"Well, how's our friend?" I asked.
"He's had a big shock, Sir Thomas, but he's all right now. I've rubbed
him all over with oil, fed him up with beef-tea and brandy and found him
dry clothes."
"He's from the towers, of course?"
As I said this, I saw Bill Rolston's face, beneath its yellow dye, was
blazing with excitement.
"Sir Thomas," he said in a whisper, "this is Pu-Yi himself, Mr. Morse's
Chinese secretary, a man utterly different from the others we have seen
here yet. He's of the Mandarin class, the buttons on his robe are of red
coral. In this house, at this moment, we have one of the masters of the
Secret City."
I gave a long, low whistle, which--I remember it so well--exactly
coincided with the raucous shout of the Honest Fool--"Time, gentlemen,
please!"
A thought struck me.
"The other Chinese in the large and small rooms, do they know this man
is here?"
"No, Sir Thomas; I am more than glad to say I got him up to your own
room when both doors were closed."
"What's he doing now?"
"He's having a little sleep. I promised to call him in an hour or so,
when he wishes to pay you his respects."
He listened for a moment.
"The others are going downstairs," he said. "I must be there to see them
out, and I have one or two little transactions--"
He felt in a villainous side pocket and I knew as well as possible what
it contained, and what would be handed to one or two of the moon-faced
gentlemen as they slipped out of the side door on their way home.
Bill came back in some twenty minutes.
"Now," he said, "I'm going upstairs to wake Pu-Yi and bring him down to
you. You must remember, Sir Thomas, that I am only a dirty little
servant. I am as far beneath a man like Pu-Yi as Sir Thomas Kirby is
above Stanley Whistlecraft, so I cannot be present at your interview. My
idea was that I should creep into the bar--Stanley will have had his
supper and gone to bed--and lie down on the floor with my ear to the
bottom of the door, then I can hear everything."
"That's a good idea," I said, for I was beginning to realize what an
enormous lot might depend upon this interview. Then I thought of
something else.
"Look here, Bill, you must remember this too. I fished the blighter out
of the Thames and no doubt he will be thankful in his overdone, Oriental
fashion. But to him, a man of the class you say he is, I shall be
nothing but a vulgar publican, and I don't see quite what's going to
come out of _that_!"
He had slipped the gutta-percha pads out of his cheeks--an operation to
which I had grown quite accustomed--and I could see his face as it
really was.
"That's occurred to me also," he replied, "but somehow or other I'm sure
the fates are on our side to-night."
He arose, turned away for a moment, there was a click and a gasp, and he
was the little impassive Oriental again. He glided up to me, put his
yellow hand with the long, polished finger nails upon my shoulder, and
said in my ear:
"Sir Thomas, he must see Her every day!"
He vanished from the room almost as he spoke, and left me with blood on
fire.
I was to see some one who might have spoken with Juanita that very day!
and I sat almost trembling with impatience, though issuing a dozen
warnings to myself to betray nothing, to keep every sense alert, so that
I might turn the interview to my own advantage.
At last there was a knock on the door, Bill opened it and the slim
figure of the man I had rescued glided in. They had dried his clothes,
he even wore his little skull cap which had apparently stuck to his head
while he was in the water, and I had the opportunity of seeing him in
the light for the first time.
Instead of the flat, Tartar nose, I saw one boldly aquiline, with large,
narrow nostrils. His eyes were almond shaped but lustrous and full of
fire. About the lips, which had no trace of sensuality but were
beautifully cut, there was a kind of serene pathos--I find it difficult
to describe in any other way. The whole face was noble in contour and in
expression, though the general impression it gave was one of unutterable
sadness. Dress him how you might, meet him where you would, there was
no possibility of mistaking Pu-Yi for anything but a gentleman of high
degree.
The door closed and I rose from my seat and held out my hand.
"Well," I said, "this is a bit of orlright, sir, and I'm glad to see you
so well recovered. To-morrow morning we'll have the law on them dirty
rascals that assaulted you."
I put on the accent thickly--flashed my diamond ring at him, in
short--for this might well be a game of touch and go, and I had a deep
secret to preserve.
He put his long, thin hand in mine, gripped it, and then suddenly turned
it over so that the backs of my fingers were uppermost.
It was an odd thing to do and I wondered what it meant.
