Yvonne Yale had spent a tiring and a busy day shopping with her mother. It was not a relaxation which she often allowed herself. Mrs. Yale took shopping very seriously, and would follow a will-o’-the-wisp of a five-shilling bargain through enticing marshes of other departments where scarcely a weed grew which was not labelled twenty-five shillings.
After dinner, Mrs. Yale announced the fact that she was dead tired; she implied the further fact that the exertions of the day, shared by her daughter, had not effected her, and that the energy dissipated by Mrs. Yale herself was sufficient for two.
She went to bed, leaving Yvonne half a dozen letters to answer—letters which regretted the inability of Mrs. Yale to settle an account, but promised “next month,” not only to clear off existing liabilities, but to extend her scope of patronage.
Yvonne’s self-respect led her to tone down the letters, to make them less optimistic as to the future and less vague as to the present. She finished her work at half-past eleven, and signed her mother’s name with a flourish, enclosed the letters in envelopes, and placed them on the hall table ready for posting.
She made her customary round of the house—their one servant was in bed at that hour—and went to her room feeling depressed and worried. She could not trace her state of mind to any particular course, and she told herself that the reason was purely physical. She undressed in record time, jumped into bed, switched out the light, and her head had hardly touched the pillow before she was asleep.
How long she had been sleeping she could not tell, but something woke her with a start. The room was dark, the only light being that from the lamp in the street below. She was wide awake, and her reasoning faculty told her that something must have occurred—there must have been some extraordinary noise to have brought about this condition of wakefulness.
She lay perfectly still—listening. For a long time she heard nothing and saw nothing; then for a moment she saw a tiny streak of bright light in the room.
Before she could touch it her wrist was grasped, and a long, bony hand closed over her mouth.
“Be silent!” said a voice in her ear. “If you make a noise I will kill you!”
She felt a grip on her throat, and lay paralysed with terror; she had neither the will nor the ability to scream.
At last she found her voice.
“Take what you want and go,” she said.
“Where do you keep your jewels?” said the man who held her, in a low voice.
The ghost of a smile, in spite of the tragic situation, dawned on Yvonne’s face.
“In the top drawer of my bureau,” she said, and might have added: “such as they are”; but even her sense of humour could not rise equal to the occasion.
The man muttered some words in a language which she could not understand; but she gathered that he was addressing the second man in the room, for two there were undoubtedly.
Then with a sickening sense of danger she realised that the language was Chinese.
She heard the soft “hush” of the drawer as it opened, she saw the flash of light as the men swept it over her belongings. Then the man at the drawer spoke over his shoulder. There was a quick exchange of words, then:
“Get up!” said the man by her side shortly.
There was nothing to do but obey. She rose from her bed and stood on the floor shaking in every limb. She was thankful for the darkness which perhaps hid the full extent of her danger.
“You have a bracelet somewhere,” said the man who had spoken first. “It was given to you by young De Costa. Where is it now?”
The girl made no reply. She was dismayed when she realised that Talham’s deception had been discovered, and she felt herself a guilty party to the deception.
“I have not got it,” she said.
“Who has?” The voice was sharp and authoritative.
“Captain Talham has it,” she said, before she realised that she was betraying the strange man. He was nothing to her, yet even in the moment of her peril, she understood that perhaps she might be endangering him, and was sorry she had spoken.
There was a little silence, then:
“Put on your clothes!” said the man.
“Why?” she asked startled.
“Don’t argue. You can dress in the dark. Put on your clothes. If you can’t I’ll turn on the light.”
She groped for her clothes, thankful to dress in the dark, and the man walked over to the door.
“Remember,” he said as his vice-like grip released her arm, “any attempt to raise an alarm will result in your immediate death; there are no men in this house as I know. Captain Talham, on whom you may unreasonably depend, is quite unconscious of your present predicament. I am going to take you away from here, and I swear to you that you shall not be harmed. Are you going to take my word?”
“There is no alternative,” answered the girl.
With trembling hands she drew on her clothes. That she should be dressing herself in the presence of two Chinamen—for a Chinaman the first speaker was, in spite of his perfect English—did not strike her at the moment as being so much a subject for dismay, as to what would happen after she had dressed.
There was a heavy cloak hanging in the wardrobe of the room. She drew this on over her other things, and, twisting her hair into a knot at the top of her head, fixed a hat over what she knew was a most appalling untidiness.
“It may not be necessary,” said the man, “to tell you that any cry will bring your mother and the maid—in which case I shall destroy not only you, but the people you alarm.”
He guided her past her mother’s door, down the stairs and into the street.
A little distance from the door was a motor-car. The second man went out, and at a signal the car drew across the road to the door of the house.
She was hustled inside, and the two men sprang in after her. With a jerk the car started upon the most adventurous journey that Yvonne Yale had ever taken in her short, and until then, uneventful, career.
Just as the car passed out of sight, a taxi came flying round the corner, and pulled up at the door of Mrs. Yale’s dwelling. Two men got out and made straight for the door. The first of these was Tillizinni. He had his hand upon the knocker when he felt the door yield to his touch, and he pushed it open.
He turned to the pale-faced Talham.
“My God!” he said. “They’ve been here!”
He slipped a revolver from his hip pocket, and went up the stairs, two at a time, for Talham had found the switch which controlled the stair light.
Tillizinni guessed that the best bedroom would be at the back, and that Mrs. Yale would occupy it.
He knocked on the door.
“Who’s there?” asked a muffled voice.
“Open, please!” said Tillizinni. “I am an officer of police, and I want to see you very urgently.”
Mrs. Yale came out to the light of the detective’s lamp and presented an unhappy figure.
“Which room does your daughter occupy?” asked Tillizinni.
She recognised Talham with an embarrassed smile.
“My daughter is in the next room.” She led the way and knocked at the door; but again there was no necessity for knocking—the door was half open. She entered, followed without invitation by Tillizinni, who was too anxious as to the girl’s safety to stand upon ceremony.
The bed was empty. He put his hand inside—it was still warm. A quick glance round at the open drawers gave evidence of the visitors’ presence.
There was no time to be lost.
“Your daughter has been kidnapped,” he said. “You must arouse your servants. I will send a policeman to you.”
Into the street again came the two men, and Tillizinni lifted one of the lamps from the taxi and examined the roadway. There had been a sharp shower of rain half an hour previous, and the tracks of the other car were plainly visible.
