path: root/old/tlsct10.txt

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales of Chinatown, by Sax Rohmer
#7 in our series by Sax Rohmer

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: Tales of Chinatown

Author: Sax Rohmer

Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5697]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on August 9, 2002]
[Date last updated: August 5, 2005]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF CHINATOWN ***




Produced by Alan Johns





TALES OF CHINATOWN

BY SAX ROHMER

1916





CONTENTS

THE DAUGHTER OF HUANG CHOW
KERRY'S KID
THE PIGTAIL OF HI WING HO
THE HOUSE OF GOLDEN JOSS
THE MAN WITH THE SHAVEN SKULL
THE WHITE HAT
TCHERIAPIN
THE DANCE OF THE VEILS
THE HAND OF THE MANDARIN QUONG
THE KEY OF THE TEMPLE OF HEAVEN






THE DAUGHTER OF HUANG CHOW






I

"DIAMOND FRED"



In the saloon bar of a public-house, situated only a few hundred
yards from the official frontier of Chinatown, two men sat at a
small table in a corner, engaged in earnest conversation.  They
afforded a sharp contrast. One was a thick-set and rather
ruffianly looking fellow, not too cleanly in either person or
clothing, and, amongst other evidences that at one time he had
known the prize ring, possessing a badly broken nose.  His
companion was dressed with that spruceness which belongs to the
successful East End Jew; he was cleanly shaven, of slight build,
and alert in manner and address.

Having ordered and paid for two whiskies and sodas, the Jew,
raising his glass, nodded to his companion and took a drink.  The
glitter of a magnificent diamond which he wore seemed to attract
the other's attention almost hypnotically.

"Cheerio, Freddy!" said the thick-set man.  "Any news?"

"Nothing much," returned the one addressed as Freddy, setting his
glass upon the table and selecting a cigarette from a packet
which he carried in his pocket.

"I'm not so sure," growled the other, watching him suspiciously.
"You've been lying low for a long time, and it's not like you to
slack off except when there's something big in sight."

"Hm!" said his companion, lighting his cigarette.  "What do you
mean exactly?"

Jim Poland--for such was the big man's name--growled and spat
reflectively into a spittoon.

"I've had my eye on you, Freddy," he replied; "I've had my eye on
you!"

"Oh, have you?" murmured the other.  "But tell me what you mean!"

Beneath his suave manner lay a threat, and, indeed, Freddy Cohen,
known to his associates as "Diamond Fred," was in many ways a
formidable personality.  He had brought to his chosen profession
of crook a first-rate American training, together with all that
mental agility and cleverness which belong to his race, and was
at once an object of envy and admiration amongst the fraternity
which keeps Scotland Yard busy.

Jim Poland, physically a more dangerous character, was not in the
same class with him; but he was not without brains of a sort, and
Cohen, although smiling agreeably, waited with some anxiety for
his reply.

"I mean," growled Poland, "that you're not wasting your time with
Lala Huang for nothing."

"Perhaps not," returned Cohen lightly.  "She's a pretty girl; but
what business is it of yours?"

"None at all.  I ain't interested in 'er good looks; neither are
you."

Cohen shrugged and raised his glass again.

"Come on," growled Poland, leaning across the table.  "I know,
and I'm in on it.  D'ye hear me?  I'm in on it.  These are hard
times, and we've got to stick together."

"Oh," said Cohen, "that's the game, is it?"

"That's the game right enough.  You won't go wrong if you bring
me in, even at fifty-fifty, because maybe I know things about old
Huang that you don't know."

The Jew's expression changed subtly, and beneath his drooping
lids he glanced aside at the speaker.  Then:

"It's no promise," he said, "but what do you know?"

Poland bent farther over the table.

"Chinatown's being watched again.  I heard this morning that Red
Kerry was down here."

Cohen laughed.

"Red Kerry!" he echoed.  "Red Kerry means nothing in my young
life, Jim."

"Don't 'e?" returned Jim, snarling viciously.  "The way he
cleaned up that dope crowd awhile back seemed to show he was no
jug, didn't it?"

The Jew made a facial gesture as if to dismiss the subject.

"All right," continued Poland.  "Think that way if you like.  But
the patrols have been doubled.  I suppose you know that?  And
it's a cert there are special men on duty, ever since the death
of that Chink."

Cohen shifted uneasily, glancing about him in a furtive fashion.

"See what I mean?" continued the other.  "Chinatown ain't healthy
just now."

He finished his whisky at a draught, and, standing up, lurched
heavily across to the counter.  He returned with two more
glasses.  Then, reseating himself and bending forward again:

"There's one thing I reckon you don't know," he whispered in
Cohen's ear.  "I saw that Chink talking to Lala Huang only a week
before the time he was hauled out of Limehouse Reach.  I'm
wondering, Diamond, if, with all your cleverness, you may not go
the same way."

"Don't try to pull the creep stuff on me, Jim," said Cohen
uneasily.  "What are you driving at, anyway?"

"Well," replied Poland, sipping his whisky reflectively, "how did
that Chink get into the river?"

"How the devil do I know?"

"And what killed him?  It wasn't drowning, although he was all
swelled up."

"See here, old pal," said Cohen.  "I know 'Frisco better than you
know Limehouse.  Let me tell you that this little old Chinatown
of yours is pie to me.  You're trying to get me figuring on
Chinese death traps, secret poisons, and all that junk.  Boy,
you're wasting your poetry.  Even if you did see the Chink with
Lala, and I doubt it--  Oh, don't get excited, I'm speaking
plain--there's no connection that I can see between the death of
said Chink and old Huang Chow."

"Ain't there?" growled Poland huskily.  He grasped the other's
wrist as in a vise and bent forward so that his battered face was
close to the pale countenance of the Jew.  "I've been covering
old Huang for months and months.  Now I'm going to tell you
something.  Since the death of that Chink Red Kerry's been
covering him, too."

"See here!" Cohen withdrew his arm from the other's grasp
angrily.  "You can't freeze me out of this claim with bogey
stuff.  You're listed, my lad, and you know it.  Chief Inspector
Kerry is your pet nightmare.  But if he walked in here right now
I could ask him to have a drink.  I wouldn't but I could.  You've
got the wrong angle, Jim.  Lala likes me fine, and although she
doesn't say much, what she does say is straight.  I'll ask her
to-night about the Chink."

"Then you'll be a damned fool."

"What's that?"

"I say you'll be a damned fool.  I'm warning you, Freddy.  There
are Chinks and Chinks.  All the boys know old Huang Chow has got
a regular gold mine buried somewhere under the floor.  But all
the boys don't know what I know, and it seems that you don't
either."

"What is that?"

Jim Poland bent forward more urgently, again seizing Cohen's
wrist, and:

"Huang Chow is a mighty big bug amongst the Chinese," he
whispered, glancing cautiously about him.  "He's hellish clever
and rotten with money.  A man like that wants handling.  I'm not
telling you what I know.  But call it fifty-fifty and maybe
you'll come out alive."

The brow of Diamond Fred displayed beads of perspiration, and
with a blue silk handkerchief which he carried in his breast
pocket he delicately dried his forehead.

"You're an old hand at this stuff, Jim," he muttered.  "It
amounts to this, I suppose; that if I don't agree you'll queer my
game?"

Jim Poland's brow lowered and he clenched his fists formidably.
Then:

"Listen," he said in his hoarse voice.  "It ain't your claim any
more than mine.  You've covered it different, that's all.  Yours
was always the petticoat lay.  Mine's slower but safer.  Is
anyone else in with you?"

"No."

"Then we'll double up.  Now I'll tell you something.  I was
backing out."

"What?  You were going to quit?"

"I was."

"Why?"

"Because the thing's too dead easy, and a thing like that always
looks like hell to me."

Freddy Cohen finished his glass of whisky.

"Wait while I get some more drinks," he said.

In this way, then, at about the hour of ten on a stuffy autumn
night, in the crowded bar of that Wapping public-house, these two
made a compact; and of its outcome and of the next appearance of
Cohen, the Jewish-American cracksman, within the ken of man, I
shall now proceed to tell.




II

THE END OF COHEN



"I've been expecting this," said Chief Inspector Kerry.  He tilted
his bowler hat farther forward over his brow and contemplated the
ghastly exhibit which lay upon the slab of the mortuary.  Two
other police officers--one in uniform--were present, and they
treated the celebrated Chief Inspector with the deference which
he had not only earned but had always demanded from his
subordinates.

Earmarked for important promotion, he was an interesting figure
as he stood there in the gloomy, ill-lighted place, his pose that
of an athlete about to perform a long jump, or perhaps, as it
might have appeared to some, that of a dancing-master about to
demonstrate a new step.

His close-cropped hair was brilliantly red, and so was his short,
wiry, aggressive moustache.  He was ruddy of complexion, and he
looked out unblinkingly upon the world with a pair of steel-blue
eyes.  Neat he was to spruceness, and while of no more than
medium height he had the shoulders of an acrobat.

The detective who stood beside him, by name John Durham, had one
trait in common with his celebrated superior.   This was a quick
keenness, a sort of alert vitality, which showed in his eyes, and
indeed in every line of his thin, clean-shaven face.  Kerry had
picked him out as the most promising junior in his department.

"Give me the particulars," said the Chief Inspector.  "It isn't
robbery.  He's wearing a diamond ring worth two hundred pounds."

His diction was rapid and terse--so rapid as to create the
impression that he bit off the ends of the longer words.  He
turned his fierce blue eyes upon the uniformed officer who stood
at the end of the slab.

"They are very few, Chief Inspector," was the reply.  "He was
hauled out by the river police shortly after midnight, at the
lower end of Limehouse Reach.  He was alive then--they heard his
cry--but he died while they were hauling him into the boat."

"Any statement?" rapped Kerry.

"He was past it, Chief Inspector.  According to the report of the
officer in charge, he mumbled something which sounded like: 'It
has bitten me,' just before he became unconscious."

"'It has bitten me,'" murmured Kerry.  "The divisional surgeon
has seen him?"

"Yes, Chief Inspector.  And in his opinion the man did not die
from drowning, but from some form of virulent poisoning."

"Poisoning?"

"That's the idea.  There will be a further examination, of
course.  Either a hypodermic injection or a bite."

"A bite?" said Kerry.  "The bite of what?"

"That I cannot say, Chief Inspector.  A venomous reptile, I
suppose."

Kerry stared down critically at the swollen face of the victim,
and then glanced sharply aside at Durham.

"Accounts for his appearance, I suppose," he murmured.

"Yes," said Durham quietly.  "He hadn't been in the water long
enough to look like that." He turned to the local officer.  "Is
there any theory as to the point at which he went in?"

"Well, an arrest has been made."

"By whom?  of whom?" rapped Kerry.

"Two constables patrolling the Chinatown area arrested a man for
suspicious loitering.  He turned out to be a well-known
criminal--Jim Poland, with a whole list of convictions against
him.  They're holding him at Limehouse Station, and the theory is
that he was operating with------" He nodded in the direction of
the body.

"Then who's the smart with the swollen face?" inquired Kerry.
"He's a new one on me."

"Yes, but he's been identified by one of the K Division men.  He
is an American crook with a clean slate, so far as this side is
concerned.  Cohen is his name.  And the idea seems to be that he
went in at some point between where he was found by the river
police and the point at which Jim Poland was arrested."

Kerry snapped his teeth together audibly, and:

"I'm open to learn," he said, "that the house of Huang Chow is
within that area."

"It is."

"I thought so.  He died the same way the Chinaman died awhile
ago," snapped Kerry savagely.

"It looks very queer." He glanced aside at the local officer.
"Cover him up," he ordered, and, turning, he walked briskly out
of the mortuary, followed by Detective Durham.

Although dawn was not far off, this was the darkest hour of the
night, so that even the sounds of dockland were muted and the
riverside slept as deeply as the great port of London ever
sleeps.  Vague murmurings there were and distant clankings, with
the hum of machinery which is never still.

Few of London's millions were awake at that hour, yet Scotland
Yard was awake in the person of the fierce-eyed Chief Inspector
and his subordinate.  Perhaps those who lightly criticize the
Metropolitan Force might have learned a new respect for the
tireless vigilance which keeps London clean and wholesome, had
they witnessed this scene on the borders of Limehouse, as Kerry,
stepping into a waiting taxi-cab accompanied by Durham, proceeded
to Limehouse Police Station in that still hour when the City
slept.

The arrival of Kerry created something of a stir amongst the
officials on duty.  His reputation in these days was at least as
great as that of the most garrulous Labour member.

The prisoner was in cells, but the Chief Inspector elected to
interview him in the office; and accordingly, while the officer
in charge sat at an extremely tidy writing-table, tapping the
blotting-pad with a pencil, and Detective John Durham stood
beside him, Kerry paced up and down the little room, deep in
reflection, until the door opened and the prisoner was brought
in.

One swift glance the Chief Inspector gave at the battle-scarred
face, and recognized instantly that this was a badly frightened
man.  Crossing to the table he took up a typewritten slip which
lay there, and:

"Your name is James Poland?" he said.  "Four convictions; one,
robbery with violence."

Jim Poland nodded sullenly.

"You were arrested at the corner of Pekin Street about midnight.
What were you doing there?"

"Taking a walk."

"I'll say it again," rapped Kerry, fixing his fierce eyes upon
the man's face.  "What were you doing there?"

"I've told you."

"And I tell you you're a liar.  Where did you leave the man
Cohen?"

Poland blinked his small eyes, cleared his throat, and looked
down at the floor uneasily.  Then:

"Who's Cohen?" he grunted.

"You mean, who was Cohen?" cried Kerry.

The shot went home.  The man clenched his fists and looked about
the room from face to face.

"You don't tell me------" he began huskily.

"I've told you," said Kerry.  "He's on the slab.  Spit out the
truth; it'll be good for your health."

The man hesitated, then looked up, his eyes half closed and a
cunning expression upon his face.

"Make out your own case," he said.  "You've got nothing against
me."

Kerry snapped his teeth together viciously.

"I've told you what happened to your pal," he warned.  "If you're
a wise man you'll come in on our side, before the same thing
happens to you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," growled Poland.

Kerry nodded to the constable at the doorway.

"Take him back," he ordered.

Jim Poland being returned to his cell, Kerry, as the door closed
behind the prisoner and his guard, stared across at Durham where
he stood beside the table.

"An old hand," he said.  "But there's another way." He glanced at
the officer in charge.  "Hold him till the morning.  He'll prove
useful."

From his waistcoat pocket he took out a slip of chewing gum,
unwrapped it, and placed the mint-flavoured wafer between his
large white teeth.  He bit upon it savagely, settled his hat upon
his head, and, turning, walked toward the door.  In the doorway
he paused.

"Come with me, Durham," he said.  "I am leaving the conduct of
the case entirely in your hands from now onward."

Detective Durham looked surprised and not a little anxious.

"I am doing so for two reasons," continued the Chief Inspector.
"These two reasons I shall now explain."




III

THE SECRET TREASURE-HOUSE



Unlike its sister colony in New York, there are no show places in
Limehouse.  The visitor sees nothing but mean streets and dark
doorways.  The superficial inquirer comes away convinced that the
romance of the Asiatic district has no existence outside the
imaginations of writers of fiction.  Yet here lies a secret
quarter, as secret and as strange, in its smaller way, as its
parent in China which is called the Purple Forbidden City.

On a morning when mist lay over the Thames reaches, softening the
harshness of the dock buildings and lending an air of mystery to
the vessels stealing out upon the tide, a man walked briskly
along Limehouse Causeway, looking about him inquiringly, as one
unfamiliar with the neighbourhood.  Presently he seemed to
recognize a turning to the right, and he pursued this for a time,
now walking more slowly.

A European woman, holding a half-caste baby in her arms, stood in
an open doorway, watching him uninterestedly.  Otherwise, except
for one neatly dressed young Chinaman, who passed him about
halfway along the street, there was nothing which could have told
the visitor that he had crossed the borderline dividing West from
East and was now in an Oriental town.

A very narrow alleyway between two dingy houses proved to be the
spot for which he was looking; and, having stared about him for a
while, he entered this alleyway.  At the farther end it was
crossed T-fashion, by another alley, the only object of interest
being an iron post at the crossing, and the scenery being made up
entirely of hideous brick walls.

About halfway along on the left, set in one of these walls, were
strong wooden gates, apparently those of a warehouse.  Beside
them was a door approached by two very dirty steps.  There was a
bell-push near the door, but upon neither of these entrances was
there any plate to indicate the name of the proprietor of the
establishment.

From his pocket-book the visitor extracted a card, consulted
something written upon it, and then pressed the bell.

It was very quiet in this dingy little court.  No sound of the
busy thoroughfares penetrated here; and although the passage
forming the top of the "T" practically marked the river bank,
only dimly could one discern the sounds which belong to a
seaport.

Presently the door was opened by a Chinese boy who wore the
ordinary native working dress, and who regarded the man upon the
step with oblique, tired-looking eyes.

"Mr. Huang Chow?" asked the caller.

The boy nodded.

"You wantchee him see?"

"If he is at home."

The boy glanced at the card, which the visitor still held between
finger and thumb, and extended his hand silently.  The card was
surrendered.  It was that of an antique dealer of Dover Street,
Piccadilly, and written upon the back was the following: "Mr.
Hampden would like to do business with you." The signature of the
dealer followed.

The boy turned and passed along a dim and perfectly unfurnished
passage which the opening of the door had revealed, while Mr.
Hampden stood upon the step and lighted a cigarette.

In less than a minute the boy returned and beckoned to him to
come in.  As he did so, and the door was closed, he almost
stumbled, so dark was the passage.

Presently, guided by the boy, he found himself in a very
business-like little office, where a girl sat at an American
desk, looking up at him inquiringly.

She was of a dark and arresting type.  Without being pretty in
the European sense, there was something appealing in her fine,
dark eyes, and she possessed the inviting smile which is the
heritage of Eastern women.  Her dress was not unlike that of any
other business girl, except that the neck of her blouse was cut
very low, a fashion affected by many Eurasians, and she wore a
gaily coloured sash, and large and very costly pearl ear-rings.
As Mr. Hampden paused in the doorway:

"Good morning," said the girl, glancing down at the card which
lay upon the desk before her.  "You come from Mr. Isaacs, eh?"

She looked at him with a caressing glance from beneath half-
lowered lashes, but missed no detail of his appearance.  She did
not quite like his moustache, and thought that he would have
looked better cleanshaven.  Nevertheless, he was a well-set-up
fellow, and her manner evidenced approval.

"Yes," he replied, smiling genially.  "I have a small commission
to execute, and I am told that you can help me."

The girl paused for a moment, and then:

"Yes, very likely," she said, speaking good English but with an
odd intonation.  "It is not jade?  We have very little jade."

"No, no.  I wanted an enamelled casket."

"What kind?"

"Cloisonne."

"Cloisonne?  Yes, we have several."

She pressed a bell, and, glancing up at the boy who had stood
throughout the interview at the visitor's elbow, addressed him
rapidly in Chinese.  He nodded his head and led the way through a
second doorway.  Closing this, he opened a third and ushered Mr.
Hampden into a room which nearly caused the latter to gasp with
astonishment.

One who had blundered from Whitechapel into the Khan Khalil, who
had been transported upon a magic carpet from a tube station to
the Taj Mahal, or dropped suddenly upon Lebanon hills to find
himself looking down upon the pearly domes and jewelled gardens
of Damascus, could not well have been more surprised.  This great
treasure-house of old Huang Chow was one of Chinatown's secrets--
a secret shared only by those whose commercial interests were
identical with the interests of Huang Chow.

The place was artificially lighted by lamps which themselves were
beautiful objects of art, and which swung from the massive beams
of the ceiling.  The floor of the warehouse, which was partly of
stone, was covered with thick matting, and spread upon it were
rugs and carpets of Karadagh, Kermanshah, Sultan-abad, and
Khorassan, with lesser-known loomings of almost equal beauty.
Skins of rare beasts overlay the divans.  Furniture of ivory, of
ebony and lemonwood, preciously inlaid, gave to the place an air
of cunning confusion.  There were tall cabinets, there were
caskets and chests of exquisite lacquer and enamel, loot of an
emperor's palace; robes heavy with gold; slippers studded with
jewels; strange carven ivories; glittering weapons; pots, jars,
and bowls, as delicate and as fragile as the petals of a lily.

Last, but not least, sitting cross-legged upon a low couch, was
old Huang Chow, smoking a great curved pipe, and peering half
blindly across the place through large horn-rimmed spectacles.
This couch was set immediately beside a wide ascending staircase,
richly carpeted, and on the other side of the staircase, in a
corresponding recess, upon a gilded trestle carved to represent
the four claws of a dragon, rested perhaps the strangest exhibit
of that strange collection--a Chinese coffin of exquisite
workmanship.

The boy retired, and Mr. Hampden found himself alone with Huang
Chow.  No word had been exchanged between master and servant,
but:

"Good morning, Mr. Hampden," said the Chinaman in a high, thin
voice.  "Please be seated.  It is from Mr. Isaacs you come?"




IV

PERSONAL REPORT OF DETECTIVE JOHN DURHAM TO
CHIEF INSPECTOR KERRY, OFFICER IN CHARGE OF
LIMEHOUSE INQUIRY



Dear Chief Inspector,--Following your instructions I returned and
interviewed the prisoner Poland in his cell.  I took the line
which you had suggested, pointing out to him that he had nothing
to gain and everything to lose by keeping silent.

"Answer my questions," I said, "and you can walk straight out.
Otherwise, you'll be up before the magistrate, and on your record
alone it will mean a holiday which you probably don't want."

He was very truculent, but I got him in a good humour at last,
and he admitted that he had been cooperating with the dead man,
Cohen, in an attempt to burgle the house of Huang Chow.  His
reluctance to go into details seemed to be due rather to fear of
Huang Chow than to fear of the law, and I presently gathered that
he regarded Huang as responsible for the death not only of Cohen,
but also of the Chinaman who was hauled out of the river about
three weeks ago, as you well remember.  The post-mortem showed
that he had died of some kind of poisoning, and when we saw Cohen
in the mortuary, his swollen appearance struck me as being very
similar to that of the Chinaman.  (See my report dated 31st
ultimo.)

He finally agreed to talk if I would promise that he should not
be charged and that his name should never be mentioned to anyone
in connection with what he might tell me.  I promised him that
outside the ordinary official routine I would respect his
request, and he told me some very curious things, which no doubt
have a bearing on the case.

For instance, he had discovered--I don't know in what way--that
the dead Chinaman, whose name was Pi Lung, had been in
negotiation with Huang Chow for some sort of job in his
warehouse.  Poland had seen the man talking to Huang's daughter,
at the end of the alley which leads to the place.  He seemed to
attach extraordinary importance to this fact.  At last:

"I'll tell you what it is," he said.  "That Chink was a stranger
to Limehouse; I can swear to it.  He was a gent of his hands; I
reckon they've got 'em in China as well as here.  He went out for
the old boy's money-box, and finished like Cohen finished."

"Make your meaning clearer," I said.

"My meaning's this: Old Huang Chow is the biggest dealer in
stolen and smuggled valuables from overseas we've got in London.
He's something else as well; he's a big swell in China.  But
here's the point.  He's got business with buyers all over London,
and they have to pay cash--no checks.  He doesn't bank it: I've
proved that.  He's got it in gold, or diamonds, or something,
being wise to present conditions, hidden there in the house.  Pi
Lung was after his hoard.  He didn't get it.  Cohen and me was
after it.  Where's Cohen?"

I agreed that it looked very suspicious, and presently:

"When I went in with Cohen," continued Poland, "I knew one thing
he didn't know--a short cut into the warehouse.  He's been
playing pretty-like with Lala, old Huang's daughter, and it's my
belief that he knew where the store was hidden; but he never told
me.  We knew there were special men on duty, and we'd arranged
that I was to give a signal when the patrol had passed.  Cohen
all the time had planned to double on me.  While I was watching
down on the Causeway end he climbed up and got in through the
skylight I'd shown him.  When I got there he was missing, but the
skylight was open.  I started off after him."

Then Poland clutched me, and his fright was very real.

"I heard a shriek like nothing I ever heard in my life.  I saw a
light shine through the trap, and then I heard a sort of moaning.
Last, I heard a bang, and the light went out.  I staggered down
the passage half silly, started to run, and ran straight into the
arms of two coppers."

This evidence I thought was conclusive, and in accordance with
your instructions I proceeded to Mr. Isaacs in Dover Street.  He
didn't seem too pleased at my suggestion, but when I pointed out
to him that one good turn deserved another, he agreed to give me
an introduction to Huang Chow.

I adopted a very simple disguise, just altering my complexion and
sticking on a moustache with spirit gum, hair by hair, and
trimming it down military fashion.  Everything ran smoothly, and
I seemed to make a fairly favourable impression upon Lala Huang,
the Chinaman's daughter, who evidently interviews prospective
customers before they are admitted to the warehouse.

She is a Eurasian and extremely good looking.  But when I found
myself in the room where old Huang keeps his treasures, I really
thought I was dreaming.  It's a collection that must be worth
thousands.  He showed me snuff-bottles, cut out of gems, and with
a little opening no bigger than the hole in a pipe-stem, but with
wonderful paintings done inside the bottles.  He'd got a model of
a pagoda made out of human teeth, and a big golden rug woven from
the hair of Circassian slave girls.  Excuse this, Chief
Inspector; I know it is what you call the romantic stuff; but I
think it would have impressed you if you had seen it.

Anyway, I bought a little enamelled box, in accordance with Mr.
Isaacs's instructions, although whether I succeeded in convincing
Huang Chow that I knew anything about the matter is more than
doubtful.  He got up from a sort of throne he sits on, and led
the way up a broad staircase to a private room above.

"Of course, you have brought the cash, Mr. Hampden?" he said.

He speaks quite faultless English.  He walked up three steps to a
sort of raised writing-table in this upstairs room, and I counted
out the money to him.  When he sat at the table he faced toward
the room, and I couldn't help thinking that, in his horn-rimmed
spectacles, he looked like some old magistrate.  He explained
that he would pack the purchase for me, but that I must
personally take it away.  And:

"You understand," said he, "that you bought it from a gentleman
who had purchased it abroad."

I said I quite understood.  He bowed me out very politely, and
presently I found myself back in the office with Lala Huang.

She seemed quite disposed to talk, and I chatted with her while
the box was being packed for me to take away.  I knew I must make
good use of my time, but you have never given me a job I liked
less.  I mean, there is something very appealing about her, and I
hated to think that I was playing a double game.  However,
without actually agreeing to see me again, she told me enough to
enable me to meet her "accidentally," if I wanted to.  Therefore,
I am going to look out for her this evening, and probably take
her to a picture palace, or somewhere where we can have a quiet
talk.  She seems to be fancy free, and for some reason I feel
sorry for the girl.  I don't altogether like the job, but I hope
to justify your faith in me, Chief.

I will prepare my official report this evening when I return.

Yours obediently,--JOHN DURHAM.




V

LALA HUANG



"No," said Lala Huang, "I don't like London--not this part of
London."

"Where would you rather be?" asked Durham.  "In China?"

Dusk had dropped its merciful curtain over Limehouse, and as the
two paced slowly along West India Dock Road it seemed to the
detective that a sort of glamour had crept into the scene.

He was a clever man within his limitations, and cultured up to a
point; but he was not philosopher enough to know that he viewed
the purlieus of Limehouse through a haze of Oriental mystery
conjured up by the conversation of his companion.  Temple bells
there were in the clangour of the road cars.  The smoke-stacks
had a semblance of pagodas.  Burma she had conjured up before
him, and China, and the soft islands where she had first seen the
light.  For as well as a streak of European, there was Kanaka
blood in Lala, which lent her an appeal quite new to Durham,
insidious and therefore dangerous.

"Not China," she replied.  "Somehow I don't think I shall ever
see China again.  But my father is rich, and it is dreadful to
think that we live here when there are so many more beautiful
places to live in."

"Then why does he stay?" asked Durham with curiosity.

"For money, always for money," answered Lala, shrugging her
shoulders.  "Yet if it is not to bring happiness, what good is
it?"

"What good indeed?" murmured Durham.

"There is no fun for me," said the girl pathetically.  "Sometimes
someone nice comes to do business, but mostly they are Jews,
Jews, always Jews, and------" Again she shrugged eloquently.

Durham perceived the very opening for which he had been seeking..

"You evidently don't like Jews," he said endeavouring to speak
lightly.

"No," murmured the girl, "I don't think I do.  Some are nice,
though.  I think it is the same with every kind of people--there
are good and bad."

"Were you ever in America?" asked Durham.

"No."

"I was just thinking," he explained, "that I have known several
American Jews who were quite good fellows."

"Yes?" said Lala, looking up at him naively, "I met one not long
ago.  He was not nice at all."

"Oh!" exclaimed Durham, startled by this admission, which he had
not anticipated.  "One of your father's customers?"

"Yes, a man named Cohen."

"Cohen?"

"A funny little chap," continued the girl.  "He tried to make
love to me." She lowered her lashes roguishly.  "I knew all along
he was pretending.  He was a thief, I think.  I was afraid of
him."

Durham did some rapid thinking, then:

"Did you say his name was Cohen?" he asked.

"That was the name he gave."

"A man named Cohen, an American, was found dead in the river
quite recently."

Lala stopped dead and clutched his arm.

"How do you know?" she demanded.

"There was a paragraph in this morning's paper."

She hesitated, then:

"Did it describe him?" she asked.

"No," replied Durham, "I don't think it did in detail.  At least,
the only part of the description which I remember is that he wore
a large and valuable diamond on his left hand."

"Oh!" whispered Lala.

She released her grip of Durham's arm and went on.

"What?" he asked.  "Did you think it was someone you knew?"

"I did know him," she replied simply.  "The man who was found
drowned.  It is the same.  I am sure now, because of the diamond
ring.  What paper did you read it in?  I want to read it myself."

"I'm afraid I can't remember.  It was probably the Daily Mail."

"Had he been drowned?"

"I presume so--yes," replied Durham guardedly.

Lala Huang was silent for some time while they paced on through
the dusk.  Then:

"How strange!" she said in a low voice.

"I am sorry I mentioned it," declared Durham.  "But how was I to
know it was your friend?"

"He was no friend of mine," returned the girl sharply.  "I hated
him.  But it is strange nevertheless.  I am sure he intended to
rob my father."

"And is that why you think it strange?"

"Yes," she said, but her voice was almost inaudible.

They were come now to the narrow street communicating with the
courtway in which the great treasure-house of Huang Chow was
situated, and Lala stopped at the corner.

"It was nice of you to walk along with me," she said.  "Do you
live in Limehouse?"

"No," replied Durham, "I don't.  As a matter of fact, I came down
here to-night in the hope of seeing you again."

"Did you?"

The girl glanced up at him doubtfully, and his distaste for the
task set him by his superior increased with the passing of every
moment.  He was a man of some imagination, a great reader, and
ambitious professionally.  He appreciated the fact that Chief
Inspector Kerry looked for great things from him, but for this
type of work he had little inclination.

There was too much chivalry in his make-up to enable him to play
upon a woman's sentiments, even in the interests of justice.  By
whatever means the man Cohen had met his death, and whether or no
the Chinaman Pi Lung had died by the same hand, Lala Huang was
innocent of any complicity in these matters, he was perfectly
well assured.

Doubts were to come later when he was away from her, when he had
had leisure to consider that she might regard him in the light of
a third potential rifler of her father's treasure-house.  But at
the moment, looking down into her dark eyes, he reproached
himself and wondered where his true duty lay.

"It is so gray and dull and sordid here," said the girl, looking
down the darkened street.  "There is no one much to talk to."

"But you have your business interests to keep you employed during
the day, after all."

"I hate it all.  I hate it all."

"But you seem to have perfect freedom?"

"Yes.  My mother, you see, was not Chinese."

"But you wish to leave Limehouse?"

"I do.  I do.  Just now it is not so bad, but in the winter how I
tire of the gray skies, the endless drizzling rain.  Oh!" She
shrank back into the shadow of a doorway, clutching at Durham's
arm.  "Don't let Ah Fu see me."

"Ah Fu?  Who is Ah Fu?" asked Durham, also drawing back as a
furtive figure went slinking down the opposite side of the
street.

"My father's servant.  He let you in this morning."

"And why must he not see you?"

"I don't trust him.  I think he tells my father things."

"What is it that he carries in his hand?"

"A birdcage, I expect."

"A birdcage?"

"Yes!"

He caught the gleam of her eyes as she looked up at him out of
the shadow.

"Is he, then, a bird-fancier?"

"No, no, I can't explain because I don't understand myself.  But
Ah Fu goes to a place in Shadwell regularly and buys young birds,
always very young ones and very little ones."

"For what or for whom?"

"I don't know."

"Have you an aviary in your house?"

"No."

"Do you mean that they disappear, these purchases of Ah Fu's?"

"I often see him carrying a cage of young birds, but we have no
birds in the house."

"How perfectly extraordinary!" muttered Durham.

"I distrust Ah Fu," whispered the girl.  "I am glad he did not
see me with you."

"Young birds," murmured Durham absently.  "What kind of young
birds?  Any particular breed?"

"No; canaries, linnets--all sorts.  Isn't it funny?" The girl
laughed in a childish way.  "And now I think Ah Fu will have gone
in, so I must say good night."

But when presently Detective Durham found himself walking back
along West India Dock Road, his mind's eye was set upon the
slinking figure of a Chinaman carrying a birdcage.




VI

A HINT OF INCENSE



One Chinaman more or less does not make any very great difference
to the authorities responsible for maintaining law and order in
Limehouse.  Asiatic settlers are at liberty to follow their
national propensities, and to knife one another within reason.
This is wisdom.  Such recreations are allowed, if not encouraged,
by all wise rulers of Eastern peoples.

"Found drowned," too, is a verdict which has covered many a dark
mystery of old Thames, but "Found in the river, death having been
due to the action of some poison unknown," is a finding which
even in the case of a Chinaman is calculated to stimulate the
jaded official mind.

New Scotland Yard had given Durham a roving commission, and had
been justified in the fact that the second victim, and this time
not a Chinaman, had been found under almost identical conditions.
The link with the establishment of Huang Chow was incomplete, and
Durham fully recognized that it was up to him to make it sound
and incontestable.

Jim Poland was not the only man in the East End who knew that the
dead Chinaman had been in negotiation with Huang Chow.  Kerry
knew it, and had passed the information on to Durham.

Some mystery surrounded the life of the old dealer, who was said
to be a mandarin of high rank, but his exact association with the
deaths first of the Chinaman Pi Lung, and second of Cohen,
remained to be proved.  Certain critics have declared the
Metropolitan detective service to be obsolete and inefficient.
Kerry, as a potential superintendent, resented these criticisms,
and in his protege Durham, perceived a member of the new
generation who was likely in time to produce results calculated
to remove this stigma.

Durham recognized that a greater responsibility rested upon his
shoulders than the actual importance of the case might have
indicated; and now, proceeding warily along the deserted streets,
he found his brain to be extraordinarily active and his
imagination very much alive.

There is a night life in Limehouse, as he had learned, but it is
a mole life, a subterranean life, of which no sign appears above
ground after a certain hour.  Nevertheless, as he entered the
area which harbours those strange, hidden resorts the rumour of
which has served to create the glamour of Chinatown, he found
himself to be thinking of the great influence said to be wielded
by Huang Chow, and wondering if unseen spies watched his
movements.

Lala was Oriental, and now, alone in the night, distrust leapt
into being within him.  He had been attracted by her and had
pitied her.  He told himself now that this was because of her
dark beauty and the essentially feminine appeal which she made.
She was perhaps a vampire of the most dangerous sort, one who
lured men to strange deaths for some sinister object beyond reach
of a Western imagination.

He found himself doubting the success of those tactics upon
which, earlier in the day, he had congratulated himself.  Perhaps
beneath the guise of Hampden, who bought antique furniture on
commission, those cunning old eyes beneath the horn-rimmed
spectacles had perceived the detective hidden, or at least had
marked subterfuge.

While he could not count Lala a conquest--for he had not even
attempted to make love to her--the ease with which he had
developed the acquaintance now, afforded matter for suspicion.

At the entrance to the court communicating with the establishment
of Huang Chow he paused, looking cautiously about him.  The men
on the Limehouse beats had been warned of the investigation afoot
tonight, and there was a plain-clothes man on point duty at no
great distance away, although carefully hidden, so that Durham
had quite failed to detect his presence.

Durham wore rough clothes and rubber-soled shoes; and now, as he
entered the court, he was thinking of the official report of the
police sergeant who, not so many hours before, had paid a visit
to the house of Huang Chow in order to question him respecting
his knowledge of the dead man Cohen, and to learn when last he
had seen him.

Old Huang, who had received his caller in the large room
upstairs, the room which boasted the presence of the writing-
dais, had exhibited no trace of confusion, assuring the sergeant
that he had not seen the man Cohen for several days.  Cohen had
come to him with an American introduction, which he, Huang,
believed to be forged, and had wanted him to undertake a shady
agency, respecting the details of which he remained peculiarly
reticent.  In short, nothing had been gained by this official
interrogation, and Huang blandly denied any knowledge of an
attempted burglary of his establishment.

"What have I to lose?" he had asked the inquirer.  "A lot of old
lumber which I have accumulated during many years, and a
reputation for being wealthy, due to my lonely habits and to the
ignorance of those who live around me."

Durham, mentally reviewing the words of the report, reconstructed
the scene in his mind; and now, having come to the end of the
lane where the iron post rested, he stood staring up at a place
in the ancient wall where several bricks had decayed, and where
it was possible, according to the statement of the man Poland, to
climb up on to a piece of sloping roof, and thence gain the
skylight through which Cohen had obtained admittance on the night
of his death.

He made sure that his automatic pistol was in his pocket,
questioned the dull sounds of the riverside for a moment, looking
about him anxiously, and then, using the leaning post as a
stepping-stone, he succeeded in wedging his foot into a crevice
in the wall.  By the exercise of some agility he scrambled up to
the top, and presently found himself lying upon a sloping roof.

The skylight remained well out of reach, but his rubber-soled
shoes enabled him to creep up the slates until he could grasp the
framework with his hands.  Presently he found himself perched
upon the trap which, if his information could be relied upon,
possessed no fastener, or one so faulty that the trap could be
raised by means of a brad-awl.  He carried one in his pocket,
and, screwing it into the framework, he lifted it cautiously,
making very little noise.

The trap opened, and up to his nostrils there stole a queer,
indefinable odour, partly that which belongs to old Oriental
furniture and stuffs, but having mingled with it a hint of
incense and of something else not so easily named.  He recognized
the smell of that strange store-room, which, as Mr. Hampden, he
had recently visited.

For one moment he thought he could detect the distant note of a
bell.  But, listening, he heard nothing, and was reassured.

He rested the trap back against the frame, and shone the ray of
an electric torch down into the darkness beneath him.  The light
fell upon the top of a low carven table, dragon-legged and
gilded.  Upon it rested the model pagoda constructed of human
teeth, and there was something in this discovery which made
Durham feel inclined to shudder.  However, the impulse was only a
passing one.

He measured the distance with his eye.  The little table stood
beside a deep divan, and he saw that with care it would be
possible to drop upon this divan without making much noise.  He
calculated its exact position before replacing the torch in his
pocket, and then, resting back against one side of the frame, he
clutched the other with his hands.  He wriggled gradually down
until further purchase became impossible.  He then let himself
drop, and swung for a moment by his hands before releasing his
hold.

He fell, as he had calculated, upon the divan.  It creaked
ominously.  Catching his foot in the cushions, he stumbled and
lay forward for a moment upon his face, listening intently.

The room was very hot but nothing stirred.




VII

THE SCUFFLING SOUND



Detective Durham, as he lay there inhaling the peculiar perfume
of the place, recognized that he had put himself outside the pale
of official protection, and was become technically a burglar.

He wondered if Chief Inspector Kerry would have approved; but he
had outlined this plan of investigation for himself, and knew
well that, if it were crowned by success, the end would be
regarded as having justified the means.  On the other hand, in
the event of detention he must personally bear the consequences
of such irregular behaviour.  He knew well, however, that his
celebrated superior had achieved promotion by methods at least as
irregular; and he knew that if he could but obtain evidence to
account for the death of the man Cohen, and of the Chinaman Pi
Lung, who had preceded him by the same mysterious path, the way
of his obtaining it would not be too closely questioned.

He was an ambitious man, and consequently one who took big
chances.  Nothing disturbed the silence; he sat upon the divan
and again pressed the button of his torch, shining it all about
the low-beamed apartment and peering curiously into the weird
shadows of the place.  He calculated he was now in the position
which Cohen had occupied during the last moments of his life, and
a sense of the uncanny touched him coldly.

As he thought of the unnatural screams spoken of by Poland, some
strange instinct prompted him to curl up his feet upon the divan
again, as though a secret menace crawled upon the floor amid its
many rugs and carpets.

He must now endeavour to reconstruct the plan upon which the
American cracksman had operated.  Poland had a persistent belief
that Cohen had known where the fabled hoard of Huang Chow was
concealed.

Durham began a deliberate inspection of the place.  He thought it
unlikely that a wily old Chinaman, assuming that he possessed
hidden wealth, would keep it in so accessible a spot as this.  It
was far more probable that he had a fireproof safe in the room
upstairs, perhaps built into the wall.  Yet, according to
Poland's account, it was in this room and not in any other that
death came to Diamond Fred.

The wall-hangings first engaged Durham's attention.  He moved
them aside systematically, one after another, seeking for any
hiding-place, but failing to find one.  The door communicating
with the outer office he found to be locked, but he did not
believe for a moment that the office would be worthy of
inspection.

There were cases containing jewelled weapons and cups and goblets
inlaid with precious stones, but none of these seemed to have
been tampered with, and all were locked, as was the big cabinet
filled with snuff bottles.

Many of the larger pieces about the place contained drawers and
cupboards, and these he systematically opened one after another,
without making any discovery of note.  Some of the cupboards
contained broken pieces of crockery, and more or less damaged
curios of one kind and another, but none of them gave him the
clue for which he was seeking.

He examined the couch upon which Huang Chow had been seated when
first he had met him, but although he searched it scientifically
he was rewarded by no discovery.

A very fusty and unpleasant smell was more noticeable at this
point than elsewhere in the room, and he found himself staring
speculatively up the wide, carpeted stairs.  Next he turned his
attention to the lacquered coffin which occupied the
corresponding recess to that filled by the couch.  It was an
extraordinarily ornate piece of lacquer work and probably of
great value.

The lid appeared to be screwed on, and Durham stood staring at
the thing, half revolted and half fascinated.  He failed to
discover any means of opening it, however, and when he tried to
move it bodily found it very heavy.  He came to the conclusion
that all the portable valuables were contained in locked cases or
cabinets, and out of this discovery grew an idea.

The case containing the snuff bottles stood too close to the wall
to enable him to test his new theory, but a square case near the
office door, in which were five of six small but almost priceless
pieces of porcelain, afforded the very evidence for which he was
looking.

Thin electric flex descended from somewhere inside the case down
one of the legs of the pedestal, and through a neatly drilled
hole in the floor, evidently placed there to accommodate it.

"Burglar alarm!" he muttered.

The opening of this case, and doubtless of any of the others,
would set alarm bells ringing.  This was not an unimportant
discovery, but it brought him very little nearer to a solution of
the chief problem which engaged his mind.  Assuming that Cohen
had opened one of the cases and had alarmed old Huang Chow, what
steps had the latter taken to deal with the intruder which had
resulted in so ghastly a death?  And how had he disposed of the
body?

As Durham stood there musing and looking down through the plate-
glass at the delicate porcelain beneath, a faint sound intruded
itself upon the stillness.  It gave him another idea.  Part of
the floor was stone-paved, but part was wood.

Upon a portion of the latter, where no carpet rested, Durham
dropped flat, pressing his ear to the floor.

A faint swishing and trickling sound was perceptible from some
place beneath.

"Ah!" he murmured.

Remembering that the premises almost overhung the Thames, he
divined that the cellars were flooded at high tide, or that there
was some kind of drain or cutting running underneath the house.

He stood up again, listening intently for any sound within the
building.  He thought he had detected something, and now, as he
stood there alert, he heard it again--a faint scuffling, which
might have been occasioned by rats or even mice, but which, in
some subtle and very unpleasant way, did not suggest the
movements of these familiar rodents.

Even as he perceived it, it ceased, leaving him wondering, and
uncomfortably conscious of a sudden dread of his surroundings.
He wondered in what part of this mysterious house Lala resided,
and recognizing that his departure must leave traces, he
determined to prosecute his inquiries as far as possible, since
another opportunity might not arise.

He was baffled but still hopeful.  Something there was in the
smell of the place which threatened to unnerve him; or perhaps in
its silence, which remained quite unbroken save when, by acute
listening, one detected the dripping of water.

That unexplained scuffling sound, too, which he had failed to
trace or identify, lingered in his memory insistently, and for
some reason contained the elements of fear.

He crossed the room and began softly to mount the stair.  It
creaked only slightly, and the door at the top proved to be ajar.
He peeped in, to find the place empty.  It was a typical Chinese
apartment, containing very little furniture, the raised desk
being the most noticeable item, except for a small shrine which
faced it on the other side of the room.

He mounted the steps to the desk and inspected a number of loose
papers which lay upon it.  Without exception they were written in
Chinese.  A sort of large, dull white blotting-pad lay upon the
table, but its surface was smooth and glossy.

Over it was suspended what looked like a lampshade, but on
inspection it proved to contain no lamp, but to communicate, by a
sort of funnel, with the ceiling above.

At this contrivance Durham stared long and curiously, but without
coming to any conclusion respecting its purpose.  He might have
investigated further, but he became aware of a dull and regular
sound in the room behind him.

He turned in a flash, staring in the direction of two curtains
draped before what he supposed to be a door.

On tiptoe he crossed and gently drew the curtains aside.

He looked into a small, cell-like room, lighted by one window,
where upon a low bed Huang Chow lay sleeping peacefully!

Durham almost held his breath; then, withdrawing as quietly as he
had approached, he descended the stair.  At the foot his
attention was again arrested by the faint scuffling sound.  It
ceased as suddenly as it had begun, leaving him wondering and
conscious anew of a chill of apprehension.

He had already made his plans for departure, but knew that they
must leave evidence, when discovered, of his visit.

A large and solid table stood near the divan, and he moved this
immediately under the trap.  Upon it he laid a leopard-skin to
deaden any noise he might make, and then upon the leopard-skin he
set a massive chair: he replaced his torch in his pocket and drew
himself up on to the roof again.  Reclosing the trap by means of
the awl which he had screwed into it, he removed the awl and
placed it in his pocket.

Then, sliding gently down the sloping roof, he dropped back into
the deserted court.




VIII

A CAGE OF BIRDS



"No," said Lala, "we have never had robbers in the house." She
looked up at Durham naively.  "You are not a thief, are you?" she
asked.

"No, I assure you I am not," he answered, and felt himself
flushing to the roots of his hair.

They were seated in a teashop patronized by the workers of the
district; and as Durham, his elbows resting on the marble-topped
table, looked into the dark eyes of his companion, he told
himself again that whatever might be the secrets of old Huang
Chow, his daughter did not share them.

The Chinaman had made no report to the authorities, although the
piled up furniture beneath the skylight must have afforded
conclusive evidence that a burglarious entry had been made into
the premises.

"I should feel very nervous," Durham declared, "with all those
valuables in the house."

"I feel nervous about my father," the girl answered in a low
voice.  "His room opens out of the warehouse, but mine is shut
away in another part of the building.  And Ah Fu sleeps behind
the office."

"Were you not afraid when you suspected that Cohen was a burglar?
You told me yourself that you did suspect him."

"Yes, I spoke to my father about it."

"And what did he say?"

"Oh"--she shrugged her shoulders--"he just smiled and told me not
to worry."

"And that was the last you heard about the matter?"

"Yes, until you told me he was dead."

Again he questioned the dark eyes and again was baffled.  He felt
tempted, and not for the first time, to throw up the case.  After
all, it rested upon very slender data--the mysterious death of a
Chinaman whose history was unknown and the story of a crook whose
word was worth nothing.

Finally he asked himself, as he had asked himself before, what
did it matter?  If old Huang Chow had disposed of these people in
some strange manner, they had sought to rob him.  The morality of
the case was complicated and obscure, and more and more he was
falling under the spell of Lala's dark eyes.

But always it was his professional pride which came to the
rescue.  Murder had been done, whether justifiably or otherwise,
and to him had been entrusted the discovery of the murderer.  It
seemed that failure was to be his lot, for if Lala knew anything
she was a most consummate actress, and if she did not, his last
hope of information was gone.

He would have liked nothing better than to be rid of the affair,
provided he could throw up the case with a clear conscience.  But
when presently he parted from the attractive Eurasian, and
watched her slim figure as, turning, she waved her hand and
disappeared round a corner, he knew that rest was not for him.

He had discovered the emporium of a Shadwell live-stock dealer
with whom Ah Fu had a standing order for newly fledged birds of
all descriptions.  Purchases apparently were always made after
dusk, and Ah Fu with his birdcage was due that evening.

A scheme having suggested itself to Durham, he now proceeded to
put it into execution, so that when dusk came, and Ah Fu,
carrying an empty birdcage, set out from the house of Huang Chow,
a very dirty-looking loafer passed the corner of the street at
about the time that the Chinaman came slinking out.

