Back Aa

Flaming Jewel, The

<h2> Episode Nine</h2> <h2>THE FOREST AND MR. SARD</h2> <h3>I</h3> WHEN at last José Quintana had secured what he had been after for years, his troubles really began. In his pocket he had two million dollars worth of gems, including the Flaming Jewel. But he was in the middle of a wilderness ringed in by hostile men, and obliged to rely for aid on a handful of the most desperate criminals in Europe. Those openly hostile to him had a wide net spread around him—wide of mesh too, perhaps; and it was through a mesh he meant to wriggle, but the net was intact from Canada to New York. Canadian police and secret agents held it on the north: this he had learned from Jake Kloon long since. East, west and south he knew he had the troopers of the New York State Constabulary to deal with, and in addition every game warden and fire warden in the State Forests, a swarm of plain clothes men from the Metropolis, and the rural constabulary of every town along the edges of the vast reservation. Just who was responsible for this enormous conspiracy to rob him of what he considered his own legitimate loot Quintana did not know. Sard's attorney, Eddie Abrams, believed that the French police instigated it through agents of the United States Secret Service. Of one thing Quintana was satisfied, Mike Clinch had nothing to do with stirring up the authorities. Law-breakers of his sort don't shout for the police or invoke State or Government aid. As for the status of Darragh—or Hal Smith, as he supposed him to be—Quintana took him for what he seemed to be, a well-born young man gone wrong. Europe was full of that kind. To Quintana there was nothing suspicious about Hal Smith. On the contrary, his clever recklessness confirmed that polished bandit's opinion that Smith was a gentleman degenerated into a crook. It takes an educated imagination for a man to do what Smith had done to him. If the common crook has any imagination at all it never is educated. Another matter worried José Quintana: he was not only short on provisions, but what remained was cached in Drowned Valley; and Mike Clinch and his men were guarding every outlet to that sinister region, excepting only the rocky and submerged trail by which he had made his exit. That was annoying; it cut off provisions and liquor from Canada, for which he had arranged with Jake Kloon. For Kloon's hootch-runners now would be stopped by Clinch; and not one among them knew about the rocky trail in. All these matters were disquieting enough: but what really and most deeply troubled Quintana was his knowledge of his own men. He did not trust one among them. Of international crookdom they were the cream. Not one of them but would have murdered his fellow if the loot were worth it and the chances of escape sufficient. There was no loyalty to him, none to one another, no "honour among thieves"—and it was José Quintana who knew that only in romance such a thing existed. No, he could not trust a single man. Only hope of plunder attached these marauders to him, and merely because he had education and imagination enough to provide what they wanted. Anyone among them would murder and rob him if opportunity presented. Now, how to keep his loot; how to get back to Europe with it, was the problem that confronted Quintana after robbing Darragh. And he determined to settle part of that question at once. About five miles from Harrod Place, within a hundred rods of which he had held up Hal Smith, Quintana halted, seated himself on a rotting log, and waited until his men came up and gathered around him. For a little while, in utter silence, his keen eyes travelled from one visage to the next, from Henri Picquet to Victor Georgiades, to Sanchez, to Sard. His intent scrutiny focussed on Sard; lingered. If there were anybody he might trust, a little way, it would be Sard. Then a polite, untroubled smile smoothed the pale, dark features of José Quintana: "Bien, messieurs, the coup has been success. Yes? Ver' well; in turn, then, en accord with our custom, I shall dispose myse'f to listen to your good advice." He looked at Henri Picquet, smiled and nodded invitation to speak. Picquet shrugged: "For me, mon capitaine, eet ees ver' simple. We are five. Therefore, divide into five ze gems. After zat, each one for himself to make his way out——" "Nick Salzar and Harry Beck are in the Drowned Valley," interrupted Quintana. Picquet shrugged again; Sanchez laughed, saying: "If they are there it is their misfortune. Also, we others are in a hurry." Picquet added: "Also five shares are sufficient division." "It is propose, then, that we abandon our comrades Beck and Salzar to the rifle of Mike Clinch?" "Why not?" demanded Georgiades sullenly;—"we shall have worse to face before we see the Place de l'Opéra." "There remains, also, Eddie Abrams," remarked Quintana. Crooks never betray their attorney. Everybody expressed a willingness to have the five shares of plunder properly assessed to satisfy the fee due to Mr. Abrams. "Ver' well," nodded