The Drums of Jeopardy | Page 6

blood of his glorious mother predominated.
How many were after him, and who? He had not been able to recognize
the man that night in Hong-Kong. That was the fate of the pursued: one
never dared pause to look back, while the pursuers had their man before
them always. If only he could have broken through into Greece,
England would have been easy. The only door open had been in the
East. It seemed incredible that he should be standing in this room, but
three hours from his goal.
America! The land of the free and the brave! And the irony of it was

that he must seek in America the only friends he had in the world. All
the Englishmen he had known and loved were dead. He had never
made friends with the French, though he loved France. In this country
alone he might successfully lose himself and begin life anew. The
British were British and the French were French; but in this
magnificent America they possessed the tenacity of the one and the
gayety of the other - these joyous, unconquered, speed-loving
Americans.
He took up the overcoat. Under the light it was no longer black but a
very deep green. On both sleeves there were narrow bands of a still
deeper green, indicating that gold or silver braid had once befrogged
the cuffs. Inside, soft silky Persian lamb; and he ran his fingers over the
fur thoughtfully. The coat was still impregnated with the strong odour
of horse. He cast it aside, never to touch it again. From the discarded
small coat he extracted a black wallet and opened it. That passport! He
wondered if there existed another more cleverly forged. It would not
have served an hour west of the Hindenburg Line; but in the East and
here in America no one had questioned it. In San Francisco they had
scarcely glanced at it, peace having come. Besides this passport the
wallet contained a will, ten bonds, a custom appraiser's receipt and a
sheaf of gold bills. The will, however, was perhaps one of the most
astonishing documents conceivable. It left unreservedly to Capt. John
Hawksley the contents of the wallet!
Within three hours of his ultimate destination! He knew all about great
cities. An hour after he left the train, if he so willed, he could lose
himself for all time.
>From the bottom of the kitbag he dug up a blue velours case, which
after a moment's hesitation he opened. Medals incrusted with precious
stones; but on the top was the photograph of a charming girl. blonde as
ripe wheat, and arrayed for the tennis court. It was this photograph he
wanted. Indifferently he tossed the case upon the centre table, and it
upset, sending the medals about with a ring and a tinkle.
The man in the next room heard this sound, and his eye roved
desperately. Some way to peer into yonder room! But there was no

transom, and he would not yet dare risk the fire escape. The young man
raised the photograph to his lips and kissed it passionately.
Then he hid it in the lining of his coat, there being a convenient rent in
the inside pocket.
"I must not think!" he murmured. "I must not!"
He became the hunted man again. He turned a chair upend and placed it
under the window. He tipped another in front of the door. On the
threshold of the bathroom door he deposited the water carafe and the
glasses. His bed was against the connecting door. No man would be
able to enter unannounced. He had no intention of letting himself fall
asleep. He would stretch out and rest. So he lit his pipe, banked the two
pillows, switched out the light, and lay down. Only the intermittent
glow of his pipe coal could be seen. Near the journey's end; and no
more tight-rope walking, with death at both ends, and death staring up
from below. Queer how the human being clung to life. What had he to
live for? Nothing. So far as he was concerned, the world had come to
an end. Sporting instinct; probably that was it; couldn't make up his
mind to shuffle off this mortal coil until he had beaten his enemies.
English university education had dulled the bite of his natural fatalism.
To carry on for the sport of it; not to accept fate but to fight it.
By chance his hand touched his spiky chin. Nevertheless, he would
have to enter New York just as he was. He had left his razor in a
Pullman washroom hurriedly one morning. He dared not risk a barber's
chair, especially these American chairs, that stretched one out in a most
helpless manner.
Slowly his pipe sank toward his breast.