Durham had mentally calculated that Ah Fu would be gone about
half an hour upon his mysterious errand, but the Chinaman
travelled faster than he had calculated.

Just as he was about to climb up once more on to the sloping
roof, he heard the pattering footsteps returning to the
courtyard, although rather less than twenty minutes had elapsed
since the man had set out.

Durham darted round the corner and waited until he heard the door
closed; then, returning, he scrambled up on to the roof, creeping
forward until he was lying looking down through the skylight into
the darkened room below.

For ten minutes or more he waited, until he began to feel cramped
and uncomfortable.  Then that happened which he had hoped and
anticipated would happen.  The place beneath became illuminated,
not fully, by means of the hanging lamps, but dimly so that
distorted shadows were cast about the floor.  Someone had entered
carrying a lantern.

Durham's view-point limited his area of vision, but presently, as
the light came nearer and nearer, he discerned Ah Fu, carrying a
lantern in one hand and a birdcage in the other.  He could hear
nothing, for the trap fitted well and the glass was thick.
Moreover, it was very dirty.  He was afraid, however, to attempt
to clean a space.

Ah Fu apparently had set the lantern upon a table, and into the
radius of its light there presently moved a stooping figure.
Durham recognized Huang Chow, and felt his heart beats increasing
in rapidity.

Clutching the framework of the trap with his hands, he moved his
head cautiously, so that presently he was enabled to see the two
Chinamen.  They were standing beside the lacquered coffin upon
its dragon-legged pedestal.  Durham stifled an exclamation.

One end of the ornate sarcophagus had been opened in some way!

Now, to the watcher's unbounded astonishment, Ah Fu placed the
birdcage in the opening, and apparently reclosed the trap in the
end of the coffin.  He made other manipulations with his bony
yellow fingers, which Durham failed to comprehend.  Finally the
birdcage was withdrawn again, and as it was passed before the
light of the lantern he saw that it was empty, whereas previously
it had contained a number of tiny birds all huddled up together!

The light gleamed upon the spectacles of Huang Chow.  Watching
him, Durham saw him take out from a hidden drawer in the pedestal
a long, slender key, insert it in a lock concealed by the ornate
carving, and then slightly raise the lid which had so recently
defied his own efforts.

He raised it only a few inches, and then, taking up the lantern,
peered into the interior of the coffin, at the same time waving
his hand in dismissal to Ah Fu.  For a while he stood there,
peering into the interior, and then, lowering the lid again, he
relocked this gruesome receptacle and, lantern in hand, began to
mount the stair.

Durham inhaled deeply.  He realized that during the last few
seconds he had been holding his breath.  Now, as he began to
creep back down the slope, he discovered that his hands were
shaking.

He dropped down into the court again, and for several minutes
leaned against the wall, endeavouring to reason out an
explanation of what he had seen, and in a measure to regain his
composure.

There was a horror underlying it all which he was half afraid to
face.  But the real clue to the mystery still eluded him.

Whether what he had witnessed were some kind of obscene ceremony,
or whether an explanation more vile must be sought, he remained
undetermined.  He must repeat his exploit, if possible, and once
more gain access to the room which contained the lacquer coffin.

But the adventure was very distasteful.  He recollected the smell
of the place, and the memory brought with it a sense of nausea.
He thought of Lala Huang, and his ideas became grotesque and
chaotic.  Yet the solution of the mystery lay at last within his
grasp, and to the zest of the investigator everything else became
subjugated.

He walked slowly away, silent in his rubber-soled shoes.




IX

THE PICTURE ON THE PAD



Lala Huang lay listening to the vague sounds which disturbed the
silence of the night.  Presently her thoughts made her sigh
wearily.  During the lifetime of her mother, who had died while
Lala was yet a little girl, life had been different and so much
brighter.

She imagined that in the mingled sounds of dock and river which
came to her she could hear the roar of surf upon a golden beach.
The stuffy air of Limehouse took on the hot fragrance of a tropic
island, and she sighed again, but this time rapturously, for in
spirit she was a child once more, lulled by the voice of the
great Pacific.

Young as she was, the death of her mother had been a blow from
which it had taken her several years to recover.  Then had
commenced those long travels with her father, from port to port,
from ocean to ocean, sometimes settling awhile, but ever moving
onward, onward.

He had had her educated after a fashion, and his love for her she
did not doubt.  But her mother's blood spoke more strongly than
that part of her which was Chinese, and there was softness and a
delicious languor in her nature which her father did not seem to
understand, and of which he did not appear to approve.

She knew that he was wealthy.  She knew that his ways were not
straight ways, although that part of his business to which he had
admitted her as an assistant, and an able one, was legitimate
enough, or so it seemed.

Consignments of goods arrived at strange hours of the night at
the establishment in Limehouse, and from this side of her
father's transactions she was barred.  The big double doors
opening on the little courtyard would be opened by Ah Fu, and
packing cases of varying sizes be taken in.  Sometimes the sounds
of these activities would reach her in her room in a distant part
of the house; but only in the morning would she recognize their
significance, when in the warehouse she would discover that some
new and choice pieces had arrived.

She wondered with what object her father accumulated wealth, and
hoped, against the promptings of her common sense, that he
designed to return East, there to seek a retirement amidst the
familiar and the beautiful things of the Orient which belonged to
Lala's dream of heaven.

Stories about her father often reached her ears.  She knew that
he had held high rank in China before she had been born; but that
he had sacrificed his rights in some way had always been her
theory.  She had been too young to understand the stories which
her mother had told her sometimes; but that there were traits in
the character of Huang Chow which it was not good for his
daughter to know she appreciated and accepted as a secret sorrow.

He allowed her all the freedom to which her education entitled
her.  Her life was that of a European and not of an Oriental
woman.  She loved him in a way, but also feared him.  She feared
the dark and cruel side of his character, of which, at various
periods during their life together, she had had terrifying
glimpses.

She had decided that cruelty was his vice.  In what way he
gratified it she had never learned, nor did she desire to do so.
There were periodical visits from the police, but she had learned
long ago that her father was too clever to place himself within
reach of the law.

However crooked one part of his business methods might be, his
dealings with his clients were straight enough, so that no one
had any object in betraying him; and the legality or otherwise of
his foreign relations evidently afforded no case against him upon
which the authorities could act, or upon which they cared to act.

In America it had been graft which had protected him.  She had
learned this accidentally, but never knew whether he bought his
immunity in the same way in London.

Some of the rumours which reached her were terrifying.  Latterly
she had met many strange glances in her comings and goings about
Limehouse.  This peculiar atmosphere had always preceded the
break-up of every home which they had shared.  She divined the
fact that in some way Huang Chow had outstayed his welcome in
Chinatown, London.  Where their next resting-place would be she
could not imagine, but she prayed that it might be in some more
sunny clime.

She found herself to be thinking over much of John Hampden.  His
bona fides were not above suspicion, but she could scarcely
expect to meet a really white man in such an environment.

Lala would have liked to think that he was white, but could not
force herself to do so.  She would have liked to think that he
sought her company because she appealed to him personally; but
she had detected the fact that another motive underlay his
attentions.  She wondered if he could be another of those moths
drawn by the light of that fabled wealth of her father.

It was curious, she reflected, that Huang Chow never checked--
indeed, openly countenanced--her friendship with the many chance
acquaintances she had made, even when her own instincts told her
that the men were crooked; so that, knowing the acumen of her
father, she was well aware that he must know it too.

Several of these pseudo lovers of hers had died.  It was a point
which often occurred to her mind, but upon which she did not care
to dwell even now.  But John Hampden--John Hampden was different.
He was not wholly sincere.  She sighed wearily.  But nevertheless
he was not like some of the others.

She started up in bed, seized with a sudden dreadful idea.  He
was a detective!

She understood now why she had found so much that was white in
him, but so much that was false.  His presence seemed to be very
near her.  Something caressing in his voice echoed in her mind.
She found herself to be listening to the muted sounds of
Limehouse and of the waterway which flowed so close beside her.

That old longing for the home of her childhood returned tenfold,
and tears began to trickle down her cheeks.  She was falling in
love with this man whose object was her father's ruin.  A cold
terror clutched at her heart.  Even now, while their friendship
was so new, so strange, there was a query, a stark, terrifying
query, to stand up before her.

If put to the test, which would she choose?

She was unable to face that issue, and dropped back upon her
pillow, stifling a sob.

Yes, he was a detective.  In some way her father had at last
attracted the serious attention of the law.  Rumours of this were
flying round Chinatown, to which she had not been entirely deaf.
She thought of a hundred questions, a hundred silences, and grew
more and more convinced of the truth.

What did he mean to do?  Before her a ghostly company uprose--the
shadows of some she had known with designs upon her father.  John
Hampden's design was different.  But might he not join that
mysterious company?

Now again she suddenly sprang upright, this time because of a
definite sound which had reached her ears from within the house:
a very faint, bell-like tinkling which ceased almost immediately.
She had heard it one night before, and quite recently; indeed, on
the night before she had met John Hampden.  Cohen--Cohen, the
Jew, had died that night!

She sprang lightly on to the floor, found her slippers, and threw
a silk kimono over her nightrobe.  She tiptoed cautiously to the
door and opened it.

It was at this very moment that old Huang Chow, asleep in his
cell-like apartment, was aroused by the tinkling of a bell set
immediately above his head.  He awoke instantly, raised his hand
and stopped the bell.  His expression, could anyone have been
present to see it, was a thing unpleasant to behold.  Triumph was
in it, and cunning cruelty.

His long yellow fingers reached out for his hornrimmed spectacles
which lay upon a little table beside him.  Adjusting them, he
pulled the curtains aside and shuffled silently across the large
room.

Mounting the steps to the raised writing-table, he rested his
elbows upon it, and peered down at that curious blotting-pad
which had so provoked the curiosity of Durham.  Could Durham have
seen it now the mystery must have been solved.  It was an
ingenious camera obscura apparatus, and dimly depicted upon its
surface appeared a reproduction of part of the storehouse
beneath!  The part of it which was visible was that touched by
the light of an electric torch, carried by a man crossing the
floor in the direction of the lacquered coffin upon the gilded
pedestal!

Old Huang Chow chuckled silently, and his yellow fingers clutched
the table edge as he moved to peer more closely into the picture.

"Poor fool!" he whispered in Chinese.  "Poor fool!"

It was the man who had come with the introduction from Mr.
Isaacs--a new impostor who sought to rob him, who sought to
obtain information from his daughter, who had examined his
premises last night, and had even penetrated upstairs, so that
he, old Huang Chow, had been compelled to disconnect the
apparatus and to feign sleep under the scrutiny of the intruder.

To-night it would be otherwise.  To-night it would be otherwise.




X

THE LACQUERED COFFIN



Durham gently raised the trap in the roof of Huang Chow's
treasure-house.  He was prepared for snares and pitfalls.  No
sane man, on the evidence which he, Durham, had been compelled to
leave behind, would have neglected to fasten the skylight which
so obviously afforded a means of entrance into his premises.

Therefore, he was expected to return.  The devilish mechanism was
set ready to receive him.  But the artist within him demanded
that he should unmask the mystery with his own hands.

Moreover, he doubted that an official visit, even now, would
yield any results.  Old Huang Chow was too cunning for that.  If
he was to learn how the man Cohen had died, he must follow the
same path to the bitter end.   But there were men on duty round
the house, and he believed that he had placed them so secretly as
to deceive even this master of cunning with whom he was dealing.

He repeated his exploit, dropping with a dull thud upon the
cushioned divan.  Then, having lain there listening awhile, he
pressed the button of his torch, and, standing up, crept across
the room in the direction of the stairway.

Here he paused awhile, listening intently.  The image of Lala
Huang arose before his mind's eye reproachfully, but he crushed
the reproach, and advanced until he stood beside the lacquered
coffin.

He remembered where the key was hidden, and, stooping, he fumbled
for a while and then found it.  He was acutely conscious of an
unnameable fear.  He felt that he was watched, and yet was
unwilling to believe it.  The musty and unpleasant smell which he
had noticed before became extremely perceptible.

He quietly sought for the hidden lock, and, presently finding it,
inserted the key, then paused awhile.  He rested his torch upon
the cushions of the divan where the light shone directly upon the
coffin.  Then, having his automatic in his left hand, he turned
the key.

He had expected now to be able to raise the lid as he had seen
Huang Chow do; but the result was far more surprising.

The lid, together with a second framework of fine netting, flew
open with a resounding bang; and from the interior of the coffin
uprose a most abominable stench.

Durham started back a step, and as he did so witnessed a sight
which turned him sick with horror.

Out on to the edge of the coffin leapt the most gigantic spider
which he had ever seen in his life!  It had a body as big as a
man's fist, jet black, with hairy legs like the legs of a crab
and a span of a foot or more!

A moment it poised there, while he swayed, sick with horror.
Then, unhesitatingly, it leapt for his face!

He groaned and fired, missed the horror, but diverted its leap,
so that it fell with a sickening thud a yard behind him.  He
turned, staggering back towards the stair, and aware that a light
had shone out from somewhere.

A door had been opened only a few yards from where he stood, and
there, framed in the opening, was Lala Huang, her eyes wide with
terror and her gaze set upon him across the room.

"You!" she whispered.  "You!"

"Go back!" he cried hoarsely.  "Go back!  Close the door.  You
don't understand--close the door!"

Her gaze set wildly upon him, Lala staggered forward; stopped
dead; looked down at her bare ankle, and then, seeing the thing
which had fastened upon her, uttered a piercing shriek which rang
throughout the place.

At which moment the floor slid away beneath Durham, and he found
himself falling--falling--and then battling for life in evil-
smelling water, amidst absolute darkness.

Police whistles were skirling around the house of Huang Chow.  As
the hidden men came running into the court:

"You heard the shot?" cried the sergeant in charge.  "I warned
him not to go alone.  Don't waste time on the door.  One man stay
on duty there; the rest of you follow me."

In a few moments, led by the sergeant, the party came dropping
heavily through the skylight into the treasure-house of Huang
Chow, in which every lamp was now alight.  A trap was open near
the foot of the stairs, and from beneath it muffled cries
proceeded.  In this direction the sergeant headed.  Craning over
the trap:

"Hallo, Mr. Durham!" he called.  "Mr. Durham!"

"Get a rope and a ladder," came a faint cry from below.  "I can
just touch bottom with my feet and keep my head above water, but
the tide's coming in.  Look to the girl, though, first. Look to
the girl!"

The sergeant turned to where, stretched upon a tiger skin before
a half-open door, Lala Huang lay, scantily clothed and white as
death.

Upon one of her bare ankles was a discoloured mark.

As the sergeant and another of the men stooped over her a moaning
sound drew their attention to the stair, and there, bent and
tottering slowly down, was old Huang Chow, his eyes peering
through the owl-like glasses vacantly across the room to where
his daughter lay.

"My God!" whispered the sergeant, upon one knee beside her.  He
looked blankly into the face of the other man.  "She's dead!"

Two plain-clothes men were busy knotting together tapestries and
pieces of rare stuff with which to draw Durham out of the pit;
but at these old Huang Chow looked not at all, but gropingly
crossed the room, as if he saw imperfectly, or could not believe
what he saw.  At last he reached the side of the dead girl,
stooped, touched her, laid a trembling yellow hand over her
heart, and then stood up again, looking from face to face.

Ignoring the mingled activities about him, he crossed to the open
coffin and began to fumble amongst the putrefying mass of bones
and webbing which lay therein.  Out from this he presently drew
an iron coffer.

Carrying it across the room he opened the lid.  It was full
almost to the top with uncut gems of every variety--diamonds,
rubies, sapphires, emeralds, topaz, amethysts, flashing greenly,
redly, whitely.  In handfuls he grasped them and sprinkled them
upon the body of the dead girl.

"For you," he crooned brokenly in Chinese.  "They were all for
you!"

The extemporized rope had just been lowered to Durham, when:

"My God!" cried the sergeant, looking over Huang Chow's shoulder.
"What's that?"

He had seen the giant spider, the horror from Surinam, which the
Chinaman had reared and fed to guard his treasure and to gratify
his lust for the strange and cruel.  The insect, like everything
else in that house, was unusual, almost unique.  It was one of
the Black Soldier spiders, by some regarded as a native myth, but
actually existing in Surinam and parts of Brazil.  A member of
the family, Mygale, its sting was more quickly and certainly
fatal than that of a rattle-snake.  Its instinct was fearlessly
to attack any creature, great or small, which disturbed it in its
dark hiding-place.

Now, with feverish, horrible rapidity it was racing up the
tapestries on the other side of the room.

"Merciful God!" groaned the sergeant.

Snatching a revolver from his pocket he fired shot after shot.
The third hit the thing but did not kill it.  It dropped back
upon the floor and began to crawl toward the coffin.  The
sergeant ran across and at close quarters shot it again.

Red blood oozed out from the hideous black body and began to form
a deep stain upon the carpet.

When Durham, drenched but unhurt, was hauled back into the
treasure-house, he did not speak, but, scrambling into the room
stood--pallid--staring dully at old Huang Chow.

Huang Chow, upon his knees beside his daughter, was engaged in
sprinkling priceless jewels over her still body, and murmuring in
Chinese:

"For you, for you, Lala.  They were all for you."






KERRY'S KID






I

RED KERRY ON DUTY



Chief Inspector Kerry came down from the top of a motor-bus and
stood on the sidewalk for a while gazing to right and left along
Piccadilly.  The night was humid and misty, now threatening fog
and now rain.  Many travellers were abroad at this Christmas
season, the pleasure seekers easily to be distinguished from
those whom business had detained in town, and who hurried toward
their various firesides.  The theatres were disgorging their
audiences.  Streams of lighted cars bore parties supperward; less
pretentious taxicabs formed links in the chain.

From the little huddled crowd of more economical theatre-goers
who waited at the stopping place of the motor-buses, Kerry
detached himself, walking slowly along westward and staring
reflectively about him.  Opposite the corner of Bond Street he
stood still, swinging his malacca cane and gazing fixedly along
this narrow bazaar street of the Baghdad of the West. His trim,
athletic figure was muffled in a big, double-breasted, woolly
overcoat, the collar turned up about his ears.  His neat bowler
hat was tilted forward so as to shade the fierce blue eyes.
Indeed, in that imperfect light, little of the Chief Inspector's
countenance was visible except his large, gleaming white teeth,
which he constantly revealed in the act of industriously chewing
mint gum.

He smiled as he chewed.  Duty had called him out into the mist,
and for once he had obeyed reluctantly.  That very afternoon had
seen the return of Dan Kerry, junior, home from school for the
Christmas vacation, and Dan was the apple of his father's eye.

Mrs.  Kerry had reserved her dour Scottish comments upon the
boy's school report for a more seemly occasion than the first day
of his holidays; but Kerry had made no attempt to conceal his
jubilation--almost immoral, his wife had declared it to be--
respecting the lad's athletic record.  His work on the junior
left wing had gained the commendation of a celebrated
international; and Kerry, who had interviewed the gymnasium
instructor, had learned that Dan Junior bade fair to become an
amateur boxer of distinction.

"He is faster on his feet than any boy I ever handled," the
expert had declared.  "He hasn't got the weight behind it yet, of
course, but he's developing a left that's going to make history.
I'm of opinion that there isn't a boy in the seniors can take him
on, and I'll say that he's a credit to you."

Those words had fallen more sweetly upon the ears of Chief
Inspector Kerry than any encomium of the boy's learning could
have done.  On the purely scholastic side his report was not a
good one, admittedly.  "But," murmured Kerry aloud, "he's going
to be a man."

He remembered that he had promised, despite the lateness of the
hour, to telephone the lad directly he had received a certain
report, and to tell him whether he might wait up for his return
or whether he must turn in.  Kerry, stamping his small, neatly
shod feet upon the pavement, smiled agreeably.  He was thinking
of the telephone which recently he had had installed in his house
in Brixton.  His wife had demanded this as a Christmas box,
pointing out how many uneasy hours she would be spared by the
installation.  Kerry had consented cheerfully enough, for was he
not shortly to be promoted to the exalted post of a
superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department?

These reflections were cheering and warming; and, waiting until a
gap occurred in the stream of cabs and cars, he crossed
Piccadilly and proceeded along Bond Street, swinging his
shoulders in a manner which would have enabled any constable in
the force to recognize "Red Kerry" at a hundred yards.

The fierce eyes scrutinized the occupants of all the lighted
cars.  At pedestrians also he stared curiously, and at another
smaller group of travellers waiting for the buses on the left-
hand side of the street he looked hard and long.  He pursued his
way, acknowledged the salutation of a porter who stood outside
the entrance to the Embassy Club, and proceeded, glancing about
him right and left and with some evident and definite purpose.

A constable standing at the corner of Conduit Street touched his
helmet as Kerry passed and the light of an arc-lamp revealed the
fierce red face.  The Chief Inspector stopped, turned, and:

"What the devil's the idea?" he demanded.

He snapped out the words in such fashion that the unfortunate
constable almost believed he could see sparks in the misty air.

"I'm sorry, sir, but recognizing you suddenly like, I----"

"You did?" the fierce voice interrupted.  "How long in the
force?"

"Six months, sir."

"Never salute an officer in plain clothes."

"I know, sir."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I told you, sir."

"Then tell me again."

"I forgot."

"You're paid to remember; bear it in mind."

Kerry tucked his malacca under his arm and walked on, leaving the
unfortunate policeman literally stupefied by his first encounter
with the celebrated Chief Inspector.

Presently another line of cars proclaimed the entrance to a club,
and just before reaching the first of these Kerry paused.  A man
stood in a shadowy doorway, and:

"Good evening, Chief Inspector," he said quietly.

"Good evening, Durham.  Anything to report?"

"Yes.  Lou Chada is here again."

"With whom?"

"Lady Rourke."

Kerry stepped to the edge of the pavement and spat out a piece of
chewing-gum.  From his overcoat pocket he drew a fresh piece,
tore off the pink wrapping and placed the gum between his teeth.
Then:

"How long?" he demanded.

"Came to dinner.  They are dancing."

"H'm!" The Chief Inspector ranged himself beside the other
detective in the shadow of the doorway.  "Something's brewing,
Durham," he said.  "I think I shall wait."

His subordinate stared curiously but made no reply.  He was not
wholly in his chief's confidence.  He merely knew that the name
of Lou Chada to Kerry was like a red rag to a bull.  The
handsome, cultured young Eurasian, fresh from a distinguished
university career and pampered by a certain section of smart
society, did not conform to Detective Sergeant Durham's idea of a
suspect.  He knew that Lou was the son of Zani Chada, and he knew
that Zani Chada was one of the wealthiest men in Limehouse.  But
Lou had an expensive flat in George Street; Lou was courted by
society butterflies, and in what way he could be connected with
the case known as "the Limehouse inquiry," Durham could not
imagine.

That the open indiscretion of Lady "Pat" Rourke might lead to
trouble with her husband, was conceivable enough; but this was
rather a matter for underhand private inquiry than for the
attention of the Criminal Investigation Department of New
Scotland Yard.

So mused Durham, standing cold and uncomfortable in the shadowy
doorway, and dreaming of a certain cosy fireside, a pair of
carpet slippers and a glass of hot toddy which awaited him.
Suddenly:

"Great flames!  Look!" he cried.

Kerry's fingers closed, steely, upon Durham's wrist. A porter was
urgently moving the parked cars farther along the street to
enable one, a French coupe, to draw up before the club entrance.

Two men came out, supporting between them a woman who seemed to
be ill; a slender, blonde woman whose pretty face was pale and
whose wide-open blue eyes stared strangely straight before her.
The taller of her escorts, while continuing to support her,
solicitously wrapped her fur cloak about her bare shoulders; the
other, the manager of the club, stepped forward and opened the
door of the car.

"Lady Rourke!" whispered Durham.

"With Lou Chada!" rapped Kerry.  "Run for a cab.  Brisk.  Don't
waste a second."

Some little conversation ensued between manager and patron, then
the tall, handsome Eurasian, waving his hand protestingly,
removed his hat and stepped into the coupe beside Lady Rourke.
It immediately moved away in the direction of Piccadilly.

One glimpse Kerry had of the pretty, fair head lying limply back
against the cushions.  The manager of the club was staring after
the car.

Kerry stepped out from his hiding place.  Durham had disappeared,
and there was no cab in sight, but immediately beyond the
illuminated entrance stood a Rolls-Royce which had been fifth in
the rank of parked cars before the adjustment had been made to
enable the coupe to reach the door.  Kerry ran across, and:

"Whose car, my lad?" he demanded of the chauffeur.

The latter, resenting the curt tone of the inquiry, looked the
speaker up and down, and:

"Captain.  Egerton's," he replied slowly.  "But what business may
it be of yours?"

"I'm Chief Inspector Kerry, of New Scotland Yard," came the rapid
reply.  "I want to follow the car that has just left."

"What about running?" demanded the man insolently.

Kerry shot out a small, muscular hand and grasped the speaker's
wrist.

"I'll say one thing to you," he rapped.  "I'm a police officer,
and I demand your help.  Refuse it, and you'll wake up in Vine
Street."

The Chief Inspector was on the step now, bending forward so that
his fierce red face was but an inch removed from that of the
startled chauffeur.  The quelling force of his ferocious
personality achieved its purpose, as it rarely failed to do.

"I'm getting in," added the Chief Inspector, jumping back on to
the pavement.  "Lose that French bus, and I'll charge you with
resisting and obstructing an officer of the law in the execution
of his duty.  Start."

Kerry leaped in and banged the door--and the Rolls-Royce started.




II

AT MALAY JACK'S



When Kerry left Bond Street the mistiness of the night was
developing into definite fog.  It varied in different districts.
Thus, St. Paul's Churchyard had been clear of it at a time when
it had lain impenetrably in Trafalgar Square.  When, an hour and
a half after setting out in the commandeered Rolls-Royce, Kerry
groped blindly along Limehouse Causeway, it was through a yellow
murk that he made his way--a vapour which could not only be seen,
smelled and felt, but tasted.

He was in one of his most violent humours.  He found some slight
solace in the reflection that the impudent chauffeur, from whom
he had parted in West India Dock Road, must experience great
difficulty in finding his way back to the West End.

"Damn the fog!" he muttered, coughing irritably.

It had tricked him, this floating murk of London; for, while he
had been enabled to keep the coupe in view right to the fringe of
dockland, here, as if bred by old London's river, the fog had
lain impenetrably.

Chief Inspector Kerry was a man who took many risks, but because
of this cursed fog he had no definite evidence that Chada's car
had gone to a certain house.  Right of search he had not, and so
temporarily he was baffled.

Now the nearest telephone was his objective, and presently, where
a blue light dimly pierced the mist, he paused, pushed open a
swing door, and stepped into a long, narrow passage.  He
descended three stairs, and entered a room laden with a sickly
perfume compounded of stale beer and spirits; of greasy
humanity--European, Asiastic, and African; of cheap tobacco and
cheaper scents; and, vaguely, of opium.

It was fairly well lighted, but the fog had penetrated here,
veiling some of the harshness of its rough appointments.  An
unsavoury den was Malay Jack's, where flotsam of the river might
be found.  Yellow men there were, and black men and brown men.
But all the women present were white.

Fan-tan was in progress at one of the tables, the four players
being apparently the only strictly sober people in the room. A
woman was laughing raucously as Kerry entered, and many coarse-
voiced conversations were in progress; but as he pulled the rough
curtain walls aside and walked into the room, a hush, highly
complimentary to the Chief Inspector's reputation, fell upon the
assembly.  Only the woman's raucous laughter continued, rising, a
hideous solo, above a sort of murmur, composed of the words "Red
Kerry!" spoken in many tones.

Kerry ignored the sensation which his entrance had created, and
crossed the room to a small counter, behind which a dusky man was
standing, coatless and shirt sleeves rolled up.  He had the skin
of a Malay but the features of a stage Irishman of the old
school.  And, indeed, had he known his own pedigree, which is a
knowledge beyond the ken of any man, partly Irish he might have
found himself indeed to be.

This was Malay Jack, the proprietor of one of the roughest houses
in Limehouse.  His expression, while propitiatory, was not
friendly, but:

"Don't get hot and bothered," snapped Kerry viciously.  "I want
to use your telephone, that's all."

"Oh," said the other, unable to conceal his relief, "that's easy.
Come in."

He raised a flap in the counter, and Kerry, passing through,
entered a little room behind the bar.  Here a telephone stood
upon a dirty, littered table, and, taking it up:

"City four hundred," called the Chief Inspector curtly.  A moment
later: "Hallo!  Yes," he said.  "Chief Inspector Kerry speaking.
Put me through to my department, please."

He stood for a while waiting, receiver in hand, and smiled grimly
to note that the uproar in the room beyond had been resumed.
Evidently Malay Jack had given the "all clear" signal.  Then:

"Chief Inspector Kerry speaking," he said again.  "Has Detective
Sergeant Durham reported?"

"Yes," was the reply, "half an hour ago.  He's standing-by at
Limehouse Station.  He followed you in a taxi, but lost you on
the way owing to the fog."

"I don't wonder," said Kerry.  "His loss is not so great as mine.
Anything else?"

"Nothing else."

"Good.  I'll speak to Limehouse.  Good-bye."

He replaced the receiver and paused for a moment, reflecting.
Extracting a piece of tasteless gum from between his teeth, he
deposited it in the grate, where a sickly fire burned; then,
tearing the wrapper from a fresh slip, he resumed his chewing and
stood looking about him with unseeing eyes.  Fierce they were as
ever, but introspective in expression.

Famous for his swift decisions, for once in a way he found
himself in doubt.  Malay Jack had keen ears, and there were those
in the place who had every reason to be interested in the
movements of a member of the Criminal Investigation Department,
especially of one who had earned the right to be dreaded by the
rats of Limehouse.  London's peculiar climate fought against him,
but he determined to make no more telephone calls but to proceed
to Limehouse police station.

He stepped swiftly into the bar, and, as he had anticipated,
nearly upset the proprietor, who was standing listening by the
half-open door.  Kerry smiled fiercely into the ugly face, lifted
the flap, and walked down the room, through the aisle between the
scattered tables, where the air was heavy with strange perfumes,
touched now with the bite of London fog, and where slanting eyes
and straight eyes, sober eyes and drunken eyes, regarded him
furtively.  Something of a second hush there was, but one not so
complete as the first.

Kerry pulled the curtain aside, mounted the stair, walked along
the passage and out through the swing door into the yellow gloom
of the Causeway.  Ten slow steps he had taken when he detected a
sound of pursuit.  Like a flash he turned, clenching his fists.
Then:

"Inspector!" whispered a husky voice.

"Yes!  Who are you?  What do you want?"

A dim form loomed up through the fog.

"My name is Peters, sir.  Inspector Preston knows me."

Kerry had paused immediately under a street lamp, and now he
looked into the pinched, lean face of the speaker, and:

"I've heard of you," he snapped.  "Got some information for me?"

"I think so; but walk on."

Chief Inspector Kerry hesitated.  Peters belonged to a class
which Kerry despised with all the force of his straightforward
character.  A professional informer has his uses from the police
point of view; and while evidence of this kind often figured in
reports made to the Chief Inspector, he personally avoided
contact with such persons, as he instinctively and daintily
avoided contact with personal dirt.  But now, something so big
was at stake that his hesitation was only momentary.

A vision of the pale face of Lady Rourke, of the golden head
leaning weakly back upon the cushions of the coupe, as he had
glimpsed it in Bond Street, rose before his mind's eye as if
conjured up out of the fog.  Peters shuffled along beside him,
and:

"Young Chada's done himself in to-night," continued the husky
voice.  "He brought a swell girl to the old man's house an hour
ago.  I was hanging about there, thinking I might get some
information.  I think she was doped."

"Why?" snapped Kerry.

"Well, I was standing over on the other side of the street.  Lou
Chada opened the door with a key; and when the light shone out I
saw him carry her in."

"Carry her in?"

"Yes.  She was in evening dress, with a swell cloak."

"The car?"

"He came out again and drove it around to the garage at the
back."

"Why didn't you report this at once?"

"I was on my way to do it when I saw you coming out of Malay
Jack's."

The man's voice shook nervously, and:

"What are you scared about?" asked Kerry savagely.  "Got anything
else to tell me?"

"No, no," muttered Peters.  "Only I've got an idea he saw me."

"Who saw you?"

"Lou Chada."

"What then?"

"Well, only--don't leave me till we get to the station."

Kerry blew down his nose contemptuously, then stopped suddenly.

"Stand still," he ordered.  "I want to listen."

Silent, they stood in a place of darkness, untouched by any
lamplight.  Not a sound reached them through the curtain of fog.
Asiatic mystery wrapped them about, but Kerry experienced only
contempt for the cowardice of his companion, and:

"You need come no farther," he said coldly.  "Good night."

"But------" began the man.

"Good night," repeated Kerry.

He walked on briskly, tapping the pavement with his malacca.  The
sneaking figure of the informer was swallowed up in the fog.  But
not a dozen paces had the Chief Inspector gone when he was
arrested by a frenzied scream, rising, hollowly, in a dreadful,
muffled crescendo.  Words reached him.

"My God, he's stabbed me!"

Then came a sort of babbling, which died into a moan.

"Hell!" muttered Kerry, "the poor devil was right!"

He turned and began to run back, fumbling in his pocket for his
electric torch.  Almost in the same moment that he found it he
stumbled upon Peters, who lay half in the road and half upon the
sidewalk.

Kerry pressed the button, and met the glance of upturned, glazing
eyes.  Even as he dropped upon his knee beside the dying man,
Peters swept his arm around in a convulsive movement, having the
fingers crooked, coughed horribly, and rolled upon his face.

Switching off the light of the torch, Kerry clenched his jaws in
a tense effort of listening, literally holding his breath.  But
no sound reached him through the muffling fog.  A moment he
hesitated, well knowing his danger, then viciously snapping on
the light again, he quested in the blood-stained mud all about
the body of the murdered man.

"Ah!"

It was an exclamation of triumph.

One corner hideously stained, for it had lain half under Peters's
shoulder, Kerry gingerly lifted between finger and thumb a
handkerchief of fine white silk, such as is carried in the breast
pocket of an evening coat.

It bore an ornate monogram worked in gold, and representing the
letters "L. C." Oddly enough, it was the corner that bore the
monogram which was also bloodstained.




III

THE ROOM OF THE GOLDEN BUDDHA



It was a moot point whether Lady Pat Rourke merited condemnation
or pity.  She possessed that type of blonde beauty which seems to
be a lodestone for mankind in general.  Her husband was wealthy,
twelve years her senior, and, far from watching over her with
jealous care--an attitude which often characterizes such unions--
he, on the contrary, permitted her a dangerous freedom, believing
that she would appreciate without abusing it.

Her friendship with Lou Chada had first opened his eyes to the
perils which beset the road of least resistance.  Sir Noel Rourke
was an Anglo-Indian, and his prejudice against the Eurasian was
one not lightly to be surmounted.  Not all the polish which
English culture had given to this child of a mixed union could
blind Sir Noel to the yellow streak.  Courted though Chada was by
some of the best people, Sir Noel remained cold.

The long, magnetic eyes, the handsome, clear-cut features, above
all, that slow and alluring smile, appealed to the husband of the
wilful Pat rather as evidences of Oriental, half-effeminate
devilry than as passports to decent society.  Oxford had veneered
him, but scratch the veneer and one found the sandal-wood of the
East, perfumed, seductive, appealing, but something to be shunned
as brittle and untrustworthy.

Yet he hesitated, seeking to be true to his convictions.  Knowing
what he knew already, and what he suspected, it is certain that,
could he have viewed Lou Chada through the eyes of Chief
Inspector Kerry, the affair must have terminated otherwise.  But
Sir Noel did not know what Kerry knew.  And the pleasure-seeking
Lady Rourke, with her hair of spun gold and her provoking smile,
found Lou Chada dangerously fascinating; almost she was
infatuated--she who had known so much admiration.

Of those joys for which thousands of her plainer sisters yearn
and starve to the end of their days she had experienced a
surfeit.  Always she sought for novelty, for new adventures.  She
was confident of herself, but yet--and here lay the delicious
thrill--not wholly confident.  Many times she had promised to
visit the house of Lou Chada's father--a mystery palace
cunningly painted, a perfumed page from the Arabian poets dropped
amid the interesting squalor of Limehouse.

Perhaps she had never intended to go.  Who knows?  But on the
night when she came within the ken of Chief Inspector Kerry, Lou
Chada had urged her to do so in his poetically passionate
fashion, and, wanting to go, she had asked herself: "Am I strong
enough?  Dare I?"

They had dined, danced, and she had smoked one of the scented
cigarettes which he alone seemed to be able to procure, and
which, on their arrival from the East, were contained in queer
little polished wooden boxes.

Then had come an unfamiliar nausea and dizziness, an
uncomfortable recognition of the fact that she was making a fool
of herself, and finally a semi-darkness through which familiar
faces loomed up and were quickly lost again.  There was the soft,
musical voice of Lou Chada reassuring her, a sense of chill, of
helplessness, and then for a while an interval which afterward
she found herself unable to bridge.

Knowledge of verity came at last, and Lady Pat raised herself
from the divan upon which she had been lying, and, her slender
hands clutching the cushions, stared about her with eyes which
ever grew wider.

She was in a long, rather lofty room, which was lighted by three
silver lanterns swung from the ceiling.  The place, without
containing much furniture, was a riot of garish, barbaric colour.
There were deep divans cushioned in amber and blood-red.  Upon
the floor lay Persian carpets and skins of beasts.  Cunning
niches there were, half concealing and half revealing long-necked
Chinese jars; and odd little carven tables bore strangely
fashioned vessels of silver.  There was a cabinet of ebony inlaid
with jade, there were black tapestries figured with dragons of
green and gold.  Curtains she saw of peacock-blue; and in a tall,
narrow recess, dominating the room, squatted a great golden
Buddha.

The atmosphere was laden with a strange perfume.

But, above all, this room was silent, most oppressively silent.

Lady Pat started to her feet.  The whole perfumed place seemed to
be swimming around her.  Reclosing her eyes, she fought down her
weakness.  The truth, the truth respecting Lou Chada and herself,
had uprisen starkly before her.  By her own folly--and she could
find no tiny excuse--she had placed herself in the power of a man
whom, instinctively, deep within her soul, she had always known
to be utterly unscrupulous.

How cleverly he had concealed the wild animal which dwelt beneath
that suave, polished exterior!  Yet how ill he had concealed it!
For intuitively she had always recognized its presence, but had
deliberately closed her eyes, finding a joy in the secret
knowledge of danger.  Now at last he had discarded pretense.

The cigarette which he had offered her at the club had been
drugged.  She was in Limehouse, at the mercy of a man in whose
veins ran the blood of ancestors to whom women had been chattels.
Too well she recognized that his passion must have driven him
insane, as he must know at what cost he took such liberties with
one who could not lightly be so treated.  But these reflections
afforded poor consolation.  It was not of the penalties that Lou
Chada must suffer for this infringement of Western codes, but of
the price that she must pay for her folly, of which Pat was
thinking.

There was a nauseating taste upon her palate.  She remembered
having noticed it faintly while she was smoking the cigarette;
indeed, she had commented upon it at the time.

"The dirty yellow blackguard!" she said aloud, and clenched her
hands.

She merely echoed what many a man had said before her.  She
wondered at herself, and in doing so but wondered at the mystery
of womanhood.

Clarity was returning.  The room no longer swam around her.  She
crossed in the direction of a garish curtain, which instinctively
she divined to mask a door.  Dragging it aside, she tried the
handle, but the door was locked.  A second door she found, and
this also proved to be locked.

There was one tall window, also covered by ornate draperies, but
it was shuttered, and the shutters had locks.  Another small
window she discovered, glazed with amber glass, but set so high
in the wall as to be inaccessible.

Dread assailed her, and dropping on to one of the divans, she hid
her face in her hands.

"My God!" she whispered.  "My God!  Give me strength--give me
courage."

For a long time she remained there, listening for any sound which
should disperse the silence.  She thought of her husband, of the
sweet security of her home, of the things which she had forfeited
because of this mad quest of adventure.  And presently a key
grated in a lock.

Lady Pat started to her feet with a wild, swift action which must
have reminded a beholder of a startled gazelle.  The drapery
masking the door which she had first investigated was drawn
aside.  A man entered and dropped the curtain behind him.

Exactly what she had expected she could not have defined, but the
presence of this perfect stranger was a complete surprise.  The
man, who wore embroidered slippers and a sort of long blue robe,
stood there regarding her with an expression which, even in her
frantic condition, she found to be puzzling.  He had long, untidy
gray hair brushed back from his low brow; eyes strangely like the
eyes of Lou Chada, except that they were more heavy-lidded; but
his skin was as yellow as a guinea, and his gaunt, cleanshaven
face was the face of an Oriental.

The slender hands, too, which he held clasped before him, were
yellow, and possessed a curiously arresting quality.  Pat
imagined them clasped about her white throat, and her very soul
seemed to shrink from the man who stood there looking at her with
those long, magnetic, inscrutable eyes.

She wondered why she was surprised, and suddenly realized that it
was because of the expression in his eyes, for it was an
expression of cold anger.  Then the intruder spoke.

"Who are you?" he demanded, speaking with an accent which was
unfamiliar to her, but in a voice which was not unlike the voice
of Lou Chada.  "Who brought you here?"

This was so wholly unexpected that for a moment she found herself
unable to reply, but finally:

"How dare you!" she cried, her native courage reasserting itself.
"I have been drugged and brought to this place.  You shall pay
for it.  How dare you!"

"Ah!" The long, dark eyes regarded her unmovingly.  "But who are
you?"

"I am Lady Rourke.  Open the door.  You shall bitterly regret
this outrage."

"You are Lady Rourke?" the man repeated.  "Before you speak of
regrets, answer the question which I have asked: Who brought you
here?"

"Lou Chada."

"Ah!" There was no alteration of pose, no change of expression,
but slightly the intonation had varied.

"I don't know who you are, but I demand to be released from this
place instantly."

The man standing before the curtained door slightly inclined his
head.

"You shall be released," he replied, "but not instantly.  I will
see the one who brought you here.  He may not be entirely to
blame.  Before you leave we shall understand one another."

Tone and glance were coldly angry.  Then, before the frightened
woman could say another word, the man in the blue robe robe
withdrew, the curtain was dropped again, and she heard the
grating of a key in the lock.  She ran to the door, beating upon
it with her clenched hands.

"Let me go!" she cried, half hysterically.  "Let me go!  You
shall pay for this!  Oh, you shall pay for this!"

No one answered, and, turning, she leaned back against the
curtain, breathing heavily and fighting for composure, for
strength.




IV

ZANI CHADA, THE EURASIAN



"I can't help thinking, Chief Inspector," said the officer in
charge at Limehouse Station, "that you take unnecessary risks."

"Can't you?" said Kerry, tilting his bowler farther forward and
staring truculently at the speaker.

"No, I can't.  Since you cleaned up the dope gang down here
you've been a marked man.  These murders in the Chinatown area,
of which this one to-night makes the third, have got some kind of
big influence behind them.  Yet you wander about in the fog
without even a gun in your pocket."

"I don't believe in guns," rapped Kerry.  "My bare hands are good
enough for any yellow smart in this area.  And if they give out I
can kick like a mule."

The other laughed, shaking his head.

"It's silly, all the same," he persisted.  "The man who did the
job out there in the fog to-night might have knifed you or shot
you long before you could have got here."

"He might," snapped Kerry, "but he didn't."

Yet, remembering his wife, who would be waiting for him in the
cosy sitting-room he knew a sudden pang.  Perhaps he did take
unnecessary chances.  Others had said so.  Hard upon the thought
came the memory of his boy, and of the telephone message which
the episodes of the night had prevented him from sending.

He remembered, too, something which his fearless nature had
prompted him to forget: he remembered how, just as he had arisen
from beside the body of the murdered man, oblique eyes had
regarded him swiftly out of the fog.  He had lashed out with a
boxer's instinct, but his knuckles had encountered nothing but
empty air.  No sound had come to tell him that the thing had not
been an illusion.  Only, once again, as he groped his way through
the shuttered streets of Chinatown and the silence of the yellow
mist, something had prompted him to turn; and again he had
detected the glint of oblique eyes, and faintly had discerned the
form of one who followed him.

Kerry chewed viciously, then:

"I think I'll 'phone the wife," he said abruptly.  "She'll be
expecting me."

Almost before he had finished speaking the 'phone bell rang, and
a few moments later:

"Someone to speak to you, Chief Inspector," cried the officer in
charge.

"Ah!" exclaimed Kerry, his fierce eyes lighting up.  "That will
be from home."

"I don't think so," was the reply.  "But see who it is."

"Hello!" he called.

He was answered by an unfamiliar voice, a voice which had a
queer, guttural intonation.  It was the sort of voice he had
learned to loathe.

"Is that Chief Inspector Kerry?"

"Yes," he snapped.

"May I take it that what I have to say will be treated in
confidence?"

"Certainly not."

"Think again, Chief Inspector," the voice continued.  "You are a
man within sight of the ambition of years, and although you may
be unaware of the fact, you stand upon the edge of a disaster.  I
appreciate your sense of duty and respect it.  But there are
times when diplomacy is a more potent weapon than force."

Kerry, listening, became aware that the speaker was a man of
cultured intellect.  He wondered greatly, but:

"My time is valuable," he said rapidly.  "Come to the point.
What do you want and who are you?"

"One moment, Chief Inspector.  An opportunity to make your
fortune without interfering with your career has come in your
way.  You have obtained possession of what you believe to be a
clue to a murder."

The voice ceased, and Kerry remaining silent, immediately
continued:

"Knowing your personal character, I doubt if you have
communicated the fact of your possessing this evidence to anyone
else.  I suggest, in your own interests, that before doing so you
interview me."

Kerry thought rapidly, and then:

"I don't say you're right," he rapped back.  "But if I come to
see you, I shall leave a sealed statement in possession of the
officer in charge here."

"To this I have no objection," the guttural voice replied, "but I
beg of you to bring the evidence with you."

"I'm not to be bought," warned Kerry.  "Don't think it and don't
suggest it, or when I get to you I'll break you in half."

His red moustache positively bristled, and he clutched the
receiver so tightly that it quivered against his ear.

"You mistake me," replied the speaker.  "My name is Zani Chada.
You know where I live.  I shall not detain you more than five
minutes if you will do me the honour of calling upon me."

Kerry chewed furiously for ten momentous seconds, then:

"I'll come!" he said.

He replaced the receiver on the hook, and, walking across to the
charge desk, took an official form and a pen.  On the back of the
form he scribbled rapidly, watched with curiosity by the officer
in charge.

"Give me an envelope," he directed.

An envelope was found and handed to him.  He placed the paper in
the envelope, gummed down the lapel, and addressed it in large,
bold writing to the Assistant Commissioner of the Criminal
Investigation Department, who was his chief.  Finally:

"I'm going out," he explained.

"After what I've said?"

"After what you've said.  I'm going out.  If I don't come back or
don't telephone within the next hour, you will know what to do
with this."

The Limehouse official stared perplexedly.

"But meanwhile," he protested, "what steps am I to take about the
murder?  Durham will be back with the body at any moment now, and
you say you've got a clue to the murderer."

"I have," said Kerry, "but I'm going to get definite evidence.
Do nothing until you hear from me."

"Very good," answered the other, and Kerry, tucking his malacca
cane under his arm, strode out into the fog.

His knowledge of the Limehouse area was extensive and peculiar,
so that twenty minutes later, having made only one mistake in the
darkness, he was pressing an electric bell set beside a door
which alone broke the expanse of a long and dreary brick wall,
lining a street which neither by day nor night would have seemed
inviting to the casual visitor.

The door was opened by a Chinaman wearing national dress,
revealing a small, square lobby, warmly lighted and furnished
Orientally.  Kerry stepped in briskly.

"I want to see Mr. Zani Chada.  Tell him I am here.  Chief
Inspector Kerry is my name."

The Chinaman bowed, crossed the lobby, and, drawing some curtains
aside, walked up four carpeted stairs and disappeared into a
short passage revealed by the raising of the tapestry.  As he did
so Kerry stared about him curiously.

He had never before entered the mystery house of Zani Chada, nor
had he personally encountered the Eurasian, reputed to be a
millionaire, but who chose, for some obscure reason, to make his
abode in this old rambling building, once a country mansion,
which to-day was closely invested by dockland and the narrow
alleys of Chinatown.  It was curiously still in the lobby, and,
as he determined, curiously Eastern.  He was conscious of a sense
of exhilaration.  That Zani Chada controlled powerful influences,
he knew well.  But, reviewing the precautions which he had taken,
Kerry determined that the trump card was in his possession.

The Chinese servant descended the stairs again and intimated that
the visitor should follow him.  Kerry, carrying his hat and cane,
mounted the stairs, walked along the carpeted passage, and was
ushered into a queer, low room furnished as a library.

It was lined with shelves containing strange-looking books, none
of which appeared to be English.  Upon the top of the shelves
were grotesque figures of gods, pieces of Chinese pottery and
other Oriental ornaments.  Arms there were in the room, and rich
carpets, carven furniture, and an air of luxury peculiarly
exotic.  Furthermore, he detected a faint smell of opium from
which fact he divined that Zani Chada was addicted to the
national vice of China.

Seated before a long narrow table was the notorious Eurasian.
The table contained a number of strange and unfamiliar objects,
as well as a small rack of books.  An opium pipe rested in a
porcelain bowl.

