The RIDDLE of the RING

Sun (Christchurch), Volume IV, Issue 944, 19 February 1917, Page 3

The RIDDLE of the RING

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gg By WILLIAM LE QUEUX, 5g GO A «vthor of '' Fatal Fingers," • • Death's Doctor,'' etc. £»

CHAPTER XXVlll.—(Continued.) THE CUP OF BITTERNESS. That evening Underhill had hired a car in Dcvonport and driven out to the curious old Church House Inn at Holne, that remote little village on the fringe of the Moor where Charles Kingsley once lived. And leaving the car, he had walked three miles across the moonlit moorland, to the spot which she had designated as their tryst. Each plied the other with quick, eager questions. Since that well-remembered night beside the broad Rhone at old Avignon, they had not met. He thanked her deeply for all that she had done, for her astuteness, for all her financial help, and for warning him of impending danger. "I went to Ashburton because I hoped to .be near you, my darling," lie whispered. '' But the fates willed it that I must flee. But, tell me, how did you obtain information that the police had discovered my whereabouts?" She hesitated. What could she say? '' Well—a —l learnt from a friend of mine." "A friend? What—a police official?" "Not exactly," was her answer. "He was a friend, and he told me that the police knew you were in Ashburton. So—so I rang you up. Ah, Charlie! " she added, "how glad I am that I was just in time. Another hour, and you would have been arrested." "I am innocent. Marjorie, you know that, don 't you? '' "Of course, dear. But the police must arrest, someone—and that somebody is yourself." '' I don 't care so much for myself,'' ho said. "God alone knows how much I have suffered, and what a dismal, hopeless life T now lead in that drab back street. I only care for you, my wellbeloved, and the dear old pater. What must he—what must my regiment think?" '' What does it matter, dear? You are nre not guilty. You will prove your innocence some day.'' "So long as you still love me, dearest, I have no thought—no care. I can wait —wait until I dare come forth, under another personality perhaps—and we can marry.'' Her lips were set hard. For some 'moments she did not reply. She was at a loss what to say. How could she deceive him with any false hopes when she herself was in tlie depth of black despair? "No, Charlie," she replied in a low, hard voice, "we love each other, I know, but we can never marry—-never! " " Will you, even now, give me no hope, darling?" he asked quickly. "You cannot deny that, you love me!" "No, I do not deny that," she said, her voice quivering. "Heaven knows that you have been my sole thought through these past months, ever since that night in Avignon; my only thought has been of your safety." "And my every thought has been of you, dearest —you, the one woman in all the world whom I love. I care for nothing else —for what the world may say, or how it may misjudge me—so long as I have you —you! " And he bent and kissed her cold lips with a fierce, uncurbed passion. She felt herself in his warm passionate embrace. She felt his hot breath upon her cheek, his eager lips against hers. But she shuddered, because there arose before her the grim, grey vision of the future—of her inevitable doom. He had risked all, everything, for her sake —in order that the should not become compromised. For what purpose? Alas! all had been a vain and empty dream. For some moments they stood together there in the white moonlight without speaking. He tried to utter some words, but his lips failed to articulate. He had so much to say, but now, overcome by a flood of emotion, he was unable to speak. She on her part stood within his arms, her pale face buried upon the shoulder of his rough Norfolk jacket, sobbing in blank despair. He could not understand her. Her attitude, utterly mystified him. He had expected her to discuss their future and contemplate the dawn of brighter and more peaceful days. On the contrary, she was just as gloomy and apprehensive as Fhn had been on that well-remembered night in old Avignon. She could give him no hope. She had a reason for the refusal, he realised. But she would not tell it to him. She would reveal nothing—absolutely nothing. "I know that, you are very unhappy, my darling," he said at last, pressing her closely to his breast. "Cannot I assist. you? May I not know the true rea v on? Tell me—in confidence, dearest." But she only shook her head very mournfully, and after a moment's hesitation, answered: "You, alas! can never help me. Nobody can. The die is cast, and my future is inevitable." "But there must be some way out of this mysterious difficulty! " lie cried. "There is but, one way by which T may be able to save you—to restore you to your former friends and position," she answered. "You, Charlie, are my first, my only thought at this moment," she assured him. Then raising her lips to his she said in a low, intense voice, broken by emotion: "Kiss me, dearest. Repeat to mo once again those words of yours — that you love me." "I*love you, darling!" he declared, \kissing her with a mad, fond passion, "I love you —love you, ave, better indeed than life itself. You are truly mile—mine!''

