Chapter XXIX: An Intruder

Dr. Avery was determined to make the guide express himself more clearly as to the probable fate of the party. He had let fall some abrupt expressions, but they were not satisfactory.

Finally Luchman said he had had a faint hope that there might be some way of leaving the rear of the temple. It was for that reason that he made his reconnaissance, but it only showed him that there was not the slightest chance.

"I gather that you have concluded that darkness is one of the indispensable conditions."

"That is true, sahib."

"The moon will rise later each night, but we cannot afford to wait many days for that."

"I am willing to tarry two nights longer, sahib, and then if we cannot make the venture we have the last resort."

"What is that?"

"I will open negotiations with Wana Affghar and get the best terms possible, knowing that he will break every one of them if he can."

The guide realized the skill with which this ruffian had outwitted him. When Luchman reappeared in Delhi, after his journey from Calcutta, Wana's detectives knew it and held him under surveillance, though the guide never dreamed of such a thing. He supposed the bloodhounds had been thrown off the track, but they never lost the scent for any length of time, and were at his heels, as may be said, when he left Flagstaff Tower, and with little delay opened communications with their chief.

The truth was, Wana Affghar was determined to secure the Star of India--the great diamond--no matter what the cost or sacrifice demanded. This fixedness of purpose, amid extraordinary conditions, will make clear many occurrences which otherwise would remain incapable of explanation.

That night brought a singular experience to another member of the little party of refugees.

After the departure of Dr. Avery to learn the cause of the slight disturbance in the entrance way, the missionary and his family continued their conversation in low tones until the faint sound of Luchman's pistol was heard.

This naturally startled the group, and Mr. Hildreth rose to go out and learn the cause.

"Wait until the doctor comes back," interposed his wife, "it is lonely here in the darkness."

"I imagine it is nothing serious," said her husband when some minutes had passed, "otherwise we should hear more of it."

"The pistol was probably discharged to let the Ghoojurs know that our friends are on the watch," suggested Marian.

This theory was accepted, the three naturally believing that if there was anything worth telling they would hear of it. The conversation went on as before, until the hour became so late that Mr. Hildreth requested them to retire for the night.

Marian and her mother withdrew to the smaller apartment, where, with the aid of their shawls and outer garments, they made the best couch they could upon the flinty floor. The missionary himself, while awaiting the coming of one or more of his friends, fell asleep and did not wake until morning. It was much the same with his wife, but far different with his daughter.

The latter rested quietly until about the turn of night, when she found herself wide awake, without understanding the cause. The extreme sultriness of the evening oppressed her, and she concluded her wakefulness was due to that. It will be borne in mind, too, that she had slumbered more than usual during the preceding twenty four hours, and therefore was in no special need of sleep.

There was nothing to do but to lie still and think. The gentle breathing of her parent at her side showed that she was unconscious, and Marian took care not to disturb her. Her brain seemed to be unusually busy, and the longer she lay the more wakeful she became, until she was convinced that she would have to pass the long dismal hours in that fashion until morning.

She was half inclined to rise and pass into the entrance way, where she supposed Luchman, Avery and Harkins were keeping guard. She knew they would be glad to see her, though they might object to the increased danger in which she would be placed. At the same time a gentle feeling of delicacy restrained her, and she decided to stay where she was.

"It is dreary enough for us all," she reflected, "and my place is beside my mother, even though she would not miss me."

She had lain awake, as she believed, about an hour, still oppressed by the heat, when she became aware that the apartment was cooler, as though a gentle current of air was blowing in.

She did not understand it, since the only means of ventilation was through the circular openings around the upper part of the room, and the door which was closed.

And jet the atmosphere was unmistakably cooler. She distinctly felt a touch of the draught against her hot cheek.

"The door must be open," she concluded, softly rising to her feet and groping her way to it.

No; it was shut, just as she had closed it herself before she and her mother lay down.

Still wondering, she listened, in the belief that a gentle wind must have risen, but the vegetation outside was motionless.

"There is no use in perplexing myself," she thought, closing her eyes, in the hope that gentle sleep would press them down.

But it was useless. She was as fully awake as when hurrying through the streets of Delhi on that fearful night of the uprising. With a sigh she gave up the attempt.

"I do believe the door is open," she said, shortly after; "but, if it is, those on the outside are watchful, and there is no cause for fear, so I will not rise again."

She could not be mistaken when the faint sound of a footstep fell on her ear: some one was stepping softly about the room.

"What is the matter, father?" she asked, speaking low, so as not to disturb her mother.

There was no reply, and she repeated the question. Still there was no answer, and the cat-like step ceased. Whoever the intruder might be, he was standing still and listening. Marian was curious, but she felt no misgiving, for it was beyond belief that any enemy could have effected an entrance into the inner temple.

A moment later she heard the heavy door shut, after which the same tomb-like stillness settled over all. She lay a long time listening and wondering, but heard nothing more, and finally fell asleep.

When she opened her eyes in the morning, the night's experience was upon her mind, and continued a puzzle which she could not satisfactorily explain. She questioned her father, and found that he had not risen from his bed after bidding them good night. He was not a somnambulist, so that it was impossible that the stealthy footsteps should have been his.

It was equally out of the question that Dr. Avery or Harkins was the intruder. She was, therefore, forced to the reluctant conclusion that it was Luchman, whose business it was impossible to imagine, though she could not doubt that it was perfectly proper.

And yet it was not Luchman.