It humiliated and mortified her to think that the captain was obliged to
resort to such a messenger as this. But all sorts of men become sailors,
and although her pride revolted against the attempted imposition, the man
had a letter written to her by Captain Horn, and she must have it.

"How much do you want?" said she.

"I don't mind your calling me names," said Banker. "The captain has made
a grand stroke, you know, and everything about you is very fine, while I
haven't three francs to jingle together. I want one thousand dollars."

"Five thousand francs!" exclaimed Edna. "Absurd! I have not that much
money with me. I haven't but a hundred francs, but that ought to
satisfy you."

"Oh, no," said Banker, "not at all. But don't trouble yourself. You have
not the money, and I have not the letter. The letter is in my lodgings. I
was not fool enough to bring it with me, and have you call a policeman to
arrest me, and take it for nothing. But if you will be here in two hours,
with five thousand francs, and will promise me, upon your honor, that you
will bring no one with you, and will not call the police as soon as you
have the letter, I will be here with it."

"Yes," said Edna, "I promise."

She felt humbled and ashamed as she said it, but there was nothing
else to do. In spite of her feelings, in spite of the cost, she must
have the letter.

"Very good," said Banker, and he departed.

Banker had no lodgings in particular, but he went to a brasserie and
procured writing materials. He had some letters in his pocket,--old,
dirty letters which had been there for a long time,--and one of them was
from Raminez, which had been written when they were both in California,
and which Banker had kept because it contained an unguarded reference to
Raminez's family in Spain, and Banker had thought that the information
might some day be useful to him. He was a good penman, this
Rackbird,--he was clever in many ways,--and he could imitate handwriting
very well, and he set himself to work to address an envelope in the
handwriting of Raminez.

For some time he debated within himself as to what title he should use in
addressing the lady. Should it be "SeГ±ora" or "Madame"? He inclined to
the first appellation, but afterwards thought that as the letter was to
go to her in France, and that as most likely she understood French, and
not Spanish, Raminez would probably address her in the former language,
and therefore he addressed the envelope to "Madame Raminez, by private
hand." As to the writing of a letter he did not trouble himself at all.
He simply folded up two sheets of paper and put them in the envelope,
sealing it tightly. Now he was prepared, and after waiting until the
proper time had arrived he proceeded to the Gardens.

Edna drove to her hotel in great agitation. She was angry, she was
astounded, she was almost frightened. What could have happened to
Captain Horn?

But two things encouraged and invigorated her: he was alive, and he had
written to her. That was everything, and she would banish all
speculations and fears until she had read his letter, and, until she had
read it, she must keep the matter a secret--she must not let anybody
imagine that she had heard anything, or was about to hear anything. By
good fortune, she had five thousand francs in hand, and, with these in
her pocket-book, she ordered her carriage half an hour before the time
appointed.

When Cheditafa heard the order, he was beset by a new consternation. He
had been greatly troubled when his mistress had gone to the Gardens the
first time--not because there was anything strange in that, for any lady
might like to walk in such a beautiful place, but because she was alone,
and, with a Rackbird in Paris, his lady ought never to be alone. She had
come out safely, and he had breathed again, and now, now she wanted to go
back! He must tell her about that Rackbird man. He had been thinking and
thinking about telling her all the way back to the hotel, but he had
feared to frighten her, and he had also been afraid to say that he had
done what he had been ordered not to do, and had told some one that she
was the captain's wife. But when he had reached the Gardens, he felt that
he must say something--she must not walk about alone. Accordingly, as
Edna stepped out of the carriage, he began to speak to her, but, contrary
to her usual custom, she paid no attention to him, simply telling him to
wait until she came back.

Edna was obliged to wander about for some time before Banker appeared.

"Now, then, madam," said he, "don't let us waste any time on this
business. Have you the money with you?"

"I have," said she. "But before I give it to you, I tell you that I do so
under protest, and that this conduct of yours shall be reported. I
consider it a most shameful thing, and I do not willingly pay you for
what, no doubt, you have been sufficiently paid before."

"That's all very well," said Banker. "I don't mind a bit what you say to
me. I don't mind your being angry--in fact, I think you ought to be. In
your place, I would be angry. But if you will hand me the money--"

"Silence!" exclaimed Edna. "Not another word. Where is my letter?"

"Here it is," said Banker, drawing the letter he had prepared from his
pocket, and holding it in such a position that she could read the
address. "You see, it is marked, 'by private hand,' and this is the
private hand that has brought it to you. Now, if you will count out the
money, and will hand it to me, I will give you the letter. That is
perfectly fair, isn't it?"

Edna leaned forward and looked at it. When she saw the superscription,
she was astonished, and stepped back.

"What do you mean?" she exclaimed, and was about to angrily assert that
she was not Madame Raminez, when Banker interrupted her. The sight of her
pocket-book within two feet of his hands threw him into a state of
avaricious excitement.

"I want you to give me that money, and take your letter!" he said
savagely. "I can't stand here fooling."

[Illustration: "I want you to give me that money, and take your letter!"
he said savagely.]

