I.

A jarring incongruity in the room of tapestries, silken-shaded lights,

and furnishings of mahogany, the rough wooden box, with its dirty,

scarred sides, scratched the top of the polished table in a hundred

places without arousing even a murmur of protest from the four men who

watched every movement of the little Japanese servant as he carefully

pried the holding nails from the cover boards. A chorused “Ah!” came

from four pairs of lips as the servant laid the chisel down and lifted

the last board.

“Careful, Nesu,” warned the frock-coated man with the white moustache

and sun-tanned cheeks.

The dissipated-looking youth, with the Egyptian cigarette dangling

loosely from his lower lip, rose to get a better view of the interior.

“’Nough cotton stuffing there to fill a barrel, captain,” he grinned,

vacuously.

“Yes,” nodded the white-moustached captain. “Nearly ten pounds, and the

Devils are bound into place with nearly twenty yards of silk strips. A

man takes a little care with a thing that’s cost him forty thousand,

Meynerd.”

The Japanese servant pulled out a huge handful of cotton, and placed it

on a spread newspaper as another of the group spoke. “Is it really worth

that, captain?” he asked.

“Three times that, Joslyn. Forty thousand is only what I paid the

hunchback outcast priest in the Yunling mountain monastery in Sze Chuen.

He had had it hidden for nearly fifty years. The eye alone is worth

sixty-five thousand, if it’s worth a cent. The forty thousand I paid

will buy the priest all the prayers he needs for the next hundred years;

and they’ll be the best prayers money can buy, at that.” He smiled,

grimly. “I needed a few of those same prayers on several occasions

myself,” he went on. “Especially on that three-hundred-mile journey

through the Yunlings to Chingtu. I have an idea the priest wanted to

steal a march on the prayers, and threw out a hint that the ‘white dogs’

had found the pearl-eyed Seven Devils of Sin. During the half century

that had passed since he stole it, of course, it has been ‘lost.’”

“Why didn’t he return it instead of getting forty thousand dollars to

buy prayer papers to burn for his soul?” asked Wilson, the fourth member

of the group, taking his eyes from the busy-fingered Jap.

“Because he was a Chinese,” explained Captain Richards. “He stole the

thing when he had just entered the monastery, for a white man who bribed

him--that’s a long story in itself. The briber was killed the day of the

theft. The young priest was suspected, and tortured until he became a

hunchback and outcast, but no confession could be gotten. In the years

the blame has been laid on the white man’s devil, who stole the Chinese

devils and took them to his home, when the white master was killed. The

peculiar kink of the Chinese mind would not let the thief confess or

return the devils. He couldn’t see where the mere restitution would

expiate his sin. The only way he could figure was to wait until some one

came with enough money to pray him into heaven for a hundred years after

he had gone. Peculiar cusses, the Chinese.”

He rose at the last word, and the others rose with him. The Japanese was

unwinding yard after yard of two-inch silken strips.

“Ah!” It was more than an exclamation: it was a three-man-power cry of

amazement, wonder, and surprise as the captain lifted the thing from the

box and set it gently on the table.

“Great guns!” gasped the dissipated-looking youth, backing away a step

and stopping with a sheepish grin.

“The Seven Golden Devils of Sin with the single eye!” announced the

captain, with a flourish.

The men stared at the most curious-looking object they had ever seen. At

first glance it seemed merely a spidery collection of arms and legs;

then seven figures stood out, separately and distinctly, grouped closely

together. In the centre stood the shortest; around him, in every

conceivable position, were six others. Their bodies were grotesquely

deformed, their backs misshapen, their limbs twisted; and the genius who

had fashioned the thing of his dull, hand-hammered gold in the centuries

gone, had given to the bodies and limbs the distortion of horrible

agony.

But it was the head; the single head that surmounted the seven bodies,

which held their attention. The face was hideous; but in the very

hideousness the gold worker had put cunning, power, strength. The thick

lips leered a smile of satanic triumph; the cheek bones were high,

oblique. And above the squat, wide-nostriled nose was a single eye! It

was a pearl, perfect, flawless: milk-white against the red-yellow gold.

As they stared there seemed to come into the single eye of pearl a glow

of red, as though the heart of the great jewel were a spark of fire that

shone through the lustred surface. It was a trick of the lights,

perhaps, or the reflected colour of the overhanging brow, but to the men

who watched, it seemed that the eye held all the malevolence and cruelty

of the Pit itself.

“The devilish thing gives a man the creeps!” growled Meynerd; and his

hand shook a bit as he took the cigarette from his lips.

Joslyn laughed jerkily, for the spell of the thing was on him, too.

“Better cut out a few of those high balls, Mey,” he taunted.

