"You would say that I, too, was not a heavy sleeper. Well, I make no secret of a perturbed night. That is why I am here now. I want your help, Irene. Strange as it may seem, I appeal to you because I know you have always been opposed to my aims. Perhaps I am to blame for that.

Had I forced Baron von Kerber to take you and Mr. Fenshawe fully into his confidence, events might have shaped themselves quite differently.

But it is too late to talk of what might have been. You are more concerned with the future than with the past. Last night, while you were looking into the wonderland of the years to come, I was reviewing lost opportunities. Therefore, I come to you this morning somewhat chastened in spirit. May I talk without reserve?"

"Please, do," cried Irene, drawing her chair closer. In the sharp clarity of sunrise she saw that Mrs. Haxton's beautiful face was drawn and haggard. She was beginning to probe unsuspected depths in this woman's temperament. She understood something of the intense disappointment which the failure of the expedition must evoke in one to whom wealth and all that it yields const.i.tuted the breath of life. And then, she was in love, which predisposes its votaries towards charity.

Mrs. Haxton sighed. A consummate actress, for once her art was supplemented by real feeling.

"Ah," she murmured, her eyes filling with tears, "I find your pity hard to bear."

"Surely you are not going to cry just because I am sorry for you,"

cried the girl. "There now. Don't give way. Let me call one of the men.

He will bring us some tea, and we can have a nice long chat before breakfast."

"Yes, do that. We both need it. My grief is rather selfish, Irene. I know your secret, dear girl, and I wish you every happiness, though the phrase carries with it the bitter self-communion that, for my own part, I have forfeited most things that make life happy. Well, that is not what I want to say. The storm has pa.s.sed. Summon your slave, and bid the kettle boil."

Surprised and touched by the emotion displayed by her companion, Irene hastened to procure the beverage which Providence evidently intended for the consolation of afflicted womankind. The camp was already astir, and the crew of the _Aphrodite_ were preparing their morning meal, so two cups of hot tea were quickly available.

When Mrs. Haxton spoke again, the tears had gone, and her voice resumed its pleasantly modulated tone.

"May I begin by a.s.suming that you intend to marry Mr. Royson?" she asked.

Irene laughed softly, and her glance wandered beyond the busy camp to the distant hills.

"I have known more unlikely events to happen," she said.

"I thought so. I recognized the symptoms. Well, I want to make a sort of bargain with you. If you help me, I can help you, and, to show that I can give effect to my words, I shall tell you exactly what form my help will take before I state the nature of the a.s.sistance I ask from you, so that you may be at perfect liberty to give or withhold it as you choose."

"This is a rather one-sided contract, is it not?" "No. I fancy it will be equitable. I have not lived in close intimacy with you during so many weeks without arriving at a fair estimate of your character. You are one of the fortunate people, Irene, who find it more blessed to give than to receive. At any rate I am satisfied to settle matters that way. And to come to the point, while you may experience grave difficulty in obtaining your grandfather's consent to your marriage with a penniless young gentleman of striking physique but no profession--Mr. Royson being even a second mate on sufferance, so to speak--the aspect of your affairs changes materially when your suitor becomes Sir Richard Royson, Baronet, with a fine estate and a rent-roll of five thousand pounds a year."

"How can you possibly know that?" gasped Irene, spilling half her tea in sheer excitement.

"It is more than possible--It is true. I happen to be aware of the facts. That thrice fortunate young man came into our lives at a moment when, by the merest chance, I was able to acquire some knowledge of his family history. His uncle, the twenty-sixth baronet, I believe, sustained an accident in childhood which unhappily made him a cripple and a hunchback. He grew up a misanthrope. He hated his only brother because he was tall and strong as befitted one of the race, and his hatred became a mania when Captain Henry Royson married a young lady on whom the dwarf baronet had set his mind. There never was the least reason to believe that she would have wed Sir Richard, but that did not prevent him from pursuing her with a spite and vindictiveness that earned him very bad repute in Westmoreland. His brother and nephew were, however, his heirs, though the estate was a poor one, but, when minerals were discovered on the property, he persuaded Captain Royson to agree that the entail should be broken, as certain business developments could then be carried out more effectively. This was a reasonable thing in itself, but, unhappily, the younger brother was killed in the hunting-field, and some legal kink in the affair enabled the baronet to reduce the widow and her son to actual poverty. Young Royson made a gallant attempt to support his mother, but she died nearly five years ago. Naturally, there was a mortal feud between him and his uncle. Sir Richard's constant aim has been to crush his nephew.

He arranged matters so that the bare t.i.tle alone would pa.s.s to the heir at his death. Yet, on the very day that young Royson stopped your frightened horses in Buckingham Palace Road, the baronet slipped on the oak floor of the picture gallery in Orme Castle--that is the name of their place in the North--and injured his spine. The nearness of death seems to have frightened him into an act of retribution. He made a new will, const.i.tuting your Richard his heir, and he died the day before our caravan left Pajura."

A certain cold disdain had crept into Irene's face as she listened.

Mrs. Haxton was well aware of the change in the girl's manner, but she did not interrupt the thread of her story, nor seek to alter its significance.

"Mr. Royson knows nothing of these later events that are so vitally important to him?" she asked, when the other woman's quiet narration ceased its even flow.

"No."

"Then how is it--"

"That I am better informed? It is quite simple. Baron von Kerber intercepted and read all letters and telegrams that came for him by camel post."

Irene rose. Anger flamed in her face, and her brown eyes darkened.

"You dare to tell this to me?" she said.

