Chapter XVII: A Strange Phenomenon

Trevor looked at Joyce and there was a wealth of meaning in his eyes.

He waved his hand to indicate to the orderly that the interview was at an end and remained silent until he was out of hearing.

“How does the counsel for the defence feel now?”

The girl winced.

“Rotten!” she returned; “decidedly rotten. You might have told me.”

He shook his head.

“Looking back a bit, I fancy I’ve already told you more than I ought; certainly more than is good for you. Now you can realise something of the nature of the shock I suffered when I tumbled across Mai-Heng--and _that_.”

His fingers touched the Butterfly pendant.

“It must have been terrible.”

“It was pretty ghastly.”

“You can’t complain you’ve been left out of the excitement now. I don’t suppose the others have encountered anything half so thrilling.”

Trevor grunted.

“I’ve had enough thrills for one evening, thank you!--A little of this sort of thing goes a long way. Armourer’ll be mighty sick when he hears about Mai-Heng.”

“Do you think he meant to steal the pendant?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I scarcely know what to think. Armourer’s discarded clothing was lying all over the floor, and it’s just possible he left the Butterfly in a pocket and Mai-Heng had only that moment discovered it. Whichever way it was, his luck was badly out.”

He rested his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands.

“I haven’t the remotest idea what it all means,” he announced suddenly; “have you?”

“How should I?”

“No, that’s just it. How should anybody? This cursed charm appears to be at the bottom of the trouble.”

She glanced at it apprehensively.

“We’re back to where we started--back to the _ju-ju_ business again. It is like the real butterfly, you know, only much smaller and, of course, more transparent. I simply adore that chain.”

“It’s pretty enough.”

He picked it up and examined the workmanship minutely.

The girl’s eyes sparkled.

“You can’t imagine any sensible woman refusing a gift like that.”

Trevor blinked.

“How d’you know it was a gift. She might have bought it.”

Joyce smiled.

“Women like Mrs. Battiscombe don’t have to buy pretty things; there is always somebody ready to buy them for them.”

“Why only women like Mrs. Battiscombe?”

The girl coloured slightly.

“Oh, I don’t know. She’s just a type. The majority of women won’t accept presents of that sort from just any man.”

“And you suggest that she does?”

“I suppose that was rather a catty thing to say, and not at all consistent with my defence-of-the-sex idea; but I don’t claim to be any more consistent than most other women. Everybody in Jesselton was talking about her when we arrived.”

Trevor allowed the links of the filigree chain to fall from one hand to the other.

“There are only about three topics of conversation out here at the moment--and one of them’s Vera Battiscombe. Between ourselves, Miss Standen, you’re perfectly right. We were all of us pretty sick at the hold she was getting over Dick Moberly and the way she was letting Battiscombe down. She carried Dick off, so to speak, under the nose of Mrs. Moberly, and the latter, apparently unable to talk Dick back into a sensible frame of mind, cleared out altogether. Poor old Dick!”

“I suppose there was a little jealousy too?”

“Not so far as we were concerned,” he hastened to inform her. “Speaking personally, I’m not inclined to be any too keen on a woman who makes all the running herself. That’s where Moberly was weak. A pretty woman had only to take notice of him and he’d go bang off the deep end.”

“And you think Mr. Moberly gave her this pendant?”

“She sent it back to him with a lot of other things, so I suppose he did.”

“Then why and where did the real butterfly come in?”

Trevor threw up his hands.

“Ask me another!” He glanced at his watch. “Jove! they’re late! I wonder if they’ve struck any snags.”

Joyce was not to be thrown off the main topic of conversation so easily.

“Oughtn’t we to do something to prevent the butterfly coming back?”

Trevor wrinkled his forehead.

“I don’t suppose it’ll want to after that swipe I gave it.”

“There may be others.”

He shuddered.

“Don’t let’s get too morbid. I was just lulling myself to sleep with the thought that our friend was a rare and unique specimen.”

“Can’t we do something with it?”

She was looking at the pendant.

“We’ll have to keep it until Armourer comes back, otherwise I should suggest burying it as far away from any human habitation as possible.”

Joyce nestled back in the cushions and sighed.

“Doesn’t it seem a pity?--to have to bury a beautiful creation like that? It’s so wonderful, so utterly unusual. I know a dozen women at home who would cheerfully risk the trail of tragedy it seems to drag after it only to possess it. And it’s got to be stuck in the ground and have nasty damp earth stamped all over it!”

A perfectly obvious retort occurred to Trevor, but he refrained from expressing it.

“It’s an uncomfortable possession,” he said instead, and tossed the thing deliberately into the farthest corner of the verandah. “I don’t know that even that is a safe precaution against following in the footsteps of Moberly and Mai-Heng; but I feel a great deal more happy with it at a distance.”

“It happens to be outside my door,” she reminded him.

“I don’t think that matters very much. It’s closed--and the others are bound to want to look at it again when they hear what’s happened.”

He stared into the night.

“Hello! there’s a light at last. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Both the terriers pricked up their ears, shook themselves and plunged, barking, down the stairs.

Trevor rubbed his hands together and smiled queerly.

“Wonderful thing, a crowd, Miss Standen! It’s difficult to imagine what any or all of ’em could do if the butterfly rolled up again; but the arrival of a bunch like that undoubtedly promotes a sense of security!”

He crossed to the stair-head and Joyce joined him there.

Making a megaphone of his hands, he called:

“Hullo, there!--Are you all right?”

A faint cry floated back to them.

The girl glanced at her companion.

“Who was that?”

“Armourer, I fancy.”

“What did he say?”

“I didn’t catch; but the tone sounded cheery. I wonder if they’ve brought the black gentleman with them. Judging from the time they’ve been away, they ought to have arrested an entire village!”

Something made her turn her head. She clutched at Trevor’s arm with both hands.

“What is it?”

His eyes followed the direction of her gaze.

“An arm,” she whispered fearfully, “a white arm came through the doorway and went back again.”

He laughed uneasily.

“Which doorway?”

“The far one--my room, you know--and the pendant’s gone!”

He went a couple of paces and bent down, staring at the floor.

“So it has, by Jove!”

She clung to the rail for support.

“What do you think it was?”

“Mrs. Battiscombe walking in her sleep.”

“But why did she take the Butterfly? She couldn’t possibly have known it was there.”

“One wouldn’t imagine so.”

She leaned back, gasping for breath.

“It’s horrible! I’m so glad the others are here.”

“Here, pull yourself together,” said Trevor sternly. “You’ve got to go into that room and find out what’s happened.”

“I daren’t.”

“I’m coming with you. It’s no use waiting about for the rest. If it was Mrs. Battiscombe, so much the better. She has had the thing before--and nothing killed _her_. There’s just the faintest chance it might be somebody else--and I rather hope it is. It’d help to clear up a lot of things.”

He tip-toed across the verandah and opened the door to its fullest extent. The lamp was still burning within, and, on a bed at the far end, he could just make out the outline of a slumbering woman behind mosquito-curtains.

He beckoned to Joyce.

“Come on. There’s nobody here. I want you to draw back those curtains.”

She looked past him, like a frightened child peering into a dark cupboard and fearful of bogies, then walked towards the bed.

They stood presently side by side, gazing down at the sleeping form of Vera Battiscombe.

There was not a sign that she had stirred.

She was breathing regularly, there was a healthy colour on her cheeks, and the soft fair curls encircled her head like a wondrous halo.

Joyce uttered a little cry and pointed to her throat.

The filigree chain was clasped securely round her neck and the Crimson Butterfly nestled in the gossamer folds above a gently heaving bosom.