The Chase of the Ruby
CHAPTER I
GHOSTS IN AFRICA
'Upon my word, this is-' He hesitated, then chose another form of words with which to conclude his sentence. 'This is extraordinary.'
He allowed the paper to flutter from between his fingers, stood staring at nothing, then, stooping, picked up the sheet of blue post from where it had fallen at his feet.
'Extraordinary!' he repeated.
He regarded it and handled it as if it had been some uncanny thing-though, on the face of it, it was nothing of the kind. It was a formal letter addressed to 'Guy Holland, Esq., 37A Craven Street, W.C.' It began 'Dear Sir,' and ended 'Yr. obedt. servant, SAML. COLLYER.' Between the beginning and the end it informed him that his uncle, George Burton, had died at Nice on February 23, and that the writer would feel obliged if he would call upon him at his earliest possible convenience.
'I wonder if I saw him die?' Mr Holland knit his brows as he asked himself the question. 'How could I, when I was in Mashonaland and he was in Nice? Absurd!'
He laughed, as it has been written, 'hollowly'; the laugh of uneasiness rather than mirth.
Then he went and saw the lady.
She was waiting on a seat by a certain piece of water in Regent's Park. She must have had eyes behind, because, although she was sitting with her back to him, directly he stepped upon the grass she sprang up, and, as if she had been observing him all the time, went to him at something very like a run. He advanced at quick step. They met in the middle of the grass plot, contrary to regulations, which forbid people to walk upon the grass. They each gave two hands, and that with an air which suggested that if that had not been a public place they would have given each other something else as well.
'Guy!' she exclaimed. 'I thought you were the other side of the world. What a time you've been!'
'Coming from the other side of the world? or from Craven Street? It is some distance from Craven Street to Regent's Park.'
'You are in Craven Street, are you? What's it mean? You're looking well-sort of coppery colour; it suits you.'
'That's the air of the veldt; it burnishes a man's skin. You're looking sweet. I say, it's awfully hard lines that I can't kiss you. Mayn't I-just a little one?'
'In broad daylight, in Regent's Park, with a hundred pairs of eyes observing us from Hamilton Terrace? Thank you; some other day. When I had your note-what a note! "Meet me at the old place at noon" – I wondered who I was to meet, you or your ghost. As a matter of fact, I had a most important engagement-just at noon; but I put it off on purpose to come and see.'
'That was very dear of you. I'm not my ghost, I'm me.'
'But-Guy, have you made your fortune? You didn't seem as if you were going to make it at quite such a rate when you wrote last.'
He shook his head.
'Came back with less in my pockets than when I left.'
'Then-what does it mean?'
'My uncle's dead.'
'Mr Burton?'
He nodded.
'Has he left you his money? Oh, Guy!'
'As to that, I can't say. At present I know nothing. The fact is, Letty, it's-it's a queer business. You won't laugh?'
'What at?'
'Well'-he held out an envelope-'if I hadn't found this letter awaiting me telling me of the old man's death, I should have accused myself of softening of the brain, or something of the kind. As it is, I believe I've had a vision.'
'A vision! You? Guy, fancy your discovering that there are visions about.'
'You're laughing at me now.'
'I'm doing nothing of the kind. How can you say such a thing? I'm the soul of gravity. Do I ever laugh?'
As a matter of fact, there was a twinkle in her eyes even as she spoke, which he perceived.
'All right; laugh it out. I don't mind. All I can say is that it's gospel truth, and seems queer enough to me, though I daresay it's extremely comic to anybody else.'
'What seems comic? You haven't said a word.'
'Let's find a seat, and I'll say a good many.'
They found a seat-not the one she had been sitting on, but one which was sheltered by a tree. It was, perhaps, because it was in the shade that they temporarily ignored the fact that they were yet in Regent's Park. They were still pretty close together when he began to tell his tale.
'On the 23rd of February I had had a long day in the open. It was broiling hot, and in the evening I was glad to get back under cover. As I sat at my tent door, too tired even to smoke, I saw, right in front of me, my uncle.'
'Your uncle? Mr Burton? Where was this?'
'Perhaps three hundred miles north of Buluwayo.'
'But-what was your uncle doing there?'
'I told you it was a queer business, and so it was. Let me try to explain. Straight in front of where I was sitting the plain stretched for heaven knows how many miles right away to the horizon. There were no buildings; scarcely a bush or a tree was to be seen; just the monotonous level ground. All at once I perceived, certainly within a hundred feet of where I was, a flight of steps.'
'A flight of steps?'
'Well, I had a sort of general idea that there was a building in connection, but my eyes were fixed upon the steps. I seemed to know them. There was a wide open door at top. I felt that I was well acquainted with what was on the other side of that door. On the steps my uncle was standing. Mind, I saw him as well as I see you, and, thank goodness, I can see you pretty well. I can't tell you what he wore, because I'm no hand at describing clothes; but I've an impression that he had on a suit of tweeds and a bowler hat. He was apparently lounging on the steps, watching the passers-by. He did not see me-of that I was sure. On a sudden someone else came towards him up the steps. He was a stranger to me, though I think I should know him if I saw him again. He was taller than my uncle, and, I imagine, younger. Anyhow, he was altogether a bigger and a stronger man. He had a walking stick in his hand, with a horn handle. Directly he got within reach, without, so far as I could judge, uttering a word of warning, with this stick he struck my uncle with all his force across the face. I suspect that my uncle had seen him coming before I did, and, for reasons of his own, had stuck to what he deemed his post of vantage on the steps, being unwilling to go and meet him, and ashamed to run away. That he was not so taken aback by the suddenness of the attack as I was I felt persuaded. He put out his hand to guard himself, and, I fancy, at the last moment was disposed to turn tail and flee. But it was too late. The blow got home. He staggered back and would have fallen had not the stranger gripped him with his left hand, and commenced to belabour him with the stick which he held with his right. People came streaming out of the open door above and up the steps from the street. My uncle made not the faintest attempt at resistance. When the people came close enough to hamper the free action of his arm, the stranger, giving his victim a push, sent him head foremost down the steps. In an instant the whole thing vanished.'
Mr Holland ceased. The lady had been regarding
