TWO days after the horse-show opening Jack stood in front of an easel, in the studio on the top floor of an up-town building. He had charcoaled on the canvas a design of a girl on a horse. No model for either figure was in sight; but the artist’s rapt expression suggested that his eyes were opened to things invisible to common senses. The girl had long, black hair, and the horse seemed to be a white Arab stallion.
The only other person in the big, empty room was an undersized boy of fifteen, who was short one leg. He had the aspect of a clever and good-natured gnome. He was occupied in cleaning paint-brushes and was whistling softly to himself.
A soft, bell-like sound, thrice repeated, suddenly proceeded from a small black box affixed to the wall. The artist, roused from his vision, frowned.
“Say I’m busy, Jim,” he muttered. “Only ten o’clock, too!”
Jim hobbled to the box and shot back a panel, disclosing a mirror six inches square, in which appeared a miniature but lively image of a middle-aged man of athletic build and aquiline features. “It’s yer Uncle Sam, boss,” he said.
Jack sighed, laid down his palette, and strode over to the box.
“Good morning, uncle,” he said, addressing the image. “What’s up?”
“Get over here at once—very important—quick car!” the other replied, with an urgent gesture.
“Would this afternoon do, uncle? I’m awfully busy just now—”
“Don’t lose a moment!” rejoined his uncle, beckoning imperiously. “That girl of Mayne’s, you know—the old man is in a devil of a taking—come on!”
Jack’s bearing changed, as if a million volts had passed through him.
“In five minutes, uncle!” he exclaimed, slamming back the panel. “Stay here till I call, Jim,” he added to the gnome.
“Right! Here’s yer tile, boss,” the latter returned, extending a hat to his master. “Cut it out!” exclaimed Jack, pushing it aside, with no realization of what it was. He stepped on the lift in a recess of the wall and vanished upward like a clay pigeon from the trap. Emerging on the roof, he seated himself in the little air-boat stationed there, cast off the moorings, seized the wheel, set the needle, and had the craft skimming southwestward like a bullet. In four minutes he had traversed the twelve miles to his uncle’s house and found Sam Paladin awaiting him on the landing. While Jack was gasping out, “What has happened to her?” the elder man cast an amused glance at the boy’s costume—an old velvet jacket, out at the elbows and daubed with paint, knee breeches of the same period and condition, red slippers and hair on end. “Come below and I’ll tell you,” he said. “Too bad to take you away from your work!”
Jack, following his uncle to his rooms, uttered inarticulate sounds and trod upon the other’s heels. The seasoned adventurer pushed him into a chair, sat down opposite him, handed the cigars, took and lit one himself.
“Ordinarily,” he observed, “I’d be the last person to interrupt a man in his professional business; but this thing is a bit out of the common. Terence and I are old pals, and he has a notion fixed in that obstinate noddle of his that you are the man for this job. The way you picked up that girl at the show gave him a high conception of your general ability. I must confess I don’t see how you managed it! I guess your back muscles must be in good shape. If you can repeat the trick—not in just the same way, to be sure—you might consider your fortune made. Terence, as you probably know, has all sorts of money, and would think nothing of tipping you a million or so, if you made good.”
“Uncle—please! Is she hurt?” What—”
“What are you breaking that cigar in pieces for? Was it a bad one? Take another!”
“Uncle, I—”
“Oh, well, here’s the story. To-day is Wednesday. The show was on Monday. Terence says all went as usual on Tuesday, up to six o’clock, afternoon. At that hour the maharaja was to dine at his house tête-à-tête—no one else but Miriam—that’s her name I believe. I have a suspicion that the maharaja is rather hit by the young lady. And the prospect of becoming Rani of Lucknow might appeal to her—but that’s another matter!”
“Miriam marry that damned heathen!” shouted Jack, standing up and raising his clenched fists. He could not get out another word, but his red face, blazing eyes, and rumpled hair were eloquent and formidable.
“I don’t know about the prince’s religion,” said Uncle Sam calmly; “but he’s a good enough fellow: was educated at Oxford: has a fine palace at Lucknow—I stayed with him there, once, for a fortnight. But all that is aside from our present business. It seems Terence had made it a point with Miriam to be present at this dinner, and she had promised; he says she never failed to keep an appointment in her life. He got home from his office at four o’clock Tuesday: Miriam not in: she was in the habit, he believed (but he always left her to do what she liked) of being absent most afternoons, and sometimes till late in the evening. By five-thirty he was dressed for dinner; Miriam had not returned. At six sharp the maharaja arrived; no Miriam. They waited for her an hour: no signs of her or message from her. Maharaja very polite, but serious: Terence—well, you can imagine his state by this time, and how pleasantly the dinner went off. Nine o’clock—no news! The prince took leave, still very polite, but— Terence, sending out searchers in all directions, and taking rapid leave of his senses. Sleepless night: morning: No Miriam! No trace or vestige of her. Terence called me up at nine-thirty: had a revelation from Heaven that you are the man in the world who can find her: insisted on my taking up the matter with you at once. Now, of course, the girl may be nothing to you; but it’s my opinion that if you could find her, and were not immutably set against matrimony, you’d stand a good chance against his highness. So here we are!”
