Treasure Royal/Chapter 7

decision was swiftly made. He had only the remarks of Paléologue and Hawkins to go upon; yet these showed him the situation clearly enough. The thudding of boots on the trail betokened a European—ergo, the man Franchipot was coming to rejoin his comrades.

Barely had the thought formed in his brain when he acted. Barely had Kent swung into the trail when the unsuspecting scoundrel was upon him.

Being unarmed, Kent used his fist. He lunged out of the shadows and struck home to the pit of the stomach. The runner emitted one startled gasp and collapsed in a quivering heap.

Kent stooped above him. From the man's body he took two automatic pistols, then turned and followed in the way Paléologue had gone.

"One down!" he thought grimly. "I might run for it and fetch the police, but Heaven only knows where they are! Guess I'll go after the gang and take 'em in, or at least reconnoiter a bit. If the job looks too stiff, I can find my way back to town. If Paléologue really stripped the palace, this section of the country will sure be buzzing like a hornets' nest!"

What really tugged at him was the thought of Hawkins. He wanted to see that gentleman again immediately. He did not think that the defaulter would get any joy of the meeting. His main objective was Hawkins; the prince seemed comparatively unimportant.

The dazzling audacity of four or five men actually carrying off such a stroke appealed to Kent mightily. Had it not been for his personal affair with Hawkins, had it not been for the slender chain of silver in his pocket, he might have determined otherwise; as it was, he had resolved to go straight. The tempting lure of the treasure was cast out of his mind forever. He had chosen gray eyes as against raw gold, and now he found himself supremely happy in his choice.

He followed the path with caution. He did not know where he was going or what he would find, but he went forward.

The way seemed interminable. His progress was slow, because of the darkness and the jungle walls on either hand. When at length he perceived the glinting sheen of firelight ahead, he felt as if he had passed hours on the way; in reality, it was not half an hour from the time he had left camp on the trail of Paléologue.

Meantime, the Prince of Achaia was briefly speaking with his men about their camp-fire. As he stood there, this man who bore such bizarre titles, this man who represented such historic names, this man who claimed to trace his ancestry back to the last rulers of the Eastern Empire—all the handsome virility of the man became suddenly sinister, cruel, ruthless.

He was no longer the prince, the cultured gentleman; he was now the criminal. Before him sat one of the two rascally Frenchmen, Dubois, a bamboo opium-pipe across his knees. Farvel stood beside Hawkins, watching, scowling, and half fearful.

"Species of architect!" snapped Paléologue, a vicious lash in his voice as he gazed at the opium-smoker. "Pig that you are—away with the pipe!" As he spoke, he kicked the bamboo into the fire. "Up!"

The ruffian scrambled to his feet. Paléologue's sinister stare frightened him, and he mumbled something inarticulate.

Behind the firelight gaped the yawning doorway of some long-desolate stone temple, overgrown by the jungle, ruined, yet still preserving a room or two of its ancient chambers. The other three sides were jungle-walled. This was the end of the trail.

Paléologue turned from Dubois and addressed Hawkins.

"Where is she?"

Hawkins jerked his thumb toward the doorway. Paléologue nodded, then gave his orders.

"Leave us. Go back to my camp, and make sure that fool Kent suspects nothing. Look out for Franchipot, and don't let him meet Kent."

A nod of assent. The three men filed out of the firelight and vanished along the trail.

Paléologue remained alone beside the fire. Kicking aside Dubois's tiny lamp and opium outfit, he took a cigaret from his case and lighted it. His features smoothed out. A smile on his lips, he twirled his mustache and advanced to the doorway. He was once more the debonair prince, the graceful gentleman.

"Mademoiselle!" he said. "Have I your permission to enter?"

The answer was a half-choked sound that might have been a gasp; then the voice of Marie.

"You—at last! Brute that you are, I have learned everything!"

Paléologue chuckled. He scratched a match and held it up to illumine the interior of the chamber. He stepped forward into the ruin and bowed. The match flickered down.

"So you know everything, dear mademoiselle?" he asked tentatively.

"Everything!" Her response was passionate, touched with hysteria. "You planned to rob the royal palace—your men accomplished it!"

"Well, that is quite satisfactory," said Paléologue gaily. "When that foolish Dubois ran upon us and blurted out his words, I had to assure myself of your silence. I regret what inconvenience has been caused you. It was necessary, you understand. I have now come to escort you back to the city, conditional upon your promise of silence."

The steel in his voice, the assured confidence of his manner, the impervious aloofness of him, must have frightened the girl. Had he been gallant, she might have defied him; but instead of being gallant, he was infinitely worse—he quite ignored her sex. It became evident that to him she was a vexatious incident, and nothing more.

"I will tell them everything!"

Marie was sobbing as she spoke. Paléologue sighed, with the air of one who faces a dreaded duty.

"Pardon, mademoiselle! You will do nothing of the kind, because you will promise me not to do so, and I think you keep your promises. Let us consider. If you do not promise, all the world will know that you have run away with me, you comprehend. I shall be forced to send you elsewhere with these men of mine. Unfortunately, I cannot marry you, as I have a wife living somewhere in Europe. Besides, my thoughts are of gold, not of women. I never mix such things, mademoiselle. On the other hand, you give one simple little promise, and before morning you will be back in Hué, unharmed. Oh, by the way, a trinket fell from your neck at the moment of our forced parting—due to the unavoidable confusion of the affair, doubtless. I saved it for you."

