Chapter V: The Eyes of Rajiid (1)

Though, for reasons which you will soon understand, I have been known recently by the name of Alfred Ferguson, I am no other than Cecil, Lord Galonfield, and am the possessor of one of the most venerable titles and one of the most debt-encumbered estates in the United Kingdom.

I am now thirty years of age. Of the incidents of my early life there were few that bore any relation to the adventures which have befallen me in the last two years. I went through Harrow, and from thence to Cambridge, where I took my degree when I was twenty-two. Until this time I believed myself to be heir to a valuable and well-ordered estate. I was soon undeceived, for only a few days after I bade farewell to my student life, I was summoned to the presence of my father, who informed me that, owing to the reckless expenditure made by the last two holders of the title, a period of strict retrenchment was necessary, and that for ten years, at least, it would be necessary to rent our family seat in Yorkshire and our house in London.

My father, who never had made a secret of his desire to have me prepare for a political career, was especially outspoken now on this subject.

“Young as you are, this period of retirement from the fashionable world may be employed to much advantage,” he said. “If you will go to Paris or Berlin, where you are unknown, you will be spared the humiliation of being compelled to expose your poverty. There you can address yourself to the study of political affairs, and thus acquire a fund of knowledge which will be invaluable to you when the time comes for you to enter into your own.”

Believing myself to be ill-fitted temperamentally for such a career, I had little liking for the prospect which my father, formerly so indulgent, thus pointed out to me. In his younger days he had served in the army, eventually rising to a colonelcy, and I long had cherished the hope that I might do likewise.

“There is no chance for me in the army, then?” I asked sullenly.

“No,” he answered promptly. “Your income, which, for some time, will be limited to three hundred a year, would prove insufficient to support a commission. Besides, as an officer, you might be ordered to India.”

There was something in his tone that caused me to look at him with surprise.

“Why should that possibility be regarded as an objection?” I asked, wonderingly.

Removing the eyeglasses he was wearing at the time, he turned to me gravely, and, for several moments, he gazed at me thoughtfully.

“My son,” he said, at length, “I was well advanced in the period of middle age when you were born, and, inasmuch as more than fourscore years are behind me, I have not much longer to live. If you go to the Continent, as I have suggested, I may not see you for several months, and in that time much may happen. It is best, therefore, that I should speak with you on a certain serious matter before you go.”

As, leaning forward, I watched him earnestly, I saw a strange, far-away expression come into his eyes, and the hand that was toying with his watch-charm began to tremble. After pausing for several moments, he went on:

“In my breast there is a secret which I had hoped to be able to take with me to the grave. But I shall not succeed in doing this, for during the last ten years I have been aware of the fact that strange influences are at work around me. It is a secret that has to do with India, and which has caused me to view with suspicion every man who has come to me from that awful country.”

Pausing again, he looked abstractedly at the wall; then, rousing himself suddenly, he continued:

“Were I to go into all details, the story would be a long one, but I will tell it as briefly as I may.

“As you know, my father had two sons, and of these I was the younger. My brother, Robert--who, by the way, you resemble greatly in more ways than one--entered the army shortly after he obtained his degree. He soon became popular with his brother officers, and, as he displayed considerable military ability, his advancement, due partly to his father’s influence, was singularly rapid. At the age of thirty he held a major’s commission.

“It was about this time that the Indian Mutiny began, and Robert’s regiment was ordered to India, whither I--a twenty-two-year-old lieutenant--already had gone with another regiment. Despite the fact that on several occasions our respective regiments were only a few miles apart, Robert and I did not meet.

“Having received, at the battle of Mungulwar, a wound that incapacitated me for further service, I returned home. Six months later Robert caused to be sent to this country the body of Lieutenant Wortley, who had only a small income, and was almost friendless in England. At Robert’s request, my father made arrangements for the unfortunate young man’s burial in the parish church at Hetley, in Northumberland, where his parents and sister were entombed.

“I had been in England only nine months when, upon entering my father’s study one morning, I found him stretched lifeless on the floor. He had lived an unbridled sort of life, and for several years he had suffered greatly with the gout. His heart had been weak, and as, spellbound with horror, I bent over his body, I doubted not that heart disease was responsible for his sudden death.

“Quickly recovering my presence of mind, I summoned the servants and directed one to go for a village doctor. As I became more calm, I picked up from the floor two sheets of paper which appeared to have been dropped by my father as he fell. One of these sheets contained two verses of doggerel, in the handwriting of my brother, Robert. Without reading the verses, I glanced at the second sheet. This I found to be a letter addressed by Robert to our father. It was as follows:

MY DEAR FATHER: Within an hour after this is despatched to you, a
ball from my own pistol will have ended my life. Two days ago I fell
into the hands of a band of native fanatics, who, subjecting me to a
series of the most terrible tortures, mutilated me in such a manner
that I have resolved never to permit myself to be seen by those who
knew me before.

And so, farewell--to you, to my brother, to dear old England and all
I have loved. Distant as you are from where I will die to-day, you
will be the first to know that your oldest son is dead.

I enclose herewith some verses entitled “Stars of Destiny.” As
they represent the only literary effort I have ever made, it is my
wish that they be pasted on the back of the frame that holds our
genealogical chart. It is an absurd request, perhaps, but it is the
last that you may have from

Your unfortunate son,

(signed) ROBERT.”

