am not a Prince, I only have a very ordinary t.i.tle. If you know England, you understand what a baronet is."

"I know England. Prince, your Princess is waiting for you and sighing out her heart that you have not come to her."

I leapt to my feet and swore a great oath that made the attic room ring.

"_You mean?_" I shouted.

"Prince, the Lily of all the lilies, the Rose of all the roses, alone, distraught, another Ophelia--no, say rather Juliet with her nurse--has honored me with the story of her love. She never told me whom she longed for, but I knew that it was some one down in the world."

I staggered out a question.

"It is my humble adoration for her which has sharpened all my wits," he answered. "It seemed an accident--though the G.o.ds designed it without doubt--that made you save my life to-night, but now I know you are the lover of the Lily. And I am the servant--the happy messenger--of you both."

"You can take a letter from me to her?"

"Indeed, yes."

"My friend, tell me, tell me all about her. Is she happy?--no, I know she cannot be that--but--"

He lifted himself up in the bed, and there was something priest-like in his att.i.tude as he folded his thin hands upon his breast and spoke.

"Two thousand feet above London there is a Palace of all delights.

Immeasurable wealth, the genius of great artists have been combined to make a City of Enchantment. And in every garden with its plashing fountains, in its halls of pictures and delights, upon its aerial towers, down its gilded galleries, lurking at the banquet, mingling with the music, great shapes of terror squeak and gibber like the ghosts Shakespeare speaks of in ancient Rome."

"Morse?"

"There is a n.o.ble intellect overdone and dissolved in terror. In all other respects sane as you or I, my savior and benefactor, Gideon Morse is a maniac whose one sole idea is to preserve himself and his daughter from some horror, some vengeance which surely cannot threaten him."

Twice, thrice I strode the attic.

Then at last I stopped.

"Will you help me now, Pu-Yi, will you take a letter from me, will you help me to meet Her, and soon?"

He bowed his head for answer, and then, as he looked up again his face was suffused with a sort of bright eagerness that touched me to the heart.

"I am yours," he said.

"Then quickly, and soon, Pu-Yi, for you are only half informed. Gideon Morse may be driven mad by fear, no doubt he is. But it is _not_ an imaginary fear. It is a thing so sinister, so real and terrible, that I cannot tell you of it now. I am too exhausted by the events of this night. I will say only this, that within the last hour a faithful friend of mine has returned from the other side of the world and brings me ominous news."

I believe that Pu-Yi, whose movements were, of course, not restricted like those of the lower officials, returned to the towers in the early morning. As for me, I caught a workmen's train from Richmond station, slunk in an early taxi to Piccadilly with Arthur Winstanley, and slipped into lavender-clean sheets and silence till past noon, when Captain Patrick Moore arrived to an early lunch. Dressed again in proper clothes, with dear old Preston fussing about me with tears in his eyes, I felt a thousand times more confident than before. Old Pat had to be informed of everything, and as a preliminary I told him my whole story, from the starting-point of the "Golden Swan."

"And now," I said, "here's Arthur, who has traveled thousands of miles and who has come back with information that fits in absolutely with everything else. He gave me an epitome last night, under strange and fantastic circ.u.mstances. Now then, Arthur, let's have it all clearly, and then we shall know where we are."

Arthur, whose face was white and strained, began at once.

"I went straight to Rio," he said, "and of course I took care that I was accredited to our Legation. As a matter of fact the Minister to the Brazilian Government is my cousin. The news about the towers was all over Brazil. Everybody there knows Gideon Mendoza Morse. He's been by a long way the most picturesque figure in South America during the last twenty years. He has been President of the Republic. Of course, I had the freshest news. My mother had given a party to introduce Juanita to London society. I had danced with her. I had talked to her father--I was the young English society man who brought authentic news. I told all I knew, and a good bit more, and I sucked in information like a vacuum-cleaner. I learnt a tremendous lot as to the sources of Morse's enormous wealth. I was glad to find that there were no allegations against him of any trust methods, any financial tricks. He had got rich like one of the old patriarchs, simply by shrewdness and long acc.u.mulation and rising values. But I had to go a good deal farther back than this, I had to dive into obscure politics of South America, and then--it was almost like a punch on the jaw--I stumbled against the Santa Hermandad."

Pat Moore and I cried out simultaneously.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Our League?"

"It's sheer coincidence," he answered. "I hope it's not a bad omen.

