# The House of the Falcon/Chapter 2
### CHAPTER II THE LISTENER

"Now, what do you think of it all?" repeated Whittaker. He rubbed his bald forehead with a plump hand and cast birdlike glances at the girl beside him.
Whittaker flattered himself that he could tell a good story well, and that, having trotted over most of the globe, he had good stories to tell. Moreover the finest young woman of the Château had been listening to him attentively.
In the upper corridors of the Château music echoed from the orchestra of the ballroom, popular music with a tang to it. Whittaker's eyes had watched the girl's slippered foot tracing a dainty accompaniment. But she had smiled away several men who had come up to urge her to dance—had refused them, to listen to him. Whittaker glowed.
"Did it really happen, Mr. Whittaker?"
He liked the way her words slurred together softly, after the manner of the women born in the South of the United States. Whittaker believed that he was an excellent judge of women. So he permitted himself to admire the girl's tawny hair, dressed low on her neck, almost touching her bare shoulders.
She carried herself devilishly well, he thought, and had a haughty eye. Came of one of the oldest Southern families, Kentucky, he believed, and knew it. Her father was rich. They went the round of Fifth ​Avenue, St. Augustine, the Riviera, and Canada—the Château, at Quebec.
"Of course, Miss Rand," Whittaker was aggrieved. "You know Major Fraser-Carnie, don't you? Well, when you see him, ask him about it He told me the story. And I"—he looked up hopefully—"I have arrived at an explanation."
Leaning back comfortably in the settee Whittaker contemplated Edith Rand, who, with gray eyes half closed, was staring out of the drawing-room window at the lights of the Château terrace.
Beyond the lights, the mist over the broad bosom of the St. Lawrence was luminous under an invisible moon. But Edith Rand did not see that. She was wondering why the man in the chair by the fireplace within a few feet of them was listening so intently to what the globe-trotter was saying.
She knew he was listening because his cigarette had burned his fingers and he had dropped it hastily. He was playing solitaire on a green card table drawn up before his chair and was making palpable mistakes.
When the chatter of people passing in from the dining-room or leaving the ballroom had drowned Whittaker's voice, the man had leaned ever so slightly nearer. She wished he would turn around.
"Most people would say," Whittaker argued, "that the natives of the caravan—the one that took the white man away from Kashgar, you know—were robbers, brigands from the hills. Kashgar is north of the English lines in upper India, and it is full of outlaws."
"No," said Edith Rand. "You said they only took the man himself, not his belongings."
"Precisely—exactly what I was going to point out." Whittaker joggled his eyeglass triumphantly, "Now ​I have heard other people say that the whole queer event was a conspiracy. The white man in short was an outlaw, as well as the—caravaneers. That was why he lurked in the bazaar instead of going to his own countrymen in the modern city of Kashgar.
"But my own opinion, my dear Miss Rand, is this. My theory is that the white man was carried off as a punishment for some crime he had committed. A crime against the natives, you know. Robbed a temple, or—ah—something of the kind. One-Eye—the chap of the sheepskins—drugged him and then went to fetch his gang. Helpless under the influence of the drug, the white man was borne away to his fate. Eh, what?"
Edith Rand was silent. She had observed that the card player had returned to his solitaire with fresh enthusiasm; he was placing red cards upon black, quite correctly. He had even lit another cigarette.
"And now," continued Whittater, convinced of the success of his narrative, "we come to the sequel. You remember that the white man's servant, Jain Ali Beg, ran away from Kashgar and was missing—tor some time. A year later he turned up at one of the English Stations in the Kashmir hills five hundred miles away to the south in upper India. Major Fraser-Carnie, your friend, saw him.
"Jain Ali Beg," nodded the globe-trotter, "was arrested. Doubtless, you wonder why. He had in his possession the personal effects and the rifle of his master—claimed they had been given him by the white effendi before his master was carried off. But Fraser-Carnie had no doubt that Jain Ali Beg robbed the man."
As Whittaker said this Edith Rand saw that the ​listener laid down his cards entirely, with the game half finished, and began to tap upon the green surface of the table with blunt, powerful fingers.