A flush of resentment mounted the youth’s cheeks; but the captain

forestalled his angry reply.

“Those figures represent the seven sins, each one enough to keep a

Chinese from his heaven. The one in the centre, though the shortest and

most horribly deformed of all, has the biggest and strongest body. That

is Deceit, the most powerful of devils. The Mongolian reasons that none

of the other devils can enter the heart of man unless deceit has entered

first.”

“Excellent philosophy, that,” commented Wilson.

“That is why the head rests on the centre figure and the bodies of the

others are bent forward to meet it,” continued the captain. “Notice,

too, that though the limbs are terribly twisted, and the bodies scarred

to symbolize the awful punishment the gods have inflicted on the wicked

seducers of men’s hearts, the head is perfect, showing that the devils

can still think with their one head, and plan traps for the unwary. And

the eye”--his face lighted with the enthusiasm of the collector--“the

wonderful eye that is all-seeing, alert to catch the first sign of

weakening in the lowest coolie in the kingdom. That, gentlemen, is the

thing I worked years to get; the thing that nearly cost me my life a

dozen times--the Eye of the Seven Devils! The most wonderful pearl in

the world; the pearl with a heart of fire!”

“Funny the thief priest didn’t pry out the eye and sell it to buy his

prayers, without risking getting rid of the whole thing,” put in Joslyn.

“That’s the wonder of the thing!” exclaimed the captain. “By some method

that no one has ever been able to fathom, the maker of the thing set the

stone in such a way that it can’t be taken out without cutting the whole

thing to pieces. The pearl appears merely pasted in its socket, but the

microscope can see, in the space around it, that the jewel is gripped in

four prongs that fit into tiny holes bored in the back of the pearl. The

space around it is so narrow that no instrument of strength, sufficient

to cut or break the prongs, can be inserted. And if it could, the very

act would cause the gem to chip, and, perhaps, split. That is the way

the maker made theft impossible!”

“Wouldn’t mind having the pearl,” growled Meynerd, “but I’d throw the

rest of it in a sewer.”

The tanned cheeks of Captain Richards went a dull red with anger, and

his moustache bristled; but Wilson cut in to prevent an open break.

“Let’s have a little drink.”

The servant, who had stuffed the last silk strip into the empty case,

straightened up.

“High ball,” grunted Meynerd.

“Another absinthe drip,” added Joslyn.

“Bourbon,” ordered Wilson, and the captain nodded.

Silence followed the going of the servant. The captain took out his

watch, glanced at it, chewed his cigar almost nervously, and lounged

back in the chair he had taken beside Joslyn. The eyes of the others

wandered around the room, but always returned to the twisted bodies of

the seven devils of the single eye. The thing of hand-wrought metal on

the table seemed to exert an uncanny influence over men who had never

known superstition. As the silent seconds passed there came a tension in

the mood of all. Each found himself continually catching the other’s

eye, only to glance hastily and sheepishly away. And the twisted devil

mouth leered at them; in the smouldering fire of the devil eye seemed

infinite scorn.

The return of the servant with the tray of drinks made each one sit up

eagerly. The Japanese went to the captain first and held out a card.

“Hustle the high ball,” growled Meynerd. The Jap hurried over. Meynerd’s

unsteady hands had spilled a third of the liquor before Wilson took the

small carafe from his shaking hands and poured the remainder over the

ice. The youth growled monosyllabic thanks. Captain Richards whistled as

Meynerd tossed his drink off at a gulp.

“Going to leave us, captain?” asked Joslyn, poking his straws farther

down in the cracked ice of the absinthe.

Captain Richards looked up from the card he held between his thumb and

forefinger. “Puzzling thing,” he prefaced. “Here’s the card of Ching Li

Chu.” His eyes went again to the pasteboard as he read: “Secretary to

the ambassador at Washington of the Imperial Chinese Republic.”

“What does he want?” asked Wilson. “That?” He jerked his head toward the

table.

“How on earth----” Sudden decision cleared the look of puzzlement from

the captain’s brow. “Send him in, Nesu,” he ordered.

“Chink devils, chink secretaries,” grinned Meynerd. The liquor had

pulled his nerves together again, and his lips curved in contempt when

he caught Joslyn stealing a covert glance toward the table, as the door

opened.

The man who entered, unquestionably a Mongolian, had a lean, intelligent

face. The eyes, but slightly aslant, looked straight before him, giving

no sign that they even saw the seated men, but stared fixedly at the

table and its thing of gold. In the centre of the room the Chinese

stopped and made a deep obeisance, once, twice, thrice. A low laugh of

contempt came from Meynerd’s lips, but the Chinese paid no heed. He

walked to the table, and for several silent seconds gazed steadily into

the eye of the pearl. With another deep bow he turned, his eyes

searching each face.

