He passed out of the hotel and walked by the Tower of Hippicus. A new drinking fountain had been erected there, a domed building, with pillars of red stone, and a glittering roof surmounted by a golden crescent.
Some camel drivers were drinking there. He was passing by when a tall, white-robed figure bowed low before him. A voice, speaking French, bade him good day.
The face of the man seemed familiar. He asked him his name and business.
It was Ibrahim, the Egyptian servant he had seen at the museum in the morning holding the bunch of keys.
The rooms had been sealed up, and the man had just been to the Consul's private house to deliver the keys.
This man had temporarily succeeded the Greek Ionides.
Spence turned back to the hotel and bade Ibrahim follow him.
Chapter 29
The night was cold and still, the starlight brilliant in the huge hollow sapphire of the sky. Wrapped in a heavy cloak, Spence sat at the door of one of the two little tents which composed his caravan.
Ibrahim the Egyptian, a Roman Catholic as it seemed, had volunteered to act as interpreter and guide. In a few hours this man had got together the necessary animals and equipment for the expedition to Nabulûs.
Spence rode a little grey horse of the wiry Moabite breed, Ibrahim a Damascus bay. The other men, a cook and two muleteers, all Syrians of the Greek Church, rode mules.
The day's march had been long and tiring. Night, with its overwhelming peace and rest, was very welcome.
On the evening of the morrow they would be on the slopes of Ebal and Gerizim, near to the homestead of the man they sought.
All the long day Spence had asked himself what would be the outcome of this wild journey. He was full of a grim determination to wring the truth from the renegade. In his hip pocket his revolver pressed against his thigh. He was strung up for action. Whatever course presented itself, that he would take, regardless of any law that there might be even in these faraway districts.
His passport was specially endorsed by the Foreign Office; he bore a letter, obtained by the Consul, from the Governor of Jerusalem to the Turkish officer in command of Nabulûs.
He had little doubt of the ultimate result. Money or force would obtain a full confession, and then, a swift rush for London with the charter of salvation -- for it would be little less than that -- and the engine of destruction for the two criminals at home.
As they marched over the plains, the red anemone and blue iris peeped from the herbage. The ibex, the roebuck, the wild boar, fled from the advancing caravan.
Eagles and vultures moved heavily through the sky at vast heights. Quails, partridges, and plovers started from beneath the horses' feet.
As the sun plunged away, the owls began to mourn in the olive groves, the restless chirping of the grasshoppers began to die away; and as the stars grew bright, the nightingale -- the lonely songbird of these solitudes -- poured out his melody to the night.
The camp had been formed under the shade of a clump of terebinth and acacia trees, close to a spring of clear water which made the grass around it a vivid green, in pleasant contrast to the dry, withered herbage in the open.
The men had dug out tree roots for fuel, and a red fire glowed a few yards away from Spence's tent.
A group of silent figures sat round the fire. Now and then a low murmur of talk sounded for a minute, then died away. A slight breeze, cool and keen, rustled in the trees overhead. Save for that, and the occasional movement of one of the horses, no sound broke the stillness of the glorious night.
It was here, so Spence thought, that the Lord must have walked with His disciples on the journey between Jerusalem and Nazareth.
On such a night as this the little group may have sat in the vale of El Makhna in quiet talk at suppertime.
The same stars looked down on him as they did on those others nearly two thousand years ago. How real and true it all seemed here. How much easier it was to realise and believe it than in Chancery Lane!
Why did men live in cities?
Was it not far better for the soul's health to be here alone with God?
Here, and in such places as these, God spoke clear and loud to the hearts of men. He shuddered as the thought of his own lack of faith came back to him.
In rapid review he saw the recent time of his hopelessness and shame. How utterly he had fallen to pieces. It was difficult to understand the pit into which he was falling when Basil had come to him.
Now, the love of God ran in his veins like fire, every sight and sound spoke to him of Christ the Consoler.
