Keith lost no time in heading for Shan Tung's. He was like a man
playing chess, and the moves were becoming so swift and so intricate
that his mind had no rest. Each hour brought forth its fresh
necessities and its new alternatives. It was McDowell who had given him
his last cue, perhaps the surest and safest method of all for winning
his game. The iron man, that disciple of the Law who was merciless in
his demand of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, had let him
understand that the world would be better off without Shan Tung. This
man, who never in his life had found an excuse for the killer, now
maneuvered subtly the suggestion for a killing.
Keith was both shocked and amazed. "If anything happens, let it be in
the open and not on Shan Tung's premises," he had warned him. That
implied in McDowell's mind a cool and calculating premeditation, the
assumption that if Shan Tung was killed it would be in self-defense.
And Keith's blood leaped to the thrill of it. He had not only found the
depths of McDowell's personal interest in Miriam Kirkstone, but a last
weapon had been placed in his hands, a weapon which he could use this
day if it became necessary. Cornered, with no other hope of saving
himself, he could as a last resort kill Shan Tung--and McDowell would
stand behind him!
He went directly to Shan Tung's cafe and sauntered in. There were large
changes in it since four years ago. The moment he passed through its
screened vestibule, he felt its oriental exclusiveness, the sleek and
mysterious quietness of it. One might have found such a place catering
to the elite of a big city. It spoke sumptuously of a large expenditure
of money, yet there was nothing bizarre or irritating to the senses.
Its heavily-carved tables were almost oppressive in their solidity.
Linen and silver, like Shan Tung himself, were immaculate.
Magnificently embroidered screens were so cleverly arranged that one
saw not all of the place at once, but caught vistas of it. The few
voices that Keith heard in this pre-lunch hour were subdued, and the
speakers were concealed by screens. Two orientals, as immaculate as the
silver and linen, were moving about with the silence of velvet-padded
lynxes. A third, far in the rear, stood motionless as one of the carven
tables, smoking a cigarette and watchful as a ferret. This was Li King,
Shan Tung's right-hand man.
Keith approached him. When he was near enough, Li King gave the
slightest inclination to his head and took the cigarette from his
mouth. Without movement or speech he registered the question, "What do
you want?"
Keith knew this to be a bit of oriental guile. In his mind there was no
doubt that Li King had been fully instructed by his master and that he
had been expecting him, even watching for him. Convinced of this, he
gave him one of Conniston's cards and said,
"Take this to Shan Tung. He is expecting me."
Li King looked at the card, studied it for a moment with apparent
stupidity, and shook his head. "Shan Tung no home. Gone away."
That was all. Where he had gone or when he would return Keith could not
discover from Li King. Of all other matters except that he had gone
away the manager of Shan Tung's affairs was ignorant. Keith felt like
taking the yellow-skinned hypocrite by the throat and choking something
out of him, but he realized that Li King was studying and watching him,
and that he would report to Shan Tung every expression that had passed
over his face. So he looked at his watch, bought a cigar at the glass
case near the cash register, and departed with a cheerful nod, saying
that he would call again.
Ten minutes later he determined on a bold stroke. There was no time for
indecision or compromise. He must find Shan Tung and find him quickly.
And he believed that Miriam Kirkstone could give him a pretty good tip
as to his whereabouts. He steeled himself to the demand he was about to
make as he strode up to the house on the hill. He was disappointed
again. Miss Kirkstone was not at home. If she was, she did not answer
to his knocking and bell ringing.
He went to the depot. No one he questioned had seen Shan Tung at the
west-bound train, the only train that had gone out that morning, and
the agent emphatically disclaimed selling him a ticket. Therefore he
had not gone far. Suspicion leaped red in Keith's brain. His
imagination pictured Shan Tung at that moment with Miriam Kirkstone,
and at the thought his disgust went out against them both. In this
humor he returned to McDowell's office. He stood before his chief,
leaning toward him over the desk table. This time he was the inquisitor.
"Plainly speaking, this liaison is their business," he declared.
