At about five o'clock the next afternoon Peter, in his hotel bedroom,
called for a pitcher of ice-water, the major portion of which he
disposed of before considering the next move.
Afternoon sunlight, entering by the single large window, mapped out a
radiant oblong of red on the heavy carpet. The long, insolent shriek
of a taxicab arose from the square. The bedroom was redolent of the
sour odor of last night's cigarette smoke. He had forgotten, for
perhaps the first time in his memory, to throw open the window upon
retiring. As he arose stiffly from the bed an empty brown bottle
bounded to the floor with a thump, and the latter riotous portion of
last evening came slowly back to him. He had decided to do something.
What had he made up his mind to do? He sat down on the edge of the bed
with his head in his hands and frowned. He remembered now.
He was going back to China!
With a throbbing head and a recurrence of the sticky feeling in his
mouth, he stripped off his pajamas, went into the bath-room, and
shivered and grunted under an icy shower for five minutes, by which
time some of the despondency which last night's affair had brought over
him was shaken, his headache was loosened a bit, his wits were more
clearly in hand, and the warm blood was shooting through him.
After a brisk rub-down he dressed quickly--he had barely had time
enough to recover his suit-cases from the San Friole baggage-room when
he had fled--and put in a call for the Marconi office.
Shortly he had the chief operator on the wire, and he explained briefly
that out-of-town business had interfered with his calling the day
before, but that he would drop around for a conference bright and early
the next morning. He added that he intended to take the _King of Asia_
back to China.
When he entered the chief operator's cubicle, the chief operator looked
into the face of a man who had aged, a white, sad face, the face of a
man who had found the sample of life he had tasted to be a bitter
mouthful.
"Back again, as I live!" he chirruped, pumping Peter's hand
exuberantly. "Where now, Peter?"
"China," said Peter; "my old love, the _King of Asia_, sails to-morrow.
Can I have her?"
"Sure thing! By the way, here's a special delivery letter for you in
the mail that hasn't been assorted--a nice square envelope. Looks to
me like a wedding invitation!"
Peter examined the square, white envelope.
A wedding invitation with a San Friole canceling stamp.
Absently he dropped it into his pocket.
Making his way to the St. Francis he found that San Toy Fong had
departed for parts unknown. So he sat down at a desk in the
writing-room, and penned a brief note, addressing it in care of Ah Sih
King. He knew that the letter would reach San Toy Fong as rapidly as a
grape-vine telegraph could deliver it to him. He knew that it would be
opened, coded and transmitted to the second coil of the vast, hidden
government, wherever he might be--from Singapore to Singapore.
The import of that note was simply that he, Peter Moore, was returning
to China, and promised to interfere in no way with the band's
activities. If he should change his mind, he added, he would file
notice of such decision with the duly accredited agents of Len Yang's
monarch at the Jen Kee Road place, in Shanghai.
The purple shoulders of the Golden Gate were sinking into the
silver-tipped waves when Peter, having despatched his clearance
message, left the tireless cabin for a look at the glorious red sunset
and a breath of the fresh Pacific air.
A room steward, who had just ascended the iron ladder, approached,
touching his cap with a deferential forefinger. "A letter addressed to
you, sir. Found it in the corridor outside your stateroom. Must have
fallen from your pocket."
The wedding invitation with a San Friole date-mark!
With nerveless fingers Peter drew out, not an envelope, but a stiff
card. And he stared at the card in the red twilight, and groaned in
pain and astonishment.
Have I said that this was St. Valentine's Day? In the color of the
dying sun, and painted carefully by hand, was a tiny heart, bleeding.
And that was the only message.
PART III
THE GREEN DEATH
CHAPTER I
"Oh! Chiang Nan's a hundred li, yet in a moment's space
I've flown away to Chiang Nan and touched a dreaming face."
--TS'EN-TS'AN.
A young man can get himself into trouble in China.
