The Five Knots

"You found nothing," Flower snarled.

"Absolutely nothing," the Dutchman said good-naturedly. "You had taken good care of that. But the stuff is there, and you know where it is to be found. That is why I am here to-night; why I want you to accompany me on a final voyage, after which neither of us will ever need to work again. The whole thing has blown over. There are no natives left to tell the tale, and we shall be rich men with a minimum expenditure of trouble. The key of the situation lies with us. You can do nothing without me and I am powerless without you. Let us make an offensive and defensive alliance and take out our own staff. What do you say?"

Jansen spread his hands cheerfully out to the blaze, his little eyes beaming with good-nature. He was not in the least like a man in the close proximity of his would-be murderer. He seemed to take everything for granted. Flower came to an abrupt halt by the fire and looked down at his companion.

"A very pretty programme," he sneered. "Quite an excellent programme. We are to fit out an expedition to North Borneo together. We are to recover all that priceless treasure – why, the marvellous china and engraved glass alone would be worth a fortune – then come home rich beyond the dream of avarice and live happily for ever afterwards. It sounds delightful, but there is one flaw. You are under the impression that the clan was destroyed root and branch when the city was washed away. You are mistaken. There were survivors, and at least two of them to my certain knowledge are in England at the present moment. Do you know that my life is not worth a moment's purchase? Do you know that one attempt has already been made upon it? The next may be successful. And when I am got rid of, that treasure will never be seen again by mortal eye. Besides, how do you know you are safe yourself? You took extraordinary precautions, I know. But we had men to deal with whose cunning and foresight were far greater than our own. Now, in view of what I tell you, are you still bent on going?"

The twinkle had died out of the Dutchman's eyes and his rubicund face had grown solemn. He sat for a long time gazing into the fire before he spoke.

"You are sure of this?" he asked. "You are certain there has been no mistake."

By way of response Flower took an envelope from his pocket and produced a five-knotted piece of string. He handed it gravely to his companion.

"Look at that," he said. "You know what it means. Now, that came to me in a registered letter posted by my agent Slater, in Borneo. Mind you, though Slater knows nothing about this trouble, my correspondence with him is always conducted in cypher. The letter was so private and confidential that it was written by Slater himself and posted by his own hand. And yet, when I come to open the letter, I find this inside. You are an easy-going sort, but I ask you, would not your flesh creep and your hair stand on end if you found a message like that inside of a confidential letter, written, sealed and posted by another person? I tell you the play is finished, the game is up, and I am doomed just as irrevocably as if I were the victim of some incurable malignant disease. Come, you are a clever man, Dr. Jansen, can you show me any way out of this?"

Jansen played thoughtfully with the string, but no words crossed his lips. He was baffled.

CHAPTER XXVII

NO FOE OF HERS

The house was quiet enough now. The whole place was plunged in darkness; even Cotter had forgotten his terror and was dreaming uneasily. As for Beatrice, she had thrown herself upon her bed, worn out with fatigue and anxiety and for some time she slept. Her room and the dressing-room beyond were not dark, seeing that they faced the front of the house and the street lamps shone upon the windows. She lay at first unconscious of her surroundings, but by and by she grew uncomfortable and awoke with a start. She could hear and see nothing beyond the dim shadows of the various objects in the room, until gradually her eyes began to grow accustomed to the gloom and she could distinguish her dressing-table in the small room beyond. She recollected hazily that she had placed her diamond moth with the rest of the jewelry on the table. In a drowsy sort of way she was chiding herself for her carelessness when she seemed to see a hand moving noiselessly over the toilet articles. For a moment Beatrice put the impression aside as a mere fancy, but kept her eyes fixed on the spot till she knew that she was no longer mistaken. Somebody was in the room and bending curiously over the diamond moth. A moment later a shadowy arm waved and a second figure joined the first. The two dim outlines stood with clasped hands gazing rapturously at the moth, much as some heathen might regard a precious idol. Beatrice could see the intruder's lips moving as if in prayer. Evidently they had found some talisman which was engrossing their attention and probably keeping them from more serious work.

