HE left behind him a pandemonium of sound and a scintillation of flickering diamonds. He found the girl waiting for him in the darkness. “Br-r-r! It’s cold!” she shivered.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
“At the little hotel opposite the British Consulate,” she said. “It isn’t much of a place, but it was the only room I could get—at the price.”
“You’d better not go there,” he said. “I’ll send for your boxes in the morning. Give me those clothes.”
He took them from her and put them under his arm, and she fell in by his side.
“I am glad to be out of it,” she said breathlessly, taking his arm; “it’s a dog’s life. I was going to quit to-morrow. Those boys have been following me round ever since I came to Tangier. I don’t think I’d better go back to my hotel, anyway,” she said after a moment; “they’re a pretty tough crowd, these Spaniards, and though I don’t understand their beastly language, I know just what kind of happy holiday they’re planning for me.”
They were in the town, passing up the street of the mosque, when she asked him:
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the Continental,” he said.
“Like this?” she said in dismay, and he laughed.
“I have an office in this street,” he said; “you can go in and dress. I’ll wait for you outside.”
He showed her into the tiny room which served as the headquarters of the Angera Gold Mining Syndicate, and sat on the irregular stone steps, waiting until she was dressed. Presently she came out, a presentable and an attractive figure.
“I have just thought,” he said, “that you had better to go the Central—I am staying at the Continental and it wouldn’t look nice.”
“I’ve been thinking something of the sort myself,” she said. “What about my broken engagement? Were you joking when you said you would pay? I hate talking about money, but I am broke—Jose owes me a week’s salary.”
“I’ll make good the money to-morrow,” he said. “I can give you a tenner now.”
“What is the idea?” she asked him again. “I’ve read a lot of books, and I know the knight errant business backwards. You don’t strike me as being a something-for-nothing man.”
“I’m not,” he said coolly. “It occurred to me when I saw you on the stage, that you might be useful. I want a person in Paris I can trust—somebody who could look after my interests.”
“I’m not a business woman,” she said quickly. “I hate business.”
“Business is done by men,” said he significantly. “And there are a few men I want you to keep track of. Do you understand that?”
She nodded.
“I see,” she said at last. “It is better than I thought.”
He did not trouble to ask her what she had thought, or what she imagined he had planned, but saw her into the hotel, arranged for a room, and walked slowly back to the Continental. He was in the vestibule of that hotel before he remembered that he had left an eminent King’s Counsel and Member of Parliament smoking his cigar in a loge of the Tangier circus.
“I missed you,” said Maxell the next morning. “When you remembered and came to pick me up, I was on my way back—we must have passed somewhere in the little Sok. What happened last night?”
“Nothing much,” said Cartwright airily. “I went round and saw the girl. She was very amusing.”
“How amusing?” asked the other curiously.
“Oh, just amusing.” Vaguely: “I found her annoyed by the attention which was being paid to her by a veritable Spanish hidalgo.”
“And you sailed in and rescued her, eh?” said Maxell. “And what happened to her after she was rescued?”
“I saw her home to her hotel, and there the matter ended. By the way, she leaves by the Gibel Musa for Gibraltar this morning.”
“Hm!” Maxell looked absently at the letter he had in his hand, folded it and put it away.
“Is the mail in?” asked Cartwright, interested, and Maxell nodded.
“I suppose you’ve had your daily letter from your kiddie?”
Maxell smiled.
“Yes,” he said, “it is not a baby letter, but it is very amusing.”
“How old is she?” asked Cartwright.
“She must be nine or ten,” said the other.
“I wonder if it is just coincidence, or whether it is fate,” mused Cartwright.
“What is a coincidence?” asked the other.
“The fact that you’ve got a kid to look after, and I’m in a sort of way responsible for a bright lad. Mine is less interesting than yours, I think. Anyway, he’s a boy and a sort of cousin. He has two fool parents who were born to slavery—the sort of people who are content to work for somebody all their lives and regard revolt against their condition as an act of impiety. I’ve only seen the kid once, and he struck me as the sort who might break loose from that kind of life and take a chance. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have interested myself in him.”
“How far does your interest extend?” asked Maxell curiously. “You’re not the sort of person, I should imagine, who would take up the unfortunate poor as a hobby.”
“Not a something-for-nothing man, in fact,” laughed Cartwright. “I’ve been told that twice in twenty-four hours.”
“Who was the other person—the actress?”
Cartwright roared with laughter and slapped the other on the knee.
“You’re a good guesser,” he said. “No, I am not a something-for-nothing person. I’m one of those optimists who plant fir cones so that I shall have some good firewood for my old age. I don’t know what sort of a man Timothy will make, but, as I say, he shapes good, and anyway, you and I are in the same boat.”
“Except this,” said Maxell, “that from what you say, you aren’t particularly interested in your protégé, and you don’t really care whether he shapes good or shapes bad.”
“That’s true,” admitted Cartwright. “He’s an experiment.”
“My little girl is something more than that,” said Maxell quietly; “she’s the only living thing I have any real affection for—she is my dead brother’s child.”
