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  CHAPTER III

  WHEREIN A STRONG MAN YIELDS TO CIRCUMSTANCES

  Curiosity, most potent of the primal instincts, conquered the girl'sfear. As it happened, Warden was still kneeling. He sat back on hisheels, rested the calabash against his knees, and withdrew a strip ofdried skin from its cunningly devised hiding-place. It was so curledand withered that it crackled beneath his fingers when he tried tounfold it. Quite without premeditation, he had placed the calabash insuch wise that the negro's features were hidden, and this fact aloneseemed to give his companion confidence.

  "What is it?" she asked, watching his efforts to persuade the twistedscroll to remain open.

  "Parchment, and uncommonly tough and leathery at that."

  He did not look up. A queer notion was forming in his mind, and he wasunwishful to meet her eyes just then.

  "It looks very old," she said.

  "A really respectable antique, I fancy. Have you any pins--four, ormore?"

  She produced from a pocket a small hussif with its store of sewingaccessories.

  "A genie of the feminine order!" he cried. "I was merely hoping fora supply of those superfluous pins that used to lurk in my sister'sattire and only revealed their presence when I tried to reduce her tosubjection."

  "Oh, you have a sister?"

  "Yes--married--husband ranching in Montana."

  Meanwhile he was fastening the refractory document to the deck.With patience, helped by half a dozen pins, he managed to smoothit sufficiently to permit of detailed scrutiny. The girl, whollyinterested now, knelt beside him. Any observer in a passing boat mighthave imagined that they were engaged in some profoundly devotionalexercise. But the planks were hard. Miss Dane, seeing nothing butwrinkled parchment, yellow with age, and covered with strange scrawlsthat seemed to be more a part of the actual material than written onits surface, soon rose.

  "Those hieroglyphics are beyond my ken," she explained.

  "They are Arabic," said Warden--"Arabic characters, that is. The wordsare Latin--at least to some extent. _Epistola Pauli Hebraicis_ has thering of old Rome about it, even if it wears the garb of Mahomet."

  He straightened himself suddenly, and shouted for Chris with suchenergy that the girl was startled.

  Chris popped his head out of the fore hatch, and was told to bring hisfather's Bible, for Peter read two of its seven hundred odd pages eachday in the year.

  Warden compared book and scroll intently during many minutes. Miss Danedid not interrupt. She contented herself with a somewhat prolongedinvestigation of Warden's face, or so much of it as was visible. Thenshe turned away and gazed at the _Sans Souci_. There was a wistful lookin her eyes. Perhaps she wished that circumstances had contrived toexchange the yacht for the pilot-boat. At any rate, she was glad he hada sister. If only she had a brother!--just such a one!

  At last the man's deep, rather curt voice broke the silence.

  "I have solved a part of the puzzle, Miss Dane," he announced. "MyLatinity was severely tried, but the chapter and verse gave me theEnglish equivalent, and that supplied the key. Some one has that--someone has written here portions of the 37th and 38th verses of theeleventh chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the Hebrews. Our versionruns: 'They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, wereslain with the sword ... they wandered in deserts and in mountains,and in dens and caves of the earth.' The remainder of the text is inyet another language--Portuguese, I imagine--but my small lore in thattongue is of no avail. In any case my vocabulary could not possiblyconsort with the stately utterances of St. Paul, as it consists mainlyof remarks adapted to the intelligence of a certain type of freebooterpeculiar to the West African hinterland."

  "What do you make of it all?" she asked.

  "At present--nothing. It is an enigma, until I secure aPortuguese-English dictionary. Then I shall know more. Judging byappearances, the message, whatsoever it may be, is complete."

  "What sort of skin is that?"

  He lifted his eyes slowly. She was conscious of a curious searchingquality in his glance that she had not seen there before.

  "It is hard to say," he answered. And, indeed, he spoke the literaltruth, being fully assured that the shriveled parchment pinned to thedeck had once covered the bones of a white man.

  "The writing is funny, too," she went on, with charming disregard forthe meaning of words.