The girl lay still and rigid, too terrified to move, and incapable of uttering a syllable. For the life of her she could not have screamed, she was so overcome with dread. How long this scene lasted it was impossible for Beatrice to say. She knew that danger sharp and horrible was here. Then it flashed into her mind that the peril was not for her. The thought nerved her to exertion. She dragged herself from her bed and threw a wrap over her shoulders.

A new wild courage was burning in her veins. Action was better than lying quaking and fearing the worst. With a firm step she crossed the floor and walked into the dressing-room. Then, before she had time to speak or move, unseen hands were laid upon her shoulders and she was dragged backwards, not with violence, not with anger, but with a considerate firmness that would brook no denial. An instant later and a small blue light flickered on the floor, throwing up a sweet fragrant incense which Beatrice found infinitely soothing to the senses. She seemed to rock and sway. She felt herself lifted from the floor, and then she dropped into a deep sleep and knew no more.

When she came to herself again her mind was wonderfully fresh and clear. Like a flash she saw everything that had happened. Like a flash it came to her that these intruders were no other than the strange visitors who had made themselves so much at home at Maldon Grange. Beatrice was not in the least afraid; at least, she had no fear for herself. Whatever those uncanny creatures were searching for, they had no quarrel with her; indeed, they had gone out of their way to save her from the consequences of her interference. But if the danger were not for her, for whom was it intended? The answer was obvious. Samuel Flower was the enemy. Samuel Flower was the victim whom these little men were tracking down in their relentless fashion. How long had she been asleep?

She looked at her watch, but there was nothing to learn from that. She partly dressed herself with a view to arousing the household. As she opened the door leading to the landing she heard sounds of a struggle outside. With unsteady hand she turned up the lights, and, locked in a deadly grip, almost at her feet, were one of the strangers and another man whom she did not recognize at the moment. As the two rolled headlong down the steps, Beatrice gave a sharp cry, for she had seen the white, set face of Wilfrid Mercer. The thing was all over almost before she realized that it was begun. One assailant had vanished, goodness only knew where, and Wilfrid lay on his back bruised, battered, and all but unconscious. Thoughts for his safety uppermost in her mind, Beatrice flung prudence to the winds. She flew downstairs and raised her lover's head just as he was opening his eyes. Nothing seemed to matter so that he were safe, and with unfeigned thankfulness Beatrice heard Wilfrid mutter her name.

"You are not hurt?" she asked anxiously.

"Not so very much, I think," Mercer said as he struggled to his feet. "But the man nearly choked the life out of me all the same."

"What has happened?" Beatrice asked. "How did you get here? What brings you in the house at this time in the morning?"

Wilfrid pressed his hands to his head. He was too dazed to reply coherently. Then as his mind cleared, events began to adjust themselves, and the strange panorama of the night unfolded itself slowly.

"I will tell you," he said. "I am here because I happen to know that your uncle is in imminent danger. How I got into the house doesn't much matter. I came here without ceremony, and I was making my way upstairs when I interrupted that man and had to fight for my life. But hadn't we better ascertain that your uncle is safe?"

"Oh, yes," Beatrice said eagerly. "I am afraid we shall not be able to get into his room. He always locks himself in and the door of his bedroom is lined with steel, as a precaution against burglars or something of that kind, so he said."

Wilfrid waited to hear no more. He was quite himself by this time. Followed by Beatrice he went quietly up the stairs until he came to the door of her uncle's room. He tried the lock, but it resisted all his efforts. It did not seem prudent to call out in case something terrible might be going on inside.

"Is there no other way?" Wilfrid whispered. "Is there no balcony at the back of the house, no creepers, or rain-pipes, or anything of that kind? Have no fear – forewarned, forearmed."

"There is a balcony running all the way along," Beatrice explained. "My uncle talks of having it removed, but he has not done so yet. I can help you through a bedroom window and you can creep along and see for yourself. But I implore you not to run into any danger."

"It is a case of life or death," Wilfrid said gravely. "I will be as prudent as I can. But we must not lose time."