“Your niece, eh? Well, that gives you an interest which I have not. I never had a niece and I should just hate to be called uncle, anyway.”
Their conversation was interrupted at this point by the arrival of a small man dressed in his best clothes. On his brow was a frown which was intended to be terrible, but was slightly amusing. Jose Ferreira had dressed and prepared himself for an interview which, as he had described to his friends, could not fail to be at once “terrifying and vital.” For, as he had said: “This man has sliced my life!”
He began his speech to Cartwright as he had rehearsed it.
“Estoy indignado——”
But Cartwright cut him short with an expression of mock fear. “Horroroso! You are indignant, are you? Well, come, little man, and tell me why you are indignant.”
“Se?or,” said the man solemnly, “you have put upon me a humiliation and a shame which all my life I shall regret.”
The conversation was in Spanish, but Maxell was an excellent Spanish scholar.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked, before Jose, still labouring under the sense of his wrongs, could get going again.
“Listen to him and discover,” mocked Cartwright. “I have taken from his incomparable company its joy and its gem.”
“In other words, the amiable Miss O’Grady,” said Maxell.
“Yes, yes, se?or,” broke in Jose. “For me it is ruin! The money I have spent to make my company perfect! It is financed by one who is the greatest man in Tangier and it is his son who tells me that, unless I bring back this lady—for me there is the street and the gutter,” he wept.
Maxell looked slyly at his companion.
“There’s another chance for you to plant a fir cone,” he said. “Can’t you find some use for this gentleman?”
But Cartwright was not smiling.
“Se?or Ferreira,” he said crisply, “you are, as all Spain knows, a thief and a rogue. If you associate with bigger thieves and bigger scoundrels, that is your business. I can only tell you that you may think yourself lucky I did not bring this case before the Spanish Consul. I assure you, you would never have put your foot in Tangier again after the stories I have heard about you.”
The little Spaniard was open-mouthed and impressed. He was also a little frightened. Cartwright’s accusation had been at a venture, but he argued that it was scarcely likely that, in an establishment of the description which Mr. Ferreira controlled, there could have been no incidents which reflected upon the manager.
“Everything which is said about me is a lie!” said the little man vigorously. “I have lived a life of the highest virtue! To-day I complain to the British Consul, and we shall see!”
“Complain,” said Cartwright.
“This chance I will give you.” Se?or Ferreira wagged a fat, stumpy finger. “Restore to me Miss O’Grady, and the matter shall go no farther.”
“Miss O’Grady has left Tangier,” said the other calmly, “so it is clear to you that I cannot restore her.”
“She has not left,” vociferated the Spaniard. “We had a man to watch the boat leaving for the Gibel Musa and she did not leave the pier.”
“She left the beach,” explained Cartwright patiently; “she was rowed out by a boatman from the Cecil. At this moment she is half-way to Gibraltar.”
Mr. Ferreira groaned.
“It is ruin for me,” he said. “Perhaps for you also,” he added ominously. “I can do no less than depart for Paris to lay this matter before my excellent patron, Se?or Don——”
Cartwright jerked his head to the door.
“Get out,” he said, and turned his attention to the newspaper which he had picked up from the table.
Maxell waited until the little man had gone, still seething with his “indignado,” then turned to Cartwright.
“This is rather a serious matter, Cartwright; what has happened to the girl?”
“Didn’t you hear? I have sent her to Gibraltar,” said Cartwright. “I wouldn’t leave a dog in that company. And from Gibraltar she goes home by the first P. & O.,” he said briefly.
“Hm!” said Maxell for the second time.
“What the devil are you ‘hming’ about?” snarled his companion. “The girl is gone. I shall not see her again. It was an act of charity. Do you disapprove?”
“I’m sorry,” said Maxell. “I didn’t know you felt so bad about it. No, I think you’ve done the girl a very good turn. But in these days one doesn’t expect——”
“Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, Maxell,” said Cartwright sententiously, “for he shall not be disappointed. I don’t suppose that the proprietor, whoever he is, cares a snap of his fingers about the matter—it is his infernal son who will fire the adorable Jose.”
That afternoon the two men had an interview on the outskirts of the town with a very plainly dressed Moor, who came to them so cautiously that the observers might have been pardoned if they thought he was a criminal. In the eyes of the divine rulers of Morocco he was something more than a criminal, because he was an emissary of El Mograb, the Pretender. There was a price upon the messenger’s head, and his caution was, therefore, commendable. He brought a letter from El Mograb to Cartwright, and it was a message of cheer.
Maxell and his friend had gone out early in the afternoon and had waited two hours under a scorching sun for the courier to arrive. For a man of law, the fact that he was coquetting with the Sultan’s enemy did not distress Maxell, who knew the history of the country too well to worry very much about Sultan or Pretender. The Sultan’s reign, marked with the turbulence of people and the self-indulgence of monarch, was already doomed. His uncle, El Mograb, a born leader of men and captain of seven thousand well-armed soldiers, was but waiting the psychological moment to strike; and Adbul, with his motor-cars and brass bedstead, his geegaws and his frippery, would disappear into the limbo which is especially reserved for extravagant and unstable rulers.