"And Jain Ali Beg was glad to be arrested. He had been running away because he was very much afraid. Not of arrest, but of something in Kashgar. Perhaps, of the caravan. Picture the scene to yourself—a lonely hill station with the British officer standing at the door of his quarters talking to the fear-sick native.
"The next moment Jain Ali Beg was lying on the doorstep, knifed. And the murderer who had come up behind the house was my friend of the sheepskins—One-Eye, the personal conductor of the caravan. The queer chap actually took the pains to explain why he had killed Jain Ali Beg. He said:
"For the space of three moons I have followed in the tracks of this one'—he pointed to the body—'to give to a faithless servant the reward that he has stored up for himself.'
"Then One-Eye vanished around the bungalow and, by George, the native servants of the station refused to try to follow him! They said a curious thing. They said:
"'Sahib, when the lightning strikes, does any one follow?'
"And that," Whittaker concluded triumphantly, "that, my dear Miss Rand, was precisely what the natives of the Kashgar bazaar said when the caravan came and carried off your white man. Strange, what?"
"Are you sure," questioned a quiet voice beside them, "the man was really dead?"
Edith Rand observed that the card player had turned ​and was looking at them fixedly, his brown face serious.
"Eh, why—he was stabbed four times about the heart, as dead as Mahomet——"
"Not Jain Ali Beg." The card player shook his head impatiently. "The man in Kashgar."
The stranger pronounced the native names in a certain sonorous fashion quite different from the flat phrases of Whittaker.
"Oh, the hunter." Whittaker rallied to the defense of his story. "Well, there's not much doubt that he is dead, after all that. He was never seen around there again, of course. You see there was something spooky about that caravan. You don't think he isn't dead, do you?"
The card player smiled. "A case of corpus delicti is sometimes difficult to prove," he observed. And now his glance rested on the girl, keenly appraising, as if he were probing for what might be in her thoughts.
Then his smile changed and he stood up, his dark eyes intent upon her. Few men failed to render tribute to the beauty of Edith Rand. His brows raised tentatively at Whittaker.
"Pardon me," the globe-trotter obeyed the signal with some reluctance. He felt that the spell of his story had been shattered. "Permit me. Miss Rand, to introduce Edouard Monsey."
With a ready courtesy the newcomer bowed over Edith's hand. In spite of his almost perfect English the girl felt that he was of foreign birth. She was vaguely surprised that Monsey should be an acquaintance of Whittaker—although her companion seemed to know everybody. For the past hour she had ​fancied that Monsey had been wholly absorbed in hearing Whittaker's story.
She had seen the man at intervals about the Château—during rides along the heights, and once when she was walking alone along her favorite promenade on the ramparts. On that occasion she had been aware that Monsey had followed her with his eyes.
"I have had the pleasure," remarked Monsey, "of meeting your father, Miss Rand, in the Château. We had something in common, you know. He is going to India on business."
He looked at her questioningly.
"Daddy will have to take me," she drawled. "He would be right lonely without me. I always go with him. Mr. Whittaker was trying to frighten me with his stories——"
"But it was true," protested that gentleman. "It was quite true."
Monsey shrugged. "Kashgar is hardly India, my dear chap. Calcutta, or Kashmir for that matter, is safer than New York."
Edith turned to him impulsively. She was an uncommonly outspoken person, as her aunt, who was traveling with the Rands, had frequently reminded her—with the added prophecy that her disposition would undoubtedly get her into trouble, unless she married first.
But the girl was quite heart-free and she was tremendously content with the path in life that Arthur Rand, her father, had opened for her. She liked to wander, to see things, and to ask questions.
"Are you from India, Mr. Monsey?"
Instinctively she felt that she should say "Captain Monsey," the man was so plainly a former soldier. ​His accent hinted at French schooling; the name might mean anything. India, to Edith, represented a pleasure spot frequented by likable men who played polo and owned horses—the girl had been brought up to love horses.
Monsey hesitated momentarily, looking at her.
"I have been there," he said, and changed the subject, requesting the favor of a dance. "A privilege so great that only the necessity of your coming departure emboldens me to ask for it. Miss Rand, may I be permitted to say that you dance as well as you ride, and that is—perfectly?"
