Part V. THE DUKE ADVENTURES
It was nearing the period when "something would have to be done." These were Olejoe's exact words. With an action pending in the High Court, the presence of the brokers' man was suggestive rather than conclusive. Olejoe was a splendid splash of colour, a picturesque accessory, but as Tuppy pathetically complained, he had not as yet justified the trouble and expense.
It is true that with a silver salver in his hand he had replaced the sedate servant. That he received visitors and showed them in; that clad in his striking raiment he negotiated with the butcher and the milkman, and that he was one of the Sights. More than this, he was admitted into the family circle, and was invariably introduced to callers as "my brokers' man" or "my possessionist," With Tuppy's coming the question of Olejoe became a vital one. Tuppy, it may be said, was now an inmate of 64. A curt note from Sir Harry's solicitors had terminated his tenancy. Supplementary to this was a letter from Sir Harry himself in which he dealt freely in such phrases as "two-faced duplicity," "run with the hare and hunt with the hounds," "betrayal of a sacred trust," and similar happily coined phrases of opprobrium.
"The perfectly horrible thing is," Tuppy said in bitterness of spirit, "I've given up my flat in Charles Street, an' it's a thousand to thirty the landlord won't take me back again, unless I pay something off the old account."
The Duke pressed him to stay, and Hank was extremely urgent in his invitation.
"The Duke should surely have somebody he can talk 'blighted hopes' to," he said: in his capacity as An Authority on Women, Tuppy stayed.
Thus Olejoe came to be a problem, for Tuppy brought the faithful Bolt, and No. 64 was not built for the accommodation of a house party.
Olejoe, therefore, became the pivot around which revolved a ceaseless whirl of discussion.
He was a Domestic Crisis.
"Something must be done with Olejoe."
This was the beginning and the end of the agenda under review.
Olejoe was present at the most important of these. From time to time he interjected expostulatory noises.
"A Johnny man that I know," said Tuppy reminiscently – "I don't exactly know him, but I owe his brother a hundred, which to all intents an' purposes extends my acquaintance – because if I don't know him, he is pretty sure to have heard about me from the brother fellow, who's a deuce of a bleater about money affairs – "
"I'll look him up in the Dictionary of National Biography," said the Duke; "in the meantime, this man – ?"
"Well, this man used to go to the wooliest places – Africa an' Klondike an' similar horrid spots outside the radius; used to go bug huntin', an' lion fishin' an' bee-stalkin'. When he got something extra, in the way of skins or wings or feathers he used to send it to Wards, have it stuffed an' stuck up in his library. When I say 'library' I mean the place he used to sleep in on Sunday afternoons. But if he got something extra-extra, somethin' stupendously gape-ish, such as a pink lion or a sky-blue rattlesnake – somethin' absolutely priceless, he used to give it to some dashed museum. There was insanity in the family, mind you."
The Duke cast a calculating glance at Olejoe.
"We might leave him at the South Kensington," he mused.
"Stuffed?" suggested Hank.
"In a box," said Tuppy enthusiastically, "with a rippin' big label on the top, 'A present to the Nation from a True friend' or some rot like that."
"Or in lieu of conscience money," said the Duke, "from two who have robbed the inland revenue, asking finder to notify the same in the Times newspaper."
"Gents," said Olejoe with a forced smile, "foreigners I've always been obligin' to, without the word of a lie. Orgin grinders, ice-cream blokes, an' ladies who tell your fortune with little dickey birds wot pick a bit of paper out of the box to tell you whether your husband will be dark or fair, an' how many children you're goin' to have. If you treat others well, you can expect to be treated well yourself. Do unto others as thyself would be done is a sayin' old an' true – so no larks, if you please."
"When you started that interestin' exposition on tolerance of the alien," said Tuppy aggrieved, "I was under the impression you were goin' to say somethin' particularly apposite."
"No larks," confirmed Olejoe.
"Say," said Hank suddenly, "what's the matter with sendin' him to the Tanneur guy?"
"Alive?" asked Tuppy in a matter of fact tone that made Olejoe shiver.
"Why sure; send him along with a tag tied to his coat – it's gettin' round about the festive season when you give away things you've no use for."
"I feel certain," said the Duke, "that Olejoe could be used for some wise purpose. An age that has found employment for bye-products in general, should not be at a loss for using up this variety. The difficulty about the knight is that he's going abroad."
"Abroad?"
"Abroad – whether that means a season at the Riviera or an exploration of the Sandwich Islands, I cannot say. But abroad he's going, or gone."
"We couldn't send our dear old friend as a courier?" questioned Tuppy. "A sort of unofficial dragoman?"
But the Duke shook his head.
"The situation is this," he said. "We take a house; the knight buys out our landlord; we refuse to pay rent; the knight puts a broker's man in; we're tired of the broker; we've no room for the broker; he has outlived his usefulness; Q. What should A do with B?
"We might, of course, bury him in the garden," the Duke went on, "thus enriching the soil; we might wait for a foggy night, take him out and lose him – "
"Monty! I've got it!"
The inspiration had come to Tuppy with extraordinary suddenness.
"Pay him out."
"What?"
"Pay the rent," said Tuppy solemnly; "it's unusual in cases like this, an' it's a bad precedent: but as a solution it's got points you could hang your hat on."
It is a fault of some authors, that they persistently refuse to introduce characters into their stories, unless those characters in the course of the narrative, perform an act or acts, of such transcendent importance as to make the story impossible without their presence. Accordingly we are familiar with the faithful servant who meanders through 300 pages with little to say for himself save "Dinner is served, your Grace," and "His lordship has not yet returned from 'unting, m'lady;" who is deliciously obscure until the end of the book, when he gives his life for the children, or produces the missing will. We know of governesses, pretty and otherwise, who are the merest shadows for twenty chapters, but enter into their kingdom in the twenty-first, when they accuse the Earl of unblemished character of being the father of the beggar boy.
