At the Sign of the Golden Horn

Front matter

BY JOHN K. LEYS AUTHOR OF "THE LINDSAYS, " THE LAWYERS SECRET, ETC. LONDON GEORGE NEWNES, Limited Southampton Street, Strand CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Black Treachery ..... i II. In the Chamber of Death . . 15 III. A False Friend 24 IV. Rogues in Council .... 40 V. Do You know a Man with a Scar on His Cheek ? 48 VI. With Double Tongue =;° VII. An Unsuccessful Raid . . . 6-S VIII. In the Coffee-room of the "Golden Horn " 78 IX. A Terrible Suspicion .... 92 X. A Cruel Disappointment . . .104 XI. Ursula in London us XII. Trapped! 125 XIII. Frank Takes the Alarm . . .137 XIV. The Hunchback VI CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE XV. A Gleam of Hope . . . ... 159 XVI. A Change of Tactics . . . -170 XVII. Out of the World . . . .181 XVIII. Captain Winter Receives a Blow . 188 XIX. A Disappointed Wooer . . . 204 XX.

In which Blanche Wins a Victory . 213 XXI. Three Telegrams ..... 228 XXII. A Dereliction of Duty . . . 240 XXIII. At Number Fifteen, Norfolk Square 250 XXIV. Torn Asunder ...... 263 XXV. Light in Darkness . . . .269 XXVI. Under the Greenwood Tree . .

Chapter I

black treachery. The sun was setting over the broad plain of the South Atlantic, throwing a glory of sunlight across the great waste of waters. The sea changed from deep blue to copper-gold, and then to purple, while the amber sky above became rose, and then crimson. There was but one man to see the splendour, and he heeded it not. He was sitting at the stern of a half-decked sloop — a crazy, rotten old tub, overladen and nearly water-logged. There was not a breath of air to fill the big black sail that hung in lazy folds from the mast, and it mattered not a straw whether the man with the tiller in his hand moved it to port or starboard, for the vessel was making no way. . ■ He sat with his eyes fixed on the horizon, as B if he were expecting to see a sail rise there for his relief ; but his gaze was not one of hopeful expectation, but of gloomy bitterness.

"A nice fix this, for a fellow to be in!" he was saying to himself. " Better have stayed and starved on that bloomin' farm ! Here we are — the craft gettin' deeper in the water every day, provisions runnin' short, water runnin' short, and me alone, except fora pal that is as good as adead'un. An' if a sail was to come in sight, and we were rescued, the two of us, what have I to loak forward to? I'd be landed in England poorer than I was when I left. I'm to have nothing, I suppose, of what that sulky fool carries about, but what he likes to allow me. No, by Heaven ! that won't do ! I'll have that put straight before I'm a quarter of an hour older — that is, if the fellow's in his right mind." He rose suddenly, and walked a few feet for ward. The sliding door of the little cabin fronted him.

He pushed it noisily back, and the evening glow shone into a gloomy little den of a place, with a rough narrow table in the middle, and four bunks at the sides, two of a side. In the lower bunk on the port side lay a man whose grizzled hair and beard told that he must be at least fifty years of age. His large black eyes shone fiercely in his white emaci ated face ; his thin white fingers clutched the blanket as if he saw an enemy, or a possible enemy, rather than a comrade. " How are you now, Jim ? " asked the man who had been sittings at the stern. " Better. I shall pull through yet." " I'm glad to hear it, for I'm thinking it's about time that you and me had a bit of a talk." " A talk ? About what ? I don't understand you, Joyce." " You'll understand me soon enough. I want to know what I'm to have out of all this.

What am I to have for helping you to escape, when you know as well as I do that I might have made hundreds, and maybe thousands, by giving you away ? I've stood your friend, and helped you to steal this cursed old hooker, that looks like as if she meant to have the lives of both of us before we are done with her. Haven't I been as good as a brother, sharing the danger, and all that ? I say, it's as good a partnership as ever was struck. Don't you think so ? " B " No, Joyce, it isn't a partnership — not that it would put much in your pocket if it was," he added, with a weak attempt at a laugh.. " I don't deny that you've acted fair and square by me, Joyce; and if ever we reach England I'll do what I can for you." "And what might that be worth, now?" asked the other, with something of a sneer.