He ran along the roadway carrying the lamp, and reached the thoroughfare which ran to the north and south. There was no evidence that the car had taken either direction. He crossed the road, the taxi-cab following in his rear. Yes, here it was again—the broad band had gone straight on. They would be making now for Portland Place.
At this point a policeman appeared, and Tillizinni gave him an order that set the man running back to the house in Curzon Street. Then Tillizinni went back to the cab, and the taxi went straight ahead at full speed, slowing at the point where Portland Place cut across the route.
The streets were newly washed. Indeed, the great thoroughfare was at that moment in the hands of the scavengers with their hoses and their squeegees. There would be no definite track here, and Tillizinni, after a search, saw sufficient evidence to show him which direction the car had taken.
At Oxford Circus a policeman had seen it. It had turned eastward, and had gone straight along Oxford Street in the direction of Holborn.
“Speed up!” said Tillizinni to the driver. “There’s just a chance they may have a puncture, and we may overtake them.”
He rejoined the silent Talham in the cab.
“I’ll never forgive myself,” said the big man. He sat with his hands clasped together, and his face set.
“My dear chap, it’s not your fault.”
Tillizinni laid his hand on the other’s shoulder. He had a genuine affection for this eccentric giant with his irrepressible oratory and his calm disregard for convention.
“It’s a damned bracelet,” said Talham bitterly. “All the wealth and all the secrets of Ts’in are too inadequate compensation for one moment of misery she may suffer.”
Tillizinni made no reply. Like a white light it suddenly dawned upon him that this man, the last man in the world that he would have imagined, was smitten with love.
The tense agony in Talham’s voice, the attitude of absolute dejection—he sat huddled in a corner of the cab—spoke eloquently of his agony.
At Holborn Bars a City policeman had seen a car passing swiftly eastward, and yet again, and farther on at the Mansion House, a patrolling sergeant was able to direct them toward Gracechurch Street.
They lost the scent at Tower Hill. Two cars had come along at about the same moment, probably one from Eastcheap. One had crossed Tower Bridge and gone southward; the other had continued its way eastward. Unfortunately both had been of similar make.
Tillizinni was in a dilemma.
“We’ll take the east road,” he said, after a moment’s thought; “that is the more likely route.”
A moment later the cab was following the trail of an empty car on its way to Harwich to meet the morning boat.
Yvonne Yale had sat in silence during that mad rush through the City. Once in a frenzy of terror she had half risen to throw herself from the car. Instantly Soo’s hand grasped her.
“When I tell you I will kill you, I mean it,” he said quickly. “Be quiet, and no harm will come to you. I tell you this, that I am merely holding you as a hostage for the recovery of the bangle. If I know your friend, he will not hesitate when he knows a woman is in danger.”
His words reassured her somewhat. She had hardly dared to put her fears into words.
The car swung round Tower Hill and slowed at the very spot where Tillizinni was destined to stop ten minutes later; but it did not go eastward, as Tillizinni had thought, but crossed the bridge, sped down the slope into Tooley Street, turned again, and followed the Deptford Road.
It continued until it came to a street which ran parallel with the north bank of the Surrey Canal, and into this it turned. It was a street made up of wharf entrances, of old and dilapidated warehouses and stables.
The car stopped before a low-roofed old building that in its prosperous days had been part of the wharfage of a stone merchant. As the car stopped, a door in the wall opened, and Soo flung away the cigarette which he had smoked during the latter part of the journey, stepped quickly to the ground, and half dragged and half carried the fainting girl into the building. Instantly the car moved on, and the door closed behind her.
They were in complete darkness. There was a musty, unwholesome smell. The atmosphere of the place filled her with cold terror.
“This way!” said Soo.
He led her unerringly across the ramshackle shed. At the far end there was a door which opened and revealed a room lit by two swinging oil lamps.
It was poorly furnished, with a table and a couple of chairs, and a fire blazed in a broken grate in one corner. Some attempt had been made to produce a sense of comfort—the square of carpet on the floor, and the plain table-cover had evidently been newly purchased and still showed their shop creases.
The room was untenanted, and Soo and the girl entered alone. He closed the door behind him.
She saw now a man in the garb of a Westerner, whose face was hidden from her by a curious contrivance. This was no less than a waxen mask, which fitted the upper portion of the face down to the mouth. So skilfully and cunningly had the colours been blended, that it was difficult to see where the real ended and the artificial began. It gave the man a European appearance, and made him tolerably good-looking.
He locked the door, then turned and faced her.
“You stay here, Miss Yale,” he said, “until I secure satisfaction from your friend. This,” he explained, waving his hand round the apartment, “was once the manager’s quarters. It is fitted with some luxury.”
He opened a little door.
“There is a bathroom here,” he said, “and you will find everything you may desire.”
“How long do you intend to keep me?” she asked.
It was the first coherent question she had put to him.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“That depends entirely upon the willingness of your friend to give me what I wish,” he answered.
“You know you are committing a very grave crime,” she said, “and that you will be punished for this?”
She saw a smile gather on the thin lips.
“I have a much more extensive knowledge of the criminal law of England than you can be expected to have,” he said coolly. “I am well aware of all the risks I take; but since I am prepared to take the additional, and to you, perhaps, unthinkable, risk of losing my life, the minor perils need not be counted.”
Without another word he left her. She waited until the sound of his footsteps had died away; then she made a quick examination of the two rooms.
From the sitting-room a door opened into a tiny bedroom. It was scrupulously clean; the sheets were of the finest linen, pillow of down, and what other furniture occupied the room was in good taste.
There was one small window, heavily barred, and screened from the street by an opaque pane of toughened glass. She was to learn that this looked upon a small wharf, and that no help might be expected from that direction. There was a little window in the bathroom which also looked out upon another corner of the wharf.
The sitting-room depended entirely upon artificial light. So she thought until she looked up and saw a big skylight in the room.
She returned to the little bedroom and found, with considerable satisfaction, that a much needed brush and comb had been provided. She dressed her hair and washed her face in the little bathroom.
There was no question of sleeping that night. It encouraged her, and removed some of her apprehension to find how thoroughly her abductor had prepared for her arrival. There was a bookshelf, well stocked with the latest novels, and if the selection had been a hasty one, it was also a wise one.