Quintana, "are you satisfy, messieurs, to divide an' disperse?" Sard said, heavily, that they ought to stick together until they arrived in New York. Sanchez sneered, accusing Sard of wanting a bodyguard to escort him to his own home. "In this accursed forest," he insisted, "five of us would attract attention where one alone, with sufficient stealth, can slip through into the open country." "Two by two is better," said Picquet. "You, Sanchez, shall travel alone if you desire——" "Divide the gems first," growled Georgiades, "and then let each do what pleases him." "That," nodded Quintana, "is also my opinion. It is so settle. Attention!" Two pistols were in his hands as by magic. With a slight smile he laid them on the moss beside him. He then spread a large white handkerchief flat on the ground; and, from his pockets, he poured out the glittering cascade. Yet, like a feeding panther, every sense remained alert to the slightest sound or movement elsewhere; and when Georgiades grunted from excess emotion, Quintana's right hand held a pistol before the grunt had ceased. It was a serious business, this division of loot; every reckless visage reflected the strain of the situation. Quintana, both pistols in his hands, looked down at the scintillating heap of jewels. "I estimate two and one quartaire million of dollaires," he said simply. "It has been agree that I accep' for me the erosite gem known as The Flaming Jewel. In addition, messieurs, it has been agree that I accep' for myse'f one part in five of the remainder." A fierce silence reigned. Every wolfish eye was on the leader. He smiled, rested his pair of pistols on either knee. "Is there," he asked softly, "any gentleman who shall objec'?" "Who," demanded Georgiades hoarsely, "is to divide for us?" "It is for such purpose," explained Quintana suavely, "that my frien', Emanuel Sard, has arrive. Monsieur Sard is a brokaire of diamon's, as all know ver' well. Therefore, it shall be our frien' Sard who will divide for us what we have gain to-day by our—industry." The savage tension broke with a laugh at the word chosen by Quintana to express their efforts of the morning. Sard had been standing with one fat hand flat against the trunk of a tree. Now, at a nod from Quintana, he squatted down, and, with the same hand that had been resting against the tree, he spread out the pile of jewels into a flat layer. As he began to divide this into five parts, still using the flat of his pudgy hand, something poked him lightly in the ribs. It was the muzzle of one of Quintana's pistols. Sard, ghastly pale, looked up. His palm, sticky with balsam gum, quivered in Quintana's grasp. "I was going to scrape it off," he gasped. "The tree was sticky——" Quintana, with the muzzle of his pistol, detached half a dozen diamonds and rubies that clung to the gum on Mr. Sard's palm. "Wash!" he said drily. Sard, sweating with fear, washed his right hand with whiskey from his pocket-flask, and dried it for general inspection. "My God," he protested tremulously, "it was accidental, gentlemen. Do you think I'd try to get away with anything like that——" Quintana coolly shoved him aside and with the barrel of his pistol he pushed the flat pile of gems into five separate heaps. Only he and Georgiades knew that a magnificent diamond had been lodged in the muzzle of his pistol. The eyes of the Greek flamed with rage at the trick, but he awaited the division before he should come to any conclusion. Quintana coolly picked out The Flaming Jewel and pocketed it. Then, to each man he indicated the heap which was to be his portion. A snarling wrangle instantly began, Sanchez objecting to rubies and demanding more emeralds, and Picquet complaining violently concerning the smallness of the diamonds allotted him. Sard's trained eyes appraised every allotment. Without weighing, and, lacking time and paraphernalia for expert examination, he was inclined to think the division fair enough. Quintana got to his feet lithely. "For me," he said, "it is finish. With my frien' Sard I shall now depart. Messieurs, I embrace and salute you. A bientôt in Paris—if it be God's will! Donc—au revoir, les amis, et à la bonheur! Allons! Each for himself and gar' aux flics!" Sard, seized with a sort of still terror, regarded Quintana with enormous eyes. Torn between dismay of being left alone in the wilderness, and a very natural fear of any single companion, he did not know what to say or do. En masse, the gang were too distrustful of one another to unite on robbing any individual. But any individual might easily rob a companion when alone with him. "Why—why can't we all go together," he stammered. "It is safer, surer——" "I go with Quintana and you," interrupted Georgiades, smilingly; his mind on the diamond in the muzzle of Quintana's pistol. "I do not invite you," said Quintana. "But come if it pleases you." "I also prefer to come with you others," growled Sanchez. "To roam alone in this filthy forest does not suit me." Picquet shrugged his