Edna firmly gripped her pocket-book, and was about to scream, but there
was no occasion for it. It had been simply impossible for Cheditafa to
remain on the carriage and let her go into the Gardens alone; he had
followed her, and, behind some bushes, he had witnessed the interview
between her and Banker. He saw that the man was speaking roughly to her
and threatening her. Instantly he rushed toward the two, and at the very
top of his voice he yelled:

"Rackbird! Rackbird! Police!"

Startled out of her senses, Edna stepped back, while Banker turned in
fury toward the negro, and clapped his hand to his hip pocket. But
Cheditafa's cries had been heard, and down the broad avenue Banker saw
two gendarmes running toward him. It would not do to wait here and
meet them.

"You devil!" he cried, turning to Cheditafa, "I'll have your blood before
you know it. As for you, madam, you have broken your word! I'll be even
with you!" And, with this, he dashed away.

When the gendarmes reached the spot, they waited to ask no questions, but
immediately pursued the flying Banker. Cheditafa was about to join in the
chase, but Edna stopped him.

"Come to the carriage--quick!" she said. "I do not wish to stay here and
talk to those policemen." Hurrying out of the Gardens, she drove away.

The ex-Rackbird was a very hard man to catch. He had had so much
experience in avoiding arrest that his skill in that direction was
generally more than equal to the skill, in the opposite direction, of the
ordinary detective. A good many people and two other gendarmes joined in
the chase after the man in the slouch-hat, who had disappeared like a
mouse or a hare around some shrubbery. It was not long before the
pursuers were joined by a man in a white cap, who asked several questions
as to what they were running after, but he did not seem to take a
sustained interest in the matter, and soon dropped out and went about his
business. He did not take his slouch-hat out of his pocket, for he
thought it would be better to continue to wear his white cap for a time.

When the police were obliged to give up the pursuit, they went back to
the Gardens to talk to the lady and her servant who, in such strange
words, had called to them, but they were not there.




CHAPTER XLV

MENTAL TURMOILS


Edna went home faint, trembling, and her head in a whirl. When she had
heard Cheditafa shout "Rackbird," the thought flashed into her mind that
the captain had been captured in the caves by some of these brigands who
had not been destroyed, that this was the cause of his silence, and that
he had written to her for help. But she considered that the letter could
not be meant for her, for under no circumstance would he have written to
her as Madame Raminez--a name of which she had never heard. This thought
gave her a little comfort, but not much. As soon as she reached the
hotel, she had a private talk with Cheditafa, and what the negro told her
reassured her greatly.

He did not make a very consecutive tale, but he omitted nothing. He told
her of his meeting with the Rackbird in front of the Bon MarchГ©, and he
related every word of their short conversation. He accounted for this
Rackbird's existence by saying that he had not been at the camp when the
water came down. In answer to a question from Edna, he said that the
captain of the band was named Raminez, and that he had known him by that
name when he first saw him in Panama, though in the Rackbirds' camp he
was called nothing but "the captain."

"And you only told him I was the captain's wife?" asked Edna. "You didn't
say I was Captain Horn's wife?"

Cheditafa tried his best to recollect, and he felt very sure that he had
simply said she was the captain's wife.

When his examination was finished, Cheditafa burst into an earnest
appeal to his mistress not to go out again alone while she stayed in
Paris. He said that this Rackbird was an awfully wicked man, and that he
would kill all of them if he could. If the police caught him, he wanted
to go and tell them what a bad man he was. He did not believe the police
had caught him. This man could run like a wild hare, and policemen's
legs were so stiff.

Edna assured him that she would take good care of herself, and, after
enjoining upon him not to say a word to any one of what had happened
until she told him to, she sent him away.

When Edna sat in council with herself upon the events of the morning, she
was able to make some very fair conjectures as to what had happened. The
scoundrel she met had supposed her to be the wife of the Rackbirds'
captain. Having seen and recognized Cheditafa, it was natural enough for
him to suppose that the negro had been brought to Paris by some of the
band. All this seemed to be good reasoning, and she insisted to herself
over and over again that she was quite sure that Captain Horn had nothing
to do with the letter which the man had been intending to give her.

That assurance relieved her of one great trouble, but there were others
left. Here was a member of a band of bloody ruffians,--and perhaps he had
companions,--who had sworn vengeance against her and her faithful
servant, and Cheditafa's account of this man convinced her that he would
be ready enough to carry out such vengeance. She scarcely believed that
the police had caught him. For she had seen how he could run, and he had
the start of them. But even if they had, on what charge would he be held?
He ought to be confined or deported, but she did not wish to institute
proceedings and give evidence. She did not know what might be asked, or
said, or done, if she deposed that the man was a member of the Rackbird
band, and brought Cheditafa as a witness.

In all this trouble and perplexity she had no one to whom she could turn
for advice and assistance. If she told Mrs. Cliff there was a Rackbird in
Paris, and that he had been making threats, she was sure that good lady
would fly to her home in Plainton, Maine, where she would have iron bars
put to all the windows, and double locks to her doors.

In this great anxiety and terror--for, although Edna was a brave woman,
it terrified her to think that a wild and reckless villain, purple with
rage, had shaken his fist at her, and vowed he would kill Cheditafa--she
could not think of a soul she could trust.

Her brother, fortunately, was still in Belgium with his
tutor--fortunately, she thought, because, if he knew of the affair, he
would be certain to plunge himself into danger. And to whom could she
apply for help without telling too much of her story?

