I found Christine standing on the deck at the head of the companion-way.
She looked terribly pale, and as I approached she started towards me with a little sob of relief.
"Oh, thank God!" she whispered. "Thank God you're safe!"
She took my hands, and a low cry escaped her at the sight of their scarred and bleeding knuckles.
"It's nothing, darling," I said reassuringly. "That's only a little blood from Manning's nose. He's got plenty left to go on with."
With something between a laugh and another sob she let her head sink forward against my shoulder. "Don't think me a coward. I—I'm not one really. It was just having to wait here and——"
"A coward!" I interrupted. "Why, I think you're the bravest girl that ever stepped this earth."
I put my arms round her, and for one dear moment she lay there passive and still, like a tired, contented child.
Then, suddenly releasing herself, she gazed round in a kind of startled panic.
"But we mustn't stay here," she exclaimed hurriedly. "We must go at once."
"I suppose you're right," I admitted with some reluctance. "What's happened to that ruffian Craill?"
"He went off in the other boat just after I arrived. He might come back at any moment."
"Well, I want to see him," I said; "but I don't think I'll wait now. It's a pity to cram all one's pleasures into one afternoon."
She laid her hands pleadingly on my sleeve. "Do what I ask," she begged. "Promise me you will go straight back to the island as soon as you have taken me ashore?"
"I am not going to take you ashore," I said. "You are coming home with me."
She made a quick gesture of protest, but I went on without giving her time to answer.
"There's no other way out of it," I said, speaking with the utmost seriousness. "After what's happened this afternoon you have simply got to tell me the truth. Don't you see, dear, you and I are in this together, and unless I know——"
"Yes, yes," she interrupted breathlessly, "I must tell you; I had already made up my mind to do it." She paused in piteous hesitation. "I daren't come to the island, though," she added; "if anyone saw us——"
"No one can possibly see us," I objected. "It's a hundred times safer than any other place. We can talk comfortably there, and I can row you ashore afterwards and land you wherever you like. This fog's not going to lift for another twenty-four hours."
I don't think I really convinced her; she seemed to give in to my will through utter weariness.
"Perhaps you're right," she faltered. "I can't argue with you anyhow. I—I'm too tired."
With a sudden remorse for my lack of consideration, I helped her tenderly down the ladder. Everything in the dinghy was soaking, and, in spite of her remonstrances, I insisted on removing my coat and spreading it on the wet seat.
"I won't try and talk to you while I'm rowing," I said. "There's a pretty stiff stream running, and I shall want all my energy to get back to the island. Besides, the quieter we keep the better."
She nodded her head to show that she understood, and, having cast off the painter, I took my place at the oars.
The first few strokes were a bit painful on account of my damaged knuckles, which started bleeding afresh the moment I closed my hands. They soon ceased to smart, however; and, keeping the same course as before, I plugged steadily along, until the mouth of the creek opened up dimly on my left-hand side. A short but strenuous battle with the current brought me safely across to the landing-stage, where I grabbed hold of the chain and waved a triumphant greeting to Christine.
"Welcome!" I said "Welcome to Greensea Island!"
She smiled back at me, such a wan, pathetic little smile that I impulsively leaned over and pressed her hand.
"My own dear," I whispered, "you have just got to be happy. Remember, you are coming home for the first time."
I felt her fingers squeeze mine gently in return; then with a sudden trace of shyness she pushed them away and got up quickly from her seat.
"You must be wet through," she said, "and as for your poor coat—" She held it up with an expression of penitent dismay. "You will have to go and change everything directly we get to the house."
"Oh, it won't hurt me," I protested. "I've been drenched so often that I can't catch a cold even if I try."
I steadied the boat while she stepped out, and then, jumping ashore myself, led the way forward in the direction of the shrubbery.
As we entered the path, and the gloom of the trees closed in about us, she slipped her arm through mine.
"It's not a very cheerful place, is it?" she said with a slight shiver.
"Don't judge us too quickly," I returned. "Wait till we reach the house. Things will seem quite different as soon as you've had a cup of tea."