I could have wished that Olejoe might have passed from these pages naturally, and without fuss, just as people pass from the real pages of life, without ostentation, noiselessly ignoring the rules of the theatre, which demand that no character shall leave the stage without an effective "line" to take them "off," such as "We meet to-morrow!" or "Look to it, Sir George – look to it!" or in the cases of more important figures, a long and heroic peroration.
The rules of the theatre do not insist upon heroics for a part like Olejoe's. I think something like this would have fulfilled all requirements —
Olejoe (one foot on doorstep, bundle slung over shoulder):
There were, as it happened, certain lines to be said by Olejoe in the natural course of events, for the broker's man shares with the waiter, the boots, the chambermaid, and the hotel porter the same characteristic and absolute repugnance to effacement.
The bailiff's receipt lay on the table, and Olejoe in a ducal coat, a lordly pair of trousers and a cowboy hat, the united contributions of the household, took the handsome tip the Duke had delicately slipped into his hand, and with tearful eyes expressed his gratitude.
"Gents all," said Olejoe, who had little knowledge of and regard for the stateliness of blank verse, "as man to man I'm obliged to you. If I've done anything that I oughtn't have done I ask your pardon. I've had me dooty to do an' I've done the same to the best of my ability. I've always found you to be gentlemen, an' if any one sez contrary, it'll be like water on a duck's back – in at one ear an' out at the other. If I can ever do you a turn as far as lays in me power, I'm ready an' willin', an' with these few remarks I thank you one an' all," which was a highly creditable speech.
So passed Olejoe, and I would that no further necessity existed for introducing him again, so that I might emphasize my protest against convention in art.
"The House will now go into committee," said the Duke, "on a purely personal matter – Hank, I'm feeling most horribly worried."
"If it's the eternal feminine woman," said Hank rising quickly, "as I've got a hunch it is, you'll find me in the back lot plantin' snowdrops."
"You're beastly unsympathetic," complained the indignant Duke, "here are two loving hearts – "
"Anatomy," said Hank at the doorway, "is a science I've no love for since the day the Dago doctor of Opothocas Mex. amputated my little toe under the mistaken impression that ptomaine poisonin' was somethin' to do with the feet."
"What we've got to do now," said Tuppy, when the unromantic Hank had disappeared, "is to get somethin' particularly touchin', I'm afraid I've spoilt the other letters, by unintelligently anticipatin' the contents."
"What an ass you were, Tuppy," said the Duke testily, and Tuppy cheerfully agreed.
For two hours they sat composing the wonder working epistle.
"To whom it may concern," it was addressed, and began "What is life? says Emerson."
"That's a fool start," said Tuppy. "Why drag in old man Emerson anyway?"
"Can you suggest a better?" asked the Duke tartly.
"What's the matter with this," asked Tuppy, "you know the Tennyson stuff." He knit his forehead in the effort of remembrance. Then he recited, filling in the blanks as well as he could —
"Rotten," said the Duke.
"I don't think I have quite got the lines right," Tuppy owned, "but any feller can see the drift of the thing."
"If ever I write poetry, Tuppy," said the Duke solemnly, "I should be very grateful if you would refrain from quoting it."
The Emerson opening was allowed to stand. Tuppy made another determined effort to introduce a flower of poetry into the letter when it was nearing completion.
"Look here, Monty. Why not work in that bit about
"Partly," said the Duke, "out of respect for the dead, whom you are misquoting. It runs 'Love to a man is a thing impart!'"
"She wouldn't know the difference," said the sanguine lord.
"That's beside the question: this is supposed to be an open letter addressed to Sir Harry; I can't chuck words of poetry at his unfortunate head – after all he's been punished enough."
They broke off their composition to join Hank in the garden whilst the sedate servant laid the table for lunch.
So far from planting snowdrops Hank had established himself in the little green-house at the end of the garden – a warm cosy little greenhouse on a wintry day – and ensconced in a deck chair had fallen asleep. They woke him by the simple expedient of opening the door wide and letting in a rush of icy cold air.
"Notice anything strange about next door?" yawned Hank, and the Duke started.
"No," he replied with a shade of anxiety in his voice. "What is it?"
"Blinds down, shutters up – general air of desolation," enumerated Hank.
The Duke looked quickly and raced into the house. The sedate servant (his name was Cole) was folding a serviette.
"Cole," said the Duke sternly, "where are the people next door?"
"Gone, m'lord," said Cole.
"Gone! when did they go! Where have they gone, and why on earth was I not told."
"They went last night, m'lord," said Cole, "they have gone to Bournemouth if I am accurately informed – my source of information is the butcher – "
"The postman would have been better," said the Duke reprovingly.
"The postman is an extremely reticent person and moreover is a radical who does not approve of Us," said Cole. "The butcher, on the contrary, stands for landed interest and the established church."
"Excellent," said the Duke, "proceed."
"They left last night," Cole went on dealing with the questions in order, "which accounts for the fact that I did not inform your grace, information having arrived with chops – ten minutes ago."
Cole paused deferentially, then continued, "If your grace will remember, I suggested a joint for to-day's lunch, a suggestion which was not acceptable. Had it been a leg of mutton, your grace would have been informed two hours ago – the joint requiring that extra time to cook, and the butcher in consequence calling earlier."
"You are vindicated, Cole," said the Duke sadly —
As they disposed of the dilatory chop at lunch the Duke was exceptionally quiet. "I don't know why they've gone away," he said at last, "but I'm not so sure that their departure isn't providential."
"My mind was runnin' on the same set of rails," said Hank. He pushed back his plate and produced a cigar. "Duke, it's about time we settled Big Bill for good an' all."
"Don't tell me," said Tuppy hastily, "that your shootin' friend is in the neighbourhood?"
Hank nodded slowly.
"Here last night, wasn't he, Dukey?"
"He was," said the Duke absently.
