The Mission of Mr. Eustace Greyne | Page 7

total strangers, failed to
elicit his whereabouts, and, finally, Mr. Greyne was flung forcibly
upward into the wagonlit, and caught by the contrôleur when the train

was actually moving out of the station.
A moment later he fell exhausted upon the pink-plush seat of his
compartment, realising his terrible position. He was now utterly alone;
without servant, hair-brushes, toothbrushes, razors, sponges, pajamas,
shoes. It was a solitude that might be felt. He thought of the sea journey
with no kindly hand to minister to him, the arrival in Africa with no
humble companion at his side, to wonder with him at the black
inhabitants and help him through the customs--to say nothing of the
manners. He thought of the dread homes of iniquity into which he must
penetrate by night in search of the material for the voracious
"Catherine." He had meant to take Darrell with him to them all--Darrell,
whose joyful delight in the prospect of exploring the Eastern fastnesses
of crime had been so boyish, so truly English in its frank, its even
boisterous sincerity.
And now he was utterly alone, almost like Robinson Crusoe.
The contrôleur came in to make the bed. Mr. Greyne told him the
dreadful story.
"No doubt he has been lured away, monsieur. The dressing-case was of
value?"
"Crocodile, gold fittings."
"Probably monsieur will never see him again. As likely as not he will
sleep in the Seine to-night, and at the morgue to-morrow."
Mr. Greyne shuddered. This was an ill omen for his expedition. He
drank a stiff whisky-and-soda instead of the usual barley water, and
went to bed to dream of bloody murders in which he was the victim.
When the train ran into Marseilles next morning he was an unshaven,
miserable man.
"Have I time to buy a tooth-brush," he inquired anxiously at the station,
"before the boat sails for Algiers?"

The chef de gare thought so. Monsieur had four hours, if that was
sufficient. Mr. Greyne hastened forth, had a Turkish bath, purchased a
new dressing-case, ate a hasty déjeuner, and took a cab to the wharf. It
was a long drive over the stony streets. He glanced from side to side,
watching the bustling traffic, the hurry of the nations going to and from
the ships. His eyes rested upon two Arabs who were striding along in
his direction. Doubtless they were also bound for Algiers. He thought
they looked most wicked, and hastily took a note of them for "African
Frailty." Beside his sense of loss and loneliness marched the sense of
duty. The great woman at home in Belgrave Square, founder of his
fortunes, mother of his children, she depended upon him. Even in his
own hour of need he would not fail her. He took a lead pencil, and
wrote down:
Saw two Arab ruffians. Bare legs. Look capable of anything. Should
not be surprised to hear that they had----
There he paused. That they had what? Done things. Of course, but what
things? That was the question. He exerted his imagination, but failed to
arrive at any conclusion as to their probable crimes. His knowledge of
wickedness was really absurdly limited. For the first time he felt
slightly ashamed of it, and began to wish he had gone into the militia.
He comforted himself with the thought that in a fortnight he would
probably be fit for the regular army. This thought cheered him slightly,
and it was with a slight smile upon his face that he welcomed the first
glimpse of the Général Bertrand, which was lying against the quay
ready to cast off at the stroke of noon. Most of the passengers were
aboard, but, as Mr. Greyne stepped out of his cab, and prepared to pay
the Maltese driver, a trim little lady, plainly dressed in black, and
carrying a tiny and rather coquettish hand-bag, was tripping lightly
across the gangway. Mr. Greyne glanced at her as he turned to follow,
glanced, and then started. That back was surely familiar to him. Where
could he have seen it before? He searched his memory as the little lady
vanished. It was a smart, even a chic back, a back that knew how to
take care of itself, a back that need not go through the world alone, a
back, in fine, that was most distinctly attractive, if not absolutely
alluring. Where had he seen it before, or had he ever seen it at all? He

thought of his wife's back, flat, powerful, uncompromising. This was
very different, more--how should he put it to himself?--more Algerian,
perhaps. He could vaguely conceive it a back such as one might meet
with while engaged in adding to one's stock of knowledge
of--well--African frailty.
At this moment the steward appeared to show him to his cabin, and his
further