"Great Jupiter aid us!" cried the son of Minerva, "Venus is unpropitious to-night. All my trouble is vain." For when the black storm broke upon the little channel islet, Alaric Hobbs saw no way of a comfortable return to the Royal Victoria at St. Heliers. "I might leave all here and claim old Fraser's hospitality for a night. No one can get up to the second story," mused Hobbes, who now regretted having ordered the fly to come for him only at day-break. "Here is a wild night of inky darkness.

The star occults only at three A.M. This hurricane ruins all. And old man Fraser may not have returned from London." So with a basket of luncheon, a roll of blankets, and a bottle of c.o.c.ktails, the volunteer astronomer reluctantly sought the dryest corner of the second floor of the old tower for a night's camp. A square trapdoor hole whence the moldering ladder had fallen away, was in the middle of the old barrack room floor over the four embrasured gun room below. "I'll just draw up my ladder, have a pipe, and take a nap. It may clear off. If so the observation goes, and then the highest tide of the year, I can get the register in the morning."

He had brought down his light instrument from the battlemented parapet for safety, and now, pulling up his rope ladder, he coiled it on the floor. "I can drop down below if I wish to if the rain should drive me out of here," he cried as he curled up like a sleeping coyote.

Below him the heavy door of the tower swung on its ma.s.sive hinges, banging and creaking mournfully when a swirling gust set it swinging.

The man who had slept out on the Lolo trail and bivouacked alone in the canyon of the Colorado, laughed the howling storm to scorn. "Better than being out in a blizzard in the Bad Lands!" he gayly cried, as he dozed away, having finished a good meal and lowered the level of the "Lone Wolf" c.o.c.ktails. From sheer frontier habit, he laid his heavy revolver near at hand, and his old-time hunting knife. "You see, you don't know what emergencies may arise," often sagely observed Alaric Hobbes.

"Thrice is he armed that hath two six shooters and a knife!"

When half-past ten rang out from the old French hall clock at the Banker's Folly, Janet Fairbarn, a gray ghastly figure, made her last timid rounds of the lower part of the mansion. Her maids were all snugly nested for the night. Simpson, the erring one, she believed to be in close attendance upon that foreign heathen, Prince Djiddin, in their second-story wing. Miss Nadine and her maid had locked their apartments on departure, the Professor's study was the only room open and vacant, and so with a last timid glance at the darkened halls and great salons of the main floor, the Scotch spinster retired to her rooms adjoining the Master's study and bedrooms on the ground floor.

Minded to "read a chapter" and to "compose herself for the night," the housekeeper sat late rocking alone in her rooms, while the hollow tick of the hall clock sounded doubly lonely in the cheerless night. The modern castle's walls were proof against the wildest rain and even the blows of a catapult, and so the dashing storm never even stirred the heavy leaded diamonded panes. "Thanks be to G.o.d, auld Andrew never ventured to cross on this raging sea! He'll no be here the morrow, neither. I must send down for telegrams in the morning," she mused when she had finally laid her spectacles across her Bible.

It was nearing eleven o'clock when the two half-drowned thugs hiding on Rozel Head were roused by their returning mate stumbling wildly into the muddy cavern in the cliff. They sprang up as he muttered, "On vient, tout pres d'ici! Soyous tous prets!" A bottle extended was half drained by the two ruffians, who then eagerly loosened their black jaws with a mad desire to revenge their cheerless vigil.

"Lei has," whispered the spy, pointing to a black object creeping unsteadily up the steep path--Simpson, dreaming still of pretty Ann's rounded white arms! It was indeed Simpson, with unsteady steps, breasting the hill. A fear of Andrew Fraser's arrival led the half-fuddled old veteran to hasten homeward now. "I can say the telegram was late," he chuckled. "They never will know." And then feeling for his pocket-flask, filled by handsome Ann, "as a last night-cap," he turned into the little cavern, where the school-boys, on a Sat.u.r.day outing, often played "pirates," for his breath was gone and his eyes were drenched with salt scud.

Then, a half smothered cry arose, as the three waiting thugs leaped upon their prey. Simpson was taken off his guard! His muscles were all relaxed by drink. He fell p.r.o.ne as the heavy black jacks descended upon his head, m.u.f.fled in the hood of his "dreadnaught."

"Ah! V'la un affaire bien fini! Allons! Jettez-le!" growled the grim boatswain, dropping his loaded club, as all three spurned the prostrate body, and then, with a heavy lurch, it bounded off the sodden bank plunging downward, over the cliff.

For a moment, there was no sound! Then skirting the furze bushes of the headland, the three a.s.sa.s.sins dragged their stiffened limbs along in the darkness, hastening to where the stout Hirondelle rocked easily in the dead water of the one protected cove to the north of Rozel Point.

They were all safely stowed away in the forecastle before half an hour, and, with grunts of satisfaction, examined the largess of their mysterious employer, "C'est ungaillard--un vrai coq d'Anglais!" growled the boatswain, as his chums produced another bottle, and the three doffed their drenched clothing. Then cognac drowned their scruples against murder--for the price was in their pockets.