"We traced his little footsteps in the garden bed," said Hank.
"But, my dear foolish Transatlantic cousin," protested Tuppy, "the police, old friend! The dashed custodians of public peace an' order! What the dooce do you pay rates an' taxes an' water rates an' gas bills for!"
"The police?" Hank smiled. "Oh, the police are all right: but there's nothing doin' with the police. This is a feud for private circulation only."
"But!" cried Tuppy violently and unpleasantly excited, "it's distinctly unfair to our splendid constabulary; you oughtn't to be selfish, old feller – suppose this horrid person with his unsportin' revolver killed me! Oh, you can laugh, dear bird, but it'd be doosid unpleasant for me!"
"I'm not laughing, Tuppy," said the Duke seriously, "I can quite understand your funk – "
"My dear good misguided an' altogether uncharitable friend," said Tuppy, greatly pained, "it isn't funk – I'm notoriously rash as a matter of fact: why my discharge was suspended for bein' rash an' hazardous – they were the Official Receiver's own words. No, it isn't funk, it's an inherited respect for the law."
He was considerably ruffled.
"Well, let me say I can appreciate your law-abiding spirit," said the Duke, "but as Hank said, this isn't a case for the police: it's a purely personal matter between Mr. Slewer and myself. But because the beggar is getting over bold, it is necessary to clip his wings – this is our opportunity."
It was at this point that Olejoe made his reappearance. Cole announced him and the Duke, somewhat astonished, ordered him to be brought in.
He entered smiling somewhat vacantly, and stood unsteadily by the door holding his hat in his hand.
"A friend's a friend," he said thickly, "an' a friend in need is a friend in – deed." He smiled benevolently. "There's them," he said with a sneer, "that don't believe all they hear an' only half what they see. There's them that wouldn't believe people could be crowned an' sat on a throne an' all." His smile became indulgent. "Me an' a friend of mine," he went off at an angle, "not exactly a friend but a chap I know, went up to the West end. His name was Harry."
"Olejoe," said the Duke sternly, "go home."
"'Arf a moment," said Olejoe, "I'm coming to the part that will knock you out. D'ye know the White Drover outside Victoria Station? It's a house I seldom use. But Harry does, so we went in."
"I gathered that much," said the Duke.
"'What's yours,' sez Harry. 'No,' I sez, 'it's my turn, what's yours?' 'No,' sez Harry, 'I'll pay, what's yours?' 'No,' I sez – "
"Cut it out," pleaded Hank, "forget it – "
"… when I heard a chap speakin' in the next bar: a private bar with red velvet seats. An American chap he was, like Hank."
It is a proof of Olejoe's exhilaration that he said "Hank" calmly and coolly and without a blush.
"He sez – the American chap – 'I'm layin' for Dukey,' an' the other feller (I'll tell you his name in a minute, it'll come as a terrible surprise to you) sez 'Do nothin' yet,' just like that 'do nothin' yet!'
"'I've got an idea,' sez this chap – not the American chap – 'that when this Duke person finds my niece has gone with us to Merroccer – '"
"To Morocco?" queried the Duke eagerly.
"To Merroccer," repeated Olejoe, "the same place as the leather – 'when he finds I've persuaded my niece (I'll tell you who she is in a minute: I'm keepin' that back to the last), when he finds I've took my niece for a holiday to Merroccer the chances are,' sez the old boy, 'he'll come after her. Now if the Duke goes to Merroccer,' sez the chap – you'll never guess his name, not if you guess for a million years – 'if the Duke goes to Merroccer. I don't care a damn what you do – in Merroccer.'"
"Tuppy," said the Duke quickly, "you can stay out of this business if you like: if you come in there'll be no risk and a lot of amusement. Will you come?"
"Like a shot," said Tuppy.
"No, you'd never guess…" Olejoe was saying.
"We've time to pack and catch the two-twenty from Cannon Street. Just take a few things – we can buy what we want in Paris."
They made a rush from the room.
"You'd never guess," Olejoe rambled on with closed eyes and swaying slightly, "who the old feller was, and who the young lady was … now," with a heavy jocularity, "I'll give you three guesses…"
He was still talking when the door slammed behind the adventurers.
There are limitations even to the powers of dukes.
For instance, even a Duke starting forth at 2.30 to catch the 2.20 from Charing Cross is hardly likely to succeed, unless he performs one of those miracles of which one hears in the course of destructive and pessimistic parliamentary debate, to wit: put back the hands of time.
There was time to shop and time to reflect. Time also to wire to the sedate Cole and give instructions for the management of the house during the Duke's absence. It gave Mr. Bill Slewer time also to discover the Duke's plans – the Duke's instructions to Cole had included a counsel of frankness as to his whereabouts.
The party left London by the nine o'clock train – that same "Continental," that Hank had "flagged" – and the crossing from Dover to Calais was a pleasant one to Tuppy's infinite relief. They arrived in Paris before daybreak, and idled away that day and the next. The Tanneurs were in Paris, if report was true. The work of investigation was to be divided.
"You do the magazins, Tuppy," said the Duke, "if you hang round the shopping centre you are pretty sure to spot 'em."
The Duke haunted the Louvre, Hank systematically went through the hotel lists. Tuppy, after spending ten minutes examining the contents of a jeweller's shop window in the Rue de la Paix, came back to the hotel thoroughly exhausted.
By accident they learnt that the Tanneurs had gone on to Madrid, and there was a wild rush to catch the Sud Express. They caught it by the narrowest of margins. At Bordeaux, Tuppy got out to buy some French papers: by the merest chance met a man he knew; exchanged greetings and inquiries, spoke rudely of the dowager … the Sud Express was half-way to the border before Tuppy realized that he ought to have been on it…
Accordingly there was a day lost at Biarritz where the chafing Duke waited for Tuppy to catch up.
In Madrid, they had no difficulty in finding out that the Tanneurs had arrested their progress at Avila.