  "It is pricked in with a needle and Indian ink," he explained. "Thatis an indelible method," he continued hurriedly, seeing that she wasstriving to recall something that the phrase reminded her of, and herewas a real danger of the suggestive word which had so nearly escapedhis lips being brought to her recollection. "You see, I have been ableto identify the gentleman who served the artist as model," and hetapped the gourd lightly. "Therefore, I am sure that this comes froma land where pen and ink were unknown in the days when some unhappyChristian fashioned such a quaint contrivance to carry his screed."

  "Some unhappy Christian!" she repeated. "You mean that some Europeanprobably fell into the hands of West African savages years and yearsago, and took this means of safeguarding a secret?"

  "Who can tell?" he answered, picking up the calabash and gazingsteadfastly at the malignant visage thus brought again into the fullglare of the sun. "This fellow can almost speak. If only he could----"

  "Oh, don't," wailed the girl. "My very heart stops beating when Isee that dreadful face. Please put it away. If you will not throw itoverboard, or smash it to atoms, at least hide it."

  "Sorry," he said gruffly, fitting the loose lid into its place. Hedisliked hysterical women, and, greatly to his surprise, Evelyn Daneseemed to be rather disposed to yield to hysteria.

  "The more I examine this thing the more I am bewildered," he went on,endeavoring to cover his harshness by an assumption of indifference."Where in the world did this varnish come from? It has all the glossand smooth texture and absence of color that one finds on a genuineCremona violin. The man who mixed it must have known the recipe lostwhen Antonio Stradivarius died. Are you good at dates?"

  The suddenness of the question perplexed her.

  "Do you mean the sort of dates that one acquired painfully at school?"she asked. "If so, I can give you the year of the Battle of Hastings orthe signing of Magna Charta."

  "The period of a great artist's career is infinitely more important,"he broke in. "Stradivarius was at the height of his fame about 1700.Now, if this is the varnish he and Amati and Guarnerius used, we have ashadowy clue to guide us in our inquiry."

  "Please don't include me in the quest," she said decisively. "I refuseto have anything to do with it. Leave the matter to me, and that nastycalabash floats off toward the Atlantic or sinks in the Solent, exactlyas the fates direct. Positively, I am afraid of it."

  "I really meant to take it out of your sight when I caught a glint ofthe varnish," he pleaded.

  But his humility held a spice of sarcasm. Rising, he tucked the gourdunder his coat. He was half-way down the hatch when his glance fell onthe little square of skin on the deck. Already the heat of the sun hadaffected it, and two of the pins had given way. He came back.

  "I may as well remove the lot while I am about it," he said, stoopingto withdraw the remaining pins.

  "Oh, I am not to be frightened by _that_," she cried, with a pout thatwas reminiscent of the schoolgirl period.

  He laughed, but suppressed the quip that might have afforded somehidden satisfaction.

  "Gourd and document are much of a muchness," he said carelessly.

  The parchment curled with unexpected speed, and caught his fingers inan uncanny grip. Without thinking what he was doing, he shook it offas though it were a scorpion. Then, flushing a little, he seized it,and stuffed it into a pocket. Miss Dane missed no item of this by-play.But she, too, could exercise the art of self-repression, and leftunuttered the words that her heart dictated. Being a methodical person,she gathered the pins and replaced them in the hussif. She had justfinished when Warden returned.

  "You don't mean t
o say----" he began, but checked himself. After all,if he harped on the subject, there was some risk that the girl'sintuition might read a good deal of the truth into what she had seenand heard during the past half-hour. So he changed a protest into acompliment.

  "Economy is the greatest of the domestic virtues. Now, a mere man wouldhave waited until one of those pins stuck into his foot as he wascrossing the deck for his morning dip, and then he would say things. Bythe way, Peter believes the breeze is freshening. Would you care for ashort cruise?"

  A delightful color suffused the girl's face. "I feel like lifting myeyebrows at my own behavior," she said, "but I must admit that I shouldenjoy it immensely. Please bring me back here before six o'clock.I wish to go on board the _Sans Souci_ the moment Mrs. Baumgartnerarrives."

  In response to Warden's summons, Peter and Chris appeared on deck. The_Nancy_ cast off from her buoy, her canvas leaped to the embrace of thewind, and soon she was slipping through the water at a spanking pacein the direction of Portsmouth and the anchored fleet, for the cuttercould move when her sails filled.

