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Bull
JOSEPH YAHQL
AUTHOR OF “THE BRASS BOWI*’BTC. Q JJ
bY IMST WAQJJHQQg?
COPYMCHT ay LOU/a UOSCPM VAMCS
SYNOPSIS.
David Amber, starting for a duck-shoot
ing visit with his friend. Quain, comes up
on a young lady equestrian who has been
dismounted by m-r horse becoming fright
ened at the sudden appearance in the road
of a burly Hindu. He declares lie Is
Betm ri Dal Chatterjl, "the appointed
mouthpiece of The Bell.” addresses Amber
as a man of high rank and pressing a
myster.ous little bronze box. "The To
ken," into his hand, disappears in the
.wood. The girl calls Amber by name.
He in turn addresses her as Miss Sophie
Farrell, daughter of Col. Farrell of the
liMlish diplomatic service In India and
visiting the yualns. Several nights later
the Quain home is burglarized and the
bromic box stolen. Amber and Quain go
on an island and become lost and
Amber Is left marooned. He wanders
about, finally reaches a cabin and rec
ognizes as its occupant an old friend
named Mutton, whom he last met in Eng
land, and who appears to be in hiding.
CHAPTER IV. (Continued).
“The name man. He asked me down
for the shooting—owns a country
place across the hay: Tanglewood."
“A very able man; I wish I might
have met him. . . . What of your
self? WJiat (lave you been doing these
three years? Have you married?”
“I’ve been too busy to think of
that/'' ”* . . I mean, till lately.”
"Ah?”
Amber flushed boyishly. “There was
a girl at Quain’s —a guest. . . .
But she left before I dared speak. Per
haps It was as well.”
“Why?"
“Because she was too fine and
sweet and good for me, Rutton.”
“Hike every man’s first love.”
The elder man’s glance was keen —
too keen for Amber to dissimulate suc
cessfully under It. "You’re right,”
he admitted ruefully. ‘lt’s the first
sure-enough trouble of the sort I ever
experienced. And, of course, It had
to be hopeless."
"Why?” persisted Rutton.
“Because—l’ve half a notion there’s
a chap waiting for her at home."
"At home?"
"In England.” Th’e need for a con
fidant was suddenly imperative upon
the younger man. "She’s an English
girl—half English, that is; her moth
er was an American, a schoolmate of
Quain’s wife; her father, an English
man In the Indian service.
"Her name?”
"Sophia Farrell." A peculiar quali
ty, a certain tensity, In Rutton’s man
ner, forced Itself upon Amber’s at
tention. “Why?” he asked. “Do you
know the Farrells? What’s the mat
ter ?"
Rutton’s eyes met his stonily; out
of the ashen mask of his face, that
suddenly had whitened beneath the
brown, they glared, afire but unseeing.
His bands writhed, his fingers twisting
together with cruel force, the knuckles
gray. Abruptly, as If abandoning the
attempt to reassert his self-control, he
Jumped up and went quickly to a win
dow, there to stand, his back to Am
ber, staring fixedly out into the storm
racked night. "I knew her father,”
he said at length, his tone constrained
and odd, "long ago, in India.”
“He’s out there now—a political, I
believe they call him, or something of
the sort."
“Yes."
“She’s going out to rejoin him.”
“What!" Rutton came swiftly back
10 Amber, his voice shaking. "What
did you say?”
“Why, yes. She travels with friends
by the western route to Join Colonel
Farrell at Darjeeling, where he’s sta
tioned Just now. Shortly after I came
down she left; Mrs. Quain had a wire
a day or so ago, saying she was on
the point of sailing from San Fran
cisco. . . . Good Lord, Rutton!
are you 111?”
Something In the man’s facp had
brought Amber to his feet, a prey to
Inexpressible concern; It was as If a
mask had dropped and he were look
ing upon the soul of a man in mortal
torture.
“No," gasped Rutton, "I’m all right.
Besides,” he added beneath his
breath, so that Amber barely caught
the syllables, “It’s too late.”
As rapidly as he had lost he seemed
to regain mastery of his Inexplicable
emotion. His face became again com
posed, almost Immobile, and stepping
to the table he selected a cigarette
and rolled it gently between his slim
brown fingers. “I’m sorry to have
alarmed you,’’ he said, his tone a bit
too even not to breed a doubt In the
mind of his hearer. "It’s nothing seri
ous—a little trouble of the heart, of
long standing, incurable—l hope."