It was more than mere cold belief. A love or personal devotion to Christ welled up in him. The figure of the Man of Sorrows was very near him -- there was a great fiery cross of stars in the sky above him.
He entered the little tent to pray. He prayed humbly that it might be even thus until the end. He prayed that this new and sweet communion with his Master might never fade or lessen, till the glorious daylight of Death dawned and this sojourning far from home was over.
In the name of all the unknown millions whom he was come to this far land to aid, he prayed for success, for the Truth to be made manifest, and for a happy issue out of all these afflictions.
"And this we beg for Jesus Christ, His sake."
Then much refreshed and comforted he emerged once more into the serene beauty of the night.
Presently Ibrahim the Egyptian began to croon a low song, one of the Egyptian songs that soldiers sang round the campfires.
The man had done his term of compulsory service in the past, and perhaps this sudden transition from the comfortable quarters in Jerusalem to the old life of campfire and open air had its way with him and opened the springs of memory.
The long drawn-out notes vibrated mournfully in the night air. The singer put his hand to one side of his head, bending as if he were wailing.
The quaint, imaginative song-story throbbed through many phases and incidents, and every now and again the motionless figures round the red embers wailed in sympathy.
At last came the end, a happy climax, no less loved by these simple children of the desert than by the European novel reader.
Ibrahim, the converted Christian, sang the Muslim songs of his youth; for here, in El Makhna, the plain of Shechem, there were no missionaries with their cold reproof and little hymns in simple couplets.
The fire died away, and they slept until dawn flooded the plain.
* * *
When, on the next day the sun was waning, though still high in the western heavens, the travellers came within view of the ancient city of Nabulûs.
There was a great tumult of excitement in Spence's pulses as he saw the town far away, radiant in the long afternoon light.
Here, in the confines of this distant glittering town, lay the last link in the terrible secret he was to solve.
On either side, the purple slopes of the mountains made a mighty frame to the rows of houses below. Ebal and Gerizim kept solemn watch and ward over the city.
The sun was just sinking as they rode into the outskirts of Nabulûs. It was a lovely, placid evening.
The abundant cascades of water, which flow from great fissures in the mountain to make this town the jewel of the Middle East, glittered in the light.
Below them the broad, still reservoirs lay like plates of gold.
They rode through luxuriant groves of olives, figs, and vines, wonderfully refreshing to the eye after the burnt brown herbage of the plain, going towards the regular camping ground where all travellers lay.
In the cool of the evening, Spence and Ibrahim rode through the teeming streets to the Governor's house.
It was a city of fanatics, so the Englishman had heard, and during the great Muslim festivals the members of the various, and rather extensive missionary establishments were in constant danger. But as the two men rode among the wild, armed men who sat in the bazaars or pushed along the narrow streets, they were not in any way troubled.
&n
bsp; After a ceremonious introduction and the delivery of the letter from the Governor of Jerusalem, Spence made known his business over the coffee and cigarettes which were brought immediately on his arrival.
The Governor was a placid, pleasant mannered man, very ready to give his visitor any help he could.
It was represented to him that the man Ionides, who had but lately settled in the town, was in possession of some important secrets affecting the welfare of many wealthy residents in Jerusalem. These, it was hinted, were of a private nature, and in all probability great pressure would have to be put on the Greek in order to receive any satisfactory confession.
The conversation, which was carried on in French, ended in an eminently satisfactory way.
"Monsieur will understand," said the Governor, "that I make no inquiry into the nature of the information monsieur wishes to obtain. I may or may not have my ideas on that subject. The Greek was, I understand, intimately connected with the recent discoveries in Jerusalem. Let that pass. It is none of my business. Here I am a good Muslim, Allah be praised! It is a necessity of my official position."
He laughed cynically, clapped his hands for a new brass vessel of creaming coffee and continued.