During the time when the last Emperor of Brazil, Pedro II, was reigning, it was seen by all his supporters, both in Brazil and in Spain, that his power was waning and a crash was sure to come. In order to preserve the Principle of the Monarchy, a powerful Secret Society was started, under the name of the Holy Brotherhood or Santa Hermandad. Gideon Morse, then a young and very influential man, became a member of this Society. But, after the Emperor was deposed, and a Republic declared, Morse threw in his lot with the new regime. I have gathered that he did so out of pure patriotism; he realized that a Republic was the best thing for his country, and had no personal ax to grind whatever. He prospered exceedingly. As you know he has, in his time, been President of the Republica dos Estados Unidos de Brazil, and has contributed more to the success of the country than any other man living."

"Fascinatin' study, history," said Captain Moore, "for those that like it. Personally, I am no bookworm; cut the cackle, Arthur, old bean, and come to the 'osses."

"Peace, fool!" said Arthur, "if you can't understand what I say, Tom will explain to you later, though I'll be as short as I jolly-well can."

He turned to me.

"When this Secret Society failed, Tom--the Hermandad, I mean--it wasn't dissolved. It was agreed by the Inner Circle that it was only suspended.

But as the years went by, nearly all the prominent members died, and the Republic became an a.s.sured thing. But a few years ago the Society was revived, not with any real hope of putting an Emperor on the throne again but as a means to terrorism and blackmail. All the most lawless elements of Spanish South America became affiliated into a new and sinister confederation. You've heard of the power of the Camorra in Italy--well, the Hermandad in Brazil is like that at the present time.

It has ramifications everywhere, the police are becoming powerless to cope with it, and a secret reign of terror goes on at this hour.

"These people have made a dead shot for Gideon Morse. He has defied them for a long time, but their power has grown and grown. I understand that two years ago the Hermandad fished out of obscurity an old Spanish n.o.bleman, the Marquis da Silva, who was one of the original, chivalrous monarchists. He was about the only surviving member of the old Fraternity, and they got him to produce its const.i.tutions. He came upon the scene some two years ago and Morse was given just that time to fall in with the plans of the modern Society, or be a.s.sa.s.sinated together with his daughter."

He stopped, and it was dear old Pat Moore who shouted with comprehension.

"Why, now," he bellowed, "sure and I see it all. That's why he built the Tower of Babel and went to live on the top, and drag his daughter with him--so that these Sinn Feiners should not get at 'm."

"Yes, Pat, you've seen through it at a glance," said Arthur, with a private grin to me.

Pat was tremendously bucked up at the thought that he had solved a problem which had been puzzling both of us.

"All the same," he said, "the place is too well guarded for any Spanish murderer to get up. Besides, Tom here is makin' all his arrangements and he'll have Miss Juanita out of it in no time."

"The circ.u.mstances," Arthur went on calmly, "are perfectly well known to a few people at the head of the Government in Brazil. I had a long and intimate conversation with Don Francisco Torrome, Minister of Police to the Republic. He told me that the Hermandad is intensely revengeful, wicked, and unscrupulous. Moreover, it's rich; and money wouldn't be allowed to stand in the way of getting at Morse. What is lacking is energy. These people make the most complete and fiendish plans, they dream the most fantastic and devilish dreams, and then they say 'Manana'--which means, 'It will do very well to-morrow'--and go to sleep in the sun."

"Then after all, Morse is in no danger!" I cried, immensely relieved.

"You said the danger was real, but you spoke figuratively."

"Sorry, old chap, not a bit of it. There's some one on the track with energy enough to pull the lid off the infernal regions if necessary. In short, the Hermandad have engaged the services of an international scoundrel of the highest intellectual powers, a man without remorse, an artist in crime--I should say, and most Chiefs of Police in the kingdoms of the world would agree with me--the most dangerous ruffian at large.

You've seen him, Tom, I pointed him out to you at a little Soho restaurant where we dined once together. His name is Mark Antony Midwinter, and _he traveled from Brazil, together with a friend, by the same boat that I did_."

"Then he must be in London now!" said Pat Moore, with the air of announcing another great discovery.

"But look here!" I cried. "I told you, before you sailed for South America, I told you what I saw at the Ritz Hotel that night. It was the very same man, Mark Antony Midwinter, as you call him, running like a hare from old Morse, who was shooting fireworks round him with a smile on his face. _That's_ not the man you think he is. He may be a devil, but that night he was a devil of a funk."