“WELL OF GOLD”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 10 December 1937, Page 7

“WELL OF GOLD”

BY BENTLEY RIDGE.

“We’ll wait here until we’re sure that the boxes have gone on the ’plane to Enili,” said Julian. He had a friend in Kaslian, a young Frenchman who was agent for an Austrian firm of silk importers; they went to see this friend, going on foot along the narrow ways. The young Frenchman, whose name was Duhamel, was a pleasant enough fellow who seemed overjoyed at the sight of new European faces. He recommended a chapan-kliana or Toadhouse, in which he hoped that they might be comfortable that night. Next morning, soon after 8.30 a.m., the mail ’plane arrived from Isfahan; the pilot was a gloomy young Englishman who was in some doubt at first as to whether the boxes were going to be too heavy for his machine; but to the Ormonds’ vast relief, they saw the aeroplane winging away northward at last, bearing their treasure to Enzili en route for Baku, Batoum, Marseilles, and —London. Monsieur Duhamel asked them to lunch with him before they left Kashafi. He'was very interested in Persian history, and talked about Alexander’s conquest of Persia with great erudition. “Alas, in such an exile,” he said. “There is nothing else to think about. Many times I have wished it might be possible for me to go to Xel-el-abir and Diala to see your countrymen at work at their excavation. I think they have the faith, to go on as they do!” “Do you?” said Lynne, a sparkle of secret joy in her eyes. “Why?” “Oh, because I do not think these cups of Alexander will ever be found.” “No, it’s all nonsense,” said Julian, readily. “It’s so unlikely• that there would be anything there now. That’s what I’ve always thought!” Lynne could not help smiling, though such dissimulation seemed a little unnecessary. He might, she thought, have just kept quiet.

"But still, ’ ’ said Monsieur Duhamel. “It is a great work, no doubt. So much toil, and so niucli sacrifice of time for no remuneration, even if the archaeologists are successful, is very noble to see.” “Well,” said Lynne. “But if the cups are found they will be worth a great deal of money.” “Yes, but the archaeologists would not—” began Duliamel, but Julian cut him short: “The air service here must be a godsend to you,” he said, in a loud, imperative tone. “Don’t you find it so? The pilot this morning said that he thought the company would go bankrupt.” “Oh? Ido not know. I know nothing of that. It may be so,” said Duhamel. Lynne was silent, thinking that Julian had interrupted in that abrupt manner because he thought that she was saying too much about the" cups of Alexander. But Duhamel himself took up the conversation where Julian had cut it short. He said a very strange thing. “As I say,” he resumed. “The archaeologists do not get anything for what they find. Perhaps they get paid for lectures, articles in journals, books they write; but for the cups themselves —nothing!” “Nothing?” said Lynne, involuntarily, forgetting her caution. “But no! You see, mademoiselle, all antiquities, whatever their value, belong to the Persian Government by law. They are the property of the Shall. How much more so, then, if they are of gold, worth many thousands of francs! They may not be taken from the country.”

Lynne sat very still. Protests rose to her lips, but she controlled herself. She could not believe that Duhamel was right. It could not be true —! She looked at Julian, and found him looking at her.

She froze. His face was a greater revelation to her from Duhamel’s words. He was watching her closely, anxiously, stealthily, to see how she would take the information. Then what Duhamel had said was true!

In the moments that followed, * desperate as they were to Lynne, she* sipped her pale golden tea calmly, while Duhamel talked of other things to Julian, and Julian made casual answers. Lynne’s mind was in a turmoil; she felt rather than knew the implications of what Duhamel had told her, and there began to burn deep down in her a bitter anger against Julian. She did not want to believe it. But she had to believe it. Julian had deceived her, lie'had let her down. She had to face it, though her whole soul cried out to have her faith in him preserved. Into what follies, what mistakes, what felonies almost, had he not led her? Now all his appealing lopks, the reassuring glances he threw at her while they were at Monsieur Duhamel’s could have no effect. Above all, she knew one thing—Julian had deceived her in this, and he had deceived her in everything. Phillip Guthrie had been in the right! It was all very well to find it out now. The cups were stolen they were on their way to Enzili; they were gone. Everything went on as though nothing had happened. When the meal was over they took leave. Monsieur Duhamel asked about their journey, and Julian said that they were going to Tehran, but intended to go there via Kel-el-abir.

