“Very good, Your ’Ighness, thank you,” Watkins replied colorlessly, and left the room so quietly that he seemed to fade away.
Watkins went back to his divided watch deliberately—almost as if he took little satisfaction in it, and there was no truculence on his mean, bad face as he went. He was not much English, but he was English. Old memories—not very pleasant ones though—were stirring a little, and presently, not knowing that he did, under his breath he whistled, rather in dirgelike time and color, a few bars of “The Old Kent Road.”
Rukh stood in his casement, and looked out towards the Southwest, where Abdulabad lay behind the mountains. “You who are about to die, I salute you,” he said. “Well,” he added, “Kismet!” Then he crossed back to his cushions, loosened his robes still more, threw off his girdle, lay down on the comfortable pillows. And as the day broke over Rukh, washing the great snow-capped Himalayas with carmine and rose and violet and beryl-green, its Raja slept like a child.
CHAPTER XXXI
Watkins opened the door of the Raja’s snuggery, and withdrew as he ushered Crespin in, and Crespin came in sulkily enough. He looked about him quickly and apprehensively and finding himself quite alone, began wandering about aimlessly, nervous and irritable.
It was an uncommonly pleasant room—entirely European and modern, its comfort contrasting greatly with the old-fashioned and somewhat comfortless splendor of the great salon in which the Raja had entertained and mocked and sentenced them the night before. Everything was in exquisite order—the silver fittings on the fine writing table, the flowers in a vase and bowl or two—not too many—the papers and books, the pipes in their rack, and there was only one clock.
This room was high up in the great bastioned building; standing at the great open window, one seemed to be level with the distant high mountain peaks still rosy over their snow, across the narrow valley where sheep and goats, mere specks so far below, were browsing, and white, humped bullocks.
Crespin paid no respects to the scenery spread before him. The Alps could boast nothing to match this, but nothing in nature could appeal to Antony Crespin now. How could it? He grunted disconsolately. Then he stared at the doors, and counted them moodily. The doors appealed to him, if the scenic beauty did not. Doors whispered of escape. He tiptoed heavily to the large folding door that half filled one wall. He tapped it softly but carefully, with speculative, anxious fingers. It felt a particularly solid and formidable door. Very cautiously he tried it. It was locked. With another unhappy grunt he turned back, and roamed aimlessly about the room.
“What a hell of a lot of books,” he muttered disgustedly, “nothing but books. His Nibs must be a what-you-may-call-it, or want one to think he is.” And the cozy, homelike snuggery was very full of books. Low bookcases lined all the walls, wherever there was available space for them; they were filled with serious looking modern books, but Major Crespin did not investigate that. On the top of one bookcase stood a large beautifully executed bust of Napoleon—which the English Major recognized. Over another, facing the writing-table, hung an admirable black and white portrait of Nietzsche—which he did not recognize. A few good sporting prints—Leach at his best—caught his eye, and would have held and delighted him at a more normal time. There was not a small chair in the place; all were roomy and inviting and luxuriously padded, most of them covered in green morocco to match the great luxurious couch. Crespin twirled the revolving bookcase, that stood to hand by the writing-table, about, and frowned viciously at its contents: the Britannica and lesser but erudite books of reference.
But a tantalus with attendant syphon and glasses attracted his notice next. “Hello! Good-morning,” he told it. He hesitated unhappily a moment or two, looked over his shoulder stealthily, miserably; looked back at the whiskey-filled tantalus, and poured himself out a stiff peg. He held his glass up to the light, looking at it thirstily, gloatingly, put it down, and shuffled about the room once more. He bit his lip, looked back at the liquor, looked away from it quickly, and moved resolutely to another closed door. It opened readily. Crespin peeped into the inner room, and closed the door again, muttering, “Billiards, begad!” Back to the writing table he fingered its silver. He picked up a vase, and snuffed at its flowers. He took up a paper. It proved to be La Vie Parisienne, and he threw it down with an insular and characteristic comment: “French muck!” Another paper lying on the couch caught his eye next. He went and got it—anything to keep his eyes and his fingers away from the tumbler in which the soda was going flat. This turned out to be printed in Russian. “My hat!” was his disgusted comment as he flung it down.