"Exactly. You gave me permission to speak unreservedly. Please sit down. I have not finished yet."

Somehow, despite her indignation, the girl was swayed into compliance.

"You forget that the twenty-sixth Sir Richard was dead, and that it really did not matter one jot to the twenty-seventh whether he learnt the news a few weeks earlier or later. But it mattered everything to us, to Baron von Kerber and myself, I mean. We were determined that this expedition should succeed, and we boggled at no means which promised to achieve our end. We have been beaten, but not through any fault of ours. We felt, not without good reason, that if Mr. Royson were compelled to return home you would be converted from a pa.s.sive into an active enemy. So we adopted the leave-well-enough-alone policy, and, as one woman speaking to another, I really don't see what you have to grumble about. Blame us as much as you like, you still have the delightful knowledge that the progress of your love affair was unaffected by t.i.tles or wealth, and I have left to you the pleasant duty of telling your fiance of his good fortune."

"I am afraid your reasoning is too plausible for my poor wits, Mrs.

Haxton," said the girl slowly. "Indeed, I am not sure that I care to listen to you any further."

"But you must, you shall," came the fierce outburst. "Do you think I am lowering myself in your eyes without cause? I have told you the plain truth, careless of the worst interpretation you may choose to place on my motives. Now, in return, I want you to make these things known to Mr. Fenshawe. He will be even more disgusted with Baron von Kerber and my wretched self than he is at present, if that be possible. Hence, he will agree, in all probability, to do what we ask--we wish him to give us sufficient equipment and escort to travel direct to the coast from here--at once--within the hour. When we reach the sea we can cross to Aden in an Arab dhow, and neither Mr. Fenshawe nor you will ever see or hear from us again, save in a business sense. It is not a wildly extravagant demand. None of us can look forward with pleasure to a month's journey in company back to Pajura. If I go to Mr. Fenshawe with the proposal I have made to you, he will suspect some hidden intent. He will believe you, and you can convince him that it is the only satisfactory way out of a disagreeable position."

A full minute elapsed before Irene answered.

"I take it that you are here with Baron von Kerber's consent," she said.

"Yes. We discussed matters from every aspect last night. That is why I am so well posted in your movements. We prefer not to await Mr.

Royson's return. Alfieri has defeated us. We have lost caste with you and your grandfather. For Heaven's sake, let us go!"

Again there was a pause. For some reason, Irene's sympathies conquered her again. She had risen, and she approached a little nearer.

"I wish to say," she murmured, "that--I am--sorry for you."

Mrs. Haxton looked up at her. Her face was frozen with misery. She seemed to be incapable of tears just then. She stood up, held herself erect for an instant, and walked out of the tent.

"Thank you," she said, without turning her head, as though she wished to avoid the girl's eyes, "Now go, please. Tell Mr. Fenshawe that we shall be glad to get away while it is possible to march. If your grandfather sanctions our plan, we have all details ready for his approval. There need be no delay. We do not want a great deal in the way of stores, and we give our promise to repay the small sum of money which will be necessary for the voyage to Aden and thence to London."

Irene, conscious of some unknown element in this wholly unexpected outcome of the previous evening's discord, hurried off to arouse her grandfather. At that hour the _kafila_ was usually beginning the day's march, but Mr. Fenshawe, like the others, had remained up late, and he was unwilling to be disturbed until his servant told him that his granddaughter was exceedingly anxious to see him.

As soon as she began to relate Mrs. Haxton's story, she realized that it implied a confession of the attachment existing between Royson and herself. She stammered and flushed when it came to explaining the interest she took in all appertaining to d.i.c.k, but the old gentleman listened gravely and without comment.

"What do _you_ think, Irene?" he asked when she had finished.

"I think we should all be happier and freer from restraint if Mrs.

Haxton and the Baron left us," she said.

"I agree with you. Mrs. Haxton, as a chaperone, can easily be dispensed with. You say they have a scheme drawn up for my signature--setting forth the number of camels, etc., they need? Bring it to me. We can go through it together, and you and Stump can check the actual splitting up of the caravan. Of course, they know that we have a thirty days'

march before us, as compared with their five or six, and we may also be compelled to remain here another day or two. In the matter of funds I shall be generous, at any rate where the woman is concerned. I believe that von Kerber is a scoundrel, that he has led her blindfolded along a path of villainy, and she thinks now that she cannot recede. However, let us see what they want."

He was somewhat surprised to find that their demands were studiously moderate. Their tent equipage, seven days' supplies, a dozen camels, two horses, and the necessary number of men, made up the list. Mr.

Fenshawe gave them sufficient silver for current expenses, and a draft payable in Aden for the steamer and hotel charges, while he sent Mrs.

Haxton a note offering her five hundred pounds when she arrived in London, and promising further a.s.sistance in the future if she shook herself free of von Kerber.

Irene, who was acquainted with her grandfather's liberal intent, watched Mrs. Haxton closely while she read that kindly message. Her pallid face was unmoved. Its statuesque rigor gave no hint of the thoughts that raged behind the mask.

"Tell Mr. Fenshawe that he has acted exactly as I expected," was her listless reply, and, within five minutes, the small cavalcade started.

Mrs. Haxton elected to ride a Somali pony. She mounted unaided, forced the rather unruly animal to canter to the head of the caravan, and thus deliberately hid herself from further scrutiny.

"Poor thing!" murmured Irene with a sigh of relief, and hardly conscious that she was addressing Stump. "I cannot help pitying her, though I am glad she has gone."