CHAPTER II
THE GIRL AND THE TOKEN
In his astonishment he looked round quickly to meet the gaze ofmischievous eyes that strove vainly to seem simple and sincere. Hisown, in which amusement was blended with wonder, noted that they werevery handsome eyes and rather curiously colourful, the delicate sepiashade of the pupils being lightened by a faint sheen of gold in theirides; they were, furthermore, large and set well apart. On the wholehe decided that they were even beautiful, for all the dancing glimmerof perverse humour in their depths; he could fancy that they might wellseem very sweet and womanly when their owner chose to be serious.
Aware that he faced an uncommonly pretty woman, who chose to study himwith a straightforward interest he was nothing loath to imitate, hetook time to see that she was very fair of skin, with that creamy,silken whiteness that goes with hair of the shade commonly and unjustlytermed red. This girl's hair was really brown, a rich sepia interwovenwith strands of raw, ruddy gold, admirably harmonious with her eyes.Her nose he thought a trace too severely perfect in its modelling, butredeemed by a broad and thoughtful brow, a strong yet absolutelyfeminine chin, and a mouth.... Well, as to her mouth, the young manselected a rosebud to liken it to; which was really quite a poorsimile, for her lips were nothing at all like rose-leaves save incolour; but they were well-shapen and wide enough to suggestgenerosity, without being in the least too wide.
Having catalogued these several features, together with the piquantoval of her face, and remarked that her poise was good and gracious inthe uncompromising lines of her riding-habit, he had a mental portraitof her he was not likely soon to forget. For it's not every day thatone encounters so pretty a girl in the woods of Long Island's southernshore--or anywhere else, for that matter. He felt sure of this.
But he was equally certain that he was as much a stranger to her as sheto him.
She, on her part, had been busy satisfying herself that he was a verypresentable young man, in spite of the somewhat formidable reputationhe wore as a person of learned attainments. There could be no betterway to show him to you than through her eyes, so you must know that shesaw a man of less than thirty years, with a figure slight and notover-tall but well-proportioned, and with a complexion as dark as herswas light. His eyes, indeed, were a very dark grey, and his hair wasblack, and his face and hands had been coloured by the sun and winduntil the tan had become indelible, almost, so that his prolongedperiods of studious indoor seclusion worked little toward lighteningit. If his looks attracted, it was not because he was handsome, forthat he wasn't, but because of certain signs of strength to bediscerned in his face, as well as an engaging manner which he owned byright of ancestry, his ascendants for several generations having beennotable representatives of one of the First Families of Virginia. Amberwas not inordinately proud of this fact, at least not more so than nineout of any ten Virginians; but his friends--who were many but mostlymale--claimed that he wrote "F.F.V." before the "F.R.S." which he wasentitled to inscribe after his name.
The pause which fell upon the girl's use of his name, and during whichthey looked one another over, was sufficiently prolonged to excuse thereference to it which Amber chose to make.
"I'm sure," he said with his slow smile, "that we're satisfied we'venever met before. Aren't we?"
"Quite," assented the girl.
"That only makes it the more mysterious, of course."
"Yes," said she provokingly; "doesn't it?"
"You know, you're hardly fair to me," he asserted. "I'm rapidlybeginning to entertain doubts of my senses. When I left the train atNokomis station I met a man I know as well as I know myself--prettynearly; and he denied me to my face. Then, a little later, I encountera strange, mad Bengali, who apparently takes me for somebody he hasbusiness with. And finally, you call me by name."
"It isn't so very remarkable, when you come to consider it," shereturned soberly. "Mr. David Amber is rather well known, even in hisown country. I might very well have seen your photograph published inconnection with some review of--let me see.... Your latest book wasentitled 'The Peoples of the Hindu Kush,' wasn't it? You see, I haven'tread it."
"That's sensible of you, I'm sure. Why should you?... But your theorydoesn't hold water, because I won't permit my publishers to print mypicture, and, besides, reviews of such stupid books generally appear inprofound monthlies which abhor illustrations."
"Oh!" She received this with a note of disappointment. "Then myexplanation won't do?"
"I'm sorry," he laughed, "but you'll have to be more ingenious--andpractical."
"And you won't show me the present the babu made you?"
He closed his fingers jealously over the bronze box. "Not until...."
"You insist on reciprocity?"
"Absolutely."
"That's very unkind of you."
"How?" he demanded blankly.
"You will have it that I must surrender my only advantage--myincognito. If I tell you how I happen to know who you are, I must tellyou who I am. Immediately you will lose interest in me, because I'mreally not at all advanced; I doubt if I should understand your book ifI had to read it."
"Which Heaven forfend! But why," he insisted mercilessly, "do you wishme to be interested in you?"
She flushed becomingly at this and acknowledged the touch with arueful, smiling glance. But, "Because I'm interested in you," sheadmitted openly.
"And ... why?"