She came back to the fire and drew up a chair, for she felt cold. “What would be the end?” She shivered, and dare not supply an answer. She got up and walked to the door and listened. There was no sound outside. It came on to rain, and the pitter-patter of the drops as they fell upon the tiled roof gave her a sense of companionship with the outside world.
She wondered when her mother would discover her absence. She was unlikely to make her discovery before nine o’clock in the morning.
What would she do? Would she call in the police? Would that extraordinary man, Tillizinni, endeavour to fathom the mystery of her disappearance? She prayed that he would. And Talham?
She found herself thinking more of Talham than she could have thought possible. He liked her—she was sure of it. She was afraid that the impecunious Captain of Irregular Horse was in love with her.
She shook her head a little impatiently at the thought. Why could not the friendship exist about which the philosopher wrote? Why could not a woman possess a man friend without the disagreeable element coming into it?
Talham was responsible for her present plight; yet she did not blame him, which was a curious circumstance for a woman untouched by love. She was satisfied at least that of all the people who would be affected by the news of her disappearance, he would feel his responsibility most poignantly.
She walked up and down the little room. It must have been half an hour after Soo departed that he came back again.
He opened the door quietly and stepped inside, locking it again after him, and laid on the table a letter. It was typed, she noticed, and was addressed to Captain Talham.
“You will sign this,” said Soo briefly. He read it over. It was short and to the point. It ran:
“Dear Captain Talham,—I am at present in the hands of some people who desire you to restore the jade bracelet, which, as you know, you took from me.
“Unless you do this within forty-eight hours either I shall be killed or worse will happen to me. I implore you, therefore, to hand the bracelet to a messenger who will meet you to-night at six o’clock in Whitcombe Court, Coventry Street.”
She read the letter through, and looked up at the man.
“What guarantee have I,” she asked, “if I sign this letter, and if Captain Talham is in a position to restore the bracelet, that you will keep your part of the bargain, and will release me?”
“You have no guarantee at all,” he said coolly, “except my word. But I am in this position, that you must accept my word without any proof of my bona-fides.”
She hesitated before she took the fountain-pen which he offered her. She read the letter through again.
There was no harm in signing it. She would be no better off by refusing, and she might easily be worse. She was cool-headed now.
She signed her name at the foot of the sheet, and handed it to him.
He took it from her with a little bow.
“Perhaps you would like to write some letters,” he said. “You will find paper in the drawer of the table, and if by any chance you have any correspondence you would like to clear off in this uncomfortable period of waiting, this will be an excellent opportunity.”
His tone was polite, he was not even mildly sarcastic. He wished to convey to her the fact that her detention was a temporary business, a regrettable expedient which need occasion her no alarm.
“Suppose Captain Talham refuses to give this up,” she said, “as he may very well do; or suppose he has parted with it and is not in a position to hand it to you, what happens to me?”
She asked the question calmly, and the man shrugged his shoulders.
“I will accept no excuses,” he said. “Whatever happens, subsequent to his refusal, will be most regrettable.” With which sinister remark he left her.
She stood near the door. She thought she heard voices outside. Quick voices speaking in low tones excitedly, and she wondered who was the masked man’s companion.
She was soon to learn, for the door opened, and Soo came in, followed by four Chinamen.
“Get your coat on!” he said roughly. “We have got to get out of here at once.”
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“Get your coat on!” he said, ignoring her question. “I haven’t a moment to spare.”
All his polish had dropped away.
She had known him for a Chinaman despite his mask, and she knew there was nothing to be gained by opposing one of the race which places women on the level of domestic animals. She went into the bedroom and put on her cloak, again pinned on her hat, and came out to where the men were waiting.
They were talking eagerly together in Chinese.
“I am going to take you for a little journey by water,” said Soo.
He extinguished the light in the room, and led the way noiselessly across the empty warehouse to a big door which led out on to the wharf. It was a sliding door, which moved noiselessly upon its greased guides.
Soo stepped out first, and the girl followed. Ahead of her she saw a patch of untidy wharf and the dull gleam of water. He piloted her to the edge of the wharf and peered down into the canal; but there was no sign of a boat.
He turned and hissed a savage enquiry to one of his companions.
The girl’s heart beat high, instinct told her that help was on the way, and the absence of the boat was at least a respite.
“Quick!” said Soo. “Come!”
He caught her by the arm, and she half ran and half walked back to the building, through the barn-like warehouse, and to the door through which they had first entered.
“Remember,” he said, “that any sound you make will bring upon you consequences which you will have very little time for regretting.”
He pulled back the bolt, and the door swung open noiselessly. He had his hand upon the girl’s arm, and his foot was raised to step across the threshold when a flood of white light struck him, and he staggered back.
“Put up your hands!” said a voice.
It was the voice of Tillizinni.
For a second only Soo stood. He saw the gleam of two pistol barrels directed at his breast, and then with a sudden jerk of his arm, he brought the girl into the line of fire.
A second later, he was running with all speed across the building and through the gate.
He heard fleet footsteps coming after him, and looking over his shoulder he saw the tall form of Talham silhouetted in the doorway of the warehouse. He could have shot him then, and was tempted to take the risk, but thought better of it. A shot would arouse the neighbourhood, would set whistles blowing, and might perhaps dissipate his last chance of escape.
He could trust his men to preserve his secret. He sped without hesitation to the end of the wharf. The boat was still away. He understood now why it had not put in an appearance. He heard a whistle blow, and cursed himself for his failure to make use of an opportunity of killing Talham which the gods had put into his hands.
The place was surrounded—he guessed that. He guessed it just as soon as he understood the significance of the boat’s absence. There was no time to hesitate, without a pause he leapt from the edge of the wharf into the dark and noisome waters of the canal. He came to the surface for a moment to breathe, and cast his eyes back to the bank.
Innumerable beams of light were searching the water. The police had recently been equipped with a new truncheon torch.
He could swim under water like a fish, and he did not come up again until the black hulk of a moored barge offered protection from the prying eyes of the police.
“He’s gone, I’m afraid!” said Tillizinni with an expression of vexation. “I’d like to have seen his face.”
“But didn’t you see it?” asked Talham in astonishment.
“I saw an ingenious mask,” said the other.
“I thought it was curious,” said Talham, “that a European could run as that man ran. He had that curious sideways waddle which only the Chinks have.”