She smiled again, this time a little more happily, and without any further attempt at talking I piloted her through the rest of the shrubbery and opened the iron gate which led on to the lawn. The vague outline of the roof and chimneys were just visible opposite.
"That's my ancestral home," I said. "Unfortunately it's not looking its best to-day."
Christine made no reply; she had let go my arm and stood quite still beside me, gazing ahead into the mist with a strange and eager interest.
"One mustn't grumble though," I added philosophically. "After all, if it wasn't for the fog you wouldn't be here."
We set out across the grass, and, just as we were approaching the verandah, I suddenly remembered that I had bolted the front door on the inside. I did not want to take Christine to the back entrance, for fear that she might catch sight of Bascomb digging the grave. It would be a gruesome discovery to run up against unexpectedly, especially for anyone whose nerves were already strained almost beyond the point of endurance.
"If you don't mind waiting here a couple of seconds," I said, "I'll slip round and let you in. The place is locked up, and my man will probably be out in the garden."
"I shall be all right," she said. "It was only the trees that made me fed a little creepy."
Leaving her where she was, I hurried along the verandah, and turned off down the side walk which led past the kitchen window. Directly I got round the corner I heard the sound of Bascomb's spade, but it was not until I was within a few feet of him that his figure suddenly emerged from the mist. He was standing beside a large hole, peering forward in the direction of the path.
"How are you getting on?" I asked, pulling up short.
"It's pretty nigh finished," he answered slowly. "I've put 'im down deep, so as 'e can lie quiet without bein' shifted."
I looked over into the grave, which was already partly filled in.
"Well, there's no need to hurry," I said. "I've brought someone back with me, but we shan't want anything except a cup of tea, and I can get that myself."
If he felt any curiosity about my guest he certainly did not show it.
"Aye," he remarked indifferently. "You won't 'ave no trouble about that. The kettle's on the fire, an' there's a jug o' milk in the larder."
He turned to his work again, and, resuming my way to the back of the house, I passed in through the kitchen.
I took a strange delight in opening the front door and seeing Christine step in over the threshold. At that moment everything about her seemed to become real to me in a way that it had never been before. I had a sort of feeling that we had suddenly escaped from some fantastic melodrama, and were alone together in the actual world for the first time.
She looked round, an almost childish pleasure in her brown eyes.
"It's charming," she exclaimed. "It's the kind of room one would never want to go out of."
"That's how it strikes me just at present," I said. "Come and sit down in front of the fire. You'll have time to get nice and dry while I make the tea."
She crossed the room, and, sinking down with a little sigh of contentment in one of the easy chairs, stretched out her hands towards the hearth.
For a second or two I stood watching her, too happy to move; then, wrenching my mind back to practical affairs, I started off unwillingly towards the kitchen.
It did not take me long to collect what I wanted. The kettle was already full of hot water, as Bascomb had told me, and while it was boiling I wandered into the larder, and ran to earth an appetising looking cake and a new tin of dessert biscuits. Returning with my spoils, I filled up the teapot, and then, having set everything out on a tray, I carried it carefully into the hall.
Christine examined the result of my labours with evident approval.
"I'm so glad you've got a good tea," she said. "I've had nothing to eat since breakfast."
"In that case," I answered, "we'll feed first and talk afterwards. One can't be empty and eloquent at the same time."
I sat down beside her and took control of the proceedings, sternly insisting upon her carrying out my orders. It was not until she had finished her third cup and successfully demolished two large slices of cake that I would listen to the faintest protest, by which time the colour had come back into her cheeks, and she was looking an altogether different being.
"That's splendid," I remarked approvingly. "Now you shall have a cigarette, and I'll tell you how it was that I happened to come butting in just at the right moment. You had better let me explain first; then we shall know exactly where we are."
She nodded her agreement, and, accepting a cigarette from the case which I offered her, sank back again in the chair with her head against the cushions.
I was much too impatient for her side of the story to waste any unnecessary words over my own. At the same time I felt it was vital to omit nothing which might be of real importance, so I began with a rapid description of Manning's visit to the island.
