BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

to the meal rather regretting that Jack was not present to complete the quartette. Just as they finished their soup the servant announced—

      “Mr. Duval!”

      Simultaneously the three sprang up from the table, and on looking towards the door beheld a tall young fellow, arrayed in tweeds, standing on the threshold.

      “Jack!” they cried, rushing towards him with unbounded delight. “Jack Duval!”

      “My dear boys,” said Jack, his voice shaking with emotion; “my dear old friends.”

Chapter II.

       The Devil Stone

       Table of Contents

      Spirits dwelling in the zone

       Of the changeful devil stone,

       Pray ye say what destiny

       Is prepared by Fate for me.

       Doth the doubtful future hold

       Poverty or mickle gold,

       Fortune’s smile, or Fortune’s frown,

       Beggar’s staff, or monarch’s crown?

       Shall I wed, or live alone,

       Spirits of the devil stone?

      See the colours come and go,

       Thus foreboding joy and woe;

       Burns the red, the blue is seen,

       Yellow glows and flames the green,

       Like a rainbow in the sky,

       Mingle tints capriciously,

       Till the writhing of the hues,

       Sense and brain and eye confuse,

       Prophet priest can read alone

       Omens of the devil stone.

      Having finished dinner, they repaired to the library, and there made themselves comfortable with coffee and tobacco. Emotion at meeting one another after the lapse of so many years had by no means deprived them of their appetites, and they all did full justice to the excellent fare provided by Philip’s cook. So busy were they in this respect that during the meal conversation waxed somewhat desultory, and it was not until comfortably seated in the library that they found time for a thoroughly exhaustive confabulation.

      For this purpose the quartette drew their chairs close together, and proceeded to incense the goddess Nicotina, of whom they were all devotees save Peter. He said that tobacco was bad for the nerves, especially when in the guise of cigarettes, which last shaft was aimed at Philip, who particularly affected those evil little dainties abhorred by Dr. Grench. Jack and Tim, to mark their contempt for Peter’s counter-blast, produced well-coloured meerschaum pipes, which had circumnavigated the globe in their pockets. Whereat Peter, despairing of making proselytes, held his tongue and busied himself with his coffee—very weak coffee, with plenty of milk and no sugar.

      “What an old woman you have become, Peter,” said Cassim, watching all this caution with languid interest. “You have positively no redeeming vices. But you won’t live any the longer for such self-denial. Tim, there, with his strong coffee and stronger tobacco, will live to bury you.”

      “Tim suffers from liver!” observed Peter, serenely making a side attack.

      “What!” roared Tim, indignantly, “is it me you mean? Why, I never had a touch of liver in my life.”

      “You’ll have it shortly, then,” retorted Peter, with a pitying smile. “I’m a doctor, you know, Peter, and I can see at a glance that you are a mass of disease.”

      All this time Jack had spoken very little. He alone of the party was not seated, but leaned against the mantelpiece, pipe in mouth, with a far-away look in his eyes. While Tim and Peter wrangled over the ailments of the former, Philip, lying back luxuriously in his chair, surveyed his old schoolfellow thoughtfully through a veil of smoke. He saw a greater change in Jack than in the other two.

      In truth, Duval was well worth looking at, for, without being the ideal Greek god of romance, he was undeniably a handsome young man. Tim had the advantage of him in height and size, but Jack’s lean frame and iron muscles would carry him successfully through greater hardships than could the Irishman’s uncultivated strength. Jack could last for days in the saddle; he could sustain existence on the smallest quantity of food compatible with actual life; he could endure all disagreeables incidental to a pioneer existence with philosophical resignation, and altogether presented an excellent type of the Anglo-Saxon race in its colonising capacity. Certainly the special correspondent had, in the interests of his profession, undergone considerable hardships with fair success; but Tim was too fond of pampering his body when among the fleshpots of Egypt, whereas Jack, constantly in the van of civilisation subjugating wildernesses, had no time to relapse into luxurious living. The spirit was willing enough, but the flesh had no chance of indulging.

      His face, bronzed by tropic suns, his curly yellow locks, his jauntily curled moustache, and a certain reckless gleam in his blue eyes, made him look like one of those dare-devil, Elizabethan seamen who thrashed the Dons on the Spanish Main. Man of action as he was, fertile in expedients, and constantly on the alert for possible dangers, Jack Duval was eminently fitted for the profession which he had chosen, and could only endure existence in the desert places of the world. This huge London, with its sombre skies, its hurrying crowds, its etiquette of civilisation, was by no means to his taste, and already he was looking forward with relief to the time when he would once more be on his way to the vivid, careless, dangerous life of the frontier.

      Philip admired his friend’s masculine thoroughness, and could not help comparing himself disadvantageously with the young engineer. Yet Cassim was no weakling of the boudoir; he also had sailed stormy seas, had dared the unknown where Nature fights doggedly with man for the preservation of her virgin solitudes. Still, withal, Jack was a finer man than he was. What were his luxurious travels, his antarctic explorations, in comparison with the actual hardships undergone by this dauntless pioneer of civilisation? Jack was one who did some good in the world; but as for himself—well, Philip did not care about pursuing the idea to its bitter end, as the sequence could hardly prove satisfactory to his self-love. He irritably threw away his cigarette, moved restlessly in his chair, and finally expressed himself in words.

      “Why do you come here, Jack, and make us feel like wastrels? A few hours ago and I rather prided myself on myself; but now you make me feel idle, and lazy, and selfish, and effeminate. It’s too bad of you, Jack.”

      Brains were not Duval’s strong point, and, unable to understand the meaning of this outburst, he simply stared in vague astonishment at Sir Philip. Tim and the doctor, pausing in their conversation, pricked up their ears, while Cassim, paying no attention to this sudden enlargement of his audience, went on speaking, half peevishly, half good-humouredly.

      “I am the enervated type of an effete civilisation. You, my friend, are the lusty young savage to whom the shaping of the future is given. You are Walt Whitman’s tan-faced man, the incarnation of the dominating Anglo-Saxon race, ever pushing forward into fresh worlds. As compared with mine, your primæval life is absolutely perfect. The Sybarite quails before the clear glance of the child of Nature. Take me with you into the wilderness, John Duval. Teach me how to emulate the Last of the Mohicans. Make me as resourceful as Robinson Crusoe. I am a prematurely old man, Jack, and I wish to be a child once more.”

      “What the deuce are you driving at, Philip?” asked practical Jack.

      “It’s from a book he’s writing,” suggested Tim, with a laugh.

      “Melancholia,” hinted Peter, who was nothing if not medicinal.

      Philip laughed and lighted a fresh cigarette. Duval ran his hand through his curly locks, pulled hard at his pipe, and delivered himself bluntly.

      “I suppose all that balderdash means that you are