Chapter IV: The Shadow of Nemesis (2)

“You miserable murderer--” I began, but, with hardening features, the jaboowallah interrupted me.

“It was an evil hour that the man who came to steal learned that Forsythe Sahib and his friend were traveling here,” he said. “But now Forsythe Sahib must go his way alone, nor pause, except for rest, until he is on the vessel which is to take him home. He cannot bring the dead to life any more than he can recover that power of speech which has left him. What is written is written, and what is done is done. By sunrise the sahib must be on his way.”

As he finished speaking, the jaboowallah blew out the candle that he held; then he passed out of the door.

I sank back on my blanket, and for several minutes I lay inert. Convinced that the jaboowallah had spoken truth, and that my poor friends were indeed dead, I realized my helplessness. I was alone among strangers of another race, and there was little doubt that, in a sense, the jaboowallah had justice on his side.

Ferguson had come to take from a sacred shrine a pair of precious gems to which he had no claim. It was perfectly apparent that he knew the adventure was fraught with peril. He had taken chances, and had failed. With me, however, guilty though I was, the case was somewhat different. The jaboowallah believed me to be innocent of complicity with Ferguson. Why, then, had he caused me to be subjected to treatment which was responsible for the loss of my voice?

When I had returned to the bungalow, I lighted a candle and, with the aid of a pocket-mirror, examined my neck. There was nothing on the outside of my throat to indicate that it had been wounded. I then had fancied that my inability to speak had been caused by rough treatment after the last blow had robbed me of consciousness; but the jaboowallah, apparently cognizant of the nature of my injury, had told me that my voice had gone forever.

At length, despite my mental turmoil, I succumbed to fatigue and physical weakness, and slept.

Once again I was awakened by a hand that grasped my shoulder, and I saw, bending over me, with a candle in his hand, one of my attendants--the one who, a few hours before, had asked me whether I intended to set out on my journey before sunrise. Before I had time to ask him why he had awakened me, he spoke.

“The horses are saddled, sahib,” he said quietly.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Two hours before sunrise, sahib.”

As I looked at him searchingly, his gaze fell.

“Who bade you prepare for the journey?” I asked.

“The jaboowallah, sahib,” he answered.

Conscious of my inability to offer resistance to the power that had robbed me of my friends and of my voice, I nodded and rose. Glancing toward the corner in which had been heaped the articles which, in accordance with Ferguson’s directions, I had purchased at the temple, I saw that they were gone.

Apparently the man did not observe my glance, for he vouchsafed no explanation, and I asked no further questions.

Before leaving the bungalow I ate more moistened biscuits, and then went out to where the little company of attendants awaited me. These were already in their saddles; and, when I was mounted, all of us moved away from the bungalow.

As we came to the outskirts of the village I saw the figure of a man standing beside the road. Drawing nearer, I recognized the jaboowallah. As our eyes met, the wonder-worker quickly sank to the ground and prostrated himself at the roadside as I rode by. He was still on the ground when a turn in the road hid him from our view.

With the exception of two incidents, my journey to Calcutta was uneventful. The first of these incidents occurred shortly after sunrise on the morning I left Rajiid. Glancing behind me I saw four led horses. The loads borne by three of these constituted, as I knew, the impedimenta we had taken with us to Rajiid. The fourth load, however, was covered, and I asked one of the natives what the pack contained.

The man looked at me with an expression of surprise as he answered:

“They are the brazier and the idols purchased from the priest at the Rajiid temple.”

I made no answer, but an hour later I directed the servants to quicken their pace, and for the next four days we moved even more rapidly than we had done on our journey to Rajiid.

The second incident occurred three days before my arrival at Calcutta. Ever since landing in India I had kept a diary in which I had recorded briefly each day’s incidents, being careful, of course, to make no mention of anything that had to do with the real object of my journey. On the day I have mentioned, I just had finished making an entry when an official returned to me my passport, which he had viséd. The date on this was the twenty-seventh of the month, while the entry I had made in the diary was dated the twenty-fifth. I called the man’s attention to what I then believed to be his error. He smiled and shook his head.

“It is the twenty-seventh, sir,” he said.

I bowed, and he left me. Turning over the pages of the diary, I was unable to find that I had made a mistake in dating the entries; then an idea occurred to me, and I turned to one of the two attendants who had accompanied me all the way from Rajiid.

“How long was I with the jaboowallah?” I asked abruptly.

“For two days the sahib was in the priest’s house near the temple,” the man replied. “On the second night the sahib was placed in the same position in which he fell, and the jaboowallah bade us retire and wait for the sahib in the road.”

