Chapter VIII: The Professor Turns Naturalist

“Hullo, young people! Sorry I’m late for tiffin.”

The professor came up the stairs, breathing heavily. His face was very red and glistened with moisture, his tunic was open and he was mudded up to his knees.

Joyce sprang to her feet and ran to meet him.

“Father! Where on earth have you been?”

He kissed the top of her head and waved a peculiar object over her back at Armourer.

“What d’you think of that?”

The magistrate removed his pipe from between his teeth and observed it curiously.

“A butterfly net,” he suggested.

“Exactly--and if I’d had it half an hour ago, I’d have saved myself a lot of unnecessary exertion.”

His daughter took it from him.

“Where did you get it?”

The professor mopped his forehead.

“A most intelligent Sikh, whom I encountered in my travels, constructed it in less than twenty minutes. He happened to have the materials handy. You see, it’s quite simple. Just a couple of feet of bent cane, a little binding and some mosquito netting. He’s made a first-class job of it, don’t you think so, Armourer?”

The younger man took it from the girl and made a wild swipe in the empty air.

“Quite an efficient sort of implement.”

Joyce laughed.

“It’s very nice, of course,” she conceded; “but I don’t see what use it is.”

“No,” said her father, “I don’t for one moment suppose you do. I shouldn’t myself, if I hadn’t caught sight of the butterfly. It was a unique specimen--large and red and particularly clumsy in flight, and it managed to inspire me with the enthusiasm of a boy. I remembered, too, that Baines’s last words to me were--‘If you do happen to find any rare bugs, try and get me them.’” He blinked over his glasses at Armourer. “He has a wonderful collection. I don’t suppose there’s another like it in the world. Well, I saw this butterfly and followed it for about a couple of miles. I had nothing with me except my helmet, so I dipped my handkerchief in a stream and knotted it over my head. The creature flew low and a dozen times I was within an ace of catching it--and then my spectacles got misted somehow and I lost sight of it altogether.”

The D.O. nodded sympathetically.

“Where was this?”

“Quite near that bungalow you showed us in the trees.”

“Moberly’s place!”

“I think that was the name you told us. I was prompted to call and ask if anything like it had been seen there before, but I remembered it was lunch-time. The first human being I met was this Sikh--a picturesque fellow with curling beard and an elaborate turban. He told me his name was Gholam-Singh. He had witnessed my wild career after the butterfly and knew exactly what I wanted.”

His daughter smiled.

“He must have thought you a priceless sort of lunatic! What a ridiculous exhibition! An elderly gentleman, with a hanky knotted over his head, chasing butterflies!”

“In the heat of the day,” added the magistrate. “Rather a risky thing to do, professor, with nothing to cover the nape of your neck.”

Standen snorted.

“Rubbish! I was in the shade of Mr. Moberly’s rubber trees most of the time. Chasing butterflies is no more ridiculous in a native’s eye than hitting a white ball into space--and calmly proceeding to walk after it! I’m sorry I missed that fellow, though. Quite apart from my promise to Baines, I became interested in it myself. It was a butterfly--and yet it wasn’t, if you can understand me.” He stared from one to the other. “A butterfly is an airy, dainty thing, but this--although it was correctly formed--looked more like a piece of raw meat furnished with legs and antennæ.”

Joyce gasped.

“But how disgusting!”

The professor sat down somewhat heavily.

“Disgusting, eh?--Well, in some respects, I suppose it was.” He shook his head sadly. “Ten years ago, net or no net, I shouldn’t have muffed a thing like that.”

She indicated the implement which now reposed on the table.

“And now perhaps you will tell us why you want that.”

He drummed with his fingers on his knees.

“To go after it again, of course. Butterflies breed quickly and where there is one there should be others.” He glanced sharply at Armourer. “Have you ever seen one?”

The D.O. shook his head.

“I don’t remember ever noticing anything that answers to your description; but then, you see, I’m not a naturalist.”

“But you couldn’t miss a thing like that,” the other insisted, “nobody could.”

“And you are quite determined to get one of them before you leave Borneo?”

“Most certainly. I owe Baines a good many debts of gratitude.”

Armourer rubbed his hands together.

“Then that settles it. There’s only one thing for it. You’ll have to tell the people at Jesselton to send your _barang_ up here, and give me the pleasure of your company for another week at least. Miss Standen, I am counting on you to be a sport and back me up.”

A smooth-haired terrier with a patch over one eye raised itself on its hind paws and thrust a nose confidingly between her fingers.

“It certainly sounds very tempting,” she admitted. “Doesn’t it, daddy?”

The professor removed his glasses and wiped them. Presently he replaced them and, clasping his hands behind his back, faced his host.

“If there’s one thing in this world I endeavour to avoid, it’s overstaying my welcome. Ever since we left the boat we’ve had nothing but hospitality thrust upon us with both hands. Now, you wouldn’t believe it, I know, Armourer, but in some respects I’m particularly sensitive. I should hate to think I’d left an unpleasant impression behind me in Borneo. To put it bluntly, I don’t want to be regarded as a _sticker_.”

