Treasure Royal/Chapter 6

what transpired in the afternoon that followed his meeting with Hawkins, or that night, or part of the next morning, William Kent had no idea whatever. When he came to himself, he had a vile taste in his mouth and a viler headache. He could remember only two drinks, and he knew that Hawkins had drugged him. Despite these symptoms, his first coherent thought was that he had been transported into some oriental paradise.

In place of the city, in place of the Marquet gardens, he found himself lying upon a green hillside overlooking a primeval jungle. Under him were flagstones. Behind and above him rose a long-abandoned shrine of Kuan-Yin, containing a beautifully veined marble statue of the goddess. The originally harsh colorings of the building of painted wood, tiles, marble, and metal were aged into a blend of magnificent softness.

Staring around as he sat up, Kent found a packet of food and a bottle of native wine at his elbow. He rose and looked over the jungle below. No sign of civilization, not even a village! The mossy, lichenous shrine appeared to be the end of the road—a mere track that came up the hillside. There was no sign of the sea, no trace of the pleasant plain and river of Hué.

"Drugged me, the scoundrel!" said Kent. "Why?"

To this, no answer. His little store of money was intact; nothing of his belongings had been touched. He had received no hurt. The mystery remained insoluble.

Kent explored, and found nothing except a trickling spring of fresh water near the shrine. Of this he drank deeply. Then, having sampled the food, he sat down and lighted his pipe. This singular happening puzzled him, captured his imagination. After a time the drowsy after-effect of the drug returned to him, and he fell asleep.

When he wakened it was to find Michael Paléologue shaking him, and a dozen astonished native hunters standing around, staring. Kent scrambled to his feet. Paléologue surveyed him gaily enough, and Kent fancied that he detected a glint of mockery in the handsome eyes.

"What the devil?" exclaimed Kent, staring. "Where did you come from?"

"From the city." Paléologue broke into a laugh. "You sleep well in tiger country, my friend! Surely you are not alone?"

Kent stood silent. A likely story, this of his! He could see how the man would laugh at it. Drugged over the drinks, carried somewhere into the hill country, abandoned—and for no reason that he could name! It would sound preposterous.

"Yes," he said at length. "I'm alone—lost my way."

"Oh, that's it!" Paléologue spoke in French now, that the natives might understand. "Lost your way, eh? Well, suppose you keep me company! We're making camp a couple of miles farther on. The afternoon is wearing along pretty well, and you'd better stop with me until morning. I'll send one of these fellows back to the city with you, eh?"

It was frankly said. Kent could have kicked himself for disliking the man.

"That's good of you," he responded. "Where are you bound for? Doesn't the trail end here?"

Paléologue spoke with his guide. The latter grinned and led them past the shrine. Kent found himself proceeding along a hidden trail he had overlooked, which wound along the hillside, occasionally dipping toward the valley below.

A bit shamefaced over his absurd plight, Kent was relieved to be asked no questions. They were only a few miles from the city as a bird flies, but much farther by road. Paléologue pressed Kent to spend a few days with him, seeking tiger. Kent refused.

Later, camp was made in a glade beside a brook. There were no villages near by, it appeared. For a tiger hunt, all this looked singular, but Kent asked no questions.

As for Michael Paléologue, he was vastly contented. He might well be. Everything was working as smoothly as he had dared anticipate. With morning, Kent would return to the city, to tell a most unconvincing tale, and to be nabbed by the police for the robbery. It would be found that he was no British scientist, but an American, a masquerader. After that he would probably spend many years at hard labor in Noumea. Simple, eh?

The unexpected intrusion of Marie Marquet into the game was vexatious, but not serious. On the spur of the moment Paléologue had ordered his men to take her away unharmed; so her mouth was shut temporarily. She was now half a mile farther up the hill road, at a ruined temple, with Hawkins and two of the three Frenchmen who had actually carried out the robbery in accordance with the careful plan of Michael Paléologue. The third Frenchman was in one of the lower villages on the back trail, to bring notice of any chance danger.

No danger was expected, however. Paléologue had planned carefully, confident that he himself would be above any suspicion, for his alibi was perfect. As soon as he had a quiet interview with Marie Marquet, which would be within a few moments, he would assure himself of her silence. Knowing her, he was quite content to trust her word in the matter.

Then he would accompany her back to the city, with some specious story to account for her absence. She could declare that Kent had forged the note about eloping with her—she could be left to suppose that Kent had really forged it. A neat stroke, there! Paléologue could meet his four men, who would also return to the city, and the loot could be divided without delay or danger. An excellent plan! Thus, all things considered, Paléologue was hugely satisfied with himself.

Kent, who knew of nothing amiss at Hué, naturally had no suspicions. His own strange situation, and the mystery of Hawkins's motive in drugging him and leaving him here in the hills, kept his thoughts in a hopeless tangle.

The two men dined on provisions brought from town by Paléologue's men. Darkness was crowding in close upon the little camp; the natives squatted about the fire and watched the two white men before the door of the shelter tent. After dinner Kent refused the proffered cigarets and lighted his pipe. The meal had done him worlds of good.

"I suppose," he said, eying his host with a smile, "you've given up all thought of lifting the royal treasure? It looks different here from what it did in Singapore."

"Not a bit of it!" Paléologue twirled his blond mustache. "I'll do it yet—unless you get ahead of me. I had an idea that was really why you came up here."

