The Angel of Terror

  Chapter XXXI

  A letter from Jack Glover arrived the next morning. He had had an easyjourney, was glad to have had the opportunity of seeing Lydia, and hopedshe would think over the will. Lydia was not thinking of wills, but ofan excuse to get back to London. Of a sudden the loveliness of MonteCarlo had palled upon her, and she had almost forgotten thecircumstances which had made the change of scene and climate so welcome.

  "Go back to London, my dear?" said Mrs. Cole-Mortimer, shocked. "Whata--a rash notion! Why it is _freezing_ in town and foggy and ... and Ireally can't let you go back!"

  Mrs. Cole-Mortimer was agitated at the very thought. Her own good timeon the Riviera depended upon Lydia staying. Jean had made that pointvery clear. She, herself, she explained to her discomforted hostess, wasready to go back at once, and the prolongation of Mrs. Cole-Mortimer'sstay depended upon Lydia's plans. A startling switch of cause andeffect, for Mrs. Cole-Mortimer had understood that Jean's willcontrolled the plans of the party.

  Lydia might have insisted, had she really known the reason for hersudden longing for the grimy metropolis. But she could not even convinceherself that the charms of Monte Carlo were contingent upon the presencethere of a man who had aroused her furious indignation and with whom shehad spent most of the time quarrelling. She mentioned her unrest toJean, and Jean as usual seemed to understand.

  "The Riviera is rather like Turkish Delight--very sweet, butunsatisfying," she said. "Stay another week and then if you feel thatway we'll all go home together."

  "This means breaking up your holiday," said Lydia in self-reproach.

  "Not a bit," denied the girl, "perhaps I shall feel as you do in aweek's time."

  A week! Jean thought that much might happen in a week. In truth eventsbegan to move quickly from that night, but in a way she had notanticipated.

  Mr. Briggerland, who had been reading the newspaper through theconversation, looked up.

  "They are making a great fuss of this Moor in Nice," he said, "but if Iremember rightly, Nice invariably has some weird lion to adore."

  "Muley Hafiz," said Lydia. "Yes, I saw him the day I went to lunch withMr. Stepney, a fine-looking man."

  "I'm not greatly interested in natives," said Jean carelessly. "What ishe, a negro?"

  "Oh, no, he's fairer than--" Lydia was about to say "your father," butthought it discreet to find another comparison. "He's fairer than mostof the people in the south of France," she said, "but then all veryhighly-bred Moors are, aren't they?"

  Jean shook her head.

  "Ethnology means nothing to me," she said humorously. "I've got my ideaof Moors from Shakespeare, and I thought they were mostly black. What ishe then? I haven't read the papers."

  "He is the Pretender to the Moorish throne," said Lydia, "and there hasbeen a lot of trouble in the French Senate about him. France supportshis claims, and the Spaniards have offered a reward for his body, deador alive, and that has brought about a strained relationship betweenSpain and France."

  Jean regarded her with an amused smile.

  "Fancy taking an interest in international politics. I suppose that isdue to your working on a newspaper, Lydia."

  Jean discovered that she was to take a greater interest in Muley Hafizthan she could have thought was possible. She had to go into Monte Carloto do some shopping. Mentone was nearer, but she preferred the driveinto the principality.

  The Rooms had no great call for her, and whilst Mordon went to a garageto have a faulty cylinder examined, she strolled on to the terrace ofthe Casino, down the broad steps towards the sea. The bathing huts wereclosed at this season, but the little road down to the beach is secludedand had been a favourite walk of hers in earlier visits.

  Near the huts she passed a group of dark-looking men in long whitejellabs, and wondered which of these was the famous Muley. One shenoticed with a particularly negro type of face, wore on his flowing robethe scarlet ribbon of the Legion of Honour. Somehow or other he did notseem interesting enough to be Muley, she thought as she went on to astrip of beach.

  A man was standing on the sea shore, a tall, commanding man, gazing outit seemed across the sunlit ocean as though he were in search ofsomething. He could not have heard her footfall because she was walkingon the sand, and yet he must have realised her presence, for he turned,and she almost stopped at the sight of his face. He might have been aEuropean; his complexion was fair, though his eyebrows and eyes were jetblack, as also was the tiny beard and moustache he wore. Beneath theconventional jellab he wore a dark green jacket, and she had a glimpseof glittering decorations before he pulled over his cloak so that theywere hidden. But it was his eyes which held her. They were large and asblack as night, and they were set in a face of such strength anddignity that Jean knew instinctively that she was looking upon theMoorish Pretender.