"Oh, landlord of the Swan of Gold," he piped, in his curious, flute-like
voice, sorting out his words as he went on, "I owe you my unworthy life,
which is nothing in itself and which I don't value, save only for a
certain opportunity which remains to it, and is a private matter. But I
owe my life to your courage and strength and flowering kindness, and I
come to put myself in your hands."
Really he was making a damn lot of fuss about nothing!
"Look here," I said, "that's all right. You would have done as much for
me. Now let's sit down and have a peg and a chat. I can put you up for
the rest of the night, you know, and I shall be awfully glad to do it."
He looked as if he was going to make more speeches, but I cut him
short.
"As for putting your life in my hands," I said, "we don't talk like that
in England."
He sat down and a faint smile came upon his tired lips.
"And do the public-house keepers in England have hands such as yours
are?" he said gently. "Sir, your hands are white, they are also shaped
in a certain way, and your nails are not even in mourning for your
profession!"
I cursed myself savagely as he mocked me. Bill had pointed out over and
over again that I oughtn't to use a nail brush too frequently--it wasn't
in the part--but I always forgot it.
To hide my confusion I moved a little table towards him on which was a
box of excellent cigarettes. Unfortunately, also on the table was a
little pocket edition of Shakespeare with which I used to solace the
drab hours.
He picked it up, opened it plump at "Romeo and Juliet"--the play which,
for reasons known to you, I most affected at the time--and looked up at
me with gentle eyes.
"'Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona,'" he said.
My brain was working like a mill. I could not make the fellow out. What
did he know, what did he suspect? Well, the best thing was to ask him
outright.
"You mean?"
He became distressed at once.
"You speak harshly to me, O my preserver. I meant but that I knew at
once that you are not born in the position in which I see you. Perhaps
you will give me your kind leave to explain. In my native country I am
of high hereditary rank, though I am poor enough and occupy a somewhat
menial position here. My honorable name, honorable sir, is Pu-Yi, which
will convey nothing to you. During the rebellion of twenty years ago in
China, my ancestral house was destroyed and as a child I was rescued and
sent to Europe. For many years the peasants of my Province scraped their
little earnings together, and a sum sufficient to support me in my
studies was sent to me in Paris. I speak the French, Spanish and English
languages. I am a Bachelor of Science of the London University, and my
one hope and aim in life is, and has been, to acquire sufficient money
to return to the tombs of my ancestors on the banks of the
Yang-tse-kiang, there to live a quiet life, much resembling that of an
English country squire, until I also fade away into the unknown, and
become part of the Absolute."
There was something perfectly charming about him. Since he spotted I
wasn't a second edition of the Honest Fool, since he had somehow or
other divined that I was an educated man, I felt drawn to him. You must
remember that for months now the only person I had had to talk to was
Bill Rolston. And all the time, he was so occupied in our tortuous
campaign that we only met late at night to report progress.
For a moment I quite forgot what this new friend might mean to me, and
opened out to him without a thought of further advantage.
I was a fool, no doubt. Afterwards, talking it all over with Pat Moore
and Arthur Winstanley, I saw that I ran a great risk. Anyhow, I
reciprocated Pu-Yi's confidence as well as I could.
"I'm awfully glad we've met, even under such unfortunate circumstances.
You are quite right. I come of a different class from what the ordinary
frequenter of this hotel might suppose, but since you have discovered it
I beg you to keep it entirely to yourself. I also have had my
misfortunes. Perhaps I also am longing for some ultimate happiness or
triumph."
Out of the box he took a cigarette, and his long, delicate fingers
played with it.
"Brother," he said, "I understand, and I say again, now that I can say
it in a new voice, my life is yours."
Then I began on my own account.
"Tell me," I said, "of yourself. Many of your fellow-countrymen come
here--the lower orders--and they're all employed by the millionaire,
Gideon Morse, who seems to prefer the men of China to any other. You
also, Pu-Yi, are connected with this colossal mystery?"
He didn't answer for a moment, but looked down at the glowing end of his
cigarette.
"Yes," he replied, with some constraint, "I am in the service of the
honorable Mr. Gideon Mendoza Morse. I am, in fact, his private secretary
and through me his instructions are conveyed to the various heads of
departments."
"You are fortunate. I suppose that before long you will be able to
fulfill your ambitions and retire to China?"
With a quick glance at me he admitted that this was so.
"And yet," I said thoughtfully, "it must be a very trying service,
despite that you live in Wonderland, in a City of Enchantment."
Again I caught a swift regard and he leant forward in his chair.
"Why do you say that?" he asked.