Perplexed, yes hesitating to press
him further. Amber watched him fur
tively, Instinctively assured that be
tween this man and the Farrells there
existed some extraordinary bond; won
dering how that could be, convinced
in his soul that somehow the entan
glement Involved the woman he loved,
he still feared to put his supiclons to
the question, lest he should learn that
which he had no right to know . . .
and while he watched was startled by
the change that came over Rutton. At
ease, one moment, outwardly compos
ed, If absorbed In thought, the next he
was rigid, every muscle taut, every
nerve tense as a steel spring. His
head jerked back suddenly, his gaze
fixing itself first upon the window,
then shifting to the door. And his
fingers, contracting, tore the cigarette
In half.
“Rutton, what the deuce Is the mat
tor?”
Rutton seemed not to hear; Amber
got his answer from the door, which
was swung wide and slammed shut. A
blast of frosty air and a flurry of
snow swept across the room. And
against the door there leaned a man
pufling for breath and coughing spas
modically—a gross and monstrous
bulk of flesh, unclean and unwhole*
some to the eye, attired In an extrav
agant array of colored garments,
tawdry silks and satins clinging, sod
den to his ponderous and unwieldy
limbs.
“The baliu!’’ cried Amber unconsci
ously; and was rewarded by a flash
of recognition from the coal-black,
beady, evil eyes of the man.
But for that Involuntary exclama
tion the tableau held unbroken for a
space; Rutton standing transfixed, the
torn halves of the cigarette between
his fingers, bis head well up and back,
his stare level, direct, uncompromis
ing, a steady challenge to the In
truder.
Then, demanding Amber’s silence
with an Imperative movement of his
hand, Rutton spake. “Well, babu?”
he said quietly, the shadow of a bitter
and weary smile curving his thin,
hard Ups.
The Bengali moved a pace or two
from the door, and plucked nervously
at the throat of his surtout, finally
managing to Insert one hand In the
folds of silk across his bosom.
“I seek,” he said distinctly In Urdu,
and not without a definite note of
menace In his manner, “the roan call
hig himself Rutton Sahib?”
Very deliberately Rutton Inclined
his head. “I am he.”
“Hazoorl” The babu laboriously
doubled up his enormous body In pro
found* obeisance. Having recovered,
he nodded to Amber with the easy fa
miliarity of an old acquaintance. "To
you, likewise, greeting, Amber Sa
hib.”
“What!” Rutton swung sharply to
Amber with an exclamation of amaze
ment. "You know this fellow, David?”
The babu cut In hastily, stimulated
by a pressing anxiety to clear himself.
“Hazor, I did but err, being misled by
his knowledge of our tongue as well
as by that pale look of you he wears.
And, indeed, is It strange that I should
take him for you, who was told to
seek you in this wild land?”
"Be silent!” Rutton told him an
grily.
“My lord’s will is his slave’s.” Re
signedly the babu folded hfcs fat arms.
“Tell me about this,” Rutton de
manded of Amber.
“The ass ran across me In the
woods south of the station, the day
I came down,” explained Amber, sum
marizing the episode as succinctly as
he could. “He didn’t call me by your
name, but I’ve no dobut he’s telling
the truth about mistaking me for you.
At all events he hazoor-ed me a num
ber of times, talked a lot of rot about
some silly ‘Voice,’ and finally made
me a free gift of a nice little bronze
box that wouldn’t open. After which
he took to his heels, saying he’d call
later for my answer—whatever he
meant by that. He did call by night
and stole the box. That’s about all I
know of him, thus far. But I’d watch
out for him, if I were you; If he isn’t
a raving lunatic, I miss my guess.”
"Indeed, my lord, tt is all quite as
the sahib says,” the babu admitted
graciously, his eyes gleaming with
sardonic amusement. "Circumstances
conspired to mislead me; but that I
was swift to discover. Nor did I lose
time In remedying the error, as you
have heard. Moreover—”
He shut up suddenly at a sign from
Rutton, with a ludicrous shrug of hla
hu&e shoulders disclaiming any ill-in
tent or wrong-doing; and while Rut
ton remained deep In thought by the
table, the babu held silence, his gaze
flickering suspiciously round the
room.
At length Rutton looked up, sup
pressing a sigh. “Your errand, babu?”
“Is it, then, your will that I should
speak before this man?" The Bengali
nodded Impudently at Amber.
