Part 4

“If I'll perjure myself.” Scowling, Hindwood leaped to his feet. “That was what you meant. At your time of life I should have thought you could have found a less infamous way of gaining your livelihood. There's your hat, and there's the door.” The mocking old gentleman went through the dumb show of clapping his applause. He settled himself more deeply in his chair. When he spoke, it was with the lazy good-humor of a man at his club. “You fill me with admiration. Your last attitude was superb. I have only one criticism to offer of your play-acting; by letting your cigar go out, you betrayed the perturbation you were trying to disguise. It's been dead three minutes.” He raised his hand, delaying interruption. “Don't be angry. I'm not doubting your momentary sincerity. But think back and then own that you also have suspected that she's guilty.”

“Never.”

“Humph! Your memory must be faulty. Allow me to prompt you with a few facts.”

Then and there, without hesitation or boasting, he detailed to Hindwood all his actions, from his departure from the _Ryndam_ to the moment when he had arrived at the Embassy. Hindwood listened to the narration dumfounded.

“So you see,” he concluded, “if I can tell you so much as this, there is probably much more that I could tell. You've been infatuated by a she-wolf. What she did to Prince Rogovich, she has done to at least a dozen of her admirers. She would have done the same to you. Because there have been moments when you thought you loved her, you're unwilling to hand her over to justice. You're even willing to risk your own good name in her defense. It's sports-manly of you, but she's undeserving of your loyalty. When you know the truth, you'll thank your lucky stars that I came to-night.”

IV

Hindwood's face had gone ashen--not through fear for his own safety, but for hers. He was determined not to believe a word of what he had heard, and yet he was curious to learn. There was such an air of complete conviction about the stranger; it was impossible to doubt the integrity of his intentions. What he hoped was to discover some flaw in his logic. Sinking back into his chair, he stared in silence at the man who believed he knew everything.

Remembering that his cigar had gone out, he commenced searching through his pockets for a match.

“They're at your elbow,” the stranger informed him. “No, not there. On the table. I've upset you more than I intended.”

Again they lapsed into silence.

At last Hindwood said: “I owe you an apology. I've been insulting, but the blame is partly yours. You didn't explain yourself; you withheld your identity. I was expecting a kind of policeman. But I think you understand. Anyhow, I regret my rudeness. Now tell me, who are you?”

“I'm Major Cleasby, formerly of the Indian Army. My main hobby is studying the Asiatic.” Hindwood looked up sharply. He remembered the impression Santa had made on him, that if her eyes had been darker, she could have passed for a Hindoo princess.

“I don't see what studying the Asiatic has to do with the disappearance of Prince Rogovich,” he said. “If we're going to arrive anywhere, what we need is frankness. I think you ought to understand my side of the affair.”

The Major nodded.

“Then, to start with, I'm unmarried--not that I'm a woman-hater, but my life has been too packed with important undertakings to leave me much time to spare on women. I've been a kind of express, stopping only at cities and rushing by all the villages. On the _Ryndam_ I was forced to come to rest; it so happened that Santa Gorlof was the village at which I halted. The _Ryndam_, as you know, isn't one of these floating palaces; she doesn't attract the flashy type of traveler. The company on this last voyage was dull--dull to the point of tears. The Prince and Santa Gorlof were the two exceptions. I got to know her first and the Prince later. It was I who introduced her to him. We were each of us a bit stand-offish at first; we drifted together against our wills, in an attempt to escape from boredom. Then we began to expect each other, till finally--We were two men and a woman, with nothing to distract us; it's an old story--the usual thing happened. I suppose you'd call it a three-cornered flirtation in which the Prince and I were rivals.