I attempted to question him further, but he was so reticent that I learned little more. The next day he and his companion, who had been at Rajiid, deserted me. For the remainder of the journey I was attended only by servants I had picked up on the way to Calcutta.

Immediately after my arrival at Calcutta, I hastened to an English physician and bade him examine my throat. As he did this, I saw an expression of gravity settle on his face.

“How did this happen?” he asked sharply. “The vocal cords have been cut.”

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead as I heard his words. Then I told him all. When I finished my account of the misadventures of my friends and myself, the physician shook his head gravely.

“Such things do happen occasionally in India,” he said, “but in almost every case it has been proved that the natives have had justice on their side, and the government, assured of this, rarely adopts vigorous measures, for, in the circumstances, they would result in serious disaffections in certain districts. It is better, perhaps, to heed the jaboowallah’s warning and leave the country, rather than to expose yourself to new misfortunes in an attempt to have your enemies punished--an attempt which I fear, would fail.”

I decided, reluctantly enough, to take his advice, and five weeks later I was in London.

I at once repaired to the office of Ormond Dulmer, the solicitor to whom Ferguson had directed me, and to him I gave a full account of my Indian adventures. Dulmer, who was an elderly, stolid sort of man, listened gravely to all I had to say, but neither by word nor by the expression of his face did he manifest the slightest degree of surprise or emotion. In conclusion, I said:

“And now, Mr. Dulmer, since I have told you all, nothing remains for me to do but to turn over to you the articles I purchased in Rajiid, and to refund to you the ten thousand dollars which Ferguson instructed me to deposit in New York until his return.”

The lawyer raised a hand protestingly.

“No,” he replied. “The ten thousand dollars are your own. The jade images and the brazier should be retained by you, however, until you receive from me other instructions for their disposition. Ferguson was a peculiar fellow, and was very precise in his methods. In planning to have you get the images out of India, it is more than probable that he made arrangements for some person to claim them of you in the event of his premature death. Be good enough, please, to carry out his instructions to the letter.”

I looked at Dulmer searchingly.

“You do not believe that Ferguson is dead?” I asked.

Dulmer shrugged his shoulders.

“I know no more than you,” he replied. “Still, I scarcely think I will open his will until you and I obtain more definite evidence of his decease than is afforded by the testimony of your mutual enemy, the jaboowallah.”

And so it came to pass that, a week later, I stood in my own room in New York, gazing speculatively at a brazier and two grotesque jade images that rested on the floor. My decision concerning these was quickly made. I resolved to send them to a storage warehouse where they might remain until some one authorized to claim them should receive them from my hands. Having formed this resolution, I at once proceeded to put it into execution. Accordingly, I locked my door and went to the office of a storage company, where I made the necessary arrangements. It was agreed that a wagon should be sent to take the articles away early the next morning.

I returned to my room after an absence of a little more than four hours. As I opened the door, however, I gasped with astonishment.

The brazier and the images were gone!

Thinking that, perhaps, the storage company had found it practicable to call for the articles that day, and remembering that, as I went out, I had told my landlady that I intended to send the things away, I was partly reassured. I hastened downstairs to the landlady, and learned from her that two Italians had come with a black, unlettered wagon, and had told her that I had directed them to call for the articles.

I reported my loss to the police; but from that day to this, so far as I have been able to learn, no trace of the articles has been found by the detectives who were assigned to the case.

And now new dangers began to beset me. On the day following the disappearance of the images, I became conscious of the fact that I was under surveillance, and that no less than four men were employed for the purpose. Whenever I left the house in which I lodged--whether I walked or whether I rode in street-cars or cabs--some stranger would persistently keep me in view. These persons, I doubted not, were in the employ of some detective agency that had undertaken to watch and report my movements. Why anyone should find it necessary to spy on me now I could not understand.

I had been in New York only a week when, returning late to my room one night, I found all my effects in disorder, and it was plain that everything belonging to me had been carefully searched. Some of my private papers were missing, tacks had been removed from the carpet, which appeared to have been turned back in an attempt to discover the hiding-place of some paper or other object. Despite all these facts, however, I found the door locked as I had left it.

The next morning, before daybreak, I telephoned for a taxicab, and, entering it almost before it came to a standstill in front of the house, I directed the man to take me to the City Hall. Then dismissing him, I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, and, for the first time in a week, I congratulated myself that I had eluded the vigilance of the spies. In Brooklyn I engaged a couple of rooms in a modest dwelling-house at which I gave an assumed name.

