“A week since there came to me in Paris a swarthy Arab, who called himself Abdul Kamak. He said that he had found my daughter and could lead me to her. I took him at once to Admiral d’Arnot, whom I knew had traveled some in Central Africa. The man’s story led the Admiral to believe that the place where the white girl the Arab supposed to be my daughter was held in captivity was not far from your African estates, and he advised that I come at once and call upon you—that you would know if such a girl were in your neighborhood.”
“What proof did the Arab bring that she was your daughter?” asked Lord Greystoke.
“None,” replied the other. “That is why we thought best to consult you before organizing an expedition. The fellow had only an old photograph of her on the back of which was pasted a newspaper cutting describing her and offering a reward. We feared that having found this somewhere it had aroused his cupidity and led him to believe that in some way he could obtain the reward, possibly by foisting upon us a white girl on the chance that so many years had elapsed that we would not be able to recognize an imposter as such.”
“Have you the photograph with you?” asked Lord Greystoke.
The General drew an envelope from his pocket, took a yellowed photograph from it and handed it to the Englishman.
Tears dimmed the old warrior’s eyes as they fell again upon the pictured features of his lost daughter.
Lord Greystoke examined the photograph for a moment. A queer expression entered his eyes. He touched a bell at his elbow, and an instant later a footman entered.
“Ask my son’s wife if she will be so good as to come to the library,” he directed.
The two men sat in silence. General Jacot was too well bred to show in any way the chagrin and disappointment he felt in the summary manner in which Lord Greystoke had dismissed the subject of his call. As soon as the young lady had come and he had been presented he would make his departure. A moment later Meriem entered.
Lord Greystoke and General Jacot rose and faced her. The Englishman spoke no word of introduction—he wanted to mark the effect of the first sight of the girl’s face on the Frenchman, for he had a theory—a heaven-born theory that had leaped into his mind the moment his eyes had rested on the baby face of Jeanne Jacot.
General Jacot took one look at Meriem, then he turned toward Lord Greystoke.
“How long have you known it?” he asked, a trifle accusingly.
“Since you showed me that photograph a moment ago,” replied the Englishman.
“It is she,” said Jacot, shaking with suppressed emotion; “but she does not recognize me—of course she could not.” Then he turned to Meriem. “My child,” he said, “I am your—”
But she interrupted him with a quick, glad cry, as she ran toward him with outstretched arms.
“I know you! I know you!” she cried. “Oh, now I remember,” and the old man folded her in his arms.
Jack Clayton and his mother were summoned, and when the story had been told them they were only glad that little Meriem had found a father and a mother.
“And really you didn’t marry an Arab waif after all,” said Meriem. “Isn’t it fine!”
“You are fine,” replied The Killer. “I married my little Meriem, and I don’t care, for my part, whether she is an Arab, or just a little Tarmangani.”
“She is neither, my son,” said General Armand Jacot. “She is a princess in her own right.”
Colophon
The Son of Tarzan
was published in 1917 by
Edgar Rice Burroughs.
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Study Head of a Boy,
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