"Because he is yellow and she is white doesn't make it ours. I've just
had a hunch. And I believe in following hunches, especially when one
hits you good and hard, and this one has given me a jolt that means
something. Where is that big fat brother of hers?"
McDowell hesitated. "It isn't a liaison," he temporized. "It's
one-sided--a crime against--"
"WHERE IS THAT BIG FAT BROTHER?" With each word Keith emphasized his
demand with a thud of his fist on the table. "WHERE IS HE?"
McDowell was deeply perturbed. Keith could see it and waited.
After a moment of silence the iron man rose from the swivel chair,
walked to the window, gazed out for another moment, and walked back
again, twisting one of his big gray mustaches in a way that betrayed
the stress of his emotion. "Confound it, Conniston, you've got a mind
for seeking out the trivialities, and little things are sometimes the
most embarrassing."
"And sometimes most important," added Keith. "For instance, it strikes
me as mighty important that we should know where Peter Kirkstone is and
why he is not here fighting for his sister's salvation. Where is he?"
"I don't know. He disappeared from town a month ago. Miriam says he is
somewhere in British Columbia looking over some old mining properties.
She doesn't know just where."
"And you believe her?"
The eyes of the two men met. There was no longer excuse for
equivocation. Both understood.
McDowell smiled in recognition of the fact. "No. I think, Conniston,
that she is the most wonderful little liar that lives. And the
beautiful part of it is, she is lying for a purpose. Imagine Peter
Kirkstone, who isn't worth the powder to blow him to Hades, interested
in old mines or anything else that promises industry or production! And
the most inconceivable thing about the whole mess is that Miriam
worships that fat and worthless pig of a brother. I've tried to find
him in British Columbia. Failed, of course. Another proof that this
affair between Miriam and Shan Tung isn't a voluntary liaison on her
part. She's lying. She's walking on a pavement of lies. If she told the
truth--"
"There are some truths which one cannot tell about oneself,"
interrupted Keith. "They must be discovered or buried. And I'm going
deeper into this prospecting and undertaking business this afternoon.
I've got another hunch. I think I'll have something interesting to
report before night."
Ten minutes later, on his way to the Shack, he was discussing with
himself the modus operandi of that "hunch." It had come to him in an
instant, a flash of inspiration. That afternoon he would see Miriam
Kirkstone and question her about Peter. Then he would return to
McDowell, lay stress on the importance of the brother, tell him that he
had a clew which he wanted to follow, and suggest finally a swift trip
to British Columbia. He would take Mary Josephine, lie low until his
term of service expired, and then report by letter to McDowell that he
had failed and that he had made up his mind not to reenlist but to try
his fortunes with Mary Josephine in Australia. Before McDowell received
that letter, they could be on their way into the mountains. The "hunch"
offered an opportunity for a clean getaway, and in his jubilation
Miriam Kirkstone and her affairs were important only as a means to an
end. He was John Keith now, fighting for John Keith's life--and Derwent
Conniston's sister.
Mary Josephine herself put the first shot into the fabric of his plans.
She must have been watching for him, for when halfway up the slope he
saw her coming to meet him. She scolded him for being away from her, as
he had expected her to do. Then she pulled his arm about her slim
little waist and held the hand thus engaged in both her own as they
walked up the winding path. He noticed the little wrinkles in her
adorable forehead.
"Derry, is it the right thing for young ladies to call on their
gentlemen friends over here?" she asked suddenly.
"Why--er--that depends, Mary Josephine. You mean--"
"Yes, I do, Derwent Conniston! She's pretty, and I don't blame you, but
I can't help feeling that I don't like it!"
His arm tightened about her until she gasped. The fragile softness of
her waist was a joy to him.
"Derry!" she remonstrated. "If you do that again, I'll break!"
"I couldn't help it," he pleaded. "I couldn't, dear. The way you said
it just made my arm close up tight. I'm glad you didn't like it. I can
love only one at a time, and I'm loving you, and I'm going on loving
you all my life."
