Chapter 10

A QUEER MARK

Frank was not at all pleased when he heard that Denham was coming down to the Shanty. The experiment was too risky, as there was every chance that the young man would recognise him, in which case he would at once put the revengeful Berry on the scent. But Jarman did not look at the matter in this light, and explained himself after sundry questions.

"Have you met Denham often?" he asked.

"Yes. He was always dodging round the Berry establishment."

"I thought he lived with them."

"No, he had diggings some way off. Berry, so he told me, is a kind of guardian to him."

"Does a man require a guardian at the age of twenty-three?"

"Denham's twenty-five. He's almost the same age as I am, although I look older," said Lancaster; "and I should think, seeing what a fool he is, that he will require a guardian all his life."

"Then you think he's more fool than knave?" asked Eustace, ruminating.

Frank nodded emphatically. "I don't think he's a rascal at all, whatever the Captain may be. Denham's just a silly, good-natured ass, who would give his head away. He has a weak will, and is quite under the thumb of Berry."

"Did you fraternise with Denham?"

"No. His cackle got on my nerves. But he knows me well enough to spot me should I betray myself."

"Then you must not betray yourself," said Eustace, decidedly. "So far as looks go, he won't know you. I would defy even a detective to penetrate your disguise."

"Denham may twig me by my voice."

"I don't think from what I saw of him that he is so observant. Besides, I shall give you something to roughen your voice. You can say you have a cold."

Frank stared at his friend. "You seem to be up to all the tricks."

Jarman nodded. "I thought of being a detective myself once, and I practised for a time. I have all the materials for disguise here. I told you so when I made you up as Desmond O'Neil. I can get into the skin of a character with ease, and that's what you have to do. You are not Frank Lancaster, remember, but Desmond O'Neil from County Kerry."

"But, I say, Eustace, why do you want Denham down here?"

"Well, I wish him to report to the Berry lot that there is no concealment about me. They may suspect that I know something of your whereabouts, and I don't want either one to drop down upon me. Denham is a fool, and what he sees he will report to them in his artless fashion. Consequently, Berry and Fan will trust me. I want to get in with them and learn what they are up to."

"Do you think Denham can tell you?"

"No," said Eustace, promptly, "I don't. Whatever the game is, that boy is in the dark. He has much too loose a tongue for Berry to trust him with his secrets."

"But what's Berry bothering about him for?"

"That's what I want to find out. Denham may know something. For instance, he mentioned the name of Balkis, as I told you."

"What's the use of that?" asked Frank, gloomily.

"This much. Starth had her portrait, and Berry is in touch with her. I want to learn why Berry calls at an opium shop at the docks. He's going there, I'm sure, to see Balkis."

The two were standing by the window chatting in this way. As Eustace repeated the name of Balkis there sounded a low moan, which made the speakers turn. Miss Cork, with the tablecloth over her arm, stood at the open door, her thin face as white as the linen she bore. Apparently she had entered silently, as was her wont, to lay the table for luncheon, and had overheard the name. Like a statue she stood, her vacant eyes fixed on Jarman.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Miss Cork's lips moved. "Balkis!" she said in a whisper.

"What about Balkis. Do you know the name?"

"Balkis!" said Miss Cork again. Then she threw down the cloth and ran back to the kitchen. Eustace followed and found her moaning in a chair. Rather brutally he shook her.

"What's all this?" he asked.

Miss Cork went on moaning. "I had a child--" she began; then shut up, and not another word could he get out of her.

After many fruitless inquiries Eustace returned to the sitting-room to explain. "I told you I didn't trust her," said Frank, whose fears took shape at once. "She is a silent, secretive woman. I am sure she will get me into trouble. Why should she know that name?"

"I can't say. And now she talks of some child--her own, she says. But you needn't be afraid, Frank, she's as true as steel."

"I don't trust her," said Frank, doggedly. "Where did you pick her up?"

Jarman, driven into a corner, replied reluctantly: "In a London court."

"A police-court?" inquired Lancaster; then, when he received a nod, went on: "Then she's dangerous. What do you know of her past?"

"Nothing. She never speaks of it. The poor wretch was taken up for vagrancy, and afterwards was handed over to the missionary. I knew the chap, and he told me what a capital cook the woman was, and how she needed a good home to put her right. She came to me as Miss Cork, and I have had no reason to regret having played the part of a good Samaritan. But it's strange that the name of Balkis should upset her."

"Won't she explain?"

"No. She is a very obstinate woman when the fit takes her."

But the fit apparently did not seal Miss Cork's mouth on this occasion. A soft knock at the door told of her return, and she presented herself quietly. Picking up the cloth she proceeded to lay the table, and without looking at the men proceeded to exculpate herself.