shoulders, turned on his heel in silence. They watched him moving away all alone, eastward. When he had disappeared among the trees, Quintana looked inquiringly at the others. "Eh, bien, non alors!" snarled Georgiades suddenly. "There are too many in your trupeau, mon capitaine. Bonne chance!" He turned and started noisily in the direction taken by Picquet. They watched him out of sight; listened to his careless trample after he was lost to view. When at length the last distant sound of his retreat had died away in the stillness, Quintana touched Sard with the point of his pistol. "Go first," he said suavely. "For God's sake, be a little careful of your gun——" "I am, my dear frien'. It is of you I may become careless. You will mos' kin'ly face south, and you will be kin' sufficient to start immediate. Tha's what I mean.... I thank you.... Now, my frien', Sanchez! Tha's correc'! You shall follow my frien' Sard ver' close. Me, I march in the rear. So we shall pass to the eas' of thees Star Pon', then between the cross-road an' Ghos' Lake; an' then we shall repose; an' one of us, en vidette, shall discover if the Constabulary have patrol beyon'.... Allons! March!" <h3>II</h3> Guided by Quintana's directions, the three had made a wide detour to the east, steering by compass for the cross-roads beyond Star Pond. In a dense growth of cedars, on a little ridge traversing wet land, Quintana halted to listen. Sard and Sanchez, supposing him to be at their heels, continued on, pushing their way blindly through the cedars, clinging to the hard ridge in terror of sink-holes. But their progress was very slow; and they were still in sight, fighting a painful path amid the evergreens, when Quintana suddenly squatted close to the moist earth behind a juniper bush. At first, except for the threshing of Sard and Sanchez through the massed obstructions ahead, there was not a sound in the woods. After a little while there was a sound—very, very slight. No dry stick cracked; no dry leaves rustled; no swish of foliage; no whipping sound of branches disturbed the intense silence. But, presently, came a soft, swift rhythm like the pace of a forest creature in haste—a discreetly hurrying tread which was more a series of light earth-shocks than sound. Quintana, kneeling on one knee, lifted his pistol. He already felt the slight vibration of the ground on the hard ridge. The cedars were moving just beyond him now. He waited until, through the parted foliage, a face appeared. The loud report of his pistol struck Sard with the horror of paralysis. Sanchez faced about with one spring, snarling, a weapon in either hand. In the terrible silence they could hear something heavy floundering in the bushes, choking, moaning, thudding on the ground. Sanchez began to creep back; Sard, more dead than alive, crawled at his heels. Presently they saw Quintana, waist deep in juniper, looking down at something. And when they drew closer they saw Georgiades lying on his back under a cedar, the whole front of his shirt from chest to belly a sopping mess of blood. There seemed no need of explanation. The dead Greek lay there where he had not been expected, and his two pistols lay beside him where they had fallen. Sanchez looked stealthily at Quintana, who said softly: "Bien sure.... In his left side pocket, I believe." Sanchez laid a cool hand on the dead man's heart; then, satisfied, rummaged until he found Georgiades' share of the loot. Sard, hurriedly displaying a pair of clean but shaky hands, made the division. When the three men had silently pocketed what was allotted to each, Quintana pushed curiously at the dead man with the toe of his shoe. "Peste!" he remarked. "I had place, for security, a ver' large diamon' in my pistol barrel. Now it is within the interior of this gentleman...." He turned to Sanchez: "I sell him to you. One sapphire. Yes?" Sanchez shook his head with a slight sneer: "We wait—if you want your diamond, mon capitaine." Quintana hesitated, then made a grimace and shook his head. "No," he said, "he has swallow. Let him digest. Allons! March!" But after they had gone on—two hundred yards, perhaps—Sanchez stopped. "Well?" inquired Quintana. Then, with a sneer: "I now recollec' that once you have been a butcher in Madrid.... Suit your tas'e, l'ami Sanchez." Sard gazed at Sanchez out of sickened eyes. "You keep away from me until you've washed yourself," he burst out, revolted. "Don't you come near me till you're clean!" Quintana laughed and seated himself. Sanchez, with a hang-dog glance at him, turned and sneaked back on the trail they had traversed. Before he was out of sight Sard saw him fish out a Spanish knife from his hip pocket and unclasp it. Almost nauseated, he turned on Quintana in a sort of frightened fury: "Come on!" he said hoarsely. "I don't want to travel with that man! I won't associate with a ghoul! My God, I'm a respectable business man——" "Yaas," drawled Quintana, "tha's what I saw always myse'f; my frien' Sard he is ver' respec'able, an' I trus' him like