The Vanishing Point. Coningsby Dawson

that you yourself are married to her. I ought to refuse to allow this interview to go further without calling in a lawyer. I don't mean to be offensive, but your kaleidoscopic changes put a strain on my credulity. I can't believe your story that you're a secret service agent endeavoring to get your wife executed. When men tire of matrimony, they find less ingenious methods of recovering their bachelorhood.”

      The Major smiled with his patient air of affability. “It isn't my bachelorhood that I'm trying to recover. It's my——”

      “If you don't mind,” Hindwood cut in, “I'd like to finish my say first. One of the things that you may not have learned is that I'm here on a mission of international dimensions. It concerns more than one of the governments of Europe. I can't afford to have my name mixed up in a scandal and, what's more, I can bring influences to bear to prevent it from being introduced. You may be anything you like; whatever you are cuts no ice. I'm through with you and with whatever you may imagine took place on the Ryndam. You seem to think that I'm concealing a guilty knowledge that would enable you to bring this Gorlof woman to trial. You're on the wrong tack. I have no such knowledge. The longer you stay here, the more you waste my time.” The Major was on the point of answering when the telephone rang shrilly. Grateful for a diversion, Hindwood crossed the room. As he unhooked the receiver, he glanced across his shoulder, “Excuse me.”

      “Is this Mr. Hindwood?”

      “It is.”

      It was the hotel operator asking.

      “There's a call for you, sir. It's from some one who's not on a newspaper. Will you take it?”

      “Certainly.”

      There was a pause while the connection was being made; then a foreign voice, a woman's, questioned, “Eees thees Meester Hindwood? Eef you please, one meenute. A lady wants to talk wiz you.”

      Coming across the distance, subdued and earnest, he caught the tones of a voice which was instantly familiar.

      “Don't be startled. Don't answer me. There's a man with you. Tell him nothing. If you ever loved me, even for a second, don't believe a word he says.”

      She had not been arrested! A wave of joy swept over him. The uncertainty as to whether she was arrested had been crushing him.

      He waited, hoping she would speak again.

      Shattering the spell with a touch of bathos, the operator inquired, “Number?”

      With that he rang off. As he raised his head, he had the uncomfortable sensation that the Major had turned away from watching him.

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      So you want to be rid of me!” The Major glanced across his shoulder, at the same time making no effort to remove himself.

      Hindwood crossed the room thoughtfully and seated himself. “I've made no secret of it from the moment you entered.”

      The Major laughed genially. “I don't blame you. You think I'm a wronged husband trying to get even, or else an unscrupulous detective baiting traps with falsehoods. The situation's unpleasant—for you, especially.”

      “I'm glad you realize it.”

      “I assure you I do. You've given yourself away completely.”

      “You think so?”

      “I don't think; I know. What you've told me proves beyond a doubt that you're possessed of exactly the knowledge that would bring Santa Gorlof to trial.”

      “You're imaginative.”

      “I'm observant. You're wondering what makes me so certain. The explanation's simple: I've studied Santa's tactics. Her strategy's the same in every instance. When a man suspects her guilt, she does what she did to you: seals his mouth with kisses.”

      “This is too much.” Hindwood brought his fist down with a bang. “Do you go or do I have to force you?”

      “This time I'll try one of yours.”

      With astounding assurance the Major helped himself to one of Hindwood's cigars, which he had previously rejected. Without bravado he lighted it and, having ascertained that it was drawing, continued: “If you used force, you'd regret it. You'd make certain of the unwelcome publicity you're so anxious to avoid; you'd miss a stranger story than any Arabian tale that ever was concocted. You think you can still touch bottom; as a matter of fact you're already out of sight of land. You sit there looking an average, successful American; actually you've become an heroic figure, adrift upon an ocean so romantic and uncharted that it beats upon the cliffs of every human passion.”

      Hindwood shifted uneasily. “So you're a fortuneteller in addition to being an ill-used husband and a detective!”

      Ignoring his sarcasm, the Major proceeded: “Some time ago you accused me of ingenuity in the means I had adopted to recover my bachelorhood. It's not my bachelorhood, but my own and my country's honor that, with your help, I'm endeavoring to recover. That sounds extravagant? But consider—what motive could be sufficiently extravagant to compel a man to bend all his energies toward bringing the woman whom he loves to the scaffold? Because I say it calmly, you doubt that I love her. What man could help loving her? She's the last of a long line of false, fair women who've stirred up madness and left behind a trail of ruin.”

      Rising wearily, Hindwood turned his back and commenced fingering the documents on his desk. “There'll be nothing gained by carrying this discussion further.”

      With a question the Major recaptured his attention. “Did it ever strike you that she's partly Asiatic?”

      Hindwood swung round, surprised into truth. “What makes you ask it?”

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      Even to myself,” the Major sighed, “the story which I am about to tell sounds incredible. My reason for confiding it to a stranger is that, when you have heard it, you may dispense with chivalry and become stern enough to do your duty. To protect a woman, whatever her age or looks, is an instinct as primitive as religion. When she happens to be beautiful and the object of your affection, not to protect her is a kind of blasphemy. You and I, though you deny it, are both in love with Santa. I am her husband, while you are no more than her chance-met admirer. Yet you, in her hour of danger, are prepared to shield her with your honor, whereas I am among the most relentless of her pursuers.

      “The best part of my life has been spent in India. I went there with my regiment when I was little more than a boy. The fascination of an ancient civilization took possession of my imagination. I became a student of it and soon acquired a knowledge of native habits which was more fitting to a secret agent than to a soldier. I learned to speak many dialects and could pass myself off as an Asiatic with the minimum amount of disguise. Instead of frequenting clubs and idling away my leisure in the usual round of social futilities which make up the average Anglo-Indian's life, I formed the practice of slipping out into the night and losing my identity in the teeming, Oriental shadow-world by which I was surrounded.

      “On one of my wanderings—when or where it is not necessary to particularize—I strolled into a temple and saw a young girl dancing. As perhaps you know, girls are dedicated to the worship of certain gods and goddesses at a very early age. They are for the most part deities who symbolize fecundity; the ritual with which they are celebrated is gross. The temple girls are chosen for their beauty and are trained by the priesthood to perform sensual dances, which are as old as time. They are not nuns or priestesses; their social status, if they may be said to have any in a land where woman is at best a plaything, approximates to that of temple slaves. They are taken from their parents at an age when sahibs'