It was one of the requirements of her world that she should do so—the festive world that was her birthright
Edith could appreciate the formal courtesy of the stranger, Monsey. It was that of the elder school of French gentlemen. But, even while the music called her, she found that her mood had changed.
"Let's walk up to the ramparts," she cried "I visit them every night, and sit on a wonderful old cannon. If you don't mind——"
As she tripped through the lobby with Monsey at her side, her quick eye sighted letters in the array behind the desk in the pigeonhole that belonged to her. Mail always held a fascination for Edith and she could not resist claiming the letters, handing them to Monsey for safe-keeping.
Clouds were passing over the surface of the moon, rendering the light on the wooden steps fitful. When they ascended from the last platform four hundred feet above the roofs of the river front, a fresh breeze touched their faces.
"Do you not find it dangerous?" Monsey asked ​curiously. "I should think your aunt would object——"
"She does," assented Edith, "that's why she is not invited."
The girl perched herself on the bole of an obsolete cannon that rested its muzzle on the grass near by. She patted it in friendly fashion. "Old war dog, I wonder did you growl at enemies in your time? Do they have forts like this in India, Mr. Monsey?"
Standing beside her, he could see the girl's from against the sky and admire the light that glinted in the tangle of her hair. A remarkably willful person, he thought, wishing that he could gauge her mind.
"I have heard there are many such in northern India in the mountains. You will doubtless visit them, because the early summer heat will be oppressive in the south."
"Major Fraser-Carnie lives in Kashmir, I think," she nodded. "We will visit him for a while—until Daddy has finished his business in Calcutta."
Inwardly she was wondering why he parried any direct allusion to India. She remembered now that her father had mentioned meeting a man in the Château who had come not long ago from that country and who had given him some useful information. Monsey, she reflected, did not seem inclined to give her useful information.
"If you are in Kashmir, Miss Rand," he observed after a brief silence, "you will doubtless be in Srinagar. I have already assured your father that I may have the pleasure of meeting him there. Business"—he laughed—"recalls me from my—ah—vacation, I believe you call it—yes?" Monsey tapped the pocket of his dinner jacket. "I have here a summons to ​return. It is my misfortune that I must hasten by the most direct way, the tiresome C.P.R. boat, while you will cross from New York."
There was something fantastic, it seemed to Edith, in the thought of any one's taking a vacation from India in America, even in quaint Quebec. And Monsey did not appear to her to be a business man. Of course he might merely be cultivating her to gain the good will of powerful Arthur Rand——
"In Srinagar," his low voice went on, "you will grant me the happiness of the dance that kismet has denied me here?"
"Yes, of course."
"Ah, you will not forget? Kashmir is the garden of India: Srinagar is the jewel of Kashmir."
Monsey was speaking to her of the Himalayas, of floating pleasure palaces of dead kings, and the shrines of the hills that were built before the coming of Europeans. They were walking back slowly toward the stairs, and Edith was wrapped up in his description of the place she had looked forward to seeing. A cloud was passing over the moon's face.
The girl was at the edge of the parapet and she stepped out upon what she thought to be the head of the stairway. A high-heeled foot slid over the brink of the height and she fell to her knees.
All the blood seemed to leave her heart, and every nerve tingled with swift pain. She cried out as she slipped downward and glimpsed the docks in the shadowy darkness below.
Then she felt an arm about her shoulders. Monsey's sharp exclamation of alarm penetrated the roaring in her ears. He must have thrown himself down on the grass beside her.
​By degrees that seemed to Edith infinitely slow the grasp on her shoulders tightened and she was drawn up. Above her the stars danced in a maze of light and a dozen moons circled the sky.
She was standing again in the grass, well back from the edge, Monsey's arms around her, and his face peering into hers. "Thank you," she heard herself saying quite calmly. "I was very foolish——" She drew away, leaning against the cannon for support.
"It was my kismet," he nodded, "that I should be of aid to you. Now you will not forget the dance at Srinagar. I must see you again." His voice, always low, was little more than a whisper. "Because I shall not live until then."
