The Golden Scorpion Read online

  CHAPTER III

  MISKA'S STORY

  Stuart returned to his house in a troubled frame of mind. He hadrefrained so long from betraying the circumstances of his last meetingwith Mlle. Dorian to the police authorities that this meeting nowconstituted a sort of guilty secret, a link binding him to thebeautiful accomplice of "The Scorpion"--to the dark-eyed servant ofthe uncanny cowled thing which had sought his life by strange means.He hugged this secret to his breast, and the pain of it afforded him akind of savage joy.

  In his study he found a Post Office workman engaged in fitting a newtelephone. As Stuart entered the man turned.

  "Good-afternoon, sir," he said, taking up the destroyed instrumentfrom the litter of flux, pincers and screw drivers lying upon thetable. "If it's not a rude question, how on earth did _this_ happen?"

  Stuart laughed uneasily.

  "It got mixed up with an experiment which I was conducting," hereplied evasively.

  The man inspected the headless trunk of the instrument.

  "It seems to be fused, as though the top of it had been in a blastfurnace," he continued. "Experiments of that sort are a bit dangerousoutside a proper laboratory, I should think."

  "They are," agreed Stuart. "But I have no facilities here, you see,and I was--er--compelled to attempt the experiment. I don't intend torepeat it."

  "That's lucky," murmured the man, dropping the instrument into acarpet-bag. "If you do, it will cost you a tidy penny for telephones!"

  Walking out towards the dispensary, Stuart met Mrs. M'Gregor.

  "A Post Office messenger brought this letter for you, Mr. Keppel, justthe now," she said, handing Stuart a sealed envelope.

  He took the envelope from her hand, and turned quickly away. He feltthat he had changed colour. For it was addressed in the handwritingof ... Mlle. Dorian!

  "Thank you, Mrs. M'Gregor," he said and turned into the dining-room.

  Mrs. M'Gregor proceeded about her household duties, and as herfootsteps receded, Stuart feverishly tore open the envelope. Thatelusive scent of jasmine crept to his nostrils. In the envelope was asheet of thick note-paper (having the top cut off evidently in orderto remove the printed address), upon which the following singularmessage was written:

  "Before I go away there is something I want to say to you. You do nottrust me. It is not wonderful that you do not. But I swear that Ionly want to save you from a _great_ danger. If you will promise notto tell the police anything of it, I will meet you at six o'clock bythe Book Stall at Victoria Station--on the Brighton side. If you agreeyou will wear something white in your button-hole. If not you cannotfind me there. Nobody ever sees me again."

  There was no signature, but no signature was necessary.

  Stuart laid the letter on the table, and began to pace up and downthe room. His heart was beating ridiculously. His self-contempt wasprofound. But he could not mistake his sentiments.

  His duty was plain enough. But he had failed in it once, and even ashe strode up and down the room, already he knew that he must failagain. He knew that, rightly or wrongly, he was incapable of placingthis note in the hands of the police ... and he knew that he shouldbe at Victoria Station at six o'clock.

  He would never have believed himself capable of becoming accessory toa series of crimes--for this was what his conduct amounted to; he hadthought that sentiment no longer held any meaning for him. Yet theonly excuse which he could find wherewith to solace himself was thatthis girl had endeavoured to save him from assassination. Weighedagainst the undoubted fact that she was a member of a dangerouscriminal group what was it worth? If the supposition of Gaston Maxwas correct, "The Scorpion" had at least six successful murders tohis credit, in addition to the attempt upon his (Stuart's) life andthat of "Le Balafre", upon the life of Gaston Max.

  It was an accomplice of this nameless horror called "The Scorpion"with whom at six o'clock he had a tryst, whom he was protecting fromjustice, by the suppression of whose messages to himself he was addingdifficulties to the already difficult task of the authorities!

  Up and down he paced, restlessly, every now and again glancing at aclock upon the mantelpiece. His behavior he told himself wascontemptible.

  Yet, at a quarter to six, he went out--and seeing a little clusterof daisies growing amongst the grass bordering the path, he pluckedone and set it in his button-hole!

