IN A FOREIGN LAND
I stood long by my own door, irresolute, listening, hoping, fearing,
my brain throbbing with the effort to seize some clue to the maze of
mysteries in which I was entangled. Was the clue behind those locked
doors? Did the man whose groans and prayers had startled me hold the
heart of the mystery?
The groans and prayers, if they continued, could be heard no longer
through the double doors, and I seated myself by the desk and took
account of the events that had brought me to my present position. Where
did I stand? What had I accomplished? What had I learned? How was I to
reach the end for which I struggled and bring to justice the slayer
of my murdered friend? As I passed in review the occurrences that had
crowded the few weeks since my arrival, I was compelled to confess that
I knew little more of the mysteries that surrounded me than on the night
I arrived. I knew that I was tossed between two opposing forces. I knew
that a mysterious boy was supposed to be under my protection, and that
to gain and keep possession of him my life was sought and defended. I
knew that Doddridge Knapp had caused the murder of Henry Wilton, and yet
for some unfathomable reason gave me his confidence and employment under
the belief that I was Henry Wilton. But I had been able to get no hint
of who the boy might be, or where he was concealed, or who was the
hidden woman who employed me to protect him, or why he was sought by
Doddridge Knapp. Mother Borton's vague hints seemed little better than
guess-work. If she knew the name of the boy and the identity of the
woman, she had some good reason for concealing them. It flashed over my
mind that Mother Borton might herself be the mysterious employer. I had
never yet seen a line of her handwriting, and the notes might have come
from her. It was she who first had told me that my men were already
paid, and a few hours later I had found the note from my employer
assuring me that the demands were fully settled. Could it be that she
was the woman with whom Doddridge Knapp was battling with a desperate
purpose that did not stop at murder? The idea was gone as soon as
it came. It was preposterous to suppose that these two could feel so
overwhelming an interest in the same child.
How long I sat by the desk waiting, thinking, planning, I know not. One
scheme of action after another I had considered and rejected, when a
sound broke on my listening ears. I started up in feverish anxiety. It
was from the room beyond, and I stole toward the door to learn what it
might mean.
Again it came, but, strain as I might, I could not determine its cause.
What could be going on in the locked office? If two men were there was
it a personal encounter? If one man, was he doing violence upon himself?
Was the heart of the mystery to be found behind those doors if I had the
courage to throw them open? Burning with impatience, I thrust aside the
fears of the evil that might follow hasty action. I had drawn the key
and raised it once more to the slot, when I heard a step in the middle
room. I had but time to retreat to my desk when a key was fitted in the
lock, the door was flung open, and Doddridge Knapp stepped calmly into
the room.
“Ah, Wilton,” said the King of the Street affably. “I was wondering if I
should find you here.”
There was no trace of surprise or agitation in the face before me.
If this was the man whose prayers and groans and sobs had come to me
through the locked door, if he had wrestled with his conscience or even
had been the accusing conscience of another, his face was a mask that
showed no trace of the agony of thoughts that might contort the spirit
beneath it.
“I was attending to a little work of my own,” I answered, after
greeting. If I felt much like a disconcerted pickpocket I was careful
to conceal the circumstance, and spoke with easy indifference. “You have
come back before I expected you,” I continued carelessly.
“Yes,” said the King of the Street with equal carelessness. “Some family
affairs called me home sooner than I had thought to come.”
I had an inward start. Mrs. Knapp's troubled look, Mrs. Bowser's
confusion, and the few words that had passed, returned to me. What was
the connection between them?
“Mrs. Knapp is not ill, I trust?” I ventured.
“Oh, no.”
“Nor Miss Knapp?”
“Oh, all are well at the house, but sometimes you know women-folks get
nervous.”
Was it possible that Mrs. Knapp had sent for her husband? What other
meaning could I put on these words? But before I could pursue my
investigations further along this line, the wolf came to the surface,
and he waved the subject aside with a growl.
“But this is nothing to you. What you want to know is that I won't need
you before Wednesday, if then.”
