There was no doubt of Ragobah’s guilt in any of our minds, so that action
at our end of the line seemed entirely useless, and nothing was left us
but to quietly await whatever developments Maitland should disclose. We
were not kept long in suspense, for in less than a week his next letter
arrived. I broke its seal in the presence of Gwen and my sister who, if
possible, were even more excited than I myself. Is it to be wondered at?
Here was the letter which was to tell us whether or not the murderer of
John Darrow had been caught. We felt that if Ragobah had returned to
India, according to his expressed intention, there could be no doubt upon
this point. But had he so returned? I read as follows:
MY DEAR DOCTOR:
The Dalmatia arrived as expected on Thursday, and on her came Ragobah. I
had him arrested as he stepped from the boat. When examined he did not
seem in the least disconcerted at the charges I preferred against him.
This did not surprise me, however, as I had expected that a man who could
roll his naked body over the burning sands from Mabajan to the Ganges, and
who could rise from the Vaisyan to the Brahman caste,—albeit he fell
again,—would not be likely to betray his cause by exhibiting either
fear or excitement. He acknowledged his acquaintance with Mr. Darrow and
the ill-feeling existing between them. When charged with his murder at
Dorchester on the night of the 22d of April he coolly asked if I were
aware when and how he had left India. I had not neglected to look this
matter up and told him he had left on the same steamer which had brought
him back—the Dalmatia—which should have arrived at New York on
the 21st of April, thus leaving him ample time to get to Boston before the
night of the 22d. To this he replied with the utmost assurance. (I give
you the exact gist of what he said. Since I was not able to immediately
commit his language to writing, you will, of course, hardly expect me to
remember those peculiar Oriental idioms which an Indian, however great his
command of English, never drops. What I say here is, of course, true of
all conversations I put before you except such as I practically reported.)—But
to return to our muttons. As I was saying, he replied with the utmost
assurance:
“The Sahib is right. I did sail upon the Dalmatia, due at New York on the
21st of April. This steamer, as you are perhaps aware, is propelled by
twin screws. On the trip in question she broke one of her propellers in
mid-Atlantic and in consequence, arrived in New York on the 24th of April,
three days late, without the transference of any of her passengers to
other boats. If you will take the trouble to at once verify this statement
at the steamship office, you will be able to relieve me of the annoyance
of further detention.”
All this was said with a rare command of language and a cold, cynical
politeness which cut like a knife. I at first thought it was merely a ruse
to gain time, but the steamship officials substantiated every word uttered
by Ragobah relative to their vessel. The Dalmatia had steamed into New
York at eleven o’clock on the morning of the 24th day of April with a
broken screw!
Imagine my amazement! The net of circumstantial evidence wound around
Ragobah seemed to be such as to leave no possibility of escape, and yet,
the very first effort made to draw it tighter about him had resulted in
his walking, with the utmost ease, right through its meshes! There is no
gainsaying such an alibi, and I am, therefore, forced to acknowledge that
Rama Ragobah could not, by any possibility, have murdered John Darrow.
That he may have planned the deed and that he may have intended to be
present at its execution is quite possible, but we may at once dismiss the
idea of his having personally committed the act. You will immediately
appreciate that nearly all of the evidence which we secured against
Ragobah was directed against him as the assassin, and is of little or no
use to prove his complicity in an affair committed by another. In his
hatred of Mr. Darrow we have, I believe, a sufficient motive for the act,
but what evidence have we to support the theory that the murder was
committed by anyone acting in his interests? I must confess my inability
to detect, at present writing, the slightest evidence that Ragobah acted
through an accomplice. So, here the matter rests.
I may state in closing that Ragobah has requested the “pleasure” (sic) of
a private interview with me on Malabar Hill to-morrow night. As there is a
bare possibility he may let fall something which may shed some light upon
the accomplice hypothesis, I have agreed to meet him at the entrance to
the little cave at nine o’clock. He has requested that I come alone and I
shall do so, but, lest you fear for my safety, let me assure you that I
know very well the unscrupulous nature of the man with whom I am to deal
and that I shall take good care not to afford him any opportunity to catch
me unawares. You will hear from me again after I meet Ragobah.
Remember me kindly to Miss Darrow. The failure of my enterprise will, I
know, be a bitter disappointment to her, and you must temper this
acknowledgment of it with such a hope of ultimate success as you may
enjoy. Tell her I shall never cease my efforts to solve this mystery so
long as I am able to find a clue, however slight, to follow. At present I
am all at sea, and it looks as if I should have to go clear back and start
all over again. Ragobah, as a point of departure, has not proved a
success. With my kind regards to you all,
I remain, cordially yours,
GEORGE MAITLAND.