The news from El Mograb was good. It reconfirmed the concession which one of his shereefs had made on his behalf, and sent a message in flowery Arabic—a message of thanks to the man who had supplied him with the very necessary rifles.
“That was news to me,” said Cartwright as they rode back to the town. “I didn’t know you were gun-running, Maxell, or that you were so solid with El Mograb.”
“I like El Mograb,” said Maxell. “He’s one of the many Moors who have impressed me. You mustn’t forget that I have been visiting Morocco since I was a boy and most of the chiefs are known to me personally. I knew El Mograb’s brother, who was killed at Tetuan, and when he was a favourite in court circles he entertained me at Fez.”
“What is his word worth?” asked Cartwright carelessly.
“It is worth all the contracts that ever went to Somerset House for stamping,” said the other with emphasis. “I think you can go ahead with your scheme.”
Cartwright nodded.
“I’ll go back to London and raise the money,” he said. “We shall want a couple of millions eventually, but half a million will do to go on with. You had better be with me in the big scheme, Maxell. There is nothing to lose for you. You’ll be in on the ground floor. What is the good of your pottering about with your little Company—I mean the Parent Company?”
“I have faith in that,” said Maxell. “I know just the amount of my indebtedness.”
“You’re a fool,” said the other shortly. “The big scheme may mean millions to you, and I shall want your help and guidance.”
Maxell hesitated. The lure was dazzling, the prize was immense. But it meant risks which he was not prepared to take. He knew something of Cartwright’s financial methods; he had seen them in their working, and had done not a little on one occasion to save Cartwright from the consequences of his own cleverness. Yet, as he argued, Cartwright would have no difficulty in raising the money from the general public, and his presence on the board would certainly be a guarantee against his companion departing from the narrow path.
Although it was not generally known that he was associated in any of Cartwright’s enterprises, there had been a whisper of an inquiry in influential quarters, and it had been hinted to him that, on the whole, it would be better if he kept himself aloof from the gentleman who, admirable business man as he was, had a passion for enterprises which occasionally verged upon the illegal. But those influential quarters had not whispered anything in the shape of a definite promise that his welfare was entirely in their keeping and that his future would not be overlooked.
He was an ambitious man, but his ambitions ran in realisable directions. The services he had rendered to the Government were such as deserved a recognition, and the only question was what form that recognition would take? His knowledge of languages qualified him for an important appointment under the Foreign Office; but the Foreign Office was a close preserve and difficult to break into. There were too many permanent officials who regarded the service as a family affair, and were jealous of patronage outside their own charmed circle.
He went in to lunch that day to find Cartwright reading a telegram which he folded up and put into his pocket upon the other’s appearance.
“My little friend has arrived in Gibraltar,” said Cartwright.
Maxell looked at him curiously.
“What happens now?” he demanded.
“Oh, I’m sending her home.”
Cartwright’s voice was brisk and he spoke in the manner of a man referring to a topic too unimportant to be discussed.
“And after?” pursued Maxell, and the other shrugged his shoulders.
“I have given her a letter of introduction to a friend of mine,” he said carelessly. “I have one or two theatrical interests in town.”
Maxell said nothing, and could have dismissed the matter as lightly as his companion, for the girl’s future scarcely interested him.
She had been but a figure on the stage; her personality, her very appearance, left no definite impression. But if he was not interested in the girl, he was interested in Cartwright’s private mind. Here was a man of whom he could not know too much. And somehow he felt that he had hardly cracked the surface of Cartwright’s character though he had known him for years, and though they were working together to a common end.
The way of a man with a maid is wonderful, but it is also instructive to the cold-blooded onlooker, who discovers in that way a kind of creature he has never met before; a new man, so entirely different from the familiar being he had met in club or drawing-room as to be almost unrecognisable. And he wanted to know just this side of Cartwright, because it was the side on which he had scarcely any information.
“I suppose you won’t see her again?” he said, playing with his knife and looking abstractedly out of the window.
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Cartwright, and then, with a sudden irritation: “What the devil are you driving at, Maxell? I may see the girl—I go to music-halls, and it is hardly likely I should miss her. Naturally I am interested in the lady I have rescued from this kind of thing”—he waved his hand vaguely toward Tangier Bay—“and she may be useful. You don’t mean to say you’re struck on her?”
He tried to carry war into the enemy’s camp and failed, for Maxell’s blue eyes met his steadily.
“I hardly know what she looks like,” he said, “and I am not likely to fall in love with a lady who left absolutely no impression upon me.”
He left next day on the boat for Cadiz, en route to Paris and London, and he and Cartwright had as a fellow-passenger a shabby little man whose belongings were packed in an American-cloth suit-case inscribed in flourishing capitals, evidently by the owner, “Jose Ferreira.”
Mr. Ferreira spent most of his time on the ship’s deck, biting his nails and enlarging his grievance against the unconscious Cartwright.