THE COMPLETE JIM MAITLAND SERIES. H. C. McNeile / Sapper
you in any way?" said Jim, in Spanish. "I thought I heard you call out."
She looked at Jim, and her mouth drooped.
"It doesn't matter," she said, despairingly. "I thought you were English."
Jim smiled.
"I most certainly am," he answered, and the girl's face lit up once more. "I must blame the bad light for failing to see you were too."
And then he looked at the man who was still struggling in his grasp.
"That being the case," he continued, "how comes it that a Dago made you cry out for help? Dagos who do anything so foolish as to molest English girls are simply asking for trouble, aren't they, you repulsive little beast?"
The Dago squirmed and twisted in his hands, and Jim smiled placidly. Then he took him by the collar and the seat of his trousers and fairly slung him across the road. He lay for a moment where he fell; then, with a look of venomous hate on his face, he vanished down the road, and Jim turned back to the girl.
"Now, what can I do for you?"
She was gazing at him in admiration, and then she clapped her hands together.
"Oh, but you're strong!" she said, and her eyes were shining. "That little brute ought to be killed. He's one of MacTavert's men."
"So I gathered," said Jim quietly. "In fact, a little while ago he was suggesting to my friend and me that we should go to MacTavert's place this evening."
The girl shuddered, and once again the look of terror came into her eyes. She began to speak a little breathlessly, touching Jim's arm every now and then with her hand.
"It's an awful place—a ghastly place. And when I saw you, somehow I knew you were English, and I followed you. I thought perhaps you might be able to help me. That's why that little brute tried to interfere and prevent me speaking to you."
"But why should he object to you speaking to us?" said Jim, looking a trifle puzzled. "What has he got to do with you, anyway?"
"I'm in the most dreadful trouble," said the girl, and her lips were trembling. "You see, I'm at MacTavert's."
"You're at MacTavert's?" repeated Jim slowly. "But I don't understand. Why are you at such a place?"
"I was told to go there last night. I had no money, and I met a woman who said she could give me a room, and it didn't matter about paying her. And then I found that it was at this awful dancing saloon."
It was all a little incoherent, and Jim looked at her gravely.
"Then why not go away?" he said at length. "Surely re must be a British chaplain here, or somebody to whom you could apply."
"But I can't find my box, or any of my things." The girl was on the verge of tears. "They've taken them away and hidden them. And I don't know anyone in this horrible town, and I can't speak Spanish."
"I see," said Jim quietly, and his eyes were very gentle. "I see. Well, what do you want me to do?"
"If only I could tell you my story!" she cried. "But it's getting late, and I haven't got time now. I must get back, or that brute will find out I've gone, and get in a rage. You see, he told me I wasn't to go out unless he said I might. Oh, if you could come to the place tonight, and tell MacTavert you want to dance with me—That's what I have to do, you see: dance with anyone who wants me to. And then I could tell you. And perhaps you could help me."
She was looking up at Jim through eyes that were swimming with tears, and Jim smiled at her reassuringly.
"All right, kid," he said quietly. "We'll come, and you shall tell us all about it. And then we'll see what we can do."
"Oh, thank you a thousand times!" cried the girl, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "I think I should have drowned myself if I hadn't seen you passing by. You know where it is, don't you? Just down the road there."
"We'll find it," said Jim. "Now you trot along. By the way, what is your name?"
"Colette," said the girl simply, and she gave Jim a look such as a dog gives its master. And then she was gone, flitting like a shadow, through the trees that lined the road.
For a few moments Jim watched her: then he turned to me.
"I may be several sorts of a fool, Dick," he remarked, "but I'll take my oath that wasn't a put-up job. In fact, I'm thinking we may be just in time to prevent a tragedy."
"You'll probably find MacTavert a fairly tough customer," I said, as we strolled back towards the hotel.
Jim grinned. "I like 'em tough. Let's dine."
He was silent during dinner, and it was not until we had nearly finished that he spoke.
"If it's what I think it is, Dick, Mr. MacTavert and I will have words to- night."
And his voice was savage.
* * * * *
MacTavert's dancing saloon took very little finding. As we entered the doors, the strains of an automatic piano grinding out a waltz met our ears, and for a moment or two we stood just inside watching the scene. It was typical of scores of similar places to be met with in seaports all over the world. A little larger perhaps than the average—apart from that there was nothing to distinguish it from a hundred others. A general reek of perspiring humanity and stale spirits filled the air: the thick haze of tobacco smoke made it almost impossible to see across the room. In the centre, where a space had been left, five or six couples were dancing; around the walls, seated at little tables, were men of every nationality drinking. Every now and then one of them would seize some woman by the waist and solemnly gyrate round the floor in the centre to the strains of the piano. Then the pair would sit down again, and more drink would be ordered; MacTavert expected his girls to increase the liquor consumption.
"Good heavens, Jim!" I muttered in disgust, "what a horrible spot!"
And it was as I spoke that we saw Colette. She was dancing with a big Dago, and her eyes lit up as she saw us.
Jim smiled at her, and at that moment MacTavert himself approached. His shrewd eyes had soon discerned two toffs standing by the door, and he had no intention of letting them escape if he could help it. He bowed obsequiously, showing his tobacco-stained teeth in an ingratiating smile, and Jim regarded him in silence.
"And what can I do for you gentlemen?" said MacTavert. "There is a good table unoccupied at the other end of the room, and I think I may say that my whisky is good. Or champagne, if you prefer it," he added, hopefully.
"Show us the table," said Jim curtly, and we followed MacTavert across the room.
"Now bring me some whisky," he continued, when we were seated.
"Certainly, sir," returned the other. "And if there is any lady," he continued, with an odious leer, "who takes your fancy—you have merely got to mention the matter to me."
"There is," said Jim quietly. "That girl over there dancing with that Dago. Tell her that my friend and I will be honoured if she will join us at our table."
MacTavert rubbed his hands together; things were progressing altogether to his fancy. Just as there was a special tariff for wines when consumed by visitors like ourselves, so also there was a special tariff for girls.
"Leave it all to me," he remarked, confidentially. "And if "— his voice sank to a whisper—"you would care to smoke a pipe, or possibly—" He paused meaningly.
"I don't go in for opium or coke or any other rotten dope," said Jim shortly. "Get my whisky."
For a moment MacTavert's eyes gleamed angrily; he was not used to being spoken to in such a way. But a second glance at Jim's face decided him that speech on his part would be not only superfluous but unwise, and with a further bow he left us.
We saw him approach the table where Colette was sitting, and speak to her. She rose instantly and followed MacTavert across the room, leaving her late dancing partner scowling furiously. But he said nothing: it was pretty