Edith was repeating to herself that he had saved her life. He had acted promptly, at great risk to himself. The man seemed to think only of her.
Yet, even while thanking him, Edith was conscious of a strong feeling of aversion. More than his, last words offended her. The young girl was sensitive to impressions. Something, perhaps, that she had seen in his face repelled her.
When she returned to her room Edith glanced through the letters that Monsey had given back to her, a note from a school chum, invitations. One missive caught her attention. It was a single sheet of blue paper, and the envelope from which it came had already been opened. On the blue sheet several lines of meaningless characters peered at her.
"How strange!" Edith whistled softly, a habit of hers when puzzled.
The odd lettering was very neat—pothooks, dashes, and scrolls, all following each other in regular ​succession. It was not shorthand. Nor was it any language with which Edith was acquainted. But underneath it she noticed some penciled words in English.
Her smooth brow wrinkled as she reread the penciled phrases which were evidently a translation of the message.
The Falcon is on the wing, searching the City of the Sun.
Take care.
It was like poetry, she thought—like a bit from the Rubaiyat. Or was it a code? Her father had used code at times—writing apples when he meant profits, and plums instead of losses, and so forth. Yet here the second line seemed to make good sense as it was.
The phrase "City of the Sun" had been scratched out and "Srinagar" substituted. Was this code? The word "Srinagar" gave her an inkling of how the blue sheet had come into her possession.
For the first time she inspected the envelope, the open envelope from which she had taken it. It was addressed to Edouard Monsey, the Château, Quebec, Province of Quebec, Canada. In one corner was the legend, "To be held until called for."
A foreign stamp was attached, blurred over by an unreadable postmark. The writing on the envelope was English, but angular and stilted as if penned by an unfamiliar hand.
Edith replaced the blue sheet, and rang for a boy. To him she delivered the missive with instructions to take it to Mr. Monsey and say that he had given it to Miss Rand by mistake that evening.
It was clear that Monsey had handed the blue letter to her when returning those she had given him. ​She regretted that she had, unwittingly, read his letter. When she tried to put it out of her mind she found that she could not do so.
What a queer phrase—the Falcon! She had always connected the word with knights and the days of chivalry. Were there falcons to-day? Or was it a kind of code word for something else? Edith did not know.
"It must be code, after all. He said he had received a business letter," mused Edith, drowsily, and straightway went to bed and to sleep.
By now the lighted windows of the Château had blinked into darkness. The twisted streets of Quebec had long been silent. The pleasure-stage was deserted by its guests, the curtain drawn. Players and attendants alike slept.
Somewhere in the old French city under the height chimes rang out from a cathedral tower. Answering bells sent their notes forth under the stars. A chorus of ironlike harmony welled from invisible sources.
Though the pleasure-stage was dark in the hours before dawn, the chimes of Quebec did not sleep. The roofs of the city were still, under the eye of the moon. A solitary note of carriage bells struck into the chimes—from the slope of a dark street.
Monsey, who had been dozing, dressed, in his chair, swore softly and leaped to his feet.
"Confound the bells!" he muttered, lifting clenched hands to his head.
In the confused instant of wakening from heavy, troubled sleep he had fancied the chimes were human voices. Into his senses had come the distant, ​wailing cry of cloaked muezzins summoning to prayer and shouting forth the salutation to a prophet.
He had been dreaming, and the effect was still strong upon him. He fancied that cries of anguish were ringing in his head—cries drowned by the clamor of huge trumpets lifted to the skies.
"Horns of Jericho!" he exclaimed, and this time he did not speak in English.
His fancy still retained the echo of the chimes distorted into another sound—the summons of ten-foot trumpets reverberating from the impulse of the lungs of powerful men, and reëchoed from distant hillsides as if from cliffs in the sky. His memory pictured hooded heads raised to the first light of dawn, and lips murmuring age-old prayers.
The carriage bells of Quebec had taken the semblance of camel bells of another country that jangled as long-haired beasts pad-padded over the snow to the hoa-hoa of caravaneers.
Then he glanced from the window out over the mist-shrouded river, laughed, and stretched.
"Nerves, by Jove! Didn't know I had 'em."