Marker, Marker. The air seemed full of the strange name. Lewis saw again Wratislaw’s wrinkled face when he talked of him, and remembered his words. “You were within an ace of meeting one of the cleverest men living, a cheerful being in whom the Foreign Office is more interested than in any one else in the world.” Wratislaw had never been in the habit of talking without good authority. This Marker must be indeed a gentleman of parts.
Then conversation dwindled. Lewis, his mind torn between bitter memories and the pressing necessities of his mission, lent a stupid ear to Mrs. Logan’s mild complaints, her gossip about Bardur, her eager questions about home. George manfully took his place, and by a fortunate clumsiness steered the flow of the lady’s talk from Glenavelin and the Wisharts. Lewis spoke now and then, when appealed to, but he was busy thinking out his own problem. On the morrow night he should meet Marker, and his work would reveal itself. Meanwhile he was in the dark, the flimsiest adventurer on the wildest of errands. This easy, settled place, these Englishmen whose minds held fast by polo and games, these English ladies who had no thought beyond little social devices to relieve the monotony of the frontier, all seemed to make a mockery of his task. He had fondly imagined himself going to a certainty of toil and danger; to his vexation this certainty seemed to be changing into the most conventional of visits to the most normal of places. But to-morrow he should see Marker; and his hope revived at the prospect.
“It is so pleasant seeing two fresh fellow-countrymen,” Mrs. Logan was saying. “Do you know, you two people look quite different from our men up here. They are all so dried up and tired out. Our complexions are all gone, and our eyes have got that weariness of the sun in them which never goes away even when we go home again. But you two look quite keen and fresh and enthusiastic. You mustn’t mind compliments from an old woman, but I wish our own people looked as nice as you. You will make us all homesick.”
A native servant entered, more noiseless and more dignified than any English footman, and announced another visitor. Lewis lifted his head, and saw the lady rise, smiling, to greet a tall man who had come in with the frankness of a privileged acquaintance. “How do you do, Mr. Marker?” he heard. “I am so glad to see you. We didn’t dare to expect you till to-morrow. May I introduce two English friends, Mr. Haystoun and Mr. Winterham?”
And so the meeting came about in the simplest way. Lewis found himself shaking hands cordially with a man who stood upright, quite in the English fashion, and smiled genially on the two strangers. Then he took the vacant chair by Mrs. Logan, and answered the lady’s questions with the ease and kindliness of one who knows and likes his fellow-creatures. He deplored Logan’s absence, grew enthusiastic about the dance, and produced from a pocket certain sweetmeats, not made in Kashmir, for the two children. Then he turned to George and asked pleasantly about the journey. How did they find the roads from Gilgit? He hoped they would get good sport, and if he could be of any service, would they command him? He had heard of Lewis’s former visit, and, of course, he had read his book. The most striking book of travel he had seen for long. Of course he didn’t agree with certain things, but each man for his own view; and he should like to talk over the matter with Mr. Haystoun. Were they staying long? At Galetti’s of course? By good luck that was also his headquarters. And so he talked pleasingly, in the style of a lady’s drawing-room, while Lewis, his mind consumed with interest, sat puzzling out the discords in his face.
“Do you know, Mr. Marker, we were talking about you before you came in. I was telling Mr. Haystoun that I thought you were half Scotch. Mr. Haystoun, you know, lives in Scotland.”
“Do you really? Then I am a thousand times delighted to meet you, for I have many connections with Scotland. My grandmother was a Scotswoman, and though I have never been in your beautiful land, yet I have known many of your people. And, indeed, I have heard of one of your name who was a friend of my father’s—a certain Mr. Haystoun of Etterick.”
“My father,” said Lewis.
“Ah, I am so pleased to hear. My father and he met often in Paris, when they were attached to their different embassies. My father was in the German service.”
“Your mother was Russian, was she not?” Lewis asked tactlessly, impelled by he knew not what motive.