They were talking in the little warehouse, half filled with police now, and bright with light. Four Chinamen sat on the ground handcuffed together and philosophical.
“I could have wished to capture the car,” said Tillizinni. “I might then have found its owner. Yet”—he turned a dazzling smile upon the girl—“we have succeeded in doing what we set out to accomplish.”
She looked very white and shaky, and Talham was no less pale.
“I am grateful this has turned out so well for me,” she said softly.
Tillizinni explained how they had taken the wrong road, and how by great good fortune they had come upon the car they were chasing drawn up at a coffee stall, where the chauffeur was taking an early morning breakfast. They had got back to Tower Bridge, and picked up the trail with no difficulty, save that none had seen the car turn into the little street which runs by the side of the canal. Here, however, the two men had to do some quick guessing, and once in the little cul de sac, the hiding place had easily been located.
Exactly how, he did not explain, but two hours later he was comparing the cigarette end which he had picked up outside of the warehouse with one Talham had found in Mr. de Costa’s study.
“I don’t know whether this is enough to issue a warrant on,” he said. “It would be quite sufficient for the detective in fiction”—he smiled—“but unfortunately police magistrates have little imagination and no romance, and require something more substantial in the shape of evidence than the characteristics of Chinese tobacco.”
* * * * *
An ordinary man would have waited a day or two before he attempted to renew acquaintance with a woman whose charms had created so profound an impression upon him, and moreover, who had been responsible for so much mental suffering on the part of the woman whom he loved. But Talham was no ordinary man. He called the next day, and having no more idea of social conventions than a cow has of painting on silk, he chose a quarter to one in the afternoon as the hour.
Mercifully, both Mrs. Yale and her daughter were indulging in the luxury of a day’s shopping, and Talham came back to Adelphi Terrace crestfallen, and sat moodily at the lunch table watching his host eat. Tillizinni expostulated with him.
“It was absurd to call at an hour like that,” he said.
“I thought they might ask me to lunch,” said Talham naïvely.
He refused to eat anything for a little while, and then his healthy appetite overcame his desire for starving to death, with the result that the detective had to wait another three-quarters of an hour at the table whilst he fed, which annoyed him intensely.
“Do you think if I called this afternoon——” he asked tentatively.
“You’ll make yourself a nuisance. Moreover,” Tillizinni said as a bright idea struck him, “Miss Yale will not unnaturally think that we regard our rescue of her as giving us the right of entrance into the house at all inconvenient hours of the day and night.”
His face fell, and he made no attempt to put his threat of calling into execution. Indeed, during the next few days he was so busy with his preparation for departure, that Tillizinni hoped that his infatuation had died a natural death. When, later, he mentioned the material prospects of the Yales, Tillizinni was sufficiently indiscreet as to suggest that they might be well left to work out their own salvation.
“It is to such unsympathetic pharisaical souls as yours,” he said, amongst other things, “that we owe the shocking and cynical disregard for infant life in England, the deterioration of the national physique, the growth of anti-militist in France.”
On the fourth day after the abduction, Talham called. At four o’clock in the afternoon he issued from his room at the Pall Mall Palace Hotel arrayed like a modern Solomon in all his glory. From the tips of his enamelled American shoes, to the crown of his glossy Bond Street hat, he was the man about town.
In an hour and a half, considerably agitated, he called upon Tillizinni. Whatever had happened he did not say, but he directed the vials of his wrath upon two gentlemen who had had the singular bad taste to be present, and to monopolise much of the lady’s time during Talham’s visit.
Talham would have sent them out, but they had apparently called to take the girl out to a “five o’clock.”
“It was impossible to say what I wanted to say,” he said moodily, striding up and down the apartment, “so I hit upon a ruse.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“What was the ruse?” asked Tillizinni; but the other seemed disinclined to go on.
“In love as in war,” he began at last, “all means are justified. Remembering the seriousness of the issue, remembering the tremendous effect which the decision one way or the other might produce upon posterity, and remembering, too, that in love as in war, as I say, we come against the elementary passions which are superior to the trivial conventions of modern life——”
Tillizinni waited, wonderingly.
“My suggestion to the two young men—one, as I have told you, was De Costa, and the other a Mr. William Dixon, of forty-three, Claremont Gardens, S.W.,” he added imposingly and significantly, “my suggestion was, I contend, perfectly pardonable and quite admissible within the rules of war. It was that I had a friend who in a moment of exuberation had struck a policeman.”
Tillizinni gasped.
“As a result of that unlawful act, my friend had been arrested and taken to Bow Street police station, the police being ignorant as to his identity. I myself was a stranger in the country; I had not sufficient influence to secure his release. Would these gentlemen of their charity drive to Bow Street and vouch for the respectability of my unfortunate friend?”
He said all this hesitatingly, yet hurriedly; there were long pauses between each sentence. Talham was obviously ill at ease.
“And who,” Tillizinni asked slowly, “might this unfortunate friend of yours be?”
Talham looked at the ceiling thoughtfully.
“If by any chance,” he said, “I have overstepped——”
“Not me!” cried the detective in horror. “You didn’t say it was me?”
Talham nodded silently.
“I will only say this in extenuation,” he said with that seriousness which made all his actions so real and plausible: “that I took particular care to impress upon them that you were perfectly sober.”
Tillizinni fell back in the chair helplessly, with silent laughter.
“Well?” he asked at last. “Having resigned myself to the loss of what little character I possessed, I should like to know what these two young people did?”
“I must confess,” said Talham, “that they were very decent. They went at once, took a taxi-cab, and drove straight away to the police station. Not finding you there, and ascertaining by telephone that you were not at Adelphi Terrace, they came back. In the meantime I had thrown myself upon the mercy of Yvonne.”
“Did you call her Yvonne?” Tillizinni asked.
“I called her Yvonne,” said Talham gravely, “because that is her name. I put before her as much of my prospects as I deemed it expedient to reveal. I gave her a brief resumé of my views of love and matrimony and the duty which we owe to the future. I told her in the terms which I have discovered are usual”—(It was afterwards discovered that Talham had sent out a comprehensive commission to the nearest bookstall for all the latest novels in which love dominated)—“that I loved her, and would endeavour by a life-long service, by a devotion which should be unique in the history of the world, to make her life an increasing joy and pleasure.”
