Greenmantle, John Buchan [big screen ebook reader .TXT] 📗

read in them failure, and yet a kind of satisfaction, too, as if they had found more in me than they expected.

“What life have you led?” the soft voice was saying.

I was able to answer quite naturally, rather to my surprise. “I have been a mining engineer up and down the world.”

“You have faced danger many times?”

“I have faced danger.”

“You have fought with men in battles?”

“I have fought in battles.”

Her bosom rose and fell in a kind of sigh. A smile⁠—a very beautiful thing⁠—flitted over her face. She gave me her hand. “The horses are at the door now,” she said, “and your servant is with them. One of my people will guide you to the city.”

She turned away and passed out of the circle of light into the darkness beyond⁠ ⁠…

Peter and I jogged home in the rain with one of Sandy’s skin-clad Companions loping at our side. We did not speak a word, for my thoughts were running like hounds on the track of the past hours. I had seen the mysterious Hilda von Einem, I had spoken to her, I had held her hand. She had insulted me with the subtlest of insults and yet I was not angry. Suddenly the game I was playing became invested with a tremendous solemnity. My old antagonists, Stumm and Rasta and the whole German Empire, seemed to shrink into the background, leaving only the slim woman with her inscrutable smile and devouring eyes. “Mad and bad,” Blenkiron had called her, “but principally bad.” I did not think they were the proper terms, for they belonged to the narrow world of our common experience. This was something beyond and above it, as a cyclone or an earthquake is outside the decent routine of nature. Mad and bad she might be, but she was also great.

Before we arrived our guide had plucked my knee and spoken some words which he had obviously got by heart. “The Master says,” ran the message, “expect him at midnight.”

XV An Embarrassed Toilet

I was soaked to the bone, and while Peter set off to look for dinner I went to my room to change. I had a rubdown and then got into pyjamas for some dumbbell exercises with two chairs, for that long wet ride had stiffened my arm and shoulder muscles. They were a vulgar suit of primitive blue, which Blenkiron had looted from my London wardrobe. As Cornelis Brandt I had sported a flannel nightgown.

My bedroom opened off the sitting-room, and while I was busy with my gymnastics I heard the door open. I thought at first it was Blenkiron, but the briskness of the tread was unlike his measured gait. I had left the light burning there, and the visitor, whoever he was, had made himself at home. I slipped on a green dressing-gown Blenkiron had lent me, and sallied forth to investigate.

My friend Rasta was standing by the table, on which he had laid an envelope. He looked round at my entrance and saluted.

“I come from the Minister of War, sir,” he said, “and bring you your passports for tomorrow. You will travel by⁠ ⁠…” And then his voice tailed away and his black eyes narrowed to slits. He had seen something which switched him off the metals.

At that moment I saw it too. There was a mirror on the wall behind him, and as I faced him I could not help seeing my reflection. It was the exact image of the engineer on the Danube boat⁠—blue jeans, loden cloak, and all. The accursed mischance of my costume had given him the clue to an identity which was otherwise buried deep in the Bosporus.

I am bound to say for Rasta that he was a man of quick action. In a trice he had whipped round to the other side of the table between me and the door, where he stood regarding me wickedly.

By this time I was at the table and stretched out a hand for the envelope. My one hope was nonchalance.

“Sit down, sir,” I said, “and have a drink. It’s a filthy night to move about in.”

“Thank you, no, Herr Brandt,” he said. “You may burn these passports for they will not be used.”

“Whatever’s the matter with you?” I cried. “You’ve mistaken the house, my lad. I’m called Hanau⁠—Richard Hanau⁠—and my partner’s Mr. John S. Blenkiron. He’ll be here presently. Never knew anyone of the name of Brandt, barring a tobacconist in Denver City.”

“You have never been to Rustchuk?” he said with a sneer.

“Not that I know of. But, pardon me, Sir, if I ask your name and your business here. I’m darned if I’m accustomed to be called by Dutch names or have my word doubted. In my country we consider that impolite as between gentlemen.”

I could see that my bluff was having its effect. His stare began to waver, and when he next spoke it was in a more civil tone.

“I will ask pardon if I’m mistaken, Sir, but you’re the image of a man who a week ago was at Rustchuk, a man much wanted by the Imperial Government.”

“A week ago I was tossing in a dirty little hooker coming from Constanza. Unless Rustchuk’s in the middle of the Black Sea I’ve never visited the township. I guess you’re barking up the wrong tree. Come to think of it, I was expecting passports. Say, do you come from Enver Damad?”

“I have that honour,” he said.

“Well, Enver is a very good friend of mine. He’s the brightest citizen I’ve struck this side of the Atlantic.”

The man was calming down, and in another minute his suspicions would have gone. But at that moment, by the crookedest kind of luck, Peter entered with a tray of dishes. He did not notice Rasta, and walked straight to the table and plumped down his burden on it. The Turk had stepped aside at his entrance, and I saw by the look in his eyes that his suspicions had become