Again, following his instinct, he opened first the window, then the shutters and went out onto the balcony.
The spring air was cool as he moved out and the vista below, with the lights in the yachts in the harbour and on the promontory above, was very beautiful.
The stars were reflecting in the sea and the white light of the moon turned everything to silver, which made him think of the Countess’s hair.
Then, as he thought of her, he heard her come out onto the next balcony and, as she did so, she sighed.
She obviously had no idea that he was there. She had taken off her cloak and the moonlight was on the whiteness of her neck and arms and the silver of her hair.
She stood at the front of the balcony with her hands on the stone balustrade and once again as she looked up at the stars Craig had the strange feeling that she was praying.
She stood there for some minutes.
Then he said very quietly and softly,
“I have always thought that this is one of the most beautiful views in the world.”
She started as he spoke and turned her face to look at him, then quickly away again.
He did not say any more, but almost as if he compelled her to answer him, she said after a moment in a voice that he thought trembled,
“I-I did not know that – you were – there!”
“I only arrived today.”
There was silence.
Then he said,
“I always feel as if those yachts below us are straining at their moorings, longing to leave in search of adventure that lies somewhere beyond the horizon.”
He spoke in the voice he might have used to a child when telling a fairy story and almost as if she entered into the fantasy, she replied,
“That is what I would love to do, to sail away and – never come back!”
“Do you mean to this world or to Monte Carlo in particular?”
“To Monte – Carlo.”
He had a feeling because her voice was different from the way she had spoken before that her answer was personal and impulsive.
Then, as if she regretted what she had said, she added,
“I must go in. I am told the nights here can be very – treacherous.”
“That is true,” Craig replied, “but actually the temperature today has been very mild and, unless you feel cold, I don’t think you will come to any harm.”
“I hope not!”
As she spoke, once again Craig’s perception told him she was not thinking of herself.
Almost as if the words were put into his mind, he said,
“Of course with the elderly it is always wise to take precautions in this climate which can be very changeable. They should be well wrapped up at night and remember that the wind that comes from the Alps can definitely be treacherous.”
There was then no doubt that she drew in her breath sharply and she said as if she spoke to herself,
“If that is true, then one should be very very careful if one has come from a hot climate.”
“Of course,” Craig agreed, “I remember once when I returned from India and stopped at Monte Carlo that I was laid up for several days entirely through my own fault.”
“You have been to India?”
“Several times.” he answered. “It is a country with which I have a deep affinity.”
There was another silence.
Then the Countess said,
“I am sure if you have – once been there, you could never – forget it.”
“Of course not,” Craig agreed, “and when I am in India I think how foolish we are not to listen to all it has to say.”
She turned her face towards him and he knew that for a second she looked at him in surprise.
Then she looked away again to say,
“In the West – everything is very – different.”
“Yes, but that is not to say that we know more or are any better as human beings.”
Again there was silence before she asked almost as if she could not help herself,
“Where have you – been in India?”
Craig gave a little laugh.
“It would be almost easier to tell you where I have not been. It is a country of such beauty that it captivates the eye, and also, as I expect you know, holds the mind spellbound. From the moment one steps onto Indian soil, one starts to learn and goes on learning.”
“How do you know? And how can you – think like – that?”
“I might ask you the same question,” Craig replied, “and shall I say that as India has introduced us to each other there is so much I would like to talk to you about.”
The Countess made a little gesture, which he felt was one of eagerness.
Then suddenly she looked down, he thought, into the harbour, before she said in a voice that he thought trembled,
“I-I must go to bed – goodnight, sir.”
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and left the balcony, closing the window behind her.
Then, as he stood without moving, wondering at her haste at leaving him, wondering at the strange tremor in her voice, he heard somebody else speak in her room.
For a moment he thought it was a man.
Then, as he listened, not sure, the window was opened and somebody pulled the shutters to and bolted them.
It was a maid and he knew that it was her voice he had heard and she had been speaking in Russian.
CHAPTER THREE
The next day Craig was determined to find out more about the Russian yachts in the harbour.
He thought he had not done too badly so far in making contact with the Countess, but although that was fairly satisfactory what he was really concerned about was Randall Sare.
Ever since he had met him in India when he was only twenty-one, Randall Sare had been in his eyes a hero, somebody he admired more than any other man he had ever met.
It was the Viceroy who had first spoken of him in a way that told Craig there was something special about the man who awoke a look of admiration in a pair of tired eyes and brought to his voice a note, which he had recognised as one of respect.
The Viceroy of India had an importance that was incomparable with that of almost any other ruler in the world. There was no King or Emperor who had more power or who, in a huge country where white men reigned supreme, lived with more pomp and circumstance.