Mrs. Cliff felt there was something in the air. "You seem queer," said
she. "You seem unusually excited and ready to laugh. It isn't natural.
And Cheditafa looks very ashy. I saw him just a moment ago, and it seems
to me a dose of quinine would do him good. It may be that it is a sort of
spring fever which is affecting people, and I am not sure but that
something of the kind is the matter with me. At any rate, there is that
feeling in my spine and bones which I always have when things are about
to happen, or when there is malaria in the air."

Edna felt she must endeavor in all possible ways to prevent Mrs. Cliff
from finding out that the curses of a wicked Rackbird were in the air,
but she herself shuddered when she thought that one or more of the cruel
desperadoes, whose coming they had dreaded and waited for through that
fearful night in the caves of Peru, were now to be dreaded and feared in
the metropolis of France. If Edna shuddered at this, what would Mrs.
Cliff do if she knew it?

As for the man with the white cap, who had walked slowly away about his
business that morning when he grew tired of following the gendarmes, he
was in a terrible state of mind. He silently raged and stormed and
gnashed his teeth, and swore under his breath most awfully and
continuously. Never had he known such cursed luck. One thousand dollars
had been within two feet of his hand! He knew that the lady had that sum
in her pocket-book. He was sure she spoke truthfully. Her very
denunciation of him was a proof that she had not meant to deceive him.
She hesitated a moment, but she would have given him the money. In a few
seconds more he would have made her take the letter and give him the
price she promised. But in those few seconds that Gehenna-born baboon
had rushed in and spoiled everything. He was not enraged against the
lady, but he was enraged against himself because he had not snatched the
wallet before he ran, and he was infuriated to a degree which resembled
intoxication when he thought of Cheditafa and what he had done. The more
he thought, the more convinced he became that the lady had not brought
the negro with her to spy on him. If she had intended to break her word,
she would have brought a gendarme, not that ape.

No, the beastly blackamoor had done the business on his own account. He
had sneaked after the lady, and when he saw the gendarmes coming, he had
thought it a good chance to pay off old scores.

"Pay off!" growled Banker, in a tone which made a shop-girl, who was
walking in front of him carrying a band-box, jump so violently that she
dropped the box. "Pay off! I'll pay him!" And for a quarter of a mile he
vowed that the present purpose of his life was the annihilation, the
bloody annihilation, of that vile dog, whom he had trampled into the dirt
of the Pacific coast, and who now, decked in fine clothes, had arisen in
Paris to balk him of his fortune.

It cut Banker very deeply when he thought how neat and simple had been
the plan which had almost succeeded. He had had a notion, when he went
away to prepare the letter for the captain's wife, that he would write in
it a brief message which would mean nothing, but would make it necessary
for her to see him again and to pay him again. But he had abandoned this.
He might counterfeit an address, but it was wiser not to try his hand
upon a letter. The more he thought about Raminez, the less he desired to
run the risk of meeting him, even in Paris. So he considered that if he
made this one bold stroke and got five thousand francs, he would retire,
joyful and satisfied. But now! Well, he had a purpose: the annihilation
of Cheditafa was at present his chief object in life.

Banker seldom stayed in one place more than a day at a time, and before
he went to a new lodging, that night, he threw away his slouch-hat, which
he had rammed into his pocket, for he would not want it again. He had his
hair cut short and his face neatly shaved, and when he went to his room,
he trimmed his mustache in such a way that it greatly altered the cast of
his countenance. He was not the penniless man he had represented himself
to be, who had not three francs to jingle together, for he was a billiard
sharper and gambler of much ability, and when he appeared in the street,
the next morning, he was neatly dressed in a suit of second-hand clothes
which were as quiet and respectable as any tourist of limited means could
have desired. With Baedeker's "Paris" in his hand, and with a long knife
and a slung-shot concealed in his clothes, he went forth to behold the
wonders of the great city.

He did not seem to care very much whether he saw the sights by day or by
night, for from early morning until ten or eleven o'clock in the evening,
he was an energetic and interested wayfarer, confining his observations,
however, to certain quarters of the city which best suited his
investigations. One night he gawkily strolled into the Black Cat, and one
day he boldly entered the Hotel Grenade and made some inquiries of the
porter regarding the price of accommodations, which, however, he
declared were far above his means. That day he saw Mok in the courtyard,
and once, in passing, he saw Edna come out and enter her carriage with an
elderly lady, and they drove away, with Cheditafa on the box.

Under his dark sack-coat Banker wore a coarse blouse, and in the pocket
of this undergarment he had a white cap. He was a wonderful man to move
quietly out of people's way, and there were places in every neighborhood
where, even in the daytime, he could cast off the dark coat and the derby
hat without attracting attention.

It was satisfactory to think, as he briskly passed on, as one who has
much to see in a little time, that the incident in the Tuileries Gardens
had not yet caused the captain's wife to change her quarters.




CHAPTER XLVI

A PROBLEM


It was a little more than a week after Edna's adventure in the Gardens,
and about ten o'clock in the morning, that something happened--something
which proved that Mrs. Cliff was entirely right when she talked about the
feeling in her bones. Edna received a letter from Captain Horn, which was
dated at Marseilles.