He may refuse to eat the food that is pushed into his
mouth at a Chinese banquet by the perfectly
well-intentioned man sitting beside him. In that case he will
hardly do more than arouse the contempt of his
beneficiary and his host. He simply shows that he lacks
good Chinese table manners, for at a Chinese banquet
it is proper to stuff food into your companion's mouth,
no matter how full his stomach may be.
Another way to offend the Chinese is to refuse a gift.
But these are minor things. The surest method to
arouse the suspicion, dislike and animosity of China is
deliberately to keep your affairs shrouded in mystery.
Discuss your important business secrets in loud shouts;
no one will pay the slightest attention. But whisper
mysteriously in your friend's ear, and spies will attend
you! Leave a note-book filled with precious data
plainly in view upon your dressing-table, and your
room-boy won't for the life of him peek into it. Lock
that same note-book away in a dressing-table drawer,
and your room-boy will move heaven and earth to find
out what it's all about!
The time of the day was mid-forenoon; the time of
the year was spring. The low, mournful voice of a
temple gong floated across the race of brown water.
River _fokies_, on sampans and junks, were singing their
old work song, the Yo-ho--hi-ho! of the ancient river, as
their naked, broad backs bent to the sweeps. A
pleasant breath of perspiring new earth was drifting down
the great stretch of yellow water on a light, warm wind.
Peter had taken his favorite stand on the upper-boat
deck, where the wireless shack was situated, with
one hand wrapped loosely about a davit guy, the other
thoughtfully rattling a cluster of keys in his pocket.
Spring is for youth, and Peter was young; yet he
did not reflect in any way the mood of the new season.
He felt gloomy and depressed. Life seemed an empty,
a dreary thing to Peter, because he could see himself
getting nowhere.
In spite of the sweet candor of the young spring
day, one of the first sounds that came to his ears as he
stood there, in the shadow of the life-boat, was the
brazen clamor of a death cymbal. One of China's four
hundred millions had died in the night; now his spirit
was being escorted to the seventh heaven of his blessed
forefathers, by the death cymbal, clashing with a sober
din to drive the devils away from his late abode.
The shadow of the life-boat was rather unaccountably
attenuated; Peter turned around and looked into the
bland, unsmiling face of Jen, a Chinese deck-boy.
Pig-tails were coming back in style again. About six inches
of wispy, purple-black braid extended downward from
Jen's white cap. His face was quite yellow, and his
eyes were green. An understandable light came and
flickered across their satiny surface as Peter looked
inquiringly into them.
"Wanchee my?" he asked.
The deck-boy took a cautious and all inclusive look
of the broad, gray deck, bending head to look past the
giant funnels, the first of which stood about twenty
feet forward of them.
"Stay allatime on _King Asia_?" inquired the
Chinese, moiling his hands together and bowing slightly.
Peter gave him a blue-eyed, indolent stare.
"Maybe. Maybe not," he said. "What's on your mind, Jen?"
"You tell me what going do," replied the yellow
one meaningly. "Can do?"
"Mebbe can do," replied Peter, folding his hands.
"You run up to the place on Jen Kee Road as soon as
you catchee sampan. Tell man-man if I decide to do
anything I will drop in and tell him. You don't know,
Jen, but he knows that my word is good. If I decide to
go up-river I'll tell man-man. If I decide to do
nothing, I'll say nothing to man-man."
"Allee light, allee light," said Jen, backing away a
few steps. "You tell man-man, eh?"
As Peter watched the retreating skinny shoulders
bob up and down as they went away from him toward
the after ladder, he felt just a little more undecided than
he had five minutes earlier. He went into the wireless-room,
to straighten up the apparatus before locking the
door for the visit in Shanghai.
As he was locking the tool-box--the Chinese river
thieves would steal anything they could lay hands
on--he heard his name called in a silvery voice accompanied
by a man's pleasant laugh, and he went out on deck to
find that Mr. Andover, with the twins in tow, was all
dressed up for a trip ashore.