It was half past eleven o'clock when gaunt old Andrew Fraser led his half-fainting ward ash.o.r.e from the Stella, at St. Heliers pier. But one covered carriage had remained on the storm-beaten pier, braving the rigors of this terrible night. "Never mind the luggage, man," shouted the Professor to the driver. "Here's ten pounds to drive us over to Rozel, to my home! And, I'll bait yere horses, put ye up, and give ye a tip to open yere eyes." The hardy islander whipped up his horses, and soon cautiously climbed the hill of St. Saviours, crawling along carefully over the wind-swept mows toward St. Martin's Church. The exhausted maid was fast asleep. Nadine Johnstone herself lay in a semi-trance, while the fretful old scholar consulted his watch by the blinking carriage lights, and then wildly urged the driver on. It was long after midnight when they reached St. Martin's Church, with three miles yet to go. A dreary and a dismal ride!

And all was silent, in the Banker's Folly where the old hall clock loudly rang out twelve, rousing Mistress Janet Fairbarn from her first beauty sleep. She started in terror as an unfamiliar sound broke upon the haunting stillness of the night. The hollow sound of a smothered cough in the Master's study, a man's deep-toned cough, unmistakably masculine, aroused the spinster whose whole life had been haunted by phantom burglars.

For the first time since her coming to the Folly, her loneliness appalled her. "My G.o.d! There is the plate! The master away, and no one near." Her nerves were thrilling with nature's indefinable protest against the dangers of the creeping enemy of the night. A sudden ray of hope lit up her heart. "Had the Professor returned?" He had the keys.

It would be his way. Yes, there was the sign of his presence. And, so, timorously moving on tip-toe, she crept down the hall in her white robes, and barefooted. Yes, he had returned, for she had left the study door open. It was closed now. There was a pencil of light shining through the keyhole, and, yet, silently she stood at the door, and listened. There was the sound of m.u.f.fled blows within. A panic seized upon her. "Thieves, thieves--at last!"

Scarcely daring to breathe, she fled, ghostlike, up the stair, and in a wild paroxysm of fear dashed into the room at the angle of the hall, where "Prince Djiddin" lay extended upon his couch of Oriental shawls and cushions. He was restless, and still dreaming, open-eyed, of his absent love.

The young man leaped to his feet as the frantic woman, with affrighted gestures, besought his aid and protection, pointing down to the stairway. Hardwicke's ready nerve failed him not.

Grasping a heavy revolver from under the pillow, a mechanical arrangement, a memory of his Indian life in the midst of untrusted subordinates, the officer seized in his left hand the Sikh tulwar, which was his own "property saber" of Thibetan royalty. Its naked, wedge-shaped blade was as keen as that of a razor.

Pointing to the key, he mutely signed to the woman to lock herself in.

Then down the stair he crept, ready to face any unseen enemy. The light streamed out from Janet Fairbarn's open door. "Perhaps it was only old Simpson, drunk, or trying to gain a surrept.i.tious entrance," he mused.

But the woman had pointed to the light and the keyhole of the door.

"Some one is in the old man's study!" Yes! There was the little tell-tale pencil of light flickering on the darkened wall opposite. And Hardwicke scented danger. "Was it Alan Hawke?"

Light-footed as the panther, the young soldier crept to the heavy oaken door. A moment in his crouching position showed to him a man, with his back toward him, raising one of the great red tiles of the study floor.

Yes! There was only a moment of suspense, for the tile was slid aside, and a package was then eagerly clutched. With one mighty leap, the Major bounded to the man's side as the door swung open. The cold steel muzzle pressed the ruffian's temple as Hardwicke's hand closed upon the burglar's throat. There lay the sealed canvas package, covered with official Indian seals. In an instant, the Major's knee was on the scoundrel's breast.

"One single sound, and I blow your brains out!" hissed the disguised Englishman. And, astounded at the apparition of a stalwart Hindu warrior, Jack Blunt's teeth chattered with fear. Dragging the half-throttled wretch to his feet, Hardwicke tore off the sash of his Indian sleeping robe and bound the villain's arms behind him. Picking up his saber, he then cut the bell cord and lashed the fellow's legs to a chair. Then, giving the canvas package a closer glance of inspection, Hardwicke pressed the edge of his tulwar to Jack Blunt's throat, when he had closed the window, half raised, and shut the shutter so neatly forced with a jimmy. "What's in that package?" he said, with a sudden divination of Alan Hawke's overmastering influence.

"A lot of valuable jewels," the sneaking ruffian answered. "If you'll turn me loose, I'll now save what's dearer to you than all this diamond stuff that I was sent for. I've watched you here for three weeks. You're after the girl. By G.o.d! Hawkes got her now!"

"Do you speak the truth?" said Hardwicke. "If you deceive me, I'll butcher you! Speak quickly! You've got just one chance to save transportation for life now!"

The coward thief muttered: "The old man is on his way back from St.

Heliers, and Hawke's got a dozen French fellows to run the girl off and perhaps 'do up' the old man. But he wanted this same stuff. He's a downy cove!"