Tears filled my father’s eyes as, in a broken voice, he added:

“And thus did I become the twentieth Earl of Galonfield.”

“My Uncle Robert’s body was never identified?” I asked.

“No,” my father said. “His colonel reported him missing. I never heard of him again. The verses were only doggerel, written, I suppose, after the poor fellow’s mind had been weakened by the tortures to which he was subjected, but, with reverent hands, I pasted them on the back of the frame, as he requested, and only once since then have I seen them. This was on the day when, imbued with a spirit of heartfelt thankfulness, I took down the chart to inscribe upon it the name of him who was destined to be my only son.

“My father had died in 1859, and having inherited the Galonfield title and estates, I found the latter heavily encumbered by debts contracted by my father and grandfather. Your mother, however, brought me a large fortune, and I was in a fair way to establish my affairs on a financial basis when a series of strange adventures began to befall me. Since then I have lived the life of a haunted man.

“The first of these incidents was my receipt of a letter from the London branch of the Calcutta banking firm of Golphin & Faley. This letter informed me that the firm had been authorized by the Rajah of Nauwar to receive from me two diamonds that had been entrusted to the keeping of my brother Robert during the Indian Mutiny, and which, the bankers said, were then known to be in my possession. Naturally, and truthfully, I asserted that I never had seen or heard of them.

“The bankers were insistent, and, finally, the Rajah brought suit against me for the restitution of the diamonds. He attempted to prove the delivery of the stones to my brother, but my attorneys soon showed that his witnesses were perjuring themselves. Shortly after this the Rajah died, and for several months I heard no more of the matter.

“At length, however, the affair assumed a far more extraordinary phase, and you may easily imagine my astonishment when I began to receive from India letters written, as were the addresses on the envelopes that enclosed them, in the handwriting of--my brother!

“In each case the fluid used was India ink, and each letter consisted of only a few lines--begging me--commanding me--to deliver the two diamonds to Golphin & Faley without delay.

“In all, I have received no less than thirty of these letters during a period that has extended over thirty years. The last came to my hands three weeks ago.

“As I have said, your mother brought to me a large fortune. When she died, four years after your birth, this was left to me unconditionally, and most of it has been used in attempts to find my brother.

“The letters bearing Robert’s signatures were dated in various towns in India--Calcutta, Oodeypoor, Allanhabad, Saugor, and Madras, and the postmarks indicated that they were, in fact, sent from those places. Some of these cities were so distant from one another, however, that the territory which my agents found it necessary to search comprised more than half of the Indian Empire. It is not surprising, therefore, that the search was vain.

“That many persons, other than residents of India, believe that I have these mysterious stones in my possession, is indicated by the fact that, from time to time, dealers in precious stones have visited me and have offered to purchase them at enormous sums. Scarcely a month has gone by that has not found on my desk some letter threatening me with death or financial ruin if I do not relinquish the gems.

“No house in England has been so frequently entered by burglars as has mine, and I have been obliged to discharge scores of servants whom I have found to be guilty of tampering with my private letter boxes.”

“Do you believe my Uncle Robert is still alive?” I asked.

“No,” replied my father with decision. “I do not doubt, for a moment, that he died in the course of the few days following the despatch of that last letter to my father. The letters I have been receiving, and which purport to be from him, either are exceedingly clever forgeries, or were written by him, while under duress, after writing to my father.”

“Well, it is plain that the Rajah and the others would not have made such determined and costly efforts to get the stones from you had they not an excellent reason for believing that, having come into the possession of my Uncle Robert, they had been forwarded by him to you,” I said thoughtfully.

My father nodded.

“That is unquestionably true,” he said. “But, despite all the inquiries I have made, I have failed to discover why the stones were given to my brother, or the identity of the person from whose hands he received them. The Rajah asserted that the stones had been stolen from him, and that the thief--a native--entrusted to my brother a commission to take them to England, where they were to be offered for sale. The native is dead, and, while the Rajah pretended to have documentary evidence of the understanding which existed between my brother and the thief, he failed to produce it.”

For several minutes we sat in silence; then, rising, my father laid a hand on my shoulder.

“This, my son, is the secret that I have never, until now, asked you to share. I hope and pray that the persecutions to which I have been subjected may not pass to you with the title which you will inherit on my death. If Robert still lives, I hope that he and I may meet again. If he is dead, may his poor spirit rest in Heaven.”

The following week I bade farewell to my father, and set off for Paris. I remained in the French capital for four years, and during that time I succeeded in supplementing the three hundred pounds which I had received annually from my father with a couple of hundred pounds for services as Paris correspondent for a London weekly newspaper.

I regret to say, however, that, despite my profound regard for my father, I devoted comparatively little time to the course of study which he had suggested. Living in modest quarters, I found my income sufficient to enable me to mingle with the laughter-loving denizens of the Latin Quarter, and, devoid of all serious ambition, I was well content.

But this irresponsible mode of life was brought to a sudden close when I received from my father the following telegram:

In Heaven’s name come to me at once at Wercliffe. My life is no
longer my own. Insist on seeing me. Take no refusal.