Beatrice led the way into one of the back bedrooms and opened the window. Mercer crept along in the darkness cautiously until he came to a room both windows of which were lighted. One of the blinds was partly pulled up and one of the sashes raised a few inches. From beneath came a sweet, sickly scent which caused Mercer to reel as if a desire to sleep had suddenly seized him. It was only by holding his handkerchief to his mouth and nose that he was able to lie down on the balcony and peep under the blind. He could see Flower lying on his bed, apparently unconscious, with a white bandage around his forehead. He could see two figures flitting about the room, like doctors during an operation. For a moment Flower's two hands were raised above his head, then fell helplessly again by his side.

What infernal thing was going on? What black art was being practised by these miscreants? Flesh and blood could stand it no longer. Wilfrid forced the sash to its utmost capacity and dashed into the room. Seizing a chair he whirled it round his head and made a wild lunge at one of the would-be assassins. At the same time he cried out for others to follow him as if he had assistance at hand. Almost immediately the light was extinguished; there was a rustle of figures in the darkness and Wilfrid knew that he was alone. The sweat was pouring off his face with the horror of it all. He groped round the walls until he found the switch and flooded the place once more with the welcome rays. He could see the key was inside the door. He opened it widely and called for Beatrice. Then he turned to the figure on the bed. The white bandage was gone from Flower's head and he lay still and motionless. So far as Mercer could see he did not breathe. Beatrice entered full of anxiety.

"What is it?" she whispered. "Is he dead?"

"I don't know," Wilfrid said. "It is impossible to say. You must rouse the household at once and send for the nearest doctor or the nearest half-dozen for that matter. I want a brain specialist if he can be got. Will you go at once, please. Every moment is priceless."

CHAPTER XXVIII

BEYOND SURGERY

Wilfrid had to repeat his command more than once before Beatrice seemed to understand what he was saying. The girl was dazed with the horror of the thing. She stood looking at the white, still figure on the bed, marvelling what was going to happen next. And yet, at the back of her mind there was a glimmering of the truth. This was a vendetta and these relentless foes would never slack their efforts until Samuel Flower had paid the debt to the last penny. Many of these things Beatrice had read about in the pages of fiction. She had forgotten, perhaps, that there are stranger things in every-day life.

As for Wilfrid he was calm enough. His professional instincts came to his aid. Laying his hand gently upon Beatrice's shoulder he led her from the room.

"I want you to be brave and silent," he whispered. "I want you to help me all you can. It is possibly a selfish reflection, but your life is safe. If you would save your uncle, you must do what I tell you."

"I will try," Beatrice murmured. "What do you want me to do? Oh, I remember."

She departed without another word, leaving Wilfrid to do what he could with her uncle. This second attack was much more serious than the first, for Samuel Flower lay to all appearance dead. It was not difficult for Wilfrid to make an examination, for Flower had undressed and gone to bed before the attack. He lay on his back with his arms inert by his side, the deep purple of his cheeks had given way to a ghastly whiteness. Wilfrid could detect not the slightest trace of violence anywhere, nothing but one or two small indentations on the forehead and at the back of the head. Try as he would Wilfrid could make nothing of the case. And if he could trust to his trained knowledge, he felt sure that no explanation would ever come from Flower's lips, for surely the man was dead.

He could hear no murmur from the heart. By laying the glass of his watch on the murdered man's lips he could distinguish no moisture. He could only wait patiently until assistance came, and then tell the story as best he could. With almost a sensation of shame Wilfrid realized that Flower was harmless to do him further injury. He tried to put the matter out of his mind, but it recurred more than once, until he was fain to walk up and down the room in the growing light. He pulled up the blinds by and by and let in the flood of day. Even in the strong light he could detect no motion and no change in that awful figure on the bed. Inured as he was to these kind of tragedies, it was with a thrill of thankfulness that he heard steps coming up the stairs and saw a stranger enter the room. There was no reason for Wilfrid to ask if the new-comer were a doctor, for he carried his profession in every crease of his well-fitting frock-coat, in every line of his well-groomed hair.