“At first Santa was strictly impartial; toward the end it was the Prince she favored. I'm afraid I got huffy, which was distinctly childish, for none of us was serious. We were two men and a beautiful woman at loose ends, rather dangerously amusing ourselves. At Plymouth, if things had terminated normally, we should have come to our senses and gone our separate ways. At most we should have said good-by on reaching London. In none of our dealings had there been the least hint of anything serious--nothing that would suggest a love-affair. Speaking for myself, my interest in Santa had been on the wane for several days before we landed. I should have parted with her on the dock without compunction, if this extraordinary disappearance hadn't occurred. It was that that again drew us together. Neither of us was willing to believe the worst; we both tried to persuade ourselves that he'd changed his plans at the last moment. At the same time we were both a little anxious lest we might be bothered with questions and detained. Probably it was to avoid any such annoyance that she dodged her breakfast engagement with me and escaped so early this morning.”

The Major thrust himself forward, resting his chin on the handle of his cane. “That wasn't her reason.”

“You're presuming her guilt. Why wasn't it?”

“You forget the foreigner who wore goggles and pretended he couldn't speak English. She couldn't possibly have sent him word. The necessity for her escape must have been foreseen and the means prearranged.”

Hindwood puzzled to find some more innocent explanation. “He might have been her husband.”

“He wasn't.”

“You speak as though you knew everything.” Then, with a catch in his breath, “She isn't arrested?”

“If she were, I shouldn't tell you.”

“Then what makes you so positive that he wasn't her husband?”

The Major drew himself erect, smiling palely. “Because _I_ am her husband.”

V

Hindwood rose and moved over to the window. He felt mentally stifled. He leaned out, gazing down into the pool of blackness, along whose floor, like the phosphorescence of fishes, lights drifted and darted. The sight of so much coolness quieted him. When he turned, the Major had not moved a muscle; he was sitting as he had left him, erect and palely smiling.

“You'll not be surprised when I tell you, Major Cleasby, that your last piece of information completely overwhelms me. You come to me in the rôle of a secret service agent, and now you claim to be her husband.”

“I'm both.”

“Do you mean me to understand that you're accumulating the evidence that will convict your wife?”

“Convict her and, I regret to say, hang her. Stated baldly, that is my purpose.”

Hindwood perched himself on the window ledge and regarded his guest intently. He didn't look a monster; he looked in all respects a kindly, well-bred gentleman, and yet, if what he had just heard was correct, there were few monsters in history who could compare with him. Hindwood tried to picture him as Santa's husband. He couldn't. He was thankful that he couldn't. For a reason which he did not distress himself to analyze, he didn't wish to believe that she had ever had a husband. As for the hints about her criminal record and her many lovers, he utterly rejected them. Was it likely that a woman so royal and aloof could have stooped to the gutter? But if these accusations were not true, what was their object? Either it was a case of mistaken identity and there were two Santa Gorlofs, or the object was to infuriate him with jealousy so that he would blurt out all he knew.

He eyed the Major doubtfully. He wasn't insane. He didn't look a rascal. And yet, what husband in his senses----? He began to notice details.

The Major was less old than he had fancied at first; he was more worn than aged. Illness or tragedy might have whitened him. It was even possible that he had made himself up for the part he was playing. His eyes were clear, and his hands virile. With the mustache and imperial removed----

“Major Cleasby, you ask me to accept a great deal on your bare word,” he said politely. “You come to me with nothing to introduce you but the most briefly formal letter. The moment you enter my room, before you'll have anything to do with me, you inspect every hiding-place as though I were a counterfeiter or an anarchist. You boldly announce to me that ever since I landed in England you've had me followed and observed. You use the results of your spying as a kind of blackmail to induce me to present you with the sort of evidence for which you're searching. You trick me into telling you about a shipboard flirtation with a woman whom you say you want convicted of murder. No sooner have I told you, than you declare that you yourself are married to her. I ought to refuse to allow this interview to go further without calling in a lawyer. I don't mean to be offensive, but your kaleidoscopic changes put a strain on my credulity. I can't believe your story that you're a secret service agent endeavoring to get your wife executed. When men tire of matrimony, they find less ingenious methods of recovering their bachelorhood.”

