Read CHAPTER XX of Cleek: the Man of the Forty Faces, free online book, by Thomas W. Hanshew, on ReadCentral.com.

The summer twilight was deepening into the summer dusk when Ailsa, acting upon Cleek’s advice, set forth with his little lordship the following evening, and turned her steps in the direction of the Park; but although, on her way there, she observed more than once that a swarthy-skinned man in European dress who wore a scarlet flower in his coat, and was so perfect a type of the Asiatic that he would have passed muster for one even among a gathering of Cingalese, kept appearing and disappearing at irregular intervals, it spoke well for the powers of imitation and self-effacement possessed by Dollops, that she never once thought of associating that young man with the dawdling messenger boy who strolled leisurely along with a package under his arm and patronised every bun-shop, winkle-stall, and pork-pie purveyor on the line of march.

For upward of an hour this sort of thing went on without any interruption or any solitary thing out of the ordinary, Ailsa strolling along leisurely, with the boy’s hands in hers and his innocent prattle running on ceaselessly; then, of a sudden, whilst they were moving along close to the Park railings and in the shadow of the overhanging trees, the figure of an undersized man in semi-European costume, but wearing on his head the twisted turban of a Cingalese, issued from one of the gates, and well-nigh collided with them.

He drew back, murmuring an apology in pidgin-English, then, seeing the child, he salaamed profoundly and murmured in a voice of deep reverence, “Holy, most holy!” and prostrated himself, with his forehead touching the ground, until Ailsa and the child had passed on. But barely had they taken five steps before Cleek appeared upon the scene, and did exactly the same thing as the Cingalese.

“All right. You may go home now. I’ve got my man,” he whispered, as Ailsa and the boy passed by. “Look for me at Chepstow House some time to-night.” Then rose, as she walked on, and went after the man who first had prostrated himself before the child.

He had risen and gone on his way, but not before witnessing Cleek’s obeisance, and flashing upon him a sharp, searching look. Cleek quickened his steps and shortened the distance between them. Now or never was the time to put to the test that wild thought which last night had hammered on his brain, for it was certain that this man was in very truth a Cingalese, and, as such, must know! He stretched forth his hand and touched the man, who drew back sharply, half indignantly, but changed his attitude entirely when Cleek, who knew Hindustani more than well, spoke to him in the native tongue.

“Unto thee, oh, brother!” Cleek said. “Thou, too, art of us, for thou, too, dost acknowledge the sacred shrine. These eyes have beheld thee.”

All his hopes rested on the slim pillar of that one word, “shrine,” and his heart almost ceased to beat as he watched to see how it was received. It broke, however, into a very tumult of disturbance in the next instant, for the man positively beamed as he gave reply.

“Sacred be the shrine!” he answered in Hindustani. “Clearly thou art of us not of those others.”

“Others? What others? I am but newly come to this country.”

“Walk with me, then, to my abode, sup with me, eat of my salt, and I will tell thee then, oh, brother. But I forget: thou hast no knowledge of me. Listen, then. I am Arjeeb Noosrut, father of the High Priest Seydama, and it is among the people of my house that the gun is yet preserved. Nor has the blood of Seydama been ever washed from the wood of it. Come.”

All in a moment a light seemed to break over Cleek’s brain. The missing link had been supplied the one thing that could make possible the wild thought which had come to him last night had been given into his hands, and here at last was the key to the amazing mystery! He turned without a word and went with Arjeeb Noosrut.

“What an ass!” he said to himself in the soundless words of thought “What an ass never to have suspected it when it is all so dear!”

Meantime Ailsa and the boy, dismissed from any further need of service, walked on through the deepening dusk and turned their faces homeward. But they had not gone twenty yards from the spot where Cleek had seen them last when his little lordship set up a joyful cry and pointed excitedly to a claret-coloured limousine which at that moment swung in from the middle of the roadway and slowed down as it neared the kerb.