The twins and Anthony Andover were passengers,
bound on a sight-seeing trip through the East, and as
Peter Moore was a very impressionable young man, it
is only natural that the twins be discussed first, in
virtue of their loveliness.
Peter had first contemplated Peggy and Helen
Whipple in the _King of Asia's_ dining-room. It would
have been a rather impossible thing not to see Peggy and
Helen Whipple, if you were young, and with fair eyesight.
At the first dinner after leaving the Golden Gate
Peter had gone into the dining-room rather early, as
he skipped tiffin (by reason of an empty pocket) and
was ravenously hungry.
He had looked up over his first spoonful of
mulligatawny a la Capron to meet the clear, undistilled,
brown-eyed gaze of Peggy Whipple, who had seated
herself at the captain's table. In that liquid,
brown-eyed gaze had lurked a sparkle of mischief, a slightly
arrogant look of inquisitive scrutiny, and perhaps a
playful invitation.
As Peggy Whipple gave him that mischievous, liquid-brown
glance when he was in the act of lifting a level
soupspoonful to his lips, he did not, as a man might
do under the circumstances, spill the soup upon the
tablecloth, or back into the dish; nor did he pause in
the work of lifting the liquid to his mouth.
He did not have to look at the spoon to guide its
passage to his mouth. Without spilling a drop, he
captained the spoon to its destination, maintaining his
clear, deep-blue eyes upon the beautiful brown ones of
the young passenger. And, without lowering his eyes
once, he lifted the loaded spoon up twice in succession.
This skillful management brought a smile to the
pretty face of the girl. Perhaps she had expected him
to spill the soup under her glance; it was to be
expected; more than probably the thing had happened in
past episodes of Peggy, for she was distractingly fair
to look upon, and her turned-up nose should have
disarmed any man.
Her hair was golden and sleek and drawn back
straight from her low, white forehead and knotted
together in the back, calling attention to a neck that was
slim and beautifully proportioned. Pink and white and
gold described her. She seemed to bristle with a sort
of fidgety energy, as if she had so much youth and
loveliness stored up in her that she had a tremendous time
keeping it all within bounds.
After Peter had slowly, but not at all insolently or
impudently, taken all of this in, in the time required to
stow away three heaping spoonfuls of mulligatawny a
la Capron, by dead reckoning, she looked away from
him with a little pout.
Peter followed her glance. He had not noticed the
other girl before. It was evident that they were of the
same blood, but the other girl seemed older. She, too,
had sprung from a brown-eyed ancestry, and she, too,
was blond and pink and lovely, with the prettiest
fingers and finger-nails Peter had seen for some time.
Her glance, arising to meet his, was brown and very
calm; unlike her sister, she appeared to be grave, more
of the deliberate, thoughtful type.
It was in the shop of a Japanese silk merchant on
Motomatchi Chome that he had met them for the first
time. Several times on the trip across he had passed
them on the deck, always escorted by proud young men.
They were the most popular girls on shipboard.
Beauty rarely travels in pairs; these were unusual
twins.
Once, as Peter was swinging down the ladder from
topside, he came upon Peggy alone, looking rather blue.
It may have been that she was simply in repose; and
the contrast gave him that impression. Her eyes
dreamingly encountered his, and the mischievous light
flickered in them and instantly went out.
She ran her eyes down the white uniform with the
gold emblems of his profession at the lapels, dropped
her eyelids demurely, and seemed to wait. He hesitated,
and she stood still; but he passed on, leaving her
staring after him with a little pout. Obviously the
twins had traveled much!
CHAPTER II
It was on the night that the _King of Asia_ cleared Nagasaki for the
short run across the Yellow Sea into the flow of the Yangtze-Kiang that
Peter was sought out by that pleasant young man, Anthony Andover.