I remained indoors all day, and at night I went to a neighboring haberdasher’s to purchase articles of wearing apparel, for I had left my room in New York with scarcely more than the clothes I wore.

Having made my purchases, I returned to the house I had left only a few minutes before. I had just thrust my key in the lock, and was preparing to turn it, when a hand fell on one of my shoulders. Turning quickly, I was confronted by a dusky face which was partly covered by a scant gray beard.

It was the face of the jaboowallah of Rajiid!

“The sahib will allow me to speak to him--in his room?” the strange man asked gravely.

He wore a black derby and a suit of dark clothes; and, as I saw him then, he had the appearance of an aged negro.

For several moments I was too overcome by astonishment and dismay to reply.

“As you please,” I faltered as I turned the key.

Then, leading the way, I conducted my persecutor to my room on the second floor.

I turned up the gas and faced my visitor.

“What brings you here?” I demanded abruptly.

“I seek the lost eyes of the Buddha, sahib,” the jaboowallah answered.

I looked at him wonderingly.

“Why do you come to me?” I asked.

“Because I have learned the Forsythe Sahib has them,” was the solemn answer.

Utterly bewildered, I gazed into his burning eyes.

“Not only have the gems you seek never been in my possession, but I have never seen them or heard anyone suggest a place where they were likely to be found,” I replied.

“The sahib cannot deceive me,” said my visitor, sullenly. “Both gems have been in his possession. One was in the body of the jade image with the protruding tongue, which the sahib brought with him from India, and the other was in the little parcel left with him by the Ferguson Sahib on the day before he sailed for Europe.”

The room swam before my eyes, and for several moments I was speechless. Then, with a trembling hand, I motioned to my visitor to sit down. He remained standing, but I, overcome by conflicting emotions, sank inertly on a couch.

“The sahib has these, has he not?” the jaboowallah asked.

“No,” I answered. “The image has been stolen from me, and the parcel is in the safe-deposit vault in which I was directed to place it by the man to whom it belonged.”

The face of the jaboowallah grew darker.

“Stolen!” he exclaimed.

“The loss was reported by me to the police, who say they are trying to find the thief,” I explained.

My visitor hesitated.

“You will deliver the parcel to me?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, “but I will lead you to the vault, and you may take it, if you will.”

The jaboowallah nodded gravely.

“Can you do this to-night?” he asked.

“It will be impossible for me to have access to the vault until ten o’clock in the morning,” I explained.

“I will be here at nine,” the jaboowallah said.

He bowed profoundly, and then, without further words, he left me.

I passed a restless night. In the morning I had breakfast served in my room. At nine the jaboowallah appeared.

I summoned a taxicab, and, accompanied by my tormentor, I went to Manhattan. By ten o’clock we were in the office of the safe-deposit company. The vaults were in the basement, and to them we at once descended. There, giving a key to the jaboowallah, I pointed to the box I had engaged, and bade him open it.

Glancing at the box as my companion drew it out, I saw that the seals, which Ferguson had affixed to the bundle, were broken.

“Some one else has been here,” I whispered, fearfully.

The eyes of the jaboowallah blazed with anger.

“We will see,” he said, as he unfolded the wrapping paper.

Within he found a package of banknotes--nothing more.

As calmly as he had taken out the box, the jaboowallah returned it to its place. Then facing me, he said, quietly:

“The sahib does not lie well. If the things have been stolen, the sahib has stolen from himself. Only ten days remain to him in which to restore the stones to the priests in whose keeping they belong. If they are not returned in this time, the holy men will place the eyes of the sahib in the empty sockets of the sacred image of Rajiid, and there they will remain until the lost gems are restored.”

Stricken aghast by the awful threat, as well as by my helplessness, I made no attempt to reply. My visitor turned, ascended the stairs, and disappeared from my view; nor have I seen him since that hour.

All that remains of my terrible story may be briefly told.

My flight to Brooklyn had been in vain. Wherever I went I was watched by spies. I notified the police, and, on two occasions, I pointed out men whom I suspected of hounding me. They established their innocence, and I was discredited. The police then began to suspect that I had attempted to delude them when I reported the loss of the articles from my room.

At length, convinced that the law would vouchsafe me no redress, I turned one day on one of the spies and attacked him so vigorously that I left him insensible on the pavement. I was arrested, subjected to an examination, and pronounced to be a victim of delusions. When the court directed that I be sent to an insane asylum, friends came to my aid and had me placed in a sanitarium.