I told her all about our midnight adventures in the hall, and of how he had made a special point of my coming to see him on the barge; then, after explaining the reason for my sudden trip to London, I gave her a short but faithful account of everything that had happened since.
It was easy to see from the look of indignant horror in her eyes that she had known nothing about the death of Satan. She listened to me, however, in absolute silence, her face alone betraying the intense interest with which she was following every syllable. Even when I had finished she still sat there for a moment without speaking, as though trying to puzzle out the full significance of all she had just heard. At last she straightened herself in the chair, and threw away the half-smoked cigarette which she had been holding between her fingers.
"I have treated you very unfairly," she said in a low voice. "I ought to have told you the truth that day at Shalston. If anything had happened to you it would have been entirely my fault."
"Oh, that's nonsense," I declared. "You're not responsible for your relations any more than I am. Providence just dumped them on us, and we've got to make the best of it."
There was a moment's pause.
"I wonder how much you have guessed," she said. "I wonder if you have any idea of my uncle's real reasons for coming to England."
"I've got some notions on the subject," I admitted. "They're a little muddled, because I can't quite fit in our friend Dr. Manning. For a comparative stranger he appears to have rather an important part in the show."
With the shadow of a smile on her lips she leaned forward.
"If you tell me what you know," she said, "the rest will be easier for me to explain."
"Well, from what I've gathered one way and another," I began, "I should say that it was the late lamented Mr. Richard Jannaway who was responsible for the whole trouble. He was always a bad hat; in fact, the only decent thing he ever did in his life was to die without making a will. I know he was in South America for years, and it looks to me as if he'd managed to run up pretty badly against your uncle. He probably played the old boy some dog's trick, and Señor de Roda, being a gentleman of spirit, naturally determined to get level with him. Unless I'm much mistaken, that's how it is that you come to be sitting here at the present moment."
She nodded encouragingly.
"Now I begin to lose my bearings," I confessed. "How Manning shoved himself in is a point that's been worrying me ever since I saw you together outside 'The Laurels.' I made certain at first that he must be working for your uncle, but when you told me that neither of you had met him until you arrived in England I didn't know what on earth to think. I've turned it over pretty thoroughly since then, and I've come to the conclusion that there must be some secret about Greensea which is distinctly worth knowing. It's my belief that Manning got on to the track of it while he was staying on the island. He probably discovered that you were mixed up with it too, and for reasons of his own he decided to join forces. I've no doubt that he's playing a double game, and I shouldn't wonder if you both shared my opinion. It was probably a case of your having no choice in the matter. When you found out how much he knew you had to take him into partnership, whether you liked it or not.”
Christine pushed the hair off her forehead, and looked at me with a curious expression.
"It's really rather extraordinary," she said slowly. "If you were a wizard or a fortune teller or something of that sort, you could hardly have got nearer the truth."
I acknowledged her compliment with a slight bow.
"Thank you," I said; "you've restored my self-respect. Dr. Manning told me I was a fool, and I should have been horribly depressed if I thought you shared his opinion."
"Dr. Manning thinks everyone is a fool except himself," she answered. "It's the only mistake I have ever known him to make."
"Most clever scoundrels have the same delusion," I assured her. "That's what keeps half the criminal barristers in practice."
Christine lit another cigarette, and sat for a moment staring into the fire, as if trying to arrange her thoughts. At last she turned towards me.
"Do you know that your uncle once went under the name of Stephen Gardiner?" she asked.
"No," I said, "I didn't know, but I can quite believe it. I should think he was the sort of gentleman who had probably had half a dozen names." I paused. "Where did you come across him first?" I asked.
"At Rio, two years before the war," she answered.
"What, Rio in Brazil?" I asked
She nodded. "We were living there then. My uncle had a big ranch about twenty miles outside the town, and of course he knew nearly everybody. At that time the whole of Brazil was in a frightful state of dissatisfaction. There was a great deal of feeling against the President, Gomez, who had been in for years and years, and Uncle Philip was one of the leading people who were trying to turn him out. It was through this that he and your uncle became friends."
