And to this end Simpson, now the butler of the “Banker’s Folly,” was especially assigned to wait upon the austere “Prince Djiddin” as his “body servant.” Only one visit of state was exchanged between “Prince Djiddin” and General Wragge, Her Majesty’s Commander of the Channel Islands. The “Moonshee,” with a sober dignity, had interpreted for the British Commander of the Manche, and in due state, a return visite de ceremonie to General Wagge’s mansion and headquarters strangely found Captain Anson Anstruther, A.D.C. of the Viceroy of India, a pilgrim to St. Heliers, to arrange secretly for “Prince Djiddin’s” safe conduct and return to Thibet. The curious society crowd and St. Heliers’s beautiful women envied Captain Anstruther his three hours conference with the “Asiatic lion.”
By day, in the vaulted library, Andrew Fraser pored over the weird stories of Runjeet Singh, of Aurung zebe, of King Dharma, and the Cashmerian priest who came with Buddha’s first message to Thibet! The story of the marvelous royal babe found floating in the Ganges, in a copper box, a century before Christ, the tales of the “Konchogsum,” the “Buddha jewel,” the “doctrine jewel,” and the “priesthood jewel” fed the burning fever of old Fraser’s senile mind. He now felt that he lived but only in the past. At night, he labored alone till the wee sma’ hours, depositing his precious manuscript in a secret hiding-place, where he now scarcely glanced at the “insured packet,” which had been such a dangerous legacy of his dead brother. He had forgotten all his daily life and even his fears for the future in the fierce exultation of concealing his strangely gotten Thibetan lore from his rival, Alaric Hobbs.
“A remarkable mind,” growled old Fraser, “but a Yankee—and so untrustworthy.” At last, unwillingly, with a quaking heart, lest Prince Djiddin should decamp in his absence, he obeyed an imperative legal summons and proceeded to London with Nadine Johnstone, leaving his house under the charge of that sphinx-eyed Scottish spinster, Janet Fairbarn.
To the “Moonshee,” and to the rubicund veteran Simpson, the departing Andrew Fraser said solemnly, “The Prince is to be the master here until my return.” With a joyous heart the London sewing girl embarked as Miss Johnstone’s one personal attendant, forgetful of her devoted lover, Joseph Smith, who had temporarily disappeared, gone over to France “on business.” For she was herself going back to the dear delights of her beloved London, and her liberal lover had already given her his address at the Cor d’Abondance.
“You must telegraph to me, Mattie, where you are staying, and when you leave London to return. I may run over to Southampton and come back on the same boat with you. Write to me, my own girl, every day, and here’s a five-pound note to buy your stamps with.” On his sacred promise of honor to write to her himself every day, and to let no black Gallic eyes eclipse her “orbs of English blue,” Mattie Jones allowed her lover an extra liberal allowance of good-bye kisses.
While Professor Andrew Fraser, Miss Nadine Johnstone, and the lovelorn Mattie Jones, were escorted to London by a head clerk of the estate’s solicitors, Prince Djiddin and the “Moonshee” unbent their brows and rested from the nervous strain of the three weeks of continued deception.
While the happy “Moonshee” escaped to his own fair bride, Prince Djiddin, under Simpson’s guidance, examined minutely the superb modern castle, and even microscopically examined all the beautiful surroundings of Rozel Head. “It may come in handy some day,” mused Major Hardwicke, “especially if we have to aid Nadine Johnstone to escape.” The pseudo-Prince was glad to often steal out alone to the headland overlooking Rozel Pier, and there watch the French luggers beating to seaward sailing like fierce cormorants along the wild coast of St. Malo. He was glad to fill his lungs with the fresh, crisp, salt air, and to commune in safety at length with the faithful Simpson.
Securely hid in an angle of the cliff, they talked over all the mystery of Hugh Fraser’s bloody “taking off,” and of the dreary three years of Death in Life left before Nadine.
“As for the old master, he was an out and out hard ‘un,” stolidly said Simpson. “Who killed him, nobody knows and nobody cares. I’ve always suspicioned that there Ram Lal and yer fancy friend, this Major Alan Hawke.”
Hardwicke started in a sudden alarm. “Why so?” he demanded.