“Does the campaign reopen?” I asked.
“If you don't mind, Wilton,” said the Wolf with another growl, “I'll
keep my plans till I'm ready to use them.”
“Certainly,” I retorted. “But maybe you would feel a little interest
to know that Rosenheim and Bashford have gathered in about a thousand
shares of Omega in the last four or five days.”
Doddridge Knapp gave me a keen glance.
“There were no sales of above a hundred shares,” he said.
“No--most of them ran from ten to fifty shares.”
“Well,” he continued, looking fixedly at me, “you know something about
Rosenheim?”
“If it won't interfere with your plans,” I suggested apologetically.
The Wolf drew back his lips over his fangs, and then turned the snarl
into a smile. “Go on,” he said, waving amends for the snub he had
administered.
“Well, I don't know much about Rosenheim, but I caught him talking with
Decker.”
“Were the stocks transferred to Decker?”
“No; they stand to Rosenheim, trustee.”
“Well, Wilton, they've stolen a march on us, but I reckon we'll give 'em
a surprise before they're quite awake.”
“And,” I continued coolly, “Decker's working up a deal in Crown Diamond
and toying a little with Confidence--you gave me a week to find out, you
may remember.”
“Very good, Wilton,” said the King of the Street with grudging approval.
“We'll sell old Decker quite a piece of Crown Diamond before he gets
through. And now is there anything more in your pack?”
“It's empty,” I confessed. “Well, you may go then.”
I was puzzled to know why Doddridge Knapp should wish to get me out of
the office. Was there some secret locked in his room that he feared
I might surprise if I stayed? I looked at him sharply, but there was
nothing to be read on that impassive face.
Doddridge Knapp followed me to the door, and stood on the threshold as
I walked down the hall. There was no chance for spying or listening at
keyholes, if I were so inclined, and it was not until I had reached the
bottom stair that I thought I heard the sound of a closing door behind
me.
As I stood at the entrance, almost oblivious of the throng that was
hurrying up and down Clay Street, Porter joined me.
“Did you see him?” he asked.
“Him? Who?”
“Why, Tom Terrill sneaked down those stairs a little bit ago, and I
thought you might have found him up there.”
Could it be possible that this man had been with Doddridge Knapp, and
that it was his voice I had heard? This in turn seemed improbable,
hardly possible.
“There he is now,” whispered Porter.
I turned my eyes in the direction he indicated, and a shock ran through
me; for my eye had met the eye of a serpent. Yes, there again was the
cruel, keen face, and the glittering, repulsive eye, filled with malice
and hatred, that I had beheld with loathing and dread whenever it had
come in my path. With an evil glance Terrill turned and made off in the
crowd.
“Follow that man, Wainwright,” said I to the second guard, who was close
at hand. “Watch him to-night and report to me to-morrow.”
I wondered what could be the meaning of Terrill's visit to the building.
Was it to see Doddridge Knapp and get his orders? Or was it to follow
up some new plan to wrest from me the secret I was supposed to hold? But
there was no answer to these questions, and I turned toward my room to
prepare for the excursion that had been set for the evening.
It was with hope and fear that I took my way to the Pine Street palace.
It was my fear that was realized. Mrs. Bowser fell to my lot--indeed,
I may say that I was surrounded by her in force, and surrendered
unconditionally--while Luella joined Mr. Carter, and Mrs. Carter with
Mr. Horton followed.
Corson was waiting for us at the old City Hall. I had arranged with the
policeman that he should act as our guide, and had given him Porter and
Barkhouse as assistants in case any should be needed.
“A fine night for it, sor,” said Corson in greeting. “There's a little
celebration goin' on among the haythens to-night, so you'll see 'em at
their best.”
“Oh, how sweet!” gushed Mrs. Bowser. “Is it that dear China New Year
that I've heard tell on, and do they take you in to dinner at every
place you call, and do they really eat rats? Ugh, the horrid things!”