As she stood with the letter in her hand, every nerve tingling, every
vein throbbing, and every muscle as rigid as if it had been cast in
metal, she could scarcely comprehend that it had really come--that she
really held it. After all this waiting and hoping and trusting, here was
news from Captain Horn--news by his own hand, now, here, this minute!

Presently she regained possession of herself, and, still standing, she
tore open the letter. It was a long one of several sheets, and she read
it twice. The first time, standing where she had received it, she skimmed
over page after page, running her eye from top to bottom until she had
reached the end and the signature, but her quick glance found not what
she looked for. Then the hand holding the letter dropped by her side.
After all this waiting and hoping and trusting, to receive such a
letter! It might have been written by a good friend, a true and generous
friend, but that was all. It was like the other letters he had written.
Why should they not have been written to Mrs. Cliff?

Now she sat down to read it over again. She first looked at the envelope.
Yes, it was really directed to "Mrs. Philip Horn." That was something,
but it could not have been less. It had been brought by a messenger from
Wraxton, Fuguet & Co., and had been delivered to Mrs. Cliff. That lady
had told the messenger to take the letter to Edna's salon, and she was
now lying in her own chamber, in a state of actual ague. Of course, she
would not intrude upon Edna at such a moment as this. She would wait
until she was called. Whether her shivers were those of ecstasy,
apprehension, or that nervous tremulousness which would come to any one
who beholds an uprising from the grave, she did not know, but she surely
felt as if there were a ghost in the air.

The second reading of the letter was careful and exact. The captain had
written a long account of what had happened after he had left Valparaiso.
His former letter, he wrote, had told her what had happened before that
time. He condensed everything as much as possible, but the letter was a
very long one. It told wonderful things--things which ought to have
interested any one. But to Edna it was as dry as a meal of stale crusts.
It supported her in her fidelity and allegiance as such a meal would have
supported a half-famished man, but that was all. Her soul could not live
on such nutriment as this.

He had not begun the letter "My dear Wife," as he had done before. It
was not necessary now that his letters should be used as proof that she
was his widow! He had plunged instantly into the subject-matter, and had
signed it after the most friendly fashion. He was not even coming to her!
There was so much to do which must be done immediately, and could not be
done without him. He had telegraphed to his bankers, and one of the firm
and several clerks were already with him. There were great difficulties
yet before him, in which he needed the aid of financial counsellors and
those who had influence with the authorities. His vessel, the _Arato_,
had no papers, and he believed no cargo of such value had ever entered a
port of France as that contained in the little green-hulled schooner
which he had sailed into the harbor of Marseilles. This cargo must be
landed openly. It must be shipped to various financial centres, and what
was to be done required so much prudence, knowledge, and discretion that
without the aid of the house of Wraxton, Fuguet & Co., he believed his
difficulties would have been greater than when he stood behind the wall
of gold on the shore of the Patagonian island.

He did not even ask her to come to him. In a day or so, he wrote, it
might be necessary for him to go to Berlin, and whether or not he would
travel to London from the German capital, he could not say, and for this
reason he could not invite any of them to come down to him.

"Any of us!" exclaimed Edna.

For more than an hour Mrs. Cliff lay in the state of palpitation which
pervaded her whole organization, waiting for Edna to call her. And at
last she could wait no longer, and rushed into the salon where Edna sat
alone, the letter in her hand.

"What does he say?" she cried, "Is he well? Where is he? Did he get
the gold?"

Edna looked at her for a moment without answering. "Yes," she said
presently, "he is well. He is in Marseilles. The gold--" And for a moment
she did not remember whether or not the captain had it.

"Oh, do say something!" almost screamed Mrs. Cliff. "What is it? Shall I
read the letter? What does he say?"

This recalled Edna to herself. "No," said she, "I will read it to you."
And she read it aloud, from beginning to end, carefully omitting those
passages which Mrs. Cliff would have been sure to think should have been
written in a manner in which they were not written.

"Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Cliff, who, in alternate horror, pity, and
rapture, had listened, pale and open-mouthed, to the letter. "Captain
Horn is consistent to the end! Whatever happens, he keeps away from us!
But that will not be for long, and--oh, Edna!"--and, as she spoke, she
sprang from her chair and threw her arms around the neck of her
companion, "he's got the gold!" And, with this, the poor lady sank
insensible upon the floor.

"The gold!" exclaimed Edna, before she even stooped toward her fainting
friend. "Of what importance is that wretched gold!"

An hour afterwards Mrs. Cliff, having been restored to her usual
condition, came again into Edna's room, still pale and in a state of
excitement.

"Now, I suppose," she exclaimed, "we can speak out plainly, and tell
everybody everything. And I believe that will be to me a greater delight
than any amount of money could possibly be."

"Speak out!" cried Edna, "of course we cannot. We have no more right to
speak out now than we ever had. Captain Horn insisted that we should not
speak of these affairs until he came, and he has not yet come."

"No, indeed!" said Mrs. Cliff, "that seems to be the one thing he cannot
do. He can do everything but come here. And are we to tell nobody that he
has arrived in France?--not even that much?"