Zani Chada, wearing a blue robe, sat in a cushioned chair,
staring toward the Chief Inspector.  With one slender yellow hand
he brushed his untidy gray hair.  His long magnetic eyes were
half closed.

"Good evening, Chief Inspector Kerry," he said.  "Won't you be
seated?"

"Thanks, I'm not staying.  I can hear what you've got to say
standing."

The long eyes grew a little more narrow--the only change of
expression that Zani Chada allowed himself.

"As you wish.  I have no occasion to detain you long."

In that queer, perfumed room, with the suggestion of something
sinister underlying its exotic luxury, arose a kind of astral
clash as the powerful personality of the Eurasian came in contact
with that of Kerry.  In a sense it was a contest of rapier and
battle-axe; an insidious but powerful will enlisted against the
bulldog force of the Chief Inspector.

Still through half-closed eyes Zani Chada watched his visitor,
who stood, feet apart and chin thrust forward aggressively,
staring with wide open, fierce blue eyes at the other.

"I'm going to say one thing," declared Kerry, snapping out the
words in a manner little short of ferocious.  He laid his hat and
cane upon a chair and took a step in the direction of the narrow,
laden table.  "Make me any kind of offer to buy back the evidence
you think I've got, and I'll bash your face as flat as a frying-
pan."

The yellow hands of Zani Chada clutched the metal knobs which
ornamented the arms of the chair in which he was seated.  The
long eyes now presented the appearance of being entirely closed;
otherwise he remained immovable.

Following a short, portentous silence:

"How grossly you misunderstood me, Chief Inspector," Chada
replied, speaking very softly.  "You are shortly to be promoted
to a post which no one is better fitted to occupy.  You enjoy
great domestic happiness, and you possess a son in whom you
repose great hopes.  In this respect Chief Inspector, I resemble
you."

Kerry's nostrils were widely dilated, but he did not speak.

"You see," continued the Eurasian, "I know many things about you.
Indeed, I have watched your career with interest. Now, to be
brief, a great scandal may be averted and a woman's reputation
preserved if you and I, as men of the world, can succeed in
understanding one another."

"I don't want to understand you," said Kerry bluntly.  "But
you've said enough already to justify me in blowing this
whistle." He drew a police whistle from his overcoat pocket.
"This house is being watched."

"I am aware of the fact," murmured Zani Chada.

"There are two people in it I want for two different reasons.  If
you say much more there may be three."

Chada raised his hand slowly.

"Put back your whistle, Chief Inspector."

There was a curious restraint in the Eurasian's manner which
Kerry distrusted, but for which at the time he was at a loss to
account.  Then suddenly he determined that the man was waiting
for something, listening for some sound.  As if to confirm this
reasoning, just at that moment a sound indeed broke the silence
of the room.

Somewhere far away in the distance of the big house a gong was
beaten three times softly.  Kerry's fierce glance searched the
face of Zani Chada, but it remained mask-like, immovable.  Yet
that this had been a signal of some kind the Chief Inspector did
not doubt, and:

"You can't trick me," he said fiercely.  "No one can leave this
house without my knowledge, and because of what happened out
there in the fog my hands are untied."

He took up his hat and cane from the chair.

"I'm going to search the premises," he declared.

Zani Chada stood up slowly.

"Chief Inspector," he said, "I advise you to do nothing until you
have consulted your wife."

"Consulted my wife?" snapped Kerry.  "What the devil do you
mean?"

"I mean that any steps you may take now can only lead to disaster
for many, and in your own case to great sorrow."

Kerry took a step forward, two steps, then paused.  He was
considering certain words which the Eurasian had spoken.  Without
fearing the man in the physical sense, he was not fool enough to
underestimate his potentialities for evil and his power to strike
darkly.

"Act as you please," added Zani Chada, speaking even more softly.
"But I have not advised lightly.  I will receive you, Chief
Inspector, at any hour of the night you care to return.  By to-
morrow, if you wish, you may be independent of everybody."

Kerry clenched his fists.

"And great sorrow may be spared to others," concluded the
Eurasian.

Kerry's teeth snapped together audibly; then, putting on his hat,
he turned and walked straight to the door.




V

DAN KERRY, JUNIOR



Dan Kerry, junior, was humorously like his father, except that he
was larger-boned and promised to grow into a much bigger man.
His hair was uncompromisingly red, and grew in such irregular
fashion that the comb was not made which could subdue it.  He had
the wide-open, fighting blue eyes of the Chief Inspector, and
when he smiled the presence of two broken teeth lent him a very
pugilistic appearance.

On his advent at the school of which he was now one of the most
popular members, he had promptly been christened "Carrots." To
this nickname young Kerry had always taken exception, and he
proceeded to display his prejudice on the first day of his
arrival with such force and determination that the sobriquet had
been withdrawn by tacit consent of every member of the form who
hitherto had favoured it.

"I'll take you all on," the new arrival had declared amidst a
silence of stupefaction, "starting with you"--pointing to the
biggest boy.  "If we don't finish to-day, I'll begin again to-
morrow."

The sheer impudence of the thing had astounded everybody.  Young
Kerry's treatment of his leading persecutor had produced a
salutary change of opinion.  Of such kidney was Daniel Kerry,
junior; and when, some hours after his father's departure on the
night of the murder in the fog, the 'phone bell rang, it was Dan
junior, and not his mother, who answered the call.

"Hallo!" said a voice.  "Is that Chief Inspector Kerry's house?"

"Yes," replied Dan.

"It has begun to rain in town," the voice continued, "Is that the
Chief Inspector's son speaking?"

"Yes, I'm Daniel Kerry."

"Well, my boy, you know the way to New Scotland Yard?"

"Rather."

"He says will you bring his overall?  Do you know where to find
it?"

"Yes, yes!" cried Dan excitedly, delighted to be thus made a
party to his father's activities.

"Well, get it.  Jump on a tram at the Town Hall and bring the
overall along here.  Your mother will not object, will she?"

"Of course not," cried Dan.  "I'll tell her.  Am I to start now?"

"Yes, right away."

Mrs.  Kerry was sewing by the fire in the dining room when her
son came in with the news, his blue eyes sparkling excitedly.
She nodded her head slowly.

"Ye'll want ye'r Burberry and ye'r thick boots," she declared, "a
muffler, too, and ye'r oldest cap.  I think it's madness for ye
to go out on such a night, but----"

"Father said I could," protested the boy.

"He says so, and ye shall go, but I think it madness a' the
same."

However, some ten minutes later young Kerry set out, keenly
resenting the woollen muffler which he had been compelled to
wear, and secretly determined to remove it before mounting the
tram.  Across one arm he carried the glistening overall which was
the Chief Inspector's constant companion on wet nights abroad.
The fog had turned denser, and ten paces from the door of the
house took him out of sight of the light streaming from the
hallway.

Mary Kerry well knew her husband's theories about coddling boys,
but even so could not entirely reconcile herself to the present
expedition.  However, closing the door, she returned
philosophically to her sewing, reflecting that little harm could
come to Dan after all, for he was strong, healthy, and
intelligent.

On went the boy through the mist, whistling merrily.  Not twenty
yards from the house a coupe was drawn up, and by the light of
one of its lamps a man was consulting a piece of paper on which,
presumably, an address was written; for, as the boy approached,
the man turned, his collar pulled up about his face, his hat
pulled down.

"Hallo!" he called.  "Can you please tell me something?"

He spoke with a curious accent, unfamiliar to the boy.  "A
foreigner of some kind," young Kerry determined.

"What is it?" he asked, pausing.

"Will you please read and tell me if I am near this place?" the
man continued, holding up the paper which he had been
scrutinizing.

Dan stepped forward and bent over it.  He could not make out the
writing, and bent yet more, holding it nearer to the lamp.  At
which moment some second person neatly pinioned him from behind,
a scarf was whipped about his head, and, kicking furiously but
otherwise helpless, he felt himself lifted and placed inside the
car.

The muffler had been thrown in such fashion about his face as to
leave one eye partly free, and as he was lifted he had a
momentary glimpse of his captors.  With a thrill of real, sickly
terror he realized that he was in the hands of Chinamen!

Perhaps telepathically this spasm of fear was conveyed to his
father, for it was at about this time that the latter was
interviewing Zani Chada, and at about this time that Kerry
recognized, underlying the other's words, at once an ill-
concealed suspense and a threat.  Then, a few minutes later, had
come the three strokes of the gong; and again that unreasonable
dread had assailed him, perhaps because it signalized the capture
of his son, news of which had been immediately telephoned to
Limehouse by Zani Chada's orders.

Certain it is that Kerry left the Eurasian's house in a frame of
mind which was not familiar to him.  He was undecided respecting
his next move.  A deadly menace underlay Chada's words.

"Consult your wife," he kept muttering to himself.  When the door
was opened for him by the Chinese servant, he paused a moment
before going out into the fog.  There were men on duty at the
back and at the front of the house.  Should he risk all and raid
the place?  That Lady Rourke was captive here he no longer
doubted.  But it was equally certain that no further harm would
come to her at the hands of her captors, since she had been
traced there and since Zani Chada was well aware of the fact.  Of
the whereabouts of Lou Chada he could not be certain.  If he was
in the house, they had him.

The door was closed by the Chinaman, and Kerry stood out in the
darkness of the dismal, brick-walled street, feeling something as
nearly akin to dejection as was possible in one of his mercurial
spirit.  Something trickled upon the brim of his hat, and,
raising his head, Kerry detected rain upon his upturned face.  He
breathed a prayer of thankfulness.  This would put an end to the
fog.

He began to walk along by the high brick wall, but had not
proceeded far before a muffled figure arose before him and the
light of an electric torch was shone into his face.

"Oh, it's you, Chief Inspector!" came the voice of the watcher.

"It is," rapped Kerry.  "Unless there are tunnels under this old
rat-hole, I take it the men on duty can cover all the exits?"

"All the main exits," was the reply.  "But, as you say, it's a
strange house, and Zani Chada has a stranger reputation."

"Do nothing until you hear from me."

"Very good, Chief Inspector."

The rain now was definitely conquering the fog, and in half the
time which had been occupied by the outward journey Kerry was
back again in Limehouse police station.  Unconsciously he had
been hastening his pace with every stride, urged onward by an
unaccountable anxiety, so that finally he almost ran into the
office and up to the desk where the telephone stood.

Lifting it, he called his own number and stood tapping his foot,
impatiently awaiting the reply.  Presently came the voice of the
operator: "Have they answered yet?"

"No."

"I will ring them again."

Kerry's anxiety became acute, almost unendurable; and when at
last, after repeated attempts, no reply could be obtained from
his home, he replaced the receiver and leaned for a moment on the
desk, shaken with such a storm of apprehension as he had rarely
known.  He turned to the inspector in charge, and:

"Let me have that envelope I left with you," he directed.  "And
have someone 'phone for a taxi; they are to keep on till they get
one.  Where is Sergeant Durham?"

"At the mortuary."

"Ah!"

"Any developments, Chief Inspector?"

"Yes.  But apart from keeping a close watch upon the house of
Zani Chada you are to do nothing until you hear from me again."

"Very good," said the inspector.  "Are you going to wait for
Durham's report?"

"No.  Directly the cab arrives I am going to wait for nothing."

Indeed, he paced up and down the room like a wild beast caged,
while call after call was sent to neighbouring cab ranks, for a
long time without result.  What did it mean, his wife's failure
to answer the telephone?  It might mean that neither she nor
their one servant nor Dan was in the house.  And if they were not
in the house at this hour of the night, where could they possibly
be?  This it might mean, or--something worse.

A thousand and one possibilities, hideous, fantastic, appalling,
flashed through his mind.  He was beginning to learn what Zani
Chada had meant when he had said: "I have followed your career
with interest."

At last a taxi was found, and the man instructed over the 'phone
to proceed immediately to Limehouse station.  He seemed so long
in coming that when at last the cab was heard to pause outside,
Kerry could not trust himself to speak to the driver, but
directed a sergeant to give him the address.  He entered silently
and closed the door.

A steady drizzle of rain was falling.  It had already dispersed
the fog, so that he might hope with luck to be home within the
hour.  As a matter of fact, the man performed the journey in
excellent time, but it seemed to his passenger that he could have
walked quicker, such was the gnawing anxiety within him and the
fear which prompted him to long for wings.

Instructing the cabman to wait, Kerry unlocked the front door and
entered.  He had noted a light in the dining room window, and
entering, he found his wife awaiting him there.  She rose as he
entered, with horror in her comely face.

"Dan!" she whispered.  "Dan!  where is ye'r mackintosh?"

"I didn't take it," he replied, endeavouring to tell himself that
his apprehensions had been groundless.  "But how was it that you
did not answer the telephone?"

"What do ye mean, Dan?" Mary Kerry stared, her eyes growing wider
and wider.  "The boy answered, Dan.  He set out wi' ye'r
mackintosh full an hour and a half since."

"What!"

The truth leaped out at Kerry like an enemy out of ambush.

"Who sent that message?"

"Someone frae the Yard, to tell the boy to bring ye'r mackintosh
alone at once.  Dan!  Dan------"

She advanced, hands outstretched, quivering, but Kerry had leaped
out into the narrow hallway.  He raised the telephone receiver,
listened for a moment, and then jerked it back upon the hook.

"Dead line!" he muttered.  "Someone has been at work with a wire-
cutter outside the house!"

His wife came out to where he stood, and, clenching his teeth
very grimly, he took her in his arms.  She was shaking as if
palsied.

"Mary dear," he said, "pray with all your might that I am given
strength to do my duty."

She looked at him with haggard, tearless eyes.

"Tell me the truth: ha' they got my boy?"

His fingers tightened on her shoulders.

"Don't worry," he said, "and don't ask me to stay to explain.
When I come back I'll have Dan with me!"

He trusted himself no further, but, clapping his hat on his head,
walked out to the waiting cab.

"Back to Limehouse police station," he directed rapidly.

"Lor lumme!" muttered the taximan.  "Where are you goin' to after
that, guv'nor?  It's a bit off the map."

"I'm going to hell!" rapped Kerry, suddenly thrusting his red
face very near to that of the speaker.  "And you're going to
drive me!"




VI

THE KNIGHT ERRANT



Recognizing the superior strength of his captors, young Kerry
soon gave up struggling.  The thrill of his first real adventure
entered into his blood.  He remembered that he was the son of his
father, and he realized, being a quick-witted lad, that he was in
the grip of enemies of his father.  The panic which had
threatened him when first he had recognized that he was in the
hands of Chinese, gave place to a cold rage--a heritage which in
later years was to make him a dangerous man.

He lay quite passively in the grasp of someone who held him fast,
and learned, by breathing quietly, that the presence of the
muffler about his nose and mouth did not greatly inconvenience
him.  There was some desultory conversation between the two men
in the car, but it was carried on in an odd, sibilant language
which the boy did not understand, but which he divined to be
Chinese.  He thought how every other boy in the school would envy
him, and the thought was stimulating, nerving.  On the very first
day of his holidays he was become the central figure of a
Chinatown drama.

The last traces of fear fled.  His position was uncomfortable and
his limbs were cramped, but he resigned himself, with something
almost like gladness, and began to look forward to that which lay
ahead with a zest and a will to be no passive instrument which
might have surprised his captors could they have read the mind of
their captive.

The journey seemed almost interminable, but young Kerry suffered
it in stoical silence until the car stopped and he was lifted and
carried down stone steps into some damp, earthy-smelling place.
Some distance was traversed, and then many flights of stairs were
mounted, some bare but others carpeted.

Finally he was deposited in a chair, and as he raised his hand to
the scarf, which toward the end of the journey had been bound
more tightly about his head so as to prevent him from seeing at
all, he heard a door closed and locked.

The scarf was quickly removed.  And Dan found himself in a low-
ceilinged attic having a sloping roof and one shuttered window.
A shadeless electric lamp hung from the ceiling.  Excepting the
cane-seated chair in which he had been deposited and a certain
amount of nondescript lumber, the attic was unfurnished.  Dan
rapidly considered what his father would have done in the
circumstances.

"Make sure that the door is locked," he muttered.

He tried it, and it was locked beyond any shadow of doubt.

"The window."

Shutters covered it, and these were fastened with a padlock.

He considered this padlock attentively; then, drawing from his
pocket one of those wonderful knives which are really miniature
tool-chests, he raised from a grove the screw-driver which formed
part of its equipment, and with neatness and dispatch unscrewed
the staple to which the padlock was attached!

A moment later he had opened the shutters and was looking out
into the drizzle of the night.

The room in which he was confined was on the third floor of a
dingy, brick-built house; a portion of some other building faced
him; down below was a stone-paved courtyard.  To the left stood a
high wall, and beyond it he obtained a glimpse of other dingy
buildings.  One lighted window was visible--a square window in
the opposite building, from which amber light shone out.

Somewhere in the street beyond was a standard lamp.  He could
detect the halo which it cast into the misty rain.  The glass was
very dirty, and young Kerry raised the sash, admitting a draught
of damp, cold air into the room.  He craned out, looking about
him eagerly.

A rainwater-pipe was within reach of his hand on the right of the
window and, leaning out still farther, young Kerry saw that it
passed beside two other, larger, windows on the floor beneath
him.  Neither of these showed any light.

Dizzy heights have no terror for healthy youth.  The brackets
supporting the rain-pipe were a sufficient staircase for the
agile Dan, a more slippery prisoner than the famous Baron Trenck;
and, discarding his muffler and his Burberry, he climbed out upon
the sill and felt with his thick-soled boots for the first of
these footholds.  Clutching the ledge, he lowered himself and
felt for the next.

Then came the moment when he must trust all his weight to the
pipe.  Clenching his teeth, he risked it, felt for and found the
third angle, and then, still clutching the pipe, stood for a
moment upon the ledge of the window immediately beneath him.  He
was curious respecting the lighted window of the neighbouring
house; and, twisting about, he bent, peering across--and saw a
sight which arrested his progress.

The room within was furnished in a way which made him gasp with
astonishment.  It was like an Eastern picture, he thought.  Her
golden hair dishevelled and her hands alternately clenching and
unclenching, a woman whom he considered to be most wonderfully
dressed was pacing wildly up and down, a look of such horror upon
her pale face that Dan's heart seemed to stop beating for a
moment!

Here was real trouble of a sort which appealed to all the
chivalry in the boy's nature.  He considered the window, which
was glazed with amber-coloured glass, observed that it was
sufficiently open to enable him to slip the fastening and open it
entirely could he but reach it.  And--yes!--there was a rain-
pipe!

Climbing down to the yard, he looked quickly about him, ran
across, and climbed up to the lighted window.  A moment later he
had pushed it widely open.

He was greeted by a stifled cry, but, cautiously transferring his
weight from the friendly pipe to the ledge, he got astride of it,
one foot in the room.  Then, by exercise of a monkey-like
agility, he wriggled his head and shoulders within.

"It's all right," he said softly and reassuringly; "I'm Dan
Kerry, son of Chief Inspector Kerry.  Can I be of any
assistance?"

Her hands clasped convulsively together, the woman stood looking
up at him.

"Oh, thank God!" said the captive.  "But what are you going to
do?  Can you get me out?"

"Don't worry," replied Dan confidently.  "Father and I can manage
it all right!"

He performed a singular contortion, as a result of which his
other leg and foot appeared inside the window.  Then, twisting
around, he lowered himself and dropped triumphantly upon a
cushioned divan.  At that moment he would have faced a cage full
of man-eating tigers.  The spirit of adventure had him in its
grip.  He stood up, breathing rapidly, his crop of red hair more
dishevelled than usual.

Then, before he could stir or utter any protest, the golden-
haired princess whom he had come to rescue stooped, threw her
arms around his neck, and kissed him.

"You darling, brave boy!" she said.  "I think you have saved me
from madness."

Young Kerry, more flushed than ever, extricated himself, and:

"You're not out of the mess yet," he protested.  "The only
difference is that I'm in it with you!"

"But where is your father?"

"I'm looking for him."

"What!"

"Oh!  he's about somewhere," Dan assured her confidently.

"But, but----" She was gazing at him wide-eyed, "Didn't he send
you here?"

"You bet he didn't," returned young Kerry.  "I came here on my
own accord, and when I go you're coming with me.  I can't make
out how you got here, anyway.  Do you know whose house this is?"

"Oh, I do, I do!"

"Whose?"

"It belongs to a man called Chada."

"Chada?  Never heard of him.  But I mean, what part of London is
it in?"

"Whatever do you mean?  It is in Limehouse, I believe.  I don't
understand.  You came here."

"I didn't," said young Kerry cheerfully; "I was fetched!"

"By your father?"

"Not on your life.  By a couple of Chinks!  I'll tell you
something." He raised his twinkling blue eyes.  "We are properly
up against it.  I suppose you couldn't climb down a rain-pipe?"




VII

RETRIBUTION



It was that dark, still, depressing hour of the night, when all
life is at its lowest ebb.  In the low, strangely perfumed room
of books Zani Chada sat before his table, his yellow hands
clutching the knobs on his chair arms, his long, inscrutable eyes
staring unseeingly before him.

Came a disturbance and the sound of voices, and Lou Chada, his
son, stood at the doorway.  He still wore his evening clothes,
but he no longer looked smart.  His glossy black hair was
dishevelled, and his handsome, olive face bore a hunted look.
Panic was betoken by twitching mouth and fear-bright eyes.  He
stopped, glaring at his father, and:

"Why are you not gone?" asked the latter sternly.  "Do you wish
to wreck me as well as yourself ?"

"The police have posted a man opposite Kwee's house.  I cannot
get out that way."

"There was no one there when the boy was brought in."

"No, but there is now.  Father!" He took a step forward.  "I'm
trapped.  They sha'n't take me.  You won't let them take me?"

Zani Chada stirred not a muscle, but:

"To-night," he said, "your mad passion has brought ruin to both
of us.  For the sake of a golden doll who is not worth the price
of the jewels she wears, you have placed yourself within reach of
the hangman."

"I was mad, I was mad," groaned the other.

"But I, who was sane, am involved in the consequences," retorted
his father.

"He will be silent at the price of the boy's life."

"He may be," returned Zani Chada.  "I hate him, but he is a man.
Had you escaped, he might have consented to be silent.  Once you
are arrested, nothing would silence him."

"If the case is tried it will ruin Pat's reputation."

"What a pity!" said Zani Chada.

In some distant part of the house a gong was struck three times.

"Go," commanded his father.  "Remain at Kwee's house until I send
for you.  Let Ah Fang go to the room above and see that the woman
is silent.  An outcry would ruin our last chance."

Lou Chada raised his hands, brushing the hair back from his wet
forehead, then, staring haggardly at his father, turned and ran
from the room.

A minute later Kerry was ushered in by the Chinese servant.  The
savage face was set like a mask.  Without removing his hat, he
strode across to the table and bent down so that fierce, wide-
open blue eyes stared closely into long, half-closed black ones.

"I've got one thing to say," explained Kerry huskily.  "Whatever
the hangman may do to your slimy son, and whatever happens to the
little blonde fool he kidnapped, if you've laid a hand on my kid
I'll kick you to death, if I follow you round the world to do
it."

Zani Chada made no reply, but his knuckles gleamed, so tightly
did he clutch the knobs on the chair arms.  Kerry's savagery
would have awed any man, even though he had supposed it to be the
idle threat of a passionate man.  But Zani Chada knew all men,
and he knew this one.  When Daniel Kerry declared that in given
circumstances he would kick Zani Chada to death, he did not mean
that he would shoot him, strangle him, or even beat him with his
fists; he meant precisely what he said--that he would kick him to
death--and Zani Chada knew it.

Thus there were some moments of tense silence during which the
savage face of the Chief Inspector drew even closer to the gaunt,
yellow face of the Eurasian.  Finally:

"Listen only for one moment," said Zani Chada.  His voice had
lost its guttural intonation.  He spoke softly, sibilantly.  "I,
too, am a father------"

"Don't mince words!" shouted Kerry.  "You've kidnapped my boy.
If I have to tear your house down brick by brick I'll find him.
And if you've hurt one hair of his head--you know what to
expect!"

He quivered.  The effort of suppression which he had imposed upon
himself was frightful to witness.  Zani Chada, student of men,
knew that in despite of his own physical strength and of the
hidden resources at his beck, he stood nearer to primitive
retribution than he had ever done.  Yet:

"I understand," he continued.  "But you do not understand.  Your
boy is not in this house.  Oh!  violence cannot avail!  It can
only make his loss irreparable."

Kerry, nostrils distended, eyes glaring madly, bent over him.

"Your scallywag of a son," he said hoarsely, "has gone one step
too far.  His adventures have twice before ended in murder--and
you have covered him.  This time you can't do it.  I'm not to be
bought.  We've stood for the Far East in London long enough.
Your cub hangs this time.  Get me?  There'll be no bargaining.
The woman's reputation won't stop me.  My kid's danger won't stop
me.  But if you try to use him as a lever I'll boot you to your
stinking yellow paradise and they'll check you in as pulp."

"You speak of three deaths," murmured Zani Chada.

Kerry clenched his teeth so tightly that his maxillary muscles
protruded to an abnormal degree.  He thrust his clenched fists
into his coat pockets.

"We all follow our vocations in life," resumed the Eurasian, "to
the best of our abilities.  But is professional kudos not too
dearly bought at the price of a loved one lost for ever?  A far
better bargain would be, shall we say, ten thousand pounds, as
the price of a silk handkerchief------"

Kerry's fierce blue eyes closed for a fraction of a second.  Yet,
in that fraction of a second, he had visualized some of the
things which ten thousand pounds--a sum he could never hope to
possess--would buy.  He had seen his home, as he would have it--
and he had seen Dan there, safe and happy at his mother's side.
Was he entitled to disregard the happiness of his wife, the life
of his boy, the honourable name of Sir Noel Rourke, because an
outcast like Peters had come to a fitting end--because a
treacherous Malay and a renegade Chinaman had, earlier, gone the
same way, sped, as he suspected, by the same hand?

"My resources are unusual," added Chada, speaking almost in a
whisper.  "I have cash to this amount in my safe------"

So far he had proceeded when he was interrupted; and the cause of
the interruption was this:

A few moments earlier another dramatic encounter had taken place
in a distant part of the house.  Kerry Junior, having
scientifically tested all the possible modes of egress from the
room in which Lady Pat was confined, had long ago desisted, and
had exhausted his ingenuity in plans which discussion had proved
to be useless.  In spite of the novelty and the danger of his
situation, nature was urging her laws.  He was growing sleepy.
The crowning tragedy had been the discovery that he could not
regain the small, square window set high in the wall from which
he had dropped into this luxurious prison.  Now, as the two sat
side by side upon a cushioned divan, the woman's arm about the
boy's shoulders, they were startled to hear, in the depths of the
house, three notes of a gong.

Young Kerry's sleepiness departed.  He leapt to his feet as
though electrified.

"What was that?"

There was something horrifying in those gong notes in the
stillness of the night.  Lady Pat's beautiful eyes grew glassy
with fear.

"I don't know," replied Dan.  "It seemed to come from below."

He ran to the door, drew the curtain aside, and pressed his ear
against one of the panels, listening intently.  As he did so, his
attitude grew tense, his expression changed, then:

"We're saved!" he cried, turning a radiant face to the woman.  "I
heard my father's voice!"

"Oh, are you sure, are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure!"

He bent to press his ear to the panel again, when a stifled cry
from his companion brought him swiftly to his feet.  The second
door in the room had opened silently, and a small Chinaman, who
carried himself with a stoop, had entered, and now, a menacing
expression upon his face, was quickly approaching the boy.

What he had meant to do for ever remained in doubt, for young
Kerry, knowing his father to be in the house and seeing an open
door before him, took matters into his own hands.
At the moment that the silent Chinaman was about to throw his
arms about him, the pride of the junior school registered a most
surprising left accurately on the point of Ah Fang's jaw,
following it up by a wilful transgression of Queensberry rules in
the form of a stomach punch which temporarily decided the issue.
Then:

"Quick!  quick!" he cried breathlessly, grasping Lady Pat's hand.
"This is where we run!"

In such fashion was Zani Chada interrupted, the interruption
taking the form of a sudden, shrill outcry:

"Dad!  dad!  Where are you, dad?"

Kerry spun about as a man galvanized.  His face became
transfigured.

"This way, Dan!" he cried.  "This way, boy!"

Came a clatter of hurrying feet, and into the low, perfumed room
burst Dan Kerry, junior, tightly clasping the hand of a pale-
faced, dishevelled woman in evening dress.  It was Lady Rourke;
and although she seemed to be in a nearly fainting condition, Dan
dragged her, half running, into the room.

Kerry gave one glance at the pair, then, instantly, he turned to
face Zani Chada.  The latter, like a man of stone, sat in his
carved chair, eyes nearly closed.  The Chief Inspector whipped
out a whistle and raised it to his lips.  He blew three blasts
upon it.

From one--two--three--four points around the house the signal was
answered.

Zani Chada fully opened his long, basilisk eyes.

"You win, Chief Inspector," he said.  "But much may be done by
clever counsel.  If all fails------"

"Well?" rapped Kerry fiercely, at the same time throwing his arm
around the boy.

"I may continue to take an interest in your affairs."

A tremendous uproar arose, within and without the house.  The
police were raiding the place.  Lady Rourke sank down, slowly,
almost at the Eurasian's feet.

But Chief Inspector Kerry experienced an unfamiliar chill as his
uncompromising stare met the cold hatred which blazed out of the
black eyes, narrowed, now, and serpentine, of Zani Chada.






THE PIGTAIL OF HI WING HO






I

HOW I OBTAINED IT



Leaving the dock gates behind me I tramped through the steady
drizzle, going parallel with the river and making for the Chinese
quarter.  The hour was about half-past eleven on one of those
September nights when, in such a locality as this, a stifling
quality seems to enter the atmosphere, rendering it all but
unbreathable.  A mist floated over the river, and it was
difficult to say if the rain was still falling, indeed, or if the
ample moisture upon my garments was traceable only to the fog.
Sounds were muffled, lights dimmed, and the frequent hooting of
sirens from the river added another touch of weirdness to the
scene.

Even when the peculiar duties of my friend, Paul Harley, called
him away from England, the lure of this miniature Orient which I
had first explored under his guidance, often called me from my
chambers.  In the house with the two doors in Wade Street,
Limehouse, I would discard the armour of respectability, and,
dressed in a manner unlikely to provoke comment in dockland,
would haunt those dreary ways sometimes from midnight until close
upon dawn.  Yet, well as I knew the district and the strange and
often dangerous creatures lurking in its many burrows, I
experienced a chill partly physical and partly of apprehension
to-night; indeed, strange though it may sound, I hastened my
footsteps in order the sooner to reach the low den for which I
was bound--Malay Jack's--a spot marked plainly on the crimes-map
and which few respectable travellers would have regarded as a
haven of refuge.

But the chill of the adjacent river, and some quality of utter
desolation which seemed to emanate from the deserted wharves and
ramshackle buildings about me, were driving me thither now; for I
knew that human companionship, of a sort, and a glass of good
liquor--from a store which the Customs would have been happy to
locate--awaited me there.  I might chance, too, upon Durham or
Wessex, of New Scotland Yard, both good friends of mine, or even
upon the Terror of Chinatown, Chief Inspector Kerry, a man for
whom I had an esteem which none of his ungracious manners could
diminish.

I was just about to turn to the right into a narrow and nameless
alley, lying at right angles to the Thames, when I pulled up
sharply, clenching my fists and listening.

A confused and continuous sound, not unlike that which might be
occasioned by several large and savage hounds at close grips, was
proceeding out of the darkness ahead of me; a worrying, growling,
and scuffling which presently I identified as human, although in
fact it was animal enough.  A moment I hesitated, then,
distinguishing among the sounds of conflict an unmistakable,
though subdued, cry for help, I leaped forward and found myself
in the midst of the melee.  This was taking place in the lee of a
high, dilapidated brick wall.  A lamp in a sort of iron bracket
spluttered dimly above on the right, but the scene of the
conflict lay in densest shadow, so that the figures were
indistinguishable.

"Help!  By Gawd!  they're strangling me------"

From almost at my feet the cry arose and was drowned in Chinese
chattering.  But guided by it I now managed to make out that the
struggle in progress waged between a burly English sailorman and
two lithe Chinese.  The yellow men seemed to have gained the
advantage and my course was clear.

A straight right on the jaw of the Chinaman who was engaged in
endeavouring to throttle the victim laid him prone in the dirty
roadway.  His companion, who was holding the wrist of the
recumbent man, sprang upright as though propelled by a spring.  I
struck out at him savagely.  He uttered a shrill scream not
unlike that of a stricken hare, and fled so rapidly that he
seemed to melt in the mist.

"Gawd bless you, mate!" came chokingly from the ground--and the
rescued man, extricating himself from beneath the body of his
stunned assailant, rose unsteadily to his feet and lurched toward
me.

As I had surmised, he was a sailor, wearing a rough, blue-serge
jacket and having his greasy trousers thrust into heavy
seaboots--by which I judged that he was but newly come ashore.
He stooped and picked up his cap.  It was covered in mud, as were
the rest of his garments, but he brushed it with his sleeve as
though it had been but slightly soiled and clapped it on his
head.

He grasped my hand in a grip of iron, peering into my face, and
his breath was eloquent.

"I'd had one or two, mate," he confided huskily (the confession
was unnecessary).  "It was them two in the Blue Anchor as did it;
if I 'adn't 'ad them last two, I could 'ave broke up them Chinks
with one 'and tied behind me."

"That's all right," I said hastily, "but what are we going to do
about this Chink here?" I added, endeavouring at the same time to
extricate my hand from the vise-like grip in which he
persistently held it.  "He hit the tiles pretty heavy when he
went down."

As if to settle my doubts, the recumbent figure suddenly arose
and without a word fled into the darkness and was gone like a
phantom.  My new friend made no attempt to follow, but:

"You can't kill a bloody Chink," he confided, still clutching my
hand; "it ain't 'umanly possible.  It's easier to kill a cat.
Come along o' me and 'ave one; then I'll tell you somethink.
I'll put you on somethink, I will."

With surprising steadiness of gait, considering the liquid cargo
he had aboard, the man, releasing my hand and now seizing me
firmly by the arm, confidently led me by divers narrow ways,
which I knew, to a little beerhouse frequented by persons of his
class.

My own attire was such as to excite no suspicion in these
surroundings, and although I considered that my acquaintance had
imbibed more than enough for one night, I let him have his own
way in order that I might learn the story which he seemed
disposed to confide in me.  Settled in the corner of the
beerhouse--which chanced to be nearly empty--with portentous
pewters before us, the conversation was opened by my new friend:

"I've been paid off from the Jupiter--Samuelson's Planet Line,"
he explained.  "What I am is a fireman."

"She was from Singapore to London?" I asked.

"She was," he replied, "and it was at Suez it 'appened--at Suez."

I did not interrupt him.

"I was ashore at Suez--we all was, owin' to a 'itch with the
canal company--a matter of money, I may say.  They make yer pay
before they'll take yer through.  Do you know that?"

I nodded.

"Suez is a place," he continued, "where they don't sell whisky,
only poison.  Was you ever at Suez?"

Again I nodded, being most anxious to avoid diverting the current
of my friend's thoughts.

"Well, then," he continued, "you know Greek Jimmy's--and that's
where I'd been."

I did not know Greek Jimmy's, but I thought it unnecessary to
mention the fact.

"It was just about this time on a steamin' 'ot night as I come
out of Jimmy's and started for the ship.  I was walkin' along the
Waghorn Quay, same as I might be walkin' along to-night, all by
myself--bit of a list to port but nothing much--full o' joy an'
happiness, 'appy an' free--'appy an' free.  Just like you might
have noticed to-night, I noticed a knot of Chinks scrappin' on
the ground all amongst the dust right in front of me.  I rammed
in, windmillin' all round and knocking 'em down like skittles.
Seemed to me there was about ten of 'em, but allowin' for Jimmy's
whisky, maybe there wasn't more than three.  Anyway, they all
shifted and left me standin' there in the empty street with this
'ere in my 'and."

At that, without more ado, he thrust his hand deep into some
concealed pocket and jerked out a Chinese pigtail, which had been
severed, apparently some three inches from the scalp, by a clean
cut.  My acquaintance, with somewhat bleared eyes glistening in
appreciation of his own dramatic skill--for I could not conceal
my surprise--dangled it before me triumphantly.

"Which of 'em it belong to," he continued, thrusting it into
another pocket and drumming loudly on the counter for more beer,
"I can't say, 'cos I don't know.  But that ain't all."

The tankards being refilled and my friend having sampled the
contents of his own:

"That ain't all," he continued.  "I thought I'd keep it as a sort
of relic, like.  What 'appened?  I'll tell you.  Amongst the crew
there's three Chinks--see?  We ain't through the canal before one
of 'em, a new one to me--Li Ping is his name--offers me five bob
for the pigtail, which he sees me looking at one mornin'.  I give
him a punch on the nose an' 'e don't renew the offer: but that
night (we're layin' at Port Said) 'e tries to pinch it!  I dam'
near broke his neck, and 'e don't try any more.  To-night"--he
extended his right arm forensically--"a deppitation of Chinks
waits on me at the dock gates; they explains as from a patriotic
point of view they feels it to be their dooty to buy that pigtail
off of me, and they bids a quid, a bar of gold--a Jimmy o'
Goblin!"

He snapped his fingers contemptuously and emptied his pewter.  A
sense of what was coming began to dawn on me.  That the "hold-up"
near the riverside formed part of the scheme was possible, and,
reflecting on my rough treatment of the two Chinamen, I chuckled
inwardly.  Possibly, however, the scheme had germinated in my
acquaintance's mind merely as a result of an otherwise common
assault, of a kind not unusual in these parts, but, whether
elaborate or comparatively simple, that the story of the pigtail
was a "plant" designed to reach my pocket, seemed a reasonable
hypothesis.

"I told him to go to China," concluded the object of my
suspicion, again rapping upon the counter, "and you see what come
of it.  All I got to say is this: If they're so bloody patriotic,
I says one thing: I ain't the man to stand in their way.  You
done me a good turn to-night, mate; I'm doing you one.  'Ere's
the bloody pigtail, 'ere's my empty mug.  Fill the mug and the
pigtail's yours.  It's good for a quid at the dock gates any
day!"

My suspicions vanished; my interest arose to boiling point.  I
refilled my acquaintance's mug, pressed a sovereign upon him (in
honesty I must confess that he was loath to take it), and
departed with the pigtail coiled neatly in an inner pocket of my
jacket.  I entered the house in Wade Street by the side door, and
half an hour later let myself out by the front door, having cast
off my dockland disguise.




II

HOW I LOST IT



It was not until the following evening that I found leisure to
examine my strange acquisition, for affairs of more immediate
importance engrossed my attention.  But at about ten o'clock I
seated myself at my table, lighted the lamp, and taking out the
pigtail from the table drawer, placed it on the blotting-pad and
began to examine it with the greatest curiosity, for few Chinese
affect the pigtail nowadays.

I had scarcely commenced my examination, however, when it was
dramatically interrupted.  The door bell commenced to ring
jerkily.  I stood up, and as I did so the ringing ceased and in
its place came a muffled beating on the door.  I hurried into the
passage as the bell commenced ringing again, and I had almost
reached the door when once more the ringing ceased; but now I
could hear a woman's voice, low but agitated:

"Open the door!  Oh, for God's sake be quick!"

Completely mystified, and not a little alarmed, I threw open the
door, and in there staggered a woman heavily veiled, so that I
could see little of her features, but by the lines of her figure
I judged her to be young.

Uttering a sort of moan of terror she herself closed the door,
and stood with her back to it, watching me through the thick
veil, while her breast rose and fell tumultuously.

"Thank God there was someone at home!" she gasped.

I think I may say with justice that I had never been so surprised
in my life; every particular of the incident marked it as
unique--set it apart from the episodes of everyday life.

"Madam," I began doubtfully, "you seem to be much alarmed at
something, and if I can be of any assistance to you------"

"You have saved my life!" she whispered, and pressed one hand to
her bosom.  "In a moment I will explain."

"Won't you rest a little after your evidently alarming
experience?" I suggested.

My strange visitor nodded, without speaking, and I conducted her
to the study which I had just left, and placed the most
comfortable arm-chair close beside the table so that as I sat I
might study this woman who so strangely had burst in upon me.  I
even tilted the shaded lamp, artlessly, a trick I had learned
from Harley, in order that the light might fall upon her face.

She may have detected this device; I know not; but as if in
answer to its challenge, she raised her gloved hands and
unfastened the heavy veil which had concealed her features.

Thereupon I found myself looking into a pair of lustrous black
eyes whose almond shape was that of the Orient; I found myself
looking at a woman who, since she was evidently a Jewess, was
probably no older than eighteen or nineteen, but whose beauty was
ripely voluptuous, who might fittingly have posed for Salome,
who, despite her modern fashionable garments, at once suggested
to my mind the wanton beauty of the daughter of Herodias.

I stared at her silently for a time, and presently her full lips
parted in a slow smile.  My ideas were diverted into another
channel.

"You have yet to tell me what alarmed you," I said in a low
voice, but as courteously as possible, "and if I can be of any
assistance in the matter."

My visitor seemed to recollect her fright--or the necessity for
simulation.  The pupils of her fine eyes seemed to grow larger
and darker; she pressed her white teeth into her lower lips, and
resting her hands upon the table leaned toward me.

"I am a stranger to London," she began, now exhibiting a certain
diffidence, "and to-night I was looking for the chambers of Mr.
Raphael Philips of Figtree Court."

"This is Figtree Court," I said, "but I know of no Mr. Raphael
Philips who has chambers here."

The black eyes met mine despairingly.

"But I am positive of the address!" protested my beautiful but
strange caller--from her left glove she drew out a scrap of
paper, "here it is."

I glanced at the fragment, upon which, in a woman's hand the
words were pencilled: "Mr. Raphael Philips, 36-b Figtree Court,
London."

I stared at my visitor, deeply mystified.

"These chambers are 36-b!" I said.  "But I am not Raphael
Philips, nor have I ever heard of him.  My name is Malcolm Knox.
There is evidently some mistake, but"--returning the slip of
paper--"pardon me if I remind you, I have yet to learn the cause
of your alarm."

"I was followed across the court and up the stairs."

"Followed!  By whom?"

"By a dreadful-looking man, chattering in some tongue I did not
understand!"

My amazement was momentarily growing greater.

"What kind of a man?" I demanded rather abruptly.

"A yellow-faced man--remember I could only just distinguish him
in the darkness on the stairway, and see little more of him than
his eyes at that, and his ugly gleaming teeth--oh!  it was
horrible!"

"You astound me," I said; "the thing is utterly
incomprehensible." I switched off the light of the lamp.  "I'll
see if there's any sign of him in the court below."

"Oh, don't leave me!  For heaven's sake don't leave me alone!"

She clutched my arm in the darkness.

"Have no fear; I merely propose to look out from this window."

Suiting the action to the word, I peered down into the court
below.  It was quite deserted.  The night was a very dark one,
and there were many patches of shadow in which a man might have
lain concealed.

"I can see no one," I said, speaking as confidently as possible,
and relighting the lamp, "if I call a cab for you and see you
safely into it, you will have nothing to fear, I think."

"I have a cab waiting," she replied, and lowering the veil she
stood up to go.

"Kindly allow me to see you to it.  I am sorry you have been
subjected to this annoyance, especially as you have not attained
the object of your visit."

"Thank you so much for your kindness; there must be some mistake
about the address, of course."

She clung to my arm very tightly as we descended the stairs, and
often glanced back over her shoulder affrightedly, as we crossed
the court.  There was not a sign of anyone about, however, and I
could not make up my mind whether the story of the yellow man was
a delusion or a fabrication.  I inclined to the latter theory,
but the object of such a deception was more difficult to
determine.

Sure enough, a taxicab was waiting at the entrance to the court;
and my visitor, having seated herself within, extended her hand
to me, and even through the thick veil I could detect her
brilliant smile.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Knox," she said, "and a thousand
apologies.  I am sincerely sorry to have given you all this
trouble."

The cab drove off.  For a moment I stood looking after it, in a
state of dreamy incertitude, then turned and slowly retraced my
steps.  Reopening the door of my chambers with my key, I returned
to my study and sat down at the table to endeavour to arrange the
facts of what I recognized to be a really amazing episode.  The
adventure, trifling though it seemed, undoubtedly held some
hidden significance that at present was not apparent to me.  In
accordance with the excellent custom of my friend, Paul Harley, I
prepared to make notes of the occurrence while the facts were
still fresh in my memory.  At the moment that I was about to
begin, I made an astounding discovery.

Although I had been absent only a few minutes, and had locked my
door behind me, the pigtail was gone!

I sat quite still, listening intently.  The woman's story of the
yellow man on the stairs suddenly assumed a totally different
aspect--a new and sinister aspect.  Could it be that the pigtail
was at the bottom of the mystery?--could it be that some
murderous Chinaman who had been lurking in hiding, waiting his
opportunity, had in some way gained access to my chambers during
that brief absence?  If so, was he gone?

From the table drawer I took out a revolver, ascertained that it
was fully loaded, and turning up light after light as I
proceeded, conducted a room-to-room search.  It was without
result; there was absolutely nothing to indicate that anyone had
surreptitiously entered or departed from my chambers.

I returned to the study and sat gazing at the revolver lying on
the blotting-pad before me.  Perhaps my mind worked slowly, but I
think that fully fifteen minutes must have passed before it
dawned on me that the explanation not only of the missing pigtail
but of the other incidents of the night, was simple enough.  The
yellow man had been a fabrication, and my dark-eyed visitor had
not been in quest of "Raphael Philips," but in quest of the
pigtail: and her quest had been successful!

"What a hopeless fool I am!" I cried, and banged my fist down
upon the table, "there was no yellow man at all--there was-----"

My door bell rang.  I sprang nervously to my feet, glanced at the
revolver on the table--and finally dropped it into my coat pocket
ere going out and opening the door.

On the landing stood a police constable and an officer in plain
clothes.

"Your name is Malcolm Knox?" asked the constable, glancing at a
note-book which he held in his hand.

"It is," I replied.

"You are required to come at once to Bow Street to identify a
woman who was found murdered in a taxi-cab in the Strand about
eleven o'clock to-night."

I suppressed an exclamation of horror; I felt myself turning
pale.

"But what has it to do------"

"The driver stated she came from your chambers, for you saw her
off, and her last words to you were 'Good night, Mr. Knox, I am
sincerely sorry to have given you all this trouble.' Is that
correct, sir?"

The constable, who had read out the information in an official
voice, now looked at me, as I stood there stupefied.

"It is," I said blankly.  "I'll come at once." It would seem that
I had misjudged my unfortunate visitor: her story of the yellow
man on the stair had apparently been not a fabrication, but a
gruesome fact!




III

HOW I REGAINED IT



My ghastly duty was performed; I had identified the dreadful
thing, which less than an hour before had been a strikingly
beautiful woman, as my mysterious visitor.  The police were
palpably disappointed at the sparsity of my knowledge respecting
her.  In fact, had it not chanced that Detective Sergeant Durham
was in the station, I think they would have doubted the accuracy
of my story.

As a man of some experience in such matters, I fully recognized
its improbability, but beyond relating the circumstances leading
up to my possession of the pigtail and the events which had
ensued, I could do no more in the matter.  The weird relic had
not been found on the dead woman, nor in the cab.

Now the unsavoury business was finished, and I walked along Bow
Street, racking my mind for the master-key to this mystery in
which I was become enmeshed.  How I longed to rush off to
Harley's rooms in Chancery Lane and to tell him the whole story!
But my friend was a thousand miles away--and I had to see the
thing out alone.

That the pigtail was some sacred relic stolen from a Chinese
temple and sought for by its fanatical custodians was a theory
which persistently intruded itself.  But I could find no place in
that hypothesis for the beautiful Jewess; and that she was
intimately concerned I did not doubt.  A cool survey of the facts
rendered it fairly evident that it was she and none other who had
stolen the pigtail from my rooms.  Some third party--possibly the
"yellow man" of whom she had spoken--had in turn stolen it from
her, strangling her in the process.

The police theory of the murder (and I was prepared to accept it)
was that the assassin had been crouching in hiding behind or
beside the cab--or even within the dark interior.  He had leaped
in and attacked the woman at the moment that the taxi-man had
started his engine; if already inside, the deed had proven even
easier.  Then, during some block in the traffic, he had slipped
out unseen, leaving the body of the victim to be discovered when
the cab pulled up at the hotel.

I knew of only one place in London where I might hope to obtain
useful information, and for that place I was making now.  It was
Malay Jack's, whence I had been bound on the previous night when
my strange meeting with the seaman who then possessed the pigtail
had led to a change of plan.  The scum of the Asiatic population
always come at one time or another to Jack's, and I hoped by dint
of a little patience to achieve what the police had now
apparently despaired of achieving--the discovery of the assassin.

Having called at my chambers to obtain my revolver, I mounted an
eastward-bound motor-bus.  The night, as I have already stated,
was exceptionally dark.  There was no moon, and heavy clouds were
spread over the sky; so that the deserted East End streets
presented a sufficiently uninviting aspect, but one with which I
was by no means unfamiliar and which certainly in no way daunted
me.

Changing at Paul Harley's Chinatown base in Wade Street, I turned
my steps in the same direction as upon the preceding night; but
if my own will played no part in the matter, then decidedly
Providence truly guided me.  Poetic justice is rare enough in
real life, yet I was destined to-night to witness swift
retribution overtaking a malefactor.