Back to the walled city dashed the adventurers. As their train came clanging into the station, the south bound express drew out and the Duke caught a glimpse of Alicia's slim figure standing at the window of a saloon – and swore. They returned to Madrid the same night, by a train that stopped at every station, and sometimes between stations. It discharged them, weary, bedraggled and extremely cross, at the Medina in the middle of the night.
Hank alone of the trio was imperturbable. Nothing shook the nerves or disturbed the serenity of the American. His inevitable cigar between his teeth, he surveyed the chill desolation of the dreary terminus with bland benevolence.
It was Tuppy's fault that they missed the Sevilla Express. Tuppy, acquiring a sudden and passionate love for art, strayed through the Prado, lingered in the Valesquez Room, melted into a condition of ecstatic incoherence, before the wonders of Titian, the glories of Rubens, and the beauty of Paul Veronese, and finally contrived to get himself locked in at closing time.
He was discovered by a watchman, pounced upon as an international burglar, arrested, and finally released, after considerable trouble, in which the British ambassador, the Minister of Marine and the Duke were involved.
"It is no use your being angry, my dear old ferocious friend," said the penitent Tuppy. "Unfortunate as my intrusion into the realms of art may be, I merely illustrate the sayin' of that remarkable German feller who wrote a play about the devil, that Art is long an' time's doocid short, and dear old Titian an' cheery old Velasquez wait for no man."
"My dear man, you had a time table."
"Assure you, old feller, I hadn't."
"But I gave you one; a little red book."
"So you did," said Tuppy thoughtfully, "a little red book with egg marks. Now d'ye know," he said in a burst of confidence, "I didn't know that dashed thing was a time table."
"What the dickens did you think it was?" asked the Duke in tones of annoyance, "a set of sleeve links?" Thenceforward Tuppy behaved like a perfect gentleman. The Duke went further and said that Tuppy behaved like a perfect nuisance.
For if a train was due to leave at seven, and breakfast was ordered at six o'clock, you might be sure that somewhere in the neighbourhood of 4 a.m. Tuppy would thrust his head into the Duke's apartment with an anxious inquiry.
"Time's a bouncin', old feller, what?" he would ask. "I hear people movin' downstairs – are you quite sure about that train?"
"For goodness' sake, Tuppy, go to sleep," said the Duke on one occasion, and Tuppy withdrew – but not to slumber. Tuppy would begin packing. You could hear Tuppy's boots falling on the bare floor of the Spanish hotel – you could hear Tuppy's apologetic "damn!" Then he whistled softly and with heart-breaking flatness the "Soldiers' Chorus"; then he took a stealthy bath – blowing like a grampus and with a sibilant hissing that suggested an ostler at his toilet. Then there came from his room a squeaking and a grunting as Tuppy manipulated his physical developer. Then a thunderous crash! as the dumbells fell to the floor – at this point the Duke would rise and address feeling remarks to his friend.
Such a programme as I have outlined is faithfully typical of what happened in Cordova, in Seville, in Ronda, in Algeciras and in Gibraltar. It was at Ronda that the Duke came up with his quarry.
Alicia, breakfasting alone in the airy little "comidor" of the Station Hotel saw a shadow fall across the doorway but did not look up from the book she was reading.
When she did, she met the smiling eyes of the Duke and half rose with outstretched hands. Of course it was only an unconscious impulse, but it was unnecessary to go half way with the Duke. He greeted her as though they had parted but yesterday, the best of friends.
He had the valuable gift of taking up, where he had left off – you never saw the joint in the Duke's friendship.
Alicia thought rapidly.
After all one cannot offer one's hand and snatch it instantly back again. It had been foolish of her, unmaidenly perhaps, indiscreet no doubt, but here she was chatting gaily with the Duke.
"We left mother in Paris, my aunt is with us, we've had most perfect weather…"
She noticed that she was "Miss Terrill" to him – there was a negative satisfaction in that. So, apparently he had not picked up the threads, as they had dropped. Also he made no reference to their parting interview, offered no explanations, was neither tragic nor mournful, displayed, in fact, none of those interesting symptoms which usually distinguish the young man of blighted hopes. He was the most unconventional man Alicia had ever met.
The interview had its embarrassing side as Alicia suddenly remembered.
"My uncle will be down very soon," she said suddenly, "I don't think that you and he are quite – ?" she left the Duke to finish the sentence.
He rose.
"We aren't – quite," he said.
"I shall probably see you again," she smiled. She was perfectly self-controlled, serenely mistress of herself and the situation. "Sir Harry has read your Open Letters – I think he was touched by your abasement," she said maliciously, and, I cannot help thinking, incautiously.
"Naturally," said the Duke calmly, "even an uncle has his feelings: to know that his niece has inspired – "
"Good-bye," she said hurriedly, "perhaps it would be better if you didn't see me again." She added inconsistently, "We are going on to Tangier to-morrow."
"By Algeciras or by Cadiz?" queried the Duke.
"By Algeciras and Gibraltar," said Alicia. "Good-bye."
She held out her hand nervously.
The Duke took it, and kissed her.
"Oh!" cried Alicia.
The Duke looked surprised.
"What is the matter?" he asked and stroked his cheek. "I'm shaven?"
"How – how dare you?" she said hotly.
"Dare?" The Duke was puzzled. "Why, aren't you engaged to me?"
"You know I'm not! You know I've returned your hateful ring – you know – "
The Duke stopped her with an imperious gesture. "As to that matter," he said graciously, "will you accept my assurance that I have entirely overlooked it? Please never mention it again."
He left her with a confused feeling that somehow and in some manner she was under an obligation to him.
El Mogreb Alaska, that enterprising sheet, duly announced the arrival of the Duke's party. "Unfortunately," said the journal, "one member of the Duke's entourage, the Rt. Hon. the Lord Tupping, was left behind at Gibraltar through some mistake as to the hour of the sailing of the Gibel Musa."