"I shall tell Ralph," replied Edna. "I shall write to him to come here as
soon as possible, but that is all until the captain arrives, and we know
everything that has been done, and is to be done. I don't wish any one,
except you and me and Ralph, even to know that I have heard from him."

"Not Cheditafa? Not the professor? Nor any of your friends?"

"Of course not," said Edna, a little impatiently. "Don't you see how
embarrassing, how impossible it would be for me to tell them anything, if
I did not tell them everything? And what is there for me to tell them?
When we have seen Captain Horn, we shall all know who we are, and what we
are, and then we can speak out to the world, and I am sure I shall be
glad enough to do it."

"For my part," said Mrs. Cliff, "I think we all know who we are now. I
don't think anybody could tell us. And I think it would have been a great
deal better--"

"No, it wouldn't!" exclaimed Edna. "Whatever you were going to say, I
know it wouldn't have been better. We could have done nothing but what we
have done. We had no right to speak of Captain Horn's affairs, and having
accepted his conditions, with everything else that he has given us, we
are bound to observe them until he removes them. So we shall not talk any
more about that."

Poor Mrs. Cliff sighed. "So I must keep myself sealed and locked up, just
the same as ever?"

"Yes," replied Edna, "the same as ever. But it cannot be for long. As
soon as the captain has made his arrangements, we shall hear from him,
and then everything will be told."

"Made his arrangements!" repeated Mrs. Cliff. "That's another thing I
don't like. It seems to me that if everything were just as it ought to
be, there wouldn't be so many arrangements to make, and he wouldn't have
to be travelling to Berlin, and to London, and nobody knows where else. I
wonder if people are giving him any trouble about it! We have had all
sorts of troubles already, and now that the blessed end seems almost
under our fingers, I hope we are not going to have more of it."

"Our troubles," said Edna, "are nothing. It is Captain Horn who
should talk in that way. I don't think that, since the day we left
San Francisco, anybody could have supposed that we were in any sort
of trouble."

"I don't mean outside circumstances," said Mrs. Cliff. "But I suppose we
have all got souls and consciences inside of us, and when they don't know
what to do, of course we are bound to be troubled, especially as they
don't know what to tell us, and we don't know whether or not to mind
them when they do speak. But you needn't be afraid of me. I shall keep
quiet--that is, as long as I can. I can't promise forever."

Edna wrote to Ralph, telling him of the captain's letter, and urging him
to come to Paris as soon as possible. It was scarcely necessary to speak
to him of secrecy, for the boy was wise beyond his years. She did speak
of it, however, but very circumspectly. She knew that her brother would
never admit that there was any reason for the soul-rending anxiety with
which she waited the captain's return. But whatever happened, or whatever
he might think about what should happen, she wanted Ralph with her. She
felt herself more truly alone than she had ever been in her life.

During the two days which elapsed before Ralph reached Paris from
Brussels, Edna had plenty of time to think, and she did not lose any of
it. What Mrs. Cliff had said about people giving trouble, and about her
conscience, and all that, had touched her deeply. What Captain Horn had
said about the difficulties he had encountered on reaching Marseilles,
and what he had said about the cargo of the _Arato_ being probably more
valuable than any which had ever entered that port, seemed to put an
entirely new face upon the relations between her and the owner of this
vast wealth, if, indeed, he were able to establish that ownership. The
more she thought of this point, the more contemptible appeared her own
position--that is, the position she had assumed when she and the captain
stood together for the last time on the shore of Peru. If that gold truly
belonged to him, if he had really succeeded in his great enterprise,
what right had she to insist that he should accept her as a condition of
his safe arrival in a civilized land with this matchless prize, with no
other right than was given her by that very indefinite contract which had
been entered into, as she felt herself forced to believe, only for her
benefit in case he should not reach a civilized land alive?

The disposition of this great wealth was evidently an anxiety and a
burden, but in her heart she believed that the greatest of his anxieties
was caused by his doubt in regard to the construction she might now place
upon that vague, weird ceremony on the desert coast of Peru.

The existence of such a doubt was the only thing that could explain the
tone of his letters. He was a man of firmness and decision, and when he
had reached a conclusion, she knew he would state it frankly, without
hesitation. But she also knew that he was a man of a kind and tender
heart, and it was easy to understand how that disposition had influenced
his action. By no word or phrase, except such as were necessary to
legally protect her in the rights he wished to give her in case of his
death, had he written anything to indicate that he or she were not both
perfectly free to plan out the rest of their lives as best suited them.

In a certain way, his kindness was cruelty. It threw too much upon her.
She believed that if she were to assume that a marriage ceremony
performed by a black man from the wilds of Africa, was as binding, at
least, as a solemn engagement, he would accept her construction and all
its consequences. She also believed that if she declared that ceremony
to be of no value whatever, now that the occasion had passed, he would
agree with that conclusion. Everything depended upon her. It was too
hard for her.

To exist in this state of uncertainty was impossible for a woman of
Edna's organization. At any hour Captain Horn might appear. How should
she receive him? What had she to say to him?

For the rest of that day and the whole of the night, her mind never left
this question: "What am I to say to him?" She had replied to his letter
by a telegram, and simply signed herself "Edna." It was easy enough to
telegraph anywhere, and even to write, without assuming any particular
position in regard to him. But when he came, she must know what to do and
what to say. She longed for Ralph's coming, but she knew he could not
help her. He would say but one thing--that which he had always said. In
fact, he would be no better than Mrs. Cliff. But he was her own flesh and
blood, and she longed for him.