Joyce looked at Armourer.

“What he really means to say is that he knows jolly well we oughtn’t to bother you any further and that our obvious duty is to get back to Jesselton this afternoon, but he does so want to use that butterfly-net!”

“Good enough,” laughed the magistrate. “We’ll call that a bargain, shall we, professor? You’ll stop here--both of you--until you get your butterfly, and I’ll guarantee to have your kit fetched up here by dinner-time this evening. Suppose we have some lunch?”

“It’s a conspiracy,” declared the professor, and left it at that.

At the conclusion of the meal Professor Standen retired to his room to change his suit for one Armourer had lent him.

Joyce stirred her coffee thoughtfully.

“Do you really want us to stop, Mr. Armourer?”

The D.O. looked up.

“Rather!”

“Honestly?”

“Of course. To tell you the truth, Miss Standen, I’m so grimly determined to keep you here that I’m issuing instructions to the natives to _swat_ every red butterfly in the neighbourhood and so dispose of their corpses that your father’ll never find ’em.”

She looked down at the cloth.

“That wouldn’t be very fair, would it?”

“No, but it’d be frightfully effective.”

“We couldn’t stay here for ever, you know. Father counted on being in Borneo for a month and then going on to the Philippines. We’ve been here more than a week already.”

Armourer filled his pipe.

“I suppose it’s really rather selfish of me to try and keep you anchored in one spot. You see, Miss Standen, when one is forced to move in a restricted area one forgets that visitors, with a limited number of days at their disposal, want to move around and see everything there is to be seen. You’re pretty fed up with me, aren’t you, for using the crimson butterfly as a lever to persuade your father to stop?”

The girl flushed.

“Oh no. I wanted him to stay. I hate just rushing about, getting glimpses of hundreds of places. It reduces one to the level of the ordinary tourist. Whenever I look back on this one real big adventure of ours, I want to remember that I lived, for a while at least, exactly as the people do who have to be here all their lives. I shall always remember Jelandang and your thatched bungalow--and the dogs. I shall never forget that ridiculous trolly accident, the glorious view from the railway and your ride to Mrs. Battiscombe’s for clothes. I must try and go over one day soon and thank her.”

A shadow crossed Armourer’s face. There were some things he would never forget either--that mad dance at Rembakut the night before, those cursed lips of hers and the unexpected arrival of her husband. Somehow or other, he didn’t want Joyce to meet Vera Battiscombe. It would be like the meeting of something pure with something decidedly impure.

“I have every reason to be grateful for that trolly accident,” he said. “It scarcely seems possible that it could only have happened yesterday. Just fancy, we have only had one look at the bay together, one walk up the slope and one sunset--and yet, to me at least, it seems as if we have never been doing anything else. Twenty-four hours ago I was feeling unutterably lonely. I was bored with myself, bored with my job, fed to the teeth with everything----”

Their eyes met.

“Were you really? You poor thing! Then we were actually doing you a good turn in coming to stay with you?”

He pushed back his chair.

“I should just think you were! I hadn’t seen a decent-looking white woman for heaven knows how many months.”

“Except Mrs. Battiscombe,” she retorted wickedly. “Oh, you can’t deny she’s very beautiful and frightfully attractive. Anybody will tell you that. Even I know it, and I’ve only been in Jesselton a week! And I heard you ride back last night, you know.”

He was staring at her awkwardly, endeavouring to frame some form of defence, when a figure appeared suddenly at the doorway. It was Vance--Moberly’s first assistant.

“Sorry to butt in on you like this, Armourer, but rather a terrible thing’s happened.”

The magistrate started.

“What’s the trouble?”

Vance rubbed his chin and looked from Armourer to Joyce.

“You’d better come outside and I’ll tell you.”

“I’ll come now. You’ll excuse me, Miss Standen?”

“Certainly.”

He followed the other on to the verandah.

“Well?”

“Moberly’s dead!”

“What!”

“He’s dead,” said Vance again. “Trevor found him just after lunch. He was doubled up in his chair on the verandah. Trevor sent for me.”

Armourer glanced at his watch.

“I’ll ride over with you. Any idea of the cause?”

Vance pursed up his lips.

“He was poisoned, of course. There’s not the least doubt about that. He’d gone a ghastly colour. It’s a queer business altogether. There was a piece of paper between his fingers and an opened packet on the table at his side.” He lowered his voice. “You know, of course, that Mrs. Battiscombe used to run over there pretty frequently. Well, the paper appeared to be a note from her and the packet contained some brooches and things he’d given her.”

The magistrate picked up his hat.

“She’d turned him down?”

“It looks like it.”

“And you suggest he poisoned himself?”

The planter frowned.

“I don’t know what to think. There’s a horrible crimson mark right across his left cheek, like a ghastly birth-mark, and shaped like a butterfly.”