Part 31 (1/2)

”Dear me,” said Sir Reginald, looking up, ”that is very strange! Why couldn't he have written or telegraphed? It must be something very serious, I am afraid. Ah--yes, Ambrose, tell him to sit down in the hall, I'll see him in a few minutes.”

The door closed, and, as it did so, out of the black, long, buried past there came a pale flash of rising fear.

Sir Reginald was one of those men who have practically no thought or feeling outside the circle of their own desires and ambitions. He had lived on good terms with his fellow men, not out of any respect for them, but simply because it was more convenient and comfortable for himself. He had committed the worst of crimes against his friend, Sir Arthur Maxwell, in perfect callousness, simply because the woman Maxwell had married and inspired him with the only pa.s.sion, the only enthusiasm of which he was capable. He had never felt a single pang of remorse for it. The sinner who sins through absolute selfishness as he had done never does. In fact, his only uncomfortable feeling in connection with the whole affair had been the fear of discovery, and that, as the years had gone on, had died away until it had become only an evil memory to him. And yet, why did Koda Bux, the man who had so nearly discovered his infamy twenty-two years ago, come here alone to the Abbey to-day?

Ah, yes, to-day! A diary lay open on the writing-table before him. The 28th of June. The very day--but that of course was merely a coincidence.

Well, he would hear what Koda Bux had to say. He signed a letter, put it into an envelope, and addressed it. Then he touched the bell. Ambrose appeared, and he said:

”You can show the man in now.”

”Very good, Sir Reginald,” replied the man, and vanished.

A few moments later the door opened again and Koda Bux came in, looked at Sir Reginald for a few moments straight in the eyes, and then salaamed with subtle oriental humility.

”May my face be bright in your eyes, protector of the poor and husband of the widow!” he said, as he raised himself erect again. ”I have brought a message from my master.”

”Well, Koda Bux,” said Sir Reginald, a trifle uneasily, for he didn't quite like the extreme gravity with which the Pathan spoke.

”I suppose it must be something important and confidential, if he has sent you here instead of writing or telegraphing. Of course, you have a letter from him?”

”No, Sahib,” replied Koda Bux, fingering at a blue silk handkerchief that was tucked into his waist-band. ”The message was of too great importance to be trusted to a letter which might be lost, and so my master trusted it to the soul of his servant.”

”That's rather a strange way for one gentleman to send a message to another in this country and in these days, Koda Bux,” said Sir Reginald, getting up from his chair at the writing-table and moving towards the bell.

Instantly, with a swift sinuous movement, Koda Bux had pa.s.sed before the fireplace and put himself between Sir Reginald and the bell.

”The Sahib will not call his servants until he has heard the message,”

he said, not in the cringing tone of the servant, but in the straight-spoken words of the soldier. Meanwhile, the fingers of his left hand were almost imperceptibly drawing the blue handkerchief out of his girdle.

Sir Reginald saw this, and a sudden fear streamed into his soul. His own Indian experience told him that this man might be a Thug, and that if so, a little roll of blue silk would be a swifter, deadlier, and more untraceable weapon than knife or poison, and his thoughts went back to the 28th of June, twenty-two years before.

”I am not going to be spoken to like that in my own house and by a n.i.g.g.e.r!” he exclaimed, seeking to cover his fear by a show of anger. ”I don't believe in you or your message. If you have a letter from your master, give it to me, if you haven't, I shan't listen to you. What right have you to come here into my library pretending to have a message from your master, when you haven't even a letter, or his card, or one written word from him?”

”Ill.u.s.trious,” said Koda Bux, with a sudden change of manner, salaaming low and moving backwards towards the door, ”the slave of my master forgot himself in the urgency of his message, which my lord, his friend, has not yet heard.”

There was an almost imperceptible emphasis on the word ”friend” which sent a little s.h.i.+ver through such rudiments of soul as Sir Reginald possessed. He said roughly:

”Very well, then, if you have brought a message what is it? I can't waste half the morning with you.”

”The message is short, Sahib,” replied Koda Bux, salaaming again, and moving a little nearer towards the door. ”I am to ask you what you did at Simla two-and-twenty years ago this night--what you have done with the Mem Sahib who was faithful to my lord's honour when you, dog and son of a dog, betrayed it--and what has become of her daughter and yours?

Oh, cursed of the G.o.ds, thou knowest these things as thou knowest the two marks of the African spear on thy left arm--but thou dost not know the depth of infamy which thy sin dug for thine own son to fall into.”

As he was saying this Koda Bux backed close to the door, locked it behind him, and took the key out.

Bad as he was, the last words of Koda Bux hit Sir Reginald harder even than the others. His son, the heir to his name and fortune, what had he to do with that old sin of his committed before he was born?

”You must be mad or opium-drunk, Koda Bux,” he whispered hoa.r.s.ely, ”to talk like that. Yes, it is the 28th of June, and I have two spear marks on my arm--but I am rich, I can make you a prince in your own land.

Come, you know something about me. That is why you came here; but what has my son Reginald to do with it? If I have sinned, what is that to him?”