Stolen Idols. E. Phillips Oppenheim

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      “Perkins,” Gregory demanded, as he struggled into his dinner coat a few nights later, “what should you think if I told you to drop that grinning piece of wooden monstrosity there into the sea?”

      The steward glanced doubtfully over his shoulder at the Image.

      “It’s a damned ugly piece of goods, sir,” he admitted, “but I shouldn’t make away with it like that. It’s very likely valuable. They give no end of money sometimes for genuine bits of stuff from China way.”

      Gregory straightened his tie and looked at his treasure fixedly.

      “Perkins,” he confided, “that Image is either worth a few hundred, or perhaps a thousand pounds as an antique, or it may be worth—listen to me—a million.” The steward coughed. He was inclined to think that this passenger of his, on whom the slackness of the season had enabled him to bestow more than his normal share of attention, was a trifle cracked.

      “If it is worth as much money as that, sir,” he remarked, “it would be a sin to think of getting rid of it.”

      “You’re quite right,” Gregory assented, “it would be a sin. We’ll let it stay where it is.”

      At his table in the dining saloon he trifled with his dinner and covertly watched the girl seated by the captain’s side, who, on his entrance, had sent him a little wave of welcome. He had worshipped more or less casually at the shrine of girls and women of all ages, but never with quite the same restless and fitful confusion of feeling as had swept over him occasionally during the last few days in her near presence, or at the thought of her in his sleepless hours. She was, he tried to tell himself, as he studied her with eyes that attempted to be critical, an ordinary, pleasant-looking, good-looking, attractive girl, like hundreds of others of her age, too young and too lacking in experience to justify a great passion. Her yellow hair, her one real beauty, was brushed backwards with a touch almost of severity; a fashion, however, which the vivacity of her face justified. Her eyes, he had to admit, were unusual; grave and tender sometimes, full of the sparkle of humour when, as now, she was engaged in light-hearted conversation. Her mouth was perhaps almost too sensitive, but it was beautifully shaped, and not over-small. He watched her rise and walk out of the saloon; a girl’s figure still, but with just a suggestion of coming power in her easy, flowing movements.

      He had known more beautiful women. There were more beautiful women to be seen every day in Bond Street, he told himself, with an almost fierce desire to deny her attractiveness, but she possessed a gift which baffled him. He only knew that the idea of that message, which without a doubt she must at some time or other receive from her uncle, was like a nightmare to him. He felt instinctively how meanness of any sort, dishonour and falsehood, would appeal to her, with her youthful, uncompromising standards, her lack of experience. She would belie that sensitive mouth and the kindliness of her eyes. Where an older woman might have sympathised she would have no pity. And with it all his mind was in a state of turmoil about her. Unaccustomed sensations tortured him. The flash of her welcoming glance had set his pulses tingling.

      He finished his wine, leaving most of his dinner untasted, and, instead of going on deck, returned to his stateroom, thrust aside the curtain, and looked fiercely, almost challengingly, at his treasure. As he looked he felt once more a certain change in himself and his impulses, suddenly felt the torture of a sacrilegious thought, an instinct, horrible at one moment, alluring the next. He suddenly threw the cigarette case which he was holding at the face which mocked him.

      “Blast you!” he cried.

      The case, truly enough thrown, recoiled from the unchanging hardness of that lowering forehead, and fell, spilling its contents upon the bunk. He recovered it with trembling fingers, listening all the time to the music of the distant orchestra. He had a sudden impulse to lock the door and stay where he was; an impulse swept away a moment later by an unconquerable desire to be moving to the music with Claire in his arms. From the door he ventured upon one last unwilling glance upwards. He could have sworn that for the fiftieth time that expression had changed. There was a light almost of suggestion in those sightless orbs, a curl of sardonic contempt in the thick lips. He hurried up on to the deck and leaned for a moment over the rail, his eyes looking across the sea.

      “Nerves!” he told himself slowly. “Nerves!”

      The doctor passed him with a cheery good evening. Gregory called out to him.

      “Just a moment, Doctor.”

      “You’ll be in disgrace,” the latter remarked. “They’re dancing already. Come and have a liqueur in my room first.”

      “Thank you,” Gregory replied.

      They made their way to the lower deck and into the doctor’s quarters. The latter excused himself for a moment whilst he prepared some medicine. Afterwards he opened his cupboard, produced a bottle of brandy and two liqueur glasses and pushed a box of cigarettes across the table.

      “What’s wrong with you, young fellow?” he asked a little abruptly.

      “Nerves,” Gregory answered. “Do you believe in them?”

      “To some extent,” was the cautious reply. “How are they getting at you?”

      “I’m haunted by an evil spirit,” Gregory declared, lighting a cigarette. “It’s there, a wooden Image behind a curtain, down in my stateroom. Now get ready to laugh. I assure you, Doctor, every moment I spend with that damned thing makes me feel more of a rotter.”

      “Where did you get it?” the doctor enquired curiously.

      Gregory glanced towards the closed door.

      “I am not sure whether it is wise to tell you,” he replied, “but, as a matter of fact, it is a small statue of a famous Chinese god. It is meant to represent all the gross side of a man’s life. It is meant to depict every evil that can haunt the sinner.”

      The doctor suddenly leaned forward in his chair.

      “You don’t mean to tell me that you were mixed up in the Nilkaya affair?” he exclaimed. “You’re not one of the Englishmen who looted the place?”

      “I’ve got one of the Images here, anyway,” Gregory admitted.

      “There was a report that you were both dead.”

      “My pal is, although he was taking on what we thought the simplest part of the job. They got me, a dozen of those priests. Fought like furies, the fellows did! I was to have been food for the alligators but I was rescued on the river by a trader from the coast.”

      The doctor looked at his companion with amazement.

      “No wonder you’ve got nerves,” he observed. “You’ve been through something.”

      “I’ve been through hell,” Gregory admitted. “The fight wasn’t so bad, but I was two days strapped up on that pirate ship with not a mouthful to eat, in a foul atmosphere, and expecting to be thrown overboard at any moment. I had a certain amount of luck. I got clear, as you see, and I’ve got one of the Images. It is supposed to be chock full of jewels, and yet I’m half inclined to chuck the damned thing overboard.”

      The doctor smiled reassuringly.

      “I won’t say anything of the morality of the enterprise,” he declared, “but you had a fine, plucky СКАЧАТЬ