Needless to say, the British took their games with them wherever they went and sport, being their chief spiritual export, the young soldiers, full of dash and energy, spent every moment when they were not on duty enjoying their national games.
It was inevitable that as soon as Craig Vandervelt arrived in India with his aura of wealth glowing around him, he should be taken to Calcutta for the races.
From Calcutta with its race dances, public breakfasts and curious alternations of sweepstakes and country dance, he went on to Simla where the Racecourse on a high plateau of Annandale was surrounded by tall pines and deodars and was deliciously secluded.
Because Craig not only owned with his father the best racehorses in America, but was also an outstanding rider, he was accepted automatically as a ‘good chap’.
The great day of the Calcutta year was the day of the Viceroy’s Cup Race, the cup being given annually by the reigning Viceroy.
The grandstand was filled with lovely and fashionable women from England, America – in fact from all parts of the world, and to Craig it had a fascination and delight he had not expected.
Having been accepted by the British as one of them, he was introduced to their hunting – which consisted in India of a pack of hounds reinforced with an odd terrier who set off in pursuit of jackal, elk, pig, hare, red deer, hyena or whatever else was available to chase.
It was after he had proved himself in that field as well as on the Racecourse and had taken up pig-sticking and polo, that he found himself dining at Government House and in the Officer’s Mess of the most important Regiments.
It was there he first heard a
murmur of The Great Game, only very little, but enough to make him curious.
Because he had a retentive memory, as well as an insatiable curiosity, he was able to put a remark made after dinner together with some disjointed conversation in a Civil Servant’s office and it began to make a pattern.
It was after the Viceroy had spoken of Randall Sare that he asked a few questions and received somewhat ambiguous answers.
“Randall Sare – strange chap, brilliantly clever I’m told, but prefers to mix with the natives rather than us.”
At first Craig was naïve enough to think that the natives meant Rajahs and Maharajahs who entertained lavishly in their Palaces and whose hospitality almost any Englishman would accept.
Then he learnt that Randall Sare spoke every language and dialect known in India and in various disguises frequently vanished for months on end, although where to and why, nobody seemed to be ready to explain.
It was only when being quite by chance in Simla, he met the man himself that he began to understand and to admire him.
Not very tall, Randall Sare had one of those strange, unforgettable faces, which was, as it happened, easy to disguise because he did not rely on the make-up that any actor would have used, but on thought, on a lifetime’s knowledge of the people among whom he moved and whose personalities he often assumed instead of his own.
Because Craig found it impossible to forget him, he had deliberately sought him out on his second journey to India and found, as he expected, that he was one of the most interesting men he had ever met and a mine of information on all the subjects, which no one else had ever discussed with him.
The Indian castes, the creeds of men who were merely an enigma to the Western Powers were subjects that Craig found irresistible and which to Randall Sare were the breath of life.
It was then that Craig began to understand how men like Sare could love a country as another man might love a woman.
India was not only a teeming Continent, which, when it had been conquered, had to be organised, made respectable and civilised by the Social standards of Cheltenham, but there was also a marvellously complex way of life that hid beneath its surface, secrets which had inspired some of the greatest religions in the world.
Because at the age of twenty-four Craig was prepared to sit at the feet and become a pupil of a man who he was astute enough to realise was a giant among other men, he learnt from Randall Sare in the short time they were together more than other men learnt or even touched the fringes of in a whole lifetime.
It was three years ago on his third visit to India that Randall Sare told him he was going to Tibet.
“Why?” Craig had asked bluntly.
“I am convinced,” Randall Sare replied, “that the Russians are absorbing one after another the Khans of Central Asia and are aiming to control the whole of the northern frontier of India.”
“It cannot be possible!'
“They are already building a railway across Siberia to the Far East,” Sare went on, “and I am told they are also building a railway in Turkestan and – ”
He paused for a moment.
“ – planning the annexation of Tibet.”
“I thought no one was allowed into that country,” Craig remarked.
“I think it would be difficult to stop Russia if they were determined,” Randall Sare replied, “and if that is what they intend, that is what they will do.”
“How can we prevent it?”
Randall Sare smiled and it gave him an attraction that was all his own.
“That is what I am going to find out.”
When he said goodbye, Craig knew it would be a long time before he would see him again, if ever.
Now, if the Marquis was to be believed, Sare had not only returned to Europe, but had disappeared in Monte Carlo.
It seemed incredible – first that Sare should leave India without the Foreign Office being informed of it and secondly that he should have stopped in a place that was known as the most frivolous, extravagant and wicked in the whole of Europe.
Bishops and clergy of every denomination thundered continually against the wickedness that prevailed in the ‘City of gambling’.
Yet the Casino of Monte Carlo was patronised by almost every Crowned Head and the threat of hell fire for sinners went unheeded.