"It is my will."
"Shabash! I bear a message, ha
zoor, from the Bell.”
“You are the Mouthpiece of the
Voice?"
“That honor Is mine, hazoor. For
the rest I am— ’’
“Beharl Lai Chatterjl,” interrupted
Rutton Impatiently; “solicitor of the
inner Temple—disbarred; anointed
thief, liar, jackal, lickspittle, and per
jurer—l know you.”
“My lord,’’ said the man Insolently,
“omits from his catalogue of my ac
complishments my chiefest honor; he
forgets that, with him, I am an ac
cepted Member of the Body."
“The Body wears strange members
that employs you. babu.” commented
Rutton bitterly. "It has fallen upon
evil days when such as you are
charged with a message of the Bell."
“My lord Is harsh to one who would
be his slave In all things. Fortunate
indeed am I to own the protection of
the Token.” A slow leer widened
greasily upon his moon-like face.
"Ah, the Token!" Rutton repeated
tensely, beneath his breath. “It is
true that you have the Token?”
“Aye; it is even here, my lord."
The heavy brown hand returned to
the spot It had sought soon alter the
babu’s entrance, within the folds of
silk across his bosom, and groped
therein for an instant. “Even here,”
he iterated with a maddening man
ner of supreme self-complacency, pro
ducing the bronze box and waddling
over to drop It into Button's hand.
“My lord Is satisfied?” he gurgled ma
liciously.
Without answering Rutton turned
the box over In his.palm, his slender
fingers playing about the bosses of
the relief work; there followed a
click and one side of It swung open.
The Bengali fell back a pace with a
whisper of awe—real or affected:
“The Token, hazoor!” Amber him
self gasped slightly.
Unheeded, the box dropped to the
floor. Between Rutton’s thumb and
forefinger there blazed a great em
erald set In a ring of red old gold.
He turned It this way and that, in
specting it critically; and the lamp
light, catching on the facets, struck
from it blinding shafts of intensely
green radiance. Rutton nodded as
If In recognation of the stone and,
turning, with an effect of carelessness,
tossed it to Amber.
“Keep that for me, David, please,”
he said. And Amber, catching It,
dropped the ring into his pocket.
"My lord is satisfied with my cre
dentials, then?” the babu persisted.
“It is the Token,” Rutton assented
wearily. “Now, your message. Be
brief.”
"The utterances of the Voice be in
frequent, hazoor, its words few —but
charged with meaning: as you know
of old.” The Bengali drew himself
up, holding up his head and rolling
forth his phrases In a voice of great
resonance and depth. “These be the
words of the Voice, hazoor:
“‘To All My Peoples:
" ‘Even now the Gateway of Swords
yawns wide, that he who Is without
fear may pass within; to the end that
the Body be purged of the Scarlet
Evil.
“ ‘The Elect are bidden to the Or
deal with no exception.”
The sonorous accents subsided, and
‘•Till We Meet In the Hall of The Belt. Good Night.”
a tense wait ensued, none speaking.
Rutton stood In stony apathy, his eyes
lifted to a dim corner of the ceiling,
his gaze—like his thoughts—perhaps
ranging far beyond the dreary confines
of the cabin In the dunes. Minute
after minute passed, he making no
sign, the babu poised before him in
Inscrutable triumph, watching him
keenly with his black and evil eyes of
a beast. Amber hung breathless upon
the Issue, sensing a conflict of terrible
forces In Rutton’s mind, but compre
hending nothing of their nature. Rut
ton awoke as from a sleep.
“The Voice has spoken, babu,” he
said, not ungently, "and I have heard.”
“And your answer, lord?”
"There Is no answer.”
“Hazoor!”
“I have said,” Rutton confirmed,
evenly, "there is no answer.”
“You will obey?”
“That is between me and my God.
Go back to the Hall of the Bell, Be
harl Lai Chatterjl, and deliver your
report; say that you have seen me,
that I have listened to the words of
the Voice, and that I sent no answer.”
“Hazoor, I may not. I am charged
to return only with you.”
“Make your peace with the Bell in
what manner you will, babu; It Is no
concern of mine. Go, now, while yet
time is granted you to avoid a longer
journey this night.”
“Hazoor!”
’’Go.’’ Rutton pointed to the door,
his voice imperative.