" I — I — thought of making you a present of twenty pounds, Dick." " Twenty pounds ! " " I don't see that you have any reason to com plain. You said you wanted to go back to England. So did I, and we agreed to help each other. You must not forget that I paid all expenses, Dick. And there isn't much left. I — that is — we didn't hit on the gold, not anything much." " Then how are you going to pay me twenty pounds ? " " I have friends in England." " Friends ! That for all the friends I've ever known. And I don't expect yours is very different. No, Jim, my idea is that we should share and share alike ; whatever one of us takes out of this cursed country, or rather this cursed old hooker, we should divide. It's the only fair way, seeing that we're both in the same boat." " I can't agree to that," said the other, shortly, "and I won't — so there's an end on't. What rot it is to talk of partnerships between men in our position, with little more than the clothes on our backs !

" The sick man looked keenly at his companion's face, to see how he would take this ; but Dick Joyce made no sign that he attached any particular significance to the words. He was sitting on the edge of the opposite bunk, his eyes on the cabin floor. He was a goodlooking fellow, although he had reached middlelife. His features were good. There was nothing paltry or mean about them. But he had a lowering eye,- and his lips were sensual and cruel. There was a long weal, the mark of a wound received in a brawl, across his right cheek ; and this scar, hardly visible at most times, became fiery red when the man was moved by anger, or any other passion. The scar burned across his hairy cheek now, and Clarkson, the man in the bunk, shrank from him as he looked. Joyce rose, and moved towards the door.

"I — I'm very thirsty, Dick. Do you think you could get me a drop of water ? " "Once more, Jim," said the other, sternly, " will you do the fair thing by me ? Will you halve your swag with me ? " " It's not worth halving, Dick. But little as it is, I should like to keep it. I'll give you twenty pounds." " And that's your last word ? " " Yes. I wish you would give me some water." As soon as Joyce had left the cabin, Clarkson's left hand stole under a bundle of spare clothes which formed his pillow, and his fingers touched a rough, stiff cloth, behind which were many knotty protuberances. The touch satisfied him. He withdrew his hand, and was ready to take the pannikin of water when his companion handed it to him. Joyce got together the materials for his supper, such as it was, and ate it in the cabin.

The sick man could eat nothing, but he drank some more water greedily. It was night, and Joyce rolled his blanket round him, and lay down in one of the vacant berths. He could not keep watch all day and night too, he told himself, so he left the tiller lashed amidships, and lay down. In less than five minutes he was fast asleep and snoring. Cl rkson lay and watched him, but no sleep came to his eyes till the grey light of dawn stole through the half-open door. With the da /light sleep, wooed in vain all night, came to him of her own accord, and he slept like one already dead. When the sunbeams shone warm and strong inio the cabin Joyce awoke and looked about him. He sat up, and a dark look came into his eyes as they fell upon the sleeping figure opposite him. He rose lazily, and without making any change in his dress beyond tight ening his belt, which he had loosed when he lay down, he went out into the "well " of the boat, and let his gaze travel round the horizon.

But before he had completed the circuit he gave a loud gasp and cry. For there, not many miles away to the southward, was the smoke of a steamer ! Dick's first impulse was to dash into the cabin, and tell the good news to his comrade. But Jim Clarkson was still sleeping. Even the hoarse cry of delight which Joyce had uttered when he saw the smoke had not aroused him. "Ugh! I hate him — the stingy beast!" Dick said aloud, though under his breath. " Serve him right if I don't wake him at all ! If I'm not his partner, why should I ? I'm not bound to. Twenty pounds ! And his belt as full of nuggets as it will hold." An evil thought, born of envy, and nourished by a certain sense that the sick man was not treating him fairly, had come into his mind ; it made the sweat break on his brow, and caused his legs to tremble underneath him.

" Let's see if I could do it," he said to himself, smiling as he spoke. " If he wakes, I'll pretend it was a joke to frighten him. If he doesn't — I'll think of it. I don't need to do it unless I like." He stooped and picked up a bit of canvas that lay on the floor, and rolled it up into a stiff roll four or five inches in diameter. Then he crouched down at the head of the bunk, being as careful to keep out of the line of sight of the sick man as if he were awake and able to defend himself. Then he gripped the bundle of clothing on which Clarkson's head lay, and held it firmly against the head of the berth, so that it should not sink ; and not till this was done did he insert the ends of his fingers under the bundle. His instinct had not misled him. The belt was there. Very gently he pulled it away, still holding the bundle up with his other hand, and as soon as it was free, he inserted the roll of canvas in its place.

