The Bronze Bell | Page 8

was wonderful: a
linguist, speaking a dozen European languages and more Eastern
tongues and dialects, I believe, than any other living man. We met by
accident in Berlin and were drawn together by our common interest in
Orientalism. Later, hearing I was in Paris, he hunted me up and insisted
that I stay with him there while finishing my big book--the one whose
title you know. His assistance to me then was invaluable. After that I
lost track of him."
"And the valet?"
"Oh, I'd forgotten Doggott. He was a Cockney, as silent and
self-contained as Rutton.... To get back to Nokomis: I met Doggott at
the station, called him by name, and he refused to admit knowing
me--said I must have mistaken him for his twin brother. I could tell by
his eyes that he lied, and it made me wonder. It's quite impossible that
Rutton should be in this neck of the woods; he was a man who
preferred to live a hermit in centres of civilisation.... Curious!"

"I don't wonder you think so. Perhaps the man had been up to some
mischief.... But," said the girl with a note of regret, "we're almost
home!"
They had come to the seaward verge of the woodland, where the trees
and scrub rose like a wild hedgerow on one side of a broad,
well-metalled highway. Before them stretched the eighth of a mile of
neglected land knee-deep with crisp, dry, brown stalks of weedy
growths, beyond which the bay smiled, a still lake of colour mirroring
the intense lapis-lazuli of the calm eastern skies of evening. Over
across its waters the sand dunes of a long island glowed like a bar of
new red gold, tinted by the transient scarlet and yellow glory of the
smouldering Autumnal sunset. Through the woods the level, brilliant,
warmthless rays ran like wild-fire, turning each dead, brilliant leaf to a
wisp of incandescent flame, and tingeing the air with an evanescent
ruby radiance against which the slim young boles stood black and stark.
To the right, on the other side of the road, a rustic fence enclosed the
trim, well-groomed plantations of Tanglewood Lodge; through the
dead limbs a window of the house winked in the sunset glow like an
eye of garnet. And as the two appeared a man came running up the road,
shouting.
"That's Quain!" cried Amber; and sent a long cry of greeting toward
him.
"Wait!" said the girl impulsively, putting out a detaining hand. "Let's
keep our secret," she begged, her eyes dancing--"just for the fun of it!"
"Our secret!"
"About the babu and the Token; it's a bit of mystery and romance to
me--and we don't often find that in our lives, do we? Let us keep it
personal for a while--between ourselves; and you will promise to let me
know if anything unusual ever comes of it, after I've gone. We can say
that I was riding carelessly, which is quite true, and that the horse shied
and threw me, which again is true; but the rest for ourselves only....
Please.... What do you say?"

He was infected by her spirit of irresponsible mischief. "Why, yes--I
say yes," he replied; and then, more gravely: "I think it'll be very
pleasant to share a secret with you, Miss Farrell. I shant say a word to
any one, until I have to."
* * * * *
As events turned he had no need to mention the incident until the
morning of the seventh day following the girl's departure. In the interim
nothing happened, and he was able to enjoy some excellent shooting
with Quain, his thoughts undisturbed by any further appearance of the
babu.
But on that seventh morning it became evident that a burglary had been
visited upon the home of his hosts. A window had been forced in the
rear of the house and a trail of burnt matches and candle-grease
between that entrance and the door of Amber's room, together with the
somewhat curious circumstance that nothing whatever was missing
from the personal effects of the Quains, forced him to make an
explanation. For his own belongings had been rifled and the bronze box
alone abstracted--still preserving its secret.
In its place Amber found a soiled slip of note-paper inscribed with the
round, unformed handwriting of the babu: "Pardon, sahib. A mistake
has been made. I seek but to regain that which is not yours to possess.
There will be naught else taken. A thousand excuses from your hmbl.
obt. svt., Behari Lal Chatterji."

CHAPTER III
MAROONED
A cry in the windy dusk; a sudden, hollow booming overhead; a vision
of countless wings in panic, sketched in black upon a background of
dulled silver; two heavy detonations and, with the least of intervals, a
third; three