I trus' myse'f." However, after a moment, Quintana got up from the fallen tree where he had been seated. As he passed Sard he looked curiously into the man's frightened eyes. There was not the slightest doubt that Sard was a coward. "You shall walk behin' me," remarked Quintana carelessly. "If Sanchez fin' us, it is well; if he shall not, that also is ver' well.... We go, now." <hr class="hr2" /> Sanchez made no effort to find them. They had been gone half an hour before he had finished the business that had turned him back. After that he wandered about hunting for water—a rivulet, a puddle, anything. But the wet ground proved wet only on the surface moss. Sanchez needed more than damp moss for his toilet. Casting about him, hither and thither, for some depression that might indicate a stream, he came to a heavily wooded slope, and descended it. There was a bog at the foot. With his fouled hands he dug out a basin which filled up full of reddish water, discoloured by alders. But the water was redder still when his toilet ended. As he stood there, examining his clothing, and washing what he could of the ominous stains from sleeve and shoe, very far away to the north he heard a curious noise—a far, faint sound such as he never before had heard. If it were a voice of any sort there was nothing human about it.... Probably some sort of unknown bird.... Perhaps a bird of prey.... That was natural, considering the attraction that Georgiades would have for such creatures.... If it were a bird it must be a large one, he thought.... Because there was a certain volume to the cry.... Perhaps it was a beast, after all.... Some unknown beast of the forest.... Sanchez was suddenly afraid. Scarcely knowing what he was doing he began to run along the edge of the bog. First growth timber skirted it; running was unobstructed by underbrush. With his startled ears full of the alarming and unknown sound, he ran through the woods under gigantic pines which spread a soft green twilight around him. He was tired, or thought he was, but the alarming sounds were filling his ears now; the entire forest seemed full of them, echoing in all directions, coming in upon him from everywhere, so that he knew not in which direction to run. But he could not stop. Demoralised, he darted this way and that; terror winged his feet; the air vibrated above and around him with the dreadful, unearthly sounds. The next instant he fell headlong over a ledge, struck water, felt himself whirled around in the icy, rushing current, rolled over, tumbled through rapids, blinded, deafened, choked, swept helplessly in a vast green wall of water toward something that thundered in his brain an instant, then dashed it into roaring chaos. <hr class="hr2" /> Half a mile down the turbulent outlet of Star Pond,—where a great sheet of green water pours thirty feet into the tossing foam below,—and spinning, dipping, diving, bobbing up like a lost log after the drive, the body of Señor Sanchez danced all alone in the wilderness, spilling from soggy pockets diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, into crystal caves where only the shadows of slim trout stirred. <hr class="hr2" /> Very far away to the eastward Quintana stood listening, clutching Sard by one sleeve to silence him. Presently he said: "My frien', somebody is hunting with houn's in this fores'. "Maybe they are not hunting us.... Maybe.... But, for me, I shall seek running water. Go you your own way! Houp! Vamose!" He turned westward; but he had taken scarcely a dozen strides when Sard came panting after him: "Don't leave me!" gasped the terrified diamond broker. "I don't know where to go——" Quintana faced him abruptly—with a terrifying smile and glimmer of white teeth—and shoved a pistol into the fold of fat beneath Sard's double chin. "You hear those dogs? Yes? Ver' well; I also. Run, now. I say to you run ver' damn quick. Hé! Houp! Allez vous en! Beat eet!" He struck Sard a stinging blow on his fleshy ear with the pistol barrel, and Sard gave a muffled shriek which was more like the squeak of a frightened animal. "My God, Quintana——" he sobbed. Then Quintana's eyes blazed murder: and Sard turned and ran lumbering through the thicket like a stampeded ox, crashing on amid withered brake, white birch scrub and brier, not knowing whither he was headed, crazed with terror. Quintana watched his flight for a moment, then, pistol swinging, he ran in the opposite direction, eastward, speeding lithely as a cat down a long, wooded slope which promised running water at the foot. <hr class="hr2" /> Sard could not run very far. He could scarcely stand when he pulled up and clung to the trunk of a tree. More dead than alive he embraced the tree, gulping horribly for air, every fat-incrusted organ labouring, his senses swimming. As he sagged there, gripping his support on shaking knees, by degrees his senses began to return. He could hear the dogs, now, vaguely as in a nightmare. But after a little while he began to believe that their hysterical