The by-ways which I had trodden were utterly deserted; I was far
from the lighted high road, and the only signs of human activity
that reached me came from the adjacent river; therefore, when
presently an outcry arose from somewhere on my left, for a moment
I really believed that my imagination was vividly reproducing the
episode of the night before!

A furious scuffle--between a European and an Asiatic--was in
progress not twenty yards away!

Realizing that such was indeed the case, and that I was not the
victim of hallucination, I advanced slowly in the direction of
the sounds, but my footsteps reechoed hollowly from wall to wall
of the narrow passage-way, and my coming brought the conflict to
a sudden and dramatic termination.

"Thought I wouldn't know yer ugly face, did yer?" yelled a
familiar voice.  "No good squealin'--I got yer!  I'd bust you up
if I could!" (a sound of furious blows and inarticulate
chattering) "but it ain't 'umanly possible to kill a Chink------"

I hurried forward toward the spot where two dim figures were
locked in deadly conflict.

"Take that to remember me by!" gasped the husky voice as I ran
up.

One of the figures collapsed in a heap upon the ground.  The
other made off at a lumbering gait along a second and even
narrower passage branching at right angles from that in which the
scuffle had taken place.

The clatter of the heavy sea-boots died away in the distance.  I
stood beside the fallen man, looking keenly about to right and
left; for an impression was strong upon me that another than I
had been witness of the scene--that a shadowy form had slunk back
furtively at my approach.  But the night gave up no sound in
confirmation of this, and I could detect no sign of any lurker.

I stooped over the Chinaman (for a Chinaman it was) who lay at my
feet, and directed the ray of my pocket-lamp upon his yellow and
contorted countenance.  I suppressed a cry of surprise and
horror.

Despite the human impossibility referred to by the missing
fireman, this particular Chinaman had joined the shades of his
ancestors.  I think that final blow, which had felled him, had
brought his shaven skull in such violent contact with the wall
that he had died of the thundering concussion set up.

Kneeling there and looking into his upturned eyes, I became aware
that my position was not an enviable one, particularly since I
felt little disposed to set the law on the track of the real
culprit.  For this man who now lay dead at my feet was doubtless
one of the pair who had attempted the life of the fireman of the
Jupiter.

That my seafaring acquaintance had designed to kill the Chinaman
I did not believe, despite his stormy words: the death had been
an accident, and (perhaps my morality was over-broad) I
considered the assault to have been justified.

Now my ideas led me further yet.  The dead Chinaman wore a rough
blue coat, and gingerly, for I found the contact repulsive, I
inserted my hand into the inside pocket.  Immediately my fingers
closed upon a familiar object--and I stood up, whistling
slightly, and dangling in my left hand the missing pigtail!

Beyond doubt Justice had guided the seaman's blows.  This was the
man who had murdered my dark-eyed visitor!

I stood perfectly still, directing the little white ray of my
flashlight upon the pigtail in my hand.  I realized that my
position, difficult before, now was become impossible; the
possession of the pigtail compromised me hopelessly.  What should
I do?

"My God!" I said aloud, "what does it all mean?"

"It means," said a gruff voice, "that it was lucky I was
following you and saw what happened!"

I whirled about, my heart leaping wildly.  Detective-Sergeant
Durham was standing watching me, a grim smile upon his face!

I laughed rather shakily.

"Lucky indeed!" I said.  "Thank God you're here.  This pigtail is
a nightmare which threatens to drive me mad!"

The detective advanced and knelt beside the crumpled-up figure on
the ground.  He examined it briefly, and then stood up.

"The fact that he had the missing pigtail in his pocket," he
said, "is proof enough to my mind that he did the murder."

"And to mine."

"There's another point," he added, "which throws a lot of light
on the matter.  You and Mr. Harley were out of town at the time
of the Huang Chow case; but the Chief and I outlined it, you
remember, one night in Mr. Harley's rooms?"

"I remember it perfectly; the giant spider in the coffin------"

"Yes; and a certain Ah Fu, confidential servant of the old man,
who used to buy the birds the thing fed on.  Well, Mr. Knox,
Huang Chow was the biggest dealer in illicit stuff in all the
East End--and this battered thing at our feet is--Ah Fu!"

"Huang Chow's servant?"

"Exactly!"

I stared, uncomprehendingly, and:

"In what way does this throw light on the matter?" I asked.

Durham--a very intelligent young officer--smiled significantly.

"I begin to see light!" he declared.  "The gentleman who made off
just as I arrived on the scene probably had a private quarrel
with the Chinaman and was otherwise not concerned in any way."

"I am disposed to agree with you," I said guardedly.

"Of course, you've no idea of his identity?"

"I'm afraid not."

"We may find him," mused the officer, glancing at me shrewdly,
"by applying at the offices of the Planet Line, but I rather
doubt it.  Also I rather doubt if we'll look very far.  He's
saved us a lot of trouble, but"--peering about in the shadowy
corners which abounded--"didn't I see somebody else lurking
around here?"

"I'm almost certain there was someone else!" I cried.  "In fact,
I could all but swear to it."

"H'm!" said the detective.  "He's not here now.  Might I trouble
you to walk along to Limehouse Police Station for the ambulance?
I'd better stay here."

I agreed at once, and started off.

Thus a second time my plans were interrupted, for my expedition
that night ultimately led me to Bow Street, whence, after certain
formalities had been observed, I departed for my chambers, the
mysterious pigtail in my pocket.  Failing the presence of Durham,
the pigtail must have been retained as evidence, but:

"We shall know where to find it if it's wanted, Mr. Knox," said
the Yard man, "and I can trust you to look after your own
property."

The clock of St. Paul's was chiming the hour of two when I locked
the door of my chambers and prepared to turn in.  The clangour of
the final strokes yet vibrated through the night's silence when
someone set my own door bell loudly ringing.

With an exclamation of annoyance I shot back the bolts and threw
open the door.

A Chinaman stood outside upon the mat!




IV

HOW IT ALL ENDED



"Me wishee see you," said the apparition, smiling blandly; "me
comee in?"

"Come in, by all means," I said without enthusiasm, and,
switching on the light in my study, I admitted the Chinaman and
stood facing him with an expression upon my face which I doubt
not was the reverse of agreeable.

My visitor, who wore a slop-shop suit, also wore a wide-brimmed
bowler hat; now, the set bland smile still upon his yellow face,
he removed the bowler and pointed significantly to his skull.

His pigtail had been severed some three inches from the root!

"You gotchee my pigtail," he explained; "me callee get it--thank
you."

"Thank you," I said grimly.  "But I must ask you to establish
your claim rather more firmly."

"Yessir," agreed the Chinaman.

And thereupon in tolerable pidgin English he unfolded his tale.
He proclaimed his name to be Hi Wing Ho, and his profession that
of a sailor, or so I understood him.  While ashore at Suez he had
become embroiled with some drunken seamen: knives had been drawn,
and in the scuffle by some strange accident his pigtail had been
severed.  He had escaped from the conflict, badly frightened, and
had run a great distance before he realized his loss.  Since
Southern Chinamen of his particular Tong hold their pigtails in
the highest regard, he had instituted inquiries as soon as
possible, and had presently learned from a Chinese member of the
crew of the S.S. Jupiter that the precious queue had fallen
into the hands of a fireman on that vessel.  He (Hi Wing Ho) had
shipped on the first available steamer bound for England, having
in the meanwhile communicated with his friend on the Jupiter
respecting the recovery of the pigtail.

"What was the name of your friend on the Jupiter?"

"Him Li Ping--yessir!"--without the least hesitation or hurry.

I nodded.  "Go on," I said.

He arrived at the London docks very shortly after the Jupiter.
Indeed, the crew of the latter vessel had not yet been paid off
when Hi Wing Ho presented himself at the dock gates.  He admitted
that, finding the fireman so obdurate, he and his friend Li Ping
had resorted to violence, but he did not seem to recognize me as
the person who had frustrated their designs.  Thus far I found
his story credible enough, excepting the accidental severing of
the pigtail at Suez, but now it became wildly improbable, for he
would have me believe that Li Ping, or Ah Fu, obtaining
possession of the pigtail (in what manner Hi Wing Ho protested
that he knew not) he sought to hold it to ransom, knowing how
highly Hi Wing Ho valued it.

I glared sternly at the Chinaman, but his impassive countenance
served him well.  That he was lying to me I no longer doubted;
for Ah Fu could not have hoped to secure such a price as would
justify his committing murder; furthermore, the presence of the
unfortunate Jewess in the case was not accounted for by the
ingenious narrative of Hi Wing Ho.  I was standing staring at him
and wondering what course to adopt, when yet again my restless
door-bell clamoured in the silence.

Hi Wing Ho started nervously, exhibiting the first symptoms of
alarm which I had perceived in him.  My mind was made up in an
instant.  I took my revolver from the drawer and covered him.

"Be good enough to open the door, Hi Wing Ho," I said coldly.

He shrank from me, pouring forth voluble protestations.

"Open the door!"

I clenched my left fist and advanced upon him.  He scuttled away
with his odd Chinese gait and threw open the door.  Standing
before me I saw my friend Detective Sergeant Durham, and with him
a remarkably tall and very large-boned man whose square-jawed
face was deeply tanned and whose aspect was dourly Scottish.

When the piercing eyes of this stranger rested upon Hi Wing Ho an
expression which I shall never forget entered into them; an
expression coldly murderous.  As for the Chinaman, he literally
crumpled up.

"You rat!" roared the stranger.

Taking one long stride he stooped upon the Chinaman, seized him
by the back of the neck as a terrier might seize a rat, and
lifted him to his feet.

"The mystery of the pigtail, Mr. Knox," said the detective, "is
solved at last."

"Have ye got it?" demanded the Scotsman, turning to me, but
without releasing his hold upon the neck of Hi Wing Ho.

I took the pigtail from my pocket and dangled it before his eyes.

"Suppose you come into my study," I said, "and explain matters."

We entered the room which had been the scene of so many singular
happenings.  The detective and I seated ourselves, but the
Scotsman, holding the Chinaman by the neck as though he had been
some inanimate bundle, stood just within the doorway, one of the
most gigantic specimens of manhood I had ever set eyes upon.

"You do the talking, sir," he directed the detective; "ye have
all the facts."

While Durham talked, then, we all listened--excepting the
Chinaman, who was past taking an intelligent interest in
anything, and who, to judge from his starting eyes, was being
slowly strangled.

"The gentleman," said Durham--"Mr. Nicholson--arrived two days
ago from the East. He is a buyer for a big firm of diamond
merchants, and some weeks ago a valuable diamond was stolen from
him------"

"By this!" interrupted the Scotsman, shaking the wretched Hi Wing
Ho terrier fashion.

"By Hi Wing Ho," explained the detective, "whom you see before
you.  The theft was a very ingenious one, and the man succeeded
in getting away with his haul.  He tried to dispose of the
diamond to a certain Isaac Cohenberg, a Singapore moneylender;
but Isaac Cohenberg was the bigger crook of the two.  Hi Wing Ho
only escaped from the establishment of Cohenberg by dint of
sandbagging the moneylender, and quitted the town by a boat which
left the same night.  On the voyage he was indiscreet enough to
take the diamond from its hiding-place and surreptitiously to
examine it.  Another member of the Chinese crew, one Li Ping--
otherwise Ah Fu, the accredited agent of old Huang Chow!--was
secretly watching our friend, and, knowing that he possessed this
valuable jewel, he also learned where he kept it hidden.  At Suez
Ah Fu attacked Hi Wing Ho and secured possession of the diamond.
It was to secure possession of the diamond that Ah Fu had gone
out East. I don't doubt it.  He employed Hi Wing Ho--and Hi Wing
Ho tried to double on him!

"We are indebted to you, Mr. Knox, for some of the data upon
which we have reconstructed the foregoing and also for the next
link in the narrative.  A fireman ashore from the Jupiter
intruded upon the scene at Suez and deprived Ah Fu of the fruits
of his labours.  Hi Wing Ho seems to have been badly damaged in
the scuffle, but Ah Fu, the more wily of the two, evidently
followed the fireman, and, deserting from his own ship, signed on
with the Jupiter."

While this story was enlightening in some respects, it was
mystifying in others.  I did not interrupt, however, for Durham
immediately resumed:

"The drama was complicated by the presence of a fourth
character--the daughter of Cohenberg.  Realizing that a small
fortune had slipped through his fingers, the old moneylender
dispatched his daughter in pursuit of Hi Wing Ho, having learned
upon which vessel the latter had sailed.  He had no difficulty in
obtaining this information, for he is in touch with all the
crooks of the town.  Had he known that the diamond had been
stolen by an agent of Huang Chow, he would no doubt have
hesitated.  Huang Chow has an international reputation.

"However, his daughter--a girl of great personal beauty--relied
upon her diplomatic gifts to regain possession of the stone, but,
poor creature, she had not counted with Ah Fu, who was evidently
watching your chambers (while Hi Wing Ho, it seems, was
assiduously shadowing Ah Fu!).  How she traced the diamond from
point to point of its travels we do not know, and probably never
shall know, but she was undeniably clever and unscrupulous.  Poor
girl!  She came to a dreadful end.  Mr. Nicholson, here,
identified her at Bow Street to-night."

Now the whole amazing truth burst upon me.

"I understand!" I cried.  "This"--and I snatched up the pigtail--

"That my pigtail," moaned Hi Wing Ho feebly.

Mr. Nicholson pitched him unceremoniously into a corner of the
room, and taking the pigtail in his huge hand, clumsily
unfastened it.  Out from the thick part, some two inches below
the point at which it had been cut from the Chinaman's head, a
great diamond dropped upon the floor!

For perhaps twenty seconds there was perfect silence in my study.
No one stooped to pick the diamond from the floor--the diamond
which now had blood upon it.  No one, so far as my sense informed
me, stirred.  But when, following those moments of stupefaction,
we all looked up--Hi Wing Ho, like a phantom, had faded from the
room!






THE HOUSE OF GOLDEN JOSS





I

THE BLOOD-STAINED IDOL




"Stop when we pass the next lamp and give me a light for my
pipe."

"Why?"

"No!  don't look round," warned my companion.  "I think someone
is following us.  And it is always advisable to be on guard in
this neighbourhood."

We had nearly reached the house in Wade Street, Limehouse, which
my friend used as a base for East End operations.  The night was
dark but clear, and I thought that presently when dawn came it
would bring a cold, bright morning.  There was no moon, and as we
passed the lamp and paused we stood in almost total darkness.

Facing in the direction of the Council School I struck a match.
It revealed my ruffianly looking companion--in whom his nearest
friends must have failed to recognize Mr. Paul Harley of Chancery
Lane.

He was glancing furtively back along the street, and when a
moment later we moved on, I too, had detected the presence of a
figure stumbling toward us.

"Don't stop at the door," whispered Harley, for our follower was
only a few yards away.

Accordingly we passed the house in which Harley had rooms, and
had proceeded some fifteen paces farther when the man who was
following us stumbled in between Harley and myself, clutching an
arm of either.  I scarcely knew what to expect, but was prepared
for anything, when:

"Mates!" said a man huskily.  "Mates, if you know where I can get
a drink, take me there!"

Harley laughed shortly.  I cannot say if he remained suspicious
of the newcomer, but for my own part I had determined after one
glance at the man that he was merely a drunken fireman newly
recovered from a prolonged debauch.

"Where 'ave yer been, old son?" growled Harley, in that wonderful
dialect of his which I had so often and so vainly sought to
cultivate.  "You look as though you'd 'ad one too many already."

"I ain't," declared the fireman, who appeared to be in a semi-
dazed condition.  "I ain't 'ad one since ten o'clock last night.
It's dope wot's got me, not rum."

"Dope!" said Harley sharply; "been 'avin' a pipe, eh?"

"If you've got a corpse-reviver anywhere," continued the man in
that curious, husky voice, "'ave pity on me, mate.  I seen a
thing to-night wot give me the jim-jams."

"All right, old son," said my friend good-humouredly; "about
turn!  I've got a drop in the bottle, but me an' my mate sails
to-morrow, an' it's the last."

"Gawd bless yer!" growled the fireman; and the three of us--an
odd trio, truly--turned about, retracing our steps.

As we approached the street lamp and its light shone upon the
haggard face of the man walking between us, Harley stopped, and:

"Wot's up with yer eye?" he inquired.

He suddenly tilted the man's head upward and peered closely into
one of his eyes.  I suppressed a gasp of surprise for I instantly
recognized the fireman of the Jupiter!

"Nothin' up with it, is there?" said the fireman.

"Only a lump o' mud," growled Harley, and with a very dirty
handkerchief he pretended to remove the imaginary stain, and
then, turning to me:

"Open the door, Jim," he directed.

His examination of the man's eyes had evidently satisfied him
that our acquaintance had really been smoking opium.

We paused immediately outside the house for which we had been
bound, and as I had the key I opened the door and the three of us
stepped into a little dark room.  Harley closed the door and we
stumbled upstairs to a low first-floor apartment facing the
street.  There was nothing in its appointments, as revealed in
the light of an oil lamp burning on the solitary table, to
distinguish it from a thousand other such apartments which may be
leased for a few shillings a week in the neighbourhood.  That
adjoining might have told a different story, for it more closely
resembled an actor's dressing-room than a seaman's lodging; but
the door of this sanctum was kept scrupulously locked.

"Sit down, old son," said my friend heartily, pushing forward an
old arm-chair.  "Fetch out the grog, Jim; there's about enough
for three."

I walked to a cupboard, as the fireman sank limply down in the
chair, and took out a bottle and three glasses.  When the man,
who, as I could now see quite plainly, was suffering from the
after effects of opium, had eagerly gulped the stiff drink which
I handed to him, he looked around with dim, glazed eyes, and:

"You've saved my life, mates," he declared.  "I've 'ad a 'orrible
nightmare, I 'ave--a nightmare.  See?"

He fixed his eyes on me for a moment, then raised himself from
his seat, peering narrowly at me across the table.

"I seed you before, mate.  Gaw, blimey!  if you ain't the bloke
wot I giv'd the pigtail to!  And wot laid out that blasted Chink
as was scraggin' me!  Shake, mate!"

I shook hands with him, Harley eyeing me closely the while, in a
manner which told me that his quick brain had already supplied
the link connecting our doped acquaintance with my strange
experience during his absence.  At the same time it occurred to
me that my fireman friend did not know that Ah Fu was dead, or he
would never have broached the subject so openly.

"That's so," I said, and wondered if he required further
information.

"It's all right, mate.  I don't want to 'ear no more about
blinking pigtails--not all my life I don't," and he sat back
heavily in his chair and stared at Harley.

"Where have you been?" inquired Harley, as if no interruption had
occurred, and then began to reload his pipe: "at Malay Jack's or
at Number Fourteen?"

"Neither of 'em!" cried the fireman, some evidence of animation
appearing in his face; "I been at Kwen Lung's."

"In Pennyfields?"

"That's 'im, the old bloke with the big joss.  I allers goes to
see Ma Lorenzo when I'm in Port o' London.  I've seen 'er for the
last time, mates."

He banged a big and dirty hand upon the table.

"Last night I see murder done, an' only that I know they wouldn't
believe me, I'd walk across to Limehouse P'lice Station presently
and put the splits on 'em, I would."

Harley, who was seated behind the speaker, glanced at me
significantly.

"Sure you wasn't dreamin'?" he inquired facetiously.

"Dreamin'!" cried the man.  "Dreams don't leave no blood be'ind,
do they?"

"Blood!" I exclaimed.

"That's wot I said--blood!  When I woke up this mornin' there was
blood all on that grinnin' joss--the blood wot 'ad dripped from
'er shoulders when she fell."

"Eh!" said Harley.  "Blood on whose shoulders?  Wot the 'ell are
you talkin' about, old son?"

"Ere"--the fireman turned in his chair and grasped Harley by the
arm--"listen to me, and I'll tell you somethink, I will.  I'm
goin' in the Seahawk in the mornin' see?  But if you want to know
somethink, I'll tell yer.  Drunk or sober I bars the blasted
p'lice, but if you like to tell 'em I'll put you on somethink
worth tellin'.  Sure the bottle's empty, mates?"

I caught Harley's glance and divided the remainder of the whisky
evenly between the three glasses.

"Good 'ealth," said the fireman, and disposed of his share at a
draught.  "That's bucked me up wonderful."

He lay back in his chair and from a little tobacco-box began to
fill a short clay pipe.

"Look 'ere, mates, I'm soberin' up, like, after the smoke, an' I
can see, I can see plain, as nobody'll ever believe me.  Nobody
ever does, worse luck, but 'ere goes.  Pass the matches."

He lighted his pipe, and looking about him in a sort of vaguely
aggressive way:

"Last night," he resumed, "after I was chucked out of the Dock
Gates, I made up my mind to go and smoke a pipe with old Ma
Lorenzo.  Round I goes to Pennyfields, and she don't seem glad to
see me.  There's nobody there only me.  Not like the old days
when you 'ad to book your seat in advance."

He laughed gruffly.

"She didn't want to let me in at first, said they was watched,
that if a Chink 'ad an old pipe wot 'ad b'longed to 'is
grandfather it was good enough to get 'im fined fifty quid.
Anyway, me bein' an old friend she spread a mat for me and filled
me a pipe.  I asked after old Kwen Lung, but, of course, 'e was
out gamblin', as usual; so after old Ma Lorenzo 'ad made me
comfortable an' gone out I 'ad the place to myself, and presently
I dozed off and forgot all about bloody ship's bunkers an'
nigger-drivin' Scotchmen."

He paused and looked about him defiantly.

"I dunno 'ow long I slept," he continued, "but some time in the
night I kind of 'alf woke up."

At that he twisted violently in his chair and glared across at
Harley:

"You been a pal to me," he said; "but tell me I was dreamin'
again and I'll smash yer bloody face!"

He glared for a while, then addressing his narrative more
particularly to me, he resumed:

"It was a scream wot woke me--a woman's scream.  I didn't sit up;
I couldn't.  I never felt like it before.  It was the same as
bein' buried alive, I should think.  I could see an' I could
'ear, but I couldn't move one muscle in my body.  Foller me?  An'
wot did I see, mates, an' wot did I 'ear?  I'm goin' to tell yer.
I see old Kwen Lung's daughter------"

"I didn't know 'e 'ad one," murmured Harley.

"Then you don't know much!" shouted the fireman.  "I knew years
ago, but 'e kept 'er stowed away somewhere up above, an' last
night was the first time I ever see 'er.  It was 'er shriek wot
'ad reached me, reached me through the smoke.  I don't take much
stock in Chink gals in general, but this one's mother was no
Chink, I'll swear.  She was just as pretty as a bloomin' ivory
doll, an' as little an' as white, and that old swine Kwen Lung
'ad tore the dress off of 'er shoulders with a bloody great
whip!"

Harley was leaning forward in his seat now, intent upon the man's
story, and although I could not get rid of the idea that our
friend was relating the events of a particularly unpleasant opium
dream, nevertheless I was fascinated by the strange story and by
the strange manner of its telling.

"I saw the blood drip from 'er bare shoulders, mates," the man
continued huskily, and with his big dirty hands he strove to
illustrate his words.  "An' that old yellow devil lashed an'
lashed until the poor gal was past screamin'.  She just sunk down
on the floor all of a 'cap, moanin' and moanin'--Gawd!  I can
'ear 'er moanin' now!"

"Meanwhile, 'ere's me with murder in me 'eart lyin' there
watchin', an' I can't speak, no!  I can't even curse the yellow
rat, an' I can't move--not a 'and, not a foot!  Just as she fell
there right up against the joss an' 'er blood trickled down on
'is gilded feet, old Ma Lorenzo comes staggerin' in.  I remember
all this as clear as print, mates, remember it plain, but wot
'appened next ain't so good an' clear.  Somethink seemed to bust
in me 'ead.  Only just before I went off, the winder--there's
only one in the room--was smashed to smithereens an' somebody
come in through it."

"Are you sure?" said Harley eagerly.  "Are you sure?"

That he was intensely absorbed in the story he revealed by a
piece of bad artistry, very rare in him.  He temporarily forgot
his dialect.  Our marine friend, however, was too much taken up
with his own story to notice the slip, and:

"Dead sure!" he shouted.

He suddenly twisted around in his chair.

"Tell me I was dreamin', mate," he invited, "and if you ain't
dreamin' in 'arf a tick it won't be because I 'aven't put yer to
sleep!"

"I ain't arguin', old son," said Harley soothingly.  "Get on with
your yarn."

"Ho!" said the fireman, mollified, "so long as you ain't.  Well,
then, it's all blotted out after that.  Somebody come in at the
winder, but 'oo it was or wot it was I can't tell yer, not for
fifty quid.  When I woke up, which is about 'arf an hour before
you see me, I'm all alone--see?  There's no sign of Kwen Lung nor
the gal nor old Ma Lorenzo nor anybody.  I sez to meself, wot you
keep on sayin'.  I sez, 'You're dreamin', Bill.'"

"But I don't think you was," declared Harley.  "Straight I
don't."

"I know I wasn't!" roared the fireman, and banged the table
lustily.  "I see 'er blood on the joss an' on the floor where she
lay!"

"This morning?" I interjected.

"This mornin', in the light of the little oil lamp where old Ma
Lorenzo 'ad roasted the pills!  It's all still an' quiet an' I
feel more dead than alive.  I'm goin' to give 'er a hail, see?
When I sez to myself, 'Bill,' I sez, 'put out to sea; you're
amongst Kaffirs, Bill.' It occurred to me as old Kwen Lung might
wonder 'ow much I knew.  So I beat it.  But when I got in the
open air I felt I'd never make my lodgin's without a tonic.
That's 'ow I come to meet you, mates.

"Listen--I'm away in the old Seahawk in the mornin', but I'll
tell you somethink.  That yellow bastard killed his daughter last
night!  Beat 'er to death.  I see it plain.  The sweetest,
prettiest bit of ivory as Gawd ever put breath into.  If 'er body
ain't in the river, it's in the 'ouse.  Drunk or sober, I never
could stand the splits, but mates"--he stood up, and grasping me
by the arm, he drew me across the room where he also seized
Harley in his muscular grip--"mates," he went on earnestly, "she
was the sweetest, prettiest little gal as a man ever clapped eyes
on.  One of yer walk into Limehouse Station an' put the koppers
wise.  I'd sleep easier at sea if I knew old Kwen Lung 'ad gone
west on a bloody rope's end."




II

AT KWEN LUNG'S



For fully ten minutes after the fireman had departed Paul Harley
sat staring abstractedly in front of him, his cold pipe between
his teeth, and knowing his moods I intruded no words upon this
reverie, until:

"Come on, Knox," he said, standing up suddenly, "I think this
matter calls for speedy action."

"What!  Do you think the man's story was true?"

"I think nothing.  I am going to look at Kwen Lung's joss."

Without another word he led the way downstairs and out into the
deserted street.  The first gray halftones of dawn were creeping
into the sky, so that the outlines of Limehouse loomed like dim
silhouettes about us.  There was abundant evidence in the form of
noises, strange and discordant, that many workers were busy on
dock and riverside, but the streets through which our course lay
were almost empty.  Sometimes a furtive shadow would move out of
some black gully and fade into a dimly seen doorway in a manner
peculiarly unpleasant and Asiatic.  But we met no palpable
pedestrian throughout the journey.

Before the door of a house in Pennyfields which closely resembled
that which we had left in Wade Street, in that it was flatly
uninteresting, dirty and commonplace, we paused.  There was no
sign of life about the place and no lights showed at any of the
windows, which appeared as dim cavities--eyeless sockets in the
gray face of the building, as dawn proclaimed the birth of a new
day.

Harley seized the knocker and knocked sharply.  There was no
response, and he repeated the summons, but again without effect.
Thereupon, with a muttered exclamation, he grasped the knocker a
third time and executed a veritable tattoo upon the door.  When
this had proceeded for about half a minute or more:

"All right, all right!" came a shaky voice from within.  "I'm
coming."

Harley released the knocker, and, turning to me:

"Ma Lorenzo," he whispered.  "Don't make any mistakes."

Indeed, even as he warned me, heralded by a creaking of bolts and
the rattling of a chain, the door was opened by a fat, shapeless,
half-caste woman of indefinite age; in whose dark eyes, now
sunken in bloated cheeks, in whose full though drooping lips, and
even in the whole overlaid contour of whose face and figure it
was possible to recognize the traces of former beauty.  This was
Ma Lorenzo, who for many years had lived at that address with old
Kwen Lung, of whom strange stories were told in Chinatown.

As Bill Jones, A.B., my friend, Paul Harley, was well known to Ma
Lorenzo as he was well known to many others in that strange
colony which clusters round the London docks.  I sometimes
enjoyed the privilege of accompanying my friend on a tour of
investigation through the weird resorts which abound in that
neighbourhood, and, indeed, we had been returning from one of
these Baghdad nights when our present adventure had been thrust
upon us.  Assuming a wild and boisterous manner which he had at
command:

"'Urry up, Ma!" said Harley, entering without ceremony; "I want
to introduce my pal Jim 'ere to old Kwen Lung, and make it all
right for him before I sail."

Ma Lorenzo, who was half Portuguese, replied in her peculiar
accent:

"This no time to come waking me up out of bed!"

But Harley, brushing past her, was already inside the stuffy
little room, and I hastened to follow.

"Kwen Lung!" shouted my friend loudly.  "Where are you?  Brought
a friend to see you."

"Kwen Lung no hab," came the complaining tones of Ma Lorenzo from
behind us.

It was curious to note how long association with the Chinese had
resulted in her catching the infection of that pidgin-English
which is a sort of esperanto in all Asiatic quarters.

"Eh!" cried my friend, pushing open a door on the right of the
passage and stumbling down three worn steps into a very evil-
smelling room.  "Where is he?"

"Go play fan-tan.  Not come back."

Ma Lorenzo, having relocked the street door, had rejoined us, and
as I followed my friend down into the dim and uninviting
apartment she stood at the top of the steps, hands on hips,
regarding us.

The place, which was quite palpably an opium den, must have
disappointed anyone familiar with the more ornate houses of
Chinese vice in San Francisco and elsewhere.  The bare floor was
not particularly clean, and the few decorations which the room
boasted were garishly European for the most part.  A deep divan,
evidently used sometimes as a bed, occupied one side of the room,
and just to the left of the steps reposed the only typically
Oriental object in the place.

It was a strange thing to see in so sordid a setting; a great
gilded joss, more than life-size, squatting, hideous, upon a
massive pedestal; a figure fit for some native temple but
strangely out of place in that dirty little Limehouse abode.

I had never before visited Kwen Lung's, but the fame of his
golden joss had reached me, and I know that he had received many
offers for it, all of which he had rejected.  It was whispered
that Kwen Lung was rich, that he was a great man among the
Chinese, and even that some kind of religious ceremony
periodically took place in his house.  Now, as I stood staring at
the famous idol, I saw something which made me stare harder than
ever.

The place was lighted by a hanging lamp from which depended bits
of coloured paper and several gilded silk tassels; but dim as the
light was it could not conceal those tell-tale stains.

There was blood on the feet of the golden idol!

All this I detected at a glance, but ere I had time to speak:

"You can't tell me that tale, Ma!" cried Harley.  "I believe 'e
was smokin' in 'ere when we knocked."

The woman shrugged her fat shoulders.

"No, hab," she repeated.  "You two johnnies clear out.  Let me
sleep."

But as I turned to her, beneath the nonchalant manner I could
detect a great uneasiness; and in her dark eyes there was fear.
That Harley also had seen the bloodstains I was well aware, and I
did not doubt that furthermore he had noted the fact that the
only mat which the room boasted had been placed before the joss--
doubtless to hide other stains upon the boards.

As we stood so I presently became aware of a current of air
passing across the room in the direction of the open door.  It
came from a window before which a tawdry red curtain had been
draped.  Either the window behind the curtain was wide open,
which is alien to Chinese habits, or it was shattered.  While I
was wondering if Harley intended to investigate further:

"Come on, Jim!" he cried boisterously, and clapped me on the
shoulder; "the old fox don't want to be disturbed."

He turned to the woman:

"Tell him when he wakes up, Ma," he said, "that if ever my pal
Jim wants a pipe he's to 'ave one.  Savvy?  Jim's square."

"Savvy," replied the woman, and she was wholly unable to conceal
her relief.  "You clear out now, and I tell Kwen Lung when he
come in."

"Righto, Ma!" said Harley.  "Kiss 'im on both cheeks for me, an'
tell 'im I'll be 'ome again in a month."

Grasping me by the arm he lurched up the steps, and the two of us
presently found ourselves out in the street again.  In the
growing light the squalor of the district was more evident than
ever, but the comparative freshness of the air was welcome after
the reek of that room in which the golden idol sat leering, with
blood at his feet.

"You saw, Harley?" I exclaimed excitedly.  "You saw the stains?
And I'm certain the window was broken!"

Harley nodded shortly.

"Back to Wade Street!" he said.  "I allow myself fifteen minutes
to shed Bill Jones, able seaman, and to become Paul Harley, of
Chancery Lane."

As we hurried along:

"What steps shall you take?" I asked.

"First step: search Kwen Lung's house from cellar to roof.
Second step: entirely dependent upon result of first. The Chinese
are subtle, Knox.  If Kwen Lung has killed his daughter, it may
require all the resources of Scotland Yard to prove it."

"But------"

"There is no 'but' about it.  Chinatown is the one district of
London which possesses the property of swallowing people up."




III

"CAPTAIN DAN"



Half an hour later, as I sat in the inner room before the great
dressing-table laboriously removing my disguise--for I was
utterly incapable of metamorphosing myself like Harley in seven
minutes--I heard a rapping at the outer door.  I glanced
nervously at my face in the mirror.

Comparatively little of "Jim" had yet been removed, for since
time was precious to my friend I had acted as his dresser before
setting to work to remove my own make-up.  There were two
entrances to the establishment, by one of which Paul Harley
invariably entered and invariably went out, and from the other of
which "Bill Jones" was sometimes seen to emerge, but never Paul
Harley.  That my friend had made good his retirement I knew, but,
nevertheless, if I had to open the door of the outer room it must
be as "Jim."

Thinking it impolite not to do so, since the one who knocked
might be aware that we had come in but not gone out again, I
hastily readjusted that side of my moustache which I had begun to
remove, replaced my cap and muffler, and carefully locking the
door of the dressing-room, crossed the outer apartment and opened
the door.

It was Harley's custom never to enter or leave these rooms except
under the mantle of friendly night, but at so early an hour I
confess I had not expected a visitor.  Wondering whom I should
find there I opened the door.

Standing on the landing was a fellow-lodger who permanently
occupied the two top rooms of the house.  Paul Harley had taken
the trouble to investigate the man's past, for "Captain Dan," the
name by which he was known in the saloons and worse resorts which
he frequented, was palpably a broken-down gentleman; a piece of
flotsam caught in the yellow stream.  Opium had been his
downfall.  How he lived I never knew, but Harley believed he had
some small but settled income, sufficient to enable him to kill
himself in comfort with the black pills.

As he stood there before me in the early morning light, I was
aware of some subtle change in his appearance.  It was fully six
months since I had seen him last, but in some vague way he looked
younger.  Haggard he was, with an ugly cut showing on his temple,
but not so lined as I remembered him.  Some former man seemed to
be struggling through the opium-scarred surface.  His eyes were
brighter, and I noted with surprise that he wore decent clothes
and was clean shaved.

"Good morning, Jim," he said; "you remember me, don't you?"

As he spoke I observed, too, that his manner had altered.  He who
had consorted with the sweepings af the doss-houses now addressed
me as a courteous gentleman addresses an inferior--not haughtily
or patronizingly, but with a note of conscious superiority and
self-respect wholly unfamiliar.  Almost it threw me off my guard,
but remembering in the nick of time that I was still "Jim":

"Of course I remember you, Cap'n," I said.  "Step inside."

"Thanks," he replied, and followed me into the little room.

I placed for him the arm-chair which our friend the fireman had
so recently occupied, but:

"I won't sit down," he said.

And now I observed that he was evidently in a condition of
repressed excitement.  Perhaps he saw the curiosity in my glance,
for he suddenly rested both his hands on my shoulders, and:

"Yes, I have given up the dope, Jim," he said---"done with it for
ever.  There's not a soul in this neighbourhood I can trust, yet
if ever a man wanted a pal, I want one to-day.  Now, you're
square, my lad.  I always knew that, in spite of the dope; and if
I ask you to do a little thing that means a lot to me, I think
you will do it.  Am I right?"

"If it can be done, I'll do it," said I.

"Then, listen.  I'm leaving England in the Patna for Singapore.
She sails at noon to-morrow, and passengers go on board at ten
o'clock.  I've got my ticket, papers in order, but"--he paused
impressively, grasping my shoulders hard--"I must get on board
to-night."

I stared him in the face.

"Why?" I asked.

He returned my look with one searching and eager; then:

"If I show you the reason," said he, "and trust you with all my
papers, will you go down to the dock--it's no great distance--
and ask to see Marryat, the chief officer?  Perhaps you've sailed
with him?"

"No," I replied guardedly.  "I was never in the Patna."

"Never mind.  When you give him a letter which I shall write he
will make the necessary arrangements for me to occupy my state-
room to-night.  I knew him well," he explained, "in--the old
days.  Will you do it, Jim?"

"I'll do it with pleasure," I answered.

"Shake!" said Captain Dan.

We shook hands heartily, and:

"Now I'll show you the reason," he added.  "Come upstairs."

Turning, he led the way upstairs to his own room, and wondering
greatly, I followed him in.  Never having been in Captain Dan's
apartments I cannot say whether they, like their occupant, had
changed for the better.  But I found myself in a room
surprisingly clean and with a note of culture in its appointments
which was even more surprising.

On a couch by the window, wrapped in a fur rug, lay the prettiest
half-caste girl I had ever seen, East or West. Her skin was like
cream rose petals and her abundant hair was of wonderful lustrous
black.  Perhaps it was her smooth warm colour which suggested the
idea, but as her cheeks flushed at sight of Captain Dan and the
long dark eyes lighted up in welcome, I thought of a delicate
painting on ivory and I wondered more and more what it all could
mean.

"I have brought Jim to see you," said Captain Dan.  "No, don't
trouble to move dear."

But even before he had spoken I had seen the girl wince with pain
as she had endeavoured to sit up to greet us.  She lay on her
side in a rather constrained attitude, but although her sudden
movement had brought tears to her eyes she smiled bravely and
extended a tiny ivory hand to me.

"This is my wife, Jim!" said Captain Dan.

I could find no words at all, but merely stood there looking very
awkward and feeling almost awed by the indescribable expression
of trust in the eyes of the little Eurasian, as with her tiny
fingers hidden in her husband's clasp she lay looking up at him.

"Now you know, Jim," said he, "why we must get aboard the Patna
to-night.  My wife is really too ill to travel; in fact, I shall
have to carry her down to the cab, and such a proceeding in
daylight would attract an enormous crowd in this neighbourhood!"

"Give me the letters and the papers," I answered.  "I will start
now."

His wife disengaged her hand and extended it to me.

"Thank you," she said, in a queer little silver-bell voice; "you
are good.  I shall always love you."




IV

THE SECRET OF MA LORENZO



It must have been about eleven o'clock that night when Paul
Harley rang me up.  Since we had parted in the early morning I
had had no word from him, and I was all anxiety to tell him of
the quaint little romance which unknown to us had had its setting
in the room above.

In accordance with my promise I had seen the chief officer of the
Patna; and from the start of surprise which he gave on opening
"Captain Dan's" letter, I judged that Mr. Marryat and the man who
for so long had sunk to the lowest rung of the ladder had been
close friends in those "old days." At any rate, he had proceeded
to make the necessary arrangements without a moment's delay, and
the couple were to go on board the Patna at nine o'clock.

It was with a sense of having done at least one good deed that I
finally quitted our Limehouse base and returned to my rooms.
Now, at eleven o'clock at night:

"Can you come round to Chancery Lane at once?" said Harley.  "I
want you to run down to Pennyfields with me."

"Some development in the Kwen Lung business?"

"Hardly a development, but I'm not satisfied, Knox.  I hate to be
beaten."

Twenty minutes later I was sitting in Harley's study, watching
him restlessly promenading up and down before the fire.

"The police searched Kwen Lung's place from foundation to tiles,"
he said.  "I was there myself.  Old Kwen Lung conveniently kept
out of the way--still playing fan-tan, no doubt!  But Ma Lorenzo
was in evidence.  She blandly declared that Kwen Lung never had a
daughter!  And in the absence of our friend the fireman, who
sailed in the Seahawk, and whose evidence, by the way, is legally
valueless--what could we do?  They could find nobody in the
neighbourhood prepared to state that Kwen Lung had a daughter or
that Kwen Lung had no daughter.  There are all sorts of fables
about the old fox, but the facts about him are harder to get at."

"But," I explained, "the bloodstains on the joss!"

"Ma Lorenzo stumbled and fell there on the previous night,
striking her skull against the foot of the figure."

"What nonsense!" I cried.  "We should have seen the wound last
night."

"We might have done," said Harley musingly; "I don't know when
she inflicted it on herself; but I did see it this morning."

"What!"

"Oh, the gash is there all right, partly covered by her hair."

He stood still, staring at me oddly.

"One meets with cases of singular devotion in unexpected quarters
sometimes," he said.

"You mean that the woman inflicted the wound upon herself in
order------"

"To save old Kwen Lung--exactly!  It's marvellous."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.  "And the window?"

"Oh!  it was broken right enough--by two drunken sailormen
fighting in the court outside!  Sash and everything smashed to
splinters."

He began irritably to pace the carpet again.

"It must have been a devil of a fight!" he added savagely.

"Meanwhile," said I, "where is old Kwen Lung hiding?"

"But more particularly," cried Harley, "where has he hidden the
poor victim?  Come along, Knox!  I'm going down there for a final
look round."

"Of course the premises are being watched?"

"Of course--and also, of course, I shall be the laughing stock of
Scotland Yard if nothing results."

It was close on midnight when once more I found myself in
Pennyfields.  Carried away by Harley's irritable excitement I had
quite forgotten the romance of Captain Dan; and when, having
exchanged greetings with the detective on duty hard by the house
of Kwen Lung, we presently found ourselves in the presence of Ma
Lorenzo, I scarcely knew for a moment if I were "Jim" or my
proper self.

"Is Kwen Lung in?" asked Harley sternly.

The woman shook her head.

"No," she replied; "he sometimes stop away a whole week."

"Does he?" jerked Harley.  "Come in, Knox; we'll take another
look round."

A moment later I found myself again in the room of the golden
joss.  The red curtain had been removed from before the shattered
window, but otherwise the place looked exactly as it had looked
before.  The atmosphere was much less stale, however, but there
was something repellent about the great gilded idol smiling
eternally from his pedestal beside the door.

I stared into the leering face, and it was the face of one who
knew and who might have said: "Yes!  this and other things
equally strange have I beheld in many lands as well as England.
Much I could tell.  Many things grim and terrible, and some few
joyous; for behold!  I smile but am silent."

For a while Harley stared abstractedly at the bloodstains on the
pedestal of the joss and upon the floor beneath from which the
matting had been pulled back.  Suddenly he turned to Ma Lorenzo:

"Where have you hidden the body?" he demanded.

Watching her, I thought I saw the woman flinch, but there was
enough of the Oriental in her composition to save her from self-
betrayal.  She shook her head slowly, watching Harley through
half-closed eyes.

"Nobody hab," she replied.

And I thought for once that her lapse into pidgin had been
deliberate and not accidental.

When finally we quitted the house of the missing Kwen Lung, and
when, Harley having curtly acknowledged "good night" from the
detective on duty, we came out into Limehouse Causeway.

"You have not overlooked the possibility, Harley," I said, "that
this woman's explanation may be true, and that the fireman of the
Seahawk may have been entertaining us with an account of a weird
dream?"

"No!" snapped Harley--"neither will Scotland Yard overlook it."

He was in a particularly impossible mood, for he so rarely made
mistakes that to be detected in one invariably brought out those
petulant traits of character which may have been due in some
measure to long residence in the East. Recognizing that he would
rather be alone I parted from him at the corner of Chancery Lane
and returned to my own chambers.  Furthermore, I was very tired,
for it was close upon two o'clock, and on turning in I very
promptly went to sleep, nor did I awaken until late in the
morning.

For some odd reason, but possibly because the fact had occurred
to me just as I was retiring, I remembered at the moment of
waking that I had not told Harley about the romantic wedding of
Captain Dan.  As I had left my friend in very ill humour I
thought that this would be a good excuse for an early call, and
just before eleven o'clock I walked into his office.  Innes, his
invaluable secretary, showed me into the study at the back.

"Hallo, Knox," said Harley, looking up from a little silver
Buddha which he was examining, "have you come to ask for news of
the Kwen Lung case?"

"No," I replied.  "Is there any?"

Harley shook his head.

"It seems like fate," he declared, "that this thing should have
been sent to me this morning." He indicated the silver Buddha.
"A present from a friend who knows my weakness for Chinese
ornaments," he explained grimly.  "It reminds me of that damned
joss of Kwen Lung's!"

I took up the little image and examined it with interest. It was
most beautifully fashioned in the patient Oriental way, and there
was a little hinged door in the back which fitted so perfectly
that when closed it was quite impossible to detect its presence.
I glanced at Harley.

"I suppose you didn't find a jewel inside?" I said lightly.

"No," he replied; "there was nothing inside."

But even as he uttered the words his whole expression changed,
and so suddenly as to startle me.  He sprang up from the table,
and:

"Have you an hour to spare, Knox?" he cried excitedly.

"I can spare an hour, but what for?"

"For Kwen Lung!"

Four minutes later we were speeding in the direction of
Limehouse, and not a word of explanation to account for this
sudden journey could I extract from my friend.  Therefore I
beguiled the time by telling him of my adventure with Captain
Dan.

Harley listened to the story in unbroken silence, but at its
termination he brought his hand down sharply on my knee.

"I have been almost perfectly blind, Knox," he said; "but not
quite so perfectly blind as you!"

I stared at him in amazement, but he merely laughed and offered
no explanation of his words.

Presently, then, I found myself yet again in the familiar room of
the golden joss.  Ma Lorenzo, in whom some hidden anxiety seemed
to have increased since I had last seen her, stood at the top of
the stairs watching us.  Upon what idea my friend was operating
and what he intended to do I could not imagine; but without a
word to the woman he crossed the room and grasping the great
golden idol with both arms he dragged it forward across the
floor!

As he did so there was a stifled shriek, and Ma Lorenzo,
stumbling down the steps, threw herself on her knees before
Harley!  Raising imploring hands:

"No, no!" she moaned.  "Not until I tell you--I tell you
everything first!"

"To begin with, tell me how to open this thing," he said sternly.

Momentarily she hesitated, and did not rise from her knees, but:

"Do you hear me?" he cried.

The woman rose unsteadily and walking slowly round the joss
manipulated some hidden fastening, whereupon the entire back of
the thing opened like a door!  From what was within she
shudderingly averted her face, but Harley, stepping back against
the wall, stopped and peered into the cavity.

"Good God!" he muttered.  "Come and look, Knox."

Prepared by his manner for some gruesome spectacle, I obeyed--and
from that which I saw I recoiled in horror.

"Harley," I whispered, "Harley!  who is it?"

The spectacle had truly sickened me.  Crouched within the narrow
space enclosed by the figure of the idol was the body of an old
and wrinkled Chinaman!  His knees were drawn up to his chin, and
his head so compressed upon them that little of his features
could be seen.

"It is Kwen Lung!" murmured Ma Lorenzo, standing with clasped
hands and wild eyes over by the window.  "Kwen Lung--and I am
glad he is dead!"

Such a note of hatred came into her voice as I had never heard in
the voice of any woman.

"He is vile, a demon, a mocking cruel demon!  Long, long years
ago I would have killed him, but always I was afraid.  I tell you
everything, everything.  This is how he comes to be dead.  The
little one"--again her voice changed and a note of almost
grotesque tenderness came into it--"the lotus-flower, that is his
own daughter's child, flesh of his flesh, he keeps a prisoner as
the women of China are kept, up there"--she raised one fat finger
aloft--"up above.  He does not know that someone comes to see
her--someone who used to come to smoke but who gave it up because
he had looked into the dear one's eye.  He does not know that she
goes with me to see her man.  Ah!  we think he does not know!
I--I arrange it all.  A week ago they were married.  Tuesday
night, when Kwen Lung die, I plan for her to steal away for ever,
for ever."

Tears now were running down the woman's fat cheeks, and her voice
quivered emotionally.

"For me it is the end, but for her it is the beginning of life.
All right!  I don't matter a damn!  She is young and beautiful.
Ah, God!  so beautiful!  A drunken pig comes here and finds his
way in, so I give him the smoke and presently he sleeps, but it
makes delay, and I don't know how soon Kwen Lung, that yellow
demon, will wake.  For he is like the bats who sleep all day and
wake at night.

"At last the sailor pig sleeps and I call softly to my dear
little one that the time has come.  I have gone out into the
street, locking the door behind me, to see if her man is waiting,
and I hear her shrieks--her shrieks!  I hurry back.  My hands
tremble so much that I can scarcely unlock the door.  At last I
enter, and I see and I know--that yellow devil has learned all
and has been playing with us like cat and mouse!  He is lashing
her, with a great whip!  Lashing her--that tiny, sweet flower.
Ah!"