(signed) GALONFIELD.

An hour later I was on my way to England. Arriving there, I hastened to Wercliffe Hall, our country seat, where I was greeted by strange servants. This fact caused me little surprise, for the Hall had been rented to an American for a couple of years, and, naturally, our old servants had dispersed.

When, however, a stranger, introducing himself as Dr. Tully, told me that, as my father’s physician, he was compelled to ask me to delay my visit to his bedside, my spirit was roused.

“I will go to him at once, even if it is necessary for me to knock down a dozen men who bar my way,” I retorted, angrily.

His face grew livid, but whether this was the result of fear or anger I could not tell. He stepped back, however, and, as I passed on, I heard him mutter, sullenly:

“Well, the devil take you, then. I’ll not be responsible for the consequences.”

Turning quickly, I addressed him again:

“What is the matter with my father?”

“He was stricken with heart trouble, ten days ago,” the man replied. “Any excitement, however slight, is likely to prove fatal to him now.”

I hesitated, but it was only for a moment. The words of the message flashed into my mind, and I knew that, in the circumstances, it was more probable that my father would be more excited by my tardiness than by my appearance. Accordingly, passing on, with Dr. Tully close at my heels, I came at last to my father’s bedchamber.

As I opened the door quietly, I saw my father, wrapped in a dressing-gown, seated in a chair near one of the windows. His face was like a death-mask, and I shrank in horror from the change that had been wrought in his appearance since I had seen him last, six months before.

But for only a moment did my gaze rest on the face and figure of the invalid. Standing beside him, and bending over his chair, was a tall, lanky, clean-shaven man whose features, it seemed to me, I had seen somewhere before. This man was speaking, in a calm, low voice, but I heard his words distinctly.

“So--so!” he was saying, musingly. “He was preparing to die. And his last request had to do with some verses he had written. You read these verses? Yes--ah, yes--they were sad things--about two stars--two stars of destiny, and you pasted them on the back of a frame that held----”

A low cough behind me caused me to turn sharply. The sound had been made by Dr. Tully.

But the cough had been heard by other ears than mine. The tall man beside my father turned abruptly, and as, with kindling eyes and rising color, he confronted me, I knew him in a moment.

It was Simon Glyncamp, an American, who, two years before, had created a sort of furor in Paris by his mind-reading exhibitions.

“Why are you here?” I demanded--half in anger--half in wonder.

“As an assistant of Dr. Tully’s, I might, with more propriety, ask that question of you,” he said, and he flashed an ugly look towards the physician.

I was about to speak when a low, shrill cry interrupted me, and, with outstretched arms, my father, trembling violently, rose from his chair.

“Cecil--Cecil, my son!” he cried in accents so pitifully weak that they smote my heart. “Cecil, they are killing me--they have me in their power. I am dying, and this man is robbing me of my soul. Fear him--fear him--Cecil--I----”

He tottered toward me, then, as he fell in my arms, his figure became inert. I bore him to a chair, and, as I laid him down, I looked into his eyes. The lids were raised, but I knew that he never would see me more.

Maddened by rage and horror, I seized Glyncamp by the throat and hurled him toward the door. His head struck the wall and he fell like a bent poker to the floor. I rang for a servant, and when the man appeared, I bade him bring the old village doctor.

An hour later I had driven from the house Glyncamp, Tully, and every servant who had been employed about the place. Among them there was not one who did not know that I had murder in my heart. They went quickly.

The places of the servants were taken temporarily by some of the villagers. That night two strangers, who were found loitering in the park, were stoned from the grounds.

When I became more calm, I secured the services of two detectives, who I directed to obtain evidence showing that Glyncamp and Tully were responsible for my father’s death. A few hours later I learned that the villains had crossed the channel.

For the two weeks following the funeral of my father, my attention was absorbed by matters relative to the estate. These I found to be far less serious than I had expected. The frugality of my father and the excellence of his judgment were not without effect. Some debts were still unpaid and there were several mortgages to be lifted, but it was apparent that the financial crisis of the Galonfield affairs had been passed successfully. I did not doubt that two more years would find the estate, not only free from debt, but in such shape as to yield an income of twenty thousand pounds a year. Having reached this gratifying conclusion, I next addressed myself to a solution of the mystery which enveloped the closing days of my poor father.

That a desperate attempt had been made to wring from my father some sort of secret which his tormentors had believed him to possess was, of course, perfectly apparent. What was it that this American mind-reader had been trying to learn at the moment that my appearance had interrupted his efforts?

I distinctly remembered the words I had heard on that occasion, and I tried to understand their significance. It was plain that the American was leading my father’s mind back to the time when he had read the papers that had fallen from my dying grandfather’s hand. Why did Glyncamp desire to know what disposition he had made of the verses he found?

Then I suddenly remembered that, despite the fact that my father had told me what he had done with these verses, I had not had sufficient curiosity to look at them. Rising now, I left the study, in which I had been seated, and, entering the library, I took down from the wall the framed genealogical chart of the Galonfield family. Returning with this to the study, I laid it on the desk.

The sheet containing the verses met my glance at once. It was yellow, and covered with dust, but the India ink with which the lines had been written had lost none of its blackness. The paste had dried, however, and, as I touched the paper, it came off the wood to which it was attached. The handwriting was small and almost femininely dainty, and I read:

STARS OF DESTINY.

