Chapter Twenty Two. By Stroke of the Pen.

Next day the news of the sudden death of Sir Charles Hornton at his country house in Suffolk caused a great sensation in the City. But as the truth was never guessed, the greatest sympathy was felt on every hand for his close friend and partner Purcell Sandys. The fact that Sir Charles had committed suicide had not leaked out. He had been found dead under very mysterious circumstances. That was all.

Almost the first person to call at Park Lane and express his sorrow was the well-dressed, soft-speaking and refined Mr Rex Rutherford. It was about eleven o’clock. Elma heard a ring at the door, and afterwards asked Hughes who was the caller.

“Mr Rutherford, miss,” was the old man’s reply.

The girl said nothing, but she wondered why he should call upon her father so early in the morning.

Two days later the white-bearded old Moorish Minister Mohammed ben Mussa was seated with his secretary, a young Frenchman, in his hotel in the Rue de Rivoli, in Paris, when a waiter entered, saying:

“Madame Crisp has called, Your Excellency.”

In an instant the old man’s face became illuminated, and he gave orders to show the lady in.

“It is the lady I met on the boat between Dover and Calais. Her necklet had been stolen, and she was naturally in tears. We travelled together from Calais to Paris,” he explained. “She is a very intelligent English society woman, and I asked her to call.”

The French secretary, who had been engaged at the Ministry in Fez for some years, bowed as his new master spoke.

In a few moments Freda Crisp, elegantly-dressed, swept into the luxurious room.

“Ah! So here you are!” she cried in French, which she spoke extremely well. “I promised I would call. Do you know, the French police are so much cleverer than the English! They have already arrested the thief and returned my necklet to me!”

His Excellency, after inviting his guest to be seated, expressed pleasure at the news, and then the secretary rose discreetly and left.

“I hope you are enjoying Paris,” Freda said in her low musical voice, which always charmed her dupes. “Now that the autumn is coming on everyone is returning from Deauville. I am giving a little party to-night at the Ritz. I wonder if you would honour me with your presence? I have a friend, an Englishman, who wishes very particularly to make Your Excellency’s acquaintance.”

The old Minister expressed himself as being delighted, whereupon she suggested that he should dine with her and her English friend at the hotel. The old Moor with his Eastern admiration of feminine beauty found her charming, and at eight o’clock that night when he entered the hotel, his striking figure in the ample white burnous (upon which was the glittering star of the Order of the Tower and the Sword), and turban, caused all heads to be turned in his direction.

“This is my friend, Mr Arthur Porter,” Freda said. “Will Your Excellency allow me to present him?”

The old Moor took Porter’s hand and, with an expression of pleasure, the trio sat down to dinner at a corner table in the great restaurant.

The Moorish Minister spent a most enjoyable evening, for though he touched no wine, he was after dinner introduced to several very elegant and charming women, both English and French, for in a certain circle in Paris Freda was well known. Porter took good care to ingratiate himself with the patriarchal-looking old fellow, declaring that he knew Morocco, was delighted with the life there, and intended in a few weeks’ time to visit Fez again. The truth, however, was that he had never been there in his life and had no intention of ever going. Freda had followed the old Minister from London and had managed to become acquainted with him with the sole object of introducing Arthur Porter, alias Bertram Harrison. To them both the death of Sir Charles was known, and Porter guessed that Mr Sandys’ financial position would be greatly affected. He had seen Sir Charles at several gaming-tables, and knew that he had been a reckless gambler. So cleverly did the pair play their cards that Mohammed ben Mussa invited Porter to call and see him next day—which he did.

As the two men sat together smoking cigarettes, Porter suddenly said in French:

“I heard the other day that the ancient emerald mines in the Wad Sus are about to be worked again.”

“That is so. I granted the concession in London only a few days ago.”

“Ah! How very unfortunate!” remarked his visitor. “I have a big financial backing, and could have exploited those mines with huge profits to all of us. Of course, I do not know how much gratification Your Excellency has received for the concession, but my friends would, I believe, have paid Your Excellency fifty thousand francs down and one-quarter of the profits of the undertaking.” The old Moor pursed his lips and pricked up his ears. From Barclay he had received nothing on account, and only one-eighth share. Porter could see that the old fellow was filled with regret and chagrin that he had granted the concession with such little gain to himself.

“His Majesty the Sultan demands a share in the profits,” old Mohammed remarked. “He has been allotted an eighth share—similar to myself.”

“I could have arranged a quarter share for you and an eighth for His Majesty,” said the crafty Englishman quickly. “But I suppose it is unfortunately too late, now that you have given the concession into another quarter.”

Mohammed ben Mussa remained silent, slowly stroking his long beard with his brown claw-like hand.

The Englishman’s offer was extremely tempting. He was reflecting.

At last he said very slowly:

“Perhaps if seventy-five thousand francs were offered me and the shares you suggest, I might find some way out,” and he smiled craftily.

“Well,” said Porter with affected hesitation, “I’m inclined to think that my friends would pay that sum—and at once if they received an unassailable concession. I mean a concession given to Mr Rex Rutherford under your hand and seal as Minister which would cancel the previous one.” Porter knew well the one power in Oriental countries was that of backsheesh, and wrote down the name Rex Rutherford.

“I will consider it,” said the old man. “There is no hurry till to-morrow. I may find it necessary to telegraph to Fez. I—I have to think it over, M’sieur Porter.”

“Of course. Then I will come here to-morrow—shall we say at eleven? And you will afterwards lunch with me at Voisin’s—eh?”

“It is agreed,” said the representative of the Moorish Sultan, and then, after another cigarette, Porter rose and left, walking back to the Place Vendôme to tell Freda the result of his morning’s negotiations.

Next day, at noon when the tall Englishman entered Mohammed’s room he saw by the expression on the old man’s face that he had triumphed.

“I have been reflecting,” His Excellency said when his visitor was seated, “and I have prepared a copy of the concession which I gave in London, with the name and terms altered as we discussed yesterday, and with the payment of seventy-five thousand francs to me direct at latest to-morrow as being the consideration. You see, it is all in order—a concession in perpetuity granted to your nominee, Mr Rutherford, and sealed by my Ministerial seal, which I hold from His Majesty, and signed by myself. Please examine it.”

Arthur Porter took the document, which was almost a replica of that handed to Barclay in London. The date was, however, different, as well as the terms.

“Yes,” he said, after carefully reading the French translation. “It all seems in order. It rescinds the previous concession granted in London.”

“Most certainly. No one will have any authority to enter the Wad Sus except yourself and those you appoint.”

With satisfaction Porter drew from his inner pocket an envelope containing seventy-five one-thousand-franc notes, which he counted out upon the table one by one.

The old Moor’s thin yellow fingers handled them gleefully, and placing them together he drew them beneath his ample burnous, saying quite coolly:

“I trust, Monsieur Porter, that you are satisfied.”

“Perfectly,” was the Englishman’s reply. “My friend will at once form a syndicate and work the mines. Of course, we may have trouble with that Mr Barclay in London.”

“He paid no consideration. Therefore you need not trouble about him. The concession you have is the only valid one, for it is dated after the one I gave in London. If they attempt to enforce it we shall instantly prevent their entering the district, or arrest them if they attempt to do so.”

And the old man chuckled to himself at the easy manner in which he had obtained seventy-five thousand francs.