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Weapons of Mystery

<h2 id="id01239" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XVI</h2> <h5 id="id01240">STRUGGLING FOR VICTORY</h5> I confess that I was somewhat excited as I heard him coming up the stairs. I was sure that every means he could devise to defeat me would be eagerly used. The man was a villain possessed of a strange and dangerous power, and that power he would not hesitate to exert in every possible way. But I was not afraid; my faith in God had given me life, and so I would dare to defy the wretch. I did not look at him until the girl had shown him in and left the room; then our eyes met. I recognized the steely glitter of those whity-grey orbs, which at times seemed tinted with green. I knew he was seeking to exert his old influence, and once I thought I should have to yield. The power he possessed was something terrible, and I had to struggle to the utmost to remain unconquered. His efforts were in vain, however, and, for the time, at all events, the battle was not with him. "Will you sit down, Mr. Voltaire?" I said, after a minute's perfect silence. He sat down as if in astonishment. "Might I ask your business?" I asked as coolly as I could. This question either aroused his anger, or he began to play a part. "Yes," he said; "you will know my business at your cost. I thought you had found out before this that I was not the man either to be disobeyed or trifled with." I did not think it wise to speak. "I have come to tell you," he went on, "that you cannot escape my power, that you cannot disobey me and not suffer. Remember this: I conquered you, and you are my slave." Still I did not think it wise to reply. "You think," he continued, "because you have realized some immunity from the power I wield, that I have left you. I have not, and it is greater than ever. You have dared to leave London; you have dared to do that which I told you not; and now I have come to tell you that you have aroused the anger of a man who laughs at conventional laws, and snaps his fingers at the ordinary usages of society—one who knows nothing and cares nothing for your claptrap morality, and will not be influenced by it." "I am sorry if I have angered you," I replied humbly. "Just so, and you will be more than sorry. Man, I hold your life in the hollow of my hand. One word from me, and your liberty is gone; you will be dragged through the streets like a common felon." "Am I guilty of so much, then?" I said. "Did I really kill that man?" He looked at me curiously, as if he suspected something. "Kill him?" he replied. "Of course you did. But even if you did not, it is all the same. Kaffar cannot be found, or proved alive, and thus my power over you is absolute." "I wonder you do not use it," I said quietly. "I do not use it because it does not pay me to do so. My policy is to be quiet. Miss Forrest is mine because she knows I am master of your life. The months are swiftly passing away, Mr. Justin Blake. It is May now; in December I shall take her to my breast." "But supposing," I said, "that I find Kaffar; supposing before Christmas Eve comes I prove I am innocent of his death. What then?" "It is not to be supposed. You killed my friend; and even if you did not, you could never find him. You dare not, could not, take any necessary steps. You have not the power to ask other people to do it. Even now you cannot rise from your seat and walk across the room." Without a word I rose from my seat and walked across the room; then I came back and coolly sat down again. "What does this mean?" he asked angrily. "It means," I said, "that you are deceived—mistaken. It means that your villainous schemes are of no effect; that the man whom you thought you had entrapped by a juggler's trick to be your tool and dupe is as free as you are; that he defies your power; that he tells you to do your worst." I felt that again he was trying to throw me into a kind of trance, that he was exerting all his power and knowledge; but I resisted, and I was free. I stood up again and smiled. Then a strange light lit up his eyes. "Curse you!" he cried, "you defy me, eh? Well, you'll see what you get by defying me. In five minutes you will be safe in a policeman's charge." "If I were you I would try and learn the Englishman's laws before you appeal to them. The first question that will be asked will be why you have refrained from telling so long, for he who shelters a criminal by silence is regarded as an aider and an abettor of that criminal. Then, man, this case will be sifted to the bottom. That pond will be pumped dry, and every outlet examined. Besides, what about the booking-clerk that issued a ticket to Kaffar two hours after you and Mr. Temple found me?" "It's a lie!" he cried; "Kaffar was never seen." "Well, then, if you are so sure, give me in charge. It will not be very much opposed to my wishes, for by so doing you will set the whole machinery of the law of England on Kaffar's trail, and I promise you it will find him. English law is hard on murderers, but all evidence is put through a very fine sieve in an English court of justice. Kaffar is not an ordinary-looking man, and from Scotland Yard our police authorities hold communication with all other police authorities in the civilized world. I tell you, man, your trumped-up story would be torn to pieces in five minutes, and in the end you would be safely lodged down at Dartmoor for fourteen years." He sat silent a minute, as if in deep thought; then he said slowly, "Mr. Justin Blake, you