Rare as two angel-tears congealed
Are those that flashed their light
Just as great Buddha’s gaze revealed
Its splendors to men’s sight.
Immured within a human breast,
Down Tyneside one shall go.
’Tis only when the truth is guessed
Shall men behold its glow.

Let him who hath less haste than I,
Or deems himself less rich,
Seek that from which in fear I fly--
The treasure in the niche.
Encompassed by the very walls
Your temple-builders made,
Ere death unto the finder calls,
Seize fast the long-tongued jade.

I always have been a lover of poetry, but in this I found nothing that appealed to me. The verses left the writer’s meaning so obscure that, believing, as my father had done, they amounted to no more than mere doggerel, I dropped them into one of the drawers of my desk. A few moments later my solicitor entered the room to discuss with me some matters that had to do with the settlement of the estate, and the verses ceased to have a place in my thoughts. The chart was returned to its place on the wall without the verses which, in accordance with the writer’s wish, had been pasted on the back of the frame before my birth.

Five weeks after my father’s death, I received from another American an offer for a lease on Wercliffe Hall, and, having decided to continue, for two or three years at least, my father’s policy of retrenchment, I promptly accepted it. A month later I established myself in an apartment in London.

While arranging my papers in the desk in my new quarters, I found that among them were the verses from the chart.

Despite my resolution to curtail my expenses as much as possible, I yielded to the solicitation of an old family friend and joined a couple of clubs which had had the names of Earls of Galonfield on their rolls from the time of their foundation. It was at one of these clubs that I first met Meschid Pasha who, little as I suspected it at the time, was destined to play an important part in the history of my life.

Meschid Pasha, who had attained considerable prominence as an officer in the Turkish army, was a man about fifty-five years of age, with a pleasing address, thoughtful face and the physique of a man of thirty. I was introduced to him by an old friend of my father’s, with whom, however, I had only a slight acquaintance.

The Pasha explained that he had been in London only a few days, and that twenty years had passed since his last visit. Courteously he asked me for certain information concerning the town, and, as I was able to give him this, we soon found ourselves conversing together in terms of easy familiarity. There was something in the man that interested me, and when he invited me to take dinner with him on the following evening, I promised to do so.

He had told me that, designing to spend several months in London, he had rented a furnished house in the West End. Thither I went, at the time appointed, expecting to find a modest town house fitted up in conventional British style. The house itself was modest enough, being in the middle of a dingy brick block, but scarcely had I been admitted to the hall when I became aware of the fact that the fastidious Pasha had established in the heart of London a residence which, by reason of its interior appointments, might have been transported from Constantinople or Damascus.

In the dimly lighted hall I saw a Nubian, clad in Oriental costume, steal like a shadow from a deep niche and noiselessly ascend the stairs. The room to which I was conducted had the aspect of the corner of a Turkish bazaar. The walls were hung with rich Oriental draperies, and were further decorated with shields, simitars, yataghans and spears.

Meschid received me with marked cordiality, and, after a short conversation, led me to an adjoining room where dinner was served. Everything was cooked and served in Oriental fashion.

When dinner was finished we smoked, and, as we smoked, our talk was of the collapse of Russia, the wrangles among Christian sects in Jerusalem, the influence of sea power on history, and Parisian opera. This brought us to a discussion of the relative merits of French, German, Italian, and American singers, and so we talked of women. Then, half-absently, Meschid said:

“My wife was an Englishwoman.”

I started, for I knew that among Mohammedans it is regarded as an almost unpardonable breach of etiquette for men to speak of the female members of their families.

“Indeed!” I murmured, faintly.

“My daughter, whose education was entrusted to an English governess, has so long felt a desire to see her mother’s native country, that, yielding to her wish, I brought her with me,” the Pasha went on gravely. “I regret having done so, however, for her incessant questioning almost drives me mad. I shall try to have her visited each day by some discreet London woman, but your ladies’ ideas of a woman’s life are so vastly different from ours that I am inclined to fear the result.”

“Is your daughter’s English governess not with her?” I asked.

“No, my friend, her governess died last year.”

“Well, surely, among the wives of your English friends----”

“I have no English friends,” he interrupted. “To be perfectly frank with you, I will confess that among my English acquaintances there is none who is so well qualified to win my friendship as is the Earl of Galonfield.”

“In view of what you have said concerning your daughter, that is most unfortunate,” I said, laughingly. “The Earl of Galonfield has no wife, mother, or sister.”

Smiling thoughtfully, Meschid nodded.

“It is most unfortunate,” he replied with a sigh. “But what would you advise me to do? Is there any cultured and thoroughly responsible woman you would recommend who----”

He stopped suddenly, and, glancing at me sharply, he slowly twisted one of the ends of his black mustache. For the first time since I had met him I was conscious now of a sense of embarrassment.

“Stop!” he exclaimed, as he saw that I was about to speak. “There is an old adage that directs those who are in Rome to do as the Romans do. We are in England, and, relying on your discretion, I will do as the English do. My daughter shall be present at our council.”