"My name is Dr. Shelton," he said. "I am sorry to be so late, but I have only just got back to town. So this is your patient? What do you think he is suffering from? You have made an examination?"

"I haven't the remotest idea," Wilfrid said frankly. "I have never seen a case like it before. Mr. Flower lies there to all appearances dead. He does not breathe. There is not the slightest motion of the heart, and yet, rigor mortis has not set in. I should say it is some brain trouble."

Dr. Shelton stripped off his coat and turned up his shirt sleeves. For a long time he bent over the bed, but at last he stood upright drawing a long breath.

"Most extraordinary," he murmured. "Everything points to severe concussion of the brain, and yet there is not the slightest trace of violence; there is no suggestion of a blow, or fall, or anything of that kind. We must wait till the patient comes to himself as he will before long."

"He is not dead, then?" Wilfrid asked.

"No. It is a case of suspended animation. That the brain is seriously injured the congestion of the eyes proves beyond demonstration. But, surely, you can throw some light on this mystery. How came you to be called in?"

Wilfrid had been dreading the question for some time. He hardly knew how to explain matters to this polished man of the world whose lines had probably always fallen in conventional places.

"Well, it was like this," he began. "I have lately started a practice in Oldborough and Mr. Flower has a country house close by. I was called in to attend him for a trifling injury, and when I got to the house I discovered that Miss Galloway, Mr. Flower's niece, was an old friend; in fact, we had met in London some months ago. Miss Galloway had been under the impression that some one was trying to get into the house, but perhaps I had better tell you at length what really happened."

Wilfrid proceeded with his statement, purposely, however, saying nothing as to the mysteriously-knotted string, or the strange incantations which he had watched on the part of the Malays. These matters seemed to have nothing to do with the case, nor could they influence the opinion of Dr. Shelton. He told his story straightforwardly, how he had got into this house and what sort of reception had met him. Shelton raised his eyebrows incredulously.

"So you think this is a case of burglary?" he asked. "Mr. Flower has something in the house which these villains were after. You say you saw them in this room when you entered by the balcony?"

"I did," Wilfrid replied. He was feeling on safer ground now. "I suppose my presence frightened them and, you see, I had other things to think of. It is very singular that these fellows did Mr. Flower no violence."

"No violence whatever," Shelton said emphatically. "They hadn't gone as far as that, though their intentions might have been murderous. It seems to me, Dr. Mercer, that this is a case as much for the police as for the medical man. At any rate, I frankly own that I am as puzzled as yourself. It will be a great favour to me if you will remain here while I go to Harley Street, as I should like another opinion besides my own. If you stay in the house it will be sufficient. It will be some time before Mr. Flower regains consciousness."

Wilfrid expressed his willingness to do whatever was necessary and Dr. Shelton bustled away. The servants were moving about the house now. Wilfrid heard the clock strike the hour of eight, then; presently, an appetizing odour of cooking stole over the room. It was nearly an hour later before Beatrice came and asked the latest news. There was no change, for Flower lay as he had done three hours before.

"I have told the servants nothing," Beatrice whispered. "They have merely been informed that my uncle has had a slight seizure and that the house must be kept very quiet. But won't you come downstairs and have breakfast? It is ready in the dining-room. And if you could manage to stay here till Dr. Shelton returns – "

Wilfrid explained that he had already promised to do so. Despite the thrilling adventure of the night before, he was hungry and did ample justice to his meal. At the same time he could not forget his own affairs. It might be a security to feel that Flower lay upstairs beyond the reach of mischief, but Flower was not alone in this business. Beyond doubt the man Cotter had received his instructions. Beyond doubt the law was already in motion which was to deprive Wilfrid of his good name and his means of living. It was hard he should have to stay there doing nothing and keep watch and ward over a man who was intending to ruin him through another; but of this he could say nothing to Beatrice.

She sat at the foot of the table playing with a cup of tea and some toast; recent events had shaken her terribly. For some time she kept silent.

"I must speak to you, Wilfrid," she said presently. "I want to know if you have found out anything. I want to know if you have discovered anything that has been hidden from me. Tell me truthfully, is this the first attack of the kind which has been made upon my uncle? Didn't a very similar thing happen the night you were at Maldon Grange?"