She choked in her utterance, and turning to the gilded joss which
contained the dead Chinaman she shook her clenched hands at it,
and the expression on her face I can never forget.  Then:

"As I shriek curses at him, crash goes the window--and I see her
husband spring into the room!  The tender one had fallen, there
at the foot of the joss, and Kwen Lung, his teeth gleaming--like
a rat--like a devil--turns to meet him.  So he is when her man
strike him, once.  Just once, here." She rested her hand upon her
heart.  "And he falls--and he coughs.  He lie still.  For him it
is finished.  That devil heart has ceased to beat.  Ah!"

She threw up her hands, and:

"That is all.  I tell you no more."

"One thing more," said Harley sternly; "the name of the man who
killed Kwen Lung?"

At that Ma Lorenzo slowly raised her head and folded her arms
across her bosom.  There was something one could never forget in
the expression of her fat face.

"Not if you burn me alive!" she answered in a low voice.  "No one
ever knows that--from me."

She sank on to the divan and buried her face in her hands.  Her
fat shoulders shook grotesquely; and Harley stood perfectly still
staring across at her for fully a minute.  I could hear voices in
the street outside and the hum of traffic in Limehouse Causeway.

Then my friend did a singular thing.  Walking over to the gilded
joss he reclosed the opening and not without a great effort
pushed the great idol back against the wall.

"There are times, Knox," he said, staring at me oddly, "when I'm
glad that I am not an official agent of the law."

While I watched him dumfounded he walked across to the woman and
touched her on the shoulder.  She raised her tear-stained face.

"All right," she whispered.  "I am ready."

"Get ready as soon as you like," said he tersely.

"I'll have the man removed who is watching the house, and you can
reckon on forty-eight hours to make yourself scarce."

With never another word he seized me by the arm and hurried me
out of the place!  Ten paces along the street a shabby-looking
fellow was standing, leaning against a pillar.  Harley stopped,
and:

"Even the greatest men make mistakes sometimes, Hewitt," he
remarked.  "I'm throwing up the case; probably Inspector Wessex
will do the same.  Good morning."

On towards the Causeway he led me--for not a word was I capable
of uttering; and just before we reached that artery of Chinatown,
from down-river came the deep, sustained note of a steamer's
siren, the warning of some big liner leaving dock.

"That will be the Patna," said Harley.  "She sails at twelve
o'clock, I think you said?"






MAN WITH THE SHAVEN SKULL





I

A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE



"Pull that light lower," ordered Inspector Wessex.  "There you
are, Mr. Harley; what do you make of it?"

Paul Harley and I bent gingerly over the ghastly exhibit to which
the C.I.D. official had drawn our attention, and to view which we
had journeyed from Chancery Lane to Wapping.

This was the body of a man dressed solely in ragged shirt and
trousers.  But the remarkable feature of his appearance lay in
the fact that every scrap of hair from chin, lip, eyebrows and
skull had been shaved off!

There was another facial disfigurement, peculiarly and horribly
Eastern, which my pen may not describe.

"Impossible to identify!" murmured Harley.  "Yes, you were right,
Inspector; this is a victim of Oriental deviltry.  Look here,
too!"

He indicated three small wounds, one situated on the left
shoulder and the others on the forearm of the dead man.

"The divisional surgeon cannot account for them," replied Wessex.
"They are quite superficial, and he thinks they may be due to the
fact that the body got entangled with something in the river."

"They are due to the fact that the man had a birthmark on his
shoulder and something--probably a name or some device--tattooed
on his arm," said Harley quietly.  "Some few years ago, I met
with a similar case in the neighbourhood of Stambul.  A woman,"
he added, significantly.

Detective-Inspector Wessex listened to my companion with respect,
for apart from his established reputation as a private inquiry-
agent which had made his name familiar in nearly every capital of
the civilized world, Paul Harley's work in Constantinople during
the six months preceding war with Turkey had merited higher
reward than it had ever received.  Had his recommendations been
adopted the course of history must have been materially changed.

"You think it's a Chinatown case, then, Mr. Harley?"

"Possibly," was the guarded answer.

Paul Harley nodded to the constable in charge, and the ghastly
figure was promptly covered up again.  My friend stood staring
vacantly at Wessex, and presently:

"The chief actor, I think, will prove to be not Chinese," he
said, turned, and walked out.

"If there's any development," remarked Wessex as the three of us
entered Harley's car, which stood at the door, "I will, of
course, report to you, Mr. Harley.  But in the absence of any
clue or mark of identification, I fear the verdict will be, 'Body
of a man unknown,' etc., which has marked the finish of a good
many in this cheerful quarter of London."

"Quite so," said Harley, absently.  "It presents extraordinary
features, though, and may not end as you suppose.  However--where
do you want me to drop you, Wessex, at the Yard?"

"Oh no," answered Wessex.  "I made a special visit to Wapping
just to get your opinion on the shaven man.  I'm really going
down to Deepbrow to look into that new disappearance case; the
daughter of the gamekeeper.  You'll have read of it?"

"I have," said Harley shortly.

Indeed, readers of the daily press were growing tired of seeing
on the contents bills: "Another girl missing." The circumstance
(which might have been no more than coincidence) that three girls
had disappeared within the last eight weeks leaving no trace
behind, had stimulated the professional scribes to link the
cases, although no visible link had been found, and to enliven a
somewhat dull journalistic season with theories about "a new
Mormon menace."

The vanishing of this fourth girl had inspired them to some
startling headlines, and the case had interested me personally
for the reason that I was acquainted with Sir Howard Hepwell, one
of whose gamekeepers was the stepfather of the missing Molly
Clayton.  Moreover, it was hinted that she had gone away in the
company of Captain Ronald Vane, at that time a guest of Sir
Howard's at the Manor.

In fact, Sir Howard had 'phoned to ask me if I could induce
Harley to run down, but my friend had expressed himself as
disinterested in a common case of elopement.  Now, as Wessex
spoke, I glanced aside at Harley, wondering if the fact that so
celebrated a member of the C.I.D.  as Detective-Inspector Wessex
had been put in charge would induce him to change his mind.

We were traversing a particularly noisy and unsavoury section of
the Commercial Road, and although I could see that Wessex was
anxious to impart particulars of the case to Harley, so loud was
the din that I recognized the impossibility of conversing, and
therefore:

"Have you time to call at my rooms, Wessex?" I asked.

"Well," he replied, "I have three-quarters of an hour."

"You can do it in the car," said Harley suddenly.  "I have been
asked to look into this case myself, and before I definitely
decline I should like to hear your version of the matter."

Accordingly, we three presently gathered in my chambers, and
Wessex, with one eye on the clock, outlined the few facts at that
time in his possession respecting the missing girl.

Two days before the news of the disappearance had been published
broadcast under such headings as I have already indicated, a
significant scene had been enacted in the gamekeeper's cottage.

Molly Clayton, a girl whose remarkable beauty had made her a
central figure in numerous scandalous stories, for such is the
charity of rural neighbours, was detected by her stepfather,
about eight in the evening, slipping out of the cottage.

"Where be ye goin', hussy?" he demanded, grasping her promptly by
the arm.

"For a walk!" she replied defiantly.

"A walk wi' that fine soger from t' Manor!" roared Bramber
furiously.  "You'll be sorry yet, you barefaced gadabout!  Must I
tell you again that t' man's a villain?"

The girl wrenched her arm from Bramber's grasp, and blazed
defiance from her beautiful eyes.

"He knows how to respect a woman--what you don't!" she retorted
hotly.

"So I don't respect you, my angel?" shouted her stepfather.
"Then you know what you can do!  The door's open and there's
few'll miss you!"

Snatching her hat, the girl, very white, made to go out.  Whereat
the gamekeeper, a brutal man with small love for Molly, and
maddened by her taking him at his word, seized her suddenly by
her abundant fair hair and hauled her back into the room.

A violent scene followed, at the end of which Molly fainted and
Bramber came out and locked the door.

When he came back about half-past nine the girl was missing.  She
did not reappear that night, and the police were advised in the
morning.  Their most significant discovery was this:

Captain Ronald Vane, on the night of Molly's disappearance, had
left the Manor House, after dining alone with his host, Sir
Howard Hepwell, saying that he proposed to take a stroll as far
as the Deep Wood.

He never returned!

From the moment that Gamekeeper Bramber left his cottage, and the
moment when Sir Howard Hepwell parted from his guest after
dinner, the world to which these two people, Molly Clayton and
Captain Vane, were known, knew them no more!

I was about to say that they were never seen again.  But to me
has fallen the task of relating how and where Paul Harley and I
met with Captain Vane and Molly Clayton.

At the end of the Inspector's account:

"H'm," said Harley, glancing under his thick brows in my
direction, "could you spare the time, Knox?"

"To go to Deepbrow?" I asked with interest.

"Yes; we have ten minutes to catch the train."

"I'll come," said I.  "Sir Howard will be delighted to see you,
Harley."




II

THE CLUE OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS



"What do you make of it, Inspector?" asked my friend.  Detective-
Inspector Wessex smiled, and scratched his chin.

"There was no need for me to come down!" he replied.  "And
certainly no need for you, Mr. Harley!"

Harley bowed, smiling, at the implied compliment.

"It's a common or garden elopement!" continued the detective.
"Vane's reputation is absolutely rotten, and the girl was clearly
infatuated.  He must have cared a good bit, too.  He'll be
cashiered, as sure as a gun!"

Leaving Sir Howard at the Manor, we had joined Inspector Wessex
at a spot where the baronet's preserves bordered a narrow lane.
Here the ground was soft, and the detective drew Harley's
attention to a number of footprints by a stile.

"I've got evidence that he was seen here with the girl on other
occasions.  Now, Mr. Harley, I'll ask you to look over these
footprints."

Harley dropped to his knees and made a brief but close
examination of the ground round about.  One particularly clear
imprint of a pointed toe he noticed especially; and Wessex,
diving into the pocket of his light overcoat, produced a patent-
leather shoe, such as is used for evening wear.

"He had a spare pair in his bag," he explained nonchalantly, "and
his man did not prove incorruptible!"

Harley took the shoe and placed it in the impression.  It fitted
perfectly!

"This is Molly Clayton, I take it?" he said, indicating the
prints of a woman's foot.

"Yes," assented Wessex.  "You'll notice that they stood for some
little time and then walked off, very close together."

Harley nodded absently.

"We lose them along here," continued Wessex, leading up the lane;
"but at the corner by the big haystack they join up with the
tracks of a motor-car!  I ask for nothing clearer!  There was
rain that afternoon, but there's been none since."

"What does the Captain's man think?"

"The same as I do!  He's not surprised at any madness on Vane's
part, with a pretty woman in the case!"

"The girl left nothing behind--no note?"

"Nothing."

"Traced the car?"

"No.  It must have been hired or borrowed from a long distance
off."

Where the tracks of the tires were visible we stopped, and Harley
made a careful examination of the marks.

"Seems to have had a struggle with her," he said, dryly.

"Very likely!" agreed Wessex, without interest.

Harley crawled about on the ground for some time, to the great
detriment of his Harris tweeds, but finally arose, a curious
expression on his face--which, however, the detective evidently
failed to observe.

We returned to the Manor House where Sir Howard was awaiting us,
his good-humoured red face more red than usual; and in the
library, with its sporting prints and its works for the most part
dealing with riding, hunting, racing, and golf (except for a
sprinkling of Nat Gould's novels and some examples of the older
workmanship of Whyte-Melville), we were presently comfortably
ensconced.  On a side table were placed a generous supply of
liquid refreshments, cigars and cigarettes; so that we made
ourselves quite comfortable, and Sir Howard restrained his
indignation, until each had a glass before him and all were
smoking.

"Now," he began, "what have you got to report, gentlemen?  You,
Inspector," he pointed with his cigar toward Wessex, "have seen
Vane's man and all of you have been down to look at these damned
tracks.  I only want to hear one thing; that you expect to trace
the disgraceful couple.  I'll see to it"--his voice rose almost
to a shout--"that Vane is kicked out of the service, and as to
that shameless brat of Bramber's, I wish her no worse than the
blackguard's company!"

"One moment, Sir Howard, one moment," said Harley quietly; "there
are always two sides to a case."

"What do you mean, Mr. Harley?  There's only one side that
interests me--the outrage inflicted upon my hospitality by this
dirty guest of mine.  For the girl I don't give twopence; she was
bound to come to a bad end."

"Well," said Harley, "before we pronounce the final verdict upon
either of them I should like to interview Bramber.  Perhaps," he
added, turning to Wessex, "it would be as well if Mr. Knox and I
went alone.  The presence of an official detective sometimes awes
this class of witness."

"Quite right, quite right!" agreed Sir Howard, waving his cigar
vigorously.  "Go and see Bramber, Mr. Harley; tell him that no
blame attaches to himself whatever; also, tell him with my
compliments that his stepdaughter is------"

"Quite so, quite so," interrupted Harley, endeavouring to hide a
smile.  "I understand your feelings, Sir Howard, but again I ask
you to reserve your verdict until all the facts are before us."

As a result, Harley and I presently set out for the gamekeeper's
cottage, and as the man had been warned that we should visit him,
he was on the porch smoking his pipe.  A big, dark, ugly fellow
he proved to be, of a very forbidding cast of countenance.
Having introduced ourselves:

"I always knowed she'd come to a bad end!" declared Gamekeeper
Bramber, almost echoing Sir Howard's words.  "One o' these
gentlemen o' hers was sure to be the finish of her!"

"She had other admirers--before Captain Vane?"

"Aye!  the hussy!  There was a black-faced villain not six months
since!  He got t' vain cat to go to London an' have her
photograph done in a dress any decent woman would 'a' blushed to
look at!  Like one o' these Venuses up at t' Manor!  Good
riddance!  She took after her mother!"

The violent old ruffian was awkward to examine, but Harley
persevered.

"This previous admirer caused her to be photographed in that way,
did he?  Have you a copy?"

"No!" blazed Bramber.  "What I found I burnt!  He ran off, like I
told her he would--an' her cryin' her eyes out!  But the pretty
soger dried her tears quick enough!"

"Do you know this man's name?"

"No.  A foreigner, he was."

"Where were the photographs done--in London, you say?"

"Aye."

"Do you know by what photographer?"

"I don't!  An' I don't care!  Piccadilly they had on 'em, which
was good enough for me."

"Have you her picture?"

"No!"

"Did she receive a letter on the day of her disappearance?"

"Maybe."

"Good day!" said Harley.  "And let me add that the atmosphere of
her home was hardly conducive to ideal conduct!"

Leaving Bramber to digest this rebuke, we came out of the
cottage.  Dusk was falling now, and by the time that we regained
the Manor the place was lighted up.  Inspector Wessex was waiting
for us in the library, and:

"Well?" he said, smiling slightly as we entered.

"Nothing much," replied Harley dryly, "except that I don't wonder
at the girl's leaving such a home."

"What's that!  What!" roared a big voice, and Sir Howard came
into the room.  "I tell you, Bramber only had one fault as a
stepfather; he wasn't heavy-handed enough.  A bad lot, sir, a bad
lot!"

"Well, sir," said Inspector Wessex, looking from one to another,
"personally, beyond the usual inquiries at railway stations,
etc., I cannot see that we can do much here.  Don't you agree
with me, Mr. Harley?"

Harley nodded.

"Quite," he replied.  "There is a late train to town which I
think we could catch if we started at once."

"Eh?" roared Sir Howard; "you're not going back to-night?  Your
rooms are ready for you, damn it!"

"I quite appreciate the kindness, Sir Howard," replied Harley;
"but I have urgent business to attend to in London.  Believe me,
my departure is unavoidable."

The blue eyes of the baronet gleamed with the simple cunning of
his kind.

"You've got something up your sleeve," he roared.  "I know you
have, I know you have!"

Inspector Wessex looked at me significantly, but I could only
shrug my shoulders in reply; for in these moods Harley was as
inscrutable as the Sphinx.

However, he had his way, and Sir Howard hurriedly putting a car
in commission, we raced for the local station and just succeeded
in picking up the express at Claybury.

Wessex was rather silent throughout the journey, often glancing
in my friend's direction, but Harley made no further reference to
the case beyond outlining the interview with Bramber, until, as
we were parting at the London terminus, Wessex to report to
Scotland Yard and I to go to Harley's rooms:

"How long do you think it will take you to find that photographer,
Wessex?" he asked. "Piccadilly is a sufficient clue."

"Well," replied the Inspector, "nothing can be done to-night, of
course, but I should think by mid-day tomorrow the matter should
be settled."

"Right," said Harley shortly.  "May I ask you to report the
result to me, Wessex?"

"I will report without fail."




III

ALI OF CAIRO



It was not until the evening of the following day that Harley
rang me up, and:

"I want you to come round at once," he said urgently.  "The
Deepbrow case is developing along lines which I confess I had
anticipated, but which are dramatic nevertheless."

Knowing that Harley did not lightly make such an assertion, I put
aside the work upon which I was engaged and hurried around to
Chancery Lane.  I found my friend, pipe in mouth, walking up and
down his smoke-laden study in a state which I knew to betoken
suppressed excitement, and:

"Did Wessex find your photographer?" I asked on entering.

"Yes," he replied.  "A first-class man, as I had anticipated.  As
I had further anticipated he did a number of copies of the
picture for the foreign gentleman--about fifty, in fact!"

"Fifty!"

"Yes!  Does the significance of that fact strike you?" asked
Harley, a queer smile stealing across his tanned, clean-shaven
face.

"It is an extraordinary thing for even an ardent admirer to have
so many reproductions done of the same picture!"

"It is!  I will show you now what I found trodden into one of the
footprints where the struggle took place beside the car."

Harley produced a piece of thick silk twine.

"What is it?"

"It is a link, Knox--a link to seek which I really went down to
Deepbrow." He stared at me quizzically, but my answering look
must have been a blank one.  "It is part of the tassel of one of
those red cloth caps commonly called in England, a fez!"

He continued to stare at me and I to stare at the piece of silk;
then:

"What is the next move?" I demanded.  "Your new clue rather
bewilders me."

"The next move," he said, "is to retire to the adjoining room and
make ourselves look as much like a couple of Oriental commercial
travellers as our correctly British appearance will allow!"

"What!" I cried.

"That's it!" laughed Harley.  "I have a perpetual tan, and I
think I can give you a temporary one which I keep in a bottle for
the purpose."

Twenty minutes later, then, having quitted Harley's chambers by a
back way opening into one of those old-world courts which abound
in this part of the metropolis, two quietly attired Eastern
gentlemen got into a cab at the corner of Chancery Lane and
proceeded in the direction of Limehouse.

There are haunts in many parts of London whose very existence is
unsuspected by all but the few; haunts unvisited by the tourist
and even unknown to the copy-hunting pressman.  Into a quiet
thoroughfare not three minutes' walk from the busy life of West
India Dock Road, Harley led the way.  Before a door sandwiched in
between the entrance to a Greek tobacconist's establishment and a
boarded shop-front, he paused and turned to me.

"Whatever you see or hear," he cautioned, "express no surprise.
Above all, show no curiosity."

He rang the bell beside the door, and almost immediately it was
opened by a Negress, grossly and repellently ugly.

Harley pattered something in what sounded like Arabic, whereat
the Negress displayed the utmost servility, ushering us into an
ill-lighted passage with every evidence of respect.  Following
this passage to its termination, an inner door was opened, and a
burst of discordant music greeted us, together with a wave of
tobacco smoke.  We entered.

Despite my friend's particular injunctions to the contrary I gave
a start of amazement.

We stood in the doorway of a fairly large apartment having a
divan round three of its sides.  This divan was occupied by ten
or a dozen men of mixed nationalities--Arabs, Greeks, lascars,
and others.  They smoked cigarettes for the most part and sipped
Mokha from little cups.  A girl was performing a wriggling dance
upon the square carpet occupying the centre of the floor,
accompanied by a Nubian boy who twanged upon a guitar, and by
most of the assembled company, who clapped their hands to the
music or droned a low, tuneless dirge.

Shortly after our entrance the performance terminated, and the
girl retired through a curtained doorway at the farther end of
the room.  Our presence being now observed, suspicious glances
were cast in our direction, and a very aged man, who sat smoking
a narghli near the door by which the girl had made her exit,
gravely waved towards us the amber mouthpiece which he held in
his hand.

Harley walked straight across to him, I close at his heels.  The
light of a lamp which hung close by fell fully upon my friend's
face; and, rising from his seat, the old man greeted him with the
dignified and graceful salutation of the East. At his request we
seated ourselves beside him, and, while we all three smoked
excellent Turkish cigarettes, Harley and he conversed in a low
tone.  Suddenly, at some remark of my friend's, our strange host
rose to his feet, an angry frown contracting his heavy eyebrows.

Silence fell upon the company.

In a loud and peremptory voice he called out something in Arabic.

Instantly I detected a fellow near the entrance door, and whom I
had not hitherto observed, slipping furtively into the shadow,
with a view, as I thought, to secret departure.  He seemed to be
deformed in some way and had the most evil, pock-marked face I
had ever beheld in my life.  Angrily, the majestic old man
recalled him.  Whereupon, with a sort of animal snarl quite
indescribable, the fellow plucked out a knife!  Two men who had
been on the point of seizing him fell back, and:

"Hold him!" shouted Harley, springing forward--"hold him!  It's
Ali of Cairo!"

But Harley was too late.  Turning, the strange and formidable-
looking Oriental ran like the wind!  Ere hand could be raised to
stay him he was through the doorway!

"That settles it," said Harley grimly, as once more I found
myself in a cab beside him.  "I was right; but he'll forestall
us!"

"Who will forestall us?" I asked in bewilderment.

"The biggest villain in Europe, Asia, or Africa!" cried my
companion.  "I have wasted precious time to-day.  I might have
known." He drummed irritably upon his knees.  "The place we have
just left is a sort of club, you understand, Knox, and Hakim is
the proprietor or host as well as being an old gentleman of
importance and authority in the Moslem world.  I told him of my
suspicions--which step I should have taken earlier--and they were
instantly confirmed.  My man was there--recognized me--and
bolted!  He'll forestall us."

"But my dear fellow," I said patiently--"who is this man, and
what has he to do with the Deepbrow case?"

"He is the blackest scoundrel breathing!" answered Harley
bitterly.  "As to what he has to do with the case--why did he
bolt?  At any rate, I know where to find him now--and we may not
be too late after all."

"But who and what is this man?"

"He is Ali of Cairo!  As to what he is--you will soon learn."




IV

THE HOUSE BY THE RIVER



On quitting the singular Oriental club, Harley had first raced
off to a public telephone, where he had spoken for some time--as
I now divined--to Scotland Yard.  For when we presently arrived
at the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, I was surprised
to find Inspector Wessex awaiting us.  Leaning out of the cab
window:

"Yes?" called Harley excitedly.  "Was I right?"

"You were, Mr. Harley," answered Wessex, who seemed to be no less
excited than my companion.  "I got the man's reply an hour ago."

"I knew it!" said Harley shortly.  "Get in, Wessex; we haven't a
minute to waste."

The Inspector joined us in the cab, having first given
instructions to the chauffeur.  As we set out once more:

"You have had very little time to make the necessary
arrangements," continued my friend.

"Time enough," replied Wessex.  "They will not be expecting us."

"I'm not so sure of it.  One of the biggest villains in the
civilized world recognized me three minutes before I called you
up and then made good his escape.  However, there is at least a
fighting chance."

Little more was said from that moment until the end of the drive,
both my companions seeming to be consumed by an intense eagerness
to reach our destination.  At last the cab drew up in a deserted
street.  I had rather lost my bearings; but I knew that we were
once more somewhere in the Chinatown area, and:

"Follow us until we get into the house," Harley said to Inspector
Wessex, "and wait out of sight.  If you hear me blow this
whistle, bring up the men you have posted--as quick as you like!
But make it your particular business to see that no one gets
out!"

Into a pitch-dark yard we turned, and I felt a shudder of
apprehension upon observing that it was the entrance to a wharf.
Dully gleaming in the moonlight, the Thames, that grave of many a
ghastly secret, flowed beneath us.  Emerging from the shadow of
the archway, we paused before a door in the wall on our left.

At that moment something gleamed through the air, whizzed past my
ear, and fell with a metallic jingle on the stones!

Instinctively we both looked up.

At an unlighted window on the first floor I caught a fleeting
glimpse of a dark face.

"You were right!" I said.  "Ali of Cairo has forestalled us!"

Harley stooped and picked up a knife with a broad and very
curious blade.  He slipped it into his pocket, nonchalantly.

"All evidence!" he said.  "Keep in the shadow and bend down.  I
am going to stand on your shoulders and get into that window!"

Wondering at his daring, I nevertheless obeyed; and Harley
succeeded, although not without difficulty, in achieving his
purpose.  A moment after he had disappeared in the blackness of
the room above.

"Stand clear, Knox!" I heard.

Two of the cushion seats sometimes called "poof-ottomans" were
thrown down, and:

"Up you come!" called Harley.  "I'll grasp your hands if you can
reach."

It proved no easy task, but I finally managed to scramble up
beside my friend--to find myself in a dark and stuffy little
room.

"This way!" said Harley rapidly--"upstairs."

He led the way without more ado, but it was with serious
misgivings that I stumbled up a darkened stair in the rear of my
greatly daring friend.

A pistol cracked in the darkness--and my fez was no longer on my
head!

Harley's repeater answered, and we stumbled through a heavily
curtained door into a heated room, the air of which was laden
with some Eastern perfume.  In the dim light from a silken-shaded
lantern a figure showed, momentarily, darting across the place
before us.

Again Harley's pistol spoke, but, as it seemed, ineffectively.

I had little enough opportunity to survey my surroundings; yet
even in those brief, breathless moments I saw enough of the place
wherein we stood to make me doubt the evidence of my senses!
Outside, I knew, lay a dingy wharf, amid a maze of mean streets;
here was an opulently furnished apartment with a strong Oriental
note in the decorations!

Snatching an electric torch from his pocket, Harley leaped
through a doorway draped with rich Persian tapestry, and I came
close on his heels.  Outside was darkness.  A strong draught met
us; and, passing along a carpeted corridor, we never halted until
we came to a room filled with the weirdest odds and ends,
apparently collected from every quarter of the globe.

Crack!

A bullet flattened itself on the wall behind us!

"Good job he can't shoot straight!" rapped Harley.

The ray of the torch suddenly picked out the head and shoulders
of a man who was descending through a trap in the floor!  Ere we
had time to shoot he was gone!  I saw his brown fingers relax
their hold--and a bundle which he had evidently hoped to take
with him was left lying upon the floor.

Together we ran to the trap and looked down.

Slowly moving tidal water flowed darkly beneath us!  For twenty
breathless seconds we watched--but nothing showed upon the
surface.

"I hope his swimming is no better than his shooting," I said.

"It can avail him little," replied Harley grimly; "a river-police
boat is waiting for anyone who tries to escape from that side of
the house.  We are by no means alone in this affair, Knox.  But,
firstly, what have we here!" He took up the bundle which the
fugitive had deserted.  "Something incriminating when Ali of
Cairo dared not stay to face it out!  He would never have
deserted this place in the ordinary way.  That fellow who was
such a bad shot was left behind, when the news of our approach
reached here, to make a desperate attempt to remove some piece of
evidence!  I'll swear to it.  But we were too soon for him!"

All the time he was busily removing the pieces of sacking and
scraps of Oriental stuff with which the bundle was fastened; and
finally he drew out a dress-suit, together with the linen,
collar, shoes, and underwear--a complete outfit, in fact--and on
top of the whole was a soft gray felt hat!

Eagerly Harley searched the garments for some name of a maker by
which their owner might be identified.  Presently, inside the
lining of the breast pocket, where such a mark is usually found,
he discovered the label of a well-known West End firm.

"The police can confirm it, Knox!" he said, looking up, his face
slightly flushed with triumph; "but I, personally, have no
doubt!"

"You may have no doubt, Harley," I retorted, "but I am full of
doubt!  What is the significance of this discovery to which you
seem to attach so much importance?"

"At the moment," replied my friend, "never mind; I still have
hopes--although they have grown somewhat slender--of making a
much more important discovery."

"Why not permit the police to aid in the search?"

"The police are more useful in their present occupation," he
replied.  "We are dealing with the most cunning knave produced by
East or West, and I don't mean to let him slip through my fingers
if he is in this house!  Nevertheless, Knox, I am submitting you
to rather an appalling risk, I know; for our man is desperate,
and if he is still in the place will prove as dangerous as a
cornered rat."

"But the man who dropped through the trap?"

"The man who dropped through the trap," said Harley, "was not Ali
of Cairo--and it is Ali of Cairo for whom I am looking!"

"The hunchback we saw to-night?"

Harley nodded, and having listened intently for a few moments,
proceeded again to search the singular apartments of the abode.
In each was evidence of Oriental occupancy; indeed, some of the
rooms possessed a sort of Arabian Nights atmosphere.  But no
living creature was to be seen or heard anywhere.  It was while
the two of us, having examined every inch of wall, I should
think, in the building, were standing staring rather blankly at
each other in the room with the lighted lantern, that I saw
Harley's expression change.

"Why," he muttered, "is this one room illuminated--and all the
others in darkness?"

Even then the significance of this circumstance was not apparent
to me.  But Harley stared critically at an electric switch which
was placed on the immediate right of the door and then up at the
silk-shaded lantern which lighted the room.  Crossing, he raised
and lowered the switch rapidly, but the lamp continued to burn
uninterruptedly!

"Ah!" he said--"a good trick!"

Grasping the wooden block to which the switch was attached, he
turned it bodily--and I saw that it was a masked knob; for in the
next moment he had pulled open the narrow section of wall--which
proved to be nothing less than a cunningly fitted door!

A small, dimly lighted apartment was revealed, the Oriental note
still predominant in its appointments, which, however, were few,
and which I scarcely paused to note.  For lying upon a mattress
in this place was a pretty, fair-haired girl!

She lay on her side, having one white arm thrown out and resting
limply on the floor, and she seemed to be in a semi-conscious
condition, for although her fine eyes were widely opened, they
had a glassy, witless look, and she was evidently unaware of our
presence.

"Look at her pupils," rapped Harley.  "They have drugged her with
bhang!  Poor, pretty fool!"

"Good God!" I cried.  "Who is this, Harley?"

"Molly Clayton!" he answered.  "Thank heaven we have saved one
victim from Ali of Cairo."




V

THE HAREM AGENCY



Owing to the instrumentality of Paul Harley, the public never
learned that the awful riverside murder called by the Press in
reference to the victim's shaven skull "the barber atrocity" had
any relation to the Deepbrow case.  It was physically impossible
to identify the victim, and Harley had his own reasons for
concealing the truth.  The house on the wharf with its choice
Oriental furniture was seized by the police; but, strange to
relate, no arrest was made in connection with this most gruesome
outrage.  The man who dropped through the trap had been wounded
by one of Harley's shots, and he sank for the last time under the
very eyes of the crew of the police cutter.

It was at a late hour on the night of this concluding tragedy
that I learned the amazing truth underlying the case.  Wessex was
still at work in the East End upon the hundred and one
formalities which attached to his office, and Harley and I sat in
the study of my friend's chambers in Chancery Lane.

"You see," Harley was explaining.  "I got my first clue down at
Deepbrow.  The tracks leading to the motor-car.  They showed--to
anyone not hampered by a preconceived opinion--that the girl and
Vane had not gone on together (since the man's footprints proved
him to have been running), but that she had gone first and that
he had run after her!  Arguments: (a) He heard the approach of
the car; or (b) he heard her call for help.  In fact, it almost
immediately became evident to me that someone else had met her at
the end of the lane; probably someone who expected her, and whom
she was going to meet when she, accidentally, encountered Vane!
The captain was not attired for an elopement, and, more
significant still, he said he should stroll to the Deep Wood, and
that was where he did stroll to; for it borders the road at this
point!

"I had privately ascertained, from the postman, that Molly
Clayton actually received a letter on that morning!  This
resolved my last doubt.  She was not going to meet Vane on the
night of her disappearance.

"Then whom?"

"The old love!  He who some months earlier had had over fifty
seductive pictures of this undoubtedly pretty girl prepared for a
purpose of his own!"

"Vane interfered?"

"When the girl saw that they meant to take her away, she no doubt
made a fuss!  He ran to the rescue!  They had not reckoned on his
being there, but these are clever villains, who leave no clues--
except for one who has met them on their own ground!"

"On their own ground!  What do you mean, Harley?  Who are these
people?"

"Well--where do you suppose those fifty photographs went?"

"I cannot conjecture!"

"Then I will tell you.  The turmoil in the East has put wealth
and power into unscrupulous hands.  But even before the war there
were marts, Knox--open marts--at which a Negro girl might be
purchased for some 30 pounds, and a Circassian for anything from
250 pounds to 500 pounds!  Ah!  You stare!  But I assure you it
was so.  Here is the point, though: there were, and still are,
private dealers!  Those photographs were circulated among the
nouveaux riches of the East!  They were employed in the same way
that any other merchant employs a catalogue.  They reached the
hands of many an opulent and abandoned 'profiteer' of Damascus,
Stambul--where you will.  Molly's picture would be one of many.
Remember that hundreds of pretty girls disappear from their
homes--taking the whole of the world--every year.  Clearly,
English beauty is popular at the moment!  And," he added
bitterly, "the arch-villain has escaped!"

"Ali of Cairo!" I cried.  "Then Ali of Cairo------"

"Is the biggest slave-dealer in the East!"

"Good God!  Harley--at last I understand!"

"I was slow enough to understand it myself, Knox.  But once the
theory presented itself I asked Wessex to get into immediate
touch with the valet he had already interviewed at Deepbrow.  It
was the result of his inquiry to which he referred when we met
him at Scotland Yard to-night.  Captain Vane had a large mole on
his shoulder and a girl's name, together with a small device,
tattooed on his forearm--a freak of his Sandhurst days------"

"Then 'the man with the shaven skull'------"

"Is Captain Ronald Vane!  May he rest in peace.  But I never
shall until the crook-back dealer in humanity has met his just
deserts."






THE WHITE HAT






I

MAJOR JACK RAGSTAFF



"Hallo!  Innes," said Paul Harley as his secretary entered.
"Someone is making a devil of a row outside."

"This is the offender, Mr. Harley," said Innes, and handed my
friend a visiting card.

Glancing at the card, Harley read aloud:

"Major J. E. P. Ragstaff, Cavalry Club."

Meanwhile a loud harsh voice, which would have been audible in a
full gale, was roaring in the lobby.

"Nonsense!" I could hear the Major shouting.  "Balderdash!
There's more fuss than if I had asked for an interview with the
Prime Minister.  Piffle!  Balderdash!"

Innes's smile developed into a laugh, in which Harley joined,
then:

"Admit the Major," he said.

Into the study where Harley and I had been seated quietly
smoking, there presently strode a very choleric Anglo-Indian.  He
wore a horsy check suit and white spats, and his tie closely
resembled a stock.  In his hand he carried a heavy malacca cane,
gloves, and one of those tall, light-gray hats commonly termed
white.  He was below medium height, slim and wiry; his gait and
the shape of his legs, his build, all proclaimed the dragoon.
His complexion was purple, and the large white teeth visible
beneath a bristling gray moustache added to the natural ferocity
of his appearance.  Standing just within the doorway:

"Mr. Paul Harley?" he shouted.

It was apparently an inquiry, but it sounded like a reprimand.

My friend, standing before the fireplace, his hands in his
pockets and his pipe in his mouth, nodded brusquely.

"I am Paul Harley," he said.  "Won't you sit down?"

Major Ragstaff, glancing angrily at Innes as the latter left the
study, tossed his stick and gloves on to a settee, and drawing up
a chair seated himself stiffly upon it as though he were in a
saddle.  He stared straight at Harley, and:

"You are not the sort of person I expected, sir," he declared.
"May I ask if it is your custom to keep clients dancin' on the
mat and all that--on the blasted mat, sir?"

Harley suppressed a smile, and I hastily reached for my
cigarette-case which I had placed upon the mantelshelf.

"I am always naturally pleased to see clients, Major Ragstaff,"
said Harley, "but a certain amount of routine is necessary even
in civilian life.  You had not advised me of your visit, and it
is contrary to my custom to discuss business after five o'clock."

As Harley spoke the Major glared at him continuously, and then:

"I've seen you in India!" he roared; "damme!  I've seen you in
India!--and, yes!  in Turkey!  Ha!  I've got you now sir!" He
sprang to his feet.  "You're the Harley who was in Constantinople
in 1912."

"Quite true."

"Then I've come to the wrong shop."

"That remains to be seen, Major."

"But I was told you were a private detective, and all that."

"So I am," said Harley quietly.  "In 1912 the Foreign Office was
my client.  I am now at the service of anyone who cares to employ
me."

"Hell!" said the Major.

He seemed to be temporarily stricken speechless by the discovery
that a man who had acted for the British Government should be
capable of stooping to the work of a private inquiry agent.
Staring all about the room with a sort of naive wonderment, he
drew out a big silk handkerchief and loudly blew his nose, all
the time eyeing Harley questioningly.  Replacing his handkerchief
he directed his regard upon me, and:

"This is my friend, Mr. Knox," said Harley; "you may state your
case before him without hesitation, unless------"

I rose to depart, but:

"Sit down, Mr. Knox!  Sit down, sir!" shouted the Major.  "I have
no dirty linen to wash, no skeletons in the cupboard or piffle of
that kind.  I simply want something explained which I am too
thick-headed--too damned thick-headed, sir--to explain myself."

He resumed his seat, and taking out his wallet extracted from it
a small newspaper cutting which he offered to Harley.

"Read that, Mr. Harley," he directed.  "Read it aloud."

Harley read as follows:

"Before Mr. Smith, at Marlborough Street Police Court, John
Edward Bampton was charged with assaulting a well-known clubman
in Bond Street on Wednesday evening.  It was proved by the
constable who made the arrest that robbery had not been the
motive of the assault, and Bampton confessed that he bore no
grudge against the assailed man, indeed, that he had never seen
him before.  He pleaded intoxication, and the police surgeon
testified that although not actually intoxicated, his breath had
smelled strongly of liquor at the time of his arrest. Bampton's
employers testified to a hitherto blameless character, and as the
charge was not pressed the man was dismissed with a caution."

Having read the paragraph, Harley glanced at the Major with a
puzzled expression.

"The point of this quite escapes me," he confessed.

"Is that so?" said Major Ragstaff.  "Is that so, sir?  Perhaps
you will be good enough to read this."

From his wallet he took a second newspaper cutting, smaller than
the first, and gummed to a sheet of club notepaper.  Harley took
it and read as follows:

"Mr. De Lana, a well-known member of the Stock Exchange, who met
with a serious accident recently, is still in a precarious
condition."

The puzzled look on Harley's face grew more acute, and the Major
watched him with an expression which I can only describe as one
of fierce enjoyment.

"You're thinkin' I'm a damned old fool, ain't you?" he shouted
suddenly.

"Scarcely that," said Harley, smiling slightly, "but the
significance of these paragraphs is not apparent, I must confess.
The man Bampton would not appear to be an interesting character,
and since no great damage has been done, his drunken frolic
hardly comes within my sphere.  Of Mr. De Lana, of the Stock
Exchange, I never heard, unless he happens to be a member of the
firm of De Lana and Day?"

"He's not a member of that firm, sir," shouted the Major.  "He
was, up to six o'clock this evenin'."

"What do you mean exactly?" inquired Harley, and the tone of his
voice suggested that he was beginning to entertain doubts of the
Major's sanity or sobriety; then:

"He's dead!" declared the latter.  "Dead as the Begum of
Bangalore!  He died at six o'clock.  I've just spoken to his
widow on the telephone."

I suppose I must have been staring very hard at the speaker, and
certainly Harley was doing so, for suddenly directing his fierce
gaze toward me:

"You're completely treed, sir, and so's your friend!" shouted
Major Ragstaff.

"I confess it," replied Harley quietly; "and since my time is of
some little value I would suggest, without disrespect, that you
explain the connection, if any, between yourself, the drunken
Bampton, and Mr. De Lana, of the Stock Exchange, who died, you
inform us, at six o'clock this evening as the result, presumably,
of injuries received in an accident."

"That's what I'm here for!" cried Major Ragstaff.  "In the first
place, then, I am the party, although I saw to it that my name
was kept out of print, whom the drunken lunatic assaulted."

Harley, pipe in hand, stared at the speaker perplexedly.

"Understand me," continued the Major, "I am the person--I, Jack
Ragstaff--he assaulted.  I was walkin' down from my quarters in
Maddox Street on my way to dine at the club, same as I do every
night o' my life, when this flamin' idiot sprang upon me, grabbed
my hat"--he took up his white hat to illustrate what had
occurred--"not this one, but one like it--pitched it on the
ground and jumped on it!"

Harley was quite unable to conceal his smiles as the excited old
soldier dropped his conspicuous head-gear on the floor and
indulged in a vigorous pantomime designed to illustrate his
statement.

"Most extraordinary," said Harley.  "What did you do?"

"What did I do?" roared the Major.  "I gave him a crack on the
head with my cane, and I said things to him which couldn't be
repeated in court.  I punched him, and likewise hoofed him, but
the hat was completely done in.  Damn crowd collected, hearin' me
swearin' and bellowin'.  Police and all that; names an' addresses
and all that balderdash.  Man lugged away to guard-room and me
turnin' up at the club with no hat.  Damn ridiculous spectacle at
my time of life."

"Quite so," said Harley soothingly; "I appreciate your annoyance,
but I am utterly at a loss to understand why you have come here,
and what all this has to do with Mr. De Lana, of the Stock
Exchange."

"He fell out of the window!" shouted the Major.

"Fell out of a window?"

"Out of a window, sir, a second floor window ten yards up a side
street!  Pitched on his skull--marvel he wasn't killed outright!"

A faint expression of interest began to creep into Harley's
glance, and:

"I understand you to mean, Major Ragstaff," he said deliberately,
"that while your struggle with the drunken man was in progress
Mr. De Lana fell out of a neighbouring window into the street?"

"Right!" shouted the Major.  "Right, sir!"

"Do you know this Mr. De Lana?"

"Never heard of him in my life until the accident occurred.
Seems to me the poor devil leaned out to see the fun and
overbalanced.  Felt responsible, only natural, and made
inquiries.  He died at six o'clock this evenin', sir."

"H'm," said Harley reflectively.  "I still fail to see where I
come in.  From what window did he fall?"

"Window above a sort of teashop, called Cafe Dame--damn silly
name.  Place on a corner.  Don't know name of side street."

"H'm.  You don't think he was pushed out, for instance?"

"Certainly not!" shouted the Major; "he just fell out, but the
point is, he's dead!"

"My dear sir," said Harley patiently, "I don't dispute that
point; but what on earth do you want of me?"

"I don't know what I want!" roared the Major, beginning to walk
up and down the room, "but I know I ain't satisfied, not easy in
my mind, sir.  I wake up of a night hearin' the poor devil's yell
as he crashed on the pavement.  That's all wrong.  I've heard
hundreds of death-yells, but"--he took up his malacca cane and
beat it loudly on the table--"I haven't woke up of a night
dreamin' I heard 'em again."

"In a word, you suspect foul play?"

"I don't suspect anything!" cried the other excitedly, "but
someone mentioned your name to me at the club--said you could see
through concrete, and all that--and here I am.  There's something
wrong, radically wrong.  Find out what it is and send the bill to
me.  Then perhaps I'll be able to sleep in peace."

He paused, and again taking out the large silk handkerchief blew
his nose loudly.  Harley glanced at me in rather an odd way, and
then:

"There will be no bill, Major Ragstaff," he said; "but if I can
see any possible line of inquiry I will pursue it and report the
result to you."




II

A CURIOUS OUTRAGE



"What do you make of it, Harley?" I asked.  Paul Harley returned
a work of reference to its shelf and stood staring absently
across the study.

"Our late visitor's history does not help us much," he replied.
"A somewhat distinguished army career, and so forth, and his only
daughter, Sybil Margaret, married the fifth Marquis of Ireton.
She is, therefore, the noted society beauty, the Marchioness of
Ireton.  Does this suggest anything to your mind?"

"Nothing whatever," I said blankly.

"Nor to mine," murmured Harley.

The telephone bell rang.

"Hallo!" called Harley.  "Yes.  That you, Wessex?  Have you got
the address?  Good.  No, I shall remember it.  Many thanks.
Good-bye."

He turned to me.

"I suggest, Knox," he said, "that we make our call and then
proceed to dinner as arranged."

Since I was always glad of an opportunity of studying my friend's
methods I immediately agreed, and ere long, leaving the lights of
the two big hotels behind, our cab was gliding down the long
slope which leads to Waterloo Station.  Thence through crowded,
slummish high-roads we made our way via Lambeth to that dismal
thoroughfare, Westminster Bridge Road, with its forbidding, often
windowless, houses, and its peculiar air of desolation.

The house for which we were bound was situated at no great
distance from Kensington Park, and telling the cabman to wait,
Harley and I walked up a narrow, paved path, mounted a flight of
steps, and rang the bell beside a somewhat time-worn door, above
which was an old-fashioned fanlight dimly illuminated from
within.

A considerable interval elapsed before the door was opened by a
marvellously untidy servant girl who had apparently been
interrupted in the act of black-leading her face.  Partly opening
the door, she stared at us agape, pushing back wisps of hair from
her eyes and with every movement daubing more of some mysterious
black substance upon her countenance.

"Is Mr. Bampton in?" asked Harley.

"Yus, just come in.  I'm cookin' his supper."

"Tell him that two friends of his have called on rather important
business."

"All right," said the black-faced one.  "What name is it?"

"No name.  Just say two friends of his."

Treating us to a long, vacant stare and leaving us standing on
the step, the maid (in whose hand I perceived a greasy fork)
shuffled along the passage and began to mount the stairs.  An
unmistakable odour of frying sausages now reached my nostrils.
Harley glanced at me quizzically, but said nothing until the
Cinderella came stumbling downstairs again.  Without returning to
where we stood:

"Go up," she directed.  "Second floor, front.  Shut the door, one
of yer."

She disappeared into gloomy depths below as Harley and I, closing
the door behind us, proceeded to avail ourselves of the
invitation.  There was very little light on the staircase, but we
managed to find our way to a poorly furnished bed-sitting-room
where a small table was spread for a meal.  Beside the table, in
a chintz-covered arm-chair, a thick-set young man was seated
smoking a cigarette and having a copy of the Daily Telegraph upon
his knees.

He was a very typical lower middle-class, nothing-in-particular
young man, but there was a certain truculence indicated by his
square jaw, and that sort of self-possession which sometimes
accompanies physical strength was evidenced in his manner as,
tossing the paper aside, he stood up.

"Good evening, Mr. Bampton," said Harley genially.  "I take it"--
pointing to the newspaper--"that you are looking for a new job?"

Bampton stared, a suspicion of anger in his eyes, then, meeting
the amused glance of my friend, he broke into a smile very
pleasing and humorous.  He was a fresh-coloured young fellow with
hair inclined to redness, and smiling he looked very boyish
indeed.

"I have no idea who you are," he said, speaking with a faint
north-country accent, "but you evidently know who I am and what
has happened to me."

"Got the boot?" asked Harley confidentially.

Bampton, tossing the end of his cigarette into the grate, nodded
grimly.

"You haven't told me your name," he said, "but I think I can tell
you your business." He ceased smiling.  "Now look here, I don't
want any more publicity.  If you think you are going to make a
funny newspaper story out of me change your mind as quick as you
like.  I'll never get another job in London as it is.  If you
drag me any further into the limelight I'll never get another job
in England."

"My dear fellow," replied Harley soothingly, at the same time
extending his cigarette-case, "you misapprehend the object of my
call.  I am not a reporter."

"What!" said Bampton, pausing in the act of taking a cigarette,
"then what the devil are you?"

"My name is Paul Harley, and I am a criminal investigator."

He spoke the words deliberately, having his eyes fixed upon the
other's face; but although Bampton was palpably startled there
was no trace of fear in his straightforward glance.  He took a
cigarette from the case, and:

"Thanks, Mr. Harley," he said.  "I cannot imagine what business
has brought you here."

"I have come to ask you two questions," was the reply.  "Number
one: Who paid you to smash Major Ragstaff's white hat?  Number
two: How much did he pay you?"

To these questions I listened in amazement, and my amazement was
evidently shared by Bampton.  He had been in the act of lighting
his cigarette, but he allowed the match to burn down nearly to
his fingers and then dropped it with a muttered exclamation in
the fire.  Finally:

"I don't know how you found out," he said, "but you evidently
know the truth.  Provided you assure me that you are not out to
make a silly-season newspaper story, I'll tell you all I know."

Harley laid his card on the table, and:

"Unless the ends of justice demand it," he said, "I give you my
word that anything you care to say will go no further.  You may
speak freely before my friend, Mr. Knox.  Simply tell me in as
few words as possible what led you to court arrest in that
manner."

"Right," replied Bampton, "I will." He half closed his eyes,
reflectively.  "I was having tea in the Lyons' cafe, to which I
always go, last Monday afternoon about four o'clock, when a man
sat down facing me and got into conversation."

"Describe him!"

"He was a man rather above medium height.  I should say about my
own build; dark, going gray.  He had a neat moustache and a short
beard, and the look of a man who had travelled a lot.  His skin
was very tanned, almost as deeply as yours, Mr. Harley.  Not at
all the sort of chap that goes in there as a rule.  After a while
he made an extraordinary proposal.  At first I thought he was
joking, then when I grasped the idea that he was serious I
concluded he was mad.  He asked me how much a year I earned, and
I told him Peters and Peters paid me 150 pounds.  He said: 'I'll
give you a year's salary to knock a man's hat off!'"