He smote his sinewy hands together with a force that startled me, and, responding to this sound, a corpulent negro, wearing a red fez and a long black coat, entered the apartment. To this man Meschid addressed several quickly spoken sentences in a language that I did not understand. The negro bowed profoundly and left the room.

Meschid and I smoked in silence.

Strange as it may seem, I was not agreeably impressed by these manifestations of extraordinary friendliness, and from the moment that my host had first spoken of his daughter, I was conscious of a rapidly increasing feeling of distrust. I was never known as a “woman’s man,” and all my life I have been peculiarly insensible to flattery. Why had this distinguished foreigner sought my acquaintance? Why was he now manifesting toward me such startling evidence of his confidence?

My discomfiting reflections were dissipated, however, by the parting of the curtains at the door, and the appearance of one of the most remarkable figures on which I ever had gazed.

Clad in a long-sleeved, silken caftan of purple silk, the open folds of which revealed a low, white, gold-embroidered vest, an orange-colored sash and pale-green trousers, it was the figure of a woman. Her head, however, was enveloped in a snowy _yashmak_, and through the slit of this I saw a pair of dark eyes lighted with what appeared to be curiosity and amusement. Her bare feet were thrust into dainty, jeweled slippers of crimson leather, and the light from the diamonds set in her rings and bracelets almost dazzled me.

Utterly bewildered by the suddenness with which I had been confronted with this pearl of an Oriental harem, as well as by my ignorance of the conventionalities which should be observed on such occasions, I started to rise. A moment later, with a fluttering heart and trembling limbs, I sank helplessly back on the ottoman on which I had been seated.

At a word from the Pasha, the young woman had raised her jeweled hands, and, by two or three deft movements, freed her head from the veil.

I was face to face with a beautiful creature that might have been one of those houris who, according to the promise made by Mohammed, await the faithful within the gates of Paradise!

I am not a poet, so I will not attempt to describe the face I saw. It was unnaturally beautiful. Nature had been lavish in her gifts, but these were so supplemented by the work of human hands that the general effect bewildered me. It was plain that nature had not given to this fair woman’s lips all their redness, nor had it invested her lashes and eyebrows with such blackness. Diamonds were shimmering in her hair, many of the stones being so concealed by the dark tresses that I could see only their light.

Without rising, Meschid said quietly:

“This is my daughter, and, with the exception of the members of my family, your lordship is the first man before whom she has unveiled her face.”

Rising clumsily, I took in mine the dainty, gem-covered hand the young woman held out to me.

“I am glad that one of my mother’s countrymen is the first of your sex that I am permitted to meet,” the young woman said, smiling graciously and speaking in faultless English.

She glanced half-timorously toward the Pasha, as if to assure herself that her words had met with his approval.

Meschid smiled grimly, but said nothing.

I stammered a few conventional sentences, then we sat down. As I did so, I observed that a second person had entered the room. This was a tall woman clad in a black gown and a _yashmak_ of the same color. She seated herself in one of the corners of the room, and, with her head slightly bowed, remained motionless for the rest of the evening. This, I doubted not, was some withered Turkish duenna to whose care the young woman had been consigned.

In a surprisingly short time I was again at ease. Had it not been for her Oriental costume and cosmetics, this fair stranger easily might have passed for a charming, vivacious young Englishwoman. As it was, there were moments when I felt as if, as a guest at a fancy-dress ball, I was sitting in a corner of an Englishman’s home, talking with a couple of English friends.

In the course of the two hours that followed my introduction to this beautiful young woman, we conversed on many subjects, and, incidentally, I learned that her name was Pauline.

“It is not a Turkish name, you know,” she explained laughingly. “I was named after a relative of my mother’s.”

It was ten o’clock when I took leave of my host and his charming daughter. They invited me to visit them again on the second evening following, and at the appointed time I was there.

For more than a month I made a practice of visiting Meschid’s house twice each week, and on most of these occasions I was afforded an opportunity to pass an hour in the company of Pauline and the sombre, featureless duenna, who followed her like a shadow, but whose voice I never had heard. And there were times when, as the duenna appeared to be absorbed in memories of distant lands and days, Pauline and I drew so near together on one of the large ottomans that our hands were wont to meet, and I saw in her eyes those wondrous lights that the old Persian poets, looking into others, had seen and sung about.

How much of this the old duenna saw, we never knew.

At length, however, there came a sudden awakening, and I visited Meschid’s house no more.

Pauline and I were sitting on the ottoman together, about nine o’clock one night, and talking in whispers that could not have reached the duenna’s ears, when I, raising my eyes, saw Meschid, who was scowling darkly, standing in the doorway. Pauline, following the direction of my glance, saw him, too, and, with a little cry, raised her head from my shoulder, on which it had been lying.

For several moments the silence that followed the discovery of Meschid’s presence was unbroken. The Pasha was the first to speak.

“Well, your lordship, you see I trusted you,” he said bitterly.

“Nor have I betrayed your confidence,” I said calmly, as I rose. “Before introducing me to your daughter, you told me that, being in England, you were prepared to do as the English do. I have taken you at your word, and, having obtained your permission to visit your daughter, I have acted as almost any Englishman who loves a woman would act in similar circumstances. In the English manner I have wooed her, and, as an Englishman who is able to offer her both social position and fortune, I now ask your permission to make her my wife.”