The operation was entirely successful. The belt of which Jim Clarkson had raved through many a fever stricken night was in his hands at last. A curse was breathed on the air, gently so as not to disturb the sleeper, when Joyce lifted the belt. It was lighter than he had expected to find it — far too light to be filled with gold nuggets and gold dust. But when he came to feel gently along its entire length a new expression, one of incredulous wonder, came into his face. Hastily drawing out his knife, he slit one of the many short seams which crossed the belt in all directions, and there dropped into his palm what looked like two or three flint pebbles. Joyce had been long enough in South Africa to know that they were diamonds. He slipped the diamonds into his pocket, and threw another look at the sleeping man, this time a look of triumphant hate.

" To have all these thousands at his middle, and talk of giving me twenty pounds — the mean hound ! " was the thought in his mind as he left the cabin with the belt in his hand. At the first look he gave seaward his heart almost stopped beating. The steamer was actually passing them, at a distance of about three miles. She had been far nearer than he had supposed. Dropping the belt, he tore off his shirt, and a minute later it was fluttering in the light breeze half way up the mast, and Joyce was standing nearly naked, staring at the steamer with eyes which looked as if madness was not very far off. Soon a booming sound came over the sea. It was the steamer's whistle, blown to assure the castaway that his signal had been seen, and that help would be sent. At the same moment she altered her course, heading almost directly for the sloop.

Joyce drew the shirt down and put it on. He then entered the cabin on tip-toe, and carefully averting his eyes from the man in the bunk, he gathered together a few clothes — all he had brought with him — and tied them up securely in a bundle, with the canvas belt at the bottom of it. By the time this was done the steamer was close by, and a small boat was leaving her side. " He's too ill to be transhipped. He would die if they were to haul him up the side of that big steamer. He's bound to die any way ; a little sooner or later, what matter? There may come along another steamer to-morrow, as likely as not. There will be biscuit and water enough for him now, at all events." With such like pretences Joyce replied to the still small voice that told he was playing the part of a villain and a murderer.

In an incredibly short space of time, before Joyce was willing to confess to himself that his mind was made up, the steamer's boat was approaching the sloop's bows. Joyce ran swiftly forward on naked feet, his bundle in his hand, on to the forecastle, and along the bowsprit, from which he dropped into the middle of the boat. " Well, my man ! " said a rough, good humoured voice — how sweet it sounded in the ears of the castaway — " you're in a deuce of a hurry ! Anybody else on board ? " " No. Not likely anyone would be there and not be as keen to get away as I am ! " and the man looked so excited and queer, that the officer in charge of the boat made him swallow a mouthful of rum. " I ought to go on board — these were my orders," the officer said to himself ; but it seemed unnecessary. No one could be on board without coming on deck.

To make sure he let the hulk — she was little else — drift pass him, and standing up as she went by, he looked into her. Joyce could not lift his eyes from the deck. He was sick with apprehension. The mate could see in at the open door of the cabin. He could see the table of rough wood, but he could not see into the bunks. The inspection satisfied him. He made a sign to his men, and in a few minutes they were on board the steamer. Joyce's story was that he had been blown off the coast, there being no one on board but himself at the time. The story did not sound very probable ; but there was no proof against the man. The captain did not wish to delay another minute ; and the sloop, even if it had been stolen, as the captain strongly suspected it had been, would not pay anyone to take her in tow ; so after a keen glance at the rescued man, the captain left him and gave the signal — " Full speed ahead ! ' An hour later Clarkson awoke.- He was very thirsty, but better and stronger than he had been for some days.

After drinking from the pannikin which Joyce had put on the floor beside him the night before, he called for his companion. No answer. No sound of any kind. He called again — again. The silence frightened him. He got over the side of his bunk, and crawled through the open doorway. No one was there ! Away, far away on the horizon, there was a trail of smoke in the sky. " Joyce, where are you ? You haven't left me here to perish, when you might have taken me with you ? You can't have done that ! It was only the calling of me. Dick ! You wouldn't play me such a cruel trick as that, Dick. But, for pity's sake, speak to me and tell me that you're here, or I shall go mad ! " He could not believe that he had been left there to die ! Then a sudden fear blanched his face, so that, white as it had been before, it was whiter now.