Ordinarily passengers were not allowed in the sacred quarters of the
wireless house. However, those who possessed daring spirits came up
anyway. Peggy Whipple came up there soon after that meeting on deck,
with permission from nobody, and Peter gave her about fifteen minutes
of his extremely important time on the average of nine times a day,
permitting her to adorn the extra chair in the wireless shack, where
she unconsciously revealed in her sudden and unexpected shiftings of
posture, several inches of adorable silken ankle. I think Peggy was
sadly in need of an elderly chaperone, and I am somehow under the
impression that Peggy very badly wanted Peter to make love to her. How
he resisted her speaks volumes for his quaint, mid-Victorian views
regarding woman.
And at the end of the fifteen minutes, after regaling her with tales of
the lands she was about to visit, he dismissed her, kindly but with
great firmness, and she was as obedient as a lamb.
Anthony Andover, who knew more about plows perhaps than the Egyptians,
gave him something else to think about. He looked up from his
instruments that evening to see a young man of medium height, slim of
build, and rather pale and sharp of mien.
"My name is Anthony Andover," he said in a brisk and business-like
voice. "I wonder if I could have a talk with you."
Peter told him to sit down, and he removed the heavy nickeled
head-pieces from his ears. He expected an important radio from the
Shanghai Station; but that could wait. He wondered what Anthony
Andover might have on his mind.
"Mr. Moore, I'm in something of a devil of a fix, and I think you're
the man who can get me out of it."
"Shoot," said Peter, lighting a yellow cigarette and passing the box.
"Chinks?" Trouble to Peter always meant Chinks; they were his symbol
of danger.
"No, no! You see, all of my life I've been--well, a city man. The
biggest adventure I ever had was a fist fight with my foreman. Now----"
"Did you lick him?" asked Peter with concern.
Anthony nodded reminiscently. "Blacked his eyes and busted his nose!"
"Good for you! Go ahead with your story."
"I've met a girl on the steamer, and according to her way of looking at
things, I lack about five thousand different parts of being a hero.
You know the girl. That's why I'm bothering you like this."
"Not bothering me a bit. Who's the girl?"
"Peggy." Anthony caressed the word as if it were honey. "Peggy
Whipple. Of course, the first thing I want to make sure of is, am I
stepping on anybody's toes? If I am, I'll just go ahead, and play my
own game my own way. If it's to be a case of a fight----"
"Hold on a moment," interrupted Peter. "I don't quite follow you.
Whose toes do you think you're stepping on?"
"Well, Peggy comes up here to the wireless shack so much, that I--I----"
"Oh, not a bit of it, old man. Peggy's a nice girl. I like her.
That's all."
"I--I'm mighty glad," said Anthony earnestly. "You know, she's pretty
mad about you, but as long as you're not interested the way I am,
well----" He bit his lip nervously, and went on: "I think you'd agree
with me that it would be rather foolish of her, and very disappointing
and disillusioning later on for her to marry the kind of a man she
thinks she wants to marry. She has a notion that the man she marries
must be a cross between Adonis, and--and Diamond Dick! She wants a man
who carries six-shooters in all his pockets, and who fears neither God,
man, nor the devil!"
"A regular hell buster!"
"That's it! Down in her heart I think she cares for me a little bit.
But I'm nothing but a plain, ordinary business man. I never did
anything devilish in my life. There's nothing romantic about me. Look
at this necktie! Did you ever see a hero wearing a plain black
four-in-hand? Never! Did you ever see a hero wearing nice tan oxfords
without a spot of mud on them? If I can somehow manage to make her
think for a few minutes that I've got heroic stuff in me, she may
listen to a little sense. She tells me--rather she threw it in my
face--that you are going to take Helen and her on a sight-seeing trip
into some of the darkest holes in Shanghai. You know the ropes, and
there's no danger, of course."
"None at all," said Peter.
"Well, I want to know if you'll let me go along. I'll stand every
expense; I've got money to burn! Let me in on it, and----"
"But there isn't going to be a chance for anybody to be a hero. I'm
going to take those girls to the safest place in Shanghai. A New
England church would be a cavern of iniquity alongside of it!"
Anthony laid his fingers along his knees.