"But what on earth had my uncle got to do with it?" I demanded. "He was an Englishman and a stranger, and I should think he must have had a pretty rotten reputation even then."
"I can't tell you that," she said. "I was only sixteen, and naturally they didn't talk about things in front of me. I suppose that somehow or other he had managed to make himself useful to them; anyhow, I know they all trusted him absolutely."
"They seem to have been a nice confiding lot," I observed. "I wouldn't mind betting they paid for it too."
She smiled mirthlessly. "Yes," she said, "they paid for it. I daresay you remember what happened; there must have been some account in the English papers."
I shook my head. "I wasn't reading the papers just then," I explained. "I was chasing about the Pacific learning to be a sailor."
"Everything that we had planned was betrayed to the Government," she said fiercely. "There was to be a general rising in Rio early one morning while the soldiers were asleep in their barracks. It was almost certain that if our people could seize the public buildings and capture the President the whole thing would be practically over. A great many of the troops were friendly, and the rest would have been quiet enough as soon as they heard that Gomez was a prisoner. That was only part of the plot, however. About a hundred miles up the Amazon there's a place called Cinatti. It's close to two or three big diamond mines which belong to the Government, and all the stones are collected and sorted there before they come down to Rio. Our people had found out through one of the sorters that a specially valuable lot would be sent off on the very morning that was fixed for the revolution. We wanted money badly, and Uncle Philip and several of the others decided that the best plan was to attack the train before it reached the capital. They knew that it would mean some terrible fighting, because the stones are always sent down under a strong military guard, but there was no difficulty in finding dozens of men who were quite ready to risk their lives. One of the first people chosen was Stephen Gardiner. He was appointed second in command, so that if anything happened to Uncle Philip he would be in charge of the party."
She paused, and drew in a deep breath.
"There were twenty-five of them altogether," she went on quietly. "They met just before midnight at the place which had been agreed upon. It was where the train had to cross a bridge over a deep gully. They blew away part of the bridge with dynamite, and hid themselves as well as they could on both sides of the line. When the train came along of course the driver saw what had happened. He pulled up, and directly the engine stopped Uncle Philip gave the signal. He was badly wounded himself almost as soon as he jumped out of the bushes, but about twenty of the others managed to reach the cars. There was a dreadful fight for a minute or two; then the officer in command of the guard was killed by a bullet, and after that the soldiers must have lost their heads. Anyhow, half of them threw down their guns, and the rest gave in to save their own lives."
"They would," I said; "it's a habit with all South-American regulars." I pushed away the tray, and leaned forward with my arms on the table. "What about the diamonds?" I asked.
"Oh, the diamonds were there," she answered, in the same curiously level voice. "They were packed in two sealed boxes, and they were a magnificent lot of stones. One of the men who knew something about jewels put their value at a hundred thousand pounds. As a matter of fact, he was altogether wrong. They were worth double that amount."
I whistled gently. "And de Roda being knocked out," I said, "Mr. Stephen Gardiner was in charge of the proceedings?"
She made a gesture of assent.
"Go on," I added grimly. "Tell me what happened."
"By the time the soldiers had surrendered," she said, "Uncle Philip had lost consciousness. Three of the others were dead and six or seven badly wounded. This man, Gardiner, divided the party into two. He left ten of them behind to look after their friends, and rode off towards Rio with the other five, taking the diamonds with him. No one dreamed that there was anything wrong. Gardiner had fought as bravely as anybody, and they all imagined that when they got to Rio they would find our people in control of the town."
Her voice shook, and for just an instant she seemed to be on the point of breaking down.
"As a matter of fact," she continued, with a kind of desperate calmness, "they were riding straight to their death. At the last moment everything we had planned had been betrayed to Gomez. He had brought troops secretly into all the public buildings, and when our people came out into the streets they were shot down like dogs before they could move a step. Six hundred of them were killed in less than ten minutes. Gomez had given orders that there should be no prisoners, and the soldiers went on firing at the wounded until there wasn't a soul left alive."
"And I suppose my infernal uncle was at the bottom of the whole business?" I broke in.