And Mrs. Bowser pulled up short in mid career.
“No, ma'am,” said Corson, “leastways it ain't Chaney New Year for a
couple of months yet. As for eatin' rats, there's many a thing gets
eaten up in the dens that would be better by bein' turned into a rat.”
Looking across the dark shrubbery of Portsmouth Square and up Washington
Street, the eye could catch a line of gay-colored lanterns, swaying in
the light wind, and casting a mellow glow on buildings and walks.
“Oh, isn't it sweet! So charming!” cried Mrs. Bowser, as we came into
full view of the scene and crossed the invisible line that carries one
from modern San Francisco into the ancient oriental city, instinct with
foreign life, that goes by the name of Chinatown. Sordid and foul as
it appears by daylight, there was a charm and romance to it under
the lantern-lights that softened the darkness. Windows and doors were
illuminated. Brown, flat-nosed men in loose clothing gathered in
groups and discussed their affairs in a strange singsong tongue and
high-pitched voices. Here, was the sound of the picking of the Chinese
banjo-fiddle; there, we heard a cracked voice singing a melancholy song
in the confusion of minor keys that may pass for music among the
brown men; there, again, a gong with tin-pan accompaniment assisted to
reconcile the Chinese to the long intervals between holidays. Crowds
hurried along the streets, loitered at corners, gathered about points of
interest, but it seemed as though it was all one man repeated over and
over.
“Why, they're all alike!” exclaimed Mrs. Bowser. “How do they ever tell
each other apart?”
“Oh, that's aisy enough, ma'am,” replied Corson with a twinkle in his
eye. “They tie a knot in their pigtails, and that's the way you know
'em.”
“Laws! you don't say!” said Mrs. Bowser, much impressed. “I never could
tell 'em that way.”
“It is a strange resemblance,” said Mr. Carter. “Don't you find it
almost impossible to distinguish between them?”
“To tell you the truth, sor, no,” said Corson. “It's a trick of the eye
with you, sor. If you was to be here with 'em for a month or two you'd
niver think there was two of 'em alike. There's as much difference
betwixt one and another as with any two white men. I was loike you at
first. I says to meself that they're as like as two pease. But, now,
look at those two mugs there in that door. They're no more alike than
you and me, as Mr. Wilton here can tell you, sor.”
The difference between the two Chinese failed to impress me, but I was
mindful of my reputation as an old resident.
“Oh, yes; a very marked contrast,” I said promptly, just as I would have
sworn that they were twins if Corson had suggested it.
“Very remarkable!” said Mr. Carter dubiously.
In and out we wound through the oriental city--the fairy-land that
stretched away, gay with lanterns and busy with strange crowds, changing
at times as we came nearer to a tawdry reality, cheap, dirty, and heavy
with odors. Here was a shop where ivory in delicate carvings, bronze
work that showed the patient handicraft and grotesque fancy of the
oriental artist, lay side by side with porcelains, fine and coarse,
decorated with the barbaric taste in form and color that rules the
art of the ancient empire. Beyond, were carved cabinets of ebony and
sandal-wood, rich brocades and soft silks and the proprietor sang the
praises of his wares and reduced his estimate of their value with each
step we took toward the door. Next the rich shop was a low den from
whose open door poured fumes of tobacco and opium, and in whose misty
depths figures of bloused little men huddled around tables and swayed
hither and thither. The click of dominoes, the rattling of sticks and
counters, and the excited cries of men, rose from the throng.
“They're the biggest gamblers the Ould Nick iver had to his hand,” said
Corson; “there isn't one of 'em down there that wouldn't bet the coat
off his back.”
“Dear me, how dreadful!” said Mrs. Bowser. “And do we have to go down
into that horrible hole, and how can we ever get out with our lives?”
“We're not going down there, ma'am,” interrupted Corson shortly.
“And where next?” asked Luella.
The question was addressed to the policeman, not to me. Except for a
formal greeting when we had met, Luella had spoken no word to me during
the evening.
