The Red Rat's Daughter

"I don't see that I can," muttered MacAndrew. "In cases like this a guarantee is a thing which would be a very unmarketable commodity. In other words, we don't keep them in stock."

"It's to be a case of my putting my money in the slot, then, and you do the rest?"

"As the Yankees say," said the other, "I reckon that is so. No, Mr. Browne, I'm very much afraid you must rest content with my bare word. If you think I'm straight enough to pull you through, try me; if not, as I said just now, have nothing more to do with me. I cannot speak fairer than that, I think, and I shall now leave it to you to decide."

"Well, I must see your plan," continued Browne. "When I have done that it is just possible that I may see my way to undertaking the business."

"The plan, then, by all means," replied the other, and, as he did so, he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out an envelope, which he handed to Browne. "Here it is. I have roughly sketched it all out for you. You had better read it when you are alone in your cabin, and after you have got it by heart be sure to burn it carefully. I wrote it down in case I should not be able to see you, and also fearing, even if I did have speech with you, I might not be able to say what I wanted to, without being overheard. I will come off at daybreak to-morrow morning for your answer. In the meantime you can think it over. Will that suit you?"

"Admirably," said Browne. "I will let you know my decision then without fail."

"In that case, good-night."

"Good-night. I shall expect you in the morning."

"In the morning."

A quarter of an hour later Browne was alone in his own cabin. Having locked his door, he took the letter, the other had given him, from his pocket and opened it. A half-sheet of note-paper, upon which scarcely five hundred words were written, was all he found. But these words, he knew, meant all the world to him. He read and re-read them, and, as soon as he had got them by heart, lit a match and set fire to the paper, which was reduced to ashes. Then he returned to the deck, where Maas and Foote were still seated, and settled himself down for a chat. They had not been there many minutes before Maas found, that he had smoked the last cigar of a particular brand he affected, and rose to go to his cabin in search of another. He had not been very long absent before Browne remembered that he had left the envelope of MacAndrew's letter on his dressing-table. Accordingly he set off in search of it, intending to destroy it as he had done its contents. Having reached the companion, he was descending to the saloon below, when a sound resembling the careful, though hurried, closing of a door attracted his attention. A moment later he stepped into the saloon, to find Maas there, who, for once in his life, appeared to be flurried and put out by something.

"I have lost my cigar-case, my dear Browne," he said, as if in explanation. "Is it not annoying?"

Browne felt sure that this was not the truth. However, he did not say so, but when he had condoled with him, entered his own cabin, where a surprise was in store for him. The envelope he had come down to burn, and which he distinctly remembered having placed upon the table less than half an hour before, was missing. Some one had taken it!

CHAPTER XXIII

Taking one thing with another, Browne's night after the incident described at the end of the previous chapter was far from being a good one. He could not, try how he would, solve the mystery as to what had become of that envelope. He had hunted the cabin through and through, and searched his pockets times without number, but always with the same lack of success. As he lay turning the matter over and over in his mind, he remembered that he had heard the soft shutting of a door as he descended the companion-ladder, and also that Maas had betrayed considerable embarrassment when he entered the saloon. It was absurd, however, to suppose that he could have had any hand in its disappearance. But the fact remained that the envelope was gone. He rang for his valet, and questioned him; but the man declared that, not only did he know nothing at all about it, but that he had not entered the cabin between dinner-time and when he had prepared his master for the night. It was a singular thing altogether. At last, being unable to remain where he was any longer, he rose and dressed himself and went up to the deck. Day was just breaking. A cloudless sky was overhead, and in the gray light the Peak looked unusually picturesque; the water alongside was as smooth as a sheet of glass; the only signs of life were a few gulls wheeling with discordant cries around a patch of seaweed floating astern.

Browne had been pacing the deck for upwards of a quarter of an hour, when he noticed a sampan pull off from the shore towards the yacht. From where he stood he could plainly distinguish the tall figure of MacAndrew. He accordingly went to the gangway to receive him. Presently one of the women pulling brought her up at the foot of the accommodation-ladder, when the passenger ran up the steps, and gracefully saluted Browne.

"Good-morning," he said. "In spite of the earliness of the hour, I think I am up to time."

"Yes, you are very punctual," answered Browne. "Now, shall we get to business?"

They accordingly walked together in the direction of the smoking-room.

"You mastered the contents of my note, I suppose?" asked MacAndrew, by way of breaking the ice.

"Perfectly," replied Browne; "and I was careful to burn it afterwards."

"Well, now that you have perused it, what do you think of it?" inquired the other. "Do you consider the scheme feasible?"

"Very feasible indeed," Browne replied. "With a decent amount of luck, I think it should stand a very good chance of succeeding.

"I'm very glad to hear that," returned MacAndrew. "I thought you would like it. Now, when the other preliminaries are settled, I can get to work, head down."

"By the other preliminaries I suppose you mean the money?" queried Browne.