“Oh, look, Miss Lorne; here’s mummie’s motor car; and I do believe that’s Bimbi peeping out of it!” exclaimed the child “Bimbi” being his pet name for Captain Hawksley then broke, in wild excitement, from Ailsa’s detaining hand and fled to a tall, military-looking man with a fair beard and moustache who had just that moment alighted from the vehicle. “It is Bimbi it is! it is!” he shouted as he ran. “Oh, Bimbi, I am glad!”

“Ceddie, dear, you mustn’t be so boisterous!” chided Ailsa, coming up with him at the kerb. “How fond he is of you to be sure, Captain Hawksley. You’ve come for us, I suppose? Ceddie recognised the car at once.”

“Yes; jump in,” he answered. “Lady Chepstow sent me after you. She’s nervous, poor soul, every moment the boy’s away from her. Jump in, old chap!” catching up his little lordship and swinging him inside. “Better take the back seat, Miss Lorne; it’s more comfortable. Quite settled, both of you? That’s good. All right, chauffeur Home!”

Then he jumped in after them, closed the door, dropped into a seat, and the motor, making a wide curve out into the road, pelted away into the fast-gathering darkness.

“Bimbi says maybe he’s going to be my daddy one day didn’t you, Bimbi?” said his little lordship, climbing up on to “Bimbi’s” knee and snuggling close to him.

“I say, you know, you mustn’t tell secrets, old chap!” was the laughing response. “Miss Lorne will hand you over to Nursie with orders to put you to bed if you do, I know won’t you, Miss Lorne?”

“He ought to be in bed, anyhow,” responded Ailsa gaily; and then, this giving the conversation a merry turn, they talked and laughed and kept up such a chatter that three-quarters of an hour went like magic and nobody seemed aware of it. But suddenly Ailsa thought, and then put her thoughts into words.

“What a long time we are in getting home,” she said, and bent forward so that the light from the window might fall upon the dial of her wrist watch, then gave a little startled cry and half rose from her seat. For the darkness was now tempered by moonlight, and she could see that they were no longer in the populous districts of the town, but were speeding along past woodlands and open fields in the very depths of the country. “Good gracious! Johnston must have lost his senses!” she exclaimed agitatedly. “Look where we are, Captain Hawksley! out in the country with only a farmhouse or two in sight. Johnston! Johnston!” She bent forward and rapped wildly on the glass panel. “Johnston, stop! turn round! are you out of your head? Captain Hawksley, stop him stop him for pity’s sake!”

“Sit down, Miss Lorne.” He made reply in a low, level voice, a voice in which there was something that made her pluck the child to her and hold him right to her breast. “You are not going home to-night. You are going for a ride with me; and if Oh, that’s your little game, is it?” lurching forward as she made a frantic clutch at the handle of the door. “Sit down, do you hear me? or it will be worse for you! There!” the cold bore of a revolver barrel touched her temple and wrung a quaking gasp of terror from her “Do you feel that? Now you sit down and be quiet! If you make a single move, utter a single cry, I’ll blow your brains out before you’ve half finished it. Look here, do you know who you’re dealing with now? See!”

His hand reached up and twitched away the fair beard and moustache; he bent forward so that the moonlight through the glass could fall on his face. It had changed as his voice had now changed, and she saw that she was looking at the man who in those other days of stress and trial had posed as “Gaston Merode,” brother to the fictitious “Countess de la Tour.”

“You!” she said in a bleak voice of desolation and fright. “Dear heaven, that horrible Margot’s confederate, the King of the Apaches!”

“Yes!” he rapped out. “You and that fellow Cleek came between us in one promising game, but I’m hanged if you shall do it in this one! I want this boy, and I’ve got him. Now, you call off Cleek and tell him to drop this case to make no effort to follow us or to come between us and the kid or I’ll slit your throat after I’ve done with his little lordship here. Lanisterre!” to the chauffeur “Lanisterre, do you hear?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Give her her head full speed and get to the mill as fast as you can. Margot will be with us in another two hours’ time.”