He crawled back into the cabin, pulled away the bundle, saw the roll of sailcloth, and the awful truth came home to him. One shriek passed his lips, and he fell senseless on the cabin floor.

Chapter II. In The Chamber Of Death

In the window of a sitting-room that looked out upon a garden full of flowers sat a young girl crying bitterly. The sound of the wheels of the doctor's gig had just died away, and he had given her no hope. She knew now that upstairs, in the sunshine of the summer morning, her best friend lay dying. From her earliest girlhood Ursula Joyce had looked upon Miss Upton of the Old Rectory as her protector and friend. She had been a mother to the orphan girl. She had paid for her schooling, and taken her to live with her at her home during the holidays, so that the child looked upon the Old Rectory as her home. And now Miss Upton was dying, and she would never come there any more — never see the kind old face bend over her any more — never be able to prove, as she had always looked forward to doing, how full her heart was of gratitude and love.

For quite half an hour Ursula sat there at the window, for she knew that a nurse was with Miss Upton, and she did not wish to appear in the sick room till she became calmer. She was in the act of rising to go upstairs when she heard again the sound of wheels, and looking out she saw a fly, the one from the " King's Arms " at Tilbridge, at the door. Mr. Lawson, the lawyer, whom she knew well by sight, came out, and Ursula sat down again, for she knew that she could not go upstairs for a while yet. Mr. Lawson, a hale old man of sixty-five, who was solicitor to half the folk in that part of the county, was shown into a spacious, low ceilinged bedroom, where a small old lady with snow-white hair and a skin like crumpled satin lay on the bed, very still, a smile upon her face. She gave her old friend the lawyer her hand in silence, and when they had greeted each other, she made a sign to the nurse to go to the other end of the room.

" I thought you would not mind the trouble of coming over," she said, in her weak, quiver- IN THE CHAMBER OF DfATII 17 ing voice, " when I tell you that it will make it easier for me to die. You know that my income dies with me, and that I have left all the little I have to leave to' Ursula Joyce, whom I have loved like a daughter. You have the little tin box I gave you put away safely ? " "You may make your mind quite easy about that. It is in my safe, and there it shall remain until after Sir Julius' death. The day after his death I will give it to Miss Joyce, or open it in her presence, I think you said." " Quite right. But if you should die before — " " I have left directions to my executor specially about it, in a codicil to my will." " How good and kind of you ! And now, I have only this to say — even if my brother-in law should still be alive at the end of three years, open it then."

" I will do so, Miss Upton." " And when it is done, I wish you to give this message from me to Ursula : That I did it for the best. Tell her I loved her as if she had been my own child, and I did it for the best ! " c The lawyer promised ; but yet the dying woman seemed to be unsatisfied. ~ She begged) the nurse, who had been standing all this time; in the window, to leave the room ; and when she and the lawyer were alone, she made himi bend down his head till her lips almost touched) his hair. He started when the first words had; been breathed into his ear — started, and stood upright, looking at his old friend with wonder and something like dismay. " You — you know what you are saying? " he said, in a low tone. For answer she only smiled at him, such a bright, intelligent smile, that his momentary doubt on that point was set at rest on the spot.

" And you did this all by yourself ? " She nodded. "And in justice to Captain Winter, perhaps you ought to tell him. I must leave that to you." " Please don't leave it to me, Miss Upton ! " cried the lawyer. " I really cannot undertake the responsibility — I — " He was interrupted by a sound of wheels on the gravel outside ; and in obedience to a look from the invalid, Mr. Lawson stepped to one of the windows and glanced out. IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH 19 " Sir Julius Winter ! " he exclaimed, in a tone _f astonishment. "Don't let him come in here !" cried Miss Upton, her manner changing all in a moment from tranquil repose to agitation that was almost terror. "You don't know what that man is ! " she cried, as she shrank beneath the bed-clothes ; " the world does not know what he is in reality.

I know him, and I have good reason to remember him. He killed my poor sister, my sweet Maisie ! No ; you needn't look at me like that. I am not mad. There are other ways of killing a young girl than poison or a bullet. And he shall not come here to torment me on my death-bed. Lock the door, Mr. Lawson ! Don't let him come in ! " " How the man must have bullied those two women, that they should feel like this to him after twenty years !" said the lawyer to himself, as he crossed again to the window. " He is not coming in," he called out. " He is not leaving the brougham. He has only called to inquire after you." But Miss Upton had been too much affected by her brother-in-law's visit to regain her comc posure all at once. She begged her friend to send for Ursula, and bade him good-bye. The lawyer stepped slowly downstairs, and in the wide-raftered hall he found a tall young man, strikingly handsome, and dark as an Italian, pacing to and fro.

