The Message

“I keep dem letter,” he announced.

“Certainly. It is only a copy. Savvy? I have the real one safely put away.”

Figuero swallowed something. His thin lips were bloodless, and his tongue moistened them with the quick darting action of a snake. Rosamund, who was really somewhat afraid, trusted to the daylight and the fact that they were traversing an open road, with cottages scattered through the glen.

“You cannot humbug me,” she went on, “but I want to assure you again that I am no enemy of yours. Now, listen. I mean to marry Captain Warden, but I have reason to believe that he is engaged, promised, to Miss Dane. I am trying to stop that, to break it off. Can you help?”

“You ask hard t’ing – in dis place. In Africa, we get Oku man make ju–ju.”

She shuddered. The cold malevolence in his words recalled stories she had heard of those who had died with unaccountable suddenness when “Oku man make ju–ju.”

“I don’t mean that,” she cried vehemently. “Tell me what is taking place, and how it will affect Captain Warden. Then I can twist events to my own purpose. I can warn him, perhaps prove myself his friend. Above all – where are you going to–morrow? Mr. Baumgartner sails in the Sans Souci, I hear. Does Miss Dane go with him, or is she to be sent away because she is aware of your plans?”

Figuero did not answer during a whole minute.

He saw light, dimly, but growing more distinct each instant. Warden was a deadly personality in the field against him, and his active interference was now assured beyond cavil. But, with two women as foils, both beautiful, and one exceedingly well equipped with money, there was still a chance of circumventing the only man he feared.

“You steal dem letter?” he said unexpectedly.

“At any rate, it has not gone to Captain Warden,” was the acid reply.

“An’ you write ‘im. What you say?”

“Oh, nothing that affects the case.”

“You tole him me here?”

“No. That can wait,” which statement, as shall be seen, was strictly untrue.

“Well, den, dem yacht lib for – for somewheres to–morrow. Dem girl, Mees Dane, go wid me. You tole him dat t’ing as you say las’ night. I make wife palaver to dem girl.”

“What good will that do?” she said. “In a week, ten days, he will hear from her again.”

“No. I take dem letter. You gib me Captain Warden writin’, an’ I keep eye for dat. Savvy?”

“But can you carry out what you promised?”

“Two, t’ree months, yes. After dem yacht lib for Madeira, no. P’raps dem girl be wife den.”

Rosamund’s dark eyes narrowed to two tiny slits. If Figuero could really keep Warden and Evelyn apart during so long a period, the utterly hopeless project on which she had embarked in a moment of jealous rage might become feasible. Of course, the suggestion that he would marry Evelyn was preposterous, but there was no reason why she should hurt his pride by telling him so. Her heart throbbed madly, while her active brain debated the pros and cons of the all–important question – should she post the letter already written? Yes. It was the outcome of her earliest thought. She would follow it up with another in different strain. The two would be vastly more convincing than one, and the dates would have a significance that no mere contriving could impart.

By this time they were at the post–office, from which mails were dispatched by a later train than that caught by the groom. Rosamund dropped her letter in the box. She was quite pale with suppressed excitement. Her boats were burnt. She heard the fall of the envelope into the receptacle, and the appalling notion possessed her that the sound resembled the fall of earth on a coffin. She breathed heavily, and pressed a hand to her bosom. Figuero was watching her.

“Now you done dem t’ing,” he said, “you dash me some money.”

She started. Did he mean to levy blackmail for his services?

“Why?” she asked, summoning all her strength of character to meet his gaze without flinching.

“Me buy present for dem girl. If I make wife palaver dat cost many dollar.”

“I am not buying your help. You trade with me one thing for the other. If you refuse, I write to the Government about the men of Oku.”

The Portuguese laughed more naturally than she had yet heard him. If his arch–enemy, Arthur Warden, was well acquainted with the mission he and the chiefs had undertaken, this pretty and passionate woman counted for very little in the scale against him.

“You dash me one hunner’ poun’,” he said cheerfully. “Jus’ dat, no mo’. If you say ‘no,’ dem girl no lib for yacht. Mr. Baumgartner say go one–time. Me tell ‘im take dem girl – savvy?”

Mrs. Laing savvied. She gave him thirty pounds – all she could spare from her purse – and promised to send the balance to an address in London. He was fully satisfied. He was sure she would not fail him. When he needed further supplies she would pay willingly. In an intrigue based on such lines Miguel Figuero was an adept.

CHAPTER IX

WARDEN BEGINS HIS ODYSSEY

Evelyn’s weekly letter from Scotland usually arrived by the mail–boat due at Ostend about three o’clock in the afternoon. Warden, sitting on the plage among a cosmopolitan crowd that delighted in its own antics, watched the steamer from Dover picking its way along the coast and into the harbor. He was dining with a friend that evening in one of the big hotels on the sea front. He could call for his letters after he had dressed – meanwhile, he had an hour or more at his disposal, and he was weary of the frolics of Monsieur, Madame et Bébé, and of a great many other people who came under a less domestic category.

To kill time, he strolled into the Casino and drank a cup of the decoction which Belgians regard as tea. Then he went to the so–called Club to look at the gamblers. Play did not appeal to him, but he had joined the Cercle Privé because some men he knew went there regularly for baccarat. To–day, to dispel the ennui of existence between meals, a German baron was opening banks of five hundred louis each, and losing or winning money with a bored air. He had just closed one bank successfully, and the table was set for another, when a young American, bright–eyed, clean–shaven, and pallid, stirred the pulses of both onlookers and players by crying, “Banco!” Even in Ostend one does not often see four hundred pounds won or lost at a single coup. Warden, whose sympathies were against the stolid banker, stood by the side of the younger man until the incident was ended.

There was no waiting. The challenger, impassive as a Red Indian, gave a bundle of notes to the croupier, who counted them. The baron dealt the two tableaux, and his adversary stooped and picked up the first.

“Huit!” he said, throwing the cards face upwards on the table. He took the second pair.

“Neuf!”

An excited buzz of talk rose around the board. With a blasé smile, the banker showed his cards – two queens.

“Peste!” cried a Frenchman, “toujours on souffre pour les dames!”

Some few laughed; the German, more phlegmatic than ever, opened a pocket–book and started a fresh bank for the same amount, while the American collected his stake and winnings. He was stuffing the notes into a pocket when he caught Warden’s glance.

“That’s the easiest way of making two thousand dollars I’ve ever struck,” he said.

“But you stood to lose the same amount,” said Warden.

“Why, yes. The only difference between me and the fellow who puts up with this beastly atmosphere every day for a month is that he fritters away his money at five or ten dollars a pop, while I hit or miss at the first time of asking.”

“You won’t play any more, then?”

“No, sir. Me for the tall timbers with the baron’s wad. ‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,’ you know, and I’ve just heard that my best girl has made a date with the other fellow.”

He walked away, erect, alert, and self–possessed. Warden strolled to a roulette board.

“I wonder if that is true,” he mused.

Instinctively his hand went to his pocket, and he staked a louis on 29, the year of his age. Up came 29, and he won thirty–five louis. He was so astonished that he bent over the shoulders of a lady seated near the foot of the table, and began mechanically to draw in the five–hundred franc note and ten gold pieces that were pushed by a croupier’s rake close to his own coin.

“But, monsieur,” whispered the lady, who was French, and gave slight heed to convention, “certainly you will follow your luck!”

“Why not?” he answered.