Chapter 22

“How does it come that you're a Bar, and a high one at that?”

The other grinned again. He took off his shako and ran his hand through his mop of red hair.

“'Tis aither th' luck of th' Irish, me lad, or of th' Scotch. Oi don't ken which--Oi'm haff each--but mostly 'tis th' virtoo av me bonny red hair.”

“Why?”

“Because, leastways, in th' Thomahlia, there's always a dhrop av royalty in th' red-headed. Me bonnie top-knot has made me a fortune. Ye see, 'tis th' mark av th' royal Bars themselves; no ithers have it.”

Watson said: “If you have come from Dr. Holcomb, then you must have a message from him to me.”

“Ye've said it; you an' me, an' a few Rhamdas, an' mebbe th' wee queen is goin' t' take a flight in th' June Bug. We're goin' afther th' ould doc; an' ye kin bet there'll be as pretty a scrap as ever ye looked on. An' afther thot's all over, we're goin' t' take anither kind of a flight--into good old Frisco.”

Chick instantly asked Pat if he knew where San Francisco might be.

“Faith, 'tis only th' ould doc knows, laddie. But when we git there, 'tis Pat MacPherson that's a goin' for Toddy Maloney.”

“I don't know that name.”

“Bedad, I do. Him it was thot give me th' dhrink.”

“What drink?”

Th' dhrink thot done it. Twas a new kind av cocktail. Ye see, I'd jist got back from Melbourne, an' I was takin' in th' lights that noight, aisy like, whin I come t' Toddy's place. I orders a dhrink av whuskey.

“'Whist, Pat,' says he, 'ye don't want whuskey; 'twill make ye dhrunk. Why don't ye take somethin' green, like th' Irish?'

“'Green,” says I. ''Tis a foine colour. I dinna fear anything thot comes fra' a bottle. Pass'er oot!'

“An' thot he did. 'Twas 'creme de menthay' on th' bottle. 'An',' says he, ''Twon't make ye dhrunk.' But he was a liar, beggin' yer pardin.

“For by an' by Oi see his head a growin' larger an' larger, until Oi couldn't see annything but a few loights on th' cailing, an' a few people on th' edges, loike. An' afther thot Oi wint oot, an' walked till Oi come to a hill. An' there was a moon, an' a ould hoose standin' still, which th' moon was not. So Oi stood still to watch it, but bein' tired an' weary an' not havin' got rid o' me sea-legs, Oi sat me doon on th' steps av th' hoose for a bit av a rest, an' t' watch th' moon, thinkin' mebbe she'd stand still by an' by.

“Well, sor, Oi hadn't been there more'n three 'r four minits, whin th' door opened, an' oot steps a little ould lady, aboot th' littlest an' ouldest Oi iver see in 'Frisco.

“'Good avenin', Mother Machree,' says Oi, touchin' me hat.

“'Mother Machree!' says she, an' gives me a sharp look. Also she sniffs. 'Ye poor man,' says she. 'Ye'll catch yer death o' cold, out here. Ye better coom in an' lie on me sofy.'

“Now, sor, how was Oi to ken, bein' a sailor an' ingorant? She was only a ould lady, an' withered. How was Oi to ken thot she was th' ould Witch o' Endor?”

Watson's memory was at work on what he knew of the house at Chatterton Place, especially regarding its occupants at the beginning of the Blind Spot mystery. The Bar's old remark caught his attention.

“The Witch of Endor?”

“Aye; thot she were. Whin Oi woke up, there was nary a hoose at all, nor th' ould lady, nor Toddy Maloney's, nor 'Frisco. 'Twas a strange place I was, sor; a church loike St. Peter's, only bigger, th' same bein' harrd to belaive. An' th' columns looked loike waterspoots, an' th' sky above was full av clouds, the same bein' jest aboot ready to break into hell an' tempest. But ye've been there yerself, sor.

“Well, here was a man beside me, dressed in a kilt. An' he spakes a strange language, although Oi could undershtand; and' he says, says he:

“'My lord,' was what he says.

“'My lord!' says Oi. 'Oi dinna ken what ye mane at all, at all.'

“'Are ye not a Bar?' says he.

“'Thot Oi am not!' says Oi, spakin' good English, so's to be sure he'd understand. 'Oi'm Pat MacPherson.'

“But he couldn' ken. Thin we left th' temple an' wint out into the street. An' a great crowd of people came aroun' an' began shoutin'. By an' by we wint into anither buildin'.

“'For why sh'd iverybody look at me whin we crossed th' street jest noo?' I asked.