From which it may be gathered that Tuppy had fallen from grace. He came on by the next boat – two days later, with a tentative grievance. That is to say, it was a grievance that he was prepared, to withdraw in the absence of any reproach on the part of the Duke.
Tuppy had been spending a day with a friend who was Deputy-Adjutant Something or other to the forces.
"I didn't mistake the hour, Monty, old feller," he explained eagerly, "I was down on the dashed pier, with all my traps, gazin' pensively at the lappin' waves an' the sea-gulls circlin' on rigid pinions an' all that, waitin' for you, when it occurred to me that you were a doosid long time comin'. So I drove to your hotel an' found you'd left the day before."
They sat in the big hall of the Continental Hotel. From the narrow street without, came the sing-song intonation of young Islam at its lessons, and the pattering of laden donkeys. Tuppy talked to the Duke but was looking elsewhere.
Hank had found some countrywomen of his, and surrounded by all that was best and beautiful in Ohio, was solemnly narrating for their especial benefit a purely fanciful description of a Moorish harem. One face in that circle attracted Tuppy strangely.
"Then there's the laundry wife who does the washin', an' the cook wife who does the cooking, an' the washin'-up wife, an' the sock wife who darns the socks – "
"Oh, Mr. Hankey, you're jollying us?"
"No, sir," said Hank firmly, "when I was American Minister at Fez in '82…"
Tuppy's explanations, having been satisfactorily exploited, the Duke listened with amusement to the procession of unfounded statements Hank was leading forth for the benefit of the fair Americans.
"Do you know, Mr. Hankey," said one suddenly, "we really don't believe a word you're saying. For one thing I'm sure you was never the favourite of the Sultan or we should have read about it in the New York Sunday papers. And I'm certain you never married the Sultan's daughter, Fatima, because you'd just be ashamed to confess it to a lot of nice American girls. You're just a new-comer like the American we met on the Fez Road who asked our guide where the nearest Beer Hall was."
A shriek of laughter greeted this innocent jest. Hank sat up, his lazy voice became immediately incisive.
"On the Fez Road – an American?"
"He was a man with white eyes," said a voice.
"Oh, Mamie, how unkind! still his eyes did look white."
Hank shot a swift glance at the Duke, and the latter nodded.
"I suppose," drawled Hank, "it would be a mighty improper question to ask where this freeborn citizen of God's country is stayin' in Tangier."
But nobody knew. They had met the man by accident, they had seen him once in the Great Sok, more than this they could not say.
Hank had picked up a servant, none other than Rabbit.
Rabbit is a well-known figure in Tangier society. A waif of the streets, a bravo, an adventurer, a most amusing child of nature was this Rabbit – so-called because of a certain facial resemblance to bunny. It may be said of Rabbit that he disobeyed most commands of the Prophet. He drank, gambled, and was on friendly terms with the giaour. None the less he rose at inconvenient hours of the night, tucked a praying carpet under his arm and hied him to his orisons. Rabbit had curious likes and dislikes; he was not everybody's man.
His world had two names. The world that treated him well, and to whom he attached himself, was "Mr. Goodman"; the world repugnant had a name which has no exact equivalent in the English language, but which in German would be "Mr. Shameless-dog-burnt-in-pitch-and-consigned-to-the underworld." Hank was the time being his "Mr. Goodman," and to Rabbit Hank delegated the task of discovering Bill.
Rabbit discharged his task in three minutes. His procedure was simple.
He strolled into the market place and found a small boy in tattered jelab and very industriously kicking another small boy. Having impartially smacked the heads of both, he sent them on their errand of discovery. Then he went off to sleep. In an hour's time Rabbit presented himself before Hank in a picturesque condition of exhaustion and reported that Mr. Bill Slewer was staying at a little hotel near the Kasbah. It was not exactly an hotel, said Rabbit frankly, but a House of Experience, where strangers threw a Main with Fate.
"The difficulty with Bill will be his unexpectedness," said the Duke, "there is no place in the world more suitably situated for the springing of a surprise than Tangier."
"Where's Tuppy?" he asked.
"Tuppy has found an ideal," said Hank, "something worshipful. Did I introduce you to that pretty little girl from Drayton, Ohio?"
"You introduced me to several pretty little girls from Drayton, Ohio," said the Duke.
"I mean the one that talks."
The Duke drew a long breath.
"The description is inadequate," he said, "do you mean the one that sometimes doesn't talk?"
Hank ignored the slight to his kindred.
"The curious thing about it is that she hasn't a dollar an' Tuppy knows it. Her father is just a plain American gentleman with a contempt for millionaires: I doubt if his capital value runs into six figures – dollars I mean."
"Have you been matchmaking?" asked the Duke severely, and Hank blushed.
"I've no use for lords an' suchlike foolishness," he confessed, "but Tuppy has possibilities." His declaration in Tuppy's favour coincided with one made by that worthy on his own behalf.
He had at little trouble secured an introduction to the laughing girl who had acted as Hank's interlocutor.
Now, on the back of a gaily caparisoned mule, he was returning from an excursion to the suburbs, and the girl who rode the donkey at his side was listening demurely whilst Tuppy spoke upon his favourite subject – which was Tuppy.
"You must understand, Miss Boardman," he said, "that mine is a blighted life: I'm a piece of humanity's flotsam, a pathetic chunk of wreckage on the sea of human existence."
"Oh, no, Lord Tupping," murmured the girl.
"It's true," said Tuppy gloomily, "saddled by rank an' bridled by circumstance" (this was his pet figure), "I've been outdistanced an' outfaced in the Marathon of Life. My whole nature, naturally pure an' confidin', has been warped an' distorted by a variety of conditions, an' even the early grave to which I would extend a fervent welcome – steady, you beast." He jerked back the reins of his prancing mule, readjusted his hat and eye-glass and proceeded – "The merciful dissolution for which I yearned was denied me, an' doomed to tread the thorny path that leads to oblivion – I'll knock your head off if you don't keep quiet – doomed to stalk, if I may use the expression – a sad shadow amidst the laughin' throng, I've become a wretched, embittered creature."
