Sax Rohmer - The Golden Scorpion

and a darker mystery. The horror of the night had been no dream but

an almost incredible reality. He now saw before him an agent of the

man in the cowl; he perceived that he was in some way entangled in an

affair vastly more complex and sinister than a case of petty larceny.

"Has the golden scorpion anything to do with the matter?" he demanded

abruptly.

And in the eyes of his beautiful captive he read the answer. She

flinched again as she had done when he had taunted her with being a

thief; but he pressed his advantage remorselessly.

"So you were concerned in the death of Sir Frank Narcombe!" he said.

"I was not!" she cried at him fiercely, and her widely opened eyes

were magnificent. "Sir Frank Narcombe is----"

She faltered--and ceased speaking, biting her lip which had become

tremulous again.

"Sir Frank Narcombe is?" prompted Stuart, feeling himself to stand

upon the brink of a revelation.

"I know nothing of him--this Sir Frank Narcombe."

Stuart laughed unmirthfully.

"Am I, by any chance, in danger of sharing the fate of that

distinguished surgeon?" he asked.

His question produced an unforeseen effect. Mlle. Dorian suddenly

rested her jewelled hands upon his shoulders, and he found himself

looking hungrily into those wonderful Eastern eyes.

"If I swear that I speak the truth, will you believe me?" she

whispered, and her fingers closed convulsively upon his shoulders.

He was shaken. Her near presence was intoxicating. "Perhaps," he said

unsteadily.

"Listen, then. _Now_ you are in danger, yes. Before, you were not, but

now you must be very careful. Oh! indeed, indeed, I tell you true! I

tell you for your own sake. Do with me what you please. I do not care.

It does not matter. You ask me why I come here. I tell you that also.

I come for what is in the long envelope--look, I cannot hide it. It

is on the fire!"

Stuart turned and glanced toward the grate. A faint wisp of brown

smoke was arising from a long white envelope which lay there. Had the

fire been actually burning, it must long ago have been destroyed.

More than ever mystified, for the significance of the envelope was

not evident to him, he ran to the grate and plucked the smouldering

paper from the embers.

As he did so, the girl, with one quick glance in his direction,

snatched her cloak, keys and bag and ran from the room. Stuart heard

the door close, and racing back to the table he placed the slightly

charred envelope there beside the fragment of gold and leapt to the

door.

"Damn!" he said.

His escaped prisoner had turned the key on the outside. He was locked

in his own study!

Momentarily nonplussed, he stood looking at the closed door. The sound

of a restarted motor from outside the house spurred him to action. He

switched off the lamps, crossed the darkened room and drew back the

curtain, throwing open the French windows. Brilliant moonlight bathed

the little lawn with its bordering of high privet hedges. Stuart ran

out as the sound of the receding car reached his ears. By the time

that he had reached the front of the house the street was vacant from

end to end. He walked up the steps to the front door, which he

unfastened with his latch-key. As he entered the hall, Mrs. M'Gregor

appeared from her room.

"I did no' hear ye go out with Miss Dorian," she said.

"That's quite possible, Mrs. M'Gregor, but she has gone, you see."

"Now tell me, Mr. Keppel, did ye or did ye no' hear the wail o' the

pibroch the night?

"No--I am afraid I cannot say that I did, Mrs. M'Gregor," replied

Stuart patiently. "I feel sure you must be very tired and you can

justifiably turn in now. I am expecting no other visitor. Good-night."

Palpably dissatisfied and ill at ease, Mrs. M'Gregor turned away.

"Good-night, Mr. Keppel," she said.

Stuart, no longer able to control his impatience, hurried to the study

door, unlocked it and entered. Turning on the light, he crossed and

hastily drew the curtains over the window recess, but without

troubling to close the window which he had opened. Then he returned

to the writing-table and took up the sealed envelope whose presence

in his bureau was clearly responsible for the singular visitation of

the cowled man and for the coming of the lovely Mlle. Dorian.

The "pibroch of the M'Gregors": He remembered something--something

which, unaccountably, he hitherto had failed to recall: that fearful

wailing in the night--which had heralded the coming of the cowled

man!--or had it been a _signal_ of some kind?

He stared at the envelope blankly, then laid it down and stood looking

for some time at the golden scorpion's tail. Finally, his hands

resting upon the table, he found that almost unconsciously he had

been listening--listening to the dim night sounds of London and to

the vague stirrings within the house.

"_Now_, you are in danger. Before, you were not...."

Could he believe her? If in naught else, in this at least surely she

had been sincere? Stuart started--then laughed grimly.

A clock on the mantel-piece had chimed the half-hour.

Detective-Inspector Dunbar arrived at New Scotland Yard in a veritable

fever of excitement. Jumping out of the cab he ran into the building

and without troubling the man in charge of the lift went straight on

upstairs to his room. He found it to be in darkness and switched on

the green-shaded lamp which was suspended above the table. Its light

revealed a bare apartment having distempered walls severely decorated

by an etching of a former and unbeautiful Commissioner. The blinds

were drawn. A plain, heavy deal table (bearing a blotting-pad, a

pewter ink-pot, several pens and a telephone), together with three

uncomfortable chairs, alone broke the expanse of highly polished

floor. Dunbar glanced at the table and then stood undecided in the

middle of the bare room, tapping his small, widely separated teeth

with a pencil which he had absently drawn from his waistcoat pocket.

He rang the bell.

A constable came in almost immediately and stood waiting just inside

the door.

"When did Sergeant Sowerby leave?" asked Dunbar.

"About three hours ago, sir."

"What!" cried Dunbar. "Three hours ago! But I have been here myself

within that time--in the Commissioner's office."

"Sergeant Sowerby left before then. I saw him go."

"But, my good fellow, he has been back again. He spoke to me on the

telephone less than a quarter of an hour ago."

"Not from here, sir."

"But I say it _was_ from here!" shouted Dunbar fiercely; "and I told

him to wait for me."

"Very good, sir. Shall I make inquiries?"

"Yes. Wait a minute. Is the Commissioner here?"

"Yes, sir, I believe so. At least I have not seen him go."

"Find Sergeant Sowerby and tell him to wait here for me," snapped

Dunbar.

He walked out into the bare corridor and along to the room of the

Assistant Commissioner. Knocking upon the door, he opened it

immediately, and entered an apartment which afforded a striking

contrast to his own. For whereas the room of Inspector Dunbar was

practically unfurnished, that of his superior was so filled with

tables, cupboards, desks, bureaux, files, telephones, bookshelves

and stacks of documents that one only discovered the Assistant

Commissioner sunk deep in a padded armchair and a cloud of tobacco

smoke by dint of close scrutiny. The Assistant Commissioner was small,