think you have outwitted Herod Voltaire! Continue to think so. I shall not give you in charge—not because I believe in your paltry story, but because I should lose Miss Forrest by so doing, and I cannot afford to do that, if for nothing else than to spite you. You think you are free from me. Wait. You think Kaffar is to be found—well, wait. But, I tell you, you shall repent all this. I will marry the woman you love, and then I will lead you such a life as you never conceived. You shall pray to die, and death shall not come. You shall suffer as never man suffered. The condition of the Christians whom Nero used as torches shall be heaven to what yours shall be. Meanwhile—" All this time he kept looking at me, and his words were uttered with a nervous force and intensity that was terrible. I felt a strange chilling sensation creep over me, and involuntarily I sat down. No sooner had I done so than he gave a savage, exultant yell. "You are mine again!" he cried. It was a terrible struggle. His will and mine fought for the mastery—his strengthened by a knowledge of laws of which I was ignorant, and constant exertion of it; mine, by a new life which I had but lately begun to live, by a strength given me through communion with my Maker. For a minute I was chained to the seat. My senses were numbed, and, all the while his terrible glittering eyes rested on mine. Then my strength began to return, and I again stood up, and in a few seconds I was master of myself. "Coward," I said, "you sought to take me unawares. You have done your utmost, and I am your master, even now. Now go, and bear this in mind, that the right and the truth shall be triumphant." I rung the bell as I spoke, and the servant appeared. "Show this gentleman out, Mary," I said. Never shall I forget the look of hatred that gleamed from his eyes as he left the room. If ever a man looked possessed of an evil spirit, it was he; but he did not speak. He walked down the stairs without a word, and then out into the street. I stood and watched him until he was out of sight, and then tried to collect my scattered thoughts. On the whole, I was not pleased with the interview. I had shown my hand. It would have been far better if I could have allowed him still to think I was in his power, but the temptation to show him my freedom was too strong. It would now be a trial of skill between us. If he could have believed that I was unable to do anything to free myself, I should have, perhaps, caught him unawares. Now he would be prepared for everything I could do; he would check my every move. If Kaffar were alive, he would have a thousand means of keeping him out of my way; if dead—well, then, I did not care much what happened. If the latter, however, I determined to give up my life for Miss Forrest, to put myself in the hands of the police authorities, and tell of the influence Voltaire had exerted over me. Meanwhile I must act, and that quickly; so I went straight to a private detective, a man I slightly knew. I refrained from going to Scotland Yard, as I thought Voltaire would be watching me. I gave this detective a description of Voltaire, told him his address, which I had ascertained through his letters to Temple Hall, and explained my wishes to him. He took up my points very quickly, saw what I wanted without any lengthened explanations, and expressed a willingness to serve me. So much pleased was I with this interview, that I had no fear that my enemy would not be well looked after. After that I took train for Dover, and prepared to track Kaffar, if possible, wherever he had gone, not realizing at the time the task I had proposed for myself. I thought I made a forward step at Dover, for, on inquiring at an hotel there, I found that a man answering to Kaffar's description had engaged a bedroom for one night, and had gone on to Calais by the midday boat, in time to catch the express for Paris. "Did this gentleman have any luggage?" I asked. The hotel proprietor did not think the gentleman carried any luggage, but he would inquire. On inquiry of the hotel porter, I found that he carried a Gladstone bag, rather small and new. This was particularly remembered—first, because the foreign gentleman seemed very particular about it, and, second, because there seemed to be nothing in it. So far so good. I determined to go on to Paris; it could do no harm, it might do good. I could speak the French language fairly, and might, by some means, find out the steps he had taken. Arrived at Paris, I was completely blocked. He was not remembered in the Custom House; he was not remembered at some twenty hotels at which I called. Again I began to think what he was likely to do. I did not think he would possess very much money, and a man of his temperament would devise some means of getting some. How? Work would be a slow process, and not suited to his nature. Kaffar would get money by gambling. But that did not help me forward. To search out all the gambling-houses in Paris would be a hopeless task; besides, would he gamble in Paris, a city of which he knew nothing? I did not think so. Where, then? Monte Carlo! No doubt the reader will smile at my attempts as a private detective, but, realizing the circumstances by which I was surrounded, there may be some excuse for my unbusinesslike way of going to work. Besides, I was not sure that Kaffar was alive; I only had some vague grounds for thinking he was. I went to Monte Carlo. I inquired at the hotels; I inquired at the Casino—without success. I learnt one great lesson there, however, and that