While Jack Blunt worked upon the lover's fears, "Prince Djiddin's"

hands, on an exploring tour, drew out a knife and two revolvers from the captured burglar's wideawake coat. He picked up the bulky bundle which the thief had dropped, and saw the bank seals of Calcutta and the insurance labels thereon. "I'll give you a show. Keep silent!" cried Hardwicke as he cut the cords on the fellow's legs. Then grasping him by the neck, he dragged him bodily to the door of the "Moonshee's" room, where he thrust him in. Then he locked the door, and knocking on his own, induced the frightened Janet Fairbarn to open at last. The poor woman screamed as "Prince Djiddin" calmly said: "Go and rouse up the girls. Send one of them to bring the gardener and his two men over here.

I've got the thief locked up."

"My G.o.d! who are you?" screamed the affrighted Scotswoman, as the Prince dropped into English.

"I'm an English officer, madam. Don't be a fool. Rouse these people.

There's been one crime already committed, and there may be another.

There's no one else in the house. Get the three men over here at once to me. I'll stand guard over this thief." Then as Janet Fairbarn fled away shrieking and yelling, Harry Hardwicke locked the recovered package in his own trunk, which stood in his room. Bounding across the hall, he then dragged his captive over the way and thrust him in a helpless heap into a chair. Before Hardwicke was dressed, he had extorted the secret of the rendezvous at the old Martello tower.

"Now, sir, no one has seen you yet," said Hardwicke. "If you guide me there and save her, you shall cut stick. If you betray me, then, by G.o.d, you shall die on the spot." A groan of acquiescence sealed the bargain, as the three gardeners, armed with bili-hooks and pruning-knives, now burst into the room. "One of you stay here with the women. Light up the whole house now. Let no one leave it till I return. Now, you two, each take a pistol. Get your lanterns, at once, and a good club each. Come back instantly here."

The procession was descending the stair, when there was heard a vigorous knocking on the front door. As it opened, the excited "Moonshee"

leaped into the hallway. "What's up?" he cried, forgetting his a.s.sumed character. "I came over, for I had a telegram that the Stella was in with old Fraser and Nadine. The General sent a special messenger to me."

"Run up and get my saber and your own pistol and join me! There's foul play here! The house is all right! Come on, for G.o.d's sake!" shouted Harry Hardwicke. He led his captive by the trebled bell cord pa.s.sed with double hitches around the burglar's pinioned arms, and the Moonshee now leaped back--ready to take a man's part--for he easily divined the treachery.

Out into the wild night they hurried, leaving behind them the barricaded "Banker's Folly," now gleaming with lights. "Where in h.e.l.l is Simpson?"

demanded Eric Murray, as he struggled along clutching the gleaming tulwar tightly in his hand.

"Drunk at Rozel Pier, I suppose!" bitterly answered Hardwicke. "Come here and just p.r.i.c.k this fellow up into a trot!"

As they hastened on, Prince Djiddin succeeded at last in convincing the two gardeners that he was not a ghost, but a reincarnated Englishman who had been larking disguised as a Hindu Prince. "What's the devilish game, anyway?" puffed out Captain Murray, still in the dark, as they struggled on in the darkness along the road.

"Hawke has tried to kidnap Nadine!" hastily cried Hardwicke.

"My G.o.d! what's that?" They soon came up to an overturned carriage. The traces had been cut, and the horses and driver were not visible. The gardener's lantern showed to them only the insensible form of the maid, Mattie Jones, who lay moaning in a sheer exhaustion of terror. "How far is it to the tower?" almost yelled Hardwicke, his heart frozen with a new terror. "They have murdered her, my poor darling!"

"The tower is now about three hundred yards away!" said the gardener, as Hardwicke sternly dragged his reluctant prisoner along.

"On, on!" he cried. "We may even now be too late!" They were only a hundred yards from the tower, when the sound of rapid pistol shots was heard, wafted down the wind, and a confused sound of cries on the cliff was wafted to them, as a dozen twinkling lantern lights appeared on the brow of the bluff.

"It's a rescue party!" joyously cried Murray. "Hurry! hurry on to the tower!"

With cheering cries, the pursuers neared the old Martello tower, and a clump of dark forms vanished quickly into the shrubbery as the three lanterns were flashed full upon the door. Eric Murray, sword in hand, was the first man at the entrance, as a desperate a.s.sailant leaped from the narrow door and sprang upon him, pistol in hand. There was the snap of a clicking lock and then the sound of a hollow groan, for the robber's pistol had missed fire, and Captain Murray ran the wretch through the body with the razor-bladed tulwar!

There was a silence broken only by the trampling of approaching feet, as Red Eric flashed the light in the face of his fallen foe, for the storm had spent its fury and the stars were gleaming out at last.

"By G.o.d! It's Hawke, himself!" he shrieked. "Alan Hawke, a midnight robber!" But, Harry Hardwicke, with the two men at his back, had dashed on into the gun-room of the old tower, leaving Murray with his prostrate foe--empty, not a sign of any human presence.

With one wild cry Hardwicke turned to the door, "Nadine! Nadine!" he yelled, and his voice sounded unearthly in the night winds.

And then, from over their heads, a cheery hail replied, "All right, on deck! The lady is safe up here with me. I am Professor Hobbs, the American. Who are you?"