  Thenceforth the talk was nautical. Peter entertained them with detailsof the warships or the yachts competing in the various races. Once,by chance, the conversation veered close to West Africa, when Wardengave a vivid description of the sensations of the novice who makes hisfirst landing in a surf-boat. But Peter soon brought them back to theBritish Isles by his reminiscences of boarding salt-stained and sootytramps in an equinoctial gale off Lundy. No unpleasing incident marreda perfect afternoon until tea was served, and the cutter ran to hermoorings.

  The guardian Gorgon of the _Sans Souci_ watched their return, and itwas evident that his solitary vigil was still unbroken. About half-pastsix, when a swarm of yachts were beating up the roads on the turn ofthe tide, a steam launch approached the _Sans Souci_ and deposited alady and gentleman on the gangway. They were alone. The watchman helpedthem to reach the deck, a financial transaction took place between himand the gentleman, the latter disappeared instantly, and the watchmandescended the ladder with the evident intention of entering the launch.

  But he hesitated, and pointed to the _Nancy_, whereupon the lady, towhom he was speaking, looked fixedly at the cutter and her occupants.

  "That is Mrs. Baumgartner, I am sure," said Evelyn eagerly. "Will youtake me across in the dinghy at once? Then, if necessary, I can reachPortsmouth easily this evening, as I shall have gained half an hour."

  She gave no heed to the astounding fact that if these people werereally the yacht-owner and his wife they were absolutely alone on thevessel. Warden, unwilling to arouse distrust in her mind, bade Peterdraw the dinghy alongside.

  "Good-by," he said, extending his hand frankly. "The world is small,and we shall meet again. Remember, you have promised to write, and, inthe meantime, do not forget that if the _Nancy_ or her crew can offeryou any service we are within hailing distance."

  "You are not leaving Cowes to-night, then?"

  "No. To-morrow, if the wind serves, we go east, to Brighton and Dover,and perhaps as far north as Cromer. After that, to Holland. But nomatter where I am, I manage to secure my letters."

  Evelyn gave his hand a grateful little pressure. She was not insensibleof the tact that sent Peter as her escort.

  "You have been exceedingly good and kind to me," she said. "I shallnever forget this most charming day, and I shall certainly writeto you. Good-by, Chris. Good-by, dear little ship. What a pity--"she paused and laughed with pretty embarrassment. "I think I wasgoing to say what a pity it is that these pleasant hours cannot lastlonger--they come too rarely in life."

  And with that she was gone, though she turned twice during her shortvoyage, and waved a hand to the man who was looking at her so steadilywhile he leaned against the cutter's mast and smoked in silence.

  There could be no doubt that the lady on the _Sans Souci_ was Mrs.Baumgartner. No sooner did she realize that Miss Dane's arrival wasimminent than she threw up her hands with a Continental affectation ofamazement and ran into the deck cabin. To all seeming, she bade thelaunch await further orders. Baumgartner and his wife reappeared, theyindulged in gesticulations to which Warden could readily imagine anaccompaniment of harsh-sounding German, and, evidently as the outcomeof their talk, the launch steamed away.

  Warden smiled sourly.

  "If those people had committed a murder on board, and were anxious tosink their victim several fathoms deep before anybody interfered withthem, they could hardly be more excited," he thought. "Perhaps it won'tdo my young friend any good if I remain here staring straight at theyacht."

  He busied himself with an unnecessary stowing away of the cutter'smainsail, but contrived to watch events sufficiently to note that Mrs.Baumgartner received her guest with voluble courtesy. Baumgartner, aFrench-polished edition of the bacon-factor type of man, bustled thetwo ladies out of sight, and thenceforth, during more than an hour, thedeck of the _Sans Souci_ was absolutely untenanted.

  Twilight was deepening; lights began to twinkle on shore; not a fewcareful captains showed riding lamps, although the precaution was yetneedless; launches and ships' boats were cleaving long black furrows inthe slate-blue surface of the Solent as they ferried parties of dinersfrom shore or yachts--but never a sign of life was there on board the_Sans Souci_. Peter, undisturbed by speculations anent the future ofthe young lady whose presence had brightened the deck of the _Nancy_during the afternoon, cooked an appetizing supper. He was surprisedwhen Warden expressed a wish that they should eat without a light. Itdid not occur to him that his employer was mounting guard over theBaumgartners' yacht, and meant to have a clear field of vision while ashred of daylight remained.