The Major smiled with his patient air of affability. “It isn't my bachelorhood that I'm trying to recover. It's my----”

“If you don't mind,” Hindwood cut in, “I'd like to finish my say first. One of the things that you may not have learned is that I'm here on a mission of international dimensions. It concerns more than one of the governments of Europe. I can't afford to have my name mixed up in a scandal and, what's more, I can bring influences to bear to prevent it from being introduced. You may be anything you like; whatever you are cuts no ice. I'm through with you and with whatever you may imagine took place on the _Ryndam_. You seem to think that I'm concealing a guilty knowledge that would enable you to bring this Gorlof woman to trial. You're on the wrong tack. I have no such knowledge. The longer you stay here, the more you waste my time.” The Major was on the point of answering when the telephone rang shrilly. Grateful for a diversion, Hindwood crossed the room. As he unhooked the receiver, he glanced across his shoulder, “Excuse me.”

“Is this Mr. Hindwood?”

“It is.”

It was the hotel operator asking.

“There's a call for you, sir. It's from some one who's not on a newspaper. Will you take it?”

“Certainly.”

There was a pause while the connection was being made; then a foreign voice, a woman's, questioned, “Eees thees Meester Hindwood? Eef you please, one meenute. A lady wants to talk wiz you.”

Coming across the distance, subdued and earnest, he caught the tones of a voice which was instantly familiar.

“Don't be startled. Don't answer me. There's a man with you. Tell him nothing. If you ever loved me, even for a second, don't believe a word he says.”

She had not been arrested! A wave of joy swept over him. The uncertainty as to whether she was arrested had been crushing him.

He waited, hoping she would speak again.

Shattering the spell with a touch of bathos, the operator inquired, “Number?”

With that he rang off. As he raised his head, he had the uncomfortable sensation that the Major had turned away from watching him.

VI

So you want to be rid of me!” The Major glanced across his shoulder, at the same time making no effort to remove himself.

Hindwood crossed the room thoughtfully and seated himself. “I've made no secret of it from the moment you entered.”

The Major laughed genially. “I don't blame you. You think I'm a wronged husband trying to get even, or else an unscrupulous detective baiting traps with falsehoods. The situation's unpleasant--for you, especially.”

“I'm glad you realize it.”

“I assure you I do. You've given yourself away completely.”

“You think so?”

“I don't think; I know. What you've told me proves beyond a doubt that you're possessed of exactly the knowledge that would bring Santa Gorlof to trial.”

“You're imaginative.”

“I'm observant. You're wondering what makes me so certain. The explanation's simple: I've studied Santa's tactics. Her strategy's the same in every instance. When a man suspects her guilt, she does what she did to you: seals his mouth with kisses.”

“This is too much.” Hindwood brought his fist down with a bang. “Do you go or do I have to force you?”

“This time I'll try one of yours.”

With astounding assurance the Major helped himself to one of Hindwood's cigars, which he had previously rejected. Without bravado he lighted it and, having ascertained that it was drawing, continued: “If you used force, you'd regret it. You'd make certain of the unwelcome publicity you're so anxious to avoid; you'd miss a stranger story than any Arabian tale that ever was concocted. You think you can still touch bottom; as a matter of fact you're already out of sight of land. You sit there looking an average, successful American; actually you've become an heroic figure, adrift upon an ocean so romantic and uncharted that it beats upon the cliffs of every human passion.”

Hindwood shifted uneasily. “So you're a fortuneteller in addition to being an ill-used husband and a detective!”

Ignoring his sarcasm, the Major proceeded: “Some time ago you accused me of ingenuity in the means I had adopted to recover my bachelorhood. It's not my bachelorhood, but my own and my country's honor that, with your help, I'm endeavoring to recover. That sounds extravagant? But consider--what motive could be sufficiently extravagant to compel a man to bend all his energies toward bringing the woman whom he loves to the scaffold? Because I say it calmly, you doubt that I love her. What man could help loving her? She's the last of a long line of false, fair women who've stirred up madness and left behind a trail of ruin.”

