"It wasn't a very happy occasion, Blackburn," the little lord went on, "but I dare say you'll have to call it to mind, for the Foreign Office of His Majesty's government has taken an interest in it. It came about through a remark I made in all innocence to my former lieutenant. But it's only fair that Sir Edwin should hear your account of it before any steps are taken, so what if we three subjects of the king—Mr. Holmes has sworn allegiance to the Pasha of Tripoli—retire to the drawing room?"
"I'll stay here with the brandy," Murad Reis agreed quickly.
Sir Edwin Thatch looked relieved. Evidently he couldn't stomach the half-drunk renegade. This Lord Godwine had clearly perceived. His own manner toward me was courteous to a fault.
"Mr. Blackburn, I'd like to ask a question which you may answer if you see fit, or decline to answer," Sir Edwin began, when we were seated just outside the great open door of the dining room. "Were you once a member of the elite corps of Mamelukes serving the Pasha of Tripoli?"
I hesitated only long enough to recall what my prisonmate had told me of this matter, and that was no longer than "water could flow out from a broken jar."
"If I did, sir, it was a part of a past I don't wish to disclose, so I respectfully decline to answer."
"Henry Holmes—for many years one of the Pasha's reis—says that you did. He states further that you'd been put in a position of trust and were about to embrace Islam when you made off with the paymaster's chest, containing ten thousand silver rupees. He has it you fled through Nulat, and he saw you there, although he wasn't aware at the time of the alleged crime. After this, if we are to believe him, you made your way to Central Africa with these ill-gotten gains, went into the slave and ivory trade, and made an immense fortune."
"Sir, I take note of what you say," I remarked when the diplomat paused.
Meanwhile my thoughts flew fast. If Murad Reis knew this much, he knew that Holgar Blackburn had been caught at Nulat and sentenced to living death in the Sepulcher of Wet Bones. Why had he not said so, and proclaimed me a fugitive from the prison? I thought that the answer might be twofold. In the first place, the Sepulcher did not officially exist. All men sent there were listed as dead, and the only records kept of them were the day book of the harbor master and the secret fists of the Reis Effendi. In the second place, any story of Holgar's capture and the recovery of the pay chest would spike one of Lord Tarlton's guns—perhaps the heaviest he had any real hope of bringing to bear upon me. If it were believed that my riches began with robbery and had been multiplied by trade in slaves, my own guns would be spiked or silenced.
Murad Reis had stood high in the confidence of the Reis Effendi.
Since he knew the beginning of Holgar's story, likely he knew its end —death on the iron hook. In this case, Lord Tarlton knew it, too, whereby my real identity became an easy—although unprovable— guess. Hence his apology for doubting that I was Holgar—his opening lines in today's play—became not merely a fine piece of histrionics but irony worthy of his strange and terrible mind.
But I could hardly give him the credit he deserved this particular moment because of the actions of my own mind. I had heard a soft sound, not readily amenable to common explanation, in the next room.
"Lord Tarlton encountered Captain Holmes in London, and in speaking of you, chanced to mention that you wore a brand on your hand," Sir Edwin Thatch went on. "This caused Holmes to recall the theft of the chest, and charge you with it. Furthermore, since the thief is still wanted by his Pasha, dead or alive—his escape still irking that North African prince—Holmes intended to report to him at once. This he could do by letter or in person. The Pasha's nearest official representative is a minister—I should say an agent—in Lisbon; but this man has access to His Majesty's government through our ambassador there, and it's through him that he would attempt to obtain your extradition into the Pasha's hands."
Sir Edwin spoke in level, courteous tones. At the last he rubbed his hands lightiy together in a gesture of distaste.
"But that would be very difficult, wouldn't it, Sir Edwin?" Lord Tarlton asked. "To have a British subject extradited to a pirate king—"
"His Majesty's government has a consulate in Tripoli. Thus we cannot refuse to recognize his sovereignty or to hear his demands. A demand that a British subject be delivered there to answer a charge of theft would greatly distress the Foreign Office and create an awkward situation. Hence, although I cannot officially concur with the suggestion you wish to make to Mr. Blackburn, I'll not interfere."
"What was the suggestion. Lord Tarlton?" I asked.
"You ask me, and I'll tell you," the little lord answered, caressing the handle of his cane. "You admit you are Holgar Blackburn—you can't deny it now—and the Pasha wants to hang you on an iron hook. You've recently bought a ship—whether you expected trouble and wished to be able to take French leave, I can't say. What I do say is —the best advice I know, and given to you straight—is this." His voice changed a little and the east wind blew through it. "Get the hell out of England and stay there."
He did not know why I smiled into his eyes; and he would like to know, very much. It was to the diplomat that I spoke.
"Sir Edwin, may I ask if Mr. Holmes has as yet made any depositions to the Foreign Office?"
"No, sir. He's no longer a subject of the king, and must deal through representatives of his Pasha. My visit here today is at the request of my old friend, Lord Tarlton. My hope was, that a situation awkward to the Foreign Office could be forestalled."
"I think perhaps it can. If he'll answer it, I've a question to put to Mr. Holmes. Let's return to the dining room."
But at the door of the dining room, the diplomat stopped. Lord Tarlton took three rapid steps forward, then he stopped, too. Perhaps their first fleeting impression was that Henry Holmes—Murad Reis—had been overcome by brandy. Hard drinkers had been known to slump in their chairs in this way—arms flung down on the table, head resting between. But the liquid staining the cloth and dripping on the floor was more red and more viscid than any spilled brandy they had ever seen.
A second or two later both saw what I had looked for and seen at the first glance. From the neck of Murad Reis there were two curious projections. One, about eight inches long, could be the wooden or bone handle of a carving knife. The other, on the opposite side, looking like shining silver dotted with red drops, was undoubtedly the tip-end of a long blade.
The little nobleman whirled on me, chalk white, and shaking with fury.
"You'll hang for this, God damn you."
I did not need to answer, for Sir Edwin spoke in low, well-modulated tones.
"Don't talk rot, my lord."
Beside himself, Lord Tarlton rushed to the kitchen door and flung it open. Through the doorway I caught a glimpse of Jim, putting glasses into a cabinet, and a footman.
"You did it, you black devil, at your master's orders," rose the rasping, frantic voice.
"Did what, please, suh?"
"You there, you footman—you know when he left this room. You saw him come back and wash his hands. Come out with it. Don't try to shield him or you'll get it too—"
"Your ludship, 'e ain't left the room since you gentlemen was at table, and that's the truest word I ever spoke," the pale footman answered.
"Can you swear to that?" Sir Edwin broke in.
"Aye, I can, your honor, and burn me if I lie, and Tilly there will tell you the same." He pointed to a gasping kitchen maid.
"We've all three been 'ere, your honor, talking of this and that—" the girl stammered.
"Sir Edwin, I was partially to blame for leaving that carving knife where Captain Holmes could get hold of it," I broke in. "They say there's nothing like guilt, abetted by strong drink, to induce self-destruction."