  A few minutes before the hour he entered the station and glancedsharply around at the many groups scattered about in the neighbourhoodof the bookstall. There was no sign of Mlle. Dorian. He walkedaround the booking office without seeing her and glanced into thewaiting-room. Then, looking up at the station clock, he saw that thehour had come, and as he stood there staring upward he felt a timidtouch upon his shoulder.

  He turned--and she was standing by his side!

  She was Parisian from head to foot, simply but perfectly gowned. Aveil hung from her hat and half concealed her face, but could nothide her wonderful eyes nor disguise the delightful curves of her redlips. Stuart automatically raised his hat, and even as he did sowondered what she should have said and done had she suddenly foundGaston Max standing at his elbow! He laughed shortly.

  "You are angry with me," said Mlle. Dorian, and Stuart thought thather quaint accent was adorable. "Or are you angry with yourself forseeing me?"

  "I am angry with myself," he replied, "for being so weak."

  "Is it so weak," she said, rather tremulously, "not to judge a womanby what she seems to be and not to condemn her before you hear whatshe has to say? If that is weak, I am glad; I think it is how a manshould be."

  Her voice and her eyes completed the spell, and Stuart resignedhimself without another struggle to this insane infatuation.

  "We cannot very well talk here," he said. "Suppose we go into thehotel and have late tea, Mlle. Dorian."

  "Yes. Very well. But please do not call me that. It is not my name."

  Stuart was on the point of saying, "Zara el-Khala then," but checkedhimself in the nick of time. He might hold communication with theenemy, but at least he would give away no information.

  "I am called Miska," she added. "Will you please call me Miska?"

  "Of course, if you wish," said Stuart, looking down at her as shewalked by his side and wondering what he would do when he had to standup in Court, look at Miska in the felon's dock and speak words whichwould help to condemn her--perhaps to death, at least to penalservitude! He shuddered.

  "Have I said something that displeases you?" she asked, resting awhite-gloved hand on his arm. "I am sorry."

  "No, no," he assured her. "But I was thinking--I cannot helpthinking ..."

  "How wicked I am?" she whispered.

  "How lovely you are!" he said hotly, "and how maddening it is toremember that you are an accomplice of criminals!"

  "Oh," she said, and removed her hand, but not before he had felt howit trembled. They were about to enter the tea-room when she added:"Please don't say that until I have told you why I do what I do."

  Obeying a sudden impulse, he took her hand and drew it close underhis arm.

  "No," he said; "I won't. I was a brute, Miska. Miska means 'musk',surely?"

  "Yes." She glanced up at him timidly. "Do you think it a pretty name?"

  "Very," he said, laughing.

  Underlying the Western veneer was the fascinating naivete of theEastern woman, and Miska had all the suave grace, too, which belongsto the women of the Orient, so that many admiring glances followedher charming figure as she crossed the room to a vacant table.

  "Now," said Stuart, when he had given an order to the waiter, "whatdo you want to tell me? Whatever it may be, I am all anxiety to hearit. I promise that I will only act upon anything you may tell me inthe event of my life, or that of another, being palpably endangeredby my silence."

  "Very well. I want to tell you," replied Miska, "why I stay withFo-Hi."

  "Who is Fo-Hi?"

  "I do not know!"

  "What!" said Stuart. "I am afraid I don't understan
d you."

  "If I speak in French will you be able to follow what I say?"

  "Certainly. Are you more at ease with French?"

  "Yes," replied Miska, beginning to speak in the latter language. "Mymother was French, you see, and although I can speak in Englishfairly well I cannot yet _think_ in English. Do you understand?

  "Perfectly. So perhaps you will now explain to whom you refer whenyou speak of Fo-Hi."

  Miska glanced apprehensively around her, bending further forward overthe table.

  "Let me tell you from the beginning," she said in a low voice, "andthen you will understand. It must not take me long. You see me as Iam to-day because of a dreadful misfortune that befell me when I wasfifteen years old."