Rising wearily, Hindwood turned his back and commenced fingering the documents on his desk. “There'll be nothing gained by carrying this discussion further.”

With a question the Major recaptured his attention. “Did it ever strike you that she's partly Asiatic?”

Hindwood swung round, surprised into truth. “What makes you ask it?”

VII

Even to myself,” the Major sighed, “the story which I am about to tell sounds incredible. My reason for confiding it to a stranger is that, when you have heard it, you may dispense with chivalry and become stern enough to do your duty. To protect a woman, whatever her age or looks, is an instinct as primitive as religion. When she happens to be beautiful and the object of your affection, not to protect her is a kind of blasphemy. You and I, though you deny it, are both in love with Santa. I am her husband, while you are no more than her chance-met admirer. Yet you, in her hour of danger, are prepared to shield her with your honor, whereas I am among the most relentless of her pursuers.

“The best part of my life has been spent in India. I went there with my regiment when I was little more than a boy. The fascination of an ancient civilization took possession of my imagination. I became a student of it and soon acquired a knowledge of native habits which was more fitting to a secret agent than to a soldier. I learned to speak many dialects and could pass myself off as an Asiatic with the minimum amount of disguise. Instead of frequenting clubs and idling away my leisure in the usual round of social futilities which make up the average Anglo-Indian's life, I formed the practice of slipping out into the night and losing my identity in the teeming, Oriental shadow-world by which I was surrounded.

“On one of my wanderings--when or where it is not necessary to particularize--I strolled into a temple and saw a young girl dancing. As perhaps you know, girls are dedicated to the worship of certain gods and goddesses at a very early age. They are for the most part deities who symbolize fecundity; the ritual with which they are celebrated is gross. The temple girls are chosen for their beauty and are trained by the priesthood to perform sensual dances, which are as old as time. They are not nuns or priestesses; their social status, if they may be said to have any in a land where woman is at best a plaything, approximates to that of temple slaves. They are taken from their parents at an age when sahibs' children are in nurseries. From the moment they are dedicated, their minds and souls are left to stagnate; they are treated like performing animals--fed and drilled and degraded that they may employ their bodies with the utmost grace.

“This girl, the moment I saw her, impressed me as being the most fascinating human creature I had ever set eyes on. I had pressed in with the crowd from the evil-smelling, moonlit street. The temple was dim with the smoke of swaying censers. Its walls seemed vast with the flash of gold and jewels. At the far end, scarcely discernible, a huge god squatted, gloating and sinister. From somewhere in the shadows, swelling into frenzy, came the pounding of drums and the clash of barbaric music. Across the open pavement, between the god and the spectators, a chain of girls coiled and twisted like a snake.

“At the time I entered, the dance was nearly ended. It had evidently been going on for a long while. One by one the girls were slipping down exhausted. There they lay disordered, with their hair twined about them and their slim, bronze bodies twitching.

“But one girl danced on, ever quickening her pace, till she alone remained. She was like a streak of flame, a will-o'-the-wisp, a spring petal blown before the wind: she seemed the symbol of everything that is young and pagan. Her childish face was masked in an unchanging smile. Her lips were parted; her body gleamed golden among the muted lights. She stooped and darted like a lizard across her fallen comrades; with one leap she floated through the air, perched for a moment on the knees of the god, and vanished into his bosom. Instantly the censers were extinguished, and I was carried out into the evil-smelling street by the rush of the perspiring crowd.

“From that night it was as though I were bewitched. There was never an hour when that drifting blossom of a girl was absent from my mind. I idealized her into a nobility that was more than earthly. I flung aside all sense of caste and race. I forgot that I was a sahib and over thirty, whereas she was a dancing girl and little more than a child. I excused my infatuation on the ground of magnanimity, telling myself that if I could possess her, I could save her from certain degradation. Above all, I wanted to wipe out her houri's smile and to cause the soul to appear in her eyes. Every hour that I could spare, I disguised myself as a native and haunted the temple. At rare intervals I caught glimpses of her. And so six months went by.

