Treasure Hunt Tales: The Star of the South & Captain Antifer. Жюль Верн

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      “He had made several voyages?”

      “I believe so, considering that he was a sailor. Well?”

      “In several seas?”

      “In all. Well?”

      “He once happened to go into the Levant?”

      “Yes. Well?”

      “During these voyages,” continued the notary, to whom these brief replies gave no loophole, “during these voyages, he was about sixty years ago on the coast of Syria.”

      “Perhaps so; perhaps not. Well?” These “wells” were as so many digs in the ribs to Ben Omar.

      “You will have to try another tack, my good man,” said Antifer to himself, “if you want me to pilot you.”

      The notary saw that he would have to attack him more straight-forwardly.

      “Have you any knowledge,” said he, “that your father had occasion to render a service, an immense service—to some one—on the coast of Syria?”

      “I cannot say that I have. Well?”

      “Ah!” said Ben Omar, much astonished at the reply. “And you do not know that he received a letter from a certain Kamylk Pasha?”

      “A Pasha?”

      “Yes.”

      “Of how many tails?”

      “It does not matter, Mr. Antifer. The point is, Did your father receive a letter containing information of great value?”

      “I know nothing of it. Well?”

      “Have you not looked over his papers? It is not possible that such a letter would have been destroyed. It contained, I repeat, information of extreme importance.”

      “To you, Mr. Ben Omar?”

      “To you also, Mr. Antifer, for—in short, it is that letter I am commissioned to get back again, and which might be the object of our bargain.”

      In an instant it became clear to Antifer that the people who had sent Ben Omar wanted to get hold of the longitude, to find the place where the millions were concealed.

      “The rascals!” he muttered to himself, “they want to get my secret, to buy my letter, and then go and unearth my cash-box!”

      And perhaps he was not far out.

      At this stage of their interview they heard the steps of a man who was coming round the corner in the direction of the railway-station. The notary stopped in the middle of a sentence. It seemed as though the man gave Omar a side look as he passed, or made a sign of denial, at which the Egyptian appeared much disconcerted. The man passed on, and disappeared.

      He was a stranger, about thirty years old, in Egyptian costume, of sallow complexion, black gleaming eyes, stature above the medium height, strongly built, determined looking, with anything but a pleasant expression about him. Did he and the notary know one another? Possibly. Were they not anxious that this should not be known just then? There was no doubt about that.

      Anyhow, Antifer did not notice this little bit of bye-play—a look, a gesture, nothing more—and he continued the interview.

      “Now, Mr. Ben Omar,” said he, “will you kindly explain why you want so much to get this letter, to know what it contains, so much so that you are willing to buy it from me if I happen to have it?”

      “Mr. Antifer,” replied the notary, with some embarrassment, “I have had a certain Kamylk Pasha among my clients. On his behalf—”

      “You have had, did you say?”

      “Yes, and as the representative of his heirs—”

      “His heirs!” exclaimed Antifer, with a movement of surprise that could not but astonish the notary. “He is dead,then?”

      “He is dead.”

      “Steady!” muttered Antifer, grinding the pebble within his teeth. “Kamylk is dead. That is worth remembering, and if they are up to any games—”

      “And so, Mr. Antifer,” asked Ben Omar, giving him a side look, “you have not got this letter?”

      “No.”

      “That is a pity, for the heirs of Kamylk Pasha, who wish to collect everything that can recall the remembrance of their beloved relative—”

      “Ah! a matter of remembrance only. Dear, kind hearts!”

      “Simply so, Mr. Antifer, and these dear, kind hearts, as you say, would not have hesitated to have offered you a considerable sum to obtain possession of this letter.”

      “How much would they have given?”

      “What does that matter if you have not got it?”

      “You might as well say.”

      “Oh! a few hundred francs.”

      “Pheugh!” said Captain Antifer.

      “Perhaps even a few thousand.”

      “Ha!” said Captain Antifer, whose patience was exhausted. And he gripped Ben Omar by the throat, dragged him towards him, and rolled out these words into his ear, with a shake between each: “I have your letter!”

      “You have it!”

      “Your letter with the double K!”

      “Yes, the double K—that was my client’s signature.”

      “I have it. I have read it and read it again. And I know, or rather I guess, why you want to possess it!”

      “Sir?”

      “And you are not going to get it!”

      “Do you refuse?”

      “Yes, I do. Unless you buy it from me?”

      “How much?” asked the notary, digging his hand into his pocket to pick out his purse.

      “How much? Fifty millions of francs!”

      What a jump Ben Omar gave as Antifer, with his mouth open, his lips up, his teeth showing, looked at him as he had never been looked at before.

      And then he drily added,—

      “You can have it or leave it, as you please.”

      “Fifty millions!” repeated the gasping notary.

      “There is no bargaining, Mr. Ben Omar. You will get no discount out of me.”

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