CHAPTER XIV.

THE PORTFOLIO

Born leaders of men do not achieve leadership; men force it upon them. Here was a panic-stricken group, soon augmented by the manager and a doctor who chanced to be in the hotel. One was for communicating with the police; another urged the military; all were anxious to enlarge the news.

We were in a room on the right of the entrance, the medical man bending over an insensible cadet. O’Shea quietly closed the door. And I have since remembered how instinctively we all turned and faced him.

“Doctor,” he said, “how soon will he recover?”

The Portuguese physician shook his head.

“Do not count upon him,” he answered gravely. “A tremendous blow on the back of his skull. I cannot examine him properly here. He must be taken at once to the hospital.”

“An accident?”

“But certainly, no! Foul play. Some blunt weapon. I suspect a sandbag.”

“Shall I telephone the police?” the manager asked.

“No,” said O’Shea. “Get young Clayton away as quickly as possible. Gentlemen”--he included us all in a comprehensive glance--“let us keep this affair to ourselves.”

“What!” I cried.

But indeed, beyond that one word I could not go. Inertia at such a time astounded me.

“There is a well-known policy of war,” O’Shea went on: “Masterly inactivity. We have no Service de Sûreté and no Scotland Yard in Madeira. A clumsy hue and cry could serve no better purpose than to drive the enemy into some more remote hiding place.”

“But, Nanette!” I burst out.

Then I met O’Shea’s glance. I noted the grim set of his jaw. I saw how pale he was.

“Your remark was rather unnecessary, Decies,” he said. “I recently pointed out to you that Madeira is a very lonely island. If you can suggest any plan for locating the whereabouts of Nanette, do so.”

Then I understood. And I think I groaned.

“There are so many roads they might have taken,” the manager explained. “And what means have we of tracing the car? There are no traffic police in Madeira. Such a thing has never happened here before. Certainly not in my time.”

“What villain has done it?” came in agonized North Country dialect. “Oh, the poor little lass!”

“Madeiran blood runs very hot,” said the physician.

“No doubt,” O’Shea agreed. “And Nanette is a lovely child. But do you believe there is any one amongst her acquaintances mad enough to commit such an outrage?”

“Why do you say ‘amongst her acquaintances’?” I asked stupidly.

“Because _your_ name was used to induce her to go,” O’Shea answered. “Ultimately, she must be found. Her abductor knows this. Therefore he is prepared to make terms.”

Came a rap on the door.

“Yes?” said the manager.

A hall porter appeared. Major O’Shea was wanted on the telephone. As he went out:

“Come to my room in five minutes, Decies,” he directed.

The five minutes that followed form a blur in my memory. There were hushed voices. There was movement; a still figure being carried through the hall to where a car waited out in the scented darkness. Someone kept saying, “We must _do_ something. We must _do_ something,” over and over again. There was a woman who sobbed with a Lancashire accent.

Then I stood in O’Shea’s room. He was seated on the side of the bed.

“I was right,” he said. “It’s a move in the Red game!”

“What!”

My wild, distorted ideas were tumbled over one another by that statement. They fought in my brain, seeking fresh formation.

“I knew that if my theory were sound they would waste no time. That was Julian Macalister on the ’phone. It’s the photographs they’re after, Decies!”

Whereupon: “Thank God!” I exclaimed.

O’Shea raised his eyes to me.

“I forgive you,” he said softly, “for preferring my ruin to Nanette’s.”

Certainly the swift tragedy of the last half hour must have numbed my brain. O’Shea had watched me, not angrily, for several moments before the full meaning of his words gripped my mind.

I dropped into an armchair.

Gabriel da Cunha and Julian Macalister, Communist agents, had triumphed at the eleventh hour!

“My special duties as a secret service officer end to-night.” It was O’Shea who spoke, but his voice seemed to come hollowly from a great distance. “My resignation from the regiment must follow.”

I spoke never a word.

“There is just one thing, Decies, you can do.”

Then I roused myself. I looked eagerly at O’Shea. I think, in that dark hour, I would have crawled through the hottest alleyways of hell to save him. “Why, in God’s name, didn’t you stick to your post?” Those words of his would sound in my ears for many a long day to come.

“You can enable me to resign,” he went on. “It would be preferable to being gazetted: ‘The King having no further use for this officer’s services.’”

“Anything,” I said. “I will do anything.”

A party of serenaders, playing gently on guitars and singing a languorous love-song, passed along the road below. Their voices mingled in perfect harmony. A sea breeze bore perfume into the room. And I thought that this soft island, set like a jewel above the brow of Africa, might once have been the home of Calypso, stealing men’s senses.

“It may seem mere splitting of hairs,” O’Shea went on. “But it serves my purpose, and so I ask you to do it.”

He took up the precious portfolio, which lay upon the bed beside him.

“I forced the lock last night,” he said, “but had it repaired and fitted with a key in the town this morning. I removed the seals intact and replaced them. Here is the key.” He held it out upon his open palm. “Take it.”

I took it, wondering and waiting.

“Now take the portfolio,” said he. “You will find it is locked. Hide it where you please. But its security means everything to me, to Nanette, and to England.”

“You mean,” I began, “that I----”

“I mean,” O’Shea took me up, “that _you_ may pay this price to ransom her. _I_ cannot. You have sworn no oath of allegiance to the Crown. I have.”

“Good God!” I cried. “The decision is to rest with _me_!”

“As a private citizen you can choose between the claims of your country, in this very difficult matter, and the claims of a helpless girl who has been given into your charge. As an officer, I have no choice.”

He spoke in a low, monotonous voice. But I shall remember every word of his instructions whilst memory lasts.

“You must not tell me where it is concealed. It should be in some place, though, that is quickly accessible.”

“But, O’Shea! Are they sending someone to make terms?”

“They are. At eleven o’clock to-night.”

“Why not have him arrested?”

O’Shea stared at me, and smiled. But it was a cold smile.

“Julian Macalister is coming in person,” he replied. “News of this unfortunate occurrence having reached him and our mutual friend, Gabriel da Cunha, both are anxious to place their extensive knowledge of the island at our disposal. On what charge should you propose to arrest Macalister?”

“Directly he declares his real object, upon a triple charge of blackmail, abduction, and attempted murder!”

“And then?”

“Well, surely----”

“My dear fellow!” O’Shea stood up and sighed wearily. “Racks and boiling oil would never be sanctioned by the civil governor. Personally, I should prescribe them.”

I was silenced. O’Shea was right.

“Under Portuguese law the case would take weeks,” he added. “It would be adjourned to Lisbon. No. We cannot leave her in unknown hands----”

He turned, the sentence unfinished, and walked across to the balcony.

I knew that if she had never met Edmond O’Shea little Nanette would have been safe in England that night. And I knew that he knew.

Taking up the portfolio, I went out, closing the door very quietly.