He rolled sluggishly toward the
door, dragging his inadequate over
coat across his barrel-like chest; and
paused 10 cough affeetingly, with one
hand on the knob. Rutton eyed him
contemptuously.
‘lf you care to run the risk,” he
said suddenly, “you may have a chair
by the fire till the storm breaks,
babu.”
“Beg pardon?” The babu’s eyes
widened. “Oah, yess; I see. ’lf I
care to run risk.’ Veree considerate
of you, I’m siue. But as we say in
Bengal, ‘thee favor of kings lss ass a
sword of two edges.’ Noah, thanks;
the servants of the Bell do not Unger
by wayside, soa to speak. Besides, I
am In great hurree. Mister Amber,
good night. Rutton Sahib” —with a
flash of his sinister humor—“au re
volr; I mean to say, till we meet In
thee Hall of thee Bell. Good night.”
He nodded insolently to the man
whom a little time since he had hailed
as “my lord,” shrugged his coat collar
up round his fat, dirty neck, shivered
In anticipation, jerked the door open
and plunged ponderously out.
A second later Amber saw the con
fused mass of his turban glide past
the window.
CHAPTER V.
The Goblin Night.
Amber whistled low. “Impossible!”
he said thoughtfully.
Rutton had crossed to and was
bending over a small leather trunk
that stood in one corner of the room.
In the act of opening it, he glanced
over his shoulder. “What?” he de
manded sharply.
“I was only thinking; there's some
thing I can’t see through in the ba
bu’s willingness to go.”
"He was afraid to stay.”
“Why?”
Rutton, rummaging In the trunk,
made no reply. Alter a moment Am
ber resumed.
“You know what Bengalis are; that
fellow’d do anything, brave any or,
dinary danger, rather than try .to
cross that sandbar again—If he really
came that way; which I am Inclined
to doubt. On the other hand, he's In
telligent enough to know that a night
like thiß In the dunes would kill him.
Well, what then?”
Rutton was not listening. As Am
ber concluded he seemed to find what
he had been seeking, thrust It hur
riedly Into the breast-pocket of his
coat, and with a muttered word, unin
telligible, dashed to the door and:
flung it open and himself out.
With a shriek of demoniac glee the
wind entered into and took possession
of the room. A cloud of snow swept
across the floor like a veil. The door
battered against the wall as if trying
to break it down. The cheap tin kero
sene lamp Jumped as though caught
up by a hand; its flame leapt high and
blue above the chimney—and was not.
In darkness but for the fitful flare of
the fire that had been dying In embers
on the hearth, Amber, seeking the
doorway, fell over a chair, blundered
flat Into the wall, and stumbled un
expectedly out of the house.
His concern was all for Rutton; he
had no other thought. He ran a little
way down the hollow, heartsick with
horror and cold with dread. Then he
paused, bewildered. Whither In that
whirling world Rutton might have
wandered, It was impossible to sur
mise. In despair the Virginian turned
back.
When he had found his way to the
door of the cabin, it was closed; as
he entered and shut it behind him, a
match flared and expired In the mid
dle of the room, and a man cursed
brokenly.
"Rutton?” cried Amber In a flush
of hope.
“Is that you, Mr. Amber? Thank
Gawd! Wyte a minute.”
A second match spluttered, Its
flame waxing in the pink cup of Dog
gott's hands.
He succeeded In setting fire to the
wick. The light showed him barefoot
and shivering in shirt and trousers.
"For pity's syke, sir, w’at’s ’appened?”
"It’s hard to say,” replied Amber
vaguely, preoccupied. He went im
mediately to a window and stood
there, looking out.
“But w’ere’s Mr. Rutton, sir?”
“Gone—out there —I don’t know just
where." Amber moved back to the
table. “You see, he had a caller.”
“A caller, sir—on a night like this?”
“The man he came here to hide
from,” said Amber.
“1 knew 'e was trytn' to dodge
somethin’, sir; but ’e never told me
aught about It. What kind of a per
son was *e, sir, and wnat made Mf
Rutton go aw’y with ’im?”
“He didn’t; he went after him to .
. . Amber caught his tongue on
the verge of an indiscretion; ne mat
ter what his fears, they were not yet
become a suitable subject for discus
sion with Rutton’s servant. “I think.”
he amended lamely, “he had forgotten
something.”
“And ’e’s out there now! My Gawd,
what a night!” He hung in hesitation
for a littie. “Did ’e wear ’is topcoat
and ’at, sir?”