Meschid’s face was less clouded now. His gaze wandered from me to the duenna at the farther end of the room, and then I saw that the somber figure had risen as if prepared to receive the expected rebuke. This was not forthcoming, however. Walking deliberately toward the center of the room, Meschid addressed his daughter, whose colorless face and frightened eyes were turned toward him.

“Leave us,” Meschid said with an imperious wave of the arm.

Pauline, hesitating, turned to me. Taking her hands I pressed them to my lips.

“Whatever happens now, we shall meet again,” I murmured. “No earthly power except your own can prevent me from making you my wife.”

With a little sigh, she turned to the door. Then, followed closely by the duenna, she left the room.

“Let us smoke,” the Pasha said, and, taking a cigar-case from his pocket, he opened it and held it toward me.

I took one of the cigars and we sat down together on one of the ottomans.

“And so you want to marry her,” Meschid said, gravely.

“Yes,” I answered.

“You are asking me to yield to you the most beautiful woman in the world,” he went on, thoughtfully.

“I am well aware of that,” I said.

“And you know that every pearl has its price,” he added.

A sudden chillness crept over me, and my heart sank. For the first time in my life I knew the sensation of fear. I realized, too, that I was dealing now with a true son of the Orient--a part of the world where women are bought and sold for harems.

“Well, what is the price of this?” I asked him, sullenly.

“The most valuable pair of diamonds known to man,” replied the Pasha gravely.

I started, and looked at him sharply.

All was clear to me now. This man had come all the way to London to tempt me. So far as Pauline and I were concerned, he had left nothing to chance. This house, with its Oriental furnishings, had been fitted up for no purpose other than that to which I had seen it applied. It was a trap set for me alone, and baited with--Pauline!

Almost unconscious of the Pasha’s presence, I rose and began to pace the floor. In my brain was raging a fire that seemed to be consuming all the respect for man and love for woman that I ever had felt. Was it possible that this splendid woman--the fairest I ever had seen--had been only playing a part? Was she nothing more than a blind, unreasoning puppet that moved in obedience to this jewel-seeker’s will? Or, ignorant of her father’s base designs, had she really learned to love me?

While I still was tortured by these conflicting thoughts, it suddenly occurred to me that my position was presenting a second, and no less serious, phase. The shadow of the curse that had blighted my father’s life now had fallen upon me! I was in the presence of one of the men who, it was apparent, thoroughly believed that the mysterious diamonds were in the possession of my family. How did he come by this belief?

Glancing toward Meschid, I saw he was watching me stolidly.

“The most valuable pair of diamonds known to man might not be too precious to offer in exchange for such a gift,” I said. “But where am I to get them?”

The Pasha shrugged his shoulders.

“Your lordship must find the way,” he answered, shortly.

“Do you believe they are already in my possession?” I asked.

“No,” Meschid replied. “But I have reason to believe your father knew where they might be found. I doubt not that he communicated the secret to you.”

“Have you reason to believe that they are in England?”

“No,” said the Pasha, smiling slightly. “If I knew the secret of the hiding-place, it is probable that I would not find it necessary to come to you.”

“How were you led to suspect that the secret was in the possession of my family?” I asked.

“That is my affair,” he retorted.

For several moments both of us were silent. Then, having thought calmly on the matter, I addressed him.

“For many years men have suspected that two valuable diamonds either were in my father’s possession or that he had the secret of their hiding-place,” I said. “Why they should think this always constituted a mystery that he never was able to fathom. Independent of my interest in your daughter, it is desirable that I find the gems. If they come into my possession I gladly will relinquish them to you in exchange for the gift that it is in your power to bestow on me. I would require as a further condition, however, that publicity be given to the fact that you have become the owner of the stones.”

“That responsibility I would assume most cheerfully,” Meschid replied with a smile.

“I am perfectly willing,” I said, “to undertake the quest, provided it is possible for me to find the clue which, though unknown to me, appears to be identified with the property that I have inherited. If you have any suggestion to offer that is likely to put me on the right track, I beg of you to let me have it.”

Meschid shrugged his shoulders.

“I can give you no advice,” he said, half-contemptuously. “I have told you on what terms I will grant you my consent to marry my daughter. The rest is your affair.”

“How much time may I have in which to attain my object?” I asked.

Again the Pasha shrugged his shoulders.

“My daughter is twenty now, and a woman’s beauty does not last forever,” he answered, sharply. “If, within two years from to-day you deliver these stones to me, Pauline shall be your wife. If you fail to do this within the period I have named--why, then she will become the bride of a more determined suitor.”

“What is the history of these stones?” I asked him desperately. “Who was supposed to have had them before they were delivered to my uncle? All large diamonds have distinctive names. By what names are these known? How am I to learn who had them last, and how they may be identified?”

The Pasha shook his head.

“I have no information concerning these details,” he said. “As I have said, it is your affair.”

Meschid moved toward the door suggestively as he spoke, but I, standing in the middle of the room, still hesitated.

“Will I not be permitted to see your daughter again before she leaves London?” I asked.

“No,” he answered with decision. “I will start for Constantinople to-morrow, and she will go with me.”