“Here's the biggest joss-house in town,” said Corson. “We might as well
see it now as any time.”
“Oh, do let us see those delightfully horrible idols,” cried Mrs.
Bowser. “But,” she added, with a sudden access of alarm at some
recollection of the reading of her school-days, “do they cut people's
hearts out before the wicked things right in the middle of the city?”
The policeman assured her that the appetite of the joss for gore
remained unsatisfied, and led the way into the dimly-lighted building
that served as a temple.
I lingered a moment by the door to see that all my party passed in.
“There's Wainwright,” whispered Porter, who closed the procession.
“Where?” I asked, a dim remembrance of the mission on which I had sent
him in pursuit of the snake-eyed man giving the information a sinister
twist.
Porter gave a chirrup, and Wainwright halted at the door.
“He's just passed up the alley here,” said Wainwright in a low voice.
“Who? Terrill?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Wainwright. “I've kept him in sight all the evening.”
“Hasn't he seen you?” asked Porter. “I spied you as soon as you turned
the corner.”
“Don't know,” said Wainwright; “but something's up. There he goes now. I
mustn't miss him.” And Wainwright darted off.
I looked searchingly in the direction he took, but could see no sign of
the snake-eyed enemy.
The presence of Terrill gave me some tremors of anxiety, for I knew that
his unscrupulous ferocity would stop at nothing. I feared for the moment
that some violence might threaten the party, and that perhaps Luella
was in danger. Then I reflected that the presence of Doddridge Knapp's
daughter was a protection against an attack from Doddridge Knapp's
agents, and I followed the party into the heathen temple without further
apprehensions.
The temple was small, and even in the dim, religious light that gave an
air of mystery to the ugly figure of the god and the trappings of the
place, the whole appeared cheap--a poor representative of the majesty
of a religion that claims the devotion of four hundred million human
beings.
“That's one of the richest carvings ever brought into this country,”
said Corson, pointing to a part of the altar mounting. “Tin thousand
dollars wouldn't touch one side of it.”
“You don't say!” cried Mrs. Bowser, while the rest murmured in the
effort to admire the work of art. “And is that stuff burning for a
disinfectant?”
She pointed to numerous pieces of punk, such as serve the small boy on
the Fourth of July, that were consuming slowly before the ugly joss.
“No, ma'am--not but they needs it all right enough,” said Corson, “but
that's the haythen way of sayin' your prayers.”
This information was so astonishing that Corson was allowed to finish
his explanation without further remarks from Mrs. Bowser.
“I'll show you the theater next,” said he, as he led the way out of the
temple with Mrs. Bowser giving her views of the picturesque heathen in
questions that Corson found no break in the conversation long enough to
answer. As I lingered for a moment in some depression of spirit, waiting
for the others to file out, a voice that thrilled me spoke in my ear.
“Our guide is enjoying a great favor.” It was Luella, noticing me for
the first time since the expedition had started.
“He has every reason to be delighted,” I returned, brightening at the
favor I was enjoying.
“Foreign travel is said to be of great value in education,” said Luella,
taking my arm, “but it's certainly stupid at times.”
I suspected that Mr. Carter had not been entirely successful in meeting
Miss Knapp's ideas of what an escort should be.
“I didn't suppose you could find anything stupid,” I said.
“I am intensely interested,” she retorted, “but unfortunately the list
of subjects has come to an end.”
“You might have begun at the beginning again.”
“He did,” she whispered, “so I thought it time he tried the guide or
Aunt Julia.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Thank him, you mean,” she said gaily. “Now don't be stupid yourself, so
please change the subject. Do you know,” she continued without giving me
time to speak, “that the only way I can be reconciled to this place
and the sights we have seen is to imagine I am in Canton or Peking,
thousands of miles from home? Seen there, it is interesting,
instructive, natural--a part of their people. As a part of San Francisco
it is only vile.”