yelping was really growing more distant. Then this man whose every breath was an outrage on God, prayed. He prayed that the hounds would follow Quintana, come up with him, drag him down, worry him, tear him to shreds of flesh and clothing. He listened and prayed alternately. After a while he no longer prayed but concentrated on his ears. Surely, surely, the diabolical sound was growing less distinct.... It was changing direction too. But whether in Quintana's direction or not Sard could not tell. He was no woodsman. He was completely turned around. He looked upward through a dense yellow foliage, but all was grey in the sky—very grey and still;—and there seemed to be no traces of the sun that had been shining. He looked fearfully around: trees, trees, and more trees. No break, no glimmer, nothing to guide him, teach him. He could see, perhaps, fifty feet; no further. In panic he started to move on. That is what fright invariably does to those ignorant of the forest. Terror starts them moving. <hr class="hr2" /> Sobbing, frightened almost witless, he had been floundering forward for over an hour, and had made circle after circle without knowing, when, by chance, he set foot in a perfectly plain trail. Emotion overpowered him. He was too overcome to stir for a while. At length, however, he tottered off down the trail, oblivious as to what direction he was taking, animated only by a sort of madness—horror of trees—an insane necessity to see open ground, get into it, and lie down on it. And now, directly ahead, he saw clear grey sky low through the trees. The wood's edge! He began to run. As he emerged from the edge of the woods, waist-deep in brush and weeds, wide before his blood-shot eyes spread Star Pond. Even in his half-stupefied brain there was memory enough left for recognition. He remembered the lake. His gaze travelled to the westward; and he saw Clinch's Dump standing below, stark, silent, the doors swinging open in the wind. When terror had subsided in a measure and some of his trembling strength returned, he got up out of the clump of rag-weeds where he had lain down, and earnestly nosed the unpainted house, listening with all his ears. There was not a sound save the soughing of autumn winds and the delicate rattle of falling leaves in the woods behind him. He needed food and rest. He gazed earnestly at the house. Nothing stirred there save the open doors swinging idly in every vagrant wind. He ventured down a little way—near enough to see the black cinders of the burned barn, and close enough to hear the lake waters slapping the sandy shore. If he dared—— And after a long while he ventured to waddle nearer, slinking through brush and frosted weed, creeping behind boulders, edging always closer and closer to that silent house where nothing moved except the wind-blown door. And now, at last, he set a furtive foot upon the threshold, stood listening, tip-toed in, peered here and there, sidled to the dining-room, peered in. <hr class="hr2" /> When, at length, Emanuel Sard discovered that Clinch's Dump was tenantless, he made straight for the pantry. Here was cheese, crackers, an apple pie, half a dozen bottles of home-brewed beer. He loaded his arms with all they could carry, stole through the dance-hall out to the veranda, which overlooked the lake. Here, hidden in the doorway, he could watch the road from Ghost Lake and survey the hillside down which an intruder must come from the forest. And here Sard slaked his raging thirst and satiated the gnawing appetite of the obese, than which there is no crueller torment to an inert liver and distended paunch. Munching, guzzling, watching, Sard squatted just within the veranda doorway, anxiously considering his chances. He knew where he was. At the foot of the lake, and eastward, he had been robbed by a highwayman on the forest road branching from the main highway. Southwest lay Ghost Lake and the Inn. Somewhere between these two points he must try to cross the State Road.... After that, comparative safety. For the miles that still would lie between him and distant civilisation seemed as nothing to the horror of that hell of trees. He looked up now at the shaggy fringing woods, shuddered, opened another bottle of beer. In all that panorama of forest, swale, and water the only thing that had alarmed him at all by moving was something in the water. When first he noticed it he almost swooned, for he took it to be a swimming dog. In his agitation he had risen to his feet; and then the swimming creature almost frightened Sard out of his senses, for it tilted suddenly and went down with a report like the crack of a pistol. However, when Sard regained control of his wits he realised that a swimming dog doesn't dive and doesn't whack the water with its tail. He dimly remembered hearing that beavers behaved that way. Watching the water he saw the thing out there in the lake again, <ins title="original had swiming">swimming</ins> in erratic circles, its big, dog-like head well out of the water. It certainly was no dog. A beaver, maybe. Whatever it was, Sard didn't care any longer. Idly he watched it. Sometimes, when it swam very near, he made a sudden motion with his fat arm; and crack!