Amim Bey, of Cairo —ask her if I do not speak the truth." Marjorie burst into tears, her face buried in her hands. She saw that her secret was out —that to conceal the truth was no longer possible. Ahmed Amim, with his craft and cunning, had discovered her lover after all. Underbill's anger was quickly aroused, but the Egyptian smiled in triumph and remained quite calm and unperturbed. "I have found you—a pretty pair!" he said, addressing Marjorie. "I suspected that you loved this dog of a Christian, and so I have watched. I have a man within call, and at a. signal from me your lover will be arrested—arrested for the murder of Richard Marchmont in Nice." "Arrest meV gasped Underbill, staring at the dark, sinister countenance of the man who seemed to have sprung from nowhere. "Yes, arrest you," replied Amim. "But " And he turned again to Marjorie, "I will be generous. I will make, a suggestion. I will give this ardent lover of yours his liberty on one condition only—that you will leave London on Thursday—the* day after tomorrow—for Cairo. Your liberty is at an end. You have broken your compact, and you will return at once unconditionally to me. You will not perhaps wish to travel back to Egypt with me; therefore Mahmoud will meet you with Snell ou your landing at Alexandria." "But—ah, Heaven! I can't!" she protested wildly, in tears. "I —I——" "You will," lie said in a hard, commanding voice. "You will, I feel sure, give Mr .Underbill—this friend of yours —his liberty," he grinned. "Give him back his good name, his reputation, his honour. Remember,*' he added, hissing softly into her ear, his dark eyes glistening, "remember —you are mine—mine! "

CHAPTER XXIX. THE PALACE OF THE PALMS. A huge apartment, furnished richly in the Oriental manner with splendid old Persian rugs, rich silken hangings embroidered in gold with verses from the Koran, low soft lounges with huge cushions in place of chairs, and beautifull statuary in marble.

The four long windows shaded by redand blue awnings outside, gave a wide prospect of the great Arabian desert with hills aglow in the burning sunset of Ramadan. In the centre of the room a perfumed fountain plashed, with cooling music, into its marble basin, while the ceiling above was richly adorned with dark blue and gold arabesques —a magnificent room, the very acme of luxury and''ease. In the centre of the room, close to the fountain, stood Snell, the English lady's maid, in her neat travellingdress and bonnet. Two hours before she had arrived there, at Holiopolis, with her mistress, and now a message had been brought to her by the big black-faced Nubian that Amim Bey wished to see her alone, and she had been ushered in there.

She knew that splendid palace of the great. Egyptian financier, a residence almost, as large, and quite as luxurious, as the Khedival Palace itself. She had been there before—in that very room when, over two years ago, she had received certain definite instructions from the dark-complexioned gentleman himself. Why, she wondered, did he wish to see her now? Suddenly she turned at a movement behind her, and found Amim Bey in buttoned frock-coat and fez, standing before her with that oily perpetual smile upon his dark countenance. "Snell," he said in English, "your service with mademoiselle is at an end. Yours has been a most faithful service. As far as I can understand, you have carried out my ordeis to the very letter, and you have —in every way—endeavoured to serve your unstress." "I trust I have, sir," exclairaed the girl. "I've always tried to give satisfaction, but it's been rather difficult to remain silent with everybody trying to learn something or other about Miss Marjorie.'' "I know, I know. And that is the reason why I wish you to accept this little gift—a hundred Egyptian pounds," and he handed her an envelope. "Inside you will find the coupon for your passage back to London by the Macedonia from Port Said. You must leave Cairo by the night-train tonight, in order to catch her." "Then —then I'm dismissed, sir!" the girl said in dismay. "Yes, unfortunately so. Your mistress will have no further need of a European maid," and he drew at the cigarette between his fingers.

'' Put, T understood that Miss Marjorie wished me to remain with her." "No, she does not. You must leave Cairo to-night, or your passage money will lie forfeited."

"No!" exclaimed n gruff, deep voice which made both of them start. "She

is not yours.'' Marjorie, recognising the voice, sprang away from her lover's arms in quick alarm.

"Huh, surely, I may say good-bye to Miss Marjorie, sir?" asked the girl quickly. "She is lying down. She has sent word to me that she does not wish to be disturbed." And he clapped his hands, whereupon the gigantic Nubian in fez and long white kaftan with scarlet, sash, appeared instantly and salaamed. His master uttered some hasty words in Arabie, and the girl was shown out, almost before she had time to thank Ainiin Bey for his generosity. Then the master of the house, the man with the dark, crafty face, alone in the big room, walked to one of the windows, and stood for some moments gazing out upon the fiery orange of the deepening desert sunset.

"And pray, sir, to what do T owe this unwarrantable interference?'' asked Underbill, turning instantly and facing the newcomer, who had advanced so stealthily that they had been unaware of his presence until he had spoken. "Ask the lady," said the dark-faced man in dark clothes and golf-cap. And lie grinned strangely in the moonlight. "Do you know this fellow, Marjoric?" inquired ['nderhill, greatlv sarprised. "Yes," was her low, hoarse response, as she stood bowed before him. "T—T know him, alas! too well." "This lady is my friend, sir!" cried the young man with hot indignation. "I desire no interference from you." "She may be your friend," was the other's reply in soft English with an unusual intonation. "But T tell you that she is mine. Ask her if T am not

"Ah!" he exclaimed to himself in Arabic in a deep voice, drawing his sallow hand slowly across hisj brow. "At last she is here again—here in my house, from which she will never go forth again without Ismail. Sho is mine—the daughter of the English dog whom I served, though I hated him—and I am her master. She shall know mo—and fear me. I'll break her spirt. She shall beg at my knee, as others have begged before her." And he laughed to himself, a low, discordant laugh of revenge, and of triumph. Suddenly he sank upon a divau of yellow silk and tucked his legs up underneath him, and sat for some time. Then he clapped his hands impatiently and the big Nubian janitor appeared. "Send Ilasneh to me," he commanded, whereupon the man, a veritable statue in bronze, bowed low and disappeared. (To bo continued.)