I bowed and left the room. Meschid, contrary to my expectation, did not accompany me. As I passed through the dimly lighted hall, however, a strange thing happened. A shapeless figure suddenly appeared, then flitted to a doorway. On the wall opposite this doorway was an oval mirror in a massive gold frame, and as I passed it, something in the glass attracted, then riveted, my attention.

It was a human face from which had fallen the folds of the yashmak that had concealed from my view the features of the duenna, and, as I looked, I recognized the long, angular face of Glyncamp, the American mind-reader!

Involuntarily I stopped. For several moments the mirrored eyes gazed steadily into mine, then the face disappeared, and I passed on.

A black-garmented negro, gliding from a niche, met me as, descending the stairs, I made my way to the lower hall. He opened the street door for me, and, stepping out, I found that the city was enveloped in a fog as thick, murky and gloomy as my thoughts.

On the following day I learned that Meschid, Glyncamp, and most of the members of the Pasha’s household had left London for Dover. The servants who remained behind were engaged in the task of packing furniture.

The next week I gave much time to the examination of my father’s correspondence, hoping to find therein a clue to the identity and whereabouts of some person who might know something more of the mysterious gems than I had been able to learn. My search was vain, however, and, brooding over my failure, late one night, my thoughts were diverted by the entrance of a servant who gave to me the card of a visitor.

As I glanced at the card, an exclamation of pleased surprise came to my lips. I pushed back my chair and hurried to the hall to welcome the one man in all the world for whom, since my father’s death, I had entertained feelings of real affection--Frank Blakeslee, an old classmate, who, having obtained a commission in the army, had been serving in India, Africa and Malta, and whom I had not seen for more than four years.

I am not an emotional man, but now my heart seemed to rise to my throat. Since Blakeslee and I had parted last, I had seemed to be living a life of isolation, and during this period there was none I regarded as a confidant. Now, when I saw the smiling bronzed face of my old friend in the hallway, I gave no heed to the hand that he held out to me, but, grasping him by the shoulders, I shook him violently--insanely, like a very fool. My words of welcome fell incoherently from trembling lips, but he read their meaning in my eyes.

Startled by the strangeness of my greeting, my friend looked a little alarmed at first, then, smiling, he said, in his brusque, English way:

“Well, Cecil, how are things with you? I was sorry to hear of your governor’s death. I knew it must have cut you up a bit.”

We talked for a while on various subjects of interest to us both. Then, coming back to my affairs, I told him all that had befallen me since my father had revealed to me the strange secret of his life.

Blakeslee watched me intently as I proceeded with my narrative, and, from time to time, the shrewd questions he put to me showed that the last few years had not clouded the keen perceptions that had inspired me with admiration in our college days. I brought the narrative down to the very moment that the servant had placed my friend’s card in my hands.

When I finished, Blakeslee slowly settled back in his chair and puffed vigorously at his pipe. I watched him curiously, anxious to learn what effect my recital had upon his mind. At length he spoke.

“How’s Cummings?” he asked, absently.

Cummings, an inconsequential fellow, was an old classmate of ours, of whom I had lost sight. His life had never interested me.

“I don’t know anything about him,” I replied, shortly, and a feeling of resentment sent the blood to my face as I realized that my friend’s thoughts already had wandered from the subject I had found so vital.

“A helpless sort of duffer, wasn’t he?” said Blakeslee, meditatively. For several moments he smoked silently, then he went on: “But, I say, old man, you haven’t showed me that doggerel--those verses, you know--that your uncle wrote.”

I hesitated. Blakeslee had disappointed me. As he sat now, thumbing tobacco deeper into the bowl of his pipe, there seemed to be something impertinent in his complacency. Dominated by a spirit of irritation, I made no reply to his suggestion. He flashed toward me a look of earnest inquiry.

“If you happen to have them anywhere about you, Cecil, I’d sort of like to have a look at them,” he persisted.

Half-reluctantly, I opened a drawer of my desk, and, after a little fumbling, found the sheet and handed it to him. He read the verses deliberately.

“Humph--not bad!” he muttered, as he finished reading; then, laying the sheet on one of his crossed knees, he lighted his pipe. “What have you made of them?”

“Nothing,” I answered, sullenly.

“But the possibility that they might afford some sort of a clue to the mystery of the diamonds naturally occurred to you,” my friend said thoughtfully, as again picking up the sheet he looked at the back of it.

“The idea did occur to me, but there seemed to be nothing in the character of the lines to encourage it. Accordingly, I dismissed it.”

“And you didn’t look for an acrostic or cryptogram or--or anything of that sort?” he went on musingly, as, with his elbows on his knees, he studied more carefully the lines on the sheet.

“No,” I replied.

For nearly five minutes the silence was unbroken. Puffing deliberately at his pipe, Blakeslee kept his gaze on the sheet he was holding before him.

“Well, Cecil, there’s something here,” he drawled, at last.

I stiffened suddenly. All my resentment left me now.

“Do you know, Cecil, I always had a fancy for this sort of thing,” said Blakeslee, with a chuckle. He paused, then added: “He’s talking about gems--two of them--that’s plain enough.”

“He calls them stars--stars of destiny,” I protested.