—with a pistol-shot report down it dived. But always it reappeared. What had a creature like that to do with him? Sard watched it with failing interest, thinking of other things—of Quintana and the chances that the dogs had caught him,—of Sanchez, the Ghoul, hoping that dire misfortune might overtake him, too;—of the dead man sprawling under the cedar-tree, all sopping crimson—— Faugh! Shivering, Sard filled his mouth with apple-pie and cheese and pulled the cork from another bottle of home-brewed beer. <h3>III</h3> About that time, a mile and a half to the southward, James Darragh came out on the rocky and rushing outlet to Star Pond. Over his shoulder was a rifle, and all around him ran dogs,—big, powerful dogs, built like foxhounds but with the rough, wiry coats of Airedales, even rougher of ear and features. The dogs,—half a dozen or so in number,—seemed very tired. All ran down eagerly to the water and drank and slobbered and panted, lolling their tongues, and slaking their thirst again and again along the swirling edge of a deep trout pool. Darragh's rifle lay in the hollow of his left arm; his khaki waistcoat was set with loops full of cartridges. From his left wrist hung a raw-hide whip. Now he laid aside his rifle and whip, took from the pocket of his shooting coat three or four leather dog-leashes, went down among the dogs and coupled them up. They followed him back to the bank above. Here he sat down on a rock and inspected his watch. He had been seated there for ten minutes, possibly, with his tired dogs lying around him, when just above him he saw a State Trooper emerge from the woods on foot, carrying a rifle over one shoulder. "Jack!" he called in a guarded voice. Trooper Stormont turned, caught sight of Darragh, made a signal of recognition, and came toward him. Darragh said: "Your mate, Trooper Lannis, is down stream. I've two of my own game wardens at the cross-roads, two more on the Ghost Lake Road, and two foresters and an inspector out toward Owl Marsh." Stormont nodded, looked down at the dogs. "This isn't the State Forest," said Darragh, smiling. Then his face grew grave: "How is Eve?" he asked. "She's feeling better," replied Stormont. "I telephoned to Ghost Lake Inn for the hotel physician.... I was afraid of pneumonia, Jim. Eve had chills last night.... But Dr. Claybourn thinks she's all right.... So I left her in care of your housekeeper." "Mrs. Ray will look out for her.... You haven't told Eve who I am, have you?" "No." "I'll tell her myself to-night. I don't know how she'll take it when she learns I'm the heir to the mortal enemy of Mike Clinch." "I don't know either," said Stormont. There was a silence; the State Trooper looked down at the dogs: "What are they, Jim?" "Otter-hounds," said Darragh, "—a breed of my own.... But that's all they are capable of hunting, I guess," he added grimly. Stormont's gaze questioned him. Darragh said: "After I telephoned you this morning that a guest of mine at Harrod Place, and I, had been stuck up and robbed by Quintana's outfit, what did you do, Jack?" "I called up Bill Lannis first," said Stormont, "—then the doctor. After he came, Mrs. Ray arrived with a maid. Then I went in and spoke to Eve. Then I did what you suggested—I crossed the forest diagonally toward The Scaur, zig-zagged north, turned by the rock hog-back south of Drowned Valley, came southeast, circled west, and came out here as you asked me to." "Almost on the minute," nodded Darragh.... "You saw no signs of Quintana's gang?" "None." "Well," said Darragh, "I left my two guests at Harrod Place to amuse each other, got out three couple of my otter-hounds and started them,—as I hoped and supposed,—on Quintana's trail." "What happened?" inquired Stormont curiously. "Well—I don't know. I think they were following some of Quintana's gang—for a while, anyway. After that, God knows,—deer, hare, cotton-tail,—I don't know. They yelled their bally heads off—I on the run—they're slow dogs, you know—and whatever they were after either fooled them or there were too many trails.... I made a mistake, that's all. These poor beasts don't know anything except an otter. I just hoped they might take Quintana's trail if I put them on it." "Well," said Stormont, "it can't be helped now.... I told Bill Lannis that we'd rendezvous at Clinch's Dump." "All right," nodded Darragh. "Let's keep to the open; my dogs are leashed couples." They had been walking for twenty minutes, possibly, exchanging scarcely a word, and they were now nearing the hilly basin where Star Pond lay, when Darragh said abruptly: "I'm going to tell you about things, Jack. You've taken my word so far that it's all right——" "Naturally," said Stormont simply. The two men, who had been brother officers in the Great War, glanced at each other, slightly smiling. "Here it is then," said