The Bronze Bell Part 7

Amber glanced curiously round the room; sparely furnished, bare, unlovely, it seemed a most cheerless sort of spot to be considered a haven of peace.

"And now," concluded Rutton, "we have to move on."

"Because I've found you here?"

"Because you have found me."

"I don't understand."

"My dear boy, I never meant you should."

"But if you're in any danger--"

"I am not."

"You're not! But you just said--"

"I'm in no danger whatever; humanity is, if I'm found."

"I don't follow you at all."

Again Rutton smiled wearily. "I didn't expect you to, David. But this misadventure makes it necessary that I should tell you something; you must be made to believe in me. I beg you to; I'm neither mad nor making game of you." There was no questioning the sane sincerity of the man.

He continued slowly. "It's a simple fact, incredible but absolute, that, were my whereabouts to be made public, a great, a staggering blow would be struck against the peace and security of the world.... Don't laugh, David; I mean it."

"I'm not laughing, Rutton; but you must know that's a pretty large order. Most men would--"

"Call me mad. Yes, I know," Rutton took up his words as Amber paused, confused. "I can't expect you to understand me: you couldn't unless I were to tell you what I may not. But you know me--better, perhaps, than any living man save Doggott ... and one other. You know whether or not I would seek to delude you, David. And, knowing that I could not, you know why it seems to me imperative that, this hole being discovered, Doggott and I must betake ourselves elsewhere. Surely there must be solitudes----!" He rose with a gesture of impatience and began restlessly to move to and fro.

Amber started suddenly, flus.h.i.+ng. "If you mean--"

Rutton's kindly hand forced him back into his chair. "Sit down, David.

I never meant that--never for an instant dreamed you'd intentionally betray my secret. It's enough that you should know it, should occasionally think of me as being here, to bring misfortune down upon me, to work an incalculable disaster to the progress of this civilisation of ours."

"You mean," Amber asked uncertainly, "thought transference?"

"Something of the sort--yes." The man came to a pause beside Amber, looking down almost pitifully into his face. "I daresay all this sounds hopelessly melodramatic and neurotic and tommyrotic, David, but ... I can tell you nothing more. I'm sorry."

"But only let me help you--any way in my power, Rutton. There's nothing I'd not do...."

"I know, David, I know it. But my case is beyond human aid, since I am powerless to apply a remedy myself."

"And you _are_ powerless?"

Rutton was silent a long moment. Then, "Time will tell," he said quietly. "There is one way...." He resumed his monotonous round of the room.

Mechanically Amber began to smoke, trying hard to think, to penetrate by reasoning or intuition the wall of mystery which, it seemed, Rutton chose to set between himself and the world. The intense earnestness of the man's hopeless confession had carried conviction. Amber believed him, believed in the reality of his trouble; and, divining it dimly, a monstrous, menacing shape in the vagueness of the unknown, was himself dismayed and a little fearful. He owed much to this man, was bound to him by ties not only of grat.i.tude but of affection, yet, finding him distressed, found himself simultaneously powerless to render aid.

Inwardly mutinous, he had to school himself to quiescence; lacking the confidence which Rutton so steadfastly refused him, he was impotent.

Presently he grew conscious that Rutton was standing as if listening, his eyes averted to the windows. But when Amber looked they showed, beneath their half-drawn muslin shades, naught save the grey horizontal rush of snow beyond the panes. And he heard nothing save the endless raving of the maniac wind.

"What is it?" he inquired at length, unable longer to endure the tensity of the pause.

"Nothing. I beg your pardon, David." Rutton returned to his chair, making a visible effort to shake off his preoccupation. "It's an ugly night, out there. Lucky you blundered on this place. Tell me how it happened. What became of the other man--your friend?"

The thought of Quain stabbed Amber's consciousness with a mental pang as keen as acute physical anguish. He jumped up in torment. "G.o.d!" he cried chokingly. "I'd forgotten! He's out there on the bay, poor devil!--freezing to death if not drowned. Our boat went adrift somehow; Quain would insist on going after her in a leaky old skiff we found on the sh.o.r.e ... and didn't come back. I waited till it was hopeless, then concluded I'd make a try to cross to Shampton by way of the tidal bar.

And I must!"

"It's impossible," Rutton told him with grave sympathy.

"But I must; think of his wife and children, Rutton! There's a chance yet--a bare chance; he may have reached the boat. If he did, every minute I waste here is killing him by inches; he'll die of exposure!

But from Shampton we could send a boat--"

"The tide fulls about midnight to-night," interrupted Rutton, consulting his watch. "It's after nine,--and there's a heavy surf breaking over the bar now. By ten it'll be impa.s.sable, and you couldn't reach it before eleven. Be content, David; you're powerless."

"You're right--I know that," groaned Amber, his head in his hands. "I was afraid it was hopeless, but--but--"

"I know, dear boy, I know!"

With a gesture of despair Amber resumed his seat. For some time he remained deep sunk in dejection. At length, mastering his emotion, he looked up. "How did you know about Quain--that we were together?" he asked.

"Doggott saw you land this morning, and I've been watching you all day with my field-gla.s.ses, prepared to take cover the minute you turned my way. Don't be angry with me, David; it wasn't that I didn't yearn to see you face to face again, but that ... I didn't dare."

"Oh, that!" exclaimed Amber with an exasperated fling of his hand.

"Between the two of you--you and Quain--you'll drive me mad with worry."

"I'm sorry, David. I only wish I might say more. It hurts a bit to have you doubt me."

"I don't doubt," Amber declared in desperation; "at least, I mean I won't if you'll be sensible and let me stand by and see you through this trouble--whatever it is."

Rutton turned to the fire, his head drooping despondently. "That may not be," he said heavily. "The greatest service you can do me is to forget my existence, now and henceforth, erase our friends.h.i.+p from the tablets of your memory, pa.s.s me as a stranger should our ways ever cross again." He flicked the stub of a cigarette into the flames.

"Kismet!... I mean that, David, from my heart. Won't you do this for me--one last favour, old friend?"

"I'll try; I'll even promise, on condition that you send me word if ever you have need of me."

"That will be never."

"But if--"

"I'll send for you if ever I may, David; I promise faithfully. And in return I have your word?"

Amber nodded.

"Then...." Rutton attempted to divert the subject. "I think you said Quain? Any relation to Quain's 'Aryan Invasion of India?"

"The same man. He asked me down for the shooting--owns a country place across the bay: Tanglewood."

"A very able man; I wish I might have met him.... What of yourself?

What have you been doing these three years? Have you married?"