Treasure Royal/Chapter 2

rose from the game stripped clean. He made his excuses and departed; at least, he was an excellent loser. He arranged to give up his room after dinner and seek cheaper lodgings.

Behind him, the austere Englishman uttered a grunt, in response to some remark from Paléologue.

"He's not an Englishman," he returned. "Kent, the ethnologist, went to Sydney by to-day's P. and O. boat. This chap, I fancy, was an American. He didn't claim to be the scientist, did he?"

Paléologue admitted that he might have been in error. He looked a little thoughtful; so did M. Davignan. The bridge game was ended, and the players separated.

During the remainder of the afternoon, Kent made some cautious inquiries. He discovered that Paléologue bore an ancient name, and bore it without adding any luster to its honor, yet decently enough. The source of his titles was obscure.

While he was dressing for his last dinner at the Hôtel de l'Europe, Kent found the unopened letter he had thrust into a pocket. He opened it. The letter was in neat French chirography, and Kent found himself addressed simply as "dear colleague." The text ran:

Kent whistled thoughtfully over this letter. Then he went down to the information desk and made some inquiries.

The result of these inquiries was fairly astonishing. Yes, Dr. Marquet was quite a famous man. He lived in Hué. His work in ethnology, particularly in Chinese ethnology, was internationally known. He was one of the great scholars of the day. And Mr. Kent, the English scientist? Unfortunately, he had made a very brief stop in Singapore. Yes, he had been at the hotel, but only that morning he had gone aboard the Peninsular and Oriental steamer for Sydney.

Kent turned away from the desk, a flame in his eyes. Why not? He had a few debts due him—enough to carry him to Hué. Why not have a go at this fabulous treasure of the Anamese kings, now under French watch and ward?

He was finished here—done for. He would go first to Saigon and make one last effort to get into some steady business. If he failed, he would strike back at the world.

"I'll go visit Marquet," he resolved, as his determination settled. "He and the other William Kent have never met, fortunately. I can bluff it out—get some of his books and read up on the subject."

All through dinner he thought over his new idea. Everybody had heard of the Anamese treasure; with the use of brains, it could be lifted.

Kent was in a savagely defiant mood. The criminality of his resolve was shaken from his broad shoulders, scarcely realized. It was hardly theft to take the hoarded treasure of ancient yellow kings. If it was, then theft be damned! He would do it. Nothing else was left him.

He was leaving the dining-room when he met Paléologue, who bowed mockingly.

"Ah! I perceive that I erred in mistaking you for the English scientist, Mr. Kent."

Kent stiffened, gave the other man look for look.

"Erred?" he said. "I don't understand you."

Paléologue stared for a moment.

"The scientist left for Sydney—"

"Missed the boat," said Kent calmly. "I'm going north to Hanoi. See you there, perhaps."

He passed on with a cool nod. So Paléologue knew that he was an impostor—or guessed it! This was all that was necessary to settle Kent's resolve. He had a fight in prospect, and he would fight. A fight for a fortune, for a king's treasure! It was worth the gamble.

Two days later Kent started for Hué.