  The progress of the meal was rudely broken in on by Peter himself.Although the placid silence of the night was frequently disturbedby the flapping of propellers, his sailor's ear caught the stealthyapproach of the one vessel that boded possible danger. Swinging himselfupright he roared:

  "Where's that ugly Dutchman a-comin' to? Quick with a light, Chris, orshe'll be on top of us!"

  It was the Emperor's cruiser-yacht that had so suddenly upset hisequanimity. Returning to Cowes after convoying the yacht flotilla, shewas now fully a mile away from her usual anchorage. But the _Nancy_ wassafe enough. The imperial yacht stopped at a distance of three cables'lengths, reversed her engines, let go an anchor, and ran up to thechain hawser when the hoarse rattle of its first rush had ceased.

  Chris lost no time in producing a lantern, and his father slung it inits proper place.

  "It 'ud be just our luck if we wos run down," Warden heard him mutter."That nigger's phiz we shipped to-day is enough to sink any decentcraft, blow me, if it ain't!"

  Warden, whose vigil had not relaxed for an instant, saw that someone was hoisting a masthead light on the _Sans Souci_. Her starboardlight followed, and soon the yellow eyes of a row of closed portsstared at him solemnly across the intervening water. As the principalliving-rooms of such a vessel must certainly be the deck saloons, hewas more than ever puzzled by the eccentric behavior of her owners.Every other yacht in the roadstead was brilliantly illuminated. The_Sans Souci_ alone seemed to court secrecy.

  It has been seen that, in holiday mood, he was a creature of impulse,nor did he lack the audacity of prompt decision when it was calledfor. He showed both qualities now by hauling the dinghy alongside andstepping into it.

  "Goin' ashore, sir?" cried the surprised Peter.

  They kept early hours on board, and Warden's usual habit was to beasleep by half-past nine when the cutter was at her moorings.

  "No. I mean to pay a call. Got a match?"

  "Let me take you, sir."

  "No need, thanks. I'm bound for the _Sans Souci_. I may be back in fiveminutes."

  He lit a cigar, cast off, and rowed himself leisurely toward the vesselwhich had filled so large a space in his thoughts ever since he metEvelyn Dane in the street outside the steamer pier. His intent was toask for her, to refuse to go away unless he spoke to her, and, whenshe app
eared, as his well-ordered senses told him would surely be thecase, to frame some idle excuse for the liberty he had taken. She hadtalked of returning to Portsmouth that evening, and it might serveif he expressed his willingness to carry her imaginary luggage fromthe quay to the railway station. She was shrewd and tactful. She wouldunderstand, perhaps, that he was anxious for her welfare, and it wouldnot embarrass her to state whether or not his services were needed.

  He was nearing the yacht when the red and green eyes of a launchgleamed at him as he glanced over his shoulder to take measure of hisdirection. There was no other vessel exactly in line with the _SansSouci_, and the thought struck him that this might be the messenger ofthe gods in so far as they busied themselves with Miss Dane's affairs.There was no harm in waiting a few minutes, so he altered the dinghy'scourse in such wise that the launch, if it were actually bound for theyacht, must pass quite closely, though he, to all outward seeming, wasin no way concerned with its destination. His guess was justified.While the tiny steamer was still fifty yards distant, the quickpulsation of her engines slackened. She drew near, and the figure of asailor with a boat-hook in his hands was silhouetted against the lastbright strip of sky in the northwest. She passed, and it demanded allArthur Warden's cool nerve to maintain a steady pull at the oars andsmoke the cigar of British complacency when he saw Miguel Figuero andthree men of the tribe of Oku seated in the cushioned space aft.