He was walking up and down all the time he spoke. He stopped in front of the window and stared out. Thunder clouds were banking up over South London, and on the murky horizon there was the flicker of lightning.
“That is as it should be,” he said.
Talham was approving of the elements; it was not the first time he had suggested that the incidence of natural phenomena were directed by an all-wise Providence to coincide with his moods.
“She could not agree,” he said. “She was startled, I thought at first that she was angry; but possibly I am doing her an injustice.”
“What of the young men?”
“They returned as I was going,” said Talham.
He swung round on Tillizinni.
“I have their cards and their addresses; that is what I wish to see you about. If you are my friend, you will call on them to-morrow and arrange a meeting.”
The detective had no words; he simply arose from the chair with his mouth open.
“Arrange a meeting!” he stammered.
“Arrange a meeting,” said Talham. “They used language to me which I will not permit any man to use. Moreover, what they said was in the presence of my future wife.”
“But she refused you!”
“My future wife,” repeated Talham in such a tone of decision as left no room for argument.
“But what do you mean by a meeting? You don’t for one moment imagine that these people will fight a duel?”
“That remains to be seen,” said the other. “I think that Hyde Park in the early hours of the morning would be an admirable rendezvous. You may leave to them the choice of weapons. I know very little about these fancy small swords which duellists favour, but if they will be kind enough to choose cavalry swords, I should be glad. I will fight them with Chinese knives, or, of course, with rapiers, if they prefer those weapons. I have no doubt that I shall make myself proficient in a few hours. As honourable men, they will not, of course, desire to take me at a disadvantage.”
He discussed the punctilio of duelling at some length. There was no use in arguing with him.
They spent the evening together, Tillizinni examining the documents which had been removed from the Chinese Embassy, and Talham assisting him.
“You understand, of course,” the detective explained, “that if I come upon any information which is likely to be of service to you in your search for your tomb——”
“Not my tomb,” corrected Talham.
“Well, the Emperor’s tomb,” said the other. “I cannot allow you to see it.”
“You will find nothing,” said Talham with confidence. “Every scrap referring to the Tomb of the First Emperor was in the stolen docket.”
It was nearly half-past ten when his servant brought Tillizinni a card. The detective read it and passed it to the other. It was inscribed:
Raymond de Costa
&
Gregory de Costa.
The two exchanged glances.
“Show them up!” said Tillizinni.
Talham’s face brightened up.
“I wonder——” he began, but did not finish his sentence. It might have been that he imagined that the visit would symbolise an act of self-abnegation of which young De Costa was incapable.
All his doubts were disposed of a few minutes later when the sulky young man, looking stouter and more unpleasant than ever, came into the room and introduced his father.
De Costa bowed ceremoniously to both men.
“This is my father,” said young De Costa.
Something made Tillizinni look at Talham. He had the faintest of smiles upon his lips, as at some amusing recollection.
“You know my father, I think,” said young De Costa.
“I haven’t that pleasure,” replied Talham.
The older man favoured him with a malicious little grin.
“I think we have done business together, Mr.—er—Talham.”
“Is it Talham?” asked the other innocently. “I seem to remember another name. May I sit down?”
Tillizinni apologised, and pushed forward two chairs, and the men seated themselves. They were both in evening dress; in De Costa senior’s shirt front blazed a diamond even larger than that which his son affected on such occasions.
“I may recall to you, Mr. Talham”—there was an offensive little pause before the name—“that I am engaged in the shipping trade. I sometimes send cargoes to South America”—he smiled again—“and sometimes to China.”
“That is very interesting,” said Talham. “I think shipping is one of the most fascinating branches of commercial endeavour.”
“I am glad you think so,” said the old De Costa. “Sometimes,” he continued, “I find it necessary to engage a super-cargo to carry out the more delicate and intricate negotiations which are sometimes associated with the transference of the goods shipped.”
Talham nodded.
“I quite understand the functions of the super-cargo,” he said.
“Some years ago,” the old man went on reminiscently, “I had to send rather an important cargo to one of the islands of the West Pacific.” He shrugged his shoulders and waved his hands in one motion. “I cannot recall exactly where the cargo was to land, or what it consisted of; but I have a most vivid recollection of a gentleman who called upon me at my office in Little Saville Street on one occasion. And I also remember having engaged him to carry out certain duties. In so engaging him it was necessary to take him into my confidence, to an extent”—he smiled. “For instance, I had to explain that he would pick up a collier at a certain point at sea, and that he would land bales of hardware in a very difficult place.”
“In the Philippines,” said Talham cheerily. “And it was not hardware, but rifles, if I remember rightly.”
“As to that,” the other hastened to say, “I have no distinct recollection. At any rate there was an accident: my coal was stolen, my collier, which I specially chartered to meet my ship, was met by another. The coal was stolen, I repeat. Later my ship was held up by a make-believe warship, and the merchandise was removed, against the captain’s wish. That Mr.—er—Talham, was piracy.”
“It was piracy,” admitted Talham pleasantly. “A gross act of piracy, undoubtedly.”
“I am glad you agree,” said De Costa.
“What would you call the act of running guns for half-breed Philippians?” asked Captain Talham.
The old man flushed. It was not the accusation which annoyed him; it was that horrid word “half-breed.”
“That would not be piracy,” continued Talham drily. “That would be just an act contrary to every civilised law. Yes,” he said, “I am Talham. I don’t need to hide it from you. What I really called myself in those days does not matter. I took your coal; I took your rifles. The rifles you were sending to niggers to enable them to shoot white men.”
“Mr. Talham!” said the old man, springing to his feet.
“The rifles you were sending to niggers, I repeat,” said Talham, “so that they might snipe the solitary pickets of the United States army—so that they might murder and terrorise the helpless and unarmed islanders. You’re not a fool—you know the breed of the Puljanes. Why, you’re one yourself!”
Talham in his insolence was a most offensive man. Tillizinni had never seen him in this mood except twice during the time he knew him.
Talham held very strong views regarding the colour question. With him a man was either black or white; he recognised no intermediary stage. Once let him depart from the pure white stock, and in Talham’s eyes he might as well be coal-black. On this point he was a fanatic.
It was curious to see the old man wilt under the tall man’s vitriolic tongue. It was as though he insensibly did homage in that moment to the dominant race. Despite his vast riches, despite his undoubted influence, he was a native in the presence of a white man.
