Part 35 (2/2)

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 s.h.i.+fty 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?”

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