"Oh, no, Lord Tupping!" dissented the girl.
"Sometimes," Tuppy proceeded recklessly, "I'm in such a dashed horridly low state that I don't care what happens – when I would gladly change places with fellers goin' out to war, an' all that sort of thing. I didvolunteer for the Boer war, but my stupid man forgot to post the letter."
"How splendid!" said the girl with her eyes sparkling, "have you ever been to war, Lord Tupping?"
"Not exactly to war," said Tuppy carefully, "in the wars, yes; but not to war."
Earlier in the afternoon he had gently broken to her the story of his mésalliance.
"I was a boy at the time an' she was a prima donna." He could not bring himself to own up to a strong woman. "We parted practically at the church door," he went on with melancholy relish, "information came to me that she was already married. I dropped her – or rather I gave her the opportunity of droppin' me."
"How chivalrous! it must have been a painful experience."
"It was," said Tuppy emphatically, "more painful for me than for her."
They threaded a way through the crowd in the Great Sok.
"Now, Miss Boardman," said Tuppy, "you know all that is to be known about me. I've told you," he said moodily, "more than I've ever told any feller."
Tuppy believed, when he said this, he was speaking the truth. It was the surest sign of his confidence and friendship, that he added to the history of his life – a history filed in most newspaper offices, and which appeared at regular intervals in the New York journals, indeed, every time that the strong lady changed her husband – the assurance that he had told his hearer "more than he had ever told anybody else." In this Tuppy was not singular.
But to the girl at his side, it was all very new, and all very, very tragic, and there were tears in her eyes as her cavalier led the way down the hill to the town.
In spite of his confidence she was ill-prepared for the proposal that followed.
It was after dinner, when the cool breezes from the Atlantic made life bearable; when the sea was bathed in moonlight and the shadowy Spanish hills bulked mistily on the ocean's rim, that Tuppy declared himself.
"Miss Boardman," he said suddenly – they were watching the sea from the terrace of the Cecil – "d'ye know I'm nearly a beggar, broke to the wide, unsympathetic world, up to my neck in debt." The attack was sudden and the girl was alarmed.
"Lord Tuppy – I'm – I'm sorry," she stammered.
"That's all right," said Tuppy easily, "don't let that worry you. But I wanted to tell you. An' there's another startlin' statement I want to make, I've been talkin' with your father."
"Have you?" faltered the girl.
"I have," said Tuppy firmly, "I asked him straight out if he was one of those millionaires that grow as thick as huckleberries in America."
For a moment only the girl suspected his motive.
"I was frank with him," said Tuppy, "so doosid frank that he nearly chucked me out of the window, but wiser councils prevailed, as dear old Milton says, an' he listened – Miss Boardman, you're not rich."
She made no reply.
"So that's why I'm goin' to ask you to come an' share a ninety pounds a year baronial castle in the suburbs of London. I've got a little income, enough to pay the rent an' buy a library subscription – will you take me?"
All this Tuppy said with an assumption of firmness that he was far from feeling.
"There's nothin' in me – I'm a reed an' a rotter."
"Indeed you mustn't say that!" she pleaded.
"I am," said Tuppy resolutely, "I'm a long worm that has no turnin', but I offer you the homage of my declinin' years – is it a bet?"
His voice shook. Tuppy was ever ready to be stirred by his own emotions.
"The title ain't much good to you, an' it ain't much good to me," he said huskily, "it's a barren possession. An unpawnable asset that has come unsullied through the ages – I offer it to you," his voice broke, "for what it is worth."
She accepted him, whereupon, I believe, Tuppy broke down and they wept together.
Sir Harry Tanneur had one admirable British quality. He had a supreme contempt for the foreigner. If the foreigner happened to be, moreover, of dusky hue, Sir Harry's scorn was rendered more poignant by a seasoning of pity. He was totally fearless of all danger. He had never been in danger except once, when he slipped up on a banana skin outside the Mansion House and had all but fallen under an omnibus. Thereafter Sir Harry was the avowed enemy of the banana industry and had carried his prejudice to the extent of refusing to underwrite a Jamaica loan. Danger with bullets in it, danger garnished with schrapnel; danger indeed of the cut and thrust order; he knew nothing about, and was accordingly genuinely amused when the British Vice-Consul advised him not to venture too far from the city.
"There's Valentini amongst the Riffi's, and El Ahmet playing round with the Angera people, and a thousand and one cutthroats wandering about, robbing each other," said the official, "altogether it is fairly unsafe to move out of Tangier without an escort."
Sir Harry smiled tolerantly.
"Thanks," he said airily, "it's very proper of you, of course, to warn me, you've got to protect your department, but I'm quite able to look after myself, and if it comes to fighting," he chuckled, nodding at Hal, "we've a fellow here who can teach these rascals a thing or two."
Lieutenant Hal Tanneur of the 9th West Kent, remarked modestly that there were one or two dodges, he could show them.
So in spite of all warning, Sir Harry rode out on the Fez Road, with Alicia on his left and the military gentleman on his right, and two mules, bearing respectively a cold collation and Mahmud Ali, that magnificent courier, guide, interpreter and bodyguard behind them.
It was not as pleasant a ride as Alicia had anticipated. Sir Harry was not in his very best mood, and Hal was sulky. That morning in the market Sir Harry and his son had come face to face with the Duke. An unexpected meeting for Sir Harry, who had not dreamt that the Duke would so completely fulfil his prophecy. With some vague misgivings Sir Harry remembered certain conversation with Bill Slewer.