"A political necessity, Monsieur, as a man of the world will quite understand me. I have been in London, at the Embassy, and I myself am free from foolish prejudices. I am not Muslim in heart nor am I Christian -- some coffee, Monsieur? -- yes, Monsieur also is a man of the world."
Spence, sitting cross-legged opposite his host, had smiled an answering cynical smile at these words. He shrugged his shoulders and threw out his hands. Everything depended on making a good impression on this local autocrat.
"I repeat, it is not my affair. But this letter from my brother of Jerusalem makes me of anxiety to serve your interests. And, moreover, the man you have come to see is a Greek, of no great importance -- we are not fond of the Greeks, we Turks. Now it is most probable that the man will not speak without persuasion. Moreover, that persuasion would be better if it was officially applied. To assist monsieur, I shall send Tewfik Pasha, my nephew, and captain commandant of the northern fort, with half a dozen men. If this dog will not talk, they will know how to make him. I suppose you have no scruples as to any means they may employ? There are foolish prejudices among the Western people."
Spence took his decision quickly. He was a man who had been on many battlefields, knew the grimness of life in many lands. Whatever was necessary, it must be so. The man deserved it. The end was great even if the means were evil. It must be remembered that Spence was a man to whom the very loftiest and highest Christian ideals had not yet been made manifest. He saw these questions of conduct roughly, crudely. His conscience animated his deeds, but it was a conscience as yet ungrown.
"Sir," said the journalist, "the man must be made to speak. The methods are indifferent to me."
"Oh, that can be done; we have a way," said the Governor.
He shifted a little among his cushions. A certain dryness came into his voice as he resumed.
"Monsieur, however, a man of the world like you will understand, no doubt, that when a private individual finds it necessary to invoke the powers of law, it is a vast undertaking to move so ponderous a machine. It is not, of course, a personal matter, but there are certain unavoidable and indeed quite necessary expenses which must be satisfied."
Spence well understood the polite humbug of all this. He knew that here in the Middle East one buys justice -- or injustice -- as one can afford it. As the correspondent of The Daily Wire, that great paper over which Ommaney presided, he had always been able to spend money like water when necessary. He had those powers now. There was nothing unusual to him in the situation, nor did he hesitate.
"Your Excellency," he said, "speaks with great truth on these points. It is ever from a man of your Excellency's penetration that one hears those dicta which govern affairs. I have a certain object in view, and I realise that to obtain it, there are certain necessary formalities to be gone through. I have with me letters of credit on the bank of Lelain Delaunay et Cie., of Jaffa, Jerusalem, and Athens."
"A sound, estimable house," said the Governor, with a very pleased smile.
"It but then remains," said Spence, "to confer with the secretary of your Excellency as to the sum which is necessary to pay for the legal expenses of the inquiry."
"You speak most sensibly," said the Turk. "In the morning I will send the captain commandant and the soldiers to the encampment. My secretary will accompany them. Then, Monsieur, when the little preliminaries are arranged, you will be free to start for the farm of this dog Ionides. It is not more than four miles from your camp, and my nephew will guide you there."
That night, in the suburbs of the town, sweet and fragrant as the olive groves and fig trees were, cool and fresh as the night wind was, Spence slept little.
He could hear the prowling dogs of the streets baying at the Eastern moon, the owls hooted in the trees; but it was not these distant sounds, all mellowed by the distance, which drove rest and sleep away. It was the imminent sense of the great issues of the morrow, a wild and fierce excitement which forbade sleep or rest, and filled his veins with fire.
He could not quite realise what awful things hung on the event of the coming day. He knew his brain could not contain the whole terror and vastness of the thought.
Indeed, he felt that no brain could adequately realise the importance of it all.
Yet even that partial realisation of which he was capable was enough to drive all peace away the live-long night, to leave him nothing but the mournful, burning thought.
He was relieved when the cool, hopeful dawn came.
The nightmare of vigil was gone. Action was at hand. He prayed in the morning air.