“Ugh!” said I, as a whiff from an underground den floated up on the
night air, and Luella caught her handkerchief to her face to get her
breath. “I'm not sure that this rose would smell any sweeter by the name
of Canton.”
“I'm afraid your argument is too practical for me to answer,” she
laughed. “Yet I'm certain it would be more poetic seven thousand miles
away.”
“Come this way,” said Corson, halting with the party at one of the
doors. “I'll show you through some of the opium dens, and that will
bring us to the stage door of the theater.”
“How close and heavy the air is!” said Luella, as we followed the
winding passage in the dim illumination that came from an occasional
gas-jet or oil lamp.
“The yellow man is a firm believer in the motto, 'Ventilation is the
root of all evil,'” I admitted.
The fumes of tobacco and opium were heavy on the air, and a moment later
we came on a cluster of small rooms or dens, fitted with couches and
bunks. It needed no description to make the purpose plain. The whole
process of intoxication by opium was before me, from the heating of the
metal pipe to the final stupor that is the gift and end of the Black
Smoke. Here, was a coolie mixing the drug; there, just beyond him, was
another, drawing whiffs from the bubbling narcotic through the bamboo
handle of his pipe; there, still beyond, was another, lying back
unconscious, half-clad, repulsive, a very sorry reality indeed to the
gorgeous dreams that are reputed to follow in the train of the seductive
pipe.
“Do they really allow them to smoke that dreadful stuff?” asked Mrs.
Bowser shrilly. “Why, I should think the governor, or the mayor, or
you, Mr. Policeman, would stop the awful thing right off. Now, why don't
you?”
“Oh, it's no harm to the haythen,” said Corson. “It's death and
destruction to the white man, but it's no more to the yellow man than
so much tobacco and whiskey. They'll be all right to-morrow. We niver
touches 'em unless they takes the whites into their dens. Then we raids
'em. But there's too much of it goin' on, for all that.”
“This is depressing,” said Luella, with a touch on my arm. “Let's go
on.”
“Turn to the right there,” Corson called out, as we led the way while he
was explaining to Mr. Carter the method of smoking.
“Let us get where there is some air,” said Luella. “This odor is
sickening.”
We hastened on, and, turning to the right, soon came on two passages.
One led up a stair, hidden by a turn after half a dozen steps. The other
stretched fifty or seventy-five feet before us, and an oil lamp on a
bracket at the farther end gave a smoky light to the passage and to a
mean little court on which it appeared to open.
“We had better wait for the rest,” said Luella cautiously.
As she spoke, one of the doors toward the farther end of the passage
swung back, and a tall heavy figure came out. My heart gave a great
bound, and I felt without realizing it at the moment, that Luella
clutched my arm fiercely.
In the dim light the figure was the figure of the Wolf, the head was the
head of the Wolf, and though no light shone upon it, the face was the
face of the Wolf, livid, distorted with anger, fear and brutal passions.
“Doddridge Knapp!” I exclaimed, and gave a step forward.
It flashed on me that one mystery was explained. I had found out why the
Doddridge Knapp of plot and counterplot, and the Doddridge Knapp who was
the generous and confidential employer, could dwell in the same body.
The King of the Street was a slave of the Black Smoke, and, like many
another, went mad under the influence of the subtle drug.
As I moved forward, Luella clung to me and gave a low cry. The Wolf
figure threw one malignant look at us and was gone.
“Take me home, oh, take me home!” cried Luella in low suppressed tones,
trembling and half-falling. I put my arm about her to support her.
“What is it?” I asked.
She leaned upon me for one moment, and the black walls and gloomy
passage became a palace filled with flowers. Then her strength and
resolution returned, and she shook herself free.
“Come; let us go back to the others,” she said a little unsteadily. “We
should not have left them.”
“Certainly,” I replied. “They ought to be here by this time.”
But as we turned, a sudden cry sounded as of an order given. There was a
bang of wood and a click of metal, and, as we looked, we saw that unseen
hands had closed the way to our return. A barred and iron-bound door was
locked in our faces.