He had been vexed at the time, and had perhaps spoken hastily and foolishly. He recalled dimly an historical parallel. A king had once said in his anger "Will nobody rid me of the turbulent priest," and straightway four rollicking spirits had driven over to Canonbury – or was it Canterbury? and sliced off the head of a worthy bishop, Cardinal Wolsey or somebody of the sort. These thoughts filled his mind as his Arab barb trotted through the sand.
In his annoyance he had accused Alicia of encouraging the Duke to follow her, and she had indignantly denied it. Hal, rashly coming to the support of his father, had been entirely and conclusively squashed.
So three people rode forth on a picnic harbouring uncharitable thoughts toward the Duc de Montvillier.
Sir Harry's wrath was tinctured with fear because of Big Bill Slewer of Four Ways, Texas.
Hal's anger was inflamed by jealousy, for he was in love with his cousin.
Alicia's annoyance was directed against the Duke because he had been the cause of her embarrassment.
Was Bill Slewer in Tangier? Sir Harry had sent the imposing Mahmud Ali to inquire, but Mahmud Ali had no familiars, as Rabbit had, and the answer he brought to his employer was unsatisfactory.
They rode in silence for an hour, with no sign of the enemy the vice-consul had foreshadowed. Alicia was in ignorance of that interview. Sir Harry had not deemed the conversation sufficiently interesting to repeat.
When they had reached the little hill whereon lunch was to be taken, he unbent. Possibly a pint of excellent champagne was responsible for his garrulity.
"Danger?" said Alicia, looking nervously about. "Oh, uncle, what a ridiculous thing to say."
"So I said, my dear," said Sir Harry; "with Gibraltar a stone's throw away, and a British fleet to be had for the asking – it is all bosh to talk about danger."
"That is what I said, governor," corrected Hal. "I pointed out that Morocco is in too dicky a position to fool about with British subjects – now who the devil is this?"
His last words were addressed to nobody in particular and Alicia followed the direction of his gaze.
Over a sandy ridge two miles away, pranced two horsemen. "Pranced" is the word, for that is the impression they conveyed. Hal, who was no fool despite all contrary views that might be held, knew that they were galloping pretty hard.
"They are making straight for us," said Sir Harry, and his face was a little pale.
Hal jumped up and gave an order to the guide. "Pack these things up as quick as you can," he ordered; "we can't be too careful."
He raised his glasses and fixed them on the riders. Then he swore.
"That damned Duke," he said and heard a long-drawn sigh behind him, where Alicia stood.
"Duke!" muttered Sir Harry, "confound the fellow! I thought it was – er – well, never mind. Who's the other man?"
"Who?" snorted Hal. "Who could it be, governor, but the Yankee person."
"Hum," said Sir Harry.
He was surprised to find that he did not resent the coming of his enemy as much as he thought he should. He bowed stiffly as the two drew rein, and was ready to be conventionally distant and polite. But he was unprepared for the Duke's greeting.
"What the dickens do you mean by coming out so far," demanded the Duke angrily. "How dare you expose Alicia to this danger!"
"Sir!" said the outraged knight.
"Get up, get up on your horses," commanded the Duke unceremoniously and like children they obeyed. Alicia stole a look at her lover. She experienced a shock.
His face was set and white, just as she had seen it twice before. There were rigid lines about his mouth and face, and his underjaw was thrust forward so that his whole face was transformed.
"Trot!" he said shortly, and they began their journey homeward.
Now and again Hank would turn in his saddle and look earnestly backward.
"Have you any arms?" asked the Duke suddenly.
"I have always made it a practice – " began Sir Harry.
"Have you got arms?" the Duke cut him short.
"No, I haven't!"
The Duke's lips curled.
"You wouldn't," he said and Sir Harry very rightly resented all that the words implied.
"Have you, Tanneur?" the Duke asked.
"I've got a revolver," said Hal meekly.
"Good; you, at least, have a glimmering of intelligence – do you see 'em, Hank."
The American shook his head.
"There's a ridge running parallel with us," he said, pointing away to the left. "I guess they are keeping up level, we'll see 'em soon."
The girl looked at the deserted ridge and her heart beat faster.
The Duke turned in his saddle and beckoned the guide.
"Did you know where you were taking these people?" he asked.
"By God and the prophet – !" the man protested.
"You didn't know Valentini was holding these hills, eh?"
The Duke's eyes glittered.
"Keep close to us," he ordered, "if you try to bolt when the shooting starts you're a dead man – sabè?"
"Si, señor," stammered the guide.
"Shooting! shooting!" spluttered Sir Harry, "is there any danger?"
"Yes."
"Danger to us?"
He received no answer.
For the next ten minutes they rode without speaking a word. Sir Harry thought a great deal.
"As you have taken so much trouble," he said at last, "I feel it is only my duty as a Christian and a gentleman to tell you that I have every reason to believe that an enemy of yours – "
"Bill Slewer," interrupted the Duke brusquely. "Yes, I know all about him. In fact I happen to know that he has prepared a little ambuscade for my especial benefit. He is waiting for my return to-night."
He said this in a matter-of-fact tone, as though referring to a dinner engagement. Alicia looked at him in some concern, and he smiled.
"I'm not worrying about Bill," he said; "it's – " He pointed to the ridge.
"Crack!"
The Duke's horse reared, but he pulled it down.
"Half right – gallop!"
He caught the bridle of the girl's horse, and cantered to where a little hillock afforded a rough entrenchment.
"Don't dismount, the hill covers you," he said, and plucked a carbine from his saddle bucket. He handed the reins of his horse to Sir Harry and swung to the ground. Hank followed him up the little hill, and Alicia heard them talking.
"Four hundred?" said Hank.
"A little farther I should say," said the Duke; "this air is wonderfully clear and deceptive."
"We'll give 'em five hundred," concluded Hank.
"That will be nearer the mark," agreed the Duke.
