Chapter Fifteen. Raife’s Resolve.

On the day succeeding Raife’s night excursion, having refreshed himself by a little sleep, that had come readily after the night’s adventure, and those aids that come to a rich man in rooms in St. James’s, he was planning a day’s pleasure-hunting with Gilda. He was writing a note, making an appointment, when his man, Pulman, entered and announced a visitor. “Mr Herrion wishes to see you, sir.”

“Ask him in, Pulman, I’ll see him at once,” said Raife.

Inspector Herrion entered, immaculately clad, as usual, but without the drawl in his speech which he used principally at society functions, and when he felt it would serve him in his work.

“Good morning, Herrion,” said Raife, cheerily, and with extended hand. “What were we chasing that fellow last night for? I got so keen on the hunt, I forgot to ask what it was all about.”

Herrion smiled a cryptic smile, and then said solemnly: “Sir Raife, I want to speak very seriously to you on a subject that concerns you deeply, and the rest of your family.”

“Great Scott! Herrion, what’s the meaning of this? What’s it all about? You look like an undertaker. Come, my dear fellow, what’s it all about?”

“Well, Sir Raife, I am speaking to you entirely outside my professional capacity. If you take offence, I can’t help it. I shall be very sorry, but, I repeat, I can’t help it. It is the high regard in which I hold you and your family that prompts me to speak.”

Raife laughed heartily and said: “Come, come, Herrion, you’re getting worse and worse. I shan’t take offence. Sail ahead and tell me all about it. First of all, have a drink.”

“Well, I take you at your word, but please listen to me to the end.”

Raife dispensed the drinks and Herrion proceeded:

“The man we chased last night was one of a gang of burglars. I had word they were making an attempt on Gildersley House, which contains a lot of valuable property, and there is jewellery and plate, too. I was right. Somehow, we did not succeed in catching them. When I seized you, I did not, of course, recognise you, and I thought you were one of the gang.”

Raife intervened. “I think that’s rather amusing, don’t you?”

“No, Sir Raife, I fear not. That Apache-looking fellow is practically in the employ of a certain Doctor Malsano.”

Raife started, and his expression became engrossed.

“The important part of what I want to say is,” proceeded the detective, “that, although it is merely a coincidence that you should have been in the middle of the night on the scene of an attempted burglary, I saw you, earlier in the evening, dining at the Savoy with a Miss Gilda Tempest, who is supposed to be the niece of this Doctor Malsano.”

Raife sprang from his seat and said: “Come, come, Herrion, I can’t hear a word against Miss Tempest.”

“I ask you to keep cool, Sir Raife, until I explain to you how serious is the situation. It is incredible to feel that your good name—Sir Raife Remington—should be associated with a gang of continental swindlers, of whom this lady is the decoy.”

Again Raife hotly intervened. “I must ask you, Herrion, not to drag Miss Tempest’s name into the dust.”

“It is true, I think you will agree, that my professional position entitles me to speak.”

Raife winced, but his was not the nature to give in easily. In spite of his own personal knowledge of the doctor, and of Gilda, he loved the girl dearly, and love is blind—sometimes to the point of madness.

Herrion continued: “I assure you, in confidence, that Doctor Malsano and Miss Tempest are liable to arrest at any moment. When I was in Nice, a short while ago, they had a plan for stealing the Baroness von Sassniltz’s jewels. She was staying at the Hôtel Royal, and so were they. In addition, this Apache-looking fellow, who fell in the river last night, was in their service for the purpose. He was employed as a messenger, and I had him removed. I had other work on and could not stay to protect the baroness’s jewels. I did my best in the circumstances. The doctor caught sight of me in the hotel, and he, and his niece, disappeared at once.”

This was circumstantial enough, and, but for the obstinate strain in all young lovers, would have carried conviction. Raife remained obdurate, almost defiant, but the skilled observation of the famous detective noticed that he was wavering. With great dignity and deliberation he added: “Sir Raife Remington, in your own interests, I beg of you to abandon this mad alliance. It is suicidal.”

Raife rose from his chair and walked slowly around the room. He mixed himself a whisky and soda, and drank the contents at a gulp. He crossed the room to Herrion, and, extending his hand, said:

“Herrion, you are right. I thank you heartily for your most disinterested action. I will abandon the whole accursed crew. They have blighted my life.”

The strong, stern, little man, relentless in the conviction of crime, unwavering in the performance of his duty, had saved a man’s name—a family name. A whimsical smile spread over his countenance as he left the room.

Two days later Gilda Tempest received a letter from Raife. It was brief, and to the point. It stated that it was his duty not to be associated with a man whom he was convinced was an unscrupulous criminal. He expressed regrets and bade farewell.

Gilda’s wonderful, beautiful, and yet inscrutable face did not tell how much she suffered. Doctor Malsano was furious, and showed growing signs of weakness by allowing his passion to get beyond control.