“Your sister has not been there yet?” said Monsieur Duhamel, who had been told that Julian was taking Lynne on a sightseeing tour of the country.

‘'No,” said Julian. Lynne could have cried out in fur-

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ious protest against this final lie. As soon as they were alone, walking back to the chapan-khana where the caravan was to be ready to set out, Julian said in a tone of forced heartiness : “Well, we carried that off fairly well, didn’t we?” “Except that I learned wliat I wasn’t supposed to learn,” said Lynne. “Oh, come, Lynne, don’t be so upset about it. You knew that we were getting those cups on the quiet. I—” “I didn’t know! I had no idea! You didn’t mean me to know, either!” “Well,” said Julian, impatiently, “from the fuss you are making now it’s easy to see why I didn’t stress the point! ’ ’ “If you knew I’d object to stealing the cups it-was hardly fair to lead me into helping you to do it.” “Oh, rot! It was an adventure—” “Adventure!” cried Lynne, bitterly. “That is how you worked on me—by using fine names for things! When I think of Professor Shaley, of Guthrie, and the others, working away in the interests of archaeology—just doing their jobs—and then of you and me: cheating and scheming to get the cups for ourselves —to sell them for money! It’s loathsome!” “Oh, don’t be such a fool!” said Julian, sullenly. “I have been a fool,” said Lynne. “But I’m not a fool now! To think that I believed you when you said that it was jealousy that made Guthrie turn you out of the expedition!” Julian stopped. They were in a narrow alley, empty save for two veiled women, who slipped past them, their eyes, heavily laden with mascara, peeping curiously above the edge of their thick linen veils. “I’m fed up with this!” said Julian, in a bullying tone, and his face was ugly. “Shut up, and come along. Forget about it; I’m sick of it, anyhow!” Lynne was very pale as she faced him. “All my life,” she said breathlessly. “I believed in you. I thought you were wonderful. Now you’ve done this to me! ” “Done? What have I done to you? I’ve got you a few thousand pounds worth of solid gold—!” “Would to heaven you hadn’t! Oh, all the things I’ve done! I’ll be ashamed of them to the end of my life!” Across the street dim faces looked at them from the shadow of a doorway; voices murmured and somebody laughed. Conscious of prying eyes, of the curiosity they aroused, Julian took Lynne’s arm and drew her along, saying in a gentler tone: “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Lynne.' To the devil with the Persian Government!” “‘lt’s not the Persian Government I mind about —at least, not very much!” It was the thought of Shaley and Guthrie, of their Work, their disinterested motives —and perhaps more particularly the thought of Guthrie—which filled Lynne with such bitter shame. “Well,” she said, after a pause, during which she gained some sort of composure. “There’s only one thing to do now.” “Forget about it.” “No, we must get the cups back. Return them. “Return them!” “Return them to Guthrie —to Praemnon. ” “What the devil? Not on your life, Lynne!” She wrested her arm away from him. They stopped again. Lynne drew back a pace or two. “I mean it. It’s the only thing to do. I’m going to do it!” “You can’t! The cups are gone—they’ll be hundreds of miles away by to-morrow. By God, if you try anything like that, Lynne, I’ll—!” Julian’s face was livid; but Lynne’s eyes were not less bright and implacable than his own as she returned his gaze. “Very well,” she said, “we part company here then.” “You’re mad! Come along down to the chapan-Khana. We’ve got to get started some time to-day.” “I’m not going another step with you,” said Lynne in a choked voice. “I’ve gone too far already!” She turned her back on him and hurried up the street by the same way that they had come. In a belt round her waist she had seventy-odd pounds in English notes. She was not helpless. Plans already formulated themselves in her head. She must return the cups to Praemnon. If it came to the worst, and she could not get to Enzili in time, she would inform the Deputy in Tehran that the cups were there. Her aim, though, was to return them to Praemnon. Lynne hurried up the street. The loitering Kaahanis stared at her curiously; insulting voices called out afI ter her. It was not usual for a European woman to be seen alone on foot in the streets of Kashan. But at last she arrived back at the house of Monsieur Duhamel. Duhamel was very surprised to see her so much out of breath, and with so pale and determined a face. But she gave him no time to ask questions. “How soon can I get to Enzili from here?” she asked him. “Is there another airplane going up?” “Not for a fortnight, mademoiselle. One of the machines crashed last week, and the service has been intermitted.” “Then how can I get there? What will be my quickest route?” (To be Continued).