"You can judge for yourself," she answered. "When he and the other five reached the town they found troops everywhere. In the very first street they came to they were held up by a patrol. Before anyone quite realised what was happening Gardiner rode forward and said something to the officer in command. They let him through at once, and he galloped away up the street, leaving the rest behind him. Some of our men tried to shoot him, but they were too late. Directly he was past the soldiers opened fire and—" She broke off with a little mute gesture that needed no further words.
"My God! What a swine!" I exclaimed. "Do you mean to say he led all his friends to their death, and then handed the stones over to Gomez?"
She laughed again in the same mirthless fashion as before. "You are doing him an injustice," she said. "Anybody can be a traitor to his friends; it takes a genius to betray the other side as well." She paused a moment, her curious dark eyes fixed steadily on mine. "Gomez knew nothing about the attack on the train," she went on. "For once in his life he had met a man who was even more cunning and wicked than himself. Your uncle had sold him all the rest of our plans, but had kept that part an absolute secret. When the patrol let him pass they thought that he was going straight to the President. He had promised Gomez to bring in news of what was happening outside the town, but instead of doing that he galloped his horse down to the harbour, where he had a motor-boat waiting for him. Before they discovered the truth he was six miles out to sea, with the diamonds on board. That was the last that anyone in Brazil ever saw of Mr. Stephen Gardiner."
"Well I'm damned!" I remarked without thinking. Then, feeling that an apology would be rather futile, I leaned across and took her hand, which was resting on the corner of the chair. "And de Roda and the others, Christine," I said. "What happened to them?"
"Three of them were shot the next day," she answered. "They were the lucky ones. Uncle Philip and the rest were flung into prison at Rio. You can probably guess how they were treated. When Gomez died six years later Uncle Philip was the only one left alive. Almost the first thing the new President did was to release him, but it was too late to be of much service. He came out so terribly changed that none of his friends recognised him. He had been starved and tortured until his brain and body had almost given way. He had one idea only—one idea that had been burning into his mind night and day for all those six dreadful years—revenge on the man who had betrayed him."
"I can imagine his feelings," I said with considerable sympathy. "But how the dickens did he find out where my uncle had hidden himself?"
"It wasn't easy," she admitted. "Gomez had offered an enormous reward to anyone who could arrest him and get back the stones, but although the police in Europe had been on the look-out, they had never been able to discover the slightest trace of him. In the end it was just pure chance. A few of our friends had escaped after the revolution, and amongst them was a man called da Silva. He had settled down in London, and one day, when he was out walking, he saw your uncle on the other side of the street. Although it was nearly seven years since they had met he recognised him at once.
"Some people, I suppose, would have given him up to the police, in the hope of getting part of the reward which was still on offer. Da Silva was not that sort of man. He followed your uncle back to where he was living, and then very secretly and carefully he set about making enquiries. When he had found out everything he wanted, he wrote and told Uncle Philip."
"I wonder if the old ruffian guessed that he'd been spotted," I said. "If he did, that would explain why he shut himself up here."
She shook her head. "He was already trying to buy the island. I think he must have seen in the paper that Uncle Philip had been let out of prison."
I suddenly remembered what Bascomb had told me the night we talked together in the hall.
"You're right, Christine," I said. "That's what happened beyond a doubt, and I don't wonder he got the wind up. It must have been rather like reading one's own death-warrant."
"I hope it was," she said mercilessly. "I should like to be sure that he suffered before he died. When I think of the way he escaped us I sometimes feel that there's no justice in the world."
"But surely you knew he was dead before you started from Brazil?" I interrupted. "Your friend da Silva had plenty of time to write to you."
"We never heard from da Silva again," she said. "Three weeks after he sent his first letter he was killed in that big railway accident at Croydon. Until you spoke to me on the boat we both believed that Gardiner was alive."
"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. "No wonder you were a bit flabbergasted."
"It was the thought of Uncle Philip that upset me most. You see, it was impossible for me to tell him then, and I felt certain that he would never get over the shock and disappointment when he found out for himself."