Darragh. "When I was on duty in Riga for the Intelligence Department, I met two ladies in dire distress, whose mansion had been burned and looted, supposedly by the Bolsheviki. "They were actually hungry and penniless; the only clothing they possessed they were wearing. These ladies were the Countess Orloff-Strelwitz, and a young girl, Theodorica, Grand Duchess of Esthonia.... I did what I could for them. After a while, in the course of other duty, I found out that the Bolsheviki had had nothing to do with the arson and robbery, but that the crime had been perpetrated by José Quintana's gang of international crooks masquerading as Bolsheviki." Stormont nodded: "I also came across similar cases," he remarked. "Well, this was a flagrant example. Quintana had burnt the château and had made off with over two million dollars worth of the little Grand Duchess's jewels—among them the famous Erosite gem known as The Flaming Jewel." "I've heard of it." "There are only two others known.... Well, I did what I could with the Esthonian police, who didn't believe me. "But a short time ago the Countess Orloff sent me word that Quintana really was the guilty one, and that he had started for America. "I've been after him ever since.... But, Jack, until this morning Quintana did not possess these stolen jewels. Clinch did! " "What!" "Clinch served over-seas in a Forestry Regiment. In Paris he robbed Quintana of these jewels. That's why I've been hanging around Clinch." Stormont's face was flushed and incredulous. Then it lost colour as he thought of the jewels that Eve had concealed—the gems for which she had risked her life. He said: "But you tell me Quintana robbed you this morning." "He did. The little Grand Duchess and the Countess Orloff-Strelwitz are my guests at Harrod Place. "Last night I snatched the case containing these gems from Quintana's fingers. This morning, as I offered them to the Grand Duchess, Quintana coolly stepped between us——" His voice became bitter and his features reddened with rage poorly controlled: "By God, Jack, I should have shot Quintana when the opportunity offered. Twice I've had the chance. The next time I shall kill him any way I can.... Legitimately." "Of course," said Stormont gravely. But his mind was full of the jewels which Eve had. What and whose were they,—if Quintana again had the Esthonian gems in his possession? "Had you recovered all the jewels for the Grand Duchess?" he asked Darragh. "Every one, Jack.... Quintana has done me a terrible injury. I shan't let it go. I mean to hunt that man to the end." Stormont, terribly perplexed, nodded. A few minutes later, as they came out among the willows and alders on the northeast side of Star Pond, Stormont touched his comrade's arm. "Look at that enormous dog-otter out there in the lake!" "Grab those dogs! They'll strangle each other," cried Darragh quickly. "That's it—unleash them, Jack, and let them go!"—he was struggling with the other two couples while speaking. And now the hounds, unleashed, lifted frantic voices. The very sky seemed full of the discordant tumult; wood and shore reverberated with the volume of convulsive and dissonant baying. "Damn it," said Darragh, disgusted, "—that's what they've been trailing all the while across-woods,—that devilish dog-otter yonder.... And I had hoped they were on Quintana's trail——" A mass rush and scurry of crazed dogs nearly swept him off his feet, and both men caught a glimpse of a large bitch-otter taking to the lake from a ledge of rock just beyond. Now the sky vibrated with the deafening outcry of the dogs, some taking to water, others racing madly along shore. Crack! The echo of the dog-otter's blow on the water came across to them as the beast dived. "Well, I'm in for it now," muttered Darragh, starting along the bank toward Clinch's Dump, to keep an eye on his dogs. Stormont followed more leisurely. <h3>IV</h3> A few minutes before Darragh and Stormont had come out on the farther edge of Star Pond, Sard, who had heard from Quintana about the big drain pipe which led from Clinch's pantry into the lake, decided to go in and take a look at it. He had been told all about its uses,—how Clinch,—in the event of a raid by State Troopers or Government enforcement agents,—could empty his contraband hootch into the lake if necessary,—and even could slide a barrel of ale or a keg of rum, intact, into the great tile tunnel and recover the liquor at his leisure. Also, and grimly, Quintana had admitted that through this drain Eve Strayer and the State Trooper, Stormont, had escaped from Clinch's Dump. So now Sard, full of curiosity, went back into the pantry to look at it for himself. Almost instantly the idea occurred to him to make use of the drain for his own safety and comfort. Why shouldn't he sleep in the pantry, lock the door, and, in case of intrusion,—other exits being unavailable,—why shouldn't he feel entirely safe with such an avenue of escape open? For swimming was Sard's single accomplishment. He wasn't afraid of the