CHAPTER XLVII

A MAN-CHIMPANZEE


Since the affair with the Rackbird, Cheditafa had done his duty more
earnestly than ever before. He said nothing to Mok about the Rackbird. He
had come to look upon his fellow-African as a very low creature, not much
better than a chimpanzee. During Ralph's absence Mok had fallen into all
sorts of irregular habits, going out without leave whenever he got a
chance, and disporting himself generally in a very careless and
unservant-like manner.

On the evening that Ralph was expected from Brussels, Mok was missing.
Cheditafa could not find him in any of the places where he ought to
have been, so he must be out of doors somewhere, and Cheditafa went to
look for him.

This was the first time that Cheditafa had gone into the streets alone at
night since the Rackbird incident in the Tuileries Gardens. As he was the
custodian of Mok, and responsible for him, he did not wish to lose sight
of him, especially on this evening.

It so happened that when Cheditafa went out of the hotel, his
appearance was noticed by Mr. Banker. There was nothing remarkable
about this, for the evening was the time when the ex-Rackbird gave
the most attention to the people who came out of the hotel. When he
saw Cheditafa, his soul warmed within him. Here was the reward of
patience and steadfastness--everything comes to those who wait.

A half-hour before, Banker had seen Mok leave the hotel and make his way
toward the Black Cat. He did not molest the rapidly walking negro. He
would not have disturbed him for anything. But his watchfulness became so
eager and intense that he almost, but not quite, exposed himself to the
suspicion of a passing gendarme. He now expected Cheditafa, for the
reason that the manner of the younger negro indicated that he was playing
truant. It was likely that the elder man would go after him, and this was
exactly what happened.

Banker allowed the old African to go his way without molestation, for the
brightly lighted neighborhood of the hotel was not adapted to his
projected performance. But he followed him warily, and, when they reached
a quiet street, Banker quickened his pace, passed Cheditafa, and,
suddenly turning, confronted him. Then, without a word having been said,
there flashed upon the mind of the African everything that had happened,
not only in the Tuileries Gardens, but in the Rackbirds' camp, and at the
same time a prophetic feeling of what was about to happen.

By a few quick pulls and jerks, Banker had so far removed his disguise
that Cheditafa knew him the instant that his eyes fell upon him. His
knees trembled, his eyeballs rolled so that nothing but their whites
could be seen, and he gave himself up to death. Then spoke out the
terrible Rackbird.

What he said need not be recorded here, but every word of superheated
vengeance, with which he wished to torture the soul of his victim before
striking him to the earth, went straight to the soul of Cheditafa, as if
it had been a white-hot iron. His chin fell upon his breast. He had but
one hope, and that was that he would be killed quickly. He had seen
people killed in the horrible old camp, and the man before him he
believed to be the worst Rackbird of them all.

When Banker had finished stabbing and torturing the soul of the
African, he drew a knife from under his coat, and down fell Cheditafa
on his knees.

The evening was rainy and dark, and the little street was nearly
deserted. Banker, who could look behind and before him without making
much show of turning his head, had made himself sure of this before he
stepped in front of Cheditafa. But while he had been pouring out his
torrent of heart-shrivelling vituperation, he had ceased to look before
and behind him, and had not noticed a man coming down the street in the
opposite direction to that in which they had been going.

This was Mok, who was much less of a fool than Cheditafa took him for. He
had calculated that he would have time to go to the Black Cat and drink
two glasses of beer before Ralph was likely to appear, and he also made
up his mind that two glasses were as much as he could dispose of without
exciting the suspicions of the young man. Therefore, he had attended to
the business that had taken him out of doors on that rainy night, and was
returning to the hotel with a lofty consciousness of having done wrong in
a very wise and satisfactory manner.

He wore india-rubber overshoes, because the pavements were wet, and also
because this sort of foot-gear suited him better than hard, unyielding
sole-leather. Had he had his own way, he would have gone bare-footed, but
that would have created comment in the streets of Paris--he had sense
enough to know that.

When he first perceived, by the dim light of a street lamp, two persons
standing together on his side of the street, his conscience, without any
reason for it, suggested that he cross over and pass by without
attracting attention. To wrong-doers attention is generally unwelcome.

Mok not only trod with the softness and swiftness of a panther, but he
had eyes like that animal, and if there were any light at all, those
eyes could make good use of it. As he neared the two men, he saw that
one was scolding the other. Then he saw the other man drop down on his
knees. Then, being still nearer, he perceived that the man on his knees
was Cheditafa. Then he saw the man in front of him draw a knife from
under his coat.

As a rule, Mok was a coward, but two glasses of beer were enough to turn
his nature in precisely the opposite direction. A glass less would have
left him timorous, a glass more would have made him foolhardy and silly.
He saw that somebody was about to stab his old friend. In five long,
noiseless steps, or leaps, he was behind that somebody, and had seized
the arm which held the knife.

