PhuePwint/jungle_book · Datasets at Hugging Face

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Her screams had attracted servants and members of the families from
residences near by, as well as from the Greystoke home. Lady Greystoke
had witnessed the girl’s brave battle, and had herself tried to reach
the rapidly passing vehicle, but had been too late.

That was all that anyone knew, nor did Lady Greystoke dream of the
possible identity of the man at the bottom of the plot until her
husband told her of the escape of Nikolas Rokoff from the French prison
where they had hoped he was permanently confined.

As Tarzan and his wife stood planning the wisest course to pursue, the
telephone bell rang in the library at their right. Tarzan quickly
answered the call in person.

“Lord Greystoke?” asked a man’s voice at the other end of the line.

“Yes.”

“Your son has been stolen,” continued the voice, “and I alone may help
you to recover him. I am conversant with the plot of those who took
him. In fact, I was a party to it, and was to share in the reward, but
now they are trying to ditch me, and to be quits with them I will aid
you to recover him on condition that you will not prosecute me for my
part in the crime. What do you say?”

“If you lead me to where my son is hidden,” replied the ape-man, “you
need fear nothing from me.”

“Good,” replied the other. “But you must come alone to meet me, for it
is enough that I must trust you. I cannot take the chance of permitting
others to learn my identity.”

“Where and when may I meet you?” asked Tarzan.

The other gave the name and location of a public-house on the
water-front at Dover—a place frequented by sailors.

“Come,” he concluded, “about ten o’clock tonight. It would do no good
to arrive earlier. Your son will be safe enough in the meantime, and I
can then lead you secretly to where he is hidden. But be sure to come
alone, and under no circumstances notify Scotland Yard, for I know you
well and shall be watching for you.

“Should any other accompany you, or should I see suspicious characters
who might be agents of the police, I shall not meet you, and your last
chance of recovering your son will be gone.”

Without more words the man rang off.

Tarzan repeated the gist of the conversation to his wife. She begged to
be allowed to accompany him, but he insisted that it might result in
the man’s carrying out his threat of refusing to aid them if Tarzan did
not come alone, and so they parted, he to hasten to Dover, and she,
ostensibly to wait at home until he should notify her of the outcome of
his mission.

Little did either dream of what both were destined to pass through
before they should meet again, or the far-distant—but why anticipate?

For ten minutes after the ape-man had left her Jane Clayton walked
restlessly back and forth across the silken rugs of the library. Her
mother heart ached, bereft of its first-born. Her mind was in an
anguish of hopes and fears.

Though her judgment told her that all would be well were her Tarzan to
go alone in accordance with the mysterious stranger’s summons, her
intuition would not permit her to lay aside suspicion of the gravest
dangers to both her husband and her son.

The more she thought of the matter, the more convinced she became that
the recent telephone message might be but a ruse to keep them inactive
until the boy was safely hidden away or spirited out of England. Or it
might be that it had been simply a bait to lure Tarzan into the hands
of the implacable Rokoff.

With the lodgment of this thought she stopped in wide-eyed terror.
Instantly it became a conviction. She glanced at the great clock
ticking the minutes in the corner of the library.

It was too late to catch the Dover train that Tarzan was to take. There
was another, later, however, that would bring her to the Channel port
in time to reach the address the stranger had given her husband before
the appointed hour.

Summoning her maid and chauffeur, she issued instructions rapidly. Ten
minutes later she was being whisked through the crowded streets toward
the railway station.

It was nine-forty-five that night that Tarzan entered the squalid “pub”
on the water-front in Dover. As he passed into the evil-smelling room a
muffled figure brushed past him toward the street.

“Come, my lord!” whispered the stranger.

The ape-man wheeled about and followed the other into the ill-lit
alley, which custom had dignified with the title of thoroughfare. Once
outside, the fellow led the way into the darkness, nearer a wharf,
where high-piled bales, boxes, and casks cast dense shadows. Here he
halted.