As Bampton spoke the words he glanced at us with twinkling eyes,
but although for my own part I was merely amused, Harley's
expression had grown very stern.

"Of course, I laughed," continued Bampton, "but when the man drew
out a fat wallet and counted ten five-pound notes on the table I
began to think seriously about his proposal.  Even supposing he
was cracked, it was absolutely money for nothing.

"'Of course,' he said, 'you'll lose your job and you may be
arrested, but you'll say that you had been out with a few friends
and were a little excited, also that you never could stand white
hats.  Stick to that story and the balance of a hundred pounds
will reach you on the following morning.'

"I asked him for further particulars, and I asked him why he had
picked me for the job.  He replied that he had been looking for
some time for the right man; a man who was strong enough
physically to accomplish the thing, and someone"--Bampton's eyes
twinkled again--"with a dash of the devil in him, but at the same
time a man who could be relied upon to stick to his guns and not
to give the game away.

"You asked me to be brief, and I'll try to be.  The man in the
white hat was described to me, and the exact time and place of
the meeting.  I just had to grab his white hat, smash it, and
face the music.  I agreed.  I don't deny that I had a couple of
stiff drinks before I set out, but the memory of that fifty
pounds locked up here in my room and the further hundred
promised, bucked me up wonderfully.  It was impossible to mistake
my man; I could see him coming toward me as I waited just outside
a sort of little restaurant called the Cafe Dame.  As arranged, I
bumped into him, grabbed his hat and jumped on it."

He paused, raising his hand to his head reminiscently.

"My man was a bit of a scrapper," he continued, "and he played
hell.  I've never heard such language in my life, and the way he
laid about me with his cane is something I am not likely to
forget in a hurry.  A crowd gathered, naturally, and (also
naturally) I was 'pinched.' That didn't matter much.  I got off
lightly; and although I've been dismissed by Peters and Peters,
twenty crisp fivers are locked in my trunk there, with the ten
which I received in the City."

Harley checked him, and:

"May I see the envelope in which they arrived?" he asked.

"Sorry," replied Bampton, "but I burned it.  I thought it was
playing the game to do so.  It wouldn't have helped you much,
though," he added; "It was an ordinary common envelope, posted in
the City, address typewritten, and not a line enclosed."

"Registered?"

"No."

Bampton stood looking at us with a curious expression on his
face, and suddenly:

"There's one point," he said, "on which my conscience isn't easy.
You know about that poor devil who fell out of a window?  Well,
it would never have happened if I hadn't kicked up a row in the
street.  There's no doubt he was leaning out to see what the
disturbance was about when the accident occurred."

"Did you actually see him fall?" asked Harley.

"No.  He fell from a window several yards behind me in the side
street, but I heard him cry out, and as I was lugged off by the
police I heard the bell of the ambulance which came to fetch
him."

He paused again and stood rubbing his head ruefully.

"H'm," said Harley; "was there anything particularly remarkable
about this man in the Lyons' cafe?"

Bampton reflected silently for some moments, and then:

"Nothing much," he confessed.  "He was evidently a gentleman,
wore a blue top-coat, a dark tweed suit, and what looked like a
regimental tie, but I didn't see much of the colours.  He was
very tanned, as I have said, even to the backs of his hands--and
oh, yes!  there was one point: He had a gold-covered tooth."

"Which tooth?"

"I can't remember, except that it was on the left side, and I
always noticed it when he smiled."

"Did he wear any ring or pin which you would recognize?"

"No."

"Had he any oddity of speech or voice?"

"No.  Just a heavy, drawling manner.  He spoke like thousands of
other cultured Englishmen.  But wait a minute--yes!  There was
one other point.  Now I come to think of it, his eyes very
slightly slanted upward."

Harley stared.

"Like a Chinaman's?"

"Oh, nothing so marked as that.  But the same sort of formation."

Harley nodded briskly and buttoned up his overcoat.

"Thanks, Mr. Bampton," he said; "we will detain you no longer!"

As we descended the stairs, where the smell of frying sausages
had given place to that of something burning--probably the
sausages:

"I was half inclined to think that Major Ragstaff's ideas were
traceable to a former touch of the sun," said Harley.  "I begin
to believe that he has put us on the track of a highly unusual
crime.  I am sorry to delay dinner, Knox, but I propose to call
at the Cafe Dame."




III

A CRIMINAL GENIUS



On entering the doorway of the Cafe Dame we found ourselves in a
narrow passage.  In front of us was a carpeted stair, and to the
right a glass-panelled door communicating with a discreetly
lighted little dining room which seemed to be well patronized.
Opening the door Harley beckoned to a waiter, and:

"I wish to see the proprietor," he said.

"Mr. Meyer is engaged at the moment, sir," was the reply.

"Where is he?"

"In his office upstairs, sir.  He will be down in a moment."

The waiter hurried away, and Harley stood glancing up the stairs
as if in doubt what to do.

"I cannot imagine how such a place can pay," he muttered.  "The
rent must be enormous in this district."

But even before he ceased speaking I became aware of an excited
conversation which was taking place in some apartment above.

"It's scandalous!" I heard, in a woman's shrill voice.  "You have
no right to keep it!  It's not your property, and I'm here to
demand that you give it up."

A man's voice replied in voluble broken English, but I could only
distinguish a word here and there.  I saw that Harley was
interested, for catching my questioning glance, he raised his
finger to his lips enjoining me to be silent.

"Oh, that's the game, is it?" continued the female voice.  "Of
course you know it's blackmail?"

A flow of unintelligible words answered this speech, then:

"I shall come back with someone," cried the invisible woman, "who
will make you give it up!"

"Knox," whispered Harley in my ear, "when that woman comes down,
follow her!  I'm afraid you will bungle the business, and I would
not ask you to attempt it if big things were not at stake.
Return here; I shall wait."

As a matter of fact, his sudden request had positively astounded
me, but ere I had time for any reply a door suddenly banged open
above and a respectable-looking woman, who might have been some
kind of upper servant, came quickly down the stairs.  An
expression of intense indignation rested upon her face, and
without seeming to notice our presence she brushed past us and
went out into the street.

"Off you go, Knox!" said Harley.

Seeing myself committed to an unpleasant business, I slipped out
of the doorway and detected the woman five or six yards away
hurrying in the direction of Piccadilly.  I had no difficulty in
following her, for she was evidently unsuspicious of my presence,
and when presently she mounted a westward-bound 'bus I did
likewise, but while she got inside I went on top, and occupied a
seat on the near side whence I could observe anyone leaving the
vehicle.

If I had not known Paul Harley so well I should have counted the
whole business a ridiculous farce, but recognizing that something
underlay these seemingly trivial and disconnected episodes, I
lighted a cigarette and resigned myself to circumstance.

At Hyde Park Corner I saw the woman descending, and when
presently she walked up Hamilton Place I was not far behind her.
At the door of an imposing mansion she stopped, and in response
to a ring of the bell the door was opened by a footman, and the
woman hurried in.  Evidently she was an inmate of the
establishment; and conceiving that my duty was done when I had
noted the number of the house, I retraced my steps to the corner;
and, hailing a taxicab, returned to the Cafe Dame.

On inquiring of the same waiter whom Harley had accosted whether
my friend was there:

"I think a gentleman is upstairs with Mr. Meyer," said the man.

"In his office?"

"Yes, sir."

Thereupon I mounted the stairs and before a half-open door
paused.  Harley's voice was audible within, and therefore I
knocked and entered.

I discovered Harley standing by an American desk.  Beside him in
a revolving chair which, with the desk, constituted the principal
furniture of a tiny office, sat a man in a dress-suit which had
palpably not been made for him.  He had a sullen and suspiciously
Teutonic cast of countenance, and he was engaged in a voluble but
hardly intelligible speech as I entered.

"Ha, Knox!" said Harley, glancing over his shoulder, "did you
manage?"

"Yes," I replied.

Harley nodded shortly and turned again to the man in the chair.

"I am sorry to give you so much trouble, Mr. Meyer," he said,
"but I should like my friend here to see the room above."

At this moment my attention was attracted by a singular object
which lay upon the desk amongst a litter of bills and accounts.
This was a piece of rusty iron bar somewhat less than three feet
in length, and which once had been painted green.

"You are looking at this tragic fragment, Knox," said Harley,
taking up the bar.  "Of course"--he shrugged his shoulders--"it
explains the whole unfortunate occurrence.  You see there was a
flaw in the metal at this end, here"--he indicated the spot--"and
the other end had evidently worn loose in its socket."

"But I don't understand."

"It will all be made clear at the inquest, no doubt.  A most
unfortunate thing for you, Mr. Meyer."

"Most unfortunate," declared the proprietor of the restaurant,
extending his thick hands pathetically.  "Most ruinous to my
business."

"We will go upstairs now," said Harley.  "You will kindly lead
the way, Mr. Meyer, and the whole thing will be quite clear to
you, Knox."

As the proprietor walked out of the office and upstairs to the
second floor Harley whispered in my ear:

"Where did she go?"

"No.------ Hamilton Place," I replied in an undertone.

"Good God!" muttered my friend, and clutched my arm so tightly
that I winced.  "Good God!  The master touch, Knox!  This crime
was the work of a genius--of a genius with slightly, very
slightly, oblique eyes."

Opening a door on the second landing, Mr. Meyer admitted us to a
small supper-room.  Its furniture consisted of a round dining
table, several chairs, a couch, and very little else.  I
observed, however, that the furniture, carpet, and a few other
appointments were of a character much more elegant than those of
the public room below.  A window which overlooked the street was
open, so that the plush curtains which had been drawn aside moved
slightly to and fro in the draught.

"The window of the tragedy, Knox," explained Harley.

He crossed the room.

"If you will stand here beside me you will see the gap in the
railing caused by the breaking away of the fragment which now
lies on Mr. Meyer's desk.  Some few yards to the left in the
street below is where the assault took place, of which we have
heard, and the unfortunate Mr. De Lana, who was dining here
alone--an eccentric custom of his--naturally ran to the window
upon hearing the disturbance and leaned out, supporting his
weight upon the railing.  The rail collapsed, and--we know the
rest."

"It will ruin me," groaned Meyer; "it will give bad repute to my
establishment."

"I fear it will," agreed Harley sympathetically, "unless we can
manage to clear up one or two little difficulties which I have
observed.  For instance"--he tapped the proprietor on the
shoulder confidentially --"have you any idea, any hazy idea, of
the identity of the woman who was dining here with Mr. De Lana on
Wednesday night?"

The effect of this simple inquiry upon the proprietor was
phenomenal.  His fat yellow face assumed a sort of leaden hue,
and his already prominent eyes protruded abnormally.  He licked
his lips.

"I tell you--already I tell you," he muttered, "that Mr. De Lana
he engage this room every Wednesday and sometimes also Friday,
and dine here by himself."

"And I tell you," said Harley sweetly, "that you are an inspired
liar.  You smuggled her out by the side entrance after the
accident."

"The side entrance?" muttered Meyer.  "The side entrance?"

"Exactly; the side entrance.  There is something else which I
must ask you to tell me.  Who had engaged this room on Tuesday
night, the night before the accident?"

The proprietor's expression remained uncomprehending, and:

"A gentleman," he said.  "I never see him before."

"Another solitary diner?" suggested Harley.

"Yes, he is alone all the evening waiting for a friend who does
not arrive."

"Ah," mused Harley--"alone all the evening, was he?  And his
friend disappointed him.  May I suggest that he was a dark man?
Gray at the temples, having a dark beard and moustache, and a
very tanned face?  His eyes slanted slightly upward?"

"Yes!  yes!" cried Meyer, and his astonishment was patently
unfeigned.  "It is a friend of yours?"

"A friend of mine, yes," said Harley absently, but his expression
was very grim.  "What time did he finally leave?"

"He waited until after eleven o'clock.  The dinner is spoilt.  He
pays, but does not complain."

"No," said Harley musingly, "he had nothing to complain about.
One more question, my friend.  When the lady escaped hurriedly on
Wednesday night, what was it that she left behind and what price
are you trying to extort from her for returning it?"

At that the man collapsed entirely.

"Ah, Gott!" he cried, and raised his hand to his clammy forehead.
"You will ruin me.  I am a ruined man.  I don't try to extort
anything.  I run an honest business------"

"And one of the most profitable in the world," added Harley,
"since the days of Thais to our own.  Even at Bond Street rentals
I assume that a house of assignation is a golden enterprise."

"Ah!" groaned Meyer, "I am ruined, so what does it matter?  I
tell you everything.  I know Mr. De Lana who engages my room
regularly, but I don't know who the lady is who meets him here.
No!  I swear it!  But always it is the same lady.  When he falls
I am downstairs in my office, and I hear him cry out.  The lady
comes running from the room and begs of me to get her away
without being seen and to keep all mention of her out of the
matter."

"What did she pay you?" asked Harley.

"Pay me?" muttered Meyer, pulled up thus shortly in the midst of
his statement.

"Pay you.  Exactly.  Don't argue; answer."

The man delivered himself of a guttural, choking sound, and
finally:

"She promised one hundred pounds," he confessed hoarsely.

"But you surely did not accept a mere promise?  Out with it.
What did she give you?"

"A ring," came the confession at last.

"A ring.  I see.  I will take it with me if you don't mind.  And
now, finally, what was it that she left behind?"

"Ah, Gott!" moaned the man, dropping into a chair and resting his
arms upon the table.  "It is all a great panic, you see.  I hurry
her out by the back stair from this landing and she forgets her
bag."

"Her bag?  Good."

"Then I clear away the remains of dinner so I can say Mr. De Lana
is dining alone.  It is as much my interest as the lady's."

"Of course!  I quite understand.  I will trouble you no more, Mr.
Meyer, except to step into your office and to relieve you of that
incriminating evidence, the lady's bag and her ring."




IV

THE SLANTING EYES



"Do you understand, Knox?" said Harley as the cab bore us toward
Hamilton Place.  "Do you grasp the details of this cunning
scheme?"

"On the contrary," I replied, "I am hopelessly at sea."

Nevertheless, I had forgotten that I was hungry in the excitement
which now claimed me.  For although the thread upon which these
seemingly disconnected things hung was invisible to me, I
recognized that Bampton, the city clerk, the bearded stranger who
had made so singular a proposition to him, the white-hatted
major, the dead stockbroker, and the mysterious woman whose
presence in the case the clear sight of Harley had promptly
detected, all were linked together by some subtle chain.  I was
convinced, too, that my friend held at least one end of that
chain in his grip.

"In order to prepare your mind for the interview which I hope to
obtain this evening," continued Harley, "let me enlighten you
upon one or two points which may seem obscure.  In the first
place you recognize that anyone leaning out of the window on the
second floor would almost automatically rest his weight upon the
iron bar which was placed there for that very purpose, since the
ledge is unusually low?"

"Quite," I replied, "and it also follows that if the bar gave way
anyone thus leaning on it would be pitched into the street."

"Your reasoning is correct."

"But, my dear fellow," said I, "how could such an accident have
been foreseen?"

"You speak of an accident.  This was no accident!  One end of the
bar had been filed completely through, although the file marks
had been carefully concealed with rust and dirt; and the other
end had been wrenched out from its socket and then replaced in
such a way that anyone leaning upon the bar could not fail to be
precipitated into the street!"

"Good heavens!  Then you mean------"

"I mean, Knox, that the man who occupied the supper room on the
night before the tragedy--the dark man, tanned and bearded, with
slightly oblique eyes---spent his time in filing through that
bar--in short, in preparing a death trap!"

I was almost dumbfounded.

"But, Harley," I said, "assuming that he knew his victim would be
the next occupant of the room, how could he know------?"

I stopped.  Suddenly, as if a curtain had been raised, the
details of what I now perceived to be a fiendishly cunning murder
were revealed to me.

"According to his own account, Knox," resumed Harley, "Major
Ragstaff regularly passed along that street with military
punctuality at the same hour every night.  You may take it for
granted that the murderer was well aware of this.  As a matter of
fact, I happen to know that he was.  We must also take it for
granted that the murderer knew of these little dinners for two
which took place in the private room above the Cafe Dame every
Wednesday--and sometimes on Friday.  Around the figure of the
methodical major--with his conspicuous white hat as a sort of
focus--was built up one of the most ingenious schemes of murder
with which I have ever come in contact.  The victim literally
killed himself."

"But, Harley, the victim might have ignored the disturbance."

"That is where I first detected the touch of genius, Knox.  He
recognized the voice of one of the combatants--or his companion
did.  Here we are."

The cab drew up before the house in Hamilton Place.  We alighted,
and Harley pressed the bell.  The same footman whom I had seen
admit the woman opened the door.

"Is Lady Ireton at home?" asked Harley.

As he uttered the name I literally held my breath.  We had come
to the house of Major Ragstaff's daughter, the Marchioness of
Ireton, one of society's most celebrated and beautiful
hostesses!--the wife of a peer famed alike as sportsman, soldier,
and scholar.

"I believe she is dining at home, sir," said the man.  "Shall I
inquire?"

"Be good enough to do so," replied Harley, and gave him a card.
"Inform her that I wish to return to her a handbag which she lost
a few days ago."

The man ushered us into an anteroom opening off the lofty and
rather gloomy hall, and as the door closed:

"Harley," I said in a stage whisper, "am I to believe------"

"Can you doubt it?" returned Harley with a grim smile.

A few moments later we were shown into a charmingly intimate
little boudoir in which Lady Ireton was waiting to receive us.
She was a strikingly handsome brunette, but to-night her face,
which normally, I think, possessed rich colouring, was almost
pallid, and there was a hunted look in her dark eyes which made
me wish to be anywhere rather than where I found myself.  Without
preamble she rose and addressed Harley:

"I fail to understand your message, sir," she said, and I admired
the imperious courage with which she faced him.  "You say you
have recovered a handbag which I had lost?"

Harley bowed, and from the pocket of his greatcoat took out a
silken-tasselled bag.

"The one which you left in the Cafe Dame, Lady Ireton," he
replied.  "Here also I have"--from another pocket he drew out a
diamond ring--"something which was extorted from you by the
fellow Meyer."

Without touching her recovered property, Lady Ireton sank slowly
down into the chair from which she had arisen, her gaze fixed as
if hypnotically upon the speaker.

"My friend, Mr. Knox, is aware of all the circumstances,"
continued the latter, "but he is as anxious as I am to terminate
this painful interview.  I surmise that what occurred on
Wednesday night was this--(correct me if I am wrong): While
dining with Mr. De Lana you heard sounds of altercation in the
street below.  May I suggest that you recognized one of the
voices?"

Lady Ireton, still staring straight before her at Harley,
inclined her head in assent.

"I heard my father's voice," she said hoarsely.

"Quite so," he continued.  "I am aware that Major Ragstaff is
your father." He turned to me: "Do you recognize the touch of
genius at last?" Then, again addressing Lady Ireton: "You
naturally suggested to your companion that he should look out of
the window in order to learn what was taking place.  The next
thing you knew was that he had fallen into the street below?"

Lady Ireton shuddered and raised her hands to her face.

"It is retribution," she whispered.  "I have brought this ruin
upon myself.  But he does not deserve------"

Her voice faded into silence, and:

"You refer to your husband, Lord Ireton?" said Harley.

Lady Ireton nodded, and again recovering power of speech:

"It was to have been our last meeting," she said, looking up at
Harley.

She shuddered, and her eyes blazed into sudden fierceness.  Then,
clenching her hands, she looked aside.

"Oh, God, the shame of this hour!" she whispered.

And I would have given much to have been spared the spectacle of
this proud, erring woman's humiliation.  But Paul Harley was
scientifically remorseless.  I could detect no pity in his
glance.

"I would give my life willingly to spare my husband the knowledge
of what has been," said Lady Ireton in a low, monotonous voice.
"Three times I sent my maid to Meyer to recover my bag, but he
demanded a price which even I could not pay.  Now it is all
discovered, and Harry will know."

"That, I fear, is unavoidable, Lady Ireton," declared Harley.
"May I ask where Lord Ireton is at present?"

"He is in Africa after big game."

"H'm," said Harley, "in Africa, and after big game?  I can offer
you one consolation, Lady Ireton.  In his own interests Meyer
will stick to his first assertion that Mr. De Lana was dining
alone."

A strange, horribly pathetic look came into the woman's haunted
eyes.

"You--you--are not acting for------?" she began.

"I am acting for no one," replied Harley tersely.  "Upon my
friend's discretion you may rely as upon my own."

"Then why should he ever know?" she whispered.

"Why, indeed," murmured Harley, "since he is in Africa?"

As we descended the stair to the hall my friend paused and
pointed to a life-sized oil painting by London's most fashionable
portrait painter.  It was that of a man in the uniform of a
Guards officer, a dark man, slightly gray at the temples, his
face very tanned as if by exposure to the sun.

"Having had no occasion for disguise when the portrait was
painted," said Harley, "Lord Ireton appears here without the
beard; and as he is not represented smiling one cannot see the
gold tooth.  But the painter, if anything, has accentuated the
slanting eyes.  You see, the fourth marquis--the present Lord
Ireton's father--married one of the world-famous Yen Sun girls,
daughters of the mandarin of that name by an Irish wife.  Hence,
the eyes.  And hence------"

"But, Harley--it was murder!"

"Not within the meaning of the law, Knox.  It was a recrudescence
of Chinese humour!  Lord Ireton is officially in Africa (and he
went actually after 'big game').  The counsel is not born who
could secure a conviction.  We are somewhat late, but shall
therefore have less difficulty in finding a table at Prince's."






TCHERIAPIN






I

THE ROSE



"Examine it closely," said the man in the unusual caped overcoat.
"It will repay examination."

I held the little object in the palm of my hand, bending forward
over the marble-topped table and looking down at it with deep
curiosity.  The babel of tongues so characteristic of Malay
Jack's, and that mingled odour of stale spirits, greasy humanity,
tobacco, cheap perfume, and opium, which distinguish the
establishment faded from my ken.  A sense of loneliness came to
me.

Perhaps I should say that it became complete.  I had grown
conscious of its approach at the very moment that the cadaverous
white-haired man had addressed me.  There was a quality in his
steadfast gaze and in his oddly pitched deep voice which from the
first had wrapped me about--as though he were cloaking me in his
queer personality and withdrawing me from the common plane.

Having stared for some moments at the object in my palm, I
touched it gingerly; whereupon my acquaintance laughed--a short
bass laugh.

"It looks fragile," he said.  "But have no fear.  It is nearly as
hard as a diamond."

Thus encouraged, I took the thing up between finger and thumb,
and held it before my eyes.  For long enough I looked at it, and
looking, my wonder grew.  I thought that here was the most
wonderful example of the lapidary's art which I had ever met
with, east or west.

It was a tiny pink rose, no larger than the nail of my little
finger.  Stalk and leaves were there, and golden pollen lay in
its delicate heart.  Each fairy-petal blushed with June fire; the
frail leaves were exquisitely green.  Withal it was as hard and
unbendable as a thing of steel.

"Allow me," said the masterful voice.

A powerful lens was passed by my acquaintance.  I regarded the
rose through the glass, and thereupon I knew, beyond doubt, that
there was something phenomenal about the gem--if gem it were.  I
could plainly trace the veins and texture of every petal.

I suppose I looked somewhat startled.  Although, baldly stated,
the fact may not seem calculated to affright, in reality there
was something so weird about this unnatural bloom that I dropped
it on the table.  As I did so I uttered an exclamation; for in
spite of the stranger's assurances on the point, I had by no
means overcome my idea of the thing's fragility.

"Don't be alarmed," he said, meeting my startled gaze.  "It would
need a steam-hammer to do any serious damage."

He replaced the jewel in his pocket, and when I returned the lens
to him he acknowledged it with a grave inclination of the head.
As I looked into his sunken eyes, in which I thought lay a sort
of sardonic merriment, the fantastic idea flashed through my mind
that I had fallen into the clutches of an expert hypnotist who
was amusing himself at my expense, that the miniature rose was a
mere hallucination produced by the same means as the notorious
Indian rope trick.

Then, looking around me at the cosmopolitan groups surrounding
the many tables, and catching snatches of conversations dealing
with subjects so diverse as the quality of whisky in Singapore,
the frail beauty of Chinese maidens, and the ways of "bloody
greasers," common sense reasserted itself.

I looked into the gray face of my acquaintance.

"I cannot believe," I said slowly, "that human ingenuity could so
closely duplicate the handiwork of nature.  Surely the gem is
unique?--possibly one of those magical talismans of which we read
in Eastern stories?"

My companion smiled.

"It is not a gem," he replied, "and while in a sense it is a
product of human ingenuity, it is also the handiwork of nature."

I was badly puzzled, and doubtless revealed the fact, for the
stranger laughed in his short fashion, and:

"I am not trying to mystify you," he assured me.  "But the truth
is so hard to believe sometimes that in the present case I
hesitate to divulge it.  Did you ever meet Tcheriapin?"

This abrupt change of topic somewhat startled me, but
nevertheless:

"I once heard him play," I replied.  "Why do you ask the
question?"

"For this reason: Tcheriapin possessed the only other example of
this art which so far as I am aware ever left the laboratory of
the inventor.  He occasionally wore it in his buttonhole."

"It is then a manufactured product of some sort?"

"As I have said, in a sense it is; but"--he drew the tiny
exquisite ornament from his pocket again and held it up before
me--"it is a natural bloom."

"What!"

"It is a natural bloom," replied my acquaintance, fixing his
penetrating gaze upon me.  "By a perfectly simple process
invented by the cleverest chemist of his age it had been reduced
to this gem-like state while retaining unimpaired every one of
its natural beauties, every shade of its natural colour.  You are
incredulous?"

"On the contrary," I replied, "having examined it through a
magnifying glass I had already assured myself that no human hand
had fashioned it.  You arouse my curiosity intensely.  Such a
process, with its endless possibilities, should be worth a
fortune to the inventor."

The stranger nodded grimly and again concealed the rose in his
pocket.

"You are right," he said; "and the secret died with the man who
discovered it--in the great explosion at the Vortex Works in
1917.  You recall it?  The T.N.T. factory?  It shook all London,
and fragments were cast into three counties."

"I recall it perfectly well."

"You remember also the death of Dr.  Kreener, the chief chemist?
He died in an endeavour to save some of the workpeople."

"I remember."

"He was the inventor of the process, but it was never put upon
the market.  He was a singular man, sir; as was once said of
him--'A Don Juan of science.'  Dame Nature gave him her heart
unwooed.  He trifled with science as some men trifle with love,
tossing aside with a smile discoveries which would have made
another famous.  This"--tapping his breast pocket--"was one of
them."

"You astound me.  Do I understand you to mean that Dr.  Kreener
had invented a process for reducing any form of plant life to
this condition?"

"Almost any form," was the guarded reply.  "And some forms of
animal life."

"What!"

"If you like"--the stranger leaned forward and grasped my arm--"I
will tell you the story of Dr.  Kreener's last experiment."

I was now intensely interested.  I had not forgotten the heroic
death of the man concerning whose work this chance acquaintance
of mine seemed to know so much.  And in the cadaverous face of
the stranger as he sat there regarding me fixedly there was a
promise and an allurement.  I stood on the verge of strange
things; so that, looking into the deep-set eyes, once again I
felt the cloak being drawn about me, and I resigned myself
willingly to the illusion.

From the moment when he began to speak again until that when I
rose and followed him from Malay Jack's, as I shall presently
relate, I became oblivious of my surroundings.  I lived and moved
through those last fevered hours in the lives of Dr.  Kreener,
Tcheriapin, the violinist, and that other tragic figure around
whom the story centred.  I append:

THE STRANGER'S STORY

I asked you (said the man in the caped coat) if you had ever seen
Tcheriapin, and you replied that you had once heard him play.
Having once heard him play you will not have forgotten him.  At
that time, although war still raged, all musical London was
asking where he had come from and to what nation he belonged.
Then when he disappeared it was variously reported, you will
recall, that he had been shot as a spy and that he had escaped
from England and was serving with the Austrian army.  As to his
parentage I can enlighten you in a measure.  He was a Eurasian.
His father was an aristocratic Chinaman, and his mother a Polish
ballet-dancer--that was his parentage; but I would scarcely
hesitate to affirm that he came from Hell; and I shall presently
show you that he has certainly returned there.

You remember the strange stories current about him.  The cunning
ones said that he had a clever press agent.  This was true
enough.  One of the most prominent agents in London discovered
him playing in a Paris cabaret.  Two months later he was playing
at the Queen's Hall, and musical London lay at his feet.

He had something of the personality of Paganini, as you remember,
except that he was a smaller man; long, gaunt, yellowish hands
and the face of a haggard Mephistopheles.  The critics quarrelled
about him, as critics only quarrel about real genius, and while
one school proclaimed that Tcheriapin had discovered an entirely
new technique, a revolutionary system of violin playing, another
school was equally positive in declaring that he could not play
at all, that he was a mountebank, a trickster, whose proper place
was in a variety theatre.

There were stories, too, that were never published--not only
about Tcheriapin, but concerning the Strad, upon which he played.
If all this atmosphere of mystery which surrounded the man had
truly been the work of a press agent, then the agent must have
been as great a genius as his client.  But I can assure you that
the stories concerning Tcheriapin, true and absurd alike, were
not inspired for business purposes; they grew up around him like
fungi.

I can see him now, a lean, almost emaciated figure with slow,
sinuous movements and a trick of glancing sideways with those
dark, unfathomable, slightly oblique eyes.  He could take up his
bow in such a way as to create an atmosphere of electrical
suspense.

He was loathsome, yet fascinating.  One's mental attitude toward
him was one of defence, of being tensely on guard.  Then he would
play.

You have heard him play, and it is therefore unnecessary for me
to attempt to describe the effect of that music.  The only
composition which ever bore his name--I refer to "The Black
Mass"--affected me on every occasion when I heard it, as no other
composition has ever done.

Perhaps it was Tcheriapin's playing rather than the music itself
which reached down into hitherto un-plumbed depths within me and
awakened dark things which, unsuspected, lay there sleeping.  I
never heard "The Black Mass" played by anyone else; indeed, I am
not aware that it was ever published.  But had it been we should
rarely hear it.  Like Locke's music to "Macbeth" it bears an
unpleasant reputation; to include it in any concert programme
would be to court disaster.  An idle superstition, perhaps, but
there is much naivete in the artistic temperament.

Men detested Tcheriapin, yet when he chose he could win over his
bitterest enemies.  Women followed him as children followed the
Pied Piper; he courted none, but was courted by all.  He would
glance aside with those black, slanting eyes, shrug in his
insolent fashion, and turn away.  And they would follow.  God
knows how many of them followed--whether through the dens of
Limehouse or the more fashionable salons of vice in the West
End--they followed--perhaps down to Hell.  So much for
Tcheriapin.

At the time when the episode occurred to which I have referred,
Dr.  Kreener occupied a house in Regent's Park, to which, when
his duties at the munition works allowed, he would sometimes
retire at week-ends.  He was a man of complex personality.  I
think no one ever knew him thoroughly; indeed, I doubt if he knew
himself.

He was hail-fellow-well-met with the painters, sculptors, poets,
and social reformers who have made of Soho a new Mecca.  No
movement in art was so modern that Dr.  Kreener was not
conversant with it; no development in Bolshevism so violent or so
secret that Dr.  Kreener could not speak of it complacently and
with inside knowledge.

These were his Bohemian friends, these dreamers and schemers.  Of
this side of his life his scientific colleagues knew little or
nothing, but in his hours of leisure at Regent's Park it was with
these dreamers that he loved to surround himself rather than with
his brethren of the laboratory.  I think if Dr.  Kreener had not
been a great chemist he would have been a great painter, or
perhaps a politician, or even a poet.  Triumph was his
birthright, and the fruits for which lesser men reached out in
vain fell ripe into his hands.

The favourite meeting-place for these oddly assorted boon
companions was the doctor's laboratory, which was divided from
the house by a moderately large garden.  Here on a Sunday evening
one might meet the very "latest" composer, the sculptor bringing
a new "message," or the man destined to supplant with the ballet
the time-worn operatic tradition.

But while some of these would come and go, so that one could
never count with certainty upon meeting them, there was one who
never failed to be present when such an informal reception was
held.  Of him I must speak at greater length, for a reason which
will shortly appear.

Andrews was the name by which he was known to the circles in
which he moved.  No one, from Sir John Tennier, the fashionable
portrait painter, to Kruski, of the Russian ballet, disputed
Andrews's right to be counted one of the elect.  Yet it was
known, nor did he trouble to hide the fact, that Andrews was
employed at a large printing works in South London, designing
advertisements.  He was a great, red-bearded, unkempt Scotsman,
and only once can I remember to have seen him strictly sober; but
to hear him talk about painters and painting in his thick
Caledonian accent was to look into the soul of an artist.

He was as sour as an unripe grape-fruit, cynical, embittered, a
man savagely disappointed with life and the world; and tragedy
was written all over him.  If anyone knew the secret of his
wasted life it was Dr.  Kreener, and Dr.  Kreener was a reliquary
of so many secrets that this one was safe as if the grave had
swallowed it.

One Sunday Tcheriapin joined the party.  That he would gravitate
there sooner or later was inevitable, for the laboratory in the
garden was a Kaaba to which all such spirits made at least one
pilgrimage.  He had just set musical London on fire with his
barbaric playing, and already those stories to which I have
referred were creeping into circulation.

Although Dr.  Kreener never expected anything of his guests
beyond an interchange of ideas, it was a fact that the laboratory
contained an almost unique collection of pencil and charcoal
studies by famous artists, done upon the spot; of statuettes in
wax, putty, soap and other extemporized materials, by the newest
sculptors.  While often enough from the drawing room which opened
upon the other end of the garden had issued the strains of
masterly piano-playing, and it was no uncommon thing for little
groups to gather in the neighbouring road to listen, gratis, to
the voice of some great vocalist.

From the first moment of their meeting an intense antagonism
sprang up between Tcheriapin and Andrews.  Neither troubled very
much to veil it.  In Tcheriapin it found expression in covert
sneers and sidelong glances, while the big, lion-maned Scotsman
snorted open contempt of the Eurasian violinist. However, what I
was about to say was that Tcheriapin on the occasion of his first
visit brought his violin.

It was there, amid these incongruous surroundings, that I first
had my spirit tortured by the strains of "The Black Mass."

There were five of us present, including Tcheriapin, and not one
of the four listeners was unaffected by the music.  But the
influence which it exercised upon Andrews was so extraordinary as
almost to reach the phenomenal.  He literally writhed in his
chair, and finally interrupted the performance by staggering
rather than walking out of the laboratory.

I remember that he upset a jar of acid in his stumbling exit.  It
flowed across the floor almost to the feet of Tcheriapin, and the
way in which the little black-haired man skipped, squealing, out
of the path of the corroding fluid was curiously like that of a
startled rabbit.  Order was restored in due course, but we could
not induce Tcheriapin to play again, nor did Andrews return until
the violinist had taken his departure.  We found him in the
dining room, a nearly empty whisky-bottle beside him.

"I had to gang awa'," he explained thickly; "he was temptin' me
to murder him.  I should ha' had to do it if I had stayed.  Damn
his hell-music."

Tcheriapin revisited Dr.  Kreener on many occasions afterward,
although for a long time he did not bring his violin again.  The
doctor had prevailed upon Andrews to tolerate the Eurasian's
company, and I could not help noticing how Tcheriapin skilfully
and deliberately goaded the Scotsman, seeming to take a fiendish
delight in disagreeing with his pet theories and in discussing
any topic which he had found to be distasteful to Andrews.

Chief among these was that sort of irreverent criticism of women
in which male parties so often indulge.  Bitter cynic though he
was, women were sacred to Andrews.  To speak disrespectfully of a
woman in his presence was like uttering blasphemy in the study of
a cardinal.  Tcheriapin very quickly detected the Scotsman's
weakness, and one night he launched out into a series of amorous
adventures which set Andrews writhing as he had writhed under the
torture of "The Black Mass."

On this occasion the party was only a small one, comprising
myself, Dr.  Kreener, Andrews and Tcheriapin.  I could feel the
storm brewing, but was powerless to check it.  How presently it
was to break in tragic violence I could not foresee.  Fate had
not meant that I should foresee it.

Allowing for the free play of an extravagant artistic mind,
Tcheriapin's career on his own showing had been that of a callous
blackguard.  I began by being disgusted and ended by being
fascinated, not by the man's scandalous adventures, but by the
scarcely human psychology of the narrator.

From Warsaw to Budapesth, Shanghai to Paris, and Cairo to London
he passed, leaving ruin behind him with a smile--airily flicking
cigarette ash upon the floor to indicate the termination of each
"episode."

Andrews watched him in a lowering way which I did not like at
all.  He had ceased to snort his scorn; indeed, for ten minutes
or so he had uttered no word or sound; but there was something in
the pose of his ungainly body which strangely suggested that of a
great dog preparing to spring.  Presently the violinist recalled
what he termed a "charming idyll of Normandy."

"There is one poor fool in the world," he said, shrugging his
slight shoulders, "who never knew how badly he should hate me.
Ha!  ha!  of him I shall tell you.  Do you remember, my friends,
some few years ago, a picture that was published in Paris and
London?  Everybody bought it; everybody said: 'He is a made man,
this fellow who can paint so fine.'"

"To what picture do you refer?" asked Dr.  Kreener.

"It was called 'A Dream at Dawn.'"

As he spoke the words I saw Andrews start forward, and Dr.
Kreener exchanged a swift glance with him.  But the Scotsman,
unseen by the vainglorious half-caste, shook his head fiercely.

The picture to which Tcheriapin referred will, of course, be
perfectly familiar to you.  It had phenomenal popularity some
eight years ago.  Nothing was known of the painter--whose name
was Colquhoun--and nothing has been seen of his work since.  The
original painting was never sold, and after a time this promising
new artist was, of course, forgotten.

Presently Tcheriapin continued:

"It is the figure of a slender girl--ah!  angels of grace!--what
a girl!" He kissed his hand rapturously.  "She is posed bending
gracefully forward, and looking down at her own lovely reflection
in the water.  It is a seashore, you remember, and the little
ripples play about her ankles.  The first blush of the dawn robes
her white body in a transparent mantle of light.  Ah!  God's
mercy!  it was as she stood so, in a little cove of Normandy,
that I saw her!"

He paused, rolling his dark eyes; and I could hear Andrews's
heavy breathing; then:

"It was the 'new art'--the posing of the model not in a lighted
studio, but in the scene to be depicted.

"And the fellow who painted her!--the man with the barbarous name!
Bah!  he was big--as big as our Mr. Andrews--and ugly--pooh!
uglier than he!  A moon-face, with cropped skull like a prize-
fighter and no soul.  But, yes, he could paint.  'A Dream at
Dawn' was genius--yes, some soul he must have had.

"He could paint, dear friends, but he could not love.  Him I
counted as--puff!"

He blew imaginary down into space.

"Her I sought out, and presently found.  She told me, in those
sweet stolen rambles along the shore, when the moonlight made her
look like a Madonna, that she was his inspiration--his art--his
life.  And she wept; she wept, and I kissed her tears away.

"To please her I waited until 'A Dream at Dawn' was finished.
With the finish of the picture, finished also his dream of dawn--
the moon-faced one's."

Tcheriapin laughed, and lighted a fresh cigarette.

"Can you believe that a man could be so stupid?  He never knew of
my existence, this big, red booby.  He never knew that I existed
until--until his 'dream' had fled--with me!  In a week we were in
Paris, that dream-girl and I--in a month we had quarrelled.  I
always end these matters with a quarrel; it makes the complete
finish.  She struck me in the face--and I laughed.  She turned
and went away.  We were tired of one another.

"Ah!" Again he airily kissed his hand.  "There were others after
I had gone.  I heard for a time.  But her memory is like a rose,
fresh and fair and sweet.  I am glad I can remember her so, and
not as she afterward became.  That is the art of love.  She
killed herself with absinthe, my friends.  She died in Marseilles
in the first year of the great war."

Thus far Tcheriapin had proceeded, and was in the act of airily
flicking ash upon the floor, when, uttering a sound which I can
only describe as a roar, Andrews hurled himself upon the smiling
violinist.

His great red hands clutching Tcheriapin's throat, the insane
Scotsman, for insane he was at that moment, forced the other back
upon the settee from which he had half arisen.  In vain I sought
to drag him away from the writhing body, but I doubt that any man
could have relaxed that deadly grip.  Tcheriapin's eyes protruded
hideously and his tongue lolled forth from his mouth.  One could
hear the breath whistling through his nostrils as Andrews
silently, deliberately, squeezed the life out of him.

It all occupied only a few minutes, and then Andrews, slowly
opening his rigidly crooked fingers, stood panting and looking
down at the distorted face of the dead man.

For once in his life the Scotsman was sober, and turning to Dr.
Kreener:

"I have waited seven long years for this," he said, "and I'll
hang wi' contentment."

I can never forget the ensuing moments, in which, amid a horrible
silence broken only by the ticking of a clock and the heavy
breathing of Colquhoun (so long known to us as Andrews) we stood
watching the contorted body on the settee.

And as we watched, slowly the rigid limbs began to relax, and
Tcheriapin slid gently on to the floor, collapsing there with a
soft thud, where he squatted like some hideous Buddha, resting
back against the cushions, one spectral yellow hand upraised, the
fingers still clutching a big gold tassel.

Andrews (for so I always think of him) was seized with a violent
fit of trembling, and he dropped into the chair, muttering to
himself and looking down wild-eyed at his twitching fingers.
Then he began to laugh, high-pitched laughter, in little short
peals.

"Here!" cried the doctor sharply.  "Drop that!"

Crossing to Andrews, he grasped him by the shoulders and shook
him roughly.

The laughter ceased, and:

"Send for the police," said Andrews in a queer, shaky voice.
"Dinna fear but I'm ready.  I'm only sorry it happened here."

"You ought to be glad," said Dr.  Kreener.

There was a covert meaning in the words--a fact which penetrated
even to the dulled intelligence of the Scotsman, for he glanced
up haggardly at his friend.

"You ought to be glad," repeated Dr.  Kreener.

Turning, he walked to the laboratory door and locked it.  He next
lowered all the blinds.

"I pray that we have not been observed," he said, "but we must
chance it."

He mixed a drink for Andrews and himself.  His quiet, decisive
manner had had its effect, and Andrews was now more composed.
Indeed, he seemed to be in a half-dazed condition; but he
persistently kept his back turned to the crouching figure propped
up against the settee.

"If you think you can follow me," said Dr.  Kreener abruptly, "I
will show you the result of a recent experiment."

Unlocking a cupboard, he took out a tiny figure some two inches
long by one inch high, mounted upon a polished wooden pedestal.
It was that of a guinea-pig.  The flaky fur gleamed like the
finest silk, and one felt that the coat of the minute creature
would be as floss to the touch; whereas in reality it possessed
the rigidity of steel.  Literally one could have done it little
damage with a hammer.  Its weight was extraordinary.

"I am learning new things about this process every day,"
continued Dr.  Kreener, placing the little figure upon a table.
"For instance, while it seems to operate uniformly upon vegetable
matter, there are curious modifications when one applies it to
animal and mineral substances.  I have now definitely decided
that the result of this particular inquiry must never be
published.  You, Colquhoun, I believe, possess an example of the
process, a tiger lily, I think?  I must ask you to return it to
me.  Our late friend, Tcheriapin, wears a pink rose in his coat
which I have treated in the same way.  I am going to take the
liberty of removing it."

He spoke in the hard, incisive manner which I had heard him use
in the lecture theatre, and it was evident enough that his design
was to prepare Andrews for something which he contemplated.
Facing the Scotsman where he sat hunched up in the big armchair,
dully watching the speaker:

"There is one experiment," said Dr.  Kreener, speaking very
deliberately, "which I have never before had a suitable
opportunity of attempting.  Of its result I am personally
confident, but science always demands proof."

His voice rang now with a note of repressed excitement.  He
paused for a moment, and then:

"If you were to examine this little specimen very closely," he
said, and rested his finger upon the tiny figure of the guinea-
pig, "you would find that in one particular it is imperfect.
Although a diamond drill would have to be employed to demonstrate
the fact, the animal's organs, despite their having undergone a
chemical change quite new to science, are intact, perfect down to
the smallest detail.  One part of the creature's structure alone
defied my process.  In short, dental enamel is impervious to it.
This little animal, otherwise as complete as when it lived and
breathed, has no teeth.  I found it necessary to extract them
before submitting the body to the reductionary process."

He paused.

"Shall I go on?" he asked.

Andrews, to whose mind, I think, no conception of the doctor's
project had yet penetrated, shuddered, but slowly nodded his
head.

Dr.  Kreener glanced across the laboratory at the crouching
figure of Tcheriapin, then, resting his hands upon Andrews's
shoulders, he pushed him back in the chair and stared into his
dull eyes.

"Brace yourself, Colquhoun," he said tersely.

Turning, he crossed to a small mahogany cabinet at the farther
end of the room.  Pulling out a glass tray he judicially selected
a pair of dental forceps.




II

"THE BLACK MASS"



Thus far the stranger's appalling story had progressed when that
singular cloak in which hypnotically he had enwrapped me seemed
to drop, and I found myself clutching the edge of the table and
staring into the gray face of the speaker.

I became suddenly aware of the babel of voices about me, of the
noisome smell of Malay Jack's, and of the presence of Jack in
person, who was inquiring if there were any further orders.  I
was conscious of nausea.

"Excuse me," I said, rising unsteadily, "but I fear the
oppressive atmosphere is affecting me."

"If you prefer to go out," said my acquaintance, in that deep
voice which throughout the dreadful story had rendered me
oblivious of my surroundings, "I should be much favoured if you
would accompany me to a spot not five hundred yards from here."

Seeing me hesitate:

"I have a particular reason for asking," he added.

"Very well," I replied, inclining my head, "if you wish it.  But
certainly I must seek the fresh air."

Going up the steps and out through the door above which the blue
lantern burned, we came to the street, turned to the left, to the
left again, and soon were threading that maze of narrow ways
which complicates the map of Pennyfields.

I felt somewhat recovered.  Here, in the narrow but familiar
highways the spell of my singular acquaintance lost much of its
potency, and already I found myself doubting the story of Dr.
Kreener and Tcheriapin.  Indeed, I began to laugh at myself,
conceiving that I had fallen into the hands of some comedian who
was making sport of me; although why such a person should visit
Malay Jack's was not apparent.

I was about to give expression to these new and saner ideas when
my companion paused before a door half hidden in a little alley
which divided the back of a Chinese restaurant from the tawdry-
looking establishment of a cigar merchant.  He apparently held
the key, for although I did not actually hear the turning of the
lock I saw that he had opened the door.

"May I request you to follow me?" came his deep voice out of the
darkness.  "I will show you something which will repay your
trouble."

Again the cloak touched me, but it was without entirely resigning
myself to the compelling influence that I followed my mysterious
acquaintance up an uncarpeted and nearly dark stair.  On the
landing above a gas lamp was burning, and opening a door
immediately facing the stair the stranger conducted me into a
barely furnished and untidy room.

The atmosphere smelled like that of a pot-house, the odours of
stale spirits and of tobacco mingling unpleasantly.  As my guide
removed his hat and stood there, a square, gaunt figure in his
queer, caped overcoat, I secured for the first time a view of his
face in profile; and found it to be startlingly unfamiliar.  Seen
thus, my acquaintance was another man.  I realized that there was
something unnatural about the long, white hair, the gray face;
that the sharp outline of brow, nose, and chin was that of a much
younger man than I had supposed him to be.

All this came to me in a momentary flash of perception, for
immediately my attention was riveted upon a figure hunched up on
a dilapidated sofa on the opposite side of the room.  It was that
of a big man, bearded and very heavily built, but whose face
was scarred as by years of suffering, and whose eyes confirmed
the story indicated by the smell of stale spirits with which the
air of the room was laden.  A nearly empty bottle stood on a
table at his elbow, a glass beside it, and a pipe lay in a saucer
full of ashes near the glass.

As we entered, the glazed eyes of the man opened widely and he
clutched at the table with big red hands, leaning forward and
staring horribly.

Save for this derelict figure and some few dirty utensils and
scattered garments which indicated that the apartment was used
both as sleeping and living room, there was so little of interest
in the place that automatically my wandering gaze strayed from
the figure on the sofa to a large oil painting, unframed, which
rested upon the mantelpiece above the dirty grate, in which the
fire had become extinguished.

I uttered a stifled exclamation.  It was "A Dream at Dawn"--
evidently the original painting!

On the left of it, from a nail in the wall, hung a violin and
bow, and on the right stood a sort of cylindrical glass case or
closed jar, upon a wooden base.

From the moment that I perceived the contents of this glass case
a sense of fantasy claimed me, and I ceased to know where reality
ended and mirage began.

It contained a tiny and perfect figure of a man.  He was arrayed
in a beautifully fitting dress-suit such as a doll might have
worn, and he was posed as if in the act of playing a violin,
although no violin was present.  At the elfin black hair and
Mephistophelian face of this horrible, wonderful image, I stared
fascinatedly.

I looked and looked at the dwarfed figure of. . . Tcheriapin!

All these impressions came to me in the space of a few hectic
moments, when in upon my mental tumult intruded a husky whisper
from the man on the sofa.

