Heavens! what did it mean—what could it mean? These two, whom he had left safe in quiet, peaceful, rural England, not so very long since—here now, in this shaggy, perilous wilderness, and for escort an armed band of savage, fanatical tribesmen. What could it mean? At all risks he would get out his binocular and scan them more closely. Yes, at all risks. And this he put to his shikari. The latter slightly shrugged one shoulder, impassively.
Under the powerful lens, Melian was brought within thirty yards, and with the sight, his heart seemed to stand still within him. The beautiful face, though calm, had a set, troubled look, even a frightened look, he told himself. But her splendid pluck was evidently standing her in good stead. Then he turned the glasses upon her uncle. Mervyn’s face was impassive, and betrayed no emotion whatever. And then, like a flash, there ran through his own mind the whole gist of his talk with Coates on the night of their arrival in the new camp—his prediction that at some time or other Mervyn would return to this strange, dim, mysterious land, and the other’s reply—ready reply at that—that if he were wise he would not. And now here he was—manifestly a prisoner, and, for what purpose? And with him, Melian.
If ever Helston Varne had run against difficulty in his life—and that he had run against and surmounted many, we have already said—he realised that he was running against the greatest—here and now. He knew enough of this wild Northern border, with its labyrinthine impenetrable chasms and fastnesses, and the fierce fanatical treachery of its indomitable tribesmen, to recognise that sheer forcible rescue was clean out of the question. If for some special reason like that hinted at by Coates, they had managed to get Mervyn into their power, it was with a long brooded upon, and settled purpose, one which involved no mere matter of ransom. And Melian? Here one ray of hope did dawn. She could have had no part in, or knowledge of, her uncle’s dealings with their inner and mysterious affairs, and as strict Mahomedans, they would not offer active insult to a woman. Here the question of ransom might come in, and if it did, he himself would find it—find it promptly and cheerfully.
In a whirl of mingled feelings the ordinarily cool-headed, hard nerved man watched the band as it receded now, for it had already passed their point of outlook, and would disappear directly round the upper bend of the valley. Then he turned to Hussein Khan.
“What does this mean?”
Again the other shrugged a shoulder.
“Who may say, Hazûr? The Gularzai are ever restless, and they love money as—Ya Allah, who does not! If they have persuaded, yonder Hazûr, and the Miss Sahib, to go with them, it is because they are worth many rupees.”
Helston looked fixedly at him, even meaningly.
“And that is all their motive—all?” he added, with emphasised meaning.
But the man’s fine face was mask-like in its lack of response. If its owner knew—suspected—any other—well, he was an Oriental.