“'Tis y'r clothes,' says he.

“Now, Oi don't enjoy pooblicity, sor; wherefore th' wily Scotch in me told me what to do, an' th' Irish part of me did it. I stood him on his head, an' took his clothes off an' put them on meself. An' then no one noticed me. Thot is, until Oi took me hat off.”

“You mean, that shako?”

“Yis; th' blaemd heavy thing--'tis made o' blue feathers. Well, whin it got so hot it made me scalp sweat, Oi took it off; an' then they called me--'My lord' an' 'your worship,' jest loike Oi were a king.

“'Pray God,' says Oi, 'that me head dinna get bald.'

“Well, sor, Oi had a toime that was fit for th' Irish. Oi did iverything 'cept git drunk; there was nothin' to git drunk with. But afther a while I ran across anither, wit' jest as red hair as I had. He was a foine man, av coorse, an' all surrounded by blue guards. He took me into a room himself an' begin askin' questions.

“An' I lied, sor. Av coorse, 'twas lucky thot Oi had me Scotch larnin' an' caution to guide me; but whin Oi spoke, Oi wisely let th' Irishman do all th' talkin'. An' th' great Bar liked me.

“'Verily,' says he, most solemnly, 'thou art of th' royal Bars!' An' he made me a high officer, he did.”

“Was he the Bar Senestro?” asked Watson.

“Nay; 'twas a far better man--Senestro's brother, that died not long after. When Oi saw th' Senestro, Oi had sinse enough to kape me mouth shut. An' now Oi'm a high Bar--next to th' Senestro hisself! What's more, sor, there's no one alive kens th' truth but yerself an' th' ould doctor.”

It was a queer story, but in the light of all that had gone before, wonderfully convincing. Watson began to see light breaking through the darkness. “Now there are two,” the old lady at 288 Chatterton Place had said to Jerome, when the detective came looking for the vanished professor. Had she referred to Holcomb and MacPherson? Two had gone through the Blind Spot, and two had come out--the Rhamda Avec and the Nervina. “Now there are two,” she had said.

“Tell me a little more about Holcomb, Pat!”

“'Tis a short story. Oi can't tell ye much, owin' to orders from the old gent hisself. He came shortly after th' death of the first Bar, Senestro's brother. Seems there was some rumpus aboot th' old Rhamda Avec, which same Oi always kept away from--him as was goin' to prove th' spirits! Annyhow, we was guardin' th' temple awaitin' th' spook as was promised. An' thot's how we got th' ould doc.

“But th' Rhamdas niver saw him. Th' Senestro double-crossed 'em, an' slipped th' doctor oop to th' Palace av Light.”

“The Palace of--what?”

“The Palace av light, sor. Tis th' home av th' Jarados. 'twas held always holy by th' Thomahlians; no man dared go within miles av it; since the Jarados was here, t'ousands of years ago, no one at all has been inside av it.

“But the Senestro knew that th' doctor was th' real Jarados, at least he t'ought so; an' he wasna afraid o' him. He's na coward, th' Senestro. He put th' doctor in th' Jarados' home! Only th' Prophecy worries him at all.”

At last Watson was touching firm ground. Things were beginning to link up--the Senestro, the professor, the Prophecy of the Jarados.

“Well, sor, we Bars have kept th' ould doctor prisoner there iver since he come, wit' none save me to give him a wee bit word av comfort. But it dinna hurt th' old gent. Whin he finds all them balls an' rainbows an' eddicated secrets, he forgets iverything else; he's contint wit 'his discovery. 'Tis th' wise head th' doctor has; an' Oi make no doobt he's th' real Jarados.”

The red-haired man went on to say that the professor knew of Chick's coming from the beginning. He immediately called in MacPherson and gave him some orders, or rather directions, which the Irishman could not understand. He knew only that he was to go to the Temple of the Leaf and there touch certain objects in a certain way; also, he was to arrange to get near Chick, and give him a word of cheer.

“But it dinna work as he said it, sor; he had expected to catch th' Senestro. Instead, 'twas th' dog got th' Bar. A foine pup, sor; she saved yer loife.”

“Where's the dog now?”

“She's on th' Spot av Life, sor. She willna leave it. Tis a strange thing to see how she clings to it. Th' Rhamdas only come near enough to feed her.”

Thus Chick learned that, as soon as he got well, he and MacPherson were to seek the doctor, and help him to get away with the secrets he had found, the truths behind the mystery of the Spot.