“Figuratively--figuratively, I suppose they are,” he said, abstractedly. “But they are gems, for the writer plainly indicates that the objects were capable of being handled--and one does not handle stars, you know. Now, let us see. Listen to this: ‘Rare as two angel-tears congealed--’ There were two of them, you see. ‘Are those that flashed their light--’ Diamonds are the only gems that really flash. But now let’s see what he means by ‘just as great Buddha’s gaze revealed--’ That ‘just’ signifies the time the stones were there--that they were--well, some place, I suppose. ‘Its splendors to men’s sight.’ Now it’s clear that the ‘its’ refers to the gaze and not the flashing of the diamonds. In short, then, the diamonds flashed when Buddha gazed.”

I rose irritably.

“Oh, that’s all nonsense!” I exclaimed. “If you are going to undertake the thing at all, you’d better get on another track.”

“Nonsense!” Blakeslee repeated, in an injured tone. “There’s nothing nonsensical about it, old top. I’ve been in India, and I’ve seen images of Buddha that used to have necklaces of precious stones around their necks. Sometimes the images were veiled. The withdrawal of the veil would reveal the gems and the face of the image at the same time, wouldn’t it?”

I went back to my chair. There seemed to be some method in the madness of my friend, after all.

“Well,” Blakeslee went on, “let us see how this first verse goes when the lines are taken together.

“‘Rare as two angel-tears congealed
Are those that flashed their light
Just as great Buddha’s gaze revealed
Its splendors to men’s sight.
Immured within a human breast,
Down Tyneside one shall go.
’Tis only when the truth is guessed
Shall men behold its glow.’

That’s clear enough, too--in a way.”

“Clear enough!” I exclaimed in disgust. “It seems to me that it makes everything more obscure than it was before.”

“Not at all,” replied Blakeslee, calmly. “It plainly indicates that one of the stones was to be taken from the land of Buddha to England. That’s all.”

“Come, come, Blakeslee, you are letting your imagination carry you too far from the field,” I said. “The last four lines of the stanza, more than all the others, have convinced me that my poor uncle really was in a sentimental mood when he wrote of the ‘Stars of Destiny.’ They refer to the death of a comrade--Lieutenant Wortley, who, while serving with my uncle in India, was killed in a skirmish with natives. Wortley belonged to a comparatively humble family in Northumberland. The family and its fortune were about extinct at the time of his death. My uncle’s affection for the poor devil was so strong, however, that he had the body embalmed and sent to England, paying all the expenses of the funeral himself.”

“From what part of Northumberland did Wortley come?” Blakeslee asked sharply.

“From a little village named Hetley,” I replied.

“And he was buried at Hetley?”

“Yes--in the family vault in Hetley churchyard. The town is on the river Tyne, and the lines in the ‘Stars of Destiny’ that read ‘Down Tyneside one shall go’ doubtless refer to this circumstance.”

There was a pause, then Blakeslee said musingly:

“I have heard of men swallowing diamonds in order to hide them--though the act nearly always proved fatal, but stars--never, Cecil--never!”

For several moments I was speechless, and I felt drops of perspiration gathering on my forehead.

“Great Heavens, Blakeslee, you don’t think--” I began.

“I’m only guessing, Cecil,” he answered gravely. “Listen:

“‘Immured within a human breast,
Down Tyneside one shall go.
’Tis only when the truth is guessed
Shall men behold its glow.’

I’m only guessing, boy--I’m only guessing.”

“But--if these diamonds are all that the Pasha believes them to be, each must be almost as large as the Kohinoor. No man would attempt to swallow such a stone.”

“Perhaps he didn’t swallow it,” said Blakeslee. “It may be that he died before the idea of ‘immuring’ it occurred to your ingenious uncle.”

With an exclamation of horror and impatience I rose.

“The very idea is atrocious!” I said.

“Not at all,” Blakeslee protested, complacently. “If men go through life with gold teeth and aluminum jaws in their heads, and silver pipes in their chests, what is there revolting in the idea of a man going to the grave with a diamond in the place formerly occupied by his heart? It was a good thing for the Lieutenant, I should say. Had it not been for that diamond his bones would now be lying in an Indian trench. As it is, he has found burial among his forefathers. There will be no difficulty in getting permission to open the tomb, I suppose.”

“No,” I murmured. “In view of the fact that members of my family had the body brought from India, I dare say the matter readily may be arranged.”

Blakeslee nodded.

“Well, there’s one of the gems accounted for,” he said. “Now let’s see to the other one.”

He again picked up the sheet containing the verses, and began to study the lines attentively. I gave him little attention. Trembling with excitement, I paced the floor with nervous steps. At length a little chuckle from Blakeslee caused me to halt abruptly.

“As an exponent of practical expression, this old chap was a veritable Wordsworth, Alfred Austin, or Walt Whitman--too simple to become great,” he said. “We don’t require any of the literary acumen of a woman’s Browning club to decipher his meaning. Listen to this:

‘Let him who hath less haste than I,
Or deems himself less rich,
Seek that from which in fear I fly--
The treasure in the niche.
Encompassed by the very walls
Your temple-builders made,
Ere death unto the finder calls,
Seize fast the long-tongued jade.’

All that’s plain enough, isn’t it?”