Presently, from the city gates, he saw a little cavalcade drawing near: twelve soldiers on wiry Damascene horses, an officer, with the Governor's secretary riding by his side.
The preliminaries of a signed draft upon the bank, which greed and the occasion demanded, were soon over.
These twelve soldiers and their commandant cost him two hundred pounds "English"; but that was nothing.
The world was waiting.
On through the olive groves and the vines laden with purple. On, over the little stone-bridged cascades and streams -- sweet gifts of lordly Ebal -- round the eastern wall of the town, crumbling stone where the mailed lizards were sleeping in the sun; and on to the low roofs and vivid trees where the Greek traitor had made his home.
At length the red road opened before them onto a burnt plain which was the edge and brim of the farm.
It lay direct and obvious to the view, the place of the great secret.
Ionides had seen them coming over the plain. A little elderly olive-skinned man, with restless eyes the colour of sherry, bowed and bent before them with terrified inquiry in every gesture.
His gaze flickered over the arms and shabby uniforms of the soldiers with hate and fear in it, mingled with a piteous cringing.
Then he saw Spence and recognised him as the Englishman who had been the friend of Professor Hands, and was at the meetings of the Conference.
The sight of the journalist affected him like a sudden blow. The fear and uneasiness he had shown at the first sight of the Turkish soldiers were intensified a thousand fold.
The man seemed to shrink and collapse. His face became ashen grey, his lips parched suddenly, and his tongue began to curl round them in order to moisten their rigidity.
With a great effort he forced himself to speak in English first, fluent enough but elementary, and then in a rush of French, the language of all Europe, and one with which the cosmopolitan Greek is ever at home.
The captain gave an order. His men dismounted and tied up the horses. Then, taking the conduct of the affair into his own hands at once, he spoke to Ionides with a snarling contempt and brutality.
"The English gentleman has come to ask you some questions, dog. See to it that you give a
true answer and speedy. For, if not, there are many ways to make you. I have the warrant of his Excellency the Governor to do as I please with you and yours."
The Greek made an inarticulate noise. He raised one long-fingered, delicate hand to his throat.
Spence, as he watched, could not help a feeling of pity. The whole attitude of the man was inexpressibly painful in its sheer terror.
His face had become a white wedge of fear.
The officer spoke again. "You will take the English pasha into a private room," he said sternly, "where he will ask you all he wishes. I will post two of my men at the door. Take heed that they do not have to summon me. And meanwhile bring out food and entertainment for me and my soldiers."
He clapped his hands and the women of the house, who were peering round the end of the veranda, ran to bring pilaff and tobacco.
Spence, with two soldiers, followed the swaying, tottering figure of Ionides into a cool chamber opening on to the little central courtyard round which the house was built.
It was a bare room, with just a low bench and an ottoman. But, on the walls, oddly incongruous in such a setting, were some framed photographs. Cyril Hands in a white linen suit and a wide Panama hat was there. There was a photograph of the museum at Jerusalem, and a picture cut from an English illustrated paper of the Society's great excavations at Tell Sandahannah.
It was odd, Spence thought gravely, that the man cared to keep these records of his life in Jerusalem, crowned as it was with such an act of treachery.
He sat down on the ottoman. The Greek stood before him, cowering against the wall.
It was a little difficult to know how he should begin. What was the best method to ensure a full confession?
"What did Sir Robert Llwellyn give you? How much?" Hands said suddenly.
Again the look of ashen fear came over the Greek's face. He struggled with it before he spoke. "I am sorry that your meaning is not plain to me, sir. I do not know of whom you speak."
"I speak of him whom you served secretly. It was with your aid that the 'new' tomb was found. But before it was found you and Sir Robert Llwellyn were at work there. I have come to obtain from you a detailed confession of how the thing was done. Who cut the inscription? I must know everything. If not, I tell you with perfect truth, your life is not safe. The Governor has sent men with me and you will be made to speak."