While Jack was devouring this recital with one part of his mind, another was recalling an episode in his career which had taken place within the past thirty-six hours. In the first place, there had been a tremendous, palpitating minute or two, after the rescue, when he had had an opportunity to speak to Miriam in private. In that minute he had desperately dared to tell her that he loved her, that heaven and earth could not keep him from her, and had implored her with the most impetuous and irresistible adjurations to grant him an interview the next day. The girl, under the influence of these words and of the general situation, had finally replied that if he would be at a certain spot at a certain hour the following afternoon, he might have his wish. The rendezvous was, in fact, in the avenue bordering the high wall which enclosed Mary Faust’s grounds and laboratory. Suffice it that the tryst was kept; and from two o’clock until near three things were said by the two young people to each other, which, considering that both of them had been, until that time, vowed to celibacy and to science and art, were sufficiently remarkable and important. Miriam had also briefly indicated her relations with Mary Faust, and her habit of daily study there. The lovers parted in delicious agitation and happiness. And it now appeared, from his uncle’s chronology, that Jack was the last person, except Mary Faust, to whom Miriam had appeared in the flesh. The last, that is, unless she had left the laboratory for the dinner at home, and had been lost on the way. Either she was with Mary Faust at this moment, or she was lost—probably kidnaped. Jack had the immense advantage over all other searchers of the possession of this clue. As to the kidnaping hypothesis, he refused to entertain so intolerable an idea, at least until he had proved that it was not Mary Faust!
Lovers are at once the most outspoken and the most secret persons in the world. It might have seemed natural that Jack should confide his story to his uncle, his only intimate friend. He did nothing of the kind—the matter was too sacred. At the conclusion of Sam Paladin’s statement, the young man adopted a reserved demeanor, intimated, vaguely, that he happened to be in possession of some facts which might lead to something, promised to undertake the task at once, and to communicate promptly whatever news he might obtain, and forthwith rather hurriedly excused himself. Five minutes later he was back in his studio, and with Jim’s expert assistance was preparing himself for the adventure. At a little after eleven, the two stood before the door of the Faust laboratory.
Sam Paladin, meanwhile, after a half-hour’s meditation, during which he sometimes smiled and sometimes looked grave, transferred himself to Mayne’s habitation, and went into private session with that distracted personage.
“The boy is in love with the girl,” he told him, “and love is the best sleuth in the world. He knows something—wouldn’t say what—he is on edge, body and soul, and whatever is humanly possible, he will do to find her. Of course, your girl may not care for him; but if she does, the problem will be the easier. It wouldn’t surprise me if we got a message before evening. Some accident has occurred, no doubt; but there’s no reason to suppose it serious. In these times of occult researches very funny things sometimes happen; but they commonly turn out all right. If I thought otherwise, I should advise you to get drunk. As it is, take a cold shower and a nap.”
“Naps and cold showers for a father whose daughter is maybe murdered this minute!” moaned Terence, whose appearance emphasized his words. “If that lad of yours brings her back to me safe and sound, he may take all I’ve got—except the girl! I’m ready to start in again carrying bricks up a ladder, as I did thirty years ago; but the girl is the girl; there’s none like her; and if I had the solar system in me pocket, I’d not swap her for it—once I got her in me arms again. ‘Occult,’ d’ye say? ‘Funny things!’ If ever I get me hands on the parties that’s handed me this deal, believe me, I’ll occult ’em, and funny won’t be the word for their feelin’s, neither.”
“If you hand over your property to Jack, I’ve no doubt he’d let you board and lodge with him and his wife,” remarked Sam Paladin composedly. “But this is all foolishness. You’ll hear from Jack before dinner time, and good news, too!”
“Dinner time? That’s seven hours off, and how will I kape living till then?” demanded Terence, taking his head between his hands and planting his elbows on his knees, like the effigies of despair in Dante’s Inferno. “Ye’ll find the cruiskeen lawn in the cupboard, Sam, lad; take what ye want, but stand by me till the end,” he added after a while, looking up from the depths of his misery. “No, none for me!—though never did I think to see the day when Terence Mayne would turn his back on whisky! Wurra, wurra!”
“Try a draw of the pipe, anyway,” suggested, Sam; “I see the end of it sticking out of your pocket. Here’s tobacco,” he said, proffering his pouch.
“The plug is better,” replied Terence, proceeding slowly to fill a blackened old clay from the loose chippings in his pocket. He then drew a match along his thigh and lit up. “A bit of old times!” he sighed; and as the two friends puffed fragrant clouds at each other, the lines of anguish on the Irishman’s visage were softened.