"Kreener!" he said.  "Kreener!"

At the sound of that name, and because of the way in which it was
pronounced, I felt my blood running cold.  The speaker was
staring straight at my companion.

I clutched at the open door.  I felt that there was still some
crowning horror to come.  I wanted to escape from that reeking
room, but my muscles refused to obey me, and there I stood while:

"Kreener!" repeated the husky voice, and I saw that the speaker
was rising unsteadily to his feet.

"You have brought him again.  Why have you brought him again?  He
will play.  He will play me a step nearer to Hell."

"Brace yourself, Colquhoun," said the voice of my companion.
"Brace yourself."

"Take him awa'!" came in a sudden frenzied shriek.  "Take him
awa'!  He's there at your elbow, Kreener, mockin' me, and
pointing to that damned violin."

"Here!" said the stranger, a high note of command in his voice.
"Drop that!  Sit down at once."

Even as the other obeyed him, the cloaked stranger, stepping to
the mantelpiece, opened a small box which lay there beside the
glass case.  He turned to me; and I tried to shrink away from
him.  For I knew--I knew--yet I loathed to look upon--what was in
the box.  Muffled as though reaching me through fog, I heard the
words:

"A perfect human body . . .in miniature. . . every organ intact by
means of. . . process. . . rendered indestructible.  Tcheriapin
as he was in life may be seen by the curious ten thousand years
hence.  Incomplete. . . one respect. . . here in this box. . ."

The spell was broken by a horrifying shriek from the man whom my
companion had addressed as Colquhoun, and whom I could only
suppose to be the painter of the celebrated picture which rested
upon the mantelshelf.

"Take him awa', Kreener!  He is reaching for the violin!"

Animation returned to me, and I fell rather than ran down the
darkened stair.  How I opened the street door I know not, but
even as I stepped out into the squalid alleys of Pennyfields the
cloaked figure was beside me.  A hand was laid upon my shoulder.

"Listen!" commanded a deep voice.

Clearly, with an eerie sweetness, an evil, hellish beauty
indescribable, the wailing of a Stradivarius violin crept to my
ears from the room above.  Slowly--slowly the music began, and my
soul rose up in revolt.

"Listen!" repeated the voice.  "Listen!  It is 'The Black Mass'!"






THE DANCE OF THE VEILS





I

THE HOUSE OF THE AGAPOULOS



Hassan came in and began very deliberately to light the four
lamps.  He muttered to himself and often smiled in the childish
manner which characterizes some Egyptians.  Hassan wore a red
cap, and a white robe confined at the waist by a red sash.  On
his brown feet he wore loose slippers, also of red.  He had good
features and made a very picturesque figure moving slowly about
his work.

As he lighted lamp after lamp and soft illumination crept about
the big room, because of the heavy shadows created the place
seemed to become mysteriously enlarged.  That it was an Eastern
apartment cunningly devised to appeal to the Western eye, one
familiar with Arab households must have seen at once.  It was a
traditional Oriental interior, a stage setting rather than the
nondescript and generally uninteresting environment of the modern
Egyptian at home.

Brightly coloured divans there were and many silken cushions of
strange pattern and design.  The hanging lamps were of perforated
brass with little coloured glass panels.  In carved wooden
cabinets stood beautiful porcelain jars, trays, and vessels of
silver and copper ware.  Rich carpets were spread about the
floor, and the draperies were elegant and costly, while two deep
windows projecting over the court represented the best period of
Arab architecture.  Their intricate carven woodwork had once
adorned the palace of a Grand Wazir.  Agapoulos had bought them
in Cairo and had had them fitted to his house in Chinatown.  A
smaller brass lamp of very delicate workmanship was suspended in
each of the recesses.

As Hassan, having lighted the four larger lanterns, was
proceeding leisurely to light the first of the smaller ones,
draperies before a door at the east end of the room were parted
and Agapoulos came in.  Agapoulos was a short but portly Greek
whom the careless observer might easily have mistaken for a Jew.
He had much of the appearance of a bank manager, having the
manners of one used to making himself agreeable, but also
possessing the money-eye and that comprehensive glance which
belongs to the successful man of commerce.

Standing in the centre of the place he brushed his neat black
moustache with a plump forefinger.  A diamond ring which he wore
glittered brilliantly in the coloured rays of the lanterns.  With
his right hand, which rested in his trouser pocket, he rattled
keys.  His glance roved about the room appraisingly.  Walking to
a beautifully carved Arab cabinet he rearranged three pieces of
Persian copperware which stood upon it.  He moved several
cushions, and taking up a leopard skin which lay upon the floor
he draped it over an ebony chair which was inlaid intricately
with ivory.

The drooping eyelids of M. Agapoulos drooped lower, as returning
to the centre of the room he critically surveyed the effect of
these master touches.  At the moment he resembled a window-
dresser, or, rather, one of those high-salaried artists who
beautify the great establishments of Regent Street, the Rue de la
Paix, and Ruination Avenue, New York.

Hassan lighted the sixth lamp, muttering smilingly all the time.
He was about to depart when Agapoulos addressed him in Arabic.

"There will be a party down from the Savoy tonight, Hassan.  No
one else is to come unless I am told.  That accursed red
policeman, Kerry, has been about here of late.  Be very careful."

Hassan saluted him gravely and retired through one of the draped
openings.  In his hand he held the taper with which he had
lighted the lamps.  In order that the draperies should not be
singed he had to hold them widely apart.  For it had not occurred
to Hassan to extinguish the taper.  The Egyptian mind is complex
in its simplicity.

M. Agapoulos from a gold case extracted a cigarette, and lighting
it, inhaled the smoke contentedly, looking about him.  The
window-dresser was lost again in the bank manager who has
arranged a profitable overdraft.  Somewhere a bell rang.  Hassan,
treading silently, reappeared, crossed the room, and opening a
finely carved door walked along a corridor which it had
concealed.  He still carried the lighted taper.

Presently there entered a man whose well-cut serge suit revealed
the figure of a soldier.  He wore a soft gray felt hat and
carried light gloves and a cane.  His dark face, bronzed by
recent exposure to the Egyptian sun, was handsome in a saturnine
fashion, and a touch of gray at the temples tended to enhance his
good looks.  He carried himself in that kind of nonchalant manner
which is not only insular but almost insolent.

M. Agapoulos bowed extravagantly.  As he laid his plump hand upon
his breast the diamond ring sparkled in a way most opulent and
impressive.

"I greet you, Major Grantham," he said.  "Behold"--he waved his
hand glitteringly--"all is prepared."

"Oh, yes," murmured the other, glancing around without interest;
"good.  You are beginning to get straight in your new quarters."

Agapoulos extended the prosperous cigarette-case, and Major
Grantham took and lighted a superior cigarette.

"How many in the party?" inquired the Greek smilingly.

"Three and myself."

A shadow of a frown appeared upon the face of Agapoulos.

"Only three," he muttered.

Major Grantham laughed.

"You should know me by this time, Agapoulos," he said.  "The
party is small but exclusive, you understand?"

He spoke wearily, as a tired man speaks of distasteful work which
he must do.  There was contempt in his voice; contempt of
Agapoulos, and contempt of himself.

"Ah!" cried the Greek, brightening; "do I know any of them?"

"Probably.  General Sir Francis Payne, Mr. Eddie, and Sir Horace
Tipton."

"An Anglo-American party, eh?"

"Quite.  Mr. Eddie is the proprietor of the well-known group of
American hotels justly celebrated for their great height and
poisonous cuisine; while Sir Horace Tipton alike as sportsman,
globe-trotter, and soap manufacturer, is characteristically
British.  Of General Sir Francis Payne I need only say that his
home services during the war did incalculable harm to our
prestige throughout the Empire."

He spoke with all the bitterness of a man who has made a failure
of life.  Agapoulos was quite restored to good humour.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, brushing his moustache and rattling his keys;
"sportsmen, eh?"

Major Grantham dropped into the carven chair upon which the Greek
had draped the leopard skin.  Momentarily the window-dresser
leapt into life as Agapoulos beheld one of his cunning effects
destroyed, but he forced a smile when Grantham, shrugging his
shoulders, replied:

"If they are fools enough to play--the usual 5 per cent, on the
bank's takings."

He paused, glancing at some ash upon the tip of his cigarette.
Agapoulos swiftly produced an ashtray and received the ash on it
in the manner of a churchwarden collecting half a crown from a
pew-holder.

"I think," continued Grantham indifferently, "that it will be the
dances.  Two of them are over fifty."

"Ah!" said Agapoulos thoughtfully; "not, of course, the ordinary
programme?"

Major Grantham looked up at him with lazy insolence.

"Why ask?" he inquired.  "Does Lucullus crave for sausages?  Do
philosophers play marbles?"

He laughed again, noting the rather blank look of Agapoulos.

"You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?" he added.  "I
mean to say that these men have been everywhere and done
everything.  They have drunk wine sweet and sour and have
swallowed the dregs.  I am bringing them.  It is enough."

"More than enough," declared the Greek with enthusiasm.  He
bowed, although Grantham was not looking at him.  "In the little
matter of fees I can rely upon your discretion, as always.  Is it
not said that a good dragoman is a desirable husband?"

Major Grantham resettled himself in his chair.

"M. Agapoulos," he said icily, "we have done shady business
together for years, both in Port Said and in London, and have
remained the best of friends; two blackguards linked by our
common villainy.  But if this pleasant commercial acquaintance is
to continue let there be no misunderstanding between us, M.
Agapoulos.  I may know I'm a dragoman; but in future, old
friend"--he turned lazy eyes upon the Greek--"for your guidance,
don't remind me of the fact or I'll wring your neck."

The drooping eyelids of M. Agapoulos flickered significantly, but
it was with a flourish more grand than usual that he bowed.

"Pardon, pardon," he murmured.  "You speak harshly of yourself,
but ah, you do not mean it.  We understand each other, eh?"

"I understand you perfectly," drawled Grantham; "I was merely
advising you to endeavour to understand me.  My party will arrive
at nine o'clock, Agapoulos, and I am going back to the Savoy
shortly to dress.  Meanwhile, if Hassan would bring me a whisky
and soda I should be obliged."

"Of course, of course.  He shall do so at once," cried Agapoulos.
"I will tell him."

Palpably glad to escape, the fat Greek retired, leaving Major
Grantham lolling there upon the leopard skin, his hat, cane and
gloves upon the carpet beside him; and a few moments later Hassan
the silent glided into the extravagant apartment bearing
refreshments.  Placing his tray upon a little coffee-table beside
Major Grantham, he departed.

There was a faint smell of perfume in the room, a heavy
voluptuous smell in which the odour of sandal-wood mingled with
the pungency of myrrh.  It was very silent, so that when Grantham
mixed a drink the pleasant chink of glass upon glass rang out
sharply.




II

ZAHARA



Zahara had overheard the latter part of the conversation from her
own apartment.  Once she had even crept across to the carven
screen in order that she might peep through into the big, softly
lighted room.  She had interrupted her toilet to do so, and
having satisfied herself that Grantham was one of the speakers
(although she had really known this already), she had returned
and stared at herself critically in the mirror.

Zahara, whose father had been a Frenchman, possessed skin of a
subtle cream colour very far removed from the warm brown of her
Egyptian mother, but yet not white.  At night it appeared
dazzling, for she enhanced its smooth, creamy pallor with a
wonderful liquid solution which came from Paris.  It was hard,
Zahara had learned, to avoid a certain streaky appearance, but
much practice had made her an adept.

This portion of her toilet she had already completed and studying
her own reflection she wondered, as she had always wondered, what
Agapoulos could see in Safiyeh.  Safiyeh was as brown as a berry;
quite pretty for an Egyptian girl, as Zahara admitted scornfully,
but brown--brown.  It was a great puzzle to Zahara.  The mystery
of life indeed had puzzled little Zahara very much from the
moment when she had first begun to notice things with those big,
surprising blue eyes of hers, right up to the present twenty-
fourth year of her life.  She had an uneasy feeling that Safiyeh,
who was only sixteen, knew more of this mystery than she did.
Once, shortly after the Egyptian girl had come to the house of
Agapoulos, Zahara had playfully placed her round white arm
against that of the more dusky beauty, and:

"Look!" she had exclaimed.  "I am cream and you are coffee."

"It is true," the other had admitted in her practical, serious
way, "but some men do not like cream.  All men like coffee."

Zahara rested her elbows upon the table and surveyed the
reflection of her perfect shoulders with disapproval.  She had
been taught at her mother's knee that men did not understand
women, and she, who had been born and reared in that quarter of
Cairo where there is no day but one long night, had lived to
learn the truth of the lesson.  Yet she was not surprised that
this was so; for Zahara did not understand herself.  Her desires
were so simple and so seemingly natural, yet it would appear that
they were contrary to the established order of things.

She was proud to think that she was French, although someone had
told her that the French, though brave, were mercenary.  Zahara
admired the French for being brave, and thought it very sensible
that they should be mercenary.  For there was nothing that Zahara
wanted of the world that money could not obtain (or so she
believed), and she knew no higher philosophy than the quest of
happiness.  Because others did not seem to share this philosophy
she often wondered if she could be unusual.  She had come to the
conclusion that she was ignorant.  If only Harry Grantham would
talk to her she felt sure he could teach her so much.

There were so many things that puzzled her.  She knew that at
twenty-four she was young for a French girl, although as an
Egyptian she would have been considered old.  She had been taught
that gold was the key to happiness and that man was the ogre from
whom this key must be wheedled.  A ready pupil, Zahara had early
acquired the art of attracting, and now at twenty-four she was a
past mistress of the Great Craft, and as her mirror told her,
more beautiful than she had ever been.

Therefore, what did Agapoulos see in Safiyeh?

It was a problem which made Zahara's head ache.  She could not
understand why as her power of winning men increased her power to
hold them diminished.  Safiyeh was a mere inexperienced child--
yet Agapoulos had brought her to the house, and Zahara, wise in
woman's lore, had recognized the familiar change of manner.

It was a great problem, the age-old problem which doubtless set
the first silver thread among Phryne's red-gold locks and which
now brought a little perplexed wrinkle between Zahara's
delicately pencilled brows.

It had not always been so.  In those early days in Cairo there
had been an American boy.  Zahara had never forgotten.  Her
beauty had bewildered him.  He had wanted to take her to New
York; and oh!  how she had wanted to go.  But her mother, who was
then alive, had held other views, and he had gone alone.
Heavens!  How old she felt.  How many had come and gone since
that Egyptian winter, but now, although admiration was fatally
easy to win how few were so sincere as that fresh-faced boy from
beyond the Atlantic.

Zahara, staring into the mirror, observed that there was not a
wrinkle upon her face, not a flaw upon her perfect skin.  Nor in
this was she blinded by vanity.  Nature, indeed, had cast her in
a rare mould, and from her unusual hair, which was like dull
gold, to her slender ankles and tiny feet, she was one of the
most perfectly fashioned human beings who ever added to the
beauty of the world.

Yet Agapoulos preferred Safiyeh.  Zahara could hear him coming to
her room even as she sat there, chin in hands, staring at her own
bewitching reflection.  Presently she would slip out and speak to
Harry Grantham.  Twice she had read in his eyes that sort of
interest which she knew so well how to detect.  She liked him
very much, but because of a sense of loyalty to Agapoulos (a
sentiment purely Egyptian which she longed to crush) Zahara had
never so much as glanced at Grantham in the Right Way.  She was
glad, though, that he had not gone, and she hoped that Agapoulos
would not detain her long.

As a matter of fact, the Greek's manner was even more cold than
usual.  He rested his hand upon her shoulder for a moment, and
meeting her glance reflected in the mirror:

"There will be a lot of money here to-night," he said.  "Make the
best of your opportunities.  Chinatown is foggy, yes--but it pays
better than Port Said."

He ran fat fingers carelessly through her hair, the big diamond
glittering effectively in the wavy gold, then turned and went
out.  Sitting listening intently, Zahara could hear him talking
in a subdued voice to Safiyeh, and could detect the Egyptian's
low-spoken replies.

*****

Grantham looked up with a start.  A new and subtle perfume had
added itself to that with which the air of the room was already
laden.  He found Zahara standing beside him.

His glance travelled upward from a pair of absurdly tiny brocaded
shoes past slender white ankles to the embroidered edge of a
wonderful mandarin robe decorated with the figures of peacocks;
upward again to a little bejewelled hand which held the robe
confined about the slender figure of Zahara, and upward to where,
sideways upon a bare shoulder peeping impudently out from Chinese
embroidery, rested the half-mocking and half-serious face of the
girl.

"Hallo!" he said, smiling, "I didn't hear you come in."

"I walk very soft," explained Zahara, "because I am not supposed
to be here."

She looked at him quizzically.  "I don't see you for a long
time," she added, and in the tone of her voice there was a
caress.  "I saw you more often in Port Said than here."

"No," replied Grantham, "I have been giving Agapoulos a rest.
Besides, there has been nobody worth while at any of the hotels
or clubs during the last fortnight."

"Somebody worth while coming to-night?" asked Zahara with
professional interest.

At the very moment that she uttered the words she recognized her
error, for she saw Grantham's expression change.  Yet to her
strange soul there was a challenge in his coldness and the joy of
contest in the task of melting the ice of this English reserve.

"Lots of money," he said bitterly; "we shall all do well to-
night."

Zahara did not reply for a moment.  She wished to close this line
of conversation which inadvertently she had opened up.  So that,
presently:

"You look very lonely and bored," she said softly.

As a matter of fact, it was she who was bored of the life she led
in Limehouse--in chilly, misty Limehouse--and who had grown so
very lonely since Safiyeh had come.  In the dark gray eyes
looking up at her she read recognition of her secret.  Here was a
man possessing that rare masculine attribute, intuition.  Zahara
knew a fear that was half delightful.  Fear because she might
fail in either of two ways and delight because the contest was
equal.

"Yes," he replied slowly, "my looks tell the truth.  How did you
know?"

Zahara observed that his curiosity had not yet become actual
interest. She toyed with the silken tassel on her robe, tying and
untying it with quick nervous fingers and resting the while
against the side of the carved chair.

"Perhaps because I am so lonely myself," she said.  "I matter to
no one.  What I do, where I go, if I live or die.  It is all----"

She spread her small hands eloquently and shrugged so that
another white shoulder escaped from the Chinese wrapping.
Thereupon Zahara demurely drew her robe about her with a naive
air of modesty which nine out of ten beholding must have supposed
to be affected.

In reality it was a perfectly natural, instinctive movement.  To
Zahara her own beauty was a commonplace to be displayed or
concealed as circumstances might dictate.  In a certain sense,
which few could appreciate, this half-caste dancing girl and
daughter of El Wasr was as innocent as a baby.  It was one of the
things which men did not understand.  She thought that if Harry
Grantham asked her to go away with him it would be nice to go.
Suddenly she realized how deep was her loathing of this Limehouse
and of the people she met there, who were all alike.

He sat looking at her for some time, and then: "Perhaps you are
wrong," he said.  "There may be some who could understand."

And because he had answered her thoughts rather than her words,
the fear within Zahara grew greater than the joy of the contest.

Awhile longer she stayed, seeking for a chink in the armour.  But
she failed to kindle the light in his eyes which--unless she had
deluded herself--she had seen there in the past; and because she
failed and could detect no note of tenderness in his impersonal
curiosity:

"You are lonely because you are so English, so cold," she
exclaimed, drawing her robe about her and glancing sideways
toward the door by which Agapoulos might be expected to enter.
"You are bored, yes.  Of course.  You look on at life.  It is not
exciting, that game--except for the players."

Never once had she looked at him in the Right Way; for to have
done so and to have evoked only that amused yet compassionate
smile would have meant hatred, and Zahara had been taught that
such hatred was fatal because it was a confession of defeat.

"I shall see you again to-night, shall I not?" he said as she
turned away.

"Oh, yes, I shall be--on show.  I hope you will approve."

She tossed her head like a petulant child, turned, and with never
another glance in his direction, walked from the room.  She was
very graceful, he thought.

Yet it was not entirely of this strange half-caste, whose beauty
was provoking, although he resolutely repelled her tentative
advances, that Grantham was thinking.  In that last gesture when
she had scornfully tossed her head in turning aside, had lain a
bitter memory.  Grantham stood for a moment watching the swaying
draperies.  Then, dropping the end of his cigarette into a little
brass ash-tray, he took up his hat, gloves, and cane from the
floor, and walked toward the doorway through which he had
entered.

A bell rang somewhere, and Grantham paused.  A close observer
might have been puzzled by his expression.  Evidently changing
his mind, he crossed the room, opened the door and went out,
leaving the house of Agapoulos by a side entrance.  Crossing the
little courtyard below he hurried in the direction of the main
street, seeming to doubt the shadows which dusk was painting in
the narrow ways.

Many men who know Chinatown distrust its shadows, but the furtive
fear of which Grantham had become aware was due not to
anticipation but to memory--to a memory conjured up by that
gesture of Zahara's.

There were few people in London or elsewhere who knew the history
of this scallywag Englishman.  That he had held the King's
commission at some time was generally assumed to be the fact, but
that his real name was not Grantham equally was taken for
granted.  His continuing, nevertheless, to style himself "Major"
was sufficient evidence to those interested that Grantham lived
by his wits; and from the fact that he lived well and dressed
well one might have deduced that his wits were bright if his
morals were turbid.

Now, the gesture of a woman piqued had called up the deathless
past. Hurrying through nearly empty squalid streets, he found
himself longing to pronounce a name, to hear it spoken that he
might linger over its bitter sweetness.  To this longing he
presently succumbed, and:

"Inez," he whispered, and again more loudly, "Inez."

Such a wave of lonely wretchedness and remorse swept up about his
heart that he was almost overwhelmed by it, yet he resigned
himself to its ruthless cruelty with a sort of savage joy.  The
shadowed ways of Limehouse ceased to exist for him, and in spirit
he stood once more in a queer, climbing, sunbathed street of
Gibraltar looking out across that blue ribbon of the Straits to
where the African coast lay hidden in the haze.

"I never knew," he said aloud.  And one meeting this man who
hurried along and muttered to himself must have supposed him to
be mad.  "I never knew.  Oh, God!  if I had only known."

But he was one of those to whom knowledge comes as a bitter
aftermath.  When his regiment had received orders to move from
the Rock, and he had informed Inez of his departure, she had
turned aside, just as Zahara had done; scornfully and in silence.
Because of his disbelief in her he had guarded his heart against
this beautiful Spanish girl who (as he realized too late) had
brought him the only real happiness he had ever known.  Often she
had told him of her brother, Miguel, who would kill her--would
kill them both--if he so much as suspected their meetings; of her
affianced husband, absent in Tunis, whose jealousy knew no
bounds.

He had pretended to believe, had even wanted to believe; but the
witchery of the girl's presence removed, he had laughed--at
himself and at Inez.  She was playing the Great Game, skilfully,
exquisitely.  When he was gone--there would soon be someone else.
Yet he had never told her that he doubted.  He had promised many
things--and had left her.

She died by her own hand on the night of his departure.

Now, as a wandering taxi came into view: "Inez!" he moaned--"I
never knew."

That brother whom he had counted a myth had succeeded in getting
on board the transport.  Before Grantham's inner vision the whole
dreadful scene now was reenacted: the struggle in the stateroom;
he even seemed to hear the sound of the shot, to see the
Spaniard, drenched with blood from a wound in his forehead, to
hear his cry:

"I cannot see!  I cannot see!  Mother of Mercy!  I have lost my
sight!"

It had broken Grantham.  The scandal was hushed up, but
retirement was inevitable.  He knew, too, that the light had gone
out of the world for him as it had gone for Miguel da Mura.

It is sometimes thus that a scallywag is made.




IV

THE STAR OF EGYPT



As Grantham went out by the side door, Hassan, soft of foot,
appeared.  Crossing to the main door he opened it and walked down
the narrow corridor beyond.  Presently came the tap, tap, tap of
a stick and a sound of muttered conversation in some place below.

Hassan reentered and went in through the curtained doorway to
summon Agapoulos.  Agapoulos was dressing and would not be
disturbed.  Hassan went back to those who waited, but ere long
returned again chattering volubly to himself.  Going behind the
carven screen he rapped upon the door of Zahara's room, and she
directed him to come in.  To Zahara, Hassan was no more than a
piece of furniture, and she thought as little of his intruding
while she was in the midst of her toilet as another woman would
have thought of the entrance of a maid.

"Two men," reported Hassan, "who won't go away until they see
somebody."

"Whom do they want to see?" she inquired indifferently, adjusting
the line of her eyebrow with an artistically pointed pencil.

"They say whoever belongs here."

Zahara invariably spoke either French or English to natives, and
if Hassan had addressed her in Arabic she would not have replied,
although she spoke that language better than she spoke any other.

"What are they like?  Not--police?"

"Foreign," replied Hassan vaguely.

"English--American?"

"No, not American or English.  Very black hair, dark skin."

Zahara, a student of men, became aware of a mild interest. These
swarthy visitors should prove an agreeable antidote to the
poisonous calm of Harry Grantham.  She was trying with all the
strength of her strange, stifled soul not to think of Grantham,
and she was incapable of recognizing the fact that she could
think of nothing else and had thought of little else for a long
time past. Even now it was because of him that she determined to
interview the foreign visitors.  The mystery of her emotions
puzzled her more than ever.

She descended to a small, barely furnished room on the ground
floor, close beside the door opening upon the street.  It was
lighted by one hanging lamp.  On the divan which constituted the
principal item of furniture a small man, slenderly built, was
sitting.  He wore a broad-brimmed hat, so broad of brim that it
threw the whole of the upper part of his face into shadow.  It
was impossible to see his eyes.  Beside him rested a heavy
walking-stick.

As Zahara entered, a wonderful, gaily coloured figure, this man
did not move in the slightest, but sat, chin on breast, his
small, muscular, brown hands resting on his knees.  His
companion, however, a person of more massive build, elegantly
dressed and handsome in a swarthy fashion, bowed gravely and
removed his hat.  Zahara liked his eyes, which were dark and very
bold looking.

"M. Agapoulos is engaged," she said, speaking in French.  "What
is it you wish to know?"

The man regarded her fixedly, and:

"Senorita," he replied, "I will be frank with you."

Save for his use of the word "senorita" he also spoke in French.
Zahara drew her robe more closely about her and adopted her most
stately manner.

"My name," continued the other, "does not matter, but my business
is to look into the affairs of other people, you understand?"

Zahara, who understood from this that the man was some kind of
inquiry agent, opened her blue eyes very widely and at the same
time shook her head.

"No," she protested; "what do you mean?"

"A certain gentleman came here a short time ago, came into this
house and must be here now.  Don't be afraid.  He has done
nothing very dreadful," he added reassuringly.

Zahara retreated a step, and a little wrinkle of disapproval
appeared between her pencilled brows.  She no longer liked the
man's eyes, she decided.  They were deceitful eyes.  His
companion had taken up the heavy stick and was restlessly tapping
the floor.

"There is no one here," said Zahara calmly, "except the people
who live in the house."

"He is here, he is here," muttered the man seated on the divan.

The tapping of his stick had grown more rapid, but as he had
spoken in Spanish, Zahara, who was ignorant of that language, had
no idea what he had said.

"My friend," continued the Spaniard, bowing slightly in the
direction of the slender man who so persistently kept his broad-
brimmed hat on his head, "chanced to hear the voice of this
gentleman as he spoke to your porter on entering the door.  And
although the door was closed too soon for us actually to see him,
we are convinced that he is the person we seek."

"I think you are mistaken," said Zahara coolly.  "But what do you
want him for?"

As she uttered the words she realized that even the memory of
Grantham was sufficient to cause her to betray herself.  She had
betrayed her interest to the man himself, and now she had
betrayed it to this dark-faced stranger whose manner was so
mysterious.  The Spaniard recognized the fact, and, unlike
Grantham, acted upon it promptly.

"He has taken away the wife of another, Senorita," he said
simply, and watched her as he spoke the lie.

She listened in silence, wide-eyed.  Her lower lip twitched, and
she bit it fiercely.

"He went first to Port Said and then came to London with this
woman," continued the Spaniard remorselessly.  "We come from her
husband to ask her to return.  Yes, he will forgive her--or he
offers her freedom."

Rapidly but comprehensively the speaker's bold glance travelled
over Zahara, from her golden head to her tiny embroidered shoes.

"If you can help us in this matter it will be worth fifty English
pounds to you," he concluded.

Zahara was breathing rapidly.  The fatal hatred which she had
sought to stifle gained a new vitality.  Another woman--another
woman actually here in London!  So there was someone upon whom he
did not look in that half-amused and half-compassionate manner.
How she hated him!  How she hated the woman to whom he had but a
moment ago returned!

"Then he will marry this other one?" she said suddenly.

"Oh, no.  Already he neglects her.  We think she will go back."

Zahara experienced a swift change of sentiment.  She seemed to be
compounded of two separate persons, one of whom laughed cruelly
at the folly of the other.

"What is the name of this man you think your friend has
recognized?" she asked.

The big stick was rapping furiously during this colloquy.

"We are both sure, Senorita.  His name is Major Spalding."

That Spalding and Grantham were neighbouring towns in
Lincolnshire Zahara did not know, but:

"No one of that name comes here," she replied.

"The one you heard and--who has gone--is not called by that
name." She spoke with forced calm.  It was Grantham they sought!
"But what happens if I show you this one who is not called
Spalding?"

"No matter!  Point him out to me," answered the Spaniard eagerly
--and his dark eyes seemed to be on fire--"point him out to me
and fifty pounds of English money is yours!"

"Let me see."

He drew out a wallet and held up a number of notes.

"Fifty," he said, in a subdued voice, "when you point him out."

For a long moment Zahara hesitated, then:

"Sixty," she corrected him--"now!  Then I will do it to-night--if
you tell what happens."

Exhibiting a sort of eager impatience the man displayed a bunch
of official-looking documents.

"I give him these," he explained, "and my work is done."

"H'm," said Zahara.  "He must not know that it is I who have
shown him to you.  To-night he will be here at nine o'clock, and
I shall dance.  You understand?"

"Then," said the Spaniard eagerly, "this is what you will do."

And speaking close to her ear he rapidly outlined a plan; but
presently she interrupted him.

"Pooh!  It is Spanish, the rose.  I dance the dances of Egypt."

"But to-night," he persisted, "it will not matter."

Awhile longer they talked, the rapping of the stick upon the
tiled floor growing ever faster and faster.  But finally:

"I will tell Hassan that you are to be admitted," said Zahara,
and she held out her hand for the notes.

When, presently, the visitors departed, she learned that the
smaller man was blind; for his companion led him out of the room
and out of the house.  She stood awhile listening to the tap,
tap, tap of the heavy stick receding along the street.  What she
did not hear, and could not have understood had she heard, since
it was uttered in Spanish, was the cry of exultant hatred which
came from the lips of the taller man:

"At last, Miguel!  at last!  Though blind, you have found him!
You have not failed.  I shall not fail!"

*****

Zahara peeped through the carved screen at the assembled company.
They were smoking and drinking and seemed to be in high good
humour.  Safiyeh had danced and they had applauded the
performance, but had complained to M. Agapoulos that they had
seen scores of such dances and dancers.  Safiyeh, who had very
little English, had not understood this, and because presently
she was to play upon the a'ood while Zahara danced the Dance of
the Veils, Zahara had avoided informing her of the verdict of the
company.

Now as she peeped through the lattice in the screen she could see
the Greek haggling with Grantham and a tall gray-haired man whom
she supposed to be Sir Horace Tipton.  They were debating the
additional fees to be paid if Zahara, the Star of Egypt, was to
present the secret and wonderful dance of which all men had heard
but which only a true daughter of the ancient tribe of the
Ghawazi could perform.

Sometimes Zahara was proud of her descent from a dancing-girl of
Kenneh.  This was always at night, when a sort of barbaric
excitement possessed her which came from the blood of her mother.
Then, a new light entered her eyes and they seemed to grow long
and languid and dark, so that no one would have suspected that in
daylight they were blue.

A wild pagan abandon claimed her, and she seemed to hear the
wailing of reed instruments and the throb of the ancient drums
which were played of old before the kings of Egypt.  Safiyeh was
not a true dancing girl, and because she knew none of those fine
frenzies, she danced without inspiration, like a brown puppet
moved by strings.  But she could play upon an a'ood much better
than Zahara, and therefore must not be upset until she had played
for the Dance of the Veils.

Seeing that the bargain was all but concluded, Zahara stole back
to her room.  Her lightly clad body gleamed like that of some
statue become animate.

Her cheeks flushed as she took up the veils, of which she alone
knew the symbolic meaning; the white veil, the purple veil: each
had its story to tell her; and the veil of burning scarlet.  In a
corner of the big room on a divan near the door she had seen the
Spaniard, a handsome, swarthy figure in his well-fitting dress
clothes, and now, opening a drawer, she glanced at the little
pile of notes which represented her share of the bargain.  There
were fifty.  She had told Agapoulos that a distinguished
foreigner with an introduction from someone she knew had paid ten
pounds to be present.  And because she had given Agapoulos the
ten pounds, Agapoulos had agreed to admit the visitor.

She could hear the Greek approaching now, but she was thinking of
Grantham whom she had last seen in laughing conversation with the
tall, gray-haired man.  His laughter had appeared forced.
Doubtless he grew weary of the woman he had brought to London.

"Dance to-night with all the devil that is in you, my beautiful,"
said Agapoulos, hurrying into the room.

Zahara turned aside, toying with the veils.

"They are rich, eh?" she said indifferently.

She was thinking of the fifty pounds which she had earned so
easily; and after all (how strangely her mind wandered) perhaps
he was really tired of the woman.  The Spaniard had said so.

"Very rich," murmured Agapoulos complacently.

He brushed his moustache and rattled keys in his pocket.  In his
dress clothes he looked like the manager of a prosperous picture
palace.  "Safryeh!" he called.

When presently the music commenced, the players concealed behind
the tall screen, an expectant hush fell upon the wine-flushed
company.  Hassan, who played the darabukkeh, could modulate its
throbbing so wonderfully.

Zahara entered the room, enveloped from shoulders to ankles in a
flame-coloured cloak.  Between her lips she held a red rose.

"By God, what a beauty!" said a husky voice.

Zahara did not know which of the party had spoken, but she was
conscious of the fact that by virtue of the strange witchcraft
which became hers on such nights she held them all spell-bound.
They were her slaves.

Slowly she walked across the apartment while the throbbing of the
Arab drum grew softer and softer, producing a weird effect of
space and distance.  All eyes were fixed upon her, and meeting
Grantham's gaze she saw at last the Light there which she knew.
This sudden knowledge of triumph almost unnerved her, and the
rose which she had taken from between her lips trembled in her
white fingers.  Two of the petals fell upon the carpet, which was
cream-coloured from the looms of Ispahan.  Like blood spots the
petals lay upon the cream surface.

Zahara swung sharply about.  Agapoulos, seated alone in the chair
over which he had draped the leopard skin, was busily brushing
his moustache and glancing sideways toward the screen which
concealed Safryeh.  Zahara tilted her head on to her shoulder and
cast a languorous glance into the shadows masking the watchful
Spaniard.

She could see his eyes gleaming like those of a wild beast. An
icy finger seemed to touch her heart.  He had lied to her!  She
knew it, suddenly, intuitively.  Well, she would see.  She also
had guile.

With a little scornful laugh Zahara tossed the rose on to the
knees--of Agapoulos.

The sound of three revolver shots fired in quick succession rang
out above the throbbing music.  Agapoulos clutched at his shirt
front with both hands, uttered a stifled scream and tried to
stand up.  He coughed, and glaring straight in front of him fell
forward across a little coffee table laden with champagne bottles
and glasses.

Coincident with the crash made by his falling body came the loud
bang of a door.  The Spaniard had gone.

"By God, sir!  It's murder, it's murder!" cried the same husky
voice which had commented upon the beauty of Zahara.

There was a mingling, purposeless movement.  Someone ran to the
door--to find that it was locked from the outside.  Mr. Eddie,
now recognizable by his accent, came toward the prone man, dazed,
horrified, and grown very white.  Zahara, a beautiful, tragic
figure, in her flaming cloak, stood looking down at the dead man.
Safiyeh was peeping round from behind the screen, her face a
brown mask of terror.  Hassan, holding his drum, appeared behind
her, staring stupidly.  To the smell of cigar smoke and perfume a
new and acrid odour was added.

Vaguely the truth was stealing in upon the mind of the dancing-
girl that she had been made party to a plot to murder Grantham.
She had saved his life.  He belonged to her now.  She could hear
him speaking, although for some reason she could not see him.  A
haze had come, blotting out everything but the still, ungainly
figure which lay so near her upon the carpet, one clutching, fat
hand, upon which a diamond glittered, outstretched so that it
nearly touched her bare white feet.

"We must get out this way!  The side door to the courtyard!  None
of us can afford to be mixed up in an affair of this sort."

There was more confused movement and a buzz of excited voices--
meaningless, chaotic.  Zahara could feel the draught from the
newly opened door.  A thin stream of blood was stealing across
the carpet.  It had almost reached the fallen rose petals, which
it strangely resembled in colour under the light of the lanterns.

As though dispersed by the draught, the haze lifted, and Zahara
saw Grantham standing by the open doorway through which he had
ushered out the other visitors.

Wide-eyed and piteous she met his glance.  She had seen that
night the Look in his eyes.  She had saved his life, and there
was much, so much, that she wanted to tell him.  A thousand
yearnings, inexplicable, hitherto unknown, deep mysteries of her
soul, looked out of those great eyes.

"Don't think," he said tensely, "that I was deceived.  I saw the
trick with the rose!  You are as guilty as your villainous lover!
Murderess!"

He went out and closed the door.  The flame-coloured cloak slowly
slipped from Zahara's shoulders, and the veils, like falling
petals, began to drop gently one by one upon the blood-stained
carpet.






THE HAND OF THE MANDARIN QUONG





I

THE SHADOW ON THE CURTAIN



"Singapore is by no means herself again," declared Jennings,
looking about the lounge of the Hotel de l'Europe.  "Don't you
agree, Knox?"

Burton fixed his lazy stare upon the speaker.

"Don't blame poor old Singapore," he said.  "There is no spot in
this battered world that I have succeeded in discovering which is
not changed for the worse."

Dr.  Matheson flicked ash from his cigar and smiled in that
peculiarly happy manner which characterizes a certain American
type and which lent a boyish charm to his personality.

"You are a pair of pessimists," he pronounced.  "For some reason
best known to themselves Jennings and Knox have decided upon a
Busman's Holiday.  Very well.  Why grumble?"

"You are quite right, Doctor," Jennings admitted.  "When I was on
service here in the Straits Settlements I declared heaven knows
how often that the country would never see me again once I was
demobbed.  Yet here you see I am; Burton belongs here; but here's
Knox, and we are all as fed up as we can be!"

"Yes," said Burton slowly.  "I may be a bit tired of Singapore.
It's a queer thing, though, that you fellows have drifted back
here again.  The call of the East is no fable.  It's a call that
one hears for ever."

The conversation drifted into another channel, and all sorts of
topics were discussed, from racing to the latest feminine
fashions, from ballroom dances to the merits and demerits of
coalition government.  Then suddenly:

"What became of Adderley?" asked Jennings.

There were several men in the party who had been cronies of ours
during the time that we were stationed in Singapore, and at
Jennings's words a sort of hush seemed to fall on those who had
known Adderley.  I cannot say if Jennings noticed this, but it
was perfectly evident to me that Dr.  Matheson had perceived it,
for he glanced swiftly across in my direction in an oddly
significant way.

"I don't know," replied Burton, who was an engineer.  "He was
rather an unsavoury sort of character in some ways, but I heard
that he came to a sticky end."

"What do you mean?" I asked with curiosity, for I myself had
often wondered what had become of Adderley.

"Well, he was reported to his C. O., or something, wasn't he,
just before the time for his demobilization?  I don't know the
particulars; I thought perhaps you did, as he was in your
regiment."

"I have heard nothing whatever about it," I replied.

"You mean Sidney Adderley, the man who was so indecently rich?"
someone interjected.  "Had a place at Katong, and was always
talking about his father's millions?"

"That's the fellow."

"Yes," said Jennings, "there was some scandal, I know, but it was
after my time here."

"Something about an old mandarin out Johore Bahru way, was it
not?" asked Burton.  "The last thing I heard about Adderley was
that he had disappeared."

"Nobody would have cared much if he had," declared Jennings.  "I
know of several who would have been jolly glad.  There was a lot
of the brute about Adderley, apart from the fact that he had more
money than was good for him.  His culture was a veneer.  It was
his check-book that spoke all the time."

"Everybody would have forgiven Adderley his vulgarity," said Dr.
Matheson, quietly, "if the man's heart had been in the right
place."

"Surely an instance of trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's
ear," someone murmured.

Burton gazed rather hard at the last speaker.

"So far as I am aware," he said, "the poor devil is dead, so go
easy."

"Are you sure he is dead?" asked Dr.  Matheson, glancing at
Burton in that quizzical, amused way of his.

"No, I am not sure; I am merely speaking from hearsay.  And now I
come to think of it, the information was rather vague.  But I
gathered that he had vanished, at any rate, and remembering
certain earlier episodes in his career, I was led to suppose that
this vanishing meant------"

He shrugged his shoulders significantly.

"You mean the old mandarin?" suggested Dr.  Matheson.

"Yes."

"Was there really anything in that story, or was it suggested by
the unpleasant reputation of Adderley?" Jennings asked.

"I can settle any doubts upon that point," said I; whereupon I
immediately became a focus of general attention.

"What!  were you ever at that place of Adderley's at Katong?"
asked Jennings with intense curiosity.

I nodded, lighting a fresh cigarette in a manner that may have
been unduly leisurely.

"Did you see her?"

Again I nodded.

"Really!"

"I must have been peculiarly favoured, but certainly I had that
pleasure."

"You speak of seeing her," said one of the party, now entering the
conversation for the first time.  "To whom do you refer?"

"Well," replied Burton, "it's really a sort of fairy tale--unless
Knox"--glacing across in my direction--"can confirm it.  But
there was a story current during the latter part of Adderley's
stay in Singapore to the effect that he had made the acquaintance
of the wife, or some member of the household, of an old gentleman
out Johore Bahru way--sort of mandarin or big pot among the
Chinks."

"It was rumoured that he had bolted with her," added another
speaker.

"I think it was more than a rumour."

"Why do you say so?"

"Well, representations were made to the authorities, I know for
an absolute certainty, and I have an idea that Adderley was
kicked out of the Service as a consequence of the scandal which
resulted."

"How is it one never heard of this?"

"Money speaks, my dear fellow," cried Burton, "even when it is
possessed by such a peculiar outsider as Adderley.  The thing was
hushed up.  It was a very nasty business.  But Knox was telling
us that he had actually seen the lady.  Please carry on, Knox,
for I must admit that I am intensely curious."

"I can only say that I saw her on one occasion."

"With Adderley?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Where?"

"At his place at Katong."

"I even thought his place at that resort was something of a
myth," declared Jennings.  "He never asked me to go there, but,
then, I took that as a compliment.  Pardon the apparent innuendo,
Knox," he added, laughing.  "But you say you actually visited the
establishment?"

"Yes," I replied slowly, "I met him here in this very hotel one
evening in the winter of '15, after the natives' attempt to
mutiny.  He had been drinking rather heavily, a fact which he was
quite unable to disguise.  He was never by any means a real
friend of mine; in fact, I doubt that he had a true friend in the
world.  Anyhow, I could see that he was lonely, and as I chanced
to be at a loose end I accepted an invitation to go over to what
he termed his 'little place at Katong.'

"His little place proved to be a veritable palace.  The man
privately, or rather, secretly, to be exact, kept up a sort of
pagan state.  He had any number of servants.  Of course he became
practically a millionaire after the death of his father, as you
will remember; and given more congenial company, I must confess
that I might have spent a most enjoyable evening there.

"Adderley insisted upon priming me with champagne, and after a
while I may as well admit that I lost something of my former
reserve, and began in a fashion to feel that I was having a
fairly good time.  By the way, my host was not quite frankly
drunk.  He got into that objectionable and dangerous mood which
some of you will recall, and I could see by the light in his eyes
that there was mischief brewing, although at the time I did not
know its nature.

"I should explain that we were amusing ourselves in a room which
was nearly as large as the lounge of this hotel, and furnished in
a somewhat similar manner.  There were carved pillars and stained
glass domes, a little fountain, and all those other peculiarities
of an Eastern household.

"Presently, Adderley gave an order to one of his servants, and
glanced at me with that sort of mocking, dare-devil look in his
eyes which I loathed, which everybody loathed who ever met the
man.  Of course I had no idea what all this portended, but I was
very shortly to learn.

"While he was still looking at me, but stealing side-glances at a
doorway before which was draped a most wonderful curtain of a
sort of flamingo colour, this curtain was suddenly pulled aside,
and a girl came in.

"Of course, you must remember that at the time of which I am
speaking the scandal respecting the mandarin had not yet come to
light.  Consequently I had no idea who the girl could be.  I saw
she was a Eurasian.  But of her striking beauty there could be no
doubt whatever.  She was dressed in magnificent robes, and she
literally glittered with jewels.  She even wore jewels upon the
toes of her little bare feet.  But the first thing that struck me
at the moment of her appearance was that her presence there was
contrary to her wishes and inclinations.  I have never seen a
similar expression in any woman's eyes.  She looked at Adderley
as though she would gladly have slain him!

"Seeing this look, his mocking smile in which there was something
of triumph--of the joy of possession--turned to a scowl of
positive brutality.  He clenched his fists in a way that set me
bristling.  He advanced toward the girl--and although the width
of the room divided them, she recoiled--and the significance of
expression and gesture was unmistakable.  Adderley paused.

"'So you have made up your mind to dance after all?' he shouted.

"The look in the girl's dark eyes was pitiful, and she turned to
me with a glance of dumb entreaty.

"'No, no!' she cried.  'No, no!  Why do you bring me here?'

"'Dance!' roared Adderley.  'Dance!  That's what I want you to
do.'

"Rebellion leapt again to the wonderful eyes, and she started
back with a perfectly splendid gesture of defiance.  At that my
brutal and drunken host leapt in her direction.  I was on my feet
now, but before I could act the girl said a thing which checked
him, sobered him, which pulled him up short, as though he had
encountered a stone wall.

"'Ah, God!' she said.  (She was speaking, of course, in her
native tongue.) 'His hand!  His hand!  Look!  His hand!'

"To me her words were meaningless, naturally, but following the
direction of her positively agonized glance I saw that she was
watching what seemed to me to be the shadow of someone moving
behind the flame-like curtain which produced an effect not unlike
that of a huge, outstretched hand, the fingers crooked, claw-
fashion.

"'Knox, Knox!' whispered Adderley, grasping me by the shoulder.

"He pointed with a quivering finger toward this indistinct shadow
upon the curtain, and:

"'Do you see it--do you see it?' he said huskily.  'It is his
hand--it is his hand!'

"Of the pair, I think, the man was the more frightened.  But the
girl, uttering a frightful shriek, ran out of the room as though
pursued by a demon.  As she did so whoever had been moving behind
the curtain evidently went away.  The shadow disappeared, and
Adderley, still staring as if hypnotized at the spot where it had
been, continued to hold my shoulder as in a vise.  Then, sinking
down upon a heap of cushions beside me, he loudly and shakily
ordered more champagne.

"Utterly mystified by the incident, I finally left him in a state
of stupor, and returned to my quarters, wondering whether I had
dreamed half of the episode or the whole of it, whether he did
really possess that wonderful palace, or whether he had borrowed
it to impress me."

I ceased speaking, and my story was received in absolute silence,
until:

"And that is all you know?" said Burton.

"Absolutely all.  I had to leave about that time, you remember,
and afterward went to France."

"Yes, I remember.  It was while you were away that the scandal
arose respecting the mandarin.  Extraordinary story, Knox.  I
should like to know what it all meant, and what the end of it
was."

Dr.  Matheson broke his long silence.

"Although I am afraid I cannot enlighten you respecting the end
of the story," he said quietly, "perhaps I can carry it a step
further."

"Really, Doctor?  What do you know about the matter?"

"I accidentally became implicated as follows," replied the
American: "I was, as you know, doing voluntary surgical work near
Singapore at the time, and one evening, presumably about the same
period of which Knox is speaking, I was returning from the
hospital at Katong, at which I acted sometimes as anaesthetist,
to my quarters in Singapore; just drifting along, leisurely by
the edge of the gardens admiring the beauty of the mangroves and
the deceitful peace of the Eastern night.

"The hour was fairly late and not a soul was about.  Nothing
disturbed the silence except those vague sibilant sounds which
are so characteristic of the country.  Presently, as I rambled on
with my thoughts wandering back to the dim ages, I literally fell
over a man who lay in the road.

"I was naturally startled, but I carried an electric pocket
torch, and by its light I discovered that the person over whom I
had fallen was a dignified-looking Chinaman, somewhat past middle
age.  His clothes, which were of good quality, were covered with
dirt and blood, and he bore all the appearance of having recently
been engaged in a very tough struggle.  His face was notable only
for its possession of an unusually long jet-black moustache.  He
had swooned from loss of blood."

"Why, was he wounded?" exclaimed Jennings.

"His hand had been nearly severed from his wrist!"

"Merciful heavens!"