“No! he went suddenly. I don’t
think he Intended to be gone long.”
“I’d better go after ’im, then. ’E’ll
’ave pneumonia. . . . I’ll Just Jump
into me clothes and —” He slipped
into the back room, to reappear with
surprisingly little delay, fully dressed
and buttoning a long ulster round his
throat. “You didn't ’appen to no
tice which w’y ’e went, sir?”
“As well as I could judge, to the
east.”
Doggott took down a second ulster -
and a cap from pegs In the wall. "I’ll
do my best to find ’im; ’e might lose
’imself, you know, with no light nor
nothin'.”
The door slammed behind him.
Alone, and a prey to misgivings he
scarce dared name to himself, Am
ber from the window watched the blot
of light from Doggott’s hand lamp fade
and vanish In the storm; then, becom
ing sensible to the cold, went to the
fireplace, kicked the embers together
until they blazed, and piled on more
fuel.
A cozy, crackling sound began to
be audible In the room, sibilant jets of
flame, scarlet, yellow, violet, and
green, spurted up from the driftwood.
Under the hypnotic influence of the
comforting warmth, weariness do
scended upon Amber like a burden;
he was afraid to close his. eyes or to
sit down, lest sleep should overcome
him for all his intense excitement and
anxiety. He forced himself to move
steadily round the room, struggling
against a feeling that all that he had
witnessed must have been untrue, an
evil dream, akin to the waking vis
ions that had beset him between th*
loss of Quain and the finding of Rutr
ton. The very mediocrity of the sup
roundings seemed to discrelit th*
testimony of his wits.
In a setting so hopelessly common
place and everyday, one act of a
drama of blood and fire had been
played; Into these mean premises the
breath of the storm, as the babu en
tered, had blown Romance. . . .
Incredible!
And yet Amber’s hand, dropping
Idly in his coatpocket, encountered a
priceless witness to the reality of
what had passed. Frowning, troubled,
he drew forth the ring and slipped It
upon his finger; rays of blinding em
erald light coruscated from it, daz
zling him. With a low cry of wonder
he took It to the lamplight. Never
had he looked upon so fine a stone, so
strangely cut.
It was set In ruddy soft gold, wot fe
ed and graven with exquisite art In
the semblance of a two headed cobra;
Inside the band was an inscription so
worn and faint that Amber exper
ienced some difficulty in diciphering
the word Rao (king) In Devanagari,
flanked by swastikas. Aside from the
stone entirely, he speculated, the
value of the ring as an antique would
have proven inestimable. As for the
emerald itself, in its original state,
before cutting, it must have been
worth the ransom of an emperor;
much had certainly been sacrificed to
fashion it in its present form.
To gaze into its depths was like
questioning the inscrutable green
heart of the sea. Fascinated, Amber
felt his consciousness slip from him
as a mantle might slip from his shoul
ders; awake, staring wide-eyed Into
the emerald eye, he forgot self, tor
got the world, and dreamed, dreamed
curiously. . . .
The crash of the door closing be
hind him brought him to the right
about in a panic flutter. He glared
stupidly for a time before compre
hending that Rutton and Doggott had
returned.
If there were anything peculiar In
his manner, Rutton did not remark It.
Indeed, he seemed unconscious, for a
time, of the presence either of Amber
or of Doggott. The servant relieved
him of his overcoat and hat, and he
strode directly to the fire, bending
over to chafe and warm his frost
nipped hands. Unquestionably he la
bored under the influence of an ex
traordinary agitation. His llmba
twitched and Jerked nervously; hie
eyebrows were tensely elevated, his
eyes blazing, his nostrils dilated; hi*
face was ashen gray.
From across the room Doggott sig
naled silence to Amber, with a fore
finger to his lips; and with a discre
tion bred of long knowledge of his
master’s temper, tiptoed through into
the back room and shut the door.
Amber respected the admonition
throughout a wait that seemed end
less.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Significant.
“A barber was picked up on the
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mouth.”
“What, do you suppose, brought on
his attack?”
“I don’t know, but he was found in
front of a billboard, on which there
was a safety-razor advertisement 2t
feet high.”
Where the Charm Failed.
Loomis—Carey, the aviator, seems
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hundreds of feet, and never has had
the sign of an accident.
Ranler—But I heard he broke hi*
leg yesterday.
Loomis —Oh, he broke that by tali
ing down his cellar stairs.
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