The Golden Scorpion

The Assistant Commissioner leaned back in his chair.

'I have sufficient confidence in M. Max,' he said, 'to believe that, having taken the responsibility of permitting this dangerous group to learn that they were under surveillance, he has good reason to suppose that they have not slipped through our fingers.'

Gaston Max bowed.

'It is true,' he replied, and from his pocket he took a slip of flimsy paper. 'This code message reached me as I was about to leave my hotel. The quadroon, Miguel, left Paris last night and arrived in London this morning ——'

'He was followed?' cried Dunbar.

'But certainly. He was followed to Limehouse, and he was definitely seen to enter the establishment described to us by Inspector Kelly!'

'Gad!' said Dunbar—'then someone is still there?'

'Someone, as you say, is still there,' replied Max. 'But everything points to the imminent departure of this someone. Will you see to it, Inspector, that not a rat—pardieu not a little mouse—is allowed to slip out of our red circle to-day. For to-night we shall pay a friendly visit to the house of Ah-Fang-Fu, and I should wish all the company to be present.'

Chapter 3 Miska's Story

Stuart returned to his house in a troubled frame of mind. He had refrained so long from betraying the circumstances of his last meeting with Mlle. Dorian to the police authorities that this meeting now constituted a sort of guilty secret, a link binding him to the beautiful accomplice of 'The Scorpion'—to the dark-eyed servant of the uncanny cowled thing which had sought his life by strange means. He hugged this secret to his breast, and the pain of it afforded him a kind of savage joy.

In his study he found a Post Office workman engaged in fitting a new telephone. As Stuart entered the man turned.

'Good-afternoon, sir,' he said, taking up the destroyed instrument from the litter of flux, pincers and screw drivers lying upon the table. 'If it's not a rude question, how on earth did this happen?'

Stuart laughed uneasily.

'It got mixed up with an experiment which I was conducting,' he replied evasively.

The man inspected the headless trunk of the instrument.

'It seems to be fused, as though the top of it had been in a blast furnace,' he continued. 'Experiments of that sort are a bit dangerous outside a proper laboratory, I should think.'

'They are,' agreed Stuart. 'But I have no facilities here, you see, and I was—er—compelled to attempt the experiment. I don't intend to repeat it.'

'That's lucky,' murmured the man, dropping the instrument into a carpet-bag. 'If you do, it will cost you a tidy penny for telephones!'

Walking out towards the dispensary, Stuart met Mrs. M'Gregor.

'A Post Office messenger brought this letter for you, Mr. Keppel, just the now,' she said, handing Stuart a sealed envelope.

He took the envelope from her hand, and turned quickly away. He felt that he had changed colour. For it was addressed in the handwriting of … Mlle. Dorian!

'Thank you, Mrs. M'Gregor,' he said and turned into the dining-room.

Mrs. M'Gregor proceeded about her household duties, and as her footsteps receded, Stuart feverishly tore open the envelope. That elusive scent of jasmine crept to his nostrils. In the envelope was a sheet of thick note- paper (having the top cut off evidently in order to remove the printed address), upon which the following singular message was written:

'Before I go away there is something I want to say to you. You do not trust me. It is not wonderful that you do not. But I swear that I only want to save you from a great danger. If you will promise not to tell the police anything of it, I will meet you at six o'clock by the Book Stall at Victoria Station—on the Brighton side. If you agree you will wear something white in your button-hole. If not you cannot find me there. Nobody ever sees me again.'

There was no signature, but no signature was necessary.

Stuart laid the letter on the table, and began to pace up and down the room. His heart was beating ridiculously. His self-contempt was profound. But he could not mistake his sentiments.

His duty was plain enough. But he had failed in it once, and even as he strode up and down the room, already he knew that he must fail again. He knew that, rightly or wrongly, he was incapable of placing this note in the hands of the police … and he knew that he should be at Victoria Station at six o'clock.

He would never have believed himself capable of becoming accessory to a series of crimes—for this was what his conduct amounted to; he had thought that sentiment no longer held any meaning for him. Yet the only excuse which he could find wherewith to solace himself was that this girl had endeavoured to save him from assassination. Weighed against the undoubted fact that she was a member of a dangerous criminal group what was it worth? If the supposition of Gaston Max was correct, 'The Scorpion' had at least six successful murders to his credit, in addition to the attempt upon his (Stuart's) life and that of 'Le Balafre', upon the life of Gaston Max.

It was an accomplice of this nameless horror called 'The Scorpion' with whom at six o'clock he had a tryst, whom he was protecting from justice, by the suppression of whose messages to himself he was adding difficulties to the already difficult task of the authorities!

Up and down he paced, restlessly, every now and again glancing at a clock upon the mantelpiece. His behavior he told himself was contemptible.

Yet, at a quarter to six, he went out—and seeing a little cluster of daisies growing amongst the grass bordering the path, he plucked one and set it in his button-hole!

A few minutes before the hour he entered the station and glanced sharply around at the many groups scattered about in the neighbourhood of the bookstall. There was no sign of Mlle. Dorian. He walked around the booking office without seeing her and glanced into the waiting-room. Then, looking up at the station clock, he saw that the hour had come, and as he stood there staring upward he felt a timid touch upon his shoulder.

He turned—and she was standing by his side!

She was Parisian from head to foot, simply but perfectly gowned. A veil hung from her hat and half concealed her face, but could not hide her wonderful eyes nor disguise the delightful curves of her red lips. Stuart automatically raised his hat, and even as he did so wondered what she should have said and done had she suddenly found Gaston Max standing at his elbow! He laughed shortly.

'You are angry with me,' said Mlle. Dorian, and Stuart thought that her quaint accent was adorable. 'Or are you angry with yourself for seeing me?'

'I am angry with myself,' he replied, 'for being so weak.'

'Is it so weak,' she said, rather tremulously, 'not to judge a woman by what she seems to be and not to condemn her before you hear what she has to say? If that is weak, I am glad; I think it is how a man should be.'

Her voice and her eyes completed the spell, and Stuart resigned himself without another struggle to this insane infatuation.

'We cannot very well talk here,' he said. 'Suppose we go into the hotel and have late tea, Mlle. Dorian.'

'Yes. Very well. But please do not call me that. It is not my name.'

Stuart was on the point of saying, 'Zara el-Khala then,' but checked himself in the nick of time. He might hold communication with the enemy, but at least he would give away no information.

'I am called Miska,' she added. 'Will you please call me Miska?'

'Of course, if you wish,' said Stuart, looking down at her as she walked by his side and wondering what he would do when he had to stand up in Court, look at Miska in the felon's dock and speak words which would help to condemn her—perhaps to death, at least to penal servitude! He shuddered.