"I ask your pardon," she said, in her whispering voice. "I ask your pardon, Mr. Jarman, and yours, sir, but the name Balkis--" Here she stopped, and laid her hand on her heart. "I had a child of that name."

"Ah!" said Jarman, sympathetically, while Frank still looked suspicious. "And the name brings sad memories to you?"

Miss Cork nodded. "I'm a married woman," she said softly, "but my husband left me to starve--with the child, and--and--"

"And the child died?"

"No?" she burst out fiercely. "The child was stolen!"

"By whom?"

Miss Cork stopped, and her fingers worked convulsively, as though they were clutching at a throat. "I wish I knew--I wish I knew!" she said, savagely, and the expression of her lean face surprised Jarman, who had always considered her an apathetic woman. Perhaps his looks warned her that she was betraying too much of her unknown past, for she pulled herself up with a faint titter.

"I'm a Billericay woman myself," she began, when Jarman cut her short.

"That's nonsense!" he said sternly. "You know you are not."

"I've said all I have to say," said Miss Cork, quite irrelevantly, "and if you aren't pleased, Mr. Jarman, I'll go."

"I don't want you to go, and I ask you nothing," he replied.

"My child was called Balkis," went on Miss Cork, "and she was stolen five years ago. I've been looking for her ever since. She will be seventeen years old by now, and I lost her five years ago--yes, five years ago," she kept on repeating. "I've been looking for her ever since."

"A strange name Balkis?" said Jarman, watching her.

"My husband was in the East. It came from the East, that name. I'm a Billericay woman myself, and--" She giggled, then shook her head and withdrew swiftly.

The two men looked at one another.

"She's quite mad, and harmless," said Eustace.

"Quite mad, and dangerous," replied Frank. "I don't trust her."

Confirmed in this opinion by the strange demeanour of Miss Cork, he watched her closely. She muttered to herself frequently, and kept counting on her fingers. Sometimes she would utter the name of Balkis and laugh. Her laughter was not pleasant. It did not seem to Frank that she retained any pleasant memories of the name--yet if it was that of her child she should have done so. Jarman did not trouble about Miss Cork's eccentricities. The meals were well cooked and well served, and there was no fault to be found with the woman's housekeeping. She was odd in her manner, and appeared to be labouring under suppressed excitement. Twice Frank caught her listening, but not in sufficiently open a way to admit of rebuke. As his position was a delicate one he became alarmed; but trusting in Jarman's influence over the woman, and his claim to her gratitude, he tried to dismiss his fears.

Denham duly arrived, and speedily made himself at home. Thanks to some herbal decoction given to him by Eustace, Lancaster welcomed the visitor in a hoarse voice--a regular nestling's note. Natty did not recognise in Mr. O'Neil, the dark secretary, the fair-haired Frank Lancaster, whom he had seen frequently in Bloomsbury. He was completely deceived, and Frank felt more at his ease, being now certain that his disguise was all that could be desired. And, luckily, Natty did not give him much of his frivolous company, as he was mostly with Jarman or hanging round Rose Cottage.

By this time Frank, introduced by Mrs. Perth, had made the acquaintance of his divinity. She likewise never suspected any disguise, and was quite at her ease with the new secretary. Frank's heart beat hard when she offered him her hand, and he could hardly see her face for a mist before his eyes. Now that he heard her voice, and saw her gracious manner, he fell more in love with her than ever. It was a strange feeling, and one that he had not experienced in his wooing of Fairy Fan. But, from the misery he suffered, there was no doubt that it was genuine passion.

Mildred was very amiable with him, and they were together a great deal. Mrs. Perth had taken a fancy to Frank, whose manners she pronounced perfect, and talked much to him. She even discussed the death of Walter Starth, and the probability of Lancaster being the assassin. But by this time Frank had schooled himself into hearing the case talked of without moving so much as an eyelid. In a couple of weeks he became quite an accepted fact in the life of Rose Cottage, and, indeed, of the village. Even Mrs. Baker had ceased to ask him questions. Several letters addressed to Desmond O'Neil, with the Dublin postmark, had arrived, so Mrs. Baker was quite satisfied that he came from the country whence she procured her butter. From being a nine days' wonder in that quiet Essex hamlet Frank became a comparative nonentity, which was exactly the state of things Jarman wished to bring about. Thus, when Denham arrived on his three days' visit, there was nothing likely to connect the secretary with the bedraggled man who had arrived so late at night. And Miss Cork, in spite of her odd ways and Lancaster's suspicions, kept her own counsel most faithfully.

