The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers
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June Morrow on his other side. If he was a bit awed by the company in which he had landed, he gave no sign. He listened to several anecdotes of Sally Jordan's past from Mrs. Kirk, then turned to the girl beside him. Her eyes were shining.
"I'm thrilled to the depths," she whispered. "Sir Frederic and that marvelous Beetham man all in one evening—and you, too."
Chan smiled. "I am pretty lonely fly in this menagerie of lions," he admitted.
"Tell me—that about being psychic. You don't really think Sir Frederic has found Eve Durand?"
Chan shrugged. "For one word a man may be adjudged wise, and for one word he may be adjudged foolish."
"Oh, please don't be so Oriental. Just think—Eve Durand may be at this table to-night."
"Strange events permit themselves the luxury of occurring," Chan conceded. His eyes traveled slowly about the board, they rested on Mrs. Tupper-Brock silent and aloof, on the vivacious Eileen Enderby, longest of all on the handsome Gloria Garland, now completely recovered from her excitement over the scattered pearls.
"Tell me, Sir Frederic," remarked Mrs. Kirk. "How are you making out here in Barry's womanless Eden?"
"Splendidly," smiled the detective. "Mr. Kirk has been very kind. I not only have the run of this charming bungalow, but he has also installed me in the offices below." He looked at Kirk. "Which reminds me—I'm afraid I quite forgot to close the safe downstairs."
"Paradise can attend to it," suggested Kirk.
"Oh, no," said Sir Frederic. "Please don't trouble. It doesn't matter— as far as I am concerned."
Carrick Enderby spoke in a loud, booming voice. "I say, Colonel Beetham. I've just read your book you know."
"Ah, yes—er—which one?" inquired Beetham blandly.
"Don't be a fool, Carry," said Eileen Enderby rather warmly. "Colonel Beetham has written many books. And he's not going to be impressed by the fact that, knowing you were to meet him here to-night, you hastily ran through one of them."
"But it wasn't hastily," protested Enderby. "I gave it my best attention. The Life, I mean, you know. All your adventures—and by jove, they were thrilling. Of course, I can't understand you, sir. For me, the cheery old whisky and soda in the comfortable chair by the warm fire. But you—how you do yearn for the desolate places, my word."
Beetham smiled. "It's the white spots—the white spots on the map. They call to me. I—I long to walk there, where no man has walked before. It is an odd idea, isn't it?"
"Well, of course, getting home must be exciting," Enderby admitted. "The Kings and the Presidents pinning decorations on you, and the great dinners, and the eulogies—"
"Quite the most terrible part of it, I assure you," said Beetham.
"Nevertheless, I'd take it in preference to your jolly old deserts," continued Enderby. "That time you were lost on the—er— the—"
"The desert of Takla-makan," finished Beetham. "I was in a bit of a jam, wasn't I? But I wasn't lost, my dear fellow. I had simply embarked on the crossing with insufficient water and supplies."
Mrs. Kirk spoke. "I was enthralled by that entry you quoted from your diary. What you thought was the last entry you would ever make. I know it by heart. 'Halted on a high dune, where the camels fell exhausted. We examined the East through the field-glasses; mountains of sand in all directions; not a straw, no life. All, men as well as camels, are extremely weak. God help us.'"
"But it wasn't my last entry, you know," Beetham reminded her. "The next night, in a dying condition, I crept along on my hands and knees until I reached a forest, the bed of a dry river—a pool. Water. I came out much better than I deserved."
"Pardon me if I make slight inquiry," said Charlie Chan. "What of old superstition, Colonel? Mention was made of it by Marco Polo six hundred fifty years ago. When a traveler is moving across desert by night, he hears strange voices calling his name. In bewitched state, he follows ghostly voices to his early doom."
"It is quite obvious," returned Beetham, "that I followed no voices. In fact, I heard none."
Eileen Enderby shuddered. "Well, I never could do it," she said. "I'm frightfully afraid of the dark. It drives me almost insane with fear."
Sir Frederic Bruce looked at her keenly. For the first time in some moments he spoke. "I fancy many women are like that," he said. He turned suddenly to Mrs. Kirk's companion. "What has been your experience, Mrs. Tupper-Brock?"
"I do not mind the dark," said that lady, in a cool, even tone.
"Miss Garland?" His piercing eyes turned on the actress.
She seemed a little embarrassed. "Why—I—really, I much prefer the spotlight. No, I can't say I fancy darkness."
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Dawson Kirk. "Things are the same in the dark as in the light. I never minded it."
Beetham spoke slowly. "Why not ask the gentlemen, Sir Frederic? Fear of the dark is not alone a woman's weakness. Were you to ask me, I should have to make a confession."
Sir Frederic turned on him in amazement. "You, Colonel?"
Beetham nodded. "When I was a little shaver, my life was made miserable by my horror of the dark. Every evening when I was left alone in my room, I died a thousand deaths."
"By jove," cried Enderby. "And yet you grew up to spend your life in the dark places of the world."
"You conquered that early fear, no doubt?" Sir Frederic suggested.
Beetham shrugged. "Does one ever quite conquer a thing like that? But really—there is too much about me. Mr. Kirk has asked me to let you see, after dinner, some pictures I took last year in Tibet. I fear I shall bore you by becoming, as you Americans say, the whole show."
Again they chatted by two and two. Miss Morrow leaned over to Chan.
"Imagine," she said, "that picture of the great explorer, as a little boy, frightened of the dark. It's quite the most charming and human thing I ever heard."
He nodded gravely his eyes on Eileen Enderby. "The dark drives me almost insane with fear," she had said. How dark it must have been that night in the hills outside Peshawar.
After he had served coffee in the living-room, Paradise appeared with a white, glittering screen which, under the Colonel's direction, he stood on a low table against a Flemish tapestry. Barry Kirk helped Beetham carry in from the hallway a heavy motion-picture projector and several boxes of films.
"Lucky we didn't overlook this," the young man laughed. "A rather embarrassing thing for you if you had to go home without being invited to perform. Like the man who tried to slip away from an evening party with a harp that he hadn't been asked to play." The machine was finally ready, and the company took their places in comfortable chairs facing the screen.
"We shall want, of course, complete darkness," Beetham said. "Mr. Kirk, if you will be so kind—"
"Surely." Barry Kirk turned off the lights, and drew thick curtains over doors and windows. "Is it all right now?"
"The light in the hallway," Beetham suggested.
Kirk also extinguished that. There was a moment of tense silence.
"Heavens—this is creepy," spoke Eileen Enderby out of the blackness. There was a slight note of hysteria in her voice.
Beetham was placing a roll of film in the machine. "On the expedition I am about to describe," he began, "we set out from Darjeeling. As you no doubt know, Darjeeling is a little hill station on the extreme northern frontier of India—"
Sir Frederic interrupted. "You have been in India a great deal, Colonel?"
"Frequently—between journeys—"
"Ah yes—pardon me for breaking in—"
"Not at all." The film began to unwind. "These first pictures