With a movement as quick as the stroke of a rattlesnake, Banker turned
upon the man who had clutched his arm, and when he saw that it was Mok,
his fury grew tornado-like. With a great oath, and a powerful plunge
backward, he endeavored to free his arm from the grasp of the negro. But
he did not do it. Those black fingers were fastened around his wrist as
though they had been fetters forged to fit him. And in the desperate
struggle the knife was dropped.

In a hand-to-hand combat with a chimpanzee, a strong man would have but
little chance of success, and Mok, under the influence of two glasses of
beer, was a man-chimpanzee. When Banker swore, and when he turned so that
the light of the street lamp fell upon his face, Mok recognized him. He
knew him for a Rackbird of the Rackbirds--as the cruel, black-eyed savage
who had beaten him, trodden upon him, and almost crushed the soul out of
him, in that far-away camp by the sea. How this man should have suddenly
appeared in Paris, why he came there, and what he was going to do,
whether he was alone, or with his band concealed in the neighboring
doorways, Mok did not trouble his mind to consider. He held in his brazen
grip a creature whom he considered worse than the most devilish of
African devils, a villain who had been going to kill Cheditafa.

Every nerve under his black skin, every muscle that covered his bones,
and the two glasses of beer, sung out to him that the Rackbird could not
get away from him, and that the great hour of vengeance had arrived.

Banker had a pistol, but he had no chance to draw it. The arms of the
wild man were around him. His feet slipped from under him, and instantly
the two were rolling on the wet pavement. But only for an instant. Banker
was quick and light and strong to such a degree that no man but a
man-chimpanzee could have overpowered him in a struggle like that. Both
were on their feet almost as quickly as they went down, but do what he
would, Banker could not get out his pistol.

Those long black arms, one of them now bared to the shoulder, were about
him ever. He pulled, and tugged, and swerved. He half threw him one
instant, half lifted the next, but never could loosen the grasp of that
fierce creature, whose whole body seemed as tough and elastic as the
shoes he wore.

Together they fell, together they rolled in the dirty slime, together
they rose as if they had been shot up by a spring, and together they went
down again, rolling over each other, pulling, tearing, striking, gasping,
and panting.

Cheditafa had gone. The moment of Mok's appearance, he had risen and
fled. There were now people in the street. Some had come out of their
houses, hearing the noise of the struggle, for Banker wore heavy shoes.
There were also one or two pedestrians who had stopped, unwilling to pass
men who were engaged in such a desperate conflict.

No one interfered. It would have seemed as prudent to step between two
tigers. Such a bounding, whirling, tumbling, rolling, falling, and rising
contest had never been seen in that street, except between cats. It
seemed that the creatures would dash themselves through the windows of
the houses.

It was not long before Cheditafa came back with two policemen, all
running, and then the men who lay in the street, spinning about as if
moving on pivots, were seized and pulled apart. At first the officers
of the law appeared at a loss to know what had happened, and who had
been attacked. What was this black creature from the Jardin des
Plantes? But Banker's coat had been torn from his back, and his pistol
stood out in bold relief in his belt, and Cheditafa pointed to the
breathless bandit, and screamed: "Bad man! Bad man! Try to kill me!
This good Mok save my life!"

Two more policemen now came hurrying up, for other people had given the
alarm, and it was not considered necessary to debate the question as to
who was the aggressor in this desperate affair. Cheditafa, Mok, and
Banker were all taken to the police station.

As Cheditafa was known to be in the service of the American lady at the
Hotel Grenade, the _portier_ of that establishment was sent for, and
having given his testimony to the good character of the two negroes, they
were released upon his becoming surety for their appearance when wanted.

As for Banker, there was no one to go security. He was committed
for trial.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Ralph went to his room, that night, he immediately rang for his
valet. Mok, who had reached the hotel from the police station but a few
minutes before, answered the summons. When Ralph turned about and beheld
the black man, his hair plastered with mud, his face plastered with mud,
and what clothes he had on muddy, torn, and awry, with one foot wearing a
great overshoe and the other bare, with both black arms entirely denuded
of sleeves, with eyes staring from his head, and his whole form quivering
and shaking, the young man started as if some afrit of the "Arabian
Nights" had come at this dark hour to answer his call.

To the eager questions which poured upon him when his identity became
apparent, Mok could make no intelligible answer. He did not possess
English enough for that. But Cheditafa was quickly summoned, and he
explained everything. He explained it once, twice, three times, and then
he and Mok were sent away, and told to go to bed, and under no
circumstances to mention to their mistress what had happened, or to
anybody who might mention it to her. And this Cheditafa solemnly
promised for both.

The clock struck one as Ralph still sat in his chair, wondering what
all this meant, and what might be expected to happen next. To hear
that a real, live Rackbird was in Paris, that this outlaw had
threatened his sister, that the police had been watching for him, that
he had sworn to kill Cheditafa, and that night had tried to do it,
amazed him beyond measure.

At last he gave up trying to conjecture what it meant. It was foolish to
waste his thoughts in that way. To-morrow he must find out. He could
understand very well why his sister had kept him in ignorance of the
affair in the Gardens. She had feared danger to him. She knew that he
would be after that scoundrel more hotly than any policeman. But what the
poor girl must have suffered! It was terrible to think of.