I read this through aloud, despite the fact that I knew some parts of it
were intended only for my perusal. Gwen did not speak until some minutes
after I had finished, and then only to express a fear that, despite his
caution, harm might come to Maitland at his interview with Ragobah. She
seemed to be far less disappointed at Maitland’s failure to convict
Ragobah than she was fearful for her friend’s personal safety. She was
restless and ill at ease for the next two or three days—in fact,
until the arrival of Maitland’s next letter. This came during my absence
on a professional call, and when I returned home she met me with it at the
door with an expression of relief upon her countenance so plain as not to
be misconstrued. We went into the sitting-room, where my sister was
awaiting the news, and I read as follows:
MY DEAR DOCTOR:
I kept my appointment last night with Rama Ragobah and, although nothing
transpired at all likely to assist me in locating Mr. Darrow’s assassin,
yet the interview, though short, was interesting and worth narrating.
Promptly at nine o’clock I was at my post by the little cave. I am still
staying with Herr Blaschek and, as I had but a few rods to travel, I did
not quit the house until within five minutes of the time appointed for our
meeting. As I stepped out into the darkness I noticed a tall form glide
behind a tree, about a rod away from the door. I could not be sure it was
Ragobah, yet I had little doubt of it. I was a trifle taken aback at the
moment, and instinctively placed my hand upon my revolver and grasped my
cane more firmly. Should occasion require it, I counted upon this cane
quite as much as upon my revolver, for, innocent and inoffensive as it
looked, it was capable of most deadly execution. I had chosen it in
preference to many other more pretentious weapons which had suggested
themselves to me. It consisted of a small, flexible steel wire hardly
bigger than the blade of a foil, surmounted by a good-sized lead ball, and
the whole covered with a closely woven fabric. By grasping the cane by its
lower end a tremendously heavy blow could be struck with the ball, and, if
an attempt were made to shield the head by throwing up the arm, it was
almost certain to fail of its object since the flexibility of the wire
permitted it to bend about an obstruction until its loaded end was brought
home. You will perhaps think that, since I did not make use of this
weapon, I need not have troubled myself to describe it. Perhaps that is
so, but, let me assure you, when I saw Ragobah, for it was he, glide
behind that tree, and reflected how capable he was of every kind of
treachery, I wouldn’t have parted with that cane for its weight in gold.
The Indian had pledged me to come alone and had promised to do likewise,
but I felt any tree might conceal one of his minions, hired to assassinate
me while he engaged my attention. All this, of course, did not in the
least affect my decision. I had promised to go alone, and Miss Darrow’s
interests required that I should keep my covenant. I should have done so,
even though I had known Ragobah meant to betray me. I may as well,
however, tell you at once that my suspicions wronged the fellow. He had
evidently taken his station behind a tree to satisfy himself, without
exposure, that I meant to keep my promise and come alone.
When I reached the cave I found him awaiting me. How he was able to get
there before me passes my comprehension, but there he was. He did not
waste time, but addressed me at once, and, as my memory is excellent and
our interview was short, I am able to give you an accurate report of what
passed between us. I copy it here just as I entered it in my notebook,
immediately upon my return to the house.
“You naturally wish to know,” Ragobah began, “why I have sought this
interview. That is easily explained. You have done me the honour, Sahib,
for I feel it is such, to suspect me of the murder of John Darrow. You
have come here from America to fasten the crime upon me, and, from the
bottom of my heart, I regret your failure to do so. I would give
everything I possess on earth, and would gladly suffer a life of torment,
to be able truthfully to say: ‘I, Rama Ragobah, killed John Darrow.’ But
despite all my efforts, I, wretch that I am, am innocent! For more than
twenty years I have had but one purpose,—one thought,—and that
was to track down and slay John Darrow. This desire consumed me. It led me
all over India in vain search for him. For nineteen years I laboured
incessantly, without discovering so much as a trace of him. When he fled
Bombay his belongings went inland, so I was told. I believed the story and
felt sure I should one day find him on Indian soil. Years passed and I did
not find him. It was but a few months ago that I discovered his ruse and
learned his whereabouts. I could scarcely contain myself for joy. My
life-work was at last to be completed. Nothing now remained but to plan
his destruction. This, however, was not so easy a thing to do, since, in
order to make my revenge complete, I must disclose my identity before
killing him. At length I decided upon a plan. I would come upon him at
night, when asleep, gag him and bind him to his bed. Then he should learn
the name of his doomsman, and the horrible nature of the death that
awaited him.”
Ragobah paused here as if overcome by his disappointment, and I said, “And
how did you intend to kill him?” He gave a throaty chuckle, as he replied:
“It was all so very pretty! I had only to saturate the bedclothes with oil
and set fire to them. I should have lighted them at his feet and watched
the flames creep upward toward his head till safety compelled my retreat.
It was for this purpose I went to New York. You already know the fatal
delay I incurred. When I landed I made all haste to the home of Darrow
Sahib, in Dorchester, only to learn that he had killed himself a few days
before my arrival. The morsel for which I had striven and hungered for
twenty long years was whipped from my hand, even as I raised it to my
mouth. My enemy was dead, beyond the power of injury, and my hands were
unstained by his blood.
“I then determined to kill his daughter. It was the night of my enemy’s
burial. The Sahibah was alone in the house and was intending to leave it
that night. I knew she would see that everything was securely fastened
before she went away, and so, when I opened one of the windows, I was sure
she would come to close it. Crouching down outside I awaited her approach,
intending to spring up and stab her while she was pulling the window down.