  They stood for a second staring at one another, and then the Moorstepped aside.

  "Pardon," he said in French, "I am afraid I startled you."

  Jean was breathing a little quicker. She could not remember in her lifeany man who had created so immediate and favourable an impression. Sheforgot her contempt for native people, forgot his race, his religion(and religion was a big thing to Jean), forgot everything except thatbehind those eyes she recognised something which was kin to her.

  "You are English, of course," he said in that language.

  "Scottish," smiled Jean.

  "It is almost the same, isn't it?" He spoke without any trace of anaccent, without an error of grammar, and his voice was the voice of acollege man.

  He had left the way open for her to pass on, but she lingered.

  "You are Muley Hafiz, aren't you?" she asked, and he turned his head."I've read a great deal about you," she added, though in truth she hadread nothing.

  He laughed, showing two rows of perfect white teeth. It was only bycontrast with their whiteness that she noticed the golden brown of hiscomplexion.

  "I am of international interest," he said lightly and glanced roundtoward his attendants.

  She thought he was going and would have moved on, but he stopped her.

  "You are the first English speaking person I have talked to since I'vebeen in France," he said, "except the American Ambassador." He smiled asat a pleasant recollection.

  "You talk almost like an Englishman yourself."

  "I was at Oxford," he said. "My brother was at Harvard. My father, thebrother of the late Sultan, was a very progressive man and believed inthe Western education for his children. Won't you sit down?" he asked,pointing to the sand.

  She hesitated a second, and then sank to the ground, and crossing hislegs he sat by her side.

  "I was in France for four years," he carried on, evidently anxious tohold her in conversation, "so I speak both languages fairly well. Do youspeak Arabic?" He asked the question solemnly, but his eyes were brightwith laughter.

  "Not very well," she answered gravely. "Are you staying very long?" Itwas a conventional question and she was unprepared for the reply.

  "I leave to-night," he said, "though very few people know it. You havesurprised a State secret," he smiled again.

  And then he began to talk of Morocco and its history, and withextraordinary ease he traced the story of the families which had ruledthat troubled State.

  He touched lightly on his own share in the rebellion which had almostbrought about a European war.

  "My uncle seized the throne, you know," he said, taking up a handful ofsand and tossing it up in the air. "He defeated my father and killedhim, and then we caught his two sons."

  "What happened to them?" asked Jean curiously.

  "Oh, we killed them," he said carelessly. "I had them hanged in front ofmy tent. You're shocked?"

  She shook her head.

  "Do you believe in killing your enemies?"

  She nodded.

  "Why not? It is the only logical thing to do."

  "My brother joined forces with the present Sultan, and if I ever catchhim I shall hang him too," he s
miled.

  "And if he catches you?" she asked.

  "Why, he'll hang me," he laughed. "That is the rule of the game."

  "How strange!" she said, half to herself.

  "Do you think so? I suppose from the European standpoint----"

  "No, no," she stopped him. "I wasn't thinking of that. You are logicaland you do the logical thing. That is how I would treat my enemies."

  "If you had any," he suggested.

  She nodded.

  "If I had any," she repeated with a hard little smile. "Will you tell methis--do I call you Mr. Muley or Lord Muley?"

  "You may call me Wazeer, if you're so hard up for a title," he said, andthe little idiom sounded queer from him.

  "Well, Wazeer, will you tell me: Suppose somebody who had something thatyou wanted very badly and they wouldn't give it to you, and you had thepower to destroy them, what would you do?"

  "I should certainly destroy them," said Muley Hafiz. "It is unnecessaryto ask. 'The common rule, the simple plan'" he quoted.

  Her eyes were fixed on his face, and she was frowning, though this shedid not know.

  "I am glad I met you this afternoon," she said. "It must be wonderfulliving in that atmosphere, the atmosphere of might and power, where menand women aren't governed by the finicking rules which vitiate theWestern world."

  He laughed.

  "Then you are tired of your Western civilisation," he said as he roseand helped her to her feet (his hands were long and delicate, and shegrew breathless at the touch of them). "You must come along to my littlecity in the hills where the law is the sword of Muley Hafiz."

  She looked at him for a moment.

  "I almost wish I could," she said and held out her hand.

  He took it in the European fashion and bowed over it. She seemed so tinya thing by the side of him, her head did not reach his shoulder.

  "Good-bye," she said hurriedly and turning, walked back the way she hadcome, and he stood watching her until she was out of sight.