was the evil of gambling. In spite of tinsel and gilt, in spite of gay attire and loud laughter, in spite of high-sounding titles and ancient names, never did I see so much real misery as I saw in the far-renowned gaming palace. For days I tried to think what to do, without avail. Kaffar had not been at the Casino; he had not stayed at any of the hotels. Where was he, then? I began to entertain the idea that he had gone to Egypt as he had said. I would do my best to find out. Accordingly, I went to all the seaports along the coast of France and Italy from which he would be likely to set sail for Egypt. I was unsuccessful until I came to Brindisi. Here I found that inquiries could easily be made. There were only two hotels in the place, one of which was very small. At the smaller of the two, I found on inquiry that a man answering to my description had stayed there a day and a night, waiting for the boat for Alexandria. The hotel proprietor said he should not have remembered him, but that he had talked Arabic with him. This traveller had also told him he had come from England, the land of luxury and gold, and was going to Cairo. He did not remember his name. Egyptians often came to Brindisi, and to him one name was pretty much like another. He called them all "Howajja," and remembered nothing more. He did not keep an hotel register. Little and poor as this evidence was, I determined to go to Egypt. It was now June, and terribly hot, even at Brindisi; I knew the heat must be worse in Cairo, but that was nothing. If I could find this man, I should be rewarded a thousandfold. Accordingly the next night, when an Austrian Lloyd steamer stopped at this little old-fashioned seaport on its way to Alexandria, I secured a berth and went on board. The voyage was not long, neither was it very tedious; at night, especially, it was glorious. To sit on deck and gaze at the smooth sea, which reflected in its deep waters the bright starry heavens, while the splash of the waters made music on the vessel's side, was to experience something not easily forgotten. Arrived in Alexandria, I again set inquiries on foot, but with far less chance of success. Kaffar was not a marked man here. In this town, where almost every nationality was to be seen, no notice would be taken of him. A thousand men answering to Kaffar's description might be seen every day. Still I did all I could, and then hurried on to Cairo. I have not tried to give any detailed account of my journeys, nor of the alternate feelings of hope and despair that possessed me. This must be left to the imagination of my readers. Let them remember the circumstances of the story as I have related them, let them think of how much depended on my discovery of Kaffar, let them also try to fancy something of my feelings, and then they will be able to guess at my weary nights and anxious days, they will know how feverishly I hurried from port to port and from town to town. Anyhow, I will not try to describe them, for I should miserably fail. Cairo was comparatively empty. The heat had driven the tourists away to colder climes. The waiters in the hotels lolled around, with little or nothing to do. Only a few guests required their attendance. Everything was very quiet. The burning sun fairly scorched the leaves of the acacia trees, which grew everywhere. The Nile was exceedingly low, and water was comparatively scarce. The older part of Cairo was simply unbearable; the little Koptic community dwelling in the low huts, which reeked with dirt and vermin, would, one would have thought, have been glad to have died. I had no success in Cairo. A dozen times I was buoyed up with hopes, a dozen times my hopes were destroyed, leaving me more despairing than ever. In spite of the terrible heat, all that could be done I did. Recommended by an hotel proprietor, I engaged two of the shrewdest men in this wonderful city to try and find Kaffar, but they could discover no trace of him. I went to mosques, to temples, to bazaars—in vain. If he were in Cairo, he was hiding. Oh, the weary work, the dreadful uncertainty! Hoping, despairing, ever toiling, ever searching, yet never achieving! The months were slipping by. It was now August, and I was no nearer finding him than when I started. Must I give up, then? Should I renounce my life's love? Should I yield my darling to Voltaire? Never! I formed a new resolution. I would go back to England. Doubtless I had gone clumsily to work, and thus my failure would be explained. When once back in London, I would engage the cleverest detectives the city could boast of, and I would state the whole case to them. Perchance they could do what I had failed to accomplish. This determination I at once carried into practice, and in a little more than a week I again saw the white cliffs of Dover. I did not rest. Arriving at Victoria, I drove straight to Scotland Yard, and in an hour later two of the most highly recommended officers of the London detective police force were in possession of all the facts that I could give them that would lead to the discovery of the Egyptian, providing he lived. Then I drove back to my rooms in Gower Street, weary and sad, yet not hopeless. There were four months in which to act. Two clever men were at work, while, thank God, I was free to act and to think. Yet the future looked terribly doubtful. Would the inquiries be successful? would Gertrude be freed from Voltaire? and should I be happy? <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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