There could be only one explanation as to why Sare had come here – that he was unable to reach England and had no alternative.
‘I have to find him – I must!’ Craig mused.
Perturbed by his own thoughts he was so absentminded at luncheon that his very attractive hostess reproached him for neglecting her and the lady on his other side said very much the same thing.
Their rebukes immediately reminded Craig that he was not acting the part that was expected of him.
So, excusing himself as having a slight headache, he set out to be his gay, inconsequential and amusing self, which left the two women when the meal ended, more in love with him than they were already.
He had an invitation to play tennis, but he had already had a game with the professional coach early in the morning when, on finding it hard to sleep, he had turned to the comforting male solace of hard exercise.
“You must enter for the Lawn Tennis Championships, sir,” the professional had said when, after three hard sets, Craig won comparatively easily.
Craig knew that this Championship had been initiated three years previously and he had in fact thought of entering for the cup in the men’s singles which had been presented by the Prince of Monaco.
Then he decided that he had other more interesting and more significant things to do than to collect trophies, and preferred to take his exercise without an audience.
Nevertheless he enjoyed playing a game at which he had distinguished himself in America and he booked the professional to play with him every morning while he was in Monte Carlo.
However, when he was free after luncheon he had no intention of playing anything until he had talked to Father Augustin.
So he walked, as he had the day before, down the hill to the Chapel of St. Dévoté, entering the quiet incense-filled Church to find there were just a few more worshippers than there had been the day before.
The dimness of the Chapel after the noise and brilliance of the hotel, which always seemed to be filled with sunshine, made him aware of a peace that came from the faith which it had enshrined for so long and was like a cool hand on his forehead.
He stood for a moment to compose his thoughts and, although he was hardly aware of it, to make quite sure that there was no one else present in the Church who might recognise him.
Then he walked quietly towards the Confessional and knew as he pushed aside the curtain that Father Augustin was waiting for him.
He knelt down and automatically the Priest said the familiar Latin words which began every confessional.
Then as he said, “Amen,” Craig asked,
“Have you any news for me, Father?”
“A little, my son, but you have not given me much time.”
“But you have heard something?”
“I have heard that the man you seek,” Father Augustin replied, and wisely did not mention his name, “was hiding in a certain place in the town two weeks ago.”
“He is not ill or wounded?”
“There was no reference to that,” the Priest replied, “but it was understood he was in hiding. The place where he was staying is only used by those who are avoiding the police or have other reasons for not wishing to be seen.”
“He is there now?” Craig asked eagerly.
Then he knew as he asked the question that the reply would be disappointing.
“From what I have been able to ascertain,” the Priest replied, “he has gone.”
“Have you found out where?”
“That is what I am trying to do,” Father Augustin said, “but you will understand that it is not easy to make enquiries in that particular place where men deliberately hide and whose ident
ity is always secret.”
“I understand,” Craig said, “but, please, Father, because it is of the utmost importance, try to find out more.”
“I am trying, my son, I assure you, I am trying,” Father Augustin replied, “but it is not easy. If I appear too eager, it will inevitably mean that doors will be closed that might otherwise remain open.”
Craig knew that was only too true and all he could say was,
“I am deeply grateful, Father. This man is of great importance to humanity and somehow with your help I have to save him.”
“I can only rely on God,” Father Augustin replied, “and I have prayed for His help.”
“Then please continue to do so.”
There was a little pause.
Then he added,
“I have something which may help to loosen the tongues of those who know the answers to our questions. Where shall I leave it?”
There was silence for a moment, then Father Augustin replied,
“There is a wreath in front of the effigy of St. Dévoté.”
There was no need for him to say more and Craig asked,
“When shall I come again?”
“Tomorrow I shall be hearing confessions a little later, so I shall be here just when it is growing dark.”
“That will be helpful,” Craig said.
He waited until Father Augustin said the blessing in Latin and, when he rose from his knees, he pulled aside the curtain of the Confessional.
As he did so he saw there were more people in the Church than there had been when he came in, and when he glanced at them he saw with a sudden leap of excitement that kneeling only a little way from him was the Countess Aloya.
Her clasped hands were resting on the top of the prie-dieu at which she was praying and her head was thrown back a little, her eyes raised to the lamp burning in front of the Sanctuary.
She was obviously completely unaware of him, at least that was what she appeared to be, and yet because he was so conscious of her, Craig thought it would be a mistake to walk past her and out of the Church.
Instead he stepped across the narrow aisle and sat down in a seat next to hers.
He did not kneel, but bent forward and put his hand over his eyes, as if he was praying.
He was wondering what he should say to her when without moving she stammered in a voice so low he could only just hear her,
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