  The presence of Figuero in Cowes was perplexing _Page 49_]

  He could not be mistaken. He knew the West African hinterland so wellthat he could distinguish the inhabitants of different districts byfacial characteristics slight in themselves but as clearly visible tothe eye of experience as the varying race-marks of a Frenchman and aNorwegian. Coming thus strangely on the heels of the discovery of thatamazing calabash, the incident was almost stupefying. The presence ofFiguero alone in Cowes was perplexing--the appearance of three Okublacks was a real marvel--that all four should be visitors to the _SansSouci_ savored of necromancy. But Warden did not hesitate. He madecertain that the strange quartette were being conveyed to the yacht;he took care to note that their arrival was expected, seeing thatBaumgartner himself came down the gangway with a lantern to light theway on board; and then he pulled back to the _Nancy_. Ere he reachedher, the launch had gone shoreward again.

  "You've changed your mind, sir," was Peter's greeting.

  "You were keeping a lookout, then?" said Warden.

  "'Ave nothin' else to do, so to speak, sir."

  "Well, jump in and take the oars. I shall be with you in a moment."

  Warden dived into the small cabin, rummaged in a box, and produced tworevolvers. He examined both weapons carefully under the cutter's light,and ascertained that they were properly loaded, whereupon one went intoeach of the outer pockets of his coat.

  "Now take me to the _Sans Souci_, Peter," he said. "When I reach thegangway, pull off a couple of lengths, and stand by."

  "What's doin'?" asked Peter, who was by no means unobservant.

  "Nothing, I hope. I may have to talk big, and twelve ounces of leadlend weight to an argument. But I am puzzled, Peter, and I hate thatcondition. You remember our nigger friend on the gourd?"

  "Remember 'im. Shall I ever forget 'im?"--and the ex-pilot spat.

  "Well, three live members of his tribe, and the worst Portugueseslave-trader and gin-runner now known in West Africa, have just boardedthe _Sans Souci_. I don't consider them fit company for Miss Dane. Whatdo _you_ say?"

  Peter hung on the oars.

  "W'y not let Chris come an' look after the dinghy?" he said. "You mayneed a friendly hand w'en the band plays."

  Warden laughed.

  "We are in England, Peter," he replied; but the words had a far lessconvincing sound in his ears now than when he protested against EvelynDane's unreasoning detestation of the carved gourd. One of the weaponsin his pockets was actually resting on the crackling skin of a man whohad been flayed alive--and most probably so flayed by ancestors of thenegroes who were on board the _Sans Souci_ at that instant. The thoughtstrengthened his determination to see and speak to the girl that night.At all costs he would persevere until she herself assured him that shehad no wish to go ashore. He even made up his mind to persuade herto return to Portsmouth for the night, and it seemed to him that noconsideration could move him from his purpose.

  Whereat Lachesis, she who spins the thread of life, must have smiled.Short as was the distance to be traversed by the dinghy under theimpetus of Peter Evans's strong arms, the cruel goddess who pays noregard to human desires had already contrived the warp and weft ofcircumstances that would deter even a bolder man than Warden fromthrusting himself unbidden into the queer company gathered on the yacht.

  The pilot was pulling straight to the gangway when a large steam launchwhistled an angry warning that he was crossing her bows. He twisted thedinghy broadside on, and both Warden and he saw two officers in theuniform of a foreign navy step on to the _Sans Souci_ gangway, whereBaumgartner, bare-headed and obsequious of manner, was standing toreceive them.

  The _Nancy's_ boat was so near that her occupants could hear themillionaire's words distinctly as he greeted the first of his twolatest visitors. He spoke in German, and Peter was none the wiser, butWarden understood, and his errant fears for Evelyn Dane's welfare werepromptly merged in a very ocean of bewilderment.

  "The _Nancy_ for us, Peter," he murmured. "As they say in the States, Ihave bitten off more than I can chew. Do you know who that is?"

  "Which?--the little one?"

  "Yes."

  "Mebbe he's the skipper of the Dutchman yonder. That's her launch."

  "He is skipper of many Dutchmen. Mr. Baumgartner addressed him as'emperor.' Give way, Peter. We must watch and eke pray, but there areaffairs afoot--or shall I say afloat--that it behooves not a simpleofficial in the Nigeria Protectorate to meddle with. God wot! I haveearned a captaincy and a year's leave by serving my country in a humblecapacity. Let me not lose both by an act of _l?se majest?_, and itwould be none else were I to break in on the remarkable conclave nowassembled on board the _Sans Souci_!"