Under the spell of Talham’s mastery he cringed. Not so the son. He was one generation nearer whiteness. With a horrible noise which was half a scream and half a strangled cry of hatred, he leapt at the other.
Talham half turned. His hand went out rigidly. It seemed to Tillizinni that the young man did not check in his flight, but rather continued it, describing a curve about the spot where Talham stood, until he pulled up with a crash against the opposite wall. He went down in a heap.
“I’m sorry!” said Talham—but he was addressing Tillizinni.
It was an embarrassing situation for Tillizinni. He saw the older man’s eyes fixed on him accusingly as the youth, dazed and white, picked himself up from the floor. Yet the detective said nothing.
“You shall hear from me, Signor Tillizinni,” said De Costa, senior. He spoke with deliberation, and his tone was full of menace. “Scotland Yard shall know that you consort with this adventurer, who, in addition to being a pirate, is also a common thief.”
Tillizinni checked a movement of his impulsive friend with a gesture.
“A common thief?” he repeated pleasantly.
“A common thief—a burglar—who ransacked my house a fortnight ago,” said De Costa. “Who cut a way through a door, and found—nothing!”
He bared his teeth in a triumphant smile.
“Here!” He thrust his hand into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a short bladed knife, protected by a leather sheath.
“The burglar left this behind on a desk he had forced,” he said. “You will observe, Ned, that your initials are on the blade—N.T.—Ned Talham!”
Tillizinni smiled as the old man replaced the knife and made for the door.
“Yet another fact to lay before Scotland Yard,” he said pleasantly, as he opened the door for the angry pair. “N.T. also stands for Nicholos Tillizinni.”
The son had reached the landing, and De Costa was passing through the doorway to follow the waiting servant. At Tillizinni’s words he turned.
“You?” he asked.
Tillizinni bowed.
“I came searching for a certain document stolen from the Chinese Embassy,” he said. “Would you allow your son to wait in another room whilst I tell you something?”
De Costa paused irresolutely.
He walked to the door.
“You may wait downstairs for me,” he said.
He came back and closed the door after him. Tillizinni strolled to the other end of the room, his hands in his pockets, his dark brow puckered in a thoughtful frown. He strolled back to meet De Costa.
“Won’t you sit down?” he said, but the old man made no move.
“As I said, I went to your house—burgled it if you will—it is one of the crimes which I permit myself. I came to seek a certain dossier containing a document which I had every reason to believe was in your possession.”
“You found nothing?” said the old man steadily.
“I found nothing,” agreed Tillizinni. “At any rate, I did not find that which I set forth to find. What I did discover, however, was rather interesting. It was that you had at least three visitors on that night, and that they had all been Chinamen, and that one, and the most important of these”—he spoke slowly—“was quite in ignorance as to the visit of the others.”
Not a muscle of the old man’s face moved.
“Go on,” he said.
Tillizinni had picked up a fountain pen from the desk and was pointing his remarks with little flourishes which were peculiarly his.
“Well,” he began, and stopped with an exclamation of apology, for from the waving fountain-pen a few drops had fallen upon the white shirt-front of the visitor.
He stepped forward impulsively with his handkerchief and wiped them clean.
De Costa was in some doubt as to whether he should reject such civility. Then Tillizinni resumed.
“The presence of the two men was rather a mystery. I found no indication that they had stayed any time, and I gathered by the fact that you had written very elaborate directions, that they had come to consult you as to the best method of getting out of England.”
Still the man made no sign.
“You had carefully written—possibly on two half-sheets of notepaper, since I found the corresponding halves with the tell-tale address upon them in the wastepaper basket—a string of names of places written in English and blotted on a fairly clean pad. Since those names occur twice I gathered there was some slight difference between them, and I gather that you had advised them to take different routes.
“One went by way of Ostend to Petrograd, Moscow, and Tomsk, and viâ the Trans-Siberian Railway; the other was apparently advised to leave by way of Liverpool on a Chinese cargo boat which sailed this morning. This much I gathered from the fact that you had given him the name of an agent in Liverpool to whom he could apply. That also you very indiscreetly blotted.”
The old man’s face was livid now.
“And what do you make of all this?” he asked with a show of bravado.
“As far as I can understand,” said Tillizinni, “two men in your pay are responsible for the abstraction of a very important document from the Chinese Embassy. Piecing the story together I understand that you are in agreement with Soo, a scholarly gentleman and a mutual acquaintance.”
He bowed ironically.
“At the last moment, or possibly long before the last moment, you feared that Soo would play you false, and went behind his back to bribe two hirelings to deliver what was found to you. Possibly you did not see the workings of the Chinese mind, nor foresee the tragedy which must inevitably occur when one member of the party engaged to rob the ambassador happens to be the brother of your defrauded partner.”
“The brother!”
De Costa was shocked, he was terrified; they read that in his eyes.
Tillizinni nodded.
“The brother,” he repeated, “of Ts’i Soo was the unfortunate man who was found doubled up in the bureau of the ambassador’s study. As I say, you probably did not foresee this unpleasant ending to the adventure, and went into it with no more idea than of being party to a minor felony. Your men killed the Chinaman who called himself ‘Star above the Yamen’ because they saw no other way of silencing him. They brought the documents straight on to you.”
“That is a lie!” said De Costa.
“They brought the documents to you,” repeated Tillizinni, “and they have never left you day or night.”
He took a step closer to De Costa, and the old man shrunk back. His hands went up to his right breast.
“They are probably in an inside pocket of your waistcoat,” said Tillizinni. “May I see?”
He reached out his hand, but before he could touch him the old man turned with a snarl, dashed open the door, and swung himself through it, descending the steps at a pace which did credit to his age, but was disastrous to his dignity.
Tillizinni laughed. He sat back in his chair and laughed that silent chuckle of his for fully three minutes.
“But why—why,” protested Talham, “why not have taken the papers whilst you could? For heaven’s sake, why did you let him go?”
Tillizinni shook his head.
“I could not take the document from him,” he said with a smile, “because I had already taken it when I was wiping his shirt front,” and he laid on the table a thin folded sheet closely written in Chinese characters.