Kent nodded, careless what the man thought or knew, "Yes. I might have a try at it."

"All luck to you! First come, first served." Paléologue rose with his gay laugh. "Do you care for a stroll? The moon will be up shortly."

Kent glanced at the darkness and shook his head.

"A stroll, in this wilderness? No, thanks!"

Paléologue stooped over to pick up his forgotten cigaret-case, then turned for a word with the guide. As he stooped, a thin object fell from his coat. He did not observe it.

Kent leaned forward, picked up the thing, and was about to call Paléologue back—when he checked the words on his lips. He stared amazedly, incredulously, at the object in his hand. When he glanced up again, Paléologue was strolling from the circle of light.

The object in Kent's hand was a little thin necklace of old silver, not at all valuable. Kent recognized it instantly. It was the only jewel that Marie Marquet ever wore; it had belonged to her mother. How, then, came it to be in the possession of Michael Paléologue?

The touch of the silver chain brought a sense of the girl's nearness to Kent, startling him. Swift upon this, the realization that Paléologue had kept the trinket in his own pocket, smirching it with his personality, drove into Kent's brain and brought him to his feet. Thrusting the silver chain into his pocket, he strode across the circle of firelight and struck up the trail by which Paléologue had vanished. The natives stared after him, incurious.

"She never gave it to him!" thought the American, angered deep in his soul. "He found it or stole it—and he shall account for it!"

The starlight opened up the trail before him. He had not gone fifty yards from camp before the sound of voices brought him to an astonished halt. He paused; the voices came from ahead. He caught the low laugh of Paléologue. He strode on, but cautiously. Whom had the man encountered in this solitude?

Monsieur le prince, meanwhile, was enjoying with huge amusement the story of how Kent had been drugged and brought here. Hawkins was the narrator. Hawkins had been waiting at the edge of the camp for Paléologue to join him.

"This poor dunce of an American! It is almost a pity to make him—what do you say?—the goat!" Paléologue laughed again as the tale was finished. "However, it goes well. The lady is safe, unharmed?"

"Quite," said Hawkins. "It was touch and go, I can tell you, gettin' her away at the last minute! But we did it. Once she realized we meant to treat her as a lady, she was all right—not a bit of fuss, barring a few tears."

"Tears will dry," said Paléologue. "I shall go on to the temple with you, and interview her. It is remarkable, my Hawkins, how magnificently we are pulling this affair through! No one hurt except the palace guards. No damage done to anybody. M. Kent will be the only one to suffer, and fools must pay for their folly in any case. The treasure is put into circulation, instead of being hoarded behind stone walls—and we are rich for life!"

"You're some bird, I'll say!" returned Hawkins admiringly.

It was at this instant that Kent came within hearing distance, and paused to listen. Thus he failed to catch the mention of Marie Marquet.

"The treasure—you followed my orders?" asked Paléologue.

"You bet!" was the fervent response. "Dubois and Farvel took the boat, while Franchipot and I were getting rid of the yellow robes in the cabin. She's where you ordered, with rice-mats over the stuff. Lord, if we'd only had time to gut the whole place!"

"Franchipot is in that last village?"

"Sure. He'll keep an eye open for the news. Said he might be along to-night. Well, you ready to hike along with me? The boys will sure be glad to see you. Dubois has been hitting up the dope, and Farvel is nervous as the devil, waiting for news."

Paléologue nodded.

Kent, listening to this dialog, stood paralyzed as comprehension slowly crept into his brain. It staggered him. He could not realize Paléologue's full schemes with regard to himself, of course, but he understood a good deal. After tiger? The man had lied abominably! He had probably expected to find Kent—why, the American could not guess, but he felt sure that Paléologue had been behind his drugging and kidnaping.

And—the royal treasure looted! Much must have happened in the city on the preceding night. Hawkins was concerned in it, and three Frenchmen, obviously. Well, what then? What about this thin silver necklace in his hand? Kent could find no light here. For the moment the importance of this paled before the greater fact—the royal treasure had been looted.

Suddenly Kent saw that the whole game lay in his hands at this moment.

He could let Paléologue return, catch him off his guard, and down him. With the native hunters he could go on, capture Hawkins and his two companions, and round up the entire gang. If he found no treasure, he could bargain with Paléologue; a good half of it would come to him, surely. Riches for life, at no cost, at small exertion! Thieve from the thieves—why not?

For a full moment Kent stood trembling under the impact of the temptation. He thrust his hand into a pocket, seeking some weapon. His fingers touched the silver necklace.

Marie! He thought of her now, standing before him, those gray eyes upon him; and the fever cooled in his blood.

Did he want the treasure, after all? Was gold worth what he would lose? Was it not better to go out empty-handed, to go back into the world, with the knowledge that he could at any time return and look into her eyes again? If he took the gold, he could not do this.

Sweat stood out on his brow. He must decide hurriedly, hurriedly! Gold, or the gray eyes of a girl—which?

Marie could never marry him. He could never ask her, unless his prospects were changed by some miracle. Was this worth that—was that worth this? Gold or gray eyes! The hard thoughts whirred in his brain like the wings of birds.

Thin silver links in his fingers—the touch of them cooled him again. He brushed one hand across his wet brow. Abruptly he straightened up, turned, jerked about by the sound of thudding boots coming from behind. He knew in a flash who was coming—Franchipot, the man from the village below.

Kent laughed and swung into the path. He had decided.