By this time the ten days allowed to me for the restoration of the gems had expired; but, even though surrounded by madmen, I felt a sense of security in the institution to which I had been committed until, one morning, on looking through a window, I saw two strangers driving along the road. In one of them I recognized one of the spies who had been watching my movements in New York. Accordingly, I obtained an interview with the superintendent and told him my story. He appeared to give little credence to it, but two days later I learned that he had been severely wounded in an encounter with a Hindu whom he had found prowling about the grounds. The next night a mysterious fire consumed the wing of the building in which I had my room.

Once more the superintendent sent for me, and in his presence and that of two strangers I repeated my story. This was many months ago. A week later I was released. Accompanied by the superintendent, I was taken to a house in which I found Mr. Westfall. There I remained carefully guarded and in seclusion, until I was taken to his yacht, which brought me to this barge.

* * * * *

When the Whispering Gentleman finished his narrative, the Nervous Physician pushed back his chair impatiently, and, rising, began to pace to and fro.

“Absurd--utterly absurd!” he exclaimed, disgustedly. “Do you expect me to believe--any sane man to believe--that this blundering friend of yours continued to breathe and speak after the jaboowallah had decapitated him?”

“I have not asked you to believe it,” replied the Whispering Gentleman, calmly. “I merely have described to you certain things which I have seen and heard.”

The Duckhunter, turning to the Hypochondriacal Painter, who sat beside him, muttered grumpily:

“An insane asylum is the best place for him, after all.”

The Hypochondriacal Painter, making no reply, kept his wide, mournful eyes turned to Westfall, who was in the act of taking from Driggs, the servant, a large, covered, silver dish. This dish the host thrust toward the middle of the table, and then removed the cover.

From that moment the voices of all Doubting Thomases were hushed. A long-drawn sigh seemed to issue from the company as each guest gasped for breath. By the removal of the dish’s cover, Westfall had revealed a cushion of purple velvet on which gleamed, like the fragments of a scintillating star, two diamonds as large as hen’s eggs.

“My friends,” said Westfall gravely, “for these gems most women--aye, even those who wear queenly crowns--would sell their very souls. They are the lost eyes of Rajiid’s Buddha.”

“In Heaven’s name--where--how did you come by these?” the Whispering Gentleman asked, tremulously.

Westfall, laughing, shook his head.

“For several weeks both were in your possession, my dear Forsythe,” he said.

“In mine?” exclaimed the Whispering Gentleman, who was now the incarnation of bewilderment. “Did the jaboowallah----”

“No,” replied Westfall, interrupting him. “I obtained them from a person who will now occupy the chair that has been reserved for the ninth guest, and from whose lips you will hear the story of the Decapitated Man.”

As he spoke, all eyes turned toward the doorway. The curtains were seen to flutter; then the figure of a tall, gaunt man, with pallid cheeks and burning eyes, moved slowly down the steps.

“Ferguson!” hissed the Whispering Gentleman, tottering backward as if he were about to fall.

A moment later the bewildered guests were startled by a low, frightened cry from the farther end of the table, and, turning, they saw the Veiled Aeronaut sink back in her chair.

“Water--water--let’s have some water here!” commanded the Duckhunter, as, bending over the inert figure of the young woman, he roughly raised her veil. “Come, be quick--one of you! The lady’s fainted!”

The Fugitive Bridegroom, with a water-carafe in his hand, was hurrying toward the end of the table when his gaze fell on the features which the act of the Duckhunter had exposed to view.

Halting suddenly, the Fugitive Bridegroom grew pale as death, and, as the carafe fell from his hand to the floor, an exclamation of amazement escaped his lips.

“Paula--my wife!” he muttered.

The effect produced on the newcomer by the sight of the young woman’s face was scarcely less extraordinary than that produced on the Fugitive Bridegroom.

“Pauline!” he gasped. “At last----”

He was starting forward impulsively, when one of Westfall’s hands fell on his shoulder.

“Stop!” the millionaire said sharply. “You forget that you promised me that you would not speak to her until I bade you do so.”

“True, true,” Ferguson replied, sullenly. “But when I promised, I did not believe that you could make good your word. I thank you, sir, and--and, my promise will be kept.”

Harvette, the Frenchwoman, was quickly summoned, but by the time she arrived the young woman had recovered and again lowered her veil. Westfall hastened to her side and suggested that she go to her room. The Veiled Aeronaut shook her head, however.

“I will remain,” she said, determinedly. “It is better that I should know all now.”

Harvette retired, and the guests resumed their places at the table. Then once more Westfall addressed them.

“We will now hear the story of the Decapitated Man,” he said.

The ninth guest, resolutely turning his eyes from the Veiled Aeronaut, then began an account of his adventures.