"I realized the impossibility of carrying him so far as the
hospital, and accordingly I extemporized a rough tourniquet and
left him under a palm tree by the road until I obtained
assistance.  Later, at the hospital, following a consultation, we
found it necessary to amputate."

"I should say he objected fiercely?"

"He was past objecting to anything, otherwise I have no doubt he
would have objected furiously.  The index finger of the injured
hand had one of those preternaturally long nails, protected by an
engraved golden case.  However, at least I gave him a chance of
life.  He was under my care for some time, but I doubt if ever he
was properly grateful.  He had an iron constitution, though, and
I finally allowed him to depart.  One queer stipulation he had
made--that the severed hand, with its golden nail-case, should be
given to him when he left hospital.  And this bargain I
faithfully carried out."

"Most extraordinary," I said.  "Did you ever learn the identity
of the old gentleman?"

"He was very reticent, but I made a number of inquiries, and
finally learned with absolute certainty, I think, that he was the
Mandarin Quong Mi Su from Johore Bahru, a person of great repute
among the Chinese there, and rather a big man in China.  He was
known locally as the Mandarin Quong."

"Did you learn anything respecting how he had come by his injury,
Doctor?"

Matheson smiled in his quiet fashion, and selected a fresh cigar
with great deliberation.  Then:

"I suppose it is scarcely a case of betraying a professional
secret," he said, "but during the time that my patient was
recovering from the effects of the anaesthetic he unconsciously
gave me several clues to the nature of the episode.  Putting two
and two together I gathered that someone, although the name of
this person never once passed the lips of the mandarin, had
abducted his favourite wife."

"Good heavens!  truly amazing," I exclaimed.

"Is it not?  How small a place the world is.  My old mandarin had
traced the abductor and presumably the girl to some house which I
gathered to be in the neighbourhood of Katong.  In an attempt to
force an entrance--doubtless with the amiable purpose of slaying
them both--he had been detected by the prime object of his
hatred.  In hurriedly descending from a window he had been
attacked by some weapon, possibly a sword, and had only made good
his escape in the condition in which I found him.  How far he had
proceeded I cannot say, but I should imagine that the house to
which he had been was no great distance from the spot where I
found him."

"Comment is really superfluous," remarked Burton.  "He was
looking for Adderley."

"I agree," said Jennings.

"And," I added, "it was evidently after this episode that I had
the privilege of visiting that interesting establishment."

There was a short interval of silence; then:

"You probably retain no very clear impression of the shadow which
you saw," said Dr.  Matheson, with great deliberation.  "At the
time perhaps you had less occasion particularly to study it.  But
are you satisfied that it was really caused by someone moving
behind the curtain?"

I considered his question for a few moments.

"I am not," I confessed.  "Your story, Doctor, makes me wonder
whether it may not have been due to something else."

"What else can it have been due to?" exclaimed Jennings
contemptuously--"unless to the champagne?"

"I won't quote Shakespeare," said Dr.  Matheson, smiling in his
odd way.  "The famous lines, though appropriate, are somewhat
overworked.  But I will quote Kipling: 'East is East, and West is
West.'"




II

THE LADY OF KATONG



Fully six months had elapsed, and on returning from Singapore I
had forgotten all about Adderley and the unsavoury stories
connected with his reputation.  Then, one evening as I was
strolling aimlessly along St. James's Street, wondering how I was
going to kill time--for almost everyone I knew was out of town,
including Paul Harley, and London can be infinitely more lonely
under such conditions than any desert--I saw a thick-set figure
approaching along the other side of the street.

The swing of the shoulders, the aggressive turn of the head, were
vaguely familiar, and while I was searching my memory and
endeavouring to obtain a view of the man's face, he stared across
in my direction.

It was Adderley.

He looked even more debauched than I remembered him, for whereas
in Singapore he had had a tanned skin, now he looked unhealthily
pallid and blotchy.  He raised his hand, and:

"Knox!" he cried, and ran across to greet me.

His boisterous manner and a sort of coarse geniality which he
possessed had made him popular with a certain set in former days,
but I, who knew that this geniality was forced, and assumed to
conceal a sort of appalling animalism, had never been deceived by
it.  Most people found Adderley out sooner or later, but I had
detected the man's true nature from the very beginning.  His eyes
alone were danger signals for any amateur psychologist. However,
I greeted him civilly enough:

"Bless my soul, you are looking as fit as a fiddle!" he cried.
"Where have you been, and what have you been doing since I saw
you last?"

"Nothing much," I replied, "beyond trying to settle down in a
reformed world."

"Reformed world!" echoed Adderley.  "More like a ruined world it
has seemed to me."

He laughed loudly.  That he had already explored several bottles
was palpable.

We were silent for a while, mentally weighing one another up, as
it were.  Then:

"Are you living in town?" asked Adderley.

"I am staying at the Carlton at the moment," I replied.  "My
chambers are in the hands of the decorators.  It's awkward.
Interferes with my work."

"Work!" cried Adderley.  "Work!  It's a nasty word, Knox.  Are
you doing anything now?"

"Nothing, until eight o'clock, when I have an appointment."

"Come along to my place," he suggested, "and have a cup of tea,
or a whisky and soda if you prefer it."

Probably I should have refused, but even as he spoke I was
mentally translated to the lounge of the Hotel de l'Europe, and
prompted by a very human curiosity I determined to accept his
invitation.  I wondered if Fate had thrown an opportunity in my
way of learning the end of the peculiar story which had been
related on that occasion.

I accompanied Adderley to his chambers, which were within a
stone's throw of the spot where I had met him.  That this gift
for making himself unpopular with all and sundry, high and low,
had not deserted him, was illustrated by the attitude of the
liftman as we entered the hall of the chambers.  He was barely
civil to Adderley and even regarded myself with marked disfavour.

We were admitted by Adderley's man, whom I had not seen before,
but who was some kind of foreigner, I think a Portuguese.  It was
characteristic of Adderley.  No Englishman would ever serve him
for long, and there had been more than one man in his old Company
who had openly avowed his intention of dealing with Adderley on
the first available occasion.

His chambers were ornately furnished; indeed, the room in which
we sat more closely resembled a scene from an Oscar Asche
production than a normal man's study.  There was something unreal
about it all.  I have since thought that this unreality extended
to the person of the man himself.  Grossly material, he yet
possessed an aura of mystery, mystery of an unsavoury sort.
There was something furtive, secretive, about Adderley's entire
mode of life.

I had never felt at ease in his company, and now as I sat staring
wonderingly at the strange and costly ornaments with which the
room was overladen I bethought me of the object of my visit.  How
I should have brought the conversation back to our Singapore days
I know not, but a suitable opening was presently offered by
Adderley himself.

"Do you ever see any of the old gang?" he inquired.

"I was in Singapore about six months ago," I replied, "and I met
some of them again."

"What!  Had they drifted back to the East after all?"

"Two or three of them were taking what Dr.  Matheson described as
a Busman's Holiday."

At mention of Dr.  Matheson's name Adderley visibly started.

"So you know Matheson," he murmured.  "I didn't know you had ever
met him."

Plainly to hide his confusion he stood up, and crossing the room
drew my attention to a rather fine silver bowl of early Persian
ware.  He was displaying its peculiar virtues and showing a
certain acquaintance with his subject when he was interrupted.  A
door opened suddenly and a girl came in.  Adderley put down the
bowl and turned rapidly as I rose from my seat.

It was the lady of Katong!

I recognized her at once, although she wore a very up-to-date
gown.  While it did not suit her dark good looks so well as the
native dress which she had worn at Singapore, yet it could not
conceal the fact that in a barbaric way she was a very beautiful
woman.  On finding a visitor in the room she became covered with
confusion.

"Oh," she said, speaking in Hindustani.  "Why did you not tell me
there was someone here?"

Adderley's reply was characteristically brutal.

"Get out," he said.  "You fool."

I turned to go, for I was conscious of an intense desire to
attack my host. But:

"Don't go, Knox, don't go!" he cried.  "I am sorry, I am damned
sorry, I------"

He paused, and looked at me in a queer sort of appealing way.
The girl, her big eyes widely open, retreated again to the door,
with curious lithe steps, characteristically Oriental.  The door
regained, she paused for a moment and extended one small hand in
Adderley's direction.

"I hate you," she said slowly, "hate you!  Hate you!"

She went out, quietly closing the door behind her.  Adderley
turned to me with an embarrassed laugh.

"I know you think I am a brute and an outsider," he said, "and
perhaps I am.  Everybody says I am, so I suppose there must be
something in it.  But if ever a man paid for his mistakes I have
paid for mine, Knox.  Good God, I haven't a friend in the world."

"You probably don't deserve one," I retorted.

"I know I don't, and that's the tragedy of it," he replied.  "You
may not believe it, Knox; I don't expect anybody to believe me;
but for more than a year I have been walking on the edge of Hell.
Do you know where I have been since I saw you last?"

I shook my head in answer.

"I have been half round the world, Knox, trying to find peace."

"You don't know where to look for it," I said.

"If only you knew," he whispered.  "If only you knew," and sank
down upon the settee, ruffling his hair with his hands and
looking the picture of haggard misery.  Seeing that I was still
set upon departure:

"Hold on a bit, Knox," he implored.  "Don't go yet.  There is
something I want to ask you, something very important."

He crossed to a sideboard and mixed himself a stiff whisky-and-
soda.  He asked me to join him, but I refused.

"Won't you sit down again?"

I shook my head.

"You came to my place at Katong once," he began abruptly.  "I was
damned drunk, I admit it.  But something happened, do you
remember?"

I nodded.

"This is what I want to ask you: Did you, or did you not, see
that shadow?"

I stared him hard in the face.

"I remember the episode to which you refer," I replied.  "I
certainly saw a shadow."

"But what sort of shadow?"

"To me it seemed an indefinite, shapeless thing, as though caused
by someone moving behind the curtain."

"It didn't look to you like--the shadow of a hand?"

"It might have been, but I could not be positive."

Adderley groaned.

"Knox," he said, "money is a curse.  It has been a curse to me.
If I have had my fun, God knows I have paid for it."

"Your idea of fun is probably a peculiar one," I said dryly.

Let me confess that I was only suffering the man's society
because of an intense curiosity which now possessed me on
learning that the lady of Katong was still in Adderley's company.

Whether my repugnance for his society would have enabled me to
remain any longer I cannot say.  But as if Fate had deliberately
planned that I should become a witness of the concluding phases
of this secret drama, we were now interrupted a second time, and
again in a dramatic fashion.

Adderley's nondescript valet came in with letters and a rather
large brown paper parcel sealed and fastened with great care.

As the man went out:

"Surely that is from Singapore," muttered Adderley, taking up the
parcel.

He seemed to become temporarily oblivious of my presence, and his
face grew even more haggard as he studied the writing upon the
wrapper.  With unsteady fingers he untied it, and I lingered,
watching curiously.  Presently out from the wrappings he took a
very beautiful casket of ebony and ivory, cunningly carved and
standing upon four claw-like ivory legs.

"What the devil's this?" he muttered.

He opened the box, which was lined with sandal-wood, and
thereupon started back with a great cry, recoiling from the
casket as though it had contained an adder.  My former sentiments
forgotten, I stepped forward and peered into the interior.  Then
I, in turn, recoiled.

In the box lay a shrivelled yellow hand--with long tapering and
well-manicured nails--neatly severed at the wrist!

The nail of the index finger was enclosed in a tiny, delicately
fashioned case of gold, upon which were engraved a number of
Chinese characters.

Adderley sank down again upon the settee.

"My God!" he whispered, "his hand!  His hand!  He has sent me his
hand!"

He began laughing.  Whereupon, since I could see that the man was
practically hysterical because of his mysterious fears:

"Stop that," I said sharply.  "Pull yourself together, Adderley.
What the deuce is the matter with you?"

"Take it away!" he moaned, "take it away.  Take the accursed
thing away!"

"I admit it is an unpleasant gift to send to anybody," I said,
"but probably you know more about it than I do."

"Take it away," he repeated.  "Take it away, for God's sake, take
it away, Knox!"

He was quite beyond reason, and therefore:

"Very well," I said, and wrapped the casket in the brown paper in
which it had come.  "What do you want me to do with it?"

"Throw it in the river," he answered.  "Burn it.  Do anything you
like with it, but take it out of my sight!"




III

THE GOLD-CASED NAIL



As I descended to the street the liftman regarded me in a curious
and rather significant way.  Finally, just as I was about to step
out into the hall:

"Excuse me, sir," he said, having evidently decided that I was a
fit person to converse with, "but are you a friend of Mr.
Adderley's?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, sir, I hope you will excuse me, but at times I have
thought the gentleman was just a little bit queer, like."

"You mean insane?" I asked sharply.

"Well, sir, I don't know, but he is always asking me if I can see
shadows and things in the lift, and sometimes when he comes in
late of a night he absolutely gives me the cold shivers, he
does."

I lingered, the box under my arm, reluctant to obtain confidences
from a servant, but at the same time keenly interested.  Thus
encouraged:

"Then there's that lady friend of his who is always coming here,"
the man continued.  "She's haunted by shadows, too." He paused,
watching me narrowly.

"There's nothing better in this world than a clean conscience,
sir," he concluded.

*****

Having returned to my room at the hotel, I set down the
mysterious parcel, surveying it with much disfavour.  That it
contained the hand of the Mandarin Quong I could not doubt, the
hand which had been amputated by Dr.  Matheson.  Its appearance
in that dramatic fashion confirmed Matheson's idea that the
mandarin's injury had been received at the hands of Adderley.
What did all this portend, unless that the Mandarin Quong was
dead?  And if he were dead why was Adderley more afraid of him
dead than he had been of him living?

I thought of the haunting shadow, I thought of the night at
Katong, and I thought of Dr.  Matheson's words when he had told
us of his discovery of the Chinaman lying in the road that night
outside Singapore.

I felt strangely disinclined to touch the relic, and it was only
after some moments' hesitation that I undid the wrappings and
raised the lid of the casket.  Dusk was very near and I had not
yet lighted the lamps; therefore at first I doubted the evidence
of my senses.  But having lighted up and peered long and
anxiously into the sandal-wood lining of the casket I could doubt
no longer.

The casket was empty!

It was like a conjuring trick.  That the hand had been in the box
when I had taken it up from Adderley's table I could have sworn
before any jury.  When and by whom it had been removed was a
puzzle beyond my powers of unravelling.  I stepped toward the
telephone--and then remembered that Paul Harley was out of
London.  Vaguely wondering if Adderley had played me a
particularly gruesome practical joke, I put the box on a
sideboard and again contemplated the telephone doubtfully far a
moment.  It was in my mind to ring him up.  Finally, taking all
things into consideration, I determined that I would have nothing
further to do with the man's unsavoury and mysterious affairs.

It was in vain, however, that I endeavoured to dismiss the matter
from my mind; and throughout the evening, which I spent at a
theatre with some American friends, I found myself constantly
thinking of Adderley and the ivory casket, of the mandarin of
Johore Bahru, and of the mystery of the shrivelled yellow hand.

I had been back in my room about half an hour, I suppose, and it
was long past midnight, when I was startled by a ringing of my
telephone bell.  I took up the receiver, and:

"Knox!  Knox!" came a choking cry.

"Yes, who is speaking?"

"It is I, Adderley.  For God's sake come round to my place at
once!"

His words were scarcely intelligible.  Undoubtedly he was in the
grip of intense emotion.

"What do you mean?  What is the matter?"

"It is here, Knox, it is here!  It is knocking on the door!
Knocking!  Knocking!"

"You have been drinking," I said sternly.  "Where is your man?"

"The cur has bolted.  He bolted the moment he heard that damned
knocking.  I am all alone; I have no one else to appeal to."
There came a choking sound, then: "My God, Knox, it is getting
in!  I can see. . . the shadow on the blind. . ."

Convinced that Adderley's secret fears had driven him mad, I
nevertheless felt called upon to attend to his urgent call, and
without a moment's delay I hurried around to St. James's Street.
The liftman was not on duty, the lower hall was in darkness, but
I raced up the stairs and found to my astonishment that
Adderley's door was wide open.

"Adderley!" I cried.  "Adderley!"

There was no reply, and without further ceremony I entered and
searched the chambers.  They were empty.  Deeply mystified, I was
about to go out again when there came a ring at the door-bell.  I
walked to the door and a policeman was standing upon the landing.

"Good evening, sir," he said, and then paused, staring at me
curiously.

"Good evening, constable," I replied.

"You are not the gentleman who ran out awhile ago," he said, a
note of suspicion coming into his voice.

I handed him my card and explained what had occurred, then:

"It must have been Mr. Adderley I saw," muttered the constable.

"You saw--when?"

"Just before you arrived, sir.  He came racing out into St.
James's Street and dashed off like a madman."

"In which direction was he going?"

"Toward Pall Mall."

*****

The neighbourhood was practically deserted at that hour.  But
from the guard on duty before the palace we obtained our first
evidence of Adderley's movements.  He had raced by some five
minutes before, frantically looking back over his shoulder and
behaving like a man flying for his life.  No one else had seen
him.  No one else ever did see him alive.  At two o'clock there
was no news, but I had informed Scotland Yard and official
inquiries had been set afoot.

Nothing further came to light that night, but as all readers of
the daily press will remember, Adderley's body was taken out of
the pond in St. James's Park on the following day.  Death was due
to drowning, but his throat was greatly discoloured as though it
had been clutched in a fierce grip.

It was I who identified the body, and as many people will know,
in spite of the closest inquiries, the mystery of Adderley's
death has not been properly cleared up to this day.  The identity
of the lady who visited him at his chambers was never discovered.
She completely disappeared.

The ebony and ivory casket lies on my table at this present
moment, visible evidence of an invisible menace from which
Adderley had fled around the world.

Doubtless the truth will never be known now.  A significant
discovery, however, was made some days after the recovery of
Adderley's body.

From the bottom of the pond in St. James's Park a patient
Scotland Yard official brought up the gold nail-case with its
mysterious engravings--and it contained, torn at the root, the
incredibly long finger-nail of the Mandarin Quong!






THE KEY OF THE TEMPLE OF HEAVEN





I

THE KEEPER OF THE KEY



The note of a silver bell quivered musically through the scented
air of the ante-room.  Madame de Medici stirred slightly upon the
divan with its many silken cushions, turning her head toward the
closed door with the languorous, almost insolent, indifference
which one perceives in the movements of a tigress.  Below, in the
lobby, where the pillars of Mokattam alabaster upheld the painted
roof, the little yellow man from Pekin shivered slightly,
although the air was warm for Limehouse, and always turned his
mysterious eyes toward a corner of the great staircase which was
visible from where he sat, coiled up, a lonely figure in the
mushrabiyeh chair.  Madame blew a wreath of smoke from her lips,
and, through half-closed eyes, watched it ascend, unbroken,
toward the canopy of cloth-of-gold which masked the ceiling.  A
Madonna by Leonardo da Vinci faced her across the apartment, the
painted figure seeming to watch the living one upon the divan.
Madame smiled into the eyes of the Madonna.  Surely even the
great Leonardo must have failed to reproduce that smile--the
great Leonardo whose supreme art has captured the smile of Mona
Lisa.  Madame had the smile of Cleopatra, which, it is said, made
Caesar mad, though in repose the beauty of Egypt's queen left him
cold.  A robe of Kashmiri silk, fine with a phantom fineness,
draped her exquisite shape as the art of Cellini draped the
classic figures which he wrought in gold and silver; it seemed
incorporate with her beauty.

A second wreath of smoke curled upward to the canopy, and Madame
watched this one also through the veil of her curved black
lashes, as the Eastern woman watches the world through her veil.
Those eyes were notable even in so lovely a setting, for they
were of a hue rarely seen in human eyes, being like the eyes of a
tigress; yet they could seem voluptuously soft, twin pools of
liquid amber, in whose depths a man might lose his soul.

Again the silver bell sounded in the ante-room, and, below, the
little yellow man shivered sympathetically.  Again Madame stirred
with that high disdain that so became her, who had the eyes of a
tigress.  Her carmine lips possessed the antique curve which we
are told distinguished the lips of the Comtesse de Cagliostro;
her cheeks had the freshness of flowers, and her hair the
blackness of ebony, enhancing the miracle of her skin, which had
the whiteness of ivory--not of African ivory, but of that fossil
ivory which has lain for untold ages beneath the snows of
Siberia.

She dropped the cigarette from her tapered fingers into a little
silver bowl upon a table at her side, then lightly touched the
bell which stood there also.  Its soft note answered to the bell
in the ante-room; a white-robed Chinese servant silently
descended the great staircase, his soft red slippers sinking into
the rich pile of the carpet; and the little yellow man from the
great temple in Pekin followed him back up the stairway and was
ushered into the presence of Madame de Medici.

The servant closed the door silently and the little yellow man,
fixing his eyes upon the beautiful woman before him, fell upon
his knees and bowed his forehead to the carpet.

Madame's lovely lips curved again in the disdainful smile, and
she extended one bare ivory arm toward the visitor who knelt as a
suppliant at her feet.

"Rise, my friend!" she said, in purest Chinese, which fell from
her lips with the music of a crystal spring.  "How may I serve
you?"

The yellow man rose and advanced a step nearer to the divan, but
the strange beauty of Madame had spoken straight to his Eastern
heart, had awakened his soul to a new life.  His glance
travelled over the vision before him, from the little Persian
slipper that peeped below the drapery of Kashmir silk to the
small classic head with its crown of ebon locks; yet he dared not
meet the glance of the amber eyes.

"Sit here beside me," directed Madame, and she slightly changed
her position with that languorous and lithe grace suggestive of a
creature of the jungle.

Breathing rapidly betwixt the importance of his mission and a
new, intoxicating emotion which had come upon him at the moment
of entering the perfumed room, the yellow man obeyed, but always
with glance averted from the taunting face of Madame.  A golden
incense-burner stood upon the floor, over between the high,
draped windows, and a faint pencil from its dying fires stole
grayly upward.  Upon the scented smoke the Buddhist priest fixed
his eyes, and began, with a rapidity that grew as he proceeded,
to pour out his tale.  Seated beside him, one round arm resting
upon the cushions so as almost to touch him, Madame listened,
watching the averted yellow face, and always smiling--smiling.

The tale was done at last; the incense-burner was cold, and
breathlessly the Buddhist clutched his knees with lean, clawish
fingers and swayed to and fro, striving to conquer the emotions
that whirled and fought within him.  Selecting another cigarette
from the box beside her, and lighting it deliberately, Madame de
Medici spoke.

"My friend of old," she said, and of the language of China she
made strange music, "you come to me from your home in the secret
city, because you know that I can serve you.  It is enough."

She touched the bell upon the table, and the white-robed servant
reentered, and, bowing low, held open the door.  The little
yellow man, first kneeling upon the carpet before the divan as
before an altar, hurried from the apartment.  As the door was
reclosed, and Madame found herself alone again, she laughed
lightly, as Calypso laughed when Ulysses' ship appeared off the
shores of her isle.

God fashions few such women.  It is well.




II

THE TIGER LADY



"By heavens, Annesley!" whispered Rene Deacon, "what eyes that
woman has!" His companion, following the direction of Deacon's
glance, nodded rather grimly.

"The eyes of a Circe, or at times the eyes of a tigress."

"She is magnificent!" murmured Deacon rapturously.  "I have never
seen so beautiful a woman."

His glance followed the tall figure as it passed into a smaller
salon on the left; nor was he alone in his regard.  Fashionable
society was well represented in the gallery--where a collection
of pictures by a celebrated artist was being shown; and prior to
the entrance of the lady in the strangely fashioned tiger-skin
cloak, the somewhat extraordinary works of art had engaged the
interest even of the most fickle, but, from the moment the tiger-
lady made her appearance, even the most daring canvases were
forgotten.

"She wears tiger-skin shoes!" whispered one.

"She is like a design for a poster!" laughed another.

"I have never seen anything so flashy in my life," was the acrid
comment of a third.

"What a dazzlingly beautiful woman!" remarked another--this one a
man.  While:

"Who is she?" arose upon all sides.

Judging from the isolation of the barbaric figure, it would seem
that society did not know the tiger-lady, but Deacon, seizing his
companion by the arm and almost dragging him into the small salon
which the lady had entered, turned in the doorway and looked into
Annesley's eyes.  Annesley palpably sought to evade the glance.

"You know everybody," whispered Deacon.  "You must be acquainted
with her."

A great number of people were now thronging into the room, not so
much because of the pictures it contained, but rather out of
curiosity respecting the beautiful unknown.  Annesley tried to
withdraw; his uneasiness grew momentarily greater.

"I scarcely know her well enough," he protested, "to present you.
Moreover------"

"But she's smiling at you!" interrupted Deacon eagerly.

His handsome but rather weak face was flushed; he was, as an old
clubman had recently said of him, "so very young." He lacked the
restraint usual in cultured Englishmen, and had the frankly
passionate manner which one associates with the South.  His
uncle, Colonel Deacon, a mordant wit, would say apologetically:

"Reggie" (Deacon's father) "married a Gascon woman.  She was
delightfully pretty.  Poor Reggie!"

Certainly Rene was impetuous to an embarrassing degree, nor
lightly to be thwarted.  Boldly meeting the glance of the woman
of the amber eyes, he pushed Annesley forward, not troubling to
disguise his anxiety to be presented to the tiger-lady.  She
turned her head languidly, with that wild-animal grace of hers,
and unsmiling now, regarded Annesley.

"So you forget me so soon, Mr. Annesley," she murmured, "or is it
that you play the good shepherd?"

"My dear Madame," said Annesley, recovering with an effort his
wonted sang-froid, "I was merely endeavouring to calm the
rhapsodies of my friend, who seemed disposed to throw himself at
your feet in knight-errant fashion."

"He is a very handsome boy," murmured Madame; and as the great
eyes were turned upon Deacon the carmine lips curved again in the
Cleopatrian smile.

She was indeed wonderful, for while she spoke as the woman of the
world to the boy, there was nothing maternal in her patronage,
and her eyes were twin flambeaux, luring--luring, and her sweet
voice was a siren's song.

"May I beg leave to present my friend, Mr. Rene Deacon, Madame de
Medici?" said Annesley; and as the two exchanged glances--the
boy's a glance of undisguised passionate admiration, the woman's
a glance unfathomable--he slightly shrugged his shoulders and
stood aside.

There were others in the salon, who, perceiving that the unknown
beauty was acquainted with Annesley, began to move from canvas to
canvas toward that end of the room where the trio stood.  But
Madame did not appear anxious to make new acquaintances.

"I have seen quite enough of this very entertaining exhibition,"
she said languidly, toying with a great unset emerald which swung
by a thin gold chain about her neck.  "Might I entreat you to
take pity upon a very lonely woman and return with me to tea?"

Annesley seemed on the point of refusing, when:

"I have acquired a reputed Leonardo," continued Madame, "and I
wish you to see it."

There was something so like a command in the words that Deacon
stared at his companion in frank surprise.  The latter avoided
his glance, and:

"Come!" said Madame de Medici.

As of old the great Catherine of her name might have withdrawn
with her suite, so now the lady of the tiger skins withdrew from
the gallery, the two men following obediently, and one of them at
least a happy courtier.




III

TWIN POOLS OF AMBER



The white-robed Chinese servant entered and placed fresh perfume
upon the burning charcoal of the silver incense-burner.  As the
scented smoke began to rise he withdrew, and a second servant
entered, who facially, in dress, in figure and bearing, was a
duplicate of the first. This one carried a large tray upon which
was set an exquisite porcelain tea-service.  He placed the tray
upon a low table beside the divan, and in turn withdrew.

Deacon, seated in a great ebony chair, smoked rapidly and
nervously--looking about the strangely appointed room with its
huge picture of the Madonna, its jade Buddha surmounting a gilded
Burmese cabinet, its Persian canopy and Egyptian divan, at the
thousand and one costly curiosities which it displayed, at this
mingling of East and West, of Christianity and paganism, with a
growing wonder.

To one of his blood there was delight, intoxication, in that
room; but something of apprehension, too, now grew up within him.

Madame de Medici entered.  The garish motor-coat was discarded
now, and her supple figure was seen to best advantage in one of
those dark silken gowns which she affected, and which had a
seeming of the ultra-fashionable because they defied fashion.
She held in her hand an orchid, its structure that of an
odontoglossum, but of a delicate green colour heavily splashed
with scarlet--a weird and unnatural-looking bloom.

Just within the doorway she paused, as Deacon leaped up, and
looked at him through the veil of the curved lashes.

"For you," she said, twirling the blossom between her fingers and
gliding toward him with her tigerish step.

He spoke no word, but, face flushed, sought to look into her eyes
as she pinned the orchid in the button-hole of his coat.  Her
hands were flawless in shape and colouring, being beautiful as
the sculptured hands preserved in the works of Phidias.

The slight draught occasioned by the opening of the door caused
the smoke from the incense-burner to be wafted toward the centre
of the room.  Like a blue-gray phantom it coiled about the two
standing there upon a red and gold Bedouin rug, and the heavy
perfume, or the close proximity of this singularly lovely woman,
wrought upon the high-strung sensibilities of Deacon to such an
extent that he was conscious of a growing faintness.

"Ah!  You are not well!" exclaimed Madame with deep concern.  "It
is the perfume which that foolish Ah Li has lighted.  He forgets
that we are in England."

"Not at all," protested Deacon faintly, and conscious that he was
making a fool of himself.  "I think I have perhaps been overdoing
it rather of late.  Forgive me if I sit down."

He sank on the cushioned divan, his heart beating furiously,
while Madame touched the little bell, whereupon one of the
servants entered.

She spoke in Chinese, pointing to the incense-burner.

Ah Li bowed and removed the censer.  As the door softly reclosed:

"You are better?" she whispered, sweetly solicitous, and, seating
herself beside Deacon, she laid her hand lightly upon his arm.

"Quite," he replied hoarsely; "please do not worry about me.  I
am wondering what has become of Annesley."

"Ah, the poor man!" exclaimed Madame, with a silver laugh, and
began to busy herself with the teacups.  "He remembered, as he
was looking at my new Leonardo, an appointment which he had quite
forgotten."

"I can understand his forgetting anything under the
circumstances."

Madame de Medici raised a tiny cup and bent slightly toward him.
He felt that he was losing control of himself, and, averting his
eyes, he stooped and smelled the orchid in his buttonhole.  Then,
accepting the cup, he was about to utter some light commonplace
when the faintness returned overwhelmingly, and, hurriedly
replacing the cup upon the tray, he fell back among the cushions.
The stifling perfume of the place seemed to be choking him.

"Ah, poor boy!  You are really not at all well.  How sorry I am!"

The sweet tones reached him as from a great distance; but as one
dying in the desert turns his face toward the distant oasis,
Deacon turned weakly to the speaker.  She placed one fair arm
behind his head, pillowing him, and with a peacock fan which had
lain amid the cushions fanned his face.  The strange scene became
wholly unreal to him; he thought himself some dying barbaric
chief.

"Rest there," murmured the sweet voice.

The great eyes, unveiled now by the black lashes, were two twin
lakes of fairest amber.  They seemed to merge together, so that
he stood upon the brink of an unfathomable amber pool--which
swallowed him up--which swallowed him up.

He awoke to an instantaneous consciousness of the fact that he
had been guilty of inexcusably bad form.  He could not account
for his faintness, and reclining there amid the silken cushions,
with Madame de Medici watching him anxiously, he felt a hot flush
stealing over his face.

"What is the matter with me!" he exclaimed, and sprang to his
feet.  "I feel quite well now."

She watched him, smiling, but did not speak.  He was a "very
young man" again, and badly embarrassed.  He glanced at his
wrist-watch.

"Gracious heavens!" he cried, and noted that the tea-tray had
been removed, "there must be something radically wrong with my
health.  It is nearly seven o'clock!"

The note of the silver bell sounded in the ante-room.

"Can you forgive me?" he said.

But Madame, rising to her feet, leaned lightly upon his shoulder,
toying with the petals of the orchid in his buttonhole.

"I think it was the perfume which that foolish Ah Li lighted,"
she whispered, looking intently into his eyes, "and it is you who
have to forgive me.  But you will, I know!" The silver bell rang
again.  "When you have come to see me again--many, many times,
you will grow to love it--because I love it."

She touched the bell upon the table, and Ah Li entered silently.
When Madame de Medici held out her hand to him Deacon raised the
white fingers to his lips and kissed them rapturously; then he
turned, the Gascon within him uppermost again, and ran from the
room.

A purple curtain was drawn across the lobby, screening the caller
newly arrived from the one so hurriedly departing.




IV

THE LIVING BUDDHA



It was past midnight when Colonel Deacon returned to the house.
Rene was waiting for him, pacing up and down the big library.
Their relationship was curious, as subsisting between ward and
guardian, for these two, despite the disparity of their ages, had
few secrets from one another.  Rene burned to pour out his story
of the wonderful Madame de Medici, of the secret house in
Chinatown with its deceptively mean exterior and its gorgeous
interior, to the shrewd and worldly elder man.  That was his way.
But Fate had an oddly bitter moment in store for him.

"Hallo, boy!" cried the Colonel, looking into the library; "glad
you're home.  I might not see you in the morning, and I want to
tell you about--er--a lady who will be coming here in the
afternoon."

The words died upon Rene's lips unspoken, and he stared blankly
at the Colonel.

"I thought I knew all there was to know about pictures, antiques,
and all that sort of lumber," continued Colonel Deacon in his
rapid and off-hand manner.  "Thought there weren't many men in
London could teach me anything; certainly never suspected a woman
could.  But I've met one, boy!  Gad!  What a splendid creature!
You know there isn't much in the world I haven't seen--north,
south, east and west. I know all the advertised beauties of
Europe and Asia--stage, opera, and ballet, and all the rest of
them.  But this one--Gad!"

He dropped into an arm-chair, clapping both his hands upon his
knees.  Rene stood at the farther end of the library, in the
shadow, watching him.

"She's coming here to-morrow, boy--coming here.  Gad!  you dog!
You'll fall in love with her the moment you see her--sure to,
sure to!  I did, and I'm three times your age!"

"Who is this lady, sir?" asked Rene, very quietly.

"God knows, boy!  Everybody's mad to meet her, but nobody knows
who she is.  But wait till you see her.  Lady Dascot seems to be
acquainted with her, but you will see when they come to-morrow--
see for yourself.  Gad, boy! . . . what did you say?"

"I did not speak."

"Thought you did.  Have a whisky-and-soda?"

"No, thank you, sir--good night."

"Good night, boy!" cried the Colonel.  "Good night.  Don't forget
to be in to-morrow afternoon or you'll miss meeting the loveliest
woman in London, and the most brilliant."

"What is her name?"

"Eh?  She calls herself Madame de Medici.  She's a mystery, but
what a splendid creature!"

Rene Deacon walked slowly upstairs, entered his bedroom, and for
fully an hour sat in the darkness, thinking--thinking.

"Am I going mad?" he murmured.  "Or is this witch driving all
London mad?"

He strove to recover something of the glamour which had mastered
him when in the presence of Madame de Medici, but failed.  Yet he
knew that, once near her again, it would all return.  His
reflections were bitter, and when at last wearily he undressed
and went to bed it was to toss restlessly far into the small
hours ere sleep came to soothe his troubled mind.

But his sleep was disturbed: a series of dreadfully realistic
dreams danced through his brain.  First he seemed to be standing
upon a high mountain peak with eternal snows stretched all about
him.  He looked down, past the snow line, past the fir woods,
into the depths of a lovely lake, far down in the valley below.
It was a lake of liquid amber, and as he looked it seemed to
become two lakes, and they were like two great eyes looking up at
him and summoning him to leap.  He thought that he leaped, a
prodigious leap, far out into space; then fell--fell--fell.  When
he splashed into the amber deeps they became churned up in a
milky foam, and this closed about him with a strangle grip.  But
it was no longer foam, but the clinging arms of Madame de
Medici! . . .

Then he stood upon a fragile bridge of bamboo spanning a raging
torrent.  Right and left of the torrent below were jungles in
which moved tigerish shapes.  Upon the farther side of the bridge
Madame de Medici, clad in a single garment of flame-coloured
silk, beckoned to him.  He sought to cross the bridge, but it
collapsed, and he fell near the edge of the torrent.  Below were
the raging waters, and ever nearing him the tigerish shapes,
which now Madame was calling to as to a pack of hounds.  They
were about to devour him, when------

He was crouching upon a ledge, high above a street which seemed
to be vaguely familiar.  He could not see very well, because of a
silk mask tied upon his face, and the eyeholes of which were
badly cut.  From the ledge he stepped to another, perilously.  He
gained it, and crouching there, where there was scarce foothold
for a cat, he managed fully to raise a window which already was
raised some six inches.  Then softly and silently--for he was
bare-footed--he entered the room.

Someone slept in a bed facing the window by which he had entered,
and upon a table at the side of the sleeper lay a purse, a bunch
of keys, an electric torch, and a Service revolver.  Gliding to
the table Rene took the keys and the electric torch, unlocked the
door of the room, and crept down a thickly carpeted stair to a
room below.  The door of this also he opened with one of the keys
in the bunch, and by the light of the torch found his way through
a quantity of antique furniture and piled up curiosities to a
safe set in the farther wall.

He seemed, in his dream, to be familiar with the lock
combination, and, selecting the correct key from the bunch, he
soon had the safe open.  The shelves within were laden
principally with antique jewellery, statuettes, medals, scarabs;
and a number of little leather-covered boxes were there also.
One of these he abstracted, relocked the safe, and stepped out of
the room, locking the door behind him.  Up the stairs he mounted
to the bedroom wherein he had left the sleeper.  Having entered,
he locked the door from within, placed the keys and the torch
upon the table, and crept out again upon the dizzy ledge.

Poised there, high above the thoroughfare below, a great nausea
attacked him.  Glancing to the right, in the direction of the
window through which he had come, he perceived Madame de Medici
leaning out and beckoning to him.  Her arm gleamed whitely in the
faint light.  A new courage came to him.  He succeeded, crouched
there upon the narrow ledge, in relowering the window, and
leaving it in the state in which he had found it, he stood up and
essayed that sickly stride to the adjoining ledge.  He
accomplished it, knelt, and crept back into the room from which
he had started. . . .

The head of an ivory image of Buddha loomed up out of the utter
darkness, growing and growing until it seemed like a great
mountain.  He could not believe that there was so much ivory in
the world, and he felt it with his fingers, wonderingly.  As he
did so it began to shrink, and shrink, and shrink, and shrink,
until it was no larger than a seated human figure.  Then beneath
his trembling hands it became animate; it moved, extended ivory
arms, and wrapped them about his neck.  Its lips became carmine--
perfumed; they bent to him. . . and he was looking into the
bewitching face of Madame de Medici!

He awoke, gasping for air and bathed in cold perspiration.  The
dawn was just breaking over London and stealing grayly from
object to object in his bedroom.




V

THE IVORY GOD



The great car, with its fittings of gold and ivory, drew up at
the door of Colonel Deacon's house.  The interior was ablaze with
tiger lilies, and out from their midst stepped the fairest of
them all--Madame de Medici, and swept queenly up the steps upon
the arm of the cavalierly soldier.

All connoisseurs esteemed it a privilege to view the Deacon
collection, and this afternoon there was a goodly gathering.
Chairs and little white tables were dotted about the lawn in
shady spots, and the majority of the company were already
assembled; but when, in a wonderful golden robe, Madame de Medici
glided across the lawn, the babel ceased abruptly as if by magic.
She pulled off one glove and began twirling a great emerald
between her slim fingers.  It was suspended from a thin gold
chain.  Presently, descrying Annesley seated at a table with Lady
Dascot, she raised the jewel languidly and peered through it at
the two.

"Why!" exclaimed Rene Deacon, who stood close beside her, "that
was a trick of Nero's!"

Madame laughed musically.

"One might take a worse model," she said softly; "at least he
enjoyed life."

Colonel Deacon, who listened to her every word as to the
utterance of a Cumaean oracle, laughed with extraordinary
approbation.

There was scarce a woman present who regarded Madame with a
friendly eye, nor a man who did not aspire to become her devoted
slave.  She brought an atmosphere of unreality with her,
dominating old and young alike by virtue of her splendid pagan
beauty.  The lawn, with its very modern appointments, became as
some garden of the Golden House, a pleasure ground of an emperor.

But later, when the company entered the house, and Colonel Deacon
sought to monopolize the society of Madame, an unhealthy spirit
of jealousy arose between Rene and his guardian.  It was strange,
grotesque, horrible almost. Annesley watched from afar, and there
was something very like anger in his glance.

"And this," said the Colonel presently, taking up an exquisitely
carved ivory Buddha, "has a strange history.  In some way a
legend has grown up around it--it is of very great age--to the
effect that it must always cause its owner to lose his most
cherished possession."

"I wonder," said the silvern voice, "that you, who possess so
many beautiful things, should consent to have so ill-omened a
curiosity in your house."

"I do not fear the evil charm of this little ivory image," said
Colonel Deacon, "although its history goes far to bear out the
truth of the legend.  Its last possessor lost his most cherished
possession a month after the Buddha came into his hands.  He fell
down his own stairs--and lost his life!"

Madame de Medici languidly surveyed the figure through the
upraised emerald.

"Really!" she murmured.  "And the one from whom he procured it?"

"A Hindu usurer of Simla," replied the Colonel.  "His daughter
stole it from her father together with many other things, and
took them to her lover, with whom she fled!"

Madame de Medici seemed to be slightly interested.

"I should love to possess so weird a thing," she said softly.

"It is yours!" exclaimed the Colonel, and placed it in her hands.

"Oh, but really," she protested.

"But really I insist--in order that you may not forget your first
visit to my house!"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"How very kind you are, Colonel Deacon," she said, "to a rival
collector!"

"Now that the menace is removed," said Colonel Deacon with
laboured humour, "I will show you my most treasured possession."

"So!  I am greatly interested."

"Not even this rascal Rene," said the Colonel, stopping before a
safe set in the wall, "has seen what I am about to show you!"

Rene started slightly and watched with intense interest the
unlocking of the safe.

"If I am not superstitious about the ivory Buddha," continued the
Colonel, "I must plead guilty in the case of the Key of the
Temple of Heaven!"

"The Key of the Temple of Heaven!" murmured a lady standing
immediately behind Madame de Medici.  "And what is the Key of the
Temple of Heaven?"

The Colonel, having unlocked the safe, straightened himself, and
while everyone was waiting to see what he had to show, began to
speak again pompously:

"The Temple of Heaven stands in the outer or Chinese City of
Pekin, and is fabulously wealthy.  No European, I can swear, had
ever entered its secret chambers until last year.  One of its
most famous treasures was this Key.  It was used only to open the
special entrance reserved for the Emperor when he came to worship
after his succession to the throne--that was, of course, before
China became a Republic.  The Key is studded almost all over with
precious stones.  Last year a certain naval man--I'll not mention
his name--discovered the secret of its hiding-place.  How he came
by that knowledge does not matter at present.  One very dark
night he crept up to the temple.  He found the Keeper of the Key--
a Buddhist priest--to be sleeping, and he succeeded, therefore,
in gaining access and becoming possessed of the Key."

A chorus of excited exclamations greeted this dramatic point of
the story.

"The object of this outrage," continued the Colonel, "for an
outrage I cannot deny it to have been, was not a romantic one.
The poor chap wanted money, and he thought he could sell the Key
to one of the native jewellers.  But he was mistaken.  He got
back safely, and secretly offered it in various directions.  No
one would touch the thing; moreover, although of great value, the
stones were very far from flawless, and not really worth the
risks which he had run to secure them.  Don't misunderstand me;
the Key would fetch a big sum, but not a fortune."

"Yes?" said Madame de Medici, smiling, for the Colonel paused.

"He packed it up and addressed it to me, together with a letter.
The price that he asked was quite a moderate one, and when the
Key arrived in England I dispatched a check immediately.  It
never reached him."

"Why?" cried many whom this strange story had profoundly
interested.

"He was found dead at the back of the native cantonments, with a
knife in his heart!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Lady Dascot.  "How positively ghastly!  I don't
think I want to see the dreadful thing!"

"Really!" murmured Madame de Medici, turning languidly to the
speaker.  "I do."

The Colonel stooped and reached into the safe.  Then he began to
take out object after object, box after box.  Finally, he
straightened himself again, and all saw that his face was oddly
blanched.

"It's gone!" he whispered hoarsely.  "The Key of the Temple of
Heaven has been stolen!"




VI

MADAME SMILES



Rene entered his bedroom, locked the door, and seated himself on
the bed; then he lowered his head into his hands and clutched at
his hair distractedly.  Since, on his uncle's own showing, no one
knew that the Key of the Temple of Heaven had been in the safe,
since, excepting himself (Rene) and the Colonel, no one else knew
the lock combination, how the Key had been stolen was a mystery
which defied conjecture.  No one but the Colonel had approached
within several yards of the safe at the time it was opened; so
that clearly the theft had been committed prior to that time.

Now Rene sought to recall the details of a strange dream which he
had dreamed immediately before awakening on the previous night;
but he sought in vain.  His memory could supply only blurred
images.  There had been a safe in his dream, and he--was it he or
another?--had unlocked it.  Also there had been an enormous ivory
Buddha. . . . Yet, stay!  it had not been enormous; it had
been. . .

He groaned at his own impotency to recall the circumstances of
that mysterious, perhaps prophetic dream; then in despair he gave
it up, and stooping to a little secretaire, unlocked it with the
idea of sending a note round to Annesley's chambers.  As he did
so he uttered a loud cry.

Lying in one of the pigeon-holes was a long piece of black silk,
apparently torn from the lining of an opera hat.  In it two holes
were cut as if it were intended to be used as a mask.  Beside it
lay a little leather-covered box.  He snatched it out and opened
it.  It was empty!

"Am I going mad?" he groaned.  "Or------"

"You are wanted on the 'phone, sir."

It was the butler who had interrupted him.  Rene descended to the
telephone, dazedly, but, recognizing the voice of Annesley,
roused himself.

"I'm leaving town to-night, Deacon," said Annesley, "for--well,
many reasons.  But before I go I must give you a warning, though
I rely on you never to mention my name in the matter.  Avoid the
woman who calls herself Madame de Medici; she'll break you.
She's an adventuress, and has a dangerous acquaintance with
Eastern cults, and. . . I can't explain properly. . . ."

"Annesley!  the Key!"

"It's the theft of the Key that has prompted me to speak, Deacon.
Madame has some sort of power--hypnotic power.  She employed it
on me once, to my cost!  Paul Harley, of Chancery Lane, can tell
you more about her.  The house she's living in temporarily used
to belong to a notorious Eurasian, Zani Chada.  To make a clean
breast of it I daren't thwart her openly; but I felt it up to me
to tell you that she possesses the secret of post-hypnotic
suggestion.  I may be wrong, but I think you stole that Key!"

"I!"

"She hypnotized you at some time, and, by means of this uncanny
power of hers, ordered you to steal the Key of the Temple of
Heaven in such and such a fashion at a certain hour in the
night. . ."

"I had a strange seizure while I was at her house. . . ."

"Exactly!  During that time you were receiving your hypnotic
orders.  You would remember nothing of them until the time to
execute them--which would probably be during sleep.  In a state
of artificial somnambulism, and under the direction of Madame's
will, you became a burglar!"

As Madame de Medici's car drove off from the house of Colonel
Deacon, and Madame seated herself in the cushioned corner, up
from amid the furs upon the floor, where, dog-like, he had lain
concealed, rose the little yellow man from the Temple of Heaven.
He extended eager hands toward her, kneeling there, and spoke:

"Quick!  quick!" he breathed.  "You have it?  The Key of the
Temple."

Madame held in her hand an ivory Buddha.  Inverting it she
unscrewed the pedestal, and out from the hollow inside the image
dropped a gleaming Key.

"Ah!" breathed the yellow man, and would have clutched it; but
Madame disdainfully raised her right hand which held the
treasure, and with her left hand thrust down the clutching yellow
fingers.

She dropped the Key between her white skin and the bodice of her
gown, tossing the ivory figure contemptuously amid the fur.

"Ah!" repeated the yellow man in a different tone, and his eyes
gleamed with the flame of fanaticism.  He slowly uprose, a
sinister figure, and with distended fingers prepared to seize
Madame by the throat.  His eyes were bloodshot, his nostrils were
dilated, and his teeth were exposed like the fangs of a wolf.

But she pulled off her glove and stretched out her bare white
hand to him as a queen to a subject; she raised the long curved
lashes, and the great amber eyes looked into the angry bloodshot
eyes.

The little yellow man began to breathe more and more rapidly;
soon he was panting like one in a fight to the death who is all
but conquered.  At last he dropped on his knees amid the fur. . .
and the curling lashes were lowered again over the blazing amber
eyes that had conquered.

Madame de Medici lowered her beautiful white hand, and the little
yellow man seized it in both his own and showered rapturous
kisses upon it.

Madame smiled slightly.

"Poor little yellow man!" she murmured in sibilant Chinese, "you
shall never return to the Temple of Heaven!"







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales of Chinatown, by Sax Rohmer

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF CHINATOWN ***

This file should be named tlsct10.txt or tlsct10.zip
Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, tlsct11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, tlsct10a.txt

Produced by Alan Johns

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our Web sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03

Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

eBooks Year Month

    1  1971 July
   10  1991 January
  100  1994 January
 1000  1997 August
 1500  1998 October
 2000  1999 December
 2500  2000 December
 3000  2001 November
 4000  2001 October/November
 6000  2002 December*
 9000  2003 November*
10000  2004 January*


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information online at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*