A few days after the foregoing events, Raife Remington, accompanied by Colonel Langton, was on his way to Egypt. Colonel Langton was a big-game shooter, and a club friend of some years standing. Their intention was to make for Khartoum and thence up the Blue Nile.

“The Nile-guarded city, the desert-bound city,
        The city of Gordon’s doom.
The womanless city, cradleless city,
        The city of men—Khartoum.”

This was to be the goal of Raife Remington who had emerged from a great crisis, the crisis of a dangerous passion for a woman. A passion for a beautiful woman—but a woman whose very presence seemed to herald trouble. The big game was to be found beyond Meshrael Zerak, and he was to forget the loss of his love, with the companionship of his friend, Colonel Langton, among the mysterious and unfathomable Arabs of the desert.

Some men are destined, by nature, to live in an atmosphere of altered plans or broken hopes. Raife Remington’s inheritance had, so far, been attended by both. Raife got to Khartoum, but he did not reach Meshrael Zerak; there were other plans for him. When he and Colonel Langton arrived at Khartoum, there remained much to be done before it was possible to get together the entire outfit necessary to a big-game shooting expedition. Colonel Langton’s experience was essential to this part of the work, and Raife took the opportunity of seeing what there is of the fantastic life of the desert city of Khartoum. In the daytime the city slumbers, and when the stars or moon rise, there is life. There are cafés in Khartoum, as well as poultry-farms, in this late land of the Mahdi and incredible horrors. Raife selected a seat at a café from which point of vantage to observe the passers-by on the broad plank walk. He called for a bottle of Greek wine, an impossible concoction, less for his consumption than as a passport or ticket for the use of the table and chair, and the enjoyment of the vantage point of observation. There were many other tables at which men sat, for be it remembered that Khartoum is “The womanless city, the cradleless city. The city of men.” They were men of many nations, from Greece, Sicily, Roumania, and nomadic Semitics from no one knows where. The British conquerors govern there, as in so much of the east and south, not by weight of numbers, but by the inherited knowledge that he is pre-eminently the sahib, the acknowledged ruler in such quarters.

There was not much of comfort in the café of Raife’s choice. The Greek wine was bad, the food he called for was worse. A couple of arc lights shed a flickering brilliance which revealed myriad insects of all sizes and shapes, and possessed of malignity in varying degree. They fell in shoals all over the place and created a sense of nausea. In spite of all this, overhead was the deep-blue vault of the unfathomable skies flecked by a million stars. The stolid, sulky silence of the dusky Arabs, in every variety of costumes, which include the turban, the tarboosh, loose, flapping drawers, and the coarse woven jibba, added to a melancholy sense. If it were possible to supplement Raife’s dejection, that was achieved by the snuffling dogs who sought garbage under chair and table, and a certain smell which belongs to much of the East.

Raife tired of the café, the plank walk, and his neighbours. He rose from the table, paid his addition and sauntered away. He was passing a narrow, evil-smelling street of the native quarter when he heard blows and cries. Raife, being unfamiliar with Oriental methods, sought a reason for the disturbance, imagining that a good row would cause a diversion and relieve the monotony of the last few hours. He proceeded down the street and discovered that there was a woman in Khartoum, and she was being beaten by a big, dusky Nubian. The woman seemed to look appealingly at Raife, and he, with all the proper, but, in the circumstances, unwise impulse of a normal man of the West, sailed in and hit that Nubian many blows with his useful fists. He should then have beaten a hasty retreat, but he did not. The result of this later indiscretion was that he received from somebody, from somewhere, a stab in the shoulder, which taught him some of the wisdom necessary in the Orient. He found his way back to his hotel, and the regimental surgeon, being sent for, treated the wound, which, though not very serious, would take a long time to heal in a place like Khartoum.

When Colonel Langton returned from purchasing water-bags, sacks, girths for camels, and many of the articles necessary for a well-equipped caravan, he discovered Raife bound up in bandages, and the regimental surgeon putting on the finishing touches to a very neat job of surgery. Having learnt the cause of things, the Colonel swore, in a characteristic fashion, at the prospect of his plans for big-game shooting being at least altered, if not indefinitely postponed.

The news of the occurrence spread, and a few of the officers called on Raife to learn about it. The story having been repeated several times, headed by Colonel Langton, the regimental surgeon and each visitor, in turn, talked interminable lectures on the folly of Raife’s action.

Raife’s pride, as well as his shoulder, was sorely hurt. He felt he had made an ass of himself, and that these fellows, with their experience, were inwardly laughing at him. He cursed the fact that, for the second time, a woman had landed him in trouble.

His days at Khartoum were very miserable. His wound would not heal and he saw that he would be a drag on the expedition if he started. He decided to return to Cairo, and try and patch himself up there.