“An' 'tis a glorious fight there'll be, lad. Th' Senestro's a game wan; he'll not give up, an' he'll not let go th' doctor till he has to.”

This was not unwelcome news to Chick. A battle was to his liking. It reminded him of the automatic pistol which he still had in his pocket--the gun he had not thought to use in his desperate struggle with the Bar Senestro.

“Pat,” said he, with a sudden inspriation, “when you came through, did you have a firearm?”

MacPherson reached into his pocket and silently produced a thirty-two calibre pistol, of another make than Chick's but using the same ammunition. From another pocket he drew out a package carefully bound with thread. He unrolled the contents. It was an old clay pipe!

“Oi came through,” he stated plaintively, “wit' two guns; an' nary a bit av powder for ayther!”

Chick smiled. He searched his own pockets. First he handed over his extra magazine full of cartridges, and then a full package of smoking tobacco.

“Wirra, wirra!” shouted MacPherson. “Faith, an' there's powder for both!” His hands shook as he hurried to cram the old pipe full of tobacco. The cartridges could wait. He struck a light and gave a deep sigh of content as he began to puff.

XLIII

THE HOME OF THE JARADOS

Chick had been grievously hurt in the contest with the Senestro, but thanks to the Rhamdas he came round rapidly. It was a matter of less than a week.

Things were coming to a climax; Chick needed no lynx's eye to see that the die had been cast between the Bars and the Rhamdas. Soon the Senestro must make a bold move, or else release the professor.

Chick had not long to wait. It came one evening. Once again he found himself in the June Bug, accompanied by the Geos, the Jan Lucar, and--the little Aradna herself. Their departure was swift and secret.

This time Watson was not worried over height, or any other sensation of flight. The doctor's safety alone was of moment. He said to the Rhamda:

“Are we alone? Where is the Bar MacPherson?”

“He is somewhere near; we are not alone, my lord. Several other machines are flying nearby also; they carry many of the Rhamdas and the crimson guard of the queen. The MacPherson will arrive first. We are going straight to the Palace of Light, my lord.”

“Are we to storm the place?” thinking of the fight MacPherson had predicted.

“Yes, my lord. Many shall die; but it cannot be helped. We must free the Jarados, although we commit sacrilege.”

“But--the Senestro?”

“That depends, my lord. We know not just what may be done.” He gave no explanation.

They had climbed to a tremendous height. The indicator showed that they were bearing east. The darkness was modified only by the faint glow from that star-dusted sky. Looking down, Chick could see nothing whatever. His companions kept silence; only the Aradna, sitting forward by the side of Jan Lucar showed any perturbation. They climbed higher and higher still, until it seemed that they must leave the Thomahlia altogether. Always the course was eastward. At last the Jan said to the Geos:

“We are now over the Region of Carbon, sir. Shall I risk the light? His lordship might like to see.”

“Follow your own judgment.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the Aradna; “do it by all means! There is nothing so wonderful as that!”

The Jan touched a small lever. Instantly a shaft of light cut down through the blackness. Far, far below it ended in a patch on the ground. Watson eagerly followed its movements as it searched from side to side, seeking he knew not what. And then--

There was a flash of inverted lightning, a flame of white fire, a blinding, stabbing scintillation of a million coruscations. Watson clapped a hand to his eyes, to cut off the sight. It was stunning.

“What is it?” he cried.

“Carbon,” answered the Geos, calmly.

“Carbon! You mean--diamond?”

“Yes, my lord. So it interests you? I did not know. Later you shall see it under more favourable conditions.” Then, to the Jan: “Enough.”

Once again they were in darkness. For some minutes silence was again the rule. Watson watched the red dot moving across the indicator, noting its approach to a three cornered figure on one edge. Suddenly there appeared another dot; then another, and another. Some came from below, others from above; presently there were a score moving in close formation.

“They are all here,” said the Jan to the Geos.

The other nodded, and explained to Chick: “It's the Rhamdas and the Crimson guards. The MacPherson is just ahead. We shall arrive in three minutes.”

And after a pause he stated that the ensuing combat would mark the first spilling of blood between the Bars and the Rhamdas. At a pinch the Senestro might even kill the Jarados, to gain his ends. “His wish is his only law, my lord.”

The red dots began to descend toward the three-cornered figure. One minute passed, and another; then one more, and the June Bug landed.

With scarcely a sound the Lucar brought the craft to a full stop. In a moment he was assisting the Aradna to alight. As for the Geos, he took from the machine two objects, which he held out to the Aradna and to Chick.

