I, Spy - 6 Espionage & Detective Books in One Edition. Frederic Arnold Kummer

she said, slowly, "that Li Min's story of the vengeance of Buddha could really be true, after all?"

      "No, I do not," I said, though I was not so absolutely sure as I pretended to be. "It is hardly likely that Buddha would turn his vengeance upon an inoffensive dog, who had certainly done nothing to incur it. It is a curious and unfortunate coincidence, that is all. The dog has no doubt died of fright, caused by his unusual situation, coupled perhaps with lack of food, water and air. Or he may have dashed himself against the door in his struggles and died of apoplexy. I've frequently heard of dogs dying from some such cause, especially old ones. How old was Boris?"

      "About four years," said Muriel, and I knew from the way in which she spoke that she did not believe my explanation of the affair in the least.

      When we reached the floor below, the Major directed Gibson and one of the other servants to remove the dog's body from the room, and we all retired to the library, where we discussed the matter for a long time. Major Temple, on sober thought, was inclined to agree with my view of the matter, but in spite of our attempts to regard the event in a common-sense light, we could not shake off a mysterious feeling of dread at the thought of these two creatures, a man and a dog having so inexplicably come to their ends in this room. In Ashton's case, at least, there was a tangible enough evidence of the cause of death, but in the case of Boris there was none. Major Temple stepped out and examined the dog's body when the men brought it down from above, and upon his return reported that there was no wound or mark of any sort upon the animal that could account for its death.

      Miss Temple essayed a few airs upon the piano, but our thoughts were not attuned to music, and presently, as it was close to eleven o'clock, she said good-night to us both and left us. As she passed me on her way from the room, she leaned over and kissed me upon the forehead, and I turned to find the Major staring at me in perplexity. Poor man, so many strange things had happened during the course of this eventful day that I fear he would not have been greatly surprised had I suddenly stood upon my head and attempted to recite the Jabberwock backward. I at once told him of my love for Muriel, and of her feelings toward me, and asked his consent to our marriage. "It is a bit sudden, I'll admit, Sir," I concluded, "but none the less real and true for all that."

      "But, my dear Sir," gasped the Major, evidently very much taken aback by my flow of words, and my earnest and somewhat excited manner, "I hardly know you. How can you expect me to reply to such a question, to give my consent to your marriage with my daughter, when I know absolutely nothing of your position, your prospects, or your income?"

      I expected his objections and answered them at once. "You are quite right, Sir, of course," I answered. "As for my income, I am making close to a thousand pounds a year from my profession, which, as you may know, is that of an illustrator for books and for the magazines. In addition to that, I have an income from my father's estate of 800 pounds a year. At my mother's death I shall have as much more. My father was Edward Morgan, of whom you may perhaps have heard. He was a well-known civil engineer, and railway constructor, and distinguished himself in India, in the construction of the great sea-wall at Calcutta. My mother is still living, and I know she would be most happy to welcome Muriel as a daughter, for I have no brothers or sisters, and she is very lonely."

      At the mention of my profession and my income I noticed that Major Temple's frown relaxed somewhat, but when I mentioned my father's name and the fact of his having spent a part of his life in India, he fairly beamed.

      "Are you really the son of Edward Morgan?" he cried, rising. "Why, my boy, I knew him well. I was in the Indian service for fifteen years, and who did not know him, who has spent much time in that benighted country? Many's the time I've dined with him at our club in Calcutta. He was a fine man, and, if I remember rightly, he refused a knighthood for his services." He came up to me and took my hand. "It's all very sudden, I must say, but I should be very glad to see Muriel happily married, and, if she believes you to be the right man, I shall interpose no objections. But I should advise that you both wait a reasonable time, until you are certain that you have not made any mistake. As for me, I am an old man, and I have traveled all over the world, but the only real happiness I have ever found was in the love of my wife. She went out to India with me, and she never came back." He turned and gazed into the fire to hide his emotions. "I have become half-mad over this business of collecting antiquities and curios," he resumed, presently, "but it isn't real, it's only an insane hobby after all, and I have only just realized how selfish it all is, and how selfish I have been as well, to consider for a moment bartering my daughter's happiness for a miserable Chinese idol to which I never had any right in the first place." He drew a cigar from his pocket and lighted it hurriedly.

      I thanked him for his attitude toward my suit, and agreed to leave the setting of our marriage day entirely in the hands of himself and Muriel. Then, seeing that he was tired out after the long strain of the day, I bade him good-night and retired to my room.

      As I stopped at my doorway, I noticed that the door of the green room stood partly open, and, filled with a curious fascination, I once more peered into its dark and silent interior. I could see only the faint outlines of the tall, old-fashioned bed, against the dim night light of the sky without the windows. I stepped inside, acting upon the impulse of the moment, and striking a wax taper lit one of the gas jets in the heavy, old-fashioned bronze chandelier. The room seemed comfortable enough, although I felt that peculiar stifling sensation which I had noticed upon my first entering it. I looked about, and wondered for the thousandth time what strange secret lay concealed within its walls, what mysterious influence existed which was potent to strike down man or beast alike without warning, as though by the hand of death itself. I longed to penetrate to the heart of this mystery, to satisfy myself, at least, that what had occurred herein had not been supernatural, the action of unknown forces, but merely some working of well-known natural laws, obscure perhaps, but none the less understandable, if but the secret could once be grasped. Suddenly I was seized with an idea. Why should I not spend the night here, instead of in the room across the hall, and possibly thus determine the grim secret, which had set our reason and common sense at naught. The idea grew upon me, and so strongly was I possessed with it that I at once returned to my own room, undressed, put on my pajamas, and, taking from my dressing-case, which had been sent down from London, a small pocket revolver that I always carried with me and had never yet used, I crossed the hall into the room opposite, carrying with me some extra coverings for my bed. I did not feel at all sleepy, so, after closing the door and climbing, not without difficulty, into the high poster bed, I lay back comfortably upon the pillows and proceeded to occupy myself in reading a magazine which I had found lying upon the table in my own room.

      Chapter 13

       A NIGHT OF HORROR

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      The night that I spent in the green room was in many ways like the one which Robert Ashton spent there. A heavy rain had set in, and the wind from the southwest was driving it against the windows of the room, just as it had done that other night. I had attempted to raise one of the windows before turning in, but it was impossible to keep it open for any length of time as the rain drove in fiercely and threatened to flood the room. As I lay in bed, unable to concentrate my thoughts upon the magazine I had picked up, I began to reconstruct in my mind the scene which had been enacted in this room but a few nights before. I pictured Robert Ashton, sitting at the small, marble-topped table, laboriously copying the inscription upon the base of the emerald figure, for what purpose I could not imagine. I saw him as he opened the door for Miss Temple, his painful interview with her, and his anger at its conclusion. Then, no doubt, he sat down and thought the whole thing over. He remembered Major Temple's threat that he should never leave the house and take the emerald with him. Possibly he may have supposed that Muriel and her father were in league in some way to obtain possession of the jewel and thus defraud him, he felt, of the fruits of his labors. No doubt the question of where to place the stone, during the night, to insure its absolute safety, became in his mind an important one. He determined to hide it, and cast about for a place of concealment. To secrete it about the room would be impracticable: it must be so situated that he could instantly remove it if necessary. Yet to place it in his bag among his other belongings