“What else?”
“Why, what more do you want? Do you hanker after a cruise aboard a stinking beche-de-mer boat inside the Barrier Reef, or a run with the sandalwood cutters or tortoiseshell gatherers to New Guinea; or do you want to go ashore again and try an overlanding trip half across the continent, riding behind your cattle all day long, and standing your watch at night under dripping boughs, your teeth chattering in your head, waiting for the bulls to break, while every moment you expect to hear the Bunyip calling in that lonely water-hole beyond the fringe of Mulga scrub?”
“You make me almost mad with longing.”
“And yet, somehow, it doesn’t seem so fine when you’re at it. It’s when you come to look back upon it all from a distance of twelve thousand miles that you feel its real charm. Then it calls to you to return in every rustle of the leaves ashore, in the blue of the sky above, in the ripple of the waves upon the beach. And it eats into your heart, so that you begin to think you will never be happy till you’re back in the old tumultuous devil-may-care existence again.”
“What a life you’ve led! And how much more to be envied it seems than the dull monotony of our existence here in sleepy old England.”
“Don’t you believe it. If you wanted to change I could tell you of dozens of men, living exactly the sort of life I’ve described, who would only too willingly oblige you. No, no! Believe me, you’ve got chances of doing things we would never dream of. Do them, then, and let the other go. But all the same, I think you ought to see more of the world I’ve told you of before you settle down. In fact, I hinted as much to your father only yesterday.”
“He said that you had spoken of it to him. Oh, how I wish he would let me go!”
“Somehow, d’you know, I think he will.”
I put the cutter over on another tack, and we went crashing back through the blue water towards the pier. The strains of the band came faintly off to us. I had enjoyed my sail, for I had taken a great fancy to this bright young fellow sitting by my side. I felt I should like to have finished the education his father had so gallantly begun. There was something irresistibly attractive about him, so modest, so unassuming, and yet so straightforward and gentlemanly.
Dropping him opposite the bathing machines, I went on to my own anchorage on the other side of the pier. Then I pulled myself ashore and went up to the town. I had forgotten to write an important letter that morning, and as it was essential that the business should be attended to at once, to repair my carelessness, I crossed the public gardens and went through the gardens to the post office to send a telegram.
I must tell you here that since my meeting with Mr. Baxter, the young Marquis’s tutor, I had been thinking a great deal about him, and the more I thought the more certain I became that we had met before. To tell the truth, a great distrust of the man was upon me. It was one of those peculiar antipathies that no one can explain. I did not like his face, and I felt sure that he did not boast any too much love for me.
As my thoughts were still occupied with him, my astonishment may be imagined, on arriving at the building, at meeting him face to face upon the steps. He seemed much put out at seeing me, and hummed and hawed over his “Good afternoon” for all the world as if I had caught him in the middle of some guilty action.
Returning his salutation, I entered the building and looked about me for a desk at which to write my wire. There was only one vacant, and I noticed that the pencil suspended on the string was still swinging to and fro as it had been dropped. Now Baxter had only just left the building, so there could be no possible doubt that it was he who had last used the stand. I pulled the form towards me and prepared to write. But as I did so I noticed that the previous writer had pressed so hard upon his pencil that he had left the exact impression of his message plainly visible upon the pad. It ran as follows:
Letter received. You omitted Reverend. The train is laid, but a new element of danger has arisen.
It was addressed to “Nikola, Green Sailor Hotel, East India Dock Road, London,” and was signed “Nineveh.”
The message was so curious that I looked at it again, and the longer I looked the more certain I became that Baxter was the sender. Partly because its wording interested me, and partly for another reason which will become apparent later on, I inked the message over, tore it from the pad, and placed it carefully in my pocketbook. One thing at least was certain, and that was, if Baxter were the sender, there was something underhand going on. If he were not, well, then there could be no possible harm in my keeping the form as a little souvenir of a rather curious experience.
I wrote my own message, and having paid for it left the office. But I was not destined to have the society of my own thoughts for long. Hardly had I reached the Invalids’ Walk before I felt my arm touched. To my
