There remained the upper cliff, which was, it will be remembered, nearer the perpendicular than the other one, though not so high. Up this Sellon proceeded to climb, his companion steadying the rope for him as before. Pausing a few moments to draw up and coil the longer line, Renshaw turned to follow. But--the rope was not there. Looking up, he saw the end of it rapidly disappearing over the brow of the cliff above.
What did it mean?
It could not be! He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The rope was gone. What idiotic practical joke could his companion be playing at such a time? Then, with a shock, the blood flowed back to his heart, and he turned deadly cold all over.
Alas and alas! It could mean but one thing. Renshaw"s feelings at that moment were indescribable. Amazement, dismay, burning indignation, were all compressed within it, and following upon these the warning words of Marian Selwood, spoken that sunny morning under the cool verandah, flashed through his brain.
"He is not a man I should trust. He doesn"t seem to ring true."
Heavens and earth--it could not be! No man living, however base, could be guilty of such an act of black and bitter treachery. But _in Maurice Sellon"s possession was the great diamond--the superb "Eye_."
Even then it could not be. Surely, surely, this man whose life had been saved twice now; whom he had been the means of enriching for the remainder of that life--could not be capable of requiting him in such a manner as this. It must be a mere senseless practical joke.
"Anything gone wrong with the rope?" he called up, striving to suppress the ring of anxiety in his voice.
No answer.
Again he called.
No answer. But this time, he fancied he heard receding footsteps clambering up the steep hillside beyond.
Renshaw Fanning"s life had not held many moments more bitter than those which followed. The hideous treachery of his false friend, the terrible fate which stared him in the face--pent up within that deathtrap, and-- hollow mockery--wealth untold lying at his feet. And the cold-bloodedness which had planned and carried out so consummate a scheme! Why had not the villain drawn up the longest rope, and left him below in the crater instead of up here on the ledge? Why, because he knew that he himself could be shot dead from below while climbing the upper rope, whereas now he was safe. The whole thing was as clear daylight. There was no room for doubt.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.
JUDAS IMPROMPTU.
One of those inexplicable problems which now and again crop up to puzzle the student of human nature and to delight the cynic is the readiness wherewith a man, who on the whole is rather a good fellow, will suddenly, and at a moment"s notice, plunge into the lowest depths of base and abject villainy.
When Maurice Sellon first laid his hand upon the lower rope to ascend out of the crater, he had no more idea of committing this act of blackest treachery than his generous and all too trusting friend had.
It came to him, so to speak, in mid-air--begotten of a consciousness of the priceless treasure now in his possession--of the ease wherewith he could draw up the rope.
The temptation became too strong. That splendid stone, worth a fortune, would be all his. Renshaw might eventually work his way out by some other point--but not until he himself had got a long start to the good.
He remembered his friend"s words earlier in their expedition. "Do you think you could find your way back alone?" Strangely prophetic! Yes, he thought he could do that. At any rate, with the fabulous wealth about him, it was worth while making the trial.
We think we have hitherto made it clear that Sellon was not without some good impulses. Equally we seem to have made it clear that he was at the same time what is commonly, and expressively, known as a "slippery character." From a slip to a downright--a heavy--fall is the work of an instant. So, too, had been the dastardly resolve which he had formed and carried out.
He could not have lifted a hand against his friend--his nature was too weak for any such aggressive act of villainy. But to leave him to perish miserably of starvation, shut up there in the crater, involved the playing of a comparatively inactive part. And again, it did not look so bad. Renshaw was a man of infinite resource. He might eventually succeed in finding a way out--probably would. Thus was conscience seared.
Sellon climbed up to where the horses were grazing, closely knee-haltered. He untied the _reims_, and led them back to the place where they had camped. It was a short distance, but it gave him time to think.
He saddled up his own horse. Then he took out the great diamond. How it flashed in the sinking sunlight. It must be worth a fabulous sum.
All his own--all, not half.
His foot was in the stirrup. He took one more look around. There was their resting-place, just as it had been left in the small hours of the morning. His friend"s blanket still lay there, as it had been thrown aside. His friend"s saddle and bridle--a few _reims_ and other gear.
The sight of these objects set him thinking.
The sweet golden sunshine slanted down into the hollow, its course nearly run. Opposite, the great cliffs flushed redly at its touch; below, the crater was already in shade. And upon that lonely ledge stood the man who was thus treacherously left to die a lingering death-- never again to look upon a human face, never again to hear the sound of a human voice.
Why had he been so blindly, so besottedly confiding? Had he not by the very fact placed temptation in the other"s way? Marian was right. "He does not seem to ring true," had been her words. Her quick woman"s instinct had gauged the risk, while he, in his superior knowledge, had suffered himself to be led blindfold into the trap. Ah, well, these considerations came just a trifle too late. He must make up his mind to meet his end, and that soon, for even to his resourceful brain no glimmer of a way out of the difficulty presented itself.
"Hallo! Fanning!"
The blood tingled in his veins at the call. He paused a moment before replying to the treacherous scoundrel--and then it was in one single stern monosyllable.
"Well?"
"Look here, old chap. I want to talk to you."
"Why don"t you show yourself?"
For although the voice came from the cliff"s brow above, not even the speaker"s head was visible.
"Look here, old boss," went on the latter, ignoring the question. "I"m a pretty desperate sort of a chap just now--because I"m desperately in want of the needful--all of it that I can lay hands on, in fact. Now, with you it"s different; for you went out of your way to tell me as much. Remember?"
"Go on."
"Well, you said you"d be content with _moderate_ riches. Now you"ve got them. With me it"s different. I want a good deal more than anything moderate."
He paused, but no answer came from below.
"Well, what I want to propose is this. You hold on to what you"ve got, and I"ll stick to what I"ve got. Is that a bargain?"
"No."
"Now, Fanning, do be reasonable. By-the-by, you remember when we first talked about this place. I told you I had an object in trying to make a pile, and rather chaffed you on having one too. Said I believed our object was the same. Remember?"
"Well?"
"Well, I little thought how I was. .h.i.tting the right nail on the head.
Now, by agreeing to my suggestion, you can benefit us both--benefit all three of us, in fact. For you behaved devilish well over that other business, mind, devilish well. Look here now. Agree that we shall start quits from this moment--that we each stick to what we"ve got on us--mind you, we"ve had no division yet, and you may have as many stones as I have--or nearly so--for all I--for all either of us--know. Give me your straight word of honour that you agree to this, and--I"ll let down the rope again."
Here again the speaker fell unconsciously into an inconsistency so paradoxical as to be almost grotesque. Had the position been reversed, would he have scrupled at pa.s.sing his own "word of honour" a score of times, if necessary, in order to get out of the present quandary. And once out of it would he have hesitated to break his pledged word equally a score of times, and to pursue his claim to the uttermost. Not for a moment would he have so scrupled. Yet he was prepared to accept this other man"s word in perfect good faith. Wherein is indeed a paradox, and, as we have said, a grotesque one.
"And if I refuse?" said Renshaw.
"If--? In that case I shall not let down the rope again."
"I do refuse, then."
The stern determined tone left no room for doubt. That, once it was formed, there was no shaking this man"s resolution Maurice was well aware.
"Then you are committing suicide," he said.
"And you murder--murder in the blackest and most diabolical form in which it has ever been committed. And--believe me or not, as you please--I would rather be myself here, than be you, at large with the results of your villainy. And those results--mark my last words--you will never benefit by."
To this there was no reply, and some minutes went by in silence. Again Renshaw heard his name called. But he deigned no answer.