The first thing he would do would be to take very good care that she
heard nothing of the attack on Cheditafa. He would go to the police
office early the next morning and look into this matter. He did not
think that it would be necessary for Edna to know anything about
it, except that the Rackbird had been arrested and she need no
longer fear him.

When Ralph reached the police station, the next day, he found there the
portier of the hotel, together with Cheditafa and Mok.

After Banker's examination, to which he gave no assistance by admissions
of any sort, he was remanded for trial, and he was held merely for his
affair with the negroes, no charge having been made against him for his
attempt to obtain money from their mistress, or his threats in her
direction. As the crime for which he had been arrested gave reason
enough for condign punishment of the desperado, Ralph saw, and made
Cheditafa see, it would be unnecessary as well as unpleasant to drag
Edna into the affair.

That afternoon Mr. Banker, who had recovered his breath and had collected
his ideas, sent for the police magistrate and made a confession. He said
he had been a member of a band of outlaws, but having grown disgusted
with their evil deeds, had left them. He had become very poor, and having
heard that the leader of the band had made a fortune by a successful
piece of rascality, and had married a fine lady, and was then in Paris,
he had come to this city to meet him, and to demand in the name of their
old comradeship some assistance in his need. He had found his captain's
wife. She had basely deceived him after having promised to help him, and
he had been insulted and vilely treated by that old negro, who was once a
slave in the Rackbirds' camp in Peru, and who had been brought here with
the other negro by the captain. He also freely admitted that he had
intended to punish the black fellow, though he had no idea whatever of
killing him. If he had had such an idea, it would have been easy enough
for him to put his knife into him when he met him in that quiet street.
But he had not done so, but had contented himself with telling him what
he thought of him, and with afterwards frightening him with his knife.
And then the other fellow had come up, and there had been a fight.
Therefore, although he admitted that his case was a great misdemeanor,
and that he had been very disorderly, he boldly asserted that he had
contemplated no murder. But what he wished particularly to say to the
magistrate was that the captain of the Rackbirds would probably soon
arrive in Paris, and that he ought to be arrested. No end of important
results might come from such an arrest. He was quite sure that the great
stroke of fortune which had enabled the captain's family to live in Paris
in such fine style ought to be investigated. The captain had never made
any money by simple and straightforward methods of business.

All this voluntary testimony was carefully taken down, and although the
magistrate did not consider it necessary to believe any of it, the
arrival of Captain Horn was thenceforth awaited with interest by the
police of Paris.

It was not very plain how Miss Markham of the Hotel Grenade, who was well
known as a friend of a member of the American legation, could be the wife
of a South American bandit. But then, there might be reasons why she
wished to retain her maiden name for the present, and she might not know
her husband as a bandit.




CHAPTER XLVIII

ENTER CAPTAIN HORN


It was less than a week after the tumbling match in the street between
Banker and Mok, and about eleven o'clock in the morning, when a brief
note, written on a slip of paper and accompanied by a card, was brought
to Edna from Mrs. Cliff. On the card was written the name of Captain
Philip Horn, and the note read thus:

"He is here. He sent his card to me. Of course, you
will see him. Oh, Edna! don't do anything foolish when
you see him! Don't go and throw away everything
worth living for in this world! Heaven help you!"

This note was hurriedly written, but Edna read it at a glance.

"Bring the gentleman here," she said to the man.

Now, with all her heart, Edna blessed herself and thanked herself that,
at last, she had been strong enough and brave enough to determine what
she ought to do when she met the captain. That very morning, lying awake
in her bed, she had determined that she would meet him in the same spirit
as that in which he had written to her. She would be very strong. She
would not assume anything. She would not accept the responsibility of
deciding the situation, which responsibility she believed he thought it
right she should assume. She would not have it. If he appeared before her
as the Captain Horn of his letters, he should go away as the man who had
written those letters. If he had come here on business, she would show
him that she was a woman of business.

As she stood waiting, with her eyes upon his card, which lay upon the
table, and Mrs. Cliffs note crumpled up in one hand, she saw the captain
for some minutes before it was possible for him to reach her. She saw him
on board the _Castor_, a tall, broad-shouldered sailor, with his hands in
the pockets of his pea-jacket. She saw him by the caves in Peru, his
flannel shirt and his belted trousers faded by the sun and water, torn
and worn, and stained by the soil on which they so often sat, with his
long hair and beard, and the battered felt hat, which was the last thing
she saw as his boat faded away in the distance, when she stood watching
it from the sandy beach. She saw him as she had imagined him after she
had received his letter, toiling barefooted along the sands, carrying
heavy loads upon his shoulders, living alone night and day on a dreary
desert coast, weary, perhaps haggard, but still indomitable. She saw him
in storm, in shipwreck, in battle, and as she looked upon him thus with
the eyes of her brain, there were footsteps outside her door.

As Captain Horn came through the long corridors and up the stairs,
following the attendant, he saw the woman he was about to meet, and saw
her before he met her. He saw her only in one aspect--that of a tall, too
thin, young woman, clad in a dark-blue flannel suit, unshapely,
streaked, and stained, her hair bound tightly round her head and covered
by an old straw hat with a faded ribbon. This picture of her as he had
left her standing on the beach, at the close of that afternoon when his
little boat pulled out into the Pacific, was as clear and distinct as
when he had last seen it.