Eugene Clovis was a distant connection of Miss Upton, whom he always called aunt. His father had been a Frenchman ; he had been educated in France ; and, though he spoke English like a native and was thoroughly conversant with English habits, was French from the toe of his patent-leather boot to his closely cropped black hair. He wore habitually a long frock-coat, which made him appear even taller than he was, and his long black moustache and piercing dark eyes gave him a striking appearance. The lawyer's look, as he coldly offered his hand, was a question, and the young man answered it. " Came down last night — melancholy occasion ; but my aunt has been more like a mother to me, and I thought it my duty to come. Just at present I am playing watch dog. My very good friend is in there, making love to my pretty cousin.

To a mere worldly IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH 21 creature like myself, it does not seem quite the time or the place for love-making; but doubtless — •" " I don't see that at all, Mr. Clovis," said the lawyer. " I mean, that where there is a sincere attachment, like that between your friend Lester and Ursula Joyce, they will naturally wish to be together in time of trouble as well as in time of joy or merry-making. But I want to see Miss Joyce." " Then I will announce you by a vigorous rattling at the door-handle. My friend Lester generously bestowed the post of door-keeper upon me, while he entertained the lady within — for which mark of favour I cannot be too grateful." The lawyer smiled, and gave the grave young man a quick look. He understood that this came from jealousy — black, bitter jealousy of his friend, Frank Lester.

It was a pretty sight that met the lawyer's eyes when he entered the room. Ursula was sitting on a sofa ; at her side was a fine, strong fellow, with an eye as sweet as a woman's. Candour, good humour, and a certain careless independence were written large on Frank Lester's face. The two were hand in hand, but were not sitting together. There was no appearance of love-making about either of them, for both looked grave and sad. Ursula sprang to her feet as soon as she caught sight of the lawyer, and asked whether she might go upstairs. The lawyer nodded, saying that Miss Upton had asked for her. The sweet lips trembled, and the gentle grey eyes filled with tears as she left the room. She found the hall empty, and passing quickly to Miss Upton's room, and falling on her knees at the bed-side, she seized the hand that hung so pallid and transparent outside the counterpane, and covered it with kisses.

" My own child ! " murmured the dying woman, as a look of triumphant love came into her face. " May I stay with you to the last ? Promise me ! " Yes, dear child, you shall ! " The funeral was over ; the blinds of the Old Rectory were drawn up ; Mr. Clovis, who had edified the whole parish by sobbing at the grave in most heart-broken fashion, had gone IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH 23 back to town ; and Ursula had gone back to the school at which she had been educated, and where she was now engaged in teaching. She was sitting one evening over some exercise-books, when Mrs. Westmacott, the mistress of the establishment, came to her and said, — ■ " My dear, there is a person in the drawing room asking for you. He is not exactly a gentleman, I think, but he calls himself by your name — Joyce, so I did not like to deny you to him.

He looks as if he had been in the colonies, you know. And he has the mark of a cut right across there." And the school mistress laid her finger on her own soft cheek. '" Do you know him, my dear ? Ursula had turned very white. She caught at her throat as if something were choking her, tried to speak, and found that she could not. Then she cleared her throat, and sat upright, and said boldly, — " It is my father."

Chapter III

A FALSE FRIEND. Ursula sat perfectly still for a minute or two after Mrs. Westmacott left her. trying to realize what this was that had come to her. She had been but a child of seven when her father, a blacksmith in a small way of business, had fallen under suspicion of being concerned in a bad poaching affray, in which two gamekeepers on the estate of Squire Lester, Frank Lester's1 father, had been severely wounded. The Squire had taken up the prosecution1 with great bitterness, and Joyce had been compelled to flee the country. Since 'then nothing had been heard of him. Her mother had died a year later, and Miss Upton had made the u pbringing of the orphan girl her own affair. Ursula had always supposed her father to be dead ; but lately she had wondered whether this was really the case, or whether her nearest relative were still alive, and if one day she would see him again.