Very slowly Talham read:
“Chu, Mi, Tsan Sui, and Tulm, ............ together ............ as brothers, swearing ............ This we say, being mechanical men from divers provinces brought together, because of our great skill, to the shadow of the Emperor’s house (here was something indecipherable) that we shall finish the tomb, fitting bronze doors, also working on a machine which the philosopher made.
“One of us to the other said—if the Emperor be buried and with him mighty treasures, how easy will it be for us—we shall know all the mechanical secrets of this place—to find a means for returning, and, if there be treasure buried, to take it away with us; and we agreed. So we have set this down for the guidance of our sons if we be dead when the great attempt shall be made, that the bronze door which shall fall at the entrance, and may not be lifted except with the strength of fifty bullocks—and the ............ be taken away.
“We have made a pit so large as the door itself, and there is nothing solid beneath that floor; so that if you shall find at either side of the entrance, between two great rocks carved two bronze images buried the length of a finger, between stones, you shall pull these and the door will fall as it fell before, but never to be raised, save with the strength of fifty bullocks.
“And inside is a large cave with two silver lamps which shall burn on the day of its closing, and from one of these lamps there is a long chain of bronze which runs through a tunnel along the roof, and is mechanically connected (here again the manuscript is indecipherable).
“If you shall pull upon the silver lamp which is nearest the door of bronze, the whole of the door of silver which is at the foot of the steps shall open. I myself made this tunnel and placed the chain therein, fixing with mechanical contrivance.
“Beware of all steps save the spirit steps, for they are devilishly made by..............
“Inside the silver door you shall find the great rivers working marvellously, and on the roof of the cave, which has been made smooth with great labour, many stars shaped ........ precious stones. And here will the Emperor be laid—he and his wives, and in a pit which we have dug on either side shall be cast the ornaments of gold and silver, and the jewels which he wore in his lifetime, and the jewels also of his wives and of his blood relations.
“Let our memories be blessed by our children, that we have brought fortune to them, and made them richer than kings, and given them dominions greater than the provinces of the barbarians.”
Talham read these documents through twice, scribbling in his angular writing a rough translation the first time and amending as he read it again.
He looked up at the detective.
Tillizinni had been infected with something of the fever which possessed the other.
“What do you think?” asked Talham.
“I think it is a wonderful discovery,” said Tillizinni, and he meant it, for that document to him was as precious as anything which Talham might secure from the vaults beneath Mount Li.
It was written on paper of extraordinary texture. Indeed, it was as thin as that quality which is known as “Indian paper” to-day.
Very few of the characters had been damaged, and such obliterations as there were, were caused by the folds in the document.
Talham looked up with a puzzled frown.
“Still, this tells us nothing as to the locality of the mountain?” he said.
Tillizinni shook his head.
“Curiously, I have never thought that the locality was ever likely to be established,” he said. “Probably the Chinese ambassador referred to the locality of the tomb rather than the exact geographical position of the mountain.
“I have been looking through some books in the British Museum,” he said, “and it appears that the Emperor had expressed a desire to be buried in the land of his birth. As you knew, he was practically a usurper of the Chinese throne. The Empire as we know it to-day had no existence until he brought the provinces together into a united whole. He was a sort of prehistoric Bismarck.”
“I have thought of that, too,” said Talham. “The old kingdom of Ts’in was situated in a rough circle, of which the town of Hoo Sin is the centre. It is obviously not the Mount Li in the neighbourhood of Pekin.”
There was a long silence; which Talham broke.
“Delay,” he said, “is repugnant to the active mind; action is the essence of vitality. Seconds, strenuously saved at one end, are lessened hours of peace at the other.”
“When you have finished delivering these excellent maxims,” said Tillizinni with a faint smile, “perhaps you will come to the point.”
“My point is this,” said Talham shortly; “we must go along and find that tomb before somebody else discovers it. You see, we have the information which was denied to De Costa and to his confederates—the information contained in the jade bracelet.”
“We?” said Tillizinni, raising his eyebrows.
“We,” said Talham calmly. “You have been so kind to me, and have offered me such hospitality, even going so far to advance me the small sums which were necessary to my sustenance. No, no,” he went on, for Tillizinni would have hushed him down, “these matters, material as they are, show the tendencies of a soul. I once thought,” he mused, but Tillizinni cut him short.
The orations of Captain Talham were inclined to err on the side of longevity, and Tillizinni regarded himself as more or less ephemeral.
Besides which, Tillizinni had work to do, a description of Soo had been circulated up and down the country, and every haunt which might shelter him had been systematically searched. The ports were being watched, and no Chinaman went on board an ocean-going liner without first passing the strict scrutiny of detectives who were watching the outgoing steamers. In spite of this fact no trace of the man could be found.
Neither Talham nor Tillizinni agreed with the theory that he had been drowned in his attempt to escape, and Talham, who invariably held stronger views than most men, and expressed them with greater strength, even went so far as to accompany the dragging parties on the banks of the canal, and at intervals to deliver little speeches on the futility of vain effort—an embarrassing situation from which Tillizinni delivered the searchers by the exercise of his tact.
By Tillizinni’s instructions, the house in Curzon Street was watched day and night. He had no illusions, he knew full well that if Soo could strike a blow at Talham through the girl, he would do so.
The newspapers had arisen to the occasion and had referred exultantly to the “bottling up” of the fugitive Chinaman. It was a little phrase coined in a hurried moment which caught the fancy of the great public; the “bottling up” of England to hold an escaping murderer, appealed to the popular imagination.
Curiously enough, the greatest difficulty had been found in identifying Soo with any known person in China. The Governor of Tai-pan, with whom the Chinaman claimed relationship, had telegraphed to his Government that his only son was pursuing his studies in Nanking, and could not possibly be the wanted man.
Nevertheless, though the Chinese Government had promised every assistance to bring the culprit to justice, and to thoroughly punish him if he reached Chinese territory, Tillizinni knew that it was for China that the man would make.
Talham had gone home, and the precious document had been locked in Tillizinni’s safe, and he himself was preparing for a greatly-needed night’s rest, when his sleepy servant brought a plain envelope addressed to the detective.
“How did this come?” asked Tillizinni.
“By a little boy, sir,” said the man.
Tillizinni held the envelope to the light. It showed nothing more sinister than a folded sheet of paper, and he slit it open. There were only a few words, but those words were particularly interesting.