“Put these on. The rest of us fight as we are.”

They were cloaks, made of a soft, light, malleable glass, or something like it. Watson asked what they were for.

“For a purpose known only to the Jarados, my lord. There are only two of these robes. With them he left directions which indicated plainly they are for your lordship and the Aradna.”

Wondering, Chick helped the Aradna don her garment and then slipped into his own. Nevertheless, he pinned more faith in the automatic in his pocket. He did not make use of the hood which was intended to cover his head.

“Pardon me,” spoke the queen. She reached over and extended the hood till it protected his skull. “Please wear it that way, for my sake. Nothing must happen to you now!”

Chick obeyed with only an inward demur. What puzzled him most was the isolation. Seemingly they were quite alone; there was nothing, no one, to oppose them.

But he had merely taken something for granted. He, being from the earth, had assumed that strife meant noise. It was only when the Aradna caught him by the arm, and whispered for him to listen, that he understood.

It was like a breeze, that sound. To be more precise, it was like the heavy passage of breath, almost uninterrupted, coming from all about them. And presently Chick caught a queer odour.

“What is it?” he breathed in the Aradna's ear.

“It is death,” she answered. “Cannot you hear them--the deherers?”

She did not explain; but Watson knew that he was in the midst of a battle which was fought with noiseless and terribly efficient weapons--so efficient that there were no wounded to give voice to pain. Before he could ask a question a familiar voice sounded out of the darkness at his side.

“Where is the Geos?”

“Here, Bar MacPherson,” answered the Rhamda.

“Good! It is well you came, sir. We were discovered a few minutes ago; already we have lost many men. Just give us the lights, so that we can get at them! It is a waste of men, with the advantage all on their side.”

Then, lapsing into English for Chick's benefit: “'Tis welcome ye are! Ivery mon helps, how.”

“What are these sounds? You say they are fighting?”

“'Tis the deherers ye hear, lad. They fight with silent guns. Don't let 'em hit ye, or ye'll be a pink pool in the twinklin' of yer eyelid. 'Tis no joke.

“Are they more powerful than firearms?”

“I dinna say, lad. But they're th' devil's own weapon for fightin'.”

Chick did not answer--he had heard a low command from the Geos. Next instant the space before them was illuminated by clear white light, in the form of a circle--bright as day. In the centre shimmered an object like a mist of blue flame, a nimbus of dazzling, actinic lightning. There was no sign of man or life, no suggestion of sound--nothing but the nimbus, and the brilliant space about it. The whole phenomenon measured perhaps three hundred feet across.

They were in darkness. Chick took a step forward, but he was held back by MacPherson.

“Nay, lad; would ye be dyin' so soon? 'Tis fearful quick. See--”

He did not finish. A red line of soldiers had rushed straight out of the blackness into the circle of light. It seemed that they were charging the nimbus. They were stooping now, discharging their queer weapons; about three hundred of them--an inspiring sight. They charged in determined silence.

Then--Watson blinked. The line disappeared; the thing was like a miracle. It took time for Chick to realise that he was looking upon the “pink death” MacPherson had warned him against--the work of the deherers, whatever the word meant. For where had been a column of gallant guards there was now only a broad stream of pink liquid trickling over the ground. It was annihilation itself--too quick to be horrible--inexorable and instantaneous. Chick involuntarily placed himself in front of the Aradna.

“The blue thing in the middle,” observed the Irishman, coolly, “is th' Palace av Light; 'tis held by th' Senestro jest now. An' all we got to do is get th' ould doc out.”

“But I see no building!”

“'Tis there jest the same. Ye'll see it whin th' doctor gits time off his rainbows. 'Tis absent-minded he gets when he's on a problem, which same is mostly always, sor. We stay roight here till he gets ready to drop on th' Senestro.”

Watson waited. He knew enough now to cling to the shadow, there with MacPherson, the Geos, and the Aradna. In the centre of the great light-circle the nimbus of blue stood out like a vibrating haze, while all about, in the darkness, could be heard the weird sound made by the passage of life.

“When will the Jarados act?” inquired the Geos of the Irishman. But he got no reply. MacPherson spoke to Watson: “Get yer gun ready, lad; get yer gun ready! Look--'tis th' ould boy himself, now! I wonder what the Senestro thinks of that?”

For the nimbus had suddenly dissolved, and in its place there appeared one of the quaintest, yet most beautiful buildings that Watson had ever seen. It was a three-cornered structure, low-set, and of unspeakably dazzling magnificence; a building carved and chiselled from solid carbon. Chick momentarily forgot the doctor.