Her screams had attracted servants and members of the families from

residences near by, as well as from the Greystoke home. Lady Greystoke

had witnessed the girl’s brave battle, and had herself tried to reach

the rapidly passing vehicle, but had been too late.

That was all that anyone knew, nor did Lady Greystoke dream of the

possible identity of the man at the bottom of the plot until her

husband told her of the escape of Nikolas Rokoff from the French prison

where they had hoped he was permanently confined.

As Tarzan and his wife stood planning the wisest course to pursue, the

telephone bell rang in the library at their right. Tarzan quickly

answered the call in person.

“Lord Greystoke?” asked a man’s voice at the other end of the line.

“Yes.”

“Your son has been stolen,” continued the voice, “and I alone may help

you to recover him. I am conversant with the plot of those who took

him. In fact, I was a party to it, and was to share in the reward, but

now they are trying to ditch me, and to be quits with them I will aid

you to recover him on condition that you will not prosecute me for my

part in the crime. What do you say?”

“If you lead me to where my son is hidden,” replied the ape-man, “you

need fear nothing from me.”

“Good,” replied the other. “But you must come alone to meet me, for it

is enough that I must trust you. I cannot take the chance of permitting

others to learn my identity.”

“Where and when may I meet you?” asked Tarzan.

The other gave the name and location of a public-house on the

water-front at Dover—a place frequented by sailors.

“Come,” he concluded, “about ten o’clock tonight. It would do no good

to arrive earlier. Your son will be safe enough in the meantime, and I

can then lead you secretly to where he is hidden. But be sure to come

alone, and under no circumstances notify Scotland Yard, for I know you

well and shall be watching for you.

“Should any other accompany you, or should I see suspicious characters

who might be agents of the police, I shall not meet you, and your last

chance of recovering your son will be gone.”

Without more words the man rang off.

Tarzan repeated the gist of the conversation to his wife. She begged to

be allowed to accompany him, but he insisted that it might result in

the man’s carrying out his threat of refusing to aid them if Tarzan did

not come alone, and so they parted, he to hasten to Dover, and she,

ostensibly to wait at home until he should notify her of the outcome of

his mission.

Little did either dream of what both were destined to pass through

before they should meet again, or the far-distant—but why anticipate?

For ten minutes after the ape-man had left her Jane Clayton walked

restlessly back and forth across the silken rugs of the library. Her

mother heart ached, bereft of its first-born. Her mind was in an

anguish of hopes and fears.

Though her judgment told her that all would be well were her Tarzan to

go alone in accordance with the mysterious stranger’s summons, her

intuition would not permit her to lay aside suspicion of the gravest

dangers to both her husband and her son.

The more she thought of the matter, the more convinced she became that

the recent telephone message might be but a ruse to keep them inactive

until the boy was safely hidden away or spirited out of England. Or it

might be that it had been simply a bait to lure Tarzan into the hands

of the implacable Rokoff.

With the lodgment of this thought she stopped in wide-eyed terror.

Instantly it became a conviction. She glanced at the great clock

ticking the minutes in the corner of the library.

It was too late to catch the Dover train that Tarzan was to take. There

was another, later, however, that would bring her to the Channel port

in time to reach the address the stranger had given her husband before

the appointed hour.

Summoning her maid and chauffeur, she issued instructions rapidly. Ten

minutes later she was being whisked through the crowded streets toward

the railway station.

It was nine-forty-five that night that Tarzan entered the squalid “pub”

on the water-front in Dover. As he passed into the evil-smelling room a

muffled figure brushed past him toward the street.

“Come, my lord!” whispered the stranger.

The ape-man wheeled about and followed the other into the ill-lit

alley, which custom had dignified with the title of thoroughfare. Once

outside, the fellow led the way into the darkness, nearer a wharf,

where high-piled bales, boxes, and casks cast dense shadows. Here he

halted.