"Are you hardened to such adventures?" She nodded in the direction thebabu had taken. "Are you accustomed to being treated with extraordinaryrespect by stray Bengalis and accepting tokens from them? Is romancecommonplace to you?"
"Oh," he said, disappointed, "if it's only the adventure--! Of course,that's easily enough explained. This half-witted mammoth--don't ask mehow he came to be here--thought he recognised in me some one he hadknown in India. Let's have a look at this token-thing."
He disclosed the bronze box and let her take it in her pretty fingers.
"It must have a secret spring," she concluded, after a carefulinspection.
"I think so, but...."
She shook it, holding it by her ear. "There's something inside--itrattles ever so slightly. I wonder!"
"No more than I."
"And what are you going to do with it?" She returned it reluctantly.
"Why, there's nothing to do but keep it till the owner turns up, that Ican see."
"You won't break it open?"
"Not until curiosity overpowers me and I've exhausted every artifice,trying to find the catch."
"Are you a patient person, Mr. Amber?"
"Not extraordinarily so, Miss Farrell."
"Oh, how did you guess?"
"By remembering not to be stupid. You are Miss Sophia Farrell, daughterof Colonel Farrell of the British Diplomatic Service in India." Hechuckled cheerfully over this triumph of deductive reasoning. "You arevisiting the Quains for a few days, while _en route_ for India withsome friends whose name I've forgotten--"
"The Rolands," she prompted involuntarily.
"Thank you.... The Rolands, who are stopping in New York. You've livedseveral years with your father in India, went back to London to 'comeout' and are returning, having been presented at the Court of St.James. Your mother was an American girl, a schoolmate of Mrs. Quain's.I'm afraid that's the whole sum of my knowledge of you."
"You've turned the tables fairly, Mr. Amber," she admitted. "And Mr.Quain wrote you all that?"
"I'm afraid he told me almost as much about you as he told you aboutme; we're old friends, you know. And now I come to think of it, Quainhas one of the few photographs of me extant. So my chain of reasoning'scomplete. And I think we'd better hurry on to Tanglewood."
"Indeed, yes. Mrs. Quain will be wild with worry if that animal findshis way back to the stable without me; I've been very thoughtless." Shecaught up her riding-skirt and started down the path with Ambertrudging contently beside her. "However," she considered demurely, "I'mnot at all sorry, really; it's quite an exp
erience to have a notabilityat a disadvantage, even if only for a few minutes."
"I wish you wouldn't," he begged in boyish embarrassment. "I'm not anotability, really; Quain's been talking too much. I'll get even withhim, though."
"That sounds so modest that I almost believe I've made a mistake aboutyour identity. But I've no doubt you're right; Mr. Quain doesexaggerate in praise of his friends. Very likely it is as you insist,and you're only an ordinary person, after all. At least, you would beif stray babus didn't make you mysterious presents."
"So long as there is that to hold your interest in me, I'm content," hetold her, diverted. "How much longer shall you stay at Tanglewood, MissFarrell?"
"Unhappily," she sighed, "I must leave on the early train to-morrow, tojoin the Rolands in New York."
"You don't want to go?"
"I'm half an American, Mr. Amber. I've learned to love the countryalready. Besides, we start immediately for San Francisco, and it'll besuch a little while before I'll be in India."
"You don't care for India?"
"I've known it for less than six years, but already I've come to hateit as thoroughly as any exiled Englishwoman there. It sits there like agreat, insatiable monster, devouring English lives. Indirectly it wasresponsible for my mother's death; she never recovered from the illnessshe contracted when my father was stationed in the Deccan. In thecourse of time it will kill my father, just as it did his father andhis elder brother. It's a cruel, hateful, ungrateful land--not worththe price we pay for it."
"I know how you feel," he said with sympathy. "It's been a good manyyears since I visited India, and of course I then saw and heard littleof the darker side. Your people are brave enough, out there."
"They are. I don't know about Government; but its servants are loyaland devoted and unselfish and cheerful. And I don't at all understand,"she added in confusion, "why I should have decided to inflict upon youmy emotional hatred of the country. Your question gave me the opening,and I forgot myself."
"I assure you I was thoroughly shocked, Miss Farrell."
"You should have been--surprised, at least. Why should I pour out mywoes to you--a man I've known not fifteen minutes?"
"Why not, if you felt like it? After all, you know, we're both of usmerely making talk to--ah--to cover our interest in one another."
She paused momentarily to laugh at his candour. "You are outspoken, Mr.Amber! It's very pretty of you to assert an interest in me; but whyshould you assume that I--"
"You said so, didn't you?"
"Wel-l ... yes, so I did."
"You can change your mind, of course."
"I shan't, honestly, until you turn stupid. And you can't do that untilyou stop having strange adventures. Will you tell me something?"
"If I can."
"About the man who wouldn't acknowledge knowing you? You remembersaying three people had been mistaken about your identity thisafternoon."