"I wasn't jealous," she protested, blushing. "But she called twice on
the telephone and then came up. And she's pretty."
"I suppose you mean Miss Kirkstone?"
"Yes. She was frightfully anxious to see you, Derry."
"And what did you think of her, dear?"
She cast a swift look up into his face.
"Why, I like her. She's sweet and pretty, and I fell in love with her
hair. But something was troubling her this morning. I'm quite sure of
it, though she tried to keep it back."
"She was nervous, you mean, and pale, with sometimes a frightened look
in her eyes. Was that it?"
"You seem to know, Derry. I think it was all that."
He nodded. He saw his horizon aglow with the smile of fortune.
Everything was coming propitiously for him, even this unexpected visit
of Miriam Kirkstone. He did not trouble himself to speculate as to the
object of her visit, for he was grappling now with his own opportunity,
his chance to get away, to win out for himself in one last
master-stroke, and his mind was concentrated in that direction. The
time was ripe to tell these things to Mary Josephine. She must be
prepared.
On the flat table of the hill where Brady had built his bungalow were
scattered clumps of golden birch, and in the shelter of one of the
nearer clumps was a bench, to which Keith drew Mary Josephine.
Thereafter for many minutes he spoke his plans. Mary Josephine's cheeks
grew flushed. Her eyes shone with excitement and eagerness. She
thrilled to the story he told her of what they would do in those
wonderful mountains of gold and mystery, just they two alone. He made
her understand even more definitely that his safety and their mutual
happiness depended upon the secrecy of their final project, that in a
way they were conspirators and must act as such. They might start for
the west tonight or tomorrow, and she must get ready.
There he should have stopped. But with Mary Josephine's warm little
hand clinging to his and her beautiful eyes shining at him like liquid
stars, he felt within him an overwhelming faith and desire, and he went
on, making a clean breast of the situation that was giving them the
opportunity to get away. He felt no prick of conscience at thought of
Miriam Kirkstone's affairs. Her destiny must be, as he had told
McDowell, largely a matter of her own choosing. Besides, she had
McDowell to fight for her. And the big fat brother, too. So without
fear of its effect he told Mary Josephine of the mysterious liaison
between Miriam Kirkstone and Shan Tung, of McDowell's suspicions, of
his own beliefs, and how it was all working out for their own good.
Not until then did he begin to see the changing lights in her eyes. Not
until he had finished did he notice that most of that vivid flush of
joy had gone from her face and that she was looking at him in a
strained, tense way. He felt then the reaction. She was not looking at
the thing as he was looking at it. He had offered to her another
woman's tragedy as THEIR opportunity, and her own woman's heart had
responded in the way that has been woman's since the dawn of life. A
sense of shame which he fought and tried to crush took possession of
him. He was right. He must be right, for it was his life that was
hanging in the balance. Yet Mary Josephine could not know that.
Her fingers had tightened about his, and she was looking away from him.
He saw now that the color had almost gone from her face. There was the
flash of a new fire in her yes.
"And THAT was why she was nervous and pale, with sometimes a frightened
look in her eyes," she spoke softly, repeating his words. "It was
because of this Chinese monster, Shan Tung--because he has some sort of
power over her, you say--because--"
She snatched her hand from his with a suddenness that startled him. Her
eyes, so beautiful and soft a few minutes before, scintillated fire.
"Derry, if you don't fix this heathen devil--I WILL!"
She stood up before him, breathing quickly, and he beheld in her not
the soft, slim-waisted little goddess of half an hour ago, but the
fiercest fighter of all the fighting ages, a woman roused. And no
longer fear, but a glory swept over him. She was Conniston's sister,
AND SHE WAS CONNISTON. Even as he saw his plans falling about him, he
opened his arms and held them out to her, and with the swiftness of
love she ran into them, putting her hands to his face while he held her
close and kissed her lips.
"You bet we'll fix that heathen devil before we go," he said. "You bet
we will--SWEETHEART!"