"But how about you?" I asked curiously. "Wasn't it rather a relief to know that you were too late? You can't take the law into your own hands in this country without paying for it pretty heavily."
"Do you suppose that mattered?" she demanded. "Do you think I cared what happened to me as long as Gardiner was punished? Why, rather than see him escape I would have killed him myself!"
"I believe you would," I said, with genuine admiration. Then, lighting another cigarette, I added: "How long was it before de Roda discovered the truth?"
"It was two days after we landed. Directly we came ashore he left me at an hotel and went straight to da Silva's address. He had been very puzzled at not hearing again and getting no answer to his letters, but of course when he found out what had happened it explained everything. Da Silva had told us about Greensea Island in his first letter, however, so the next morning Uncle Phillip motored down here to make enquiries. The first thing he learned was that Gardiner was dead."
"How did he take it?" I enquired
"He seemed almost stunned when he came back. He sat all the evening without saying a word, and, although I did my best to comfort him, I don't think he even heard what I said. It was not until the next morning that he told me he had taken a lease of 'The Laurels.' I didn't bother him with any questions, but from the way he spoke I felt sure he believed that the diamonds, or what was left of them, were still hidden on the island. By this time he had got a kind of half-insane conviction that they were his own property."
"I am inclined to agree with him," I said. "Anyhow, I'd a jolly sight rather he had them than the Brazilian Government." I paused. "Had he tumbled across the fact of my existence?" I asked.
"Not then," she replied. "Nobody down here had any idea of what would happen to the property. I was the only one who knew, and that was why I asked you to meet me that day in Bond Street. I was afraid that directly Uncle Philip learned the truth he would suspect you of having the stones. You were Gardiner's nephew too, and in the queer state he was in that alone was quite enough to put your life in danger."
"You've acted like a brick all through, Christine," I said gratefully.
"I only did what anyone else would have done," she went on hurriedly. "I felt you ought to be warned, but at the time I little guessed the real state of affairs." She stopped, with a queer expression in her brown eyes. "You see, it was not until two days later that I first met Dr. Manning."
"Ah!" I said softly. "Now we're getting to the part in which I take a rather particular interest."
"I heard about him from the people at the inn," she continued. "I wanted to find out the address of some medical man in case Uncle Philip was ill, so I called in at the Gunner's Arms the morning after we arrived and asked the landlord's advice. He told me that there was no practising doctor nearer than Torrington, but that if I wanted anyone in a hurry he had no doubt that Dr. Manning would come at once. That very night my uncle had one of his worst heart attacks. The only other person in the house was an old Frenchwoman we had brought with us from London. I sent her to the barge with a note, and Dr. Manning got up, dressed, and came along immediately." She laughed again, even more bitterly than before. "I remember thinking at the time how extraordinarily kind it was of him."
"Yes," I said. "He's very obliging in cases of that sort."
"When I look back now," she went on, "it seems a sort of crowning irony that I should have asked him to the house myself. Not that it really made the least difference."
"He knew, of course?" I interrupted. "I suppose he had found out while he was on the island?"
She nodded. "Your uncle had been delirious for two days, and he had evidently betrayed himself a dozen times over. I think what he said must have been all very broken and confused, but it had been enough for Dr. Manning. He had guessed that the stones were hidden there, and he had made up his mind to get hold of them."
"Had he any idea that Señor de Roda was in the same line of business?" I asked.
"He suspected it certainly," she replied. "Your uncle must have mentioned the name, and no doubt he had put two and two together. He was only waiting his time. If I hadn't sent for him that night he would probably have come to see us next day."
"But what was his object?" I demanded. "From what I've seen of him I should have thought his one idea would have been to get in first and cut you out."
"So it was," she said. "Thanks chiefly to you, however, he was up against a blank wall. He had had no chance of searching the place properly while he was there, because Bascomb was always watching him, and when you refused to sell the island that finished everything."
"It certainly came very near to finishing me," I observed grimly. "I suppose there's no doubt that it was either he or Craill who shoved me into the dock."
"It was Craill," she observed. "He is only half-witted, but he's horribly cunning and dang