"No, only one--the babu. You're not mistaken--"
"I knew you must be David Amber the moment I heard you speaking Urdu."
"And the man at the station wasn't mistaken--unless I am. He knew meperfectly, I believe, but for reasons of his own refused to recogniseme."
"Yes--?"
"He was an English servant named Doggott, who is--or once was--a valetin the service of an old friend, a man named Rutton."
She repeated the name: "Rutton? It seems to me I've heard of him."
"You have?"
"I don't remember," she confessed, knitting her level brows. "The namehas a familiar ring, somehow. But about the valet?"
"Well, I was very intimate with his employer for a long time, though wehaven't met for several years. Rutton was a strange creature, a man ofextraordinary genius, who lived a friendless, solitary life--at least,so far as I knew; I once lived with him in a little place he had inParis, for three months, and in all that time he never received aletter or a caller. He was reticent about himself, and I never askedany questions, of course, but in spite of the fact that he spokeEnglish like an Englishman and was a public school man, apparently, Ialways believed he had a strain of Hungarian blood in him--or elseItalian or Spanish. I know that sounds pretty broad, but he wasenigmatic--a riddle I never managed to make much of. Aside from that hewas wonderful: a linguist, speaking a dozen European languages and moreEastern tongues and dialects, I believe, than any other living man. Wemet by accident in Berlin and were drawn together by our commoninterest in Orientalism. Later, hearing I was in Paris, he hunted me upand insisted that I stay with him there while finishing my bigbook--the one whose title you know. His assistance to me then wasinvaluable. After that I lost track of him."
"And the valet?"
"Oh, I'd forgotten Doggott. He was a Cockney, as silent andself-contained as Rutton.... To get back to Nokomis: I met Doggott atthe station, called him by name, and he refused to admit knowingme--said I must have mistaken him for his twin brother. I could tell byhis eyes that he lied, and it made me wonder. It's quite impossiblethat Rutton should be in this neck of the woods; he was a man whopreferred to live a hermit in centres of civilisation.... Curious!"
"I don't wonder you think so. Perhaps the man had been up to somemischief.... But," said the girl with a note of regret, "we're almosthome!"
They had come to the seaward verge of the woodland, where the trees andscrub rose like a wild hedgerow on one side of a broad, well-metalledhighway. Before them stretched the eighth of a mile of neglected landknee-deep with crisp, dry, brown stalks of weedy growths, beyond whichthe bay smiled, a still lake of colour mirroring the intenselapis-lazuli of the calm eastern skies of evening. Over across itswaters the sand dunes of a long island glowed like a bar of new redgold, tinted by the transient scarlet and yellow glory of thesmouldering Autumnal sunset. Through the woods the level, brilliant,warmthless rays ran like wild-fire, turning each dead, brilliant leafto a wisp of incandescent flame, and tingeing the air with anevanescent ruby radiance against which the slim young boles stood blackand stark.
To the right, on the other side of the road, a rustic fence enclosedthe trim, well-groomed plantations of Tanglewood Lodge; through thedead limbs a window of the house winked in the sunset glow like an eyeof garnet. And as the two appeared a man came running up the road,shouting.
"That's Quain!" cried Amber; and sent a long cry of greeting towardhim.
"Wait!" said the girl impulsively, putting out a detaining hand. "Let'skeep our secret," she begged, her eyes dancing--"just for the fun ofit!"
"Our secret!"
"About the babu and the Token; it's a bit of mystery and romance tome--and we don't often find that in our lives, do we? Let us keep itpersonal for a while--between ourselves; and you will promise to let meknow if anything unusual ever comes of it, after I've gone. We can saythat I was riding carelessly, which is quite true, and that the horseshied and threw me, which again is true; but the rest for ourselvesonly.... Please.... What do you say?"
He was infected by her spirit of irresponsible mischief. "Why, yes--Isay yes," he replied; and then, more gravely: "I think it'll be verypleasant to share a secret with you, Miss Farrell. I shant say a wordto any one, until I have to."
* * * * *
As events turned he had no need to mention the incident until themorning of the seventh day following the girl's departure. In theinterim nothing happened, and he was able to enjoy some excellentshooting with Quain, his thoughts undisturbed by any further appearanceof the babu.
But on that seventh morning it became evident that a burglary had beenvisited upon the home of his hosts. A window had been forced in therear of the house and a trail of burnt matches and candle-greasebetween that entrance and the door of Amber's room, together with thesomewhat curious circumstance that nothing whatever was missing fromthe personal effects of the Quains, forced him to make an explanation.For his own belongings had been rifled and the bronze box aloneabstracted--still preserving its secret.
In its place Amber found a soil
ed slip of note-paper inscribed with theround, unformed handwriting of the babu: "Pardon, sahib. A mistake hasbeen made. I seek but to regain that which is not yours to possess.There will be naught else taken. A thousand excuses from your hmbl.obt. svt., Behari Lal Chatterji."