Very deliberately they adjusted the sights of their carbines. "I think," she heard the Duke say, "that the gentleman in the white night-shirt is some sort of leader."
Hank raised his weapon. For a moment his cheek cuddled the stock and the slim barrel pointed at the invisible enemy.
"Bang!"
Her horse moved restlessly, and Sir Harry was all but unseated.
"Bang!"
The Duke fired.
"Got him!" said Hank and waited.
In a minute the two came running to their horses. "Gone to ground," said the Duke briefly, and sprang into the saddle.
There was no sign of the brigand's forces as they emerged from the sheltering hill. On the sandy slope of the ridge there was a little patch of white lying very still. The girl averted her eyes.
The party now struck off to the right.
"I had hoped," said the Duke, "to have entered Tangier by some other route than that." He pointed ahead to where a little clump of trees suggested a human habitation.
"But isn't this the nearest way," asked Alicia wonderingly. They could see the stretch of the Fez Road as it dipped and wound across the plain.
"It is," said the Duke grimly.
He did not tell her all – it seemed unnecessary. He had learnt something of Mr. Slewer's movements, and Bill had discovered something of his.
For example, Bill learnt of the Duke's pig-sticking expedition and had carefully gone over the route the Duke would take. Neither the Duke nor Hank had made any secret of their intention, and it was a simple matter to convey their plans to Bill.
"We might as well get it over," said the Duke, "let Bill know we are going out, and see what he does."
What Bill did was to ride out of Tangier and select a likely spot for a "meeting." In an excess of diffidence he chose a place where he could see without himself being seen; where he might shoot without running the risk of being shot – a not unnatural selection.
Unfortunately for Bill there was a rabbit-faced gamin mounted on a sorry donkey, who ambled in his rear. When the man from Texas halted at the little wood three miles outside the town and made a careful reconnaissance, the rabbit-faced young man was an interested observer. He duly reported to the Duke.
Now, as the fugitives moved toward the Fez Road, the Duke felt that he was between the devil and the deep sea. Had he and Hank been alone, there would have been little or no cause for anxiety. Indeed the adventure was one of his own seeking, and had been anticipated with some satisfaction. He remembered this and reproached himself.
Without Alicia there would be no cause for anxiety – it would have been amusing to have seen Sir Harry under fire. Particularly Bill's fire!
"Look out!" said Hank.
They were nearing the wood, but that was not the cause of Hank's warning.
Their pursuers had thrown off all pretence of concealment and had come into the open. The Duke calculated that they numbered thirty in all.
There were three men on their right flank and four on their left, and the remainder galloped behind.
"They are trying to head us off," said Hank.
"Crack! crack!"
"Firin' from their horses —that won't do much harm."
Sir Harry ducked violently as the bullets began to whine overhead, and Hal fingered his revolver irresolutely.
The party on the right was now reinforced and were gaining ground. They swerved still farther away from the little party.
"What is the idea?"
This new manoeuvre was disconcerting.
"Makin' for the wood," said Hank calmly, "it's a hold up, sure."
This evidently was the plan, for as the fugitives struck the uneven surface of the Fez Road the right and left horns of the pursuing crescent, converged as by signal upon the wood ahead.
Hank unslung his Winchester.
"There'll be somethin' doin'," he said with conviction. His prophecy was fulfilled, for scarcely had the last fluttering white jellab disappeared into the plantation than there came a perfect fusilade of firing.
The Duke looked back.
The Moors in the rear numbered a dozen. He chose his ground.
There was a dry water-course to the right of the road and into this he led his party.
"Dismount!"
They were off their horses in a trice.
He found a shelter for Alicia.
"Stay there and don't move," he ordered peremptorily. The Moors were galloping in a circle about the little position.
Firing was going on on all sides, but it was in the wood that it was heaviest.
Flat on the ground lay Sir Harry Tanneur, dazed, bewildered, horribly afraid. After a while, "No bullets seem to be coming from the wood?" he ventured.
The Duke smiled.
"The gentlemen in the wood, have, I should imagine, sufficient to keep them engaged – Bill Slewer is a mighty handy man with a revolver."
"Good Lord!" said Sir Harry, and the situation began to dawn on him.
"If we can keep our gyrating friends at a distance – " the Duke continued.
"Dukey!"
It was Hank's urgent summons that sent him to the American's side.
"What are these?"
Hank pointed to the road beyond the copse.
A disordered mob of galloping men were coming toward them.
The Duke looked long and carefully.
"That or those," he said with a sigh, "is the army of His Shereefian Majesty the Sultan of Morocco."
He looked down into the white face of the girl. "In the words of the transpontine heroine," he said flippantly, "we are saved!"
Somewhere in New York, in the Cherry Hill district, lives a lady who at some remote period embarked upon a matrimonial undertaking, and became officially and legally Mrs. Bill Slewer. Happily for her, a paternal government deprived her, at stated intervals, of communion with her lord. Bill in Sing-Sing was an infinitely better husband than Bill at home. When Mr. Slewer finally disappeared, this poor woman hoped most sincerely that she had heard the last of him. But this was not to be, for that same paternal government of the United States of America sought her out.
"DEAR MADAM" (ran the letter), "I regret to inform you, that your husband, William Slewer, was killed by Moorish brigands in the vicinity of Tangier, on December 24 last. It would appear that the Moors came upon him unexpectedly, whilst he was awaiting the return of a friend in a little wood near the city, and in spite of a most desperate resistance, in which six of the brigands lost their lives, he was shot down. As a result of the representations of this department, and on the evidence of the Duc de Montvillier, the Moorish Government has offered compensation, which, although inadequate in view of your terrible loss, may replace the means of sustenance, of which you have been deprived. I enclose a draft on the First National Bank for $20,000 (say twenty thousand dollars).
"Yours faithfully,
– "
62. The Lord and Lady Tupping.
64. The Duc and Duchesse de Montvillier.
66. Mr. S. Hankey.