  "My father was _Wali_ of Aleppo, and my mother, his third wife, was aFrenchwoman, a member of a theatrical company which had come to Cairo,where he had first seen her. She must have loved him, for she gave upthe world, embraced Islam and entered his _harem_ in the great houseon the outskirts of Aleppo. Perhaps it was because he, too, was halfFrench, that they were mutually attracted. My father's mother was aFrenchwoman also, you understand.

  "Until I was fifteen years of age, I never left the _harem,_ but mymother taught me French and also a little English; and she prevailedupon my father not to give me in marriage so early as is usual in theEast. She taught me to understand the ways of European women, and weused to have Paris journals and many books come to us regularly. Thenan awful pestilence visited Aleppo. People were dying in the mosquesand in the streets, and my father decided to send my mother and myselfand some others of the _harem_ to his brother's house in Damaskus.

  "Perhaps you will think that such things do not happen in these days,and particularly to members of the household of a chief magistrate,but I can only tell you what is true. On the second night of ourjourney a band of Arabs swept down upon the caravan, overpowered theguards, killing them all, and carried of everything of value which wehad. Me, also, they carried off--me and one other, a little Syriangirl, my cousin. Oh!" she shuddered violently--"even now I cansometimes hear the shrieks of my mother ... and I can hear, also, theway they suddenly ceased, those cries ..."

  Stuart looked up with a start to find a Swiss waiter placing tea uponthe table. He felt like rubbing his eyes. He had been dragged rudelyback from the Syrian desert to the prosaic realities of a London hotel.

  "Perhaps," continued Miska, "you will think that we were ill-treated,but it was not so. No one molested us. We were given every comfortwhich desert life can provide, servant to wait upon us and plenty ofgood food. After several weeks' journeying we came to a large city,having many minarets and domes glimmering in the moonlight; for weentered at night. Indeed, we always travelled at night. At the time Ihad no idea of the name of this city but I learned afterwards that itwas Mecca.

  "As we proceeded through the streets, the Assyrian girl and I peepedout through the little windows of the _shibriyeh_--which is a kind oftent on the back of a camel--in which we travelled, hoping to see somefamiliar face or someone to whom we could appeal. But there seemed tobe scarcely anyone visible in the streets, although lights shone outfrom many windows, and the few men we saw seemed to be anxious toavoid us. In fact, several ran down side turnings as the camelsapproached.

  "We stopped before the gate of a large house which was presentlyopened, and the camels entered the courtyard. We descended, and I sawthat a number of small apartments surrounded the courtyard in themanner of a _caravanserai._ Then, suddenly, I saw something else, andI knew why we had been treated with such consideration on the journey;I knew into what hand I had fallen--I knew that I was in the house ofa _slave-dealer!_"

  "Good heavens!" muttered Stuart--"this is almost incredible."

  "I knew you would doubt what I had to tell you," declared Miskaplaintively; "but I solemnly swear what I tell you is the truth. Yes,I was in the house of a slave-dealer, and on the very next day,because I was proficient in languages, in music and in dancing, andalso because--according to their Eastern ideas--I was pretty, thedealer, Mohammed Abd-el-Bali ... offered me for sale."

  She stopped, lowering her eyes and flushing hotly, then continuedwith hesitancy.

  "In a small room which I can never forget I was offered the onlyindignity which I had been called upon to suffer since my abduction.I was _exhibited_ to prospective purchasers."

  "As she spoke the words, Miska's eyes flashed passionately and herhand, which lay on the table, trembled. Stuart silently reachedacross and rested his own upon it.

  "There were all kinds of girls," Miska continued, "black and brown andwhite, in the adjoining rooms, and some of them were singing and somedancing, whilst others wept. Four different visitors inspected mecritically, two of them being agents for royal _harems_ and the othertwo--how shall I say it?--wealthy connoisseurs. But the price asked byMohammed Abd-el-Bali was beyond the purses of all except one of theagents. He had indeed settled the bargain, when the singing anddancing and shouting--every sound it seemed--ceased about me ... andinto the little room in which I crouched amongst perfumed cushions atthe feet of the two men, walked Fo-Hi."