“Captain Richards?” His voice was low, mellow, with no trace of accent.

“I am he!” The captain rose from his seat and bowed.

“So my information was correct; it is the Seven Devils with the True

Eye.” Again the Chinese bowed toward the figures. Once more Meynerd

laughed sneeringly. This time the Mongolian turned toward him

inquiringly.

“You do not mock me,” he rebuked, mildly. “Your mockery is of the Seven

Devils. I would be careful, were I you.”

“Bah!” Meynerd set down his empty glass. “I didn’t know you fellows

worshipped devils, and little gold devils on a table, at that.”

“Nor do we.” Still that mild, even voice. “We worship our gods; but we

are careful not to incur the wrath of our devils. The gods may forgive

the ignorant mocker; the devils slay. That I believe, and I am no

coolie, but a man educated in your own universities.”

“Drunken kid!” muttered the captain, his fingers moving along the

table-edge as he leaned against it. “You wanted to see me on business?”

he asked the Chinese.

“Yes. I wish to pay you one hundred thousand dollars for the golden

Seven Devils of Sin!” The amazement this announcement caused showed

plainly on each man’s face. The Chinese went on: “The new republic seeks

to unite its people, but throughout the province of Chingtu it is known

that the lost Seven Devils has been taken from the country. They demand

that the new government see that it is returned if they are to believe

that government’s power. Our failure will mean a costly and bloody war,

for the Yunling mountain men are fighters who know every inch of its

vast slopes.”

“So my six months of devious routes and constant guarding amounted to

nothing.” The captain’s lips smiled grimly, but there was a light in his

eyes that had not been there before. “I suppose the priest is being

honoured for having been told by the gods that the white dog had stolen

the thing.”

“Prayer papers have been burning this last five months for the

hunchback,” said the Chinese, quietly.

“Um.” The smile left the captain’s lips. He shook his head. “I will not

sell,” he declared, and there was finality in his voice.

It seemed a full minute before any one spoke. The noiseless Jap servant

industriously picked up small tufts of cotton that had fallen to the rug

back of the table. Joslyn set his glass, with its green-tinged cracked

ice on the table, clinkingly, and the captain’s eyes left the

Mongolian’s face as the noise attracted them. Meynerd’s lips still

grinned contemptuously as he spun the piece of ice around in his empty

high-ball glass.

“The devils can only bring sorrow to you.” The voice of the Chinese was

deep, full of sincerity. “Perhaps death, for in your country there will

be mockers, and, as I told your friend, the devils slay those who mock

them.” His deep eyes rested on Meynerd. The face of the youth went red

for an instant; then the sneer came back.

“Like to see ’em kill me!” he said, boastfully. “A chink knife in back

might, but no pigeon-toed gang of devils with one eye could!”

“Do not speak that way!” There was stern reproof in the tone of the

Chinese. “You may know the things of the West, but there are things of

the East that you do not know!”

“Is that so!” Meynerd shook off the restraining hand of Wilson and stood

up. The face of the captain went white with rage, and his hands fumbled

with the handkerchief he had been in the act of lifting to his brow.

“Be a gentleman!” he snapped.

Meynerd paid no heed. “Here’s to you devils!” he laughed, sneeringly.

“Long may you wave--in a glass case!”

“The mockers kotow before they die!” The words came rapidly, almost

hissingly, from the lips of the Chinese.

“Here’s to crime!” Meynerd stood in front of the golden devils and

drained the last drops of his drink. A gasp came from the Japanese as he

backed away a step, his hand full of cotton tufts he had picked up from

the floor. Captain Richards crushed the handkerchief in his hand as he

brushed his lips. Every eye in the room was on the gently swaying man

with the glass to his lips.

Suddenly Meynerd’s face went livid; the glass fell to the floor. Slowly

his knees bent. For a second he seemed to kneel before the leering face

of gold. His body fell forward. His forehead touched the ground. Then

the limbs straightened convulsively, and he lay still.

The seated men jumped to their feet, with exclamations of horror. The

Chinese, face impassive, leaned over and touched the pulse of the man on

the floor. Then he looked up into the faces of the three white-faced men

who bent over him.

“He is dead,” said the Mongolian, quietly. “The devils have slain.”

Mechanically, involuntarily, they turned toward the hideous thing on the

table. As one the startled cry came from three pairs of lips:

“_The Eye! The Eye!_”

The twisted, thick lips of gold still leered at them, but where the eye

of pearl had been, only an empty socket seemed to stare down at the dead

man on the floor.