Over the top of the rug was a curtain of waxed sailcloth that could be
dropped by the pull of a cord, and it was generally dropped whenever
Cleigh made port.
It was vaguely known that Cleigh possessed the maharaja's treasure.
Millionaire collectors, agents, and famous salesroom auctioneers had heard
indirectly; but they kept the information to themselves--not from any
kindly spirit, however. Never a one of them but hoped some day he might
lay hands upon the rug and dispose of it to some other madman. A rug
valued at seventy thousand dollars was worth a high adventure. Cleigh,
however, with cynical humour courted the danger.
There is a race of hardy dare-devils--super-thieves--of which the world
hears little and knows little. These adventurers have actually robbed the
Louvre, the Vatican, the Pitti Gallery, the palaces of kings and sultans.
It was not so long ago that La Gioconda--Mona Lisa--was stolen from the
Louvre. Cleigh had come from New York, thousands of miles, for the express
purpose of meeting one of these amazing rogues--a rogue who, had he found
a rich wallet on the pavements, would have moved heaven and earth to find
the owner, but who would have stolen the Pope's throne had it been left
about carelessly.
It is rather difficult to analyze the moral status of such a man, or that
of the man ready to deal with him.
Cleigh lowered his book and assumed a listening attitude. Above the patter
of the rain he heard the putt-putt of a motor launch. He laid the book on
the table and reached for a black cigar, which he lit and began to puff
quickly. Louder grew the panting of the motor. It stopped abruptly. Cleigh
heard a call or two, then the creaking of the ladder. Two minutes later a
man limped into the salon. He tossed his sou'wester to the floor and
followed it with the smelly oilskin.
"Hello, Cleigh! Devil of a night!"
"Have a peg?" asked Cleigh.
"Never touch the stuff."
"That's so; I had forgotten."
Cleigh never looked upon this man's face without recalling del Sarto's
John the Baptist--supposing John had reached forty by the way of reckless
passions. The extraordinary beauty was still there, but as though behind a
blurred pane of glass.
"Well?" said Cleigh, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
"There's the devil to pay--all in a half hour."
"You haven't got it?" Cleigh blazed out.
"Morrissy--one of the squarest chaps in the world--ran amuck the last
minute. Tried to double-cross me, and in the rough-and-tumble that
followed he was more or less banged up. We hurried him to a hospital,
where he lies unconscious."