In front of it stood a line of Blue Guards, headed by the Senestro. Their confusion showed that something altogether unexpected had happened. They were ducking here and there, seemingly bewildered by the sudden vanishing of that protecting blue dazzle. The Senestro was trying to restore order; and in a moment he succeeded. He led the way toward a low, triangular platform, at the entrance--a single white door--to the palace.

Pat MacPherson's automatic flashed and barked. Next instant Watson was in action. The Bar next to the Senestro staggered, then collapsed against his chieftain. Another rolled against his feet, causing him to stumble; an act that probably saved his life, for the platform in a second was covered with writhing, bleeding, dying Bars.

The Senestro managed to reach the doorway. MacPherson cursed.

“Come on!” he yelled to Watson. “Well git him alive!” Watson remembered little of that rush. There stood the great Bar at the doorway, surrounded by his dying and panic-stricken men. The cloak given Chick by the Geos impeded his progress; with a quick movement he threw it off and ran unprotected alongside the Irishman. The Blue guards saw them coming; they levelled their weapons. But before they could discharge them they met the same fate as had the Reds. A tremor in the air, and they were gone, leaving only a pink pool on the ground.

Senestro alone remained untouched. He was about to open the white door; for a second he posed, defiant and handsome. Then the great Bar ducked swiftly and almost with the same motion dodged into the building. Chick and Pat were right after him.

Inside was darkness. Chick ran head on against the side wall; turning, he bumped into another. The sudden transition from brilliance to blackness was overwhelming. He stopped and felt about carefully--momentarily blind. What if the Senestro found him now?

He called MacPherson's name. There was no reply. He tried to feel his way along, finding the wall irregular, jagged, sharp cornered. But the way must lead somewhere. He reached a turn in the passage; it was still too dark for him to see anything. He proceeded more cautiously, wondering at those craggy walls. And then--

Chick slapped his hands to his eyes. It was as if he had been shot into the core of the sun--the obsidian darkness flashed into light--a light beyond all enduring. Chick staggered, and cried in pain. And yet, reason told him just what it was, just what had happened. It was the carbon; he was in the heart of the diamond; the Senestro had led him on and on, and then--had flashed some intense light upon the vast jewel. Watson knew the terrible helplessness of the blind. His end had come!

And so it seemed. Next instant someone came up to him--someone he could hear if he could not see. It was the Senestro.

“Hail, Sir Phantom! Pardon my abrupt manner of welcome. I suppose you have come for the Jarados?” And he laughed, a laugh full of mockery and triumph. “Perhaps you think I intend to kill you?”

Watson said no word. He had been outwitted. He awaited the end. But the Senestro saw fit to say, with an irony that told how sure he was:

“However, I am opposed to killing in cold blood. Open your eyes, Sir Phantom! I will give you time--a fair chance. What do you say--shall we match weapon against weapon?”

Watson slowly opened his eyes. The blinding light had dimmed to a soft glow. They were in a sort of gallery whose length was uncertain; between him and the outlet, about ten feet away, stood the confident, ever-smiling Bar.

“You or I,” said he, jauntily. “Are you ready to try it? I have given you a fair chance!”

He raised his dagger-like weapon, as though aiming it. At the same instant Chick pulled the trigger from the hip, snap aim.

The gun was empty.

Another second, and Watson would have been like those spots of colour on the ground outside. He breathed a prayer to his Maker. The Senestro's weapon was in line with his throat.

But it was not to be. There came a flash and a stunning report; the deherer clattered against the wall, and the Senestro clutched a stinging hand. He was staring in surprise at something behind Chick--something that made him turn and dart out of sight.

Chick wheeled.

Right behind him stood the familiar form of the Jan Lucar; and a few feet beyond, a figure from which came a clear, cool, nonchalant voice;

“I would have killed that fellow, Chick, but he's too damned handsome. I'm going to save him for a specimen.”

Watson peered closer. He gave a gasp, half of amazement, half of delight. For the words were in English, and the voice--

It was Harry Wendel.

XLIV

DR. HOLCOMB'S STORY

If there was the least doubt in Chick's mind that this was really Harry, it was dispelled by the sight of the person who the next moment stepped up to his side. It was none other than the Nervina.

“Harry Wendel!” gasped Watson. It was too good to be true!

“Surest thing you know, Chick. It's me, alive and kicking!” as they grabbed one another.

“How did you get here?”

“Search me! Ask the lady; I'm just a creature of circumstance. I merely act; she does all the thinking.”