"No," replied Jem, "only Michael; it was arranged that I should telegraph to him."

"Of course," the Doctor hastened to say, for he had perceived a change in Agar's demeanour, "all this is the purest supposition. It is only a theory built upon a man's character. It is wonderful how consistent people are. Judge how a man would act and you will find that he has acted like it afterwards."

As if in ill.u.s.tration of the theory Jem Agar looked gravely determined, but uttered no threat directed towards Seymour Michael. His quiet face was a threat in itself.

"Well," he said, rising, "I am keeping you fellows from your slumbers. I am still sleeping on deck; can't get accustomed to the atmosphere below decks after six months' sleeping in the open."

He nodded and left them.

"Rum chap!" muttered the Captain, looking at his watch when the footsteps had died away over the silent decks.

"One of the queerest specimens I know," retorted Dr. Mark Ruthine, who was fingering a pen and looking longingly towards the inkstand. The Captain--a man of renowned discretion--quietly departed.

There is no more distrustful man than the simple gentleman of honour who finds himself deceived and tricked. It is as if the bottom suddenly fell out of his trust in all mankind, and there is nothing left but a mocking void. Jem Agar lay on his mattress beneath the awning, and stared hard at a bright star near the horizon. He was realising that life is, after all, a sorry thing of chance, and that all his world might be hanging at that moment on the word of an untrustworthy man.

Before morning he had determined to telegraph from Malta to Seymour Michael to meet him at Plymouth on the arrival of the _Mahanaddy_ at that port.

CHAPTER XXVI

BALANCING ACCOUNTS

And yet G.o.d has not said a word.

One fine morning in June the _Mahanaddy_ steamed with stately deliberation into the calm water inside Plymouth breakwater. Many writers love to dwell with pathetic insistence on incidents of a departure; but there is also pathos--perhaps deeper and truer because more subtle--in the arrival of the homeward-board ship.

Who can tell? There may have been others as anxious to look on the green slopes of Mount Edgec.u.mbe as the man with the mahogany-coloured face who stood ever smoking--smoking--always at the forward starboard corner of the hurricane deck. His story had not leaked out, because only two men on board knew it--men with no conversational leaks whatever. He had made no other friends. But many watched him half interestedly, and perhaps a few divined the great calm impatience beneath the suppressed quiet of his manner.

"That man--Jem Agar--is dangerous," the Doctor had said to the Captain more than once, and Mark Ruthine was not often egregiously mistaken in such matters.

"Um!" replied the Captain of the _Mahanaddy_. "There is an uncanny calm."

They were talking about him now as the Captain--his own pilot for Plymouth and the Channel--walked slowly backwards and forwards on the bridge. It seemed quite natural for the Doctor to be sitting on the rail by the engine-room telegraph. The pa.s.sengers and the men were quite accustomed to it. This friendship was a matter of history to the homeless world of men and women who travelled east and west through the Suez Ca.n.a.l.

"He has asked me," the Doctor was saying, "to go ash.o.r.e with him at Plymouth; I don't know why. I imagine he is a little bit afraid of wringing Seymour Michael's neck."

"Just as likely as not," observed the Captain. "It would be a good thing done, but don't let Agar do it."

"May I leave the ship at Plymouth?" asked Mark Ruthine, with a quiet air of obedience which seemed to be accepted with the gravity with which it was offered.

"I don't see why you should not," was the reply. "Everybody goes ash.o.r.e there except about half a dozen men, who certainly will not want your services."

"I should rather like to do it. We come from the same part of the country, and Agar seems anxious to have me. He is not a chap to say much, but I imagine there will be some sort of a _denouement_."

The Captain was looking through a pair of gla.s.ses ahead, towards the anchorage.

"All right," he said. "Go."

And he continued to attend to his business with that watchful care which made the _Mahanaddy_ one of the safest boats afloat.

Presently Mark Ruthine left the bridge and went to his cabin to pack. As he descended he paused, and retracing his steps forward he went and touched Jem Agar on the arm.

"It's all right," he said. "I'll go with you."

Agar nodded. He was gazing at the green English hills and far faint valley of the Tamar with a curious gleam of excitement in his eyes.

Half an hour later they landed.

"You stick by me," said Jem Agar, when they discerned the small wiry form of Seymour Michael awaiting them on the quay. "I want you to hear everything."

This man was, as Ruthine had said, dangerous. He was too calm. There was something grand and terrifying in that white heat which burned in his eyes and drove the blood from his lips.

Seymour Michael came forward with his pleasant smile, waving his hand in greeting to Jem and to Ruthine, whom he knew.

Jem shook hands with him.

"I'm all right, thanks," he said curtly, in answer to Seymour Michael's inquiry.

"Good business--good business," exclaimed the General, who seemed somewhat unnecessarily excited.

"Old Mark Ruthine too!" he went on. "You look as fit as ever. Still turning your thousands out of the British public--eh!"

"Yes," said Ruthine, "thank you."

"Just run ash.o.r.e for half an hour, I suppose?" continued Seymour Michael, looking hurriedly out towards the _Mahanaddy_.

"No," replied Ruthine, "I leave the ship here."

The small man glanced from the face of one to the other with something sly and uneasy in his eyes.

Jem Agar had altered since he saw him last in the little tent far up on the slopes of the Pamir. He was older and graver. There was also a wisdom in his eyes--that steadfast wise look that comes to eyes which have looked too often on death. Mark Ruthine he knew, and him he distrusted, with that quiet keenness of observation which was his.

"Now," he said eagerly to Jem, "what I thought we might do was to have a little breakfast and catch the eleven o'clock train up to town. If Ruthine will join us, I for one shall be very pleased. He won't mind our talking shop."

Mark Ruthine was attending to the luggage, which was being piled upon a cab.

"Have you not had breakfast?" asked Agar.

"Well, I have had a little, but I don't mind a second edition. That waiter chap at the hotel got me out of bed much too soon. However, it is worth getting up the night before to see you back, old chap."

"Is there not an earlier train than the eleven o'clock?" asked Agar, looking at his watch. There was a singular constraint in his manner which Seymour Michael could not understand.

"Yes, there is one at nine forty-five."

"Then let us go by that. We can get something at the station, if we want it."