"I am sorry you asked me that," Wilfrid said quietly, "because I cannot look you in the face and tell you a lie. Of course I can't say yet whether I was successful last night, but under Providence I most assuredly saved Samuel Flower's life on the occasion you speak of. Please don't ask me more. Try to be brave and patient, and all will be well."

Beatrice said no more, but it was evident she was putting a great strain upon her curiosity.

CHAPTER XXIX

A MESSAGE

The morning dragged slowly and Wilfrid began to think that Shelton had forgotten about his patient. It was maddening to wander about the house wasting precious time, when perhaps the blow had already fallen at Oldborough. More than once Wilfrid was tempted to make his way to the City where he could discuss his affairs with Russell and Uzali.

And what had happened to the latter? How was he getting on after his cruel treatment of the previous evening? And what was Russell doing all this time? Wilfrid was debating the matter seriously when, about midday, a motor car drove up and Dr. Shelton, accompanied by a colleague, got out. Shelton raised his brows interrogatively at Wilfrid, who shook his head.

"No change," the latter murmured. "He is just as you left him, hovering between life and death. I don't wish to be inconvenient but I shall be very glad if you will release me as soon as possible. I have urgent business in the City which is going to rack and ruin without me."

"Give us half an hour," Shelton said. "We are going to try an experiment – a desperate one I admit – but there seems nothing else to do in the circumstances. But, if you can get back by two o'clock to keep an eye upon things till the nurse I have written for arrives, I shall be greatly obliged."

Wilfrid yielded with as good grace as possible. He began to feel reckless and desperate. He paced up and down outside the house smoking one cigarette after another until Shelton appeared again.

"I don't think we need detain you any longer," the latter said. "Our operation has been partially successful and I am leaving Mr. Flower with my colleague at present. There has been serious brain trouble, and I very much doubt if my patient will ever be the same again. If you can manage to return by two o'clock for an hour, I think I shall then be able to dispense with your services."

Wilfrid waited to hear no more. He had already laid his plans. In the first place, he would call upon Fowler & Co., who had written regarding the bill, which threatened destruction to his home and future. He might perhaps obtain some information from them, though time was growing short and there remained barely a day and a half in which to satisfy these blood-suckers and breathe freely once more. A reference to the Post Office Directory gave Wilfrid the information he was in need of, and a hansom conveyed him to London Wall where the offices of Fowler & Co. were situated. The place was dingy, the office small and dirty. For a moment Wilfrid hesitated whether to go in or not, when he suddenly paused and looked into a shop-window as if fearful of being seen, for on the steps of the office stood Cotter in close conversation with a small, slight man, whose keen dark eyes bespoke a foreign origin. It was plain enough to Wilfrid now. Cotter had come down on business connected with the very security which was likely to be Wilfrid's ruin. The two men parted by and by and Wilfrid crossed the road, his mind fully made up what to do.

A shabby-looking clerk in the outer office announced the fact that Mr. Fowler was not engaged. Without waiting for any reply Wilfrid crossed to the inner office and opened the door. Surely enough, seated at a desk, was the little man with whom Cotter had been talking so earnestly a few minutes before.

"My name is Dr. Mercer," Wilfrid said bluntly. "You are Mr. Fowler, I understand. I came to see you in regard to a security which I gave to a firm called Darton & Co. for one hundred and seventy-five pounds. This security will fall due to-morrow and I am anxious to get it renewed."

The man shrugged his shoulders and took up his pen.

"My dear sir, I am very busy this morning," he said. "If you cannot meet the security, why, there is an end of it. I am sorry, but business is business, and of course you know the consequences if the bill is not taken up to-morrow."

"I am aware of that," Wilfrid said impatiently. "But what I want to know is, where do you come in? What connexion have you with Darton & Co.? And why should they turn over my liability to you? These are simple questions."

They were simple but Mr. Fowler had some difficulty in answering them. He changed colour slightly and his dingy hands fingered a bell on the table before him.