water; he simply couldn't sink. Swimming was the only sport he ever had indulged in. He adored it. Also, the mere idea of sleeping alone amid that hell of trees terrified Sard. Never had he known such horror as when Quintana abandoned him in the woods. Never again could he gaze upon a tree without malignant hatred. Never again did he desire to lay eyes upon even a bush. The very sight, now, of the dusky forest filled him with loathing. Why should he not risk one night in this deserted house,—sleep well and warmly, feed well, drink his bellyfull of Clinch's beer, before attempting the dead-line southward, where he was only too sure that patrols were riding and hiding on the lookout for the fancy gentlemen of José Quintana's selected company of malefactors? Well, here in the snug pantry were pies, crullers, bread, cheeses, various dried meats, tinned vegetables, ham, bacon, fuel and range to prepare what he desired. Here was beer, too; and doubtless ardent spirits if he could nose out the hidden demijohns and bottles. He peered out of the pantry window at the forest, shuddered, cursed it and every separate tree in it; cursed Quintana, too, wishing him black mischance. No; it was settled. He'd take his chance here in the pantry.... And there must be a mattress somewhere upstairs. He climbed the staircase, cautiously, discovered Clinch's bedroom, took the mattress and blankets from the bed, dragged them to the pantry. Could any honest man be more tight and snug in this perilous world of the desperate and undeserving? Sard thought not. But one matter troubled him: the lock of the pantry door had been shattered. To remedy this he moused around until he discovered some long nails and a claw-hammer. When he was ready to go to sleep he'd nail himself in. And in the morning he'd pry the door loose. That was simple. Sard chuckled for the first time since he had set eyes upon the accursed region. And now the sun came out from behind a low bank of solid grey cloud, and fell upon the countenance of Emanuel Sard. It warmed his parrot-nose agreeably; it cheered and enlivened him. Not for him a night of terrors in that horrible forest which he could see through the pantry window. A sense of security and of well-being pervaded Sard to his muddy shoes. He even curled his fat toes in them with animal contentment. A little snack before cooking a heavily satisfactory dinner? Certainly. So he tucked a couple of bottles of beer under one arm, a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese under the other, and waddled out to the veranda door. And at that instant the very heavens echoed with that awful tumult which had first paralysed, then crazed him in the woods. Bottles, bread, cheese fell from his grasp and his knees nearly collapsed under him. In the bushes on the lake shore he saw animals leaping and racing, but, in his terror, he did not recognise them for dogs. Then, suddenly, he saw a man, close to the house, running: and another man not far behind. That he understood, and it electrified him into action. It was too late to escape from the house now. He understood that instantly. He ran back through the dance-hall and dining-room to the pantry; but he dared not let these intruders hear the noise of hammering. In an agony of indecision he stood trembling, listening to the infernal racket of the dogs, and waiting for the first footstep within the house. No step came. But, chancing to look over his shoulder, he saw a man peering through the pantry window at him. Ungovernable terror seized Sard. Scarcely aware what he was about, he seized the edges of the big drain-pipe and crowded his obese body into it head first. He was so fat and heavy that he filled the tile. To start himself down he pulled with both hands and kicked himself forward, tortoise-like, down the slanting tunnel, sticking now and then, dragging himself on and downward. Now he began to gain momentum; he felt himself sliding, not fast but steadily. There came a hitch somewhere; his heavy body stuck on the steep incline. Then, as he lifted his bewildered head and strove to peer into the blackness in front, he saw four balls of green fire close to him in darkness. He began to slide at the same instant, and flung out both hands to check himself. But his palms slid in the slime and his body slid after. He shrieked once as his face struck a furry obstruction where four balls of green fire flamed horribly and a fury of murderous teeth tore his face and throat to bloody tatters as he slid lower, lower, settling through crimson-dyed waters into the icy depths of Star Pond. <hr class="hr2" /> Stormont, down by the lake, called to Darragh, who appeared on the veranda: "Oh, Jim! Both otters crawled into the drain! I think your dogs must have killed one of them under water. There's a big patch of blood spreading off shore." "Yes," said Darragh, "something has just been killed, somewhere ... Jack!" "Yes?" "Pull both your guns and come up here, quick!" <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.