“Gradually my desire strengthened into determination. I was insane with chivalry--utterly quixotic, as quixotic as you are now. I had raised her to such a pinnacle of worship that a liaison was not to be contemplated. What I planned was to carry her off and marry her. When you remember the gulf which the Anglo-Indian places between himself and the races he governs, you can estimate the measure of my madness. Such an act would entail resigning from my regiment and inviting social ostracism on every hand. It meant ruin, but to my impassioned mind no price seemed too high to pay.

“There was an old priest who, unknown to me, had observed my comings and goings. One evening he addressed me by name. While I was hesitating as to what could be his motive, he volunteered to obtain the girl for me if I would reward him with a sufficient bribe.

“Three nights later, as I waited, a door in the temple wall opened, and a muffled figure emerged. Without a word, obeying the instructions I had received, I turned away, and she followed. Through the sleeping city we crept, like a pair of shadows.

“In the European quarter I had secretly rented a bungalow which had long been deserted. It stood in a wilderness of overgrown shrubberies; a high wall went about it. Not until the rusty gate had closed behind us did I dare to acknowledge her presence; then, taking her in my arms, I carried her up the path to the unlighted house. We entered. There were just the two of us; I had not risked engaging servants. In the darkness I set her down and lighted a lamp. As the flame quickened and I knelt beside her, she uncovered her face. So far, I had seen her only distantly. It was the moment for which I had waited. Her face was white.”

The Major passed his hand across his forehead. His lips tightened. He betrayed every sign of a man doing his best to conceal an overpowering emotion. He leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling, blowing out a cloud of smoke. When he had watched it disperse, he turned to Hindwood with a deprecating smile.

“I hope I don't bore you. I'll omit the ardors and ecstasies of my love-affair and stick to the bare outline. What I discovered was that she was an Eurasian. She was fourteen years of age--a woman by Indian standards, but still a child by ours. Her eyes were gray, and her complexion was so light that, with any one but an expert, she could have passed for a European. There are millions of darkhaired women with her coloring to be found in any Latin country. Given the proper manners and a European setting, scarcely a soul would have suspected her. Certainly no one would dare to voice his suspicions who met her as my wife.

“Her history I pieced together from many conversations. Her father had been a tea-planter--an Englishman of good family. Her mother had been a Burmese. They both had died in a cholera epidemic; their half-caste child had been picked up from the highways and placed in the temple.

“Seeing that I was out to be chivalrous, I made up my mind to do the thing thoroughly. I hurried up a furlough that was due me and, taking her to France, placed her in a convent. My reason for choosing France was that, when she became my wife, there would be fewer chances of discovery if she passed as French instead of English. In the south, especially in Provence, there are many women of her type descended from the Saracens. If you've been to Arles, you must have noticed them. At the end of three years, when she was seventeen, I returned, married her, and took her back to India. If any one detected the deception, no one was bold enough to proclaim it. Every circumstance argued against such a surmise. She had forgotten much of the English she had known, and pretended to speak only French. I had coached her in her part; she acted it to perfection. By no hint or sign did she let the knowledge escape her that she could understand a word of any native dialect. So far as I am aware, she was accepted at her face value, as a young Provençal whom I had courted in her own country.

“For some time my romantic folly brought us nothing but happiness. We invented a legend to account for her family, which, through continual repetition, we almost came to believe ourselves. No two people were ever more in love. Despite our difference in age and the racial gulf which divided us, no man and woman ever seemed more wisely mated. Apparently whatever shameful knowledge she had acquired in the temple had been blotted out by her superimposed refinement. Even to me she betrayed no hint of grossness; she appeared to be as sweet and innocent as the girl I claimed her to be--the girl I said I had surprised in the passionless tranquility of a French convent.