The letter was without superscription, and ran:
“Some day I will ‘bottle up’ somebody who is very precious to your friend, and you may be sure that when she is once again in my hands, nothing you can do will save her.”
Tillizinni re-read the letter and sent for the messenger.
The boy could tell him little, except that a man had given the letter to him to deliver, and since the description of that man did not in any way tally with the description of Soo, Tillizinni gathered that the messenger originally sent, had chosen a deputy, for reasons of his own.
He sent the boy away, read the letter for the third time, and after telephoning to assure himself that the guards he had fixed in Curzon Street were at their posts, he went to bed and slept as soundly as any man could sleep who had not closed his eyes in slumber for forty-eight hours.
It was broad daylight when his servant brought him in his chocolate and toast. With it came one of the few letters which were addressed personally to him. It was from Yvonne Yale, a charming little note of thanks for the service he had rendered, but she made no mention of Talham.
Tillizinni smiled.
Now that the excitement had passed, and the exhilaration of the rescue subsided, he imagined that the girl might very properly blame Talham for the part he had played. In this he was wrong, as he was to discover.
He spent the whole of the day at Scotland Yard in the laboratory, making experiments to demonstrate the value of a new finger-print method.
He did not see Talham that night, nor the next day either, for the matter of that, but on the third day following the discovery of the paper, and the fourth after the abduction of the girl, Talham came to see him in a state of great excitement.
“Soo is in London,” he said briefly, and seemed pleased with himself that he could report information to the encyclopædia detective.
Tillizinni nodded.
“I know that,” he said.
“What is more,” said Talham, “I’ve been followed about for the last two days by a couple of men. I tried to lure them into a dark court last night to beat them up.”
“I’m very glad you didn’t,” said Tillizinni drily, “because those were eminently respectable members of the Metropolitan Police, whom I have put on to protect you from whatever harm might be coming to you.”
Talham looked a little crestfallen. He had come prepared to accept a little praise from the other for his acumen and his powers of perception.
“But how do you know that Soo is in London?” asked Tillizinni.
“Because I saw him,” said the calm Talham, and secured his sensation.
Tillizinni raised his eyebrows.
“Saw him and did not arrest him?”
“It was rather difficult,” explained Talham. “I was on the platform of a tube station at Piccadilly Circus just as the train was moving out. In a rear carriage as it went past me, gathering speed at every second, I saw a man whom I’ll swear was Soo, with a perfectly fitting beard. I know him, moreover, by the scar above his left eye. Just as he came abreast of me he raised his eyes, and then I was sure. I couldn’t stop the train—which reminds me,” he said portentously, “that I must report the station-master and several of the employées on the Underground Railway for marked insolence.”
Tillizinni gathered that Talham had made himself objectionable, and sympathised with the station officials.
“I couldn’t telephone through to the next station, and if I had, I probably should not have got through in time,” he said, “and if I got through——”
“Anyway, you didn’t telephone at all,” said Tillizinni with a smile, “and he alighted at the next station, and disappeared.”
Talham nodded.
“I have known he’s been in London for some days,” said Tillizinni. “As a matter of fact, there is nothing very clever in finding that out, because I received a note which was unmistakably from him. Scotland Yard can do no more than they are doing, and unless he leaves in an aeroplane, and we have made provision for that contingency, I don’t see how he is to escape from England.”
Tillizinni had applied for leave, he told the other, and was prepared to leave for China the following week. If he had expected Talham to be excited or elated or in any way pleasantly surprised, he was doomed to disappointment.
Talham had taken it for granted that Tillizinni, despite all his multifarious interests, would grasp the opportunity to visit the Celestial Kingdom and enjoy the adventure which his enterprise promised.
“Everything, of course, depends upon what happens to Soo,” the detective went on. “I can’t leave if he’s arrested, I can’t leave if he’s not arrested. Our only hope for my holiday is that Soo, in some mysterious fashion which is peculiarly his, makes his escape from this country.”
As a matter of fact, the detective did not leave that week nor the next, nor that which followed.
On the Saturday of the third week came a letter; it bore the postmark of Madison Square Gardens post-office, and was in the handwriting of Soo. It was brief, and reiterated the threat which he had uttered in his shorter epistle, but more specifically, in language which need not be repeated nor transcribed.
Tillizinni locked it away with the other documents affecting the case and prepared for his departure.
* * * * *
There was one man as interested in the movement of Soo as Tillizinni.
Old Raymond de Costa, a bitter and hateful man, and also a fearful man. He dreaded the law on the one side, and the vengeance of Soo on the other, if it ever came out that it was he who had played him false.
The news published in the morning papers that Soo had reached America came as a great relief to the old man; it freed him to pursue his private feud against Tillizinni and his insufferable friend.
He discovered the loss of the document for which he had sacrificed so much, yet did not associate the detective with the theft until his valet drew attention to the ink-spot on the dress shirt which came back from the laundry.
“You’ve had some ink on your shirt, sir,” said the man.
With a scowl De Costa remembered the circumstances under which it had been acquired.
“Yes, throw it away,” he said shortly.
The man folded up the garment with a little smile.
De Costa detected it, and turned on him the vials of his vitriolic wrath.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” said the man apologetically. “I wasn’t smiling at the shirt, I was just remembering how a gentleman I once valeted was robbed of fifty pounds.”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” growled the old man.
Then curiosity got the better of him.
“I suppose you’re aching to tell me,” he said ungraciously. “How was it?”
“It happened in the West End,” said the valet. “A man was writing a note with a fountain-pen in the vestibule of one of the cafés. He happened to shake it, and some drops fell on the gentleman’s shirt. The gentleman who did it was very sorry and wiped it off with his own silk handkerchief, but my master lost a bundle of notes from the inside pocket of his coat whilst the wiping process was going on.”
As he proceeded, De Costa’s face was a study. He realised now how the paper came to be lost.
So Tillizinni had the paper, and had, too, evidence as to his complicity in the Embassy robbery! But had he? Nobody would be able to identify the documents which were stolen. It had been stated so at the inquest.
No, there would be no evidence to convict the respectable Raymond de Costa in that, or he would have been arrested by now. Besides, he was a known antiquarian and a collector of Chinese objects, art, and literature. There would be every excuse for his being in possession of such a thing. He had the transcription, and the document had no value now save to the antiquarian.
He must act at once.