Paléologue began to search his pockets. An exclamation broke from him. He stepped back to the light of the doorway; then, suddenly, he whirled about.

"Don't bother," said Kent, stepping into the doorway. "Hands up, please! I have the necklace safe. Up with them, you fool!"

Paléologue's hands went up. Not a word came from him; he stood petrified, staring at Kent. His figure, with upraised arms, was dimly illumined against the black background. Kent moved slightly, that the firelight from behind him might reach Paléologue more clearly.

A great cry of gladness, of delight, burst from Marie Marquet when she recognized Kent's voice. She started forward to the doorway.

"M. Kent, is it really you?" she said.

"Yes. I've come for you," replied Kent grimly, not taking his eyes from the none too distinct figure of Paléologue. "This man fooled me nicely; but your little silver chain dropped from his pocket, and I knew there was something wrong. By gad, Paléologue, I never dreamed it was as bad as this!"

His voice bit.

Here, abruptly, the unexpected intervened. Marie Marquet, stepping forward, seized the hand that Kent extended to her—his left. She caught at it convulsively. Her figure joined his in the doorway, cutting off the firelight.

Like a shadow, Paléologue threw himself into the blackness beyond.

Kent fired. The flash gave him a glimpse of the man drawing a weapon. He threw himself to one side; the dragging weight of the girl, who screamed at the shot, forced him to remain inside the entrance. His arm about Marie, he came to his knees, pressing her close down, expecting an instant return shot.

To his surprise, there came, instead, the cool laugh of Paléologue from the darkness. "Thanks for the shot, Kent; saves me the trouble. Don't worry—I'll not shoot until you try to leave. I don't want innocent blood on my hands, you see!"

Kent made no response. He was forced to believe the man's words—Paléologue would not shoot for fear of hitting the girl. He could feel her trembling figure within his arm, and he patted her shoulder reassuringly. Then he came to his feet.

At the sound, Paléologue fired twice, deliberately. The damnable cunning of the man, his merciless cruelty, maddened Kent with sheer horror. He perceived that there was no hope for him, no pity. One of the two bullets caught his left arm, jerking him sharply around.

He broke free from Marie and plunged forward into the blackness, firing wildly with the revolver in his right hand. Everything was swept from him save the mad lust for Paléologue's throat. The stone chamber became an inferno of flying lead, choking fumes, spitting weapons. Stabs of flame here and there, both men firing at random.

New voices suddenly burst in upon them. Kent found himself caught about the neck from behind, shouts dinning in his ears. The pistol was torn from his hand. His second weapon went crashing to the stone flooring.

He struck out madly, but a violent kick in the side paralyzed him momentarily. Men were crowding atop of him, suffocating him, beating him down and down. He lost balance and fell, heard the hoarse tones of Hawkins at his ear, and landed one crashing blow that evoked a scream. Then they had him.

The medley of oaths, shouts, and frenzied cries died down. Some one brought brands from the fire. Matches were struck. Kent lay senseless, and they bound him swiftly; his wounds were slight. Hawkins staggered outside, moaning horribly and clasping a broken nose with fingers that shrank from the touch. Marie Marquet, unhurt, lay in a faint.

"Ah, Franchipot!" Paléologue surveyed the three Frenchmen. "You came in good time!"

Franchipot, a burly rogue, rubbed his stomach reflectively and grinned.

"Somebody hit me as I came, or I would have been here sooner," he rejoined. "It was this madman, no doubt. No time to lose! Four of the police are behind me, but they are not making good time. They halted at the village for something to eat, and to inquire for news of you. They follow you!"

"Follow me?" Paléologue started. "Impossible! There can be no suspicion of me."

"I heard them talking," panted the other quickly. "There is no mistake. They made mention of you. They asked questions in the village, and evidently intended to come after you at once."

Paléologue motioned the men outside. He stood for a moment, irresolute. This news had absolutely staggered him, for he had conceived himself above all suspicion.

He stood fingering a red wale across his scalp where one of Kent's bullets had scraped. Then, assuming a coolness which he did not feel, he took out a cigaret, lighted it, and smiled at his four men. His attitude impressed them, as it was meant to do.

"Hawkins, remain here on guard. Harm neither of the prisoners, remember! If you hear shots, do not be alarmed. You others, come with me. Four police, Franchipot?"

"Four, and a native guide—no more. They are men from Hanoi."

"Very well! Dubois, have you that little vial of clear liquid?"

Dubois handed over a little leather case. Franchipot looked at Farvel; a touch of horror lay in that one look they exchanged. Paléologue caught the look, laughed scornfully, and eyed the three.

"Stay here," he ordered, contempt in his voice. "I'll handle this myself, alone. Stay here, and await my return. It will be at daybreak, or soon afterward. Take good care of the two in the room yonder!"

He turned away and sauntered out of the firelight. The three Frenchmen looked at one another. Dubois, sullen fear in his eyes, made the sign of the cross and turned away. Farvel bent over the moaning, cursing Hawkins with rough kindliness. Franchipot lit a cheroot.