"Well, couldn't you stir up something? That's my idea. I'll leave it
to you to crack up some danger, not real danger, of course--we can't
let those girls get near any real danger. But we can start a fake
fight--or something--and give me a chance to play the hero, to rescue
Peggy in my arms; that sort of stuff, you know." He looked at Peter
foolishly.
Peter stroked his nose. "It might be done," he said. "I'll see what I
can do."
Anthony arose, extended his hand, and said: "Of course, I'll need a
revolver."
"Load it with blanks," advised Peter. "You know, some people think
it's bad luck to kill a Chink."
Anthony was eyeing him curiously. "Do you?" he asked.
Peter nodded his head slowly. "Sometimes," he said.
CHAPTER III
Anthony and the twins called for Peter as soon as they could tear
themselves away from the many fascinating incidents attendant upon
coming to an anchorage in the Whang-poo-Kiang.
It was late in the afternoon when the first company tug came down-river
from Shanghai for passengers. And it was nearly dusk, the golden-brown
evening of China, when they were decanted upon the public landing stage
at the International Concession.
Anthony was for going directly to the Hotel Astor for dinner, but at
Peter's suggestion he and the twins boarded a street-car for the ride
to Bubbling Wells.
Peter stood for a number of moments in indecision as the Bubbling Wells
tram went up the bund with the slow flood of victorias, rickshaws, and
wheelbarrows. It was now about seven o'clock, with the sun hidden
under a horizon of dull bronze. Street lights were coming on,
twinkling in a long silver serpent along the broad thoroughfare, rising
in a grotesque hump over the Soochow bridge, and becoming lost in the
American quarter.
He would meet Anthony and the twins in the dining-room. Whoever got
there first would wait. He expected to be there long before his three
friends came back from Bubbling Wells.
A rickshaw coolie was wheedling him at his elbow but he paid no
attention. His eyes were searching the street. It took him several
seconds to reconcile himself to the fleeting apparition. What was this
girl doing in Shanghai?
The rickshaw had passed, proceeding at unabated speed in the direction
of Native City.
The rickshaw boy was still making guttural sounds, softly plucking at
his sleeve. The shafts of the rickshaw were close to his feet. But
Peter was still undecided.
"Allee right," said Peter, briskly. "French concession."
That was the direction in which the other rickshaw was headed.
He climbed aboard, and they veered out into the north-bound traffic.
The girl in the rickshaw was about one block in the lead, and had no
intention evidently of accelerating her coolie's pace or of turning
back. She had left all decision to him, and his decision was to ask
her a few questions.
His coolie trotted heavily, looking neither to the right nor left, with
his pigtail snapping from side to side, as his head bent low.
"Follow _lan-si_ veil--savvy?"
"My savvy," returned the coolie, heading toward the narrow alley of
filth and sputtering oil _dongs_, breathing the odor of refuse, of
cooking food.
Peter's heart was beginning to respond to the excitement. Did she have
some message to convey to him that she could not trust to the openness
of the bund at the jetty?
Suddenly the rickshaw ahead swerved sharply to the right into an alley
that was perfectly dark. Its single illumination was a pale-blue light
which burned before a low building set apart from the others at the far
end.
Here the first rickshaw stopped. A ghostly figure seemed to float to
the ground. There was a clink of coins. A door opened, letting out a
wide shaft of orange light which spattered across the paving,
flattening itself against the grim wall of the building across the way.
Peter caught the bronze glint of wires on the roof under a pale moon.
He knocked sharply on the door, and stood to one side. It was a habit
he had learned from long experience--that trick of stepping to one side
when he knocked at a suspicious door. The door moved outward a few
inches. A long, yellow face, with a thick, projecting under lip,
peered out. Peter pushed the man aside and entered.
He found himself in a low corridor of smoked wood, with fat candles
disposed along the walls at intervals of several yards, on a narrow,
lacquered rail. One of three doors was open.
A match was struck, the head glowing in a semi-circle of sputtering
iridescence