One afternoon Frank, now quite at his ease in his disguise, strolled over to the cottage to ask for afternoon tea. He brought a book of poems in his pocket, for Mildred was fond of hearing him read. Frank could read admirably, which is a rare accomplishment, and often he would declaim poems to Mrs. Perth and Mildred. But on this occasion there was no chance of enjoying Browning, for Jenny Arrow from the Rectory was present. She was a kittenish damsel of eighteen, with a freckled face, a turn-up nose, and a gay, vivacious manner. Also she had a vein of romance, and cherished an unrequited affection for the dark secretary. She confided this to Mildred.

"Doesn't he look a romance, dear?" said Jenny, when gazing from the drawing-room window she saw Frank approach. "Don't you love him, Milly?"

Mildred laughed, "I have had quite enough of love," she said. "That Denham boy worries my life out. Then there's your brother Billy."

"Oh, Billy's an ass!" said Jenny, contemptuously. "He falls in love with everyone he sees. I suppose you will marry Mr. Darrel?"

"Certainly not," said Mildred, quickly. "What put such an idea into your head, Jenny?"

The young lady nodded sagaciously. "Oh, I know," said she; "it's not to see poor pa that Mr. Darrel comes down here. Ma saw that. Ma says he's in love with you, and, being rich, you're sure to marry him."

"I would never marry for money, Jenny," said Mildred, thinking of Eustace. "Mr. Darrel will never make me his wife."

"Oh, but he's so very rich."

"Then marry him yourself."

"I would rather marry Mr. O'Neil."

Mildred laughed again, but all the same, for some reason inexplicable to herself, felt annoyed. "Here _is_ Mr. O'Neil; you'd better propose."

"Mildred, if you reveal my love--oh! how I shall hate you."

But Mildred, watching the approaching figure of the man she knew merely as O'Neil, did not reply. She was wondering why she was so attracted towards him. He was not particularly good-looking, nor had he shown any marked preference for her society. Indeed, she had laughed with Mrs. Perth over the attentions which O'Neil paid the old lady. But there was something about the secretary which made Mildred's pulses beat as they never beat in the presence of Jarman. Perhaps, although she never knew, it was a case of telepathy, for Frank was always moved beyond his usual self when in her presence. But he never revealed it by his manner. Mildred, however, was not sufficiently a psychologist to analyse her feeling, so did not search too closely into the reason of her sensations. Still, she could not help wondering why she felt annoyed by Jenny's silly remark.

"I think you had better take that Denham boy," said Mildred to Jenny. "He bothers me greatly, and he's the kind of donkey who would fall in love with anyone."

"I don't regard myself as anyone," said Jenny, with dignity. "Besides, he's not half so nice as Mr. O'Neil."

Mildred acknowledged this with a sigh, and welcomed O'Neil with a blush, which he marked and wondered at. "Where is Mr. Jarman?" she asked.

"He has gone bathing with Billy and Denham," said Frank, standing outside and looking in at the window. "I have done my work, and came to be rewarded."

"With what--cakes and ale?" asked Jenny, languishing.

"Their modern equivalent in the shape of afternoon tea."

"Let's have it outside on the lawn. Oh, Mildred, do!"

Miss Starth assented. "Mrs. Perth is lying down," she said, "and as the room is rather hot, we may as well have a picnic on the lawn."

Forthwith she ordered the tea, which was brought out by the one servant of the establishment. But Jenny had to lay the cloth, and Frank was told to place the tables under the noble elm. In a few minutes they were all seated, Mildred and Frank in chairs, and Jenny lying gracefully on the lawn. Every now and then she looked up adoringly at the secretary, who took no notice. But Mildred did, and so strong became that absurd feeling of irritation that she could willingly have slapped Jenny.

After a desultory conversation, Jenny asked when Denham was returning to town. "Billy will be sorry when he goes. He's awfully fond of Mr. Denham. The adventures that man's had in America are extraordinary."

"He comes from America, doesn't he?" asked Mildred, idly.

Jenny nodded. "And Billy says he's been a sailor, he thinks."

"He doesn't look much like a sailor," said Frank, contemptuously. "He has been wrapped up in cotton-wool all his life."

"Oh, no, he hasn't indeed," said Miss Arrow, eagerly. "He has lived in Mexico, and among the Indians--not the Red Indians, you know, but amongst those Cortez found."

"The Aztecs," said Mildred. "My dear girl, there are none left."

"Oh, yes, there are, Mr. Denham says so. Billy calls him Natty, because that's his name, and he and Billy are going to explore for hidden treasure. There's lots of it in Mexico."

"Denham's been reading romances," said Frank, disbelievingly.

"No," insisted Jenny, "he's had all sorts of adventures. Why, when he was just a baby, he was carried off by these Indians."

"How do you know?"

"He says so, and they tattooed him on the left arm, Billy says."

Frank sat up suddenly. "On the left arm?" he asked. "With what?"

"With a Scarlet Bat--the queerest thing, Billy says-- Oh! what's the matter?" Frank, profoundly moved, had fallen back in his chair.