The Orchard of Tears

Inconsistent hyphenation in the original text has been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. THE ORCHARD OF TEARS BY SAX ROHMER AUTHOR OF "DR. FU-MANCHU" THIRD EDITION METHUEN & CO. LTD. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON First Issued in this Cheap Form (Second Edition) July 14th, 1921 Third Edition 1921 This Book was First Published (Crown 8vo) October 24th, 1918 CONTENTS PAGE AT LOWER CHARLESWOOD 1 FLAMBY IN LONDON 85 THE KEY 173 TO THE SLAVES OF THE POMEGRANATE, SONS OF ADAM AND DAUGHTERS OF EVE, WHO DRINK AT THE FOUNTAIN OF LIFE, THIS CHALICE IS OFFERED AS A LOVING-CUP. THE ORCHARD OF TEARS AT LOWER CHARLESWOOD I It was high noon of a perfect summer's day. Beneath green sun blinds, upon the terrace overlooking the lawns, Paul Mario, having finished his lunch, lay back against the cushions of a white deck-chair and studied the prospect. Sloping turf, rose-gay paths, and lichened brick steps, hollowed with age, zigzagging leisurely down to the fir avenue, carried the eye onward again to where the river wound its way through verdant banks toward the distant town. A lark wooed the day with sweet music. Higher and ever higher rose the little sun-worshipper, pouring out his rapturous hymn to Apollo. Swallows, who but lately had crossed the battlefields of southern Europe, glided around Hatton Towers, describing mystic figures in the air, whilst the high feeble chirping of the younger generation sounded from the nests beneath the eaves. Amid the climbing roses bees were busy, their communal labours an object-lesson for self-seeking man; and almost at Mario's feet a company of ants swarmed over the yet writhing body of an unfortunate caterpillar, who had dropped from an apple-tree to fall a prey to that savage natural law of death to the weak. The harsh voice of a sentinel crow spoke from a neighbouring cornfield, and a cloud of dusky marauders took the air instantly, and before the sharp crack of the farmer's fowling-piece came to confirm the warning. In the hush of noon the tones of some haymakers at their patriarchal labours in a meadow beyond the stream were clearly audible—and the atmosphere constantly vibrated with remote booming of guns on the Western front. Paul Mario was sufficiently distinguished in appearance to have been a person of no importance. His virile, curling black hair had the raven's-wing sheen betraying remote Italian forebears, and for…