Everything happened as I planned—what ails the Sahib? I did not kill
her! No, at the last moment something—never mind what—stayed
my arm! The death of an innocent girl did not promise me any lasting
satisfaction and I gave up the idea, returned to New York, and re-embarked
for Bombay as innocent in act as when I left it. My life had been a
failure and I had no desire to prolong it. When you arrested me on the
charge of murder, nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to
have been able to plead guilty.
“You already know why I so hated Darrow. He robbed me of the only woman I
ever loved. Maddened by jealousy, I told her I had thrown him into the
well in the cave here. It was a lie, but she believed it, and fled from
me, and in a few minutes had thrown herself into that bottomless hole.
See, Sahib,” he said, entering the cave and pointing down the dark shaft,—“that
is the road she took in order that her bones might rest with his, and,
after all, they are thousands of miles apart. It’s not the triumph I
planned, but it’s all I have! And this is why I brought you here; that you
may take back to my enemy’s family the knowledge that in death I am
triumphant. Tell them,” he said, rising to his full height, “that while
the carcass of the English cur rots in a foreign land, Rama Ragobah’s
bones lie mingled with those of his beautiful Lona!”—My blood was
up, and I rushed fiercely at him. With the quickness of a cat he dodged
me, spat in my face as I turned, and, with a horrible laugh, sprang
headlong into the well. Down deeper and deeper sank the laugh—then
it died away—then a faint plash—and all was silent. Rama
Ragobah was gone! For fully ten minutes I stood dazed and irresolute and
then returned mechanically to the house. I at first thought of informing
the authorities of the whole affair, but, when I realised how hard it
would be for me to prove my innocence were I charged with Ragobah’s
murder, I decided to keep the secret of the well.
I shudder when I think of Miss Darrow’s narrow escape. Did you suspect who
her assailant really was? I wonder you have written me nothing about it,
but suppose you thought it would only needlessly alarm me. If you had
known it was our friend Ragobah, you would doubtless have felt it
imperative that I should know of it,—so I conclude from your silence
that you did not discover his identity.
I need not, of course, tell you, my dear Doctor, that we have reached the
end of our Indian clue, and that I deem it wise, all things considered,
for me to get out of India just as soon as possible. If this letter is in
any way delayed, you need not be surprised if I have the pleasure of
relating its contents in person. Remember me to Miss Darrow and tell her
how sorry I am that, thus far, I have been unable to be of any real
service to her. As I shall see you so soon I need write nothing further.
Kind regards to Miss Alice.
Ever yours,
GEORGE MAITLAND.
When I had finished reading this letter I looked up at Gwen, expecting to
see that its news had depressed her. I must confess, however, that I could
not detect any such effect. On the contrary, she seemed to be in much
better spirits than when I began reading. “According to this letter,
then,” she said, addressing me somewhat excitedly, “we may—” but she
let fall her eyes and did not complete her sentence. My sister bestowed
upon her one of those glances described in the vernacular of woman as
“knowing” and then said to me: “We may expect Mr. Maitland at any time, it
seems.” “Yes,” I replied; “he will lose no time in getting here. He
undoubtedly feels much chagrined at his failure and will now be more than
ever determined to see the affair through to a successful conclusion. He
is in the position of a hound that has lost its scent, and is eager to
return to its point of departure for a fresh start. I fancy it will be no
easy task to discover a new clue, and I shall watch Maitland’s work in
this direction with a great deal of curiosity.” Gwen did not speak, but
she listened to our conversation with a nearer approach to a healthy
interest than I had known her to display on any other occasion since her
father’s death. I regarded this as a good omen. Her condition, since that
sad occurrence, had worried me a good deal. She seemed to have lost her
hold on life and to exist in a state of wearied listlessness. Nothing
seemed to impress her and she would at times forget, in the midst of a
sentence, what she had intended to say when she began it! Her elasticity
was gone and every effort a visible burden to her. I knew the
consciousness of her loss was as a dull, heavy weight bearing her down,
and I knew, too, that she could not marshal her will to resist it,—that,
in fact, she really didn’t care, so tired was she of it all. Experience
had taught me how the dull, heavy ache of a great loss will press upon the
consciousness with the regular, persistent, relentless throb of a loaded
wheel and eat out one’s life with the slow certainty of a cancer. This I
knew to have been Gwen’s state since her father’s death, and all my
attempts to bring about a healthful reaction had hitherto been futile. It
is not to be wondered at, therefore, that even the transient interest she
had evinced was hailed by me with delight as the beginning of that
healthful reaction for which I had so long sought. When a human bark in
the full tide of life is suddenly dashed upon the rocks of despair the
wreckage is strewn far and wide, and it is with no little difficulty that
enough can be rescued to serve in the rebuilding of even the smallest of
craft. The thought, therefore, that Gwen’s intellectual flotsam was
beginning at length to swirl about a definite object in a way to
facilitate the rescue of her faculties was to me a decidedly reassuring
one, and I noted with pleasure that the state of excited expectancy which
she had tried in vain to conceal did not wane, but waxed stronger as the
days went by.