MacAndrew looked and laughed.

"Yes; the money," he admitted. "I'm sorry to have to be so mercenary; but I'm afraid it can't be helped. We must grease the machinery with gold, otherwise we shan't be able to set it in motion."

"Very well," rejoined Browne; "that difficulty is easily overcome. I have it all ready for you. If you will accompany me to my cabin we may procure it."

They accordingly made their way to the cabin. Once there, Browne opened his safe, and dragged out a plain wooden box, which he placed upon the floor. MacAndrew observed that there was another of similar size behind it. Browne noticed the expression upon his face, and smiled.

"You're wondering what made me bring so much," he remarked. How well he remembered going to his bank to procure it! He seemed to see the dignified, portly manager seated on his leather chair, and could recall that worthy gentleman's surprise at the curious request Browne made to him.

"But how do you propose to get it ashore?" said the latter to MacAndrew. "It's a heavy box; and what about the Customs authorities?"

"Oh, they won't trouble me," answered MacAndrew coolly. "I shall find a way of getting it in without putting them to the inconvenience of opening it."

"Do you want to count it? There may not be five thousand pounds there."

"I shall have to risk that," MacAndrew replied. "I haven't the time to waste in counting it. I expect it's all right." So saying, he took up the box, and followed Browne to the deck above.

"You quite understand what you've got to do, I suppose?" he asked when they once more stood at the gangway.

"Perfectly," said Browne. "You need not be afraid lest I shall forget. When do you think you will leave?"

"This morning, if possible," MacAndrew replied. "There is no time to be lost. I've got a boat in my eye, and as soon as they can have her ready I shall embark. By the way, if I were in your place I should be extremely careful as to what I said or did in Japan. Excite only one little bit of suspicion, and you will never be able to rectify the error."

"You need have no fear on that score," rejoined Browne. "I will take every possible precaution to prevent any one suspecting."

"I'm glad to hear it," MacAndrew returned. "Now, good-bye until we meet on the 13th."

"Good-bye," said Browne; "and good luck go with you!"

They shook hands, and then MacAndrew, picking up his precious box, went down the ladder, and, when he had taken his place in the well, the sampan pushed off for the shore.

"A nice sort of position I shall be in if he should prove to be a swindler," reflected the young man, as he watched the retreating boat. "But it's too late to think of that now. I have gone into the business, and must carry it through, whatever happens."

When Jimmy Foote put in an appearance on deck that morning he found that the city of Victoria had disappeared, and that the yacht was making her way through the Ly-ee-Moon Pass out into the open sea once more.

It was daybreak on the morning of the Thursday following when they obtained their first glimpse of Japan. Like a pin's head upon the horizon was a tiny gray dot, which gradually grew larger and larger until the sacred mountain of Fujiyama, clear-cut against the sky-line, rose from the waves, as if to welcome them to the Land of the Chrysanthemum. Making their way up Yeddo Bay, they at length cast anchor in the harbour of Yokohama. Beautiful as it must appear to any one, to Browne it seemed like the loveliest and happiest corner of Fairyland. He could scarcely believe, after the long time they had been separated, that, in less than half an hour, he would really be holding Katherine in his arms once more. During breakfast he could with difficulty contain his impatience, and he felt as if the excellent appetites which Foote and Maas brought to their meal were personal insults to himself. At length they rose, and he was at liberty to go. At the same moment the captain announced that the steam-launch was alongside.

"Good luck to you, old fellow," said Jimmy, as Browne put on his hat and prepared to be off. "Though love-making is not much in my line, I must say I envy you your happiness. I only wish I were going to see a sweetheart too."

"Madame Bernstein is a widow," remarked Browne, and, ducking his head to avoid the stump of a cigar which Jimmy threw at him, he ran down the accommodation-ladder, jumped into the launch, and was soon steaming ashore.

Reaching the Bund, he inquired in which direction the Club Hotel was situated, and, having been informed, made his way in that direction. He had reached the steps, and was about to ascend them to enter the verandah, when he saw, coming down the passage before him, no less a person than Katherine herself. For weeks past he had been looking forward to this interview, wondering where, how, and under what circumstances it would take place. Again and again he had framed his first speech to her, and had wondered what she would say to him in return. Now that he was confronted with her, however, he found his presence of mind deserting him, and he stood before her, not knowing what to say. On her side she was not so shy. Directly she realized who it was, she ran forward with outstretched hands to greet him.

"Jack, Jack," she cried, her voice trembling with delight, "I had no idea that you had arrived. How long have you been in Japan?"

"We dropped our anchor scarcely an hour ago," he answered. "I came ashore the instant the launch was ready for me."

"How glad I am to see you!" she exclaimed. "It seems years since we said good-bye to each other that miserable day at Marseilles."

"Years!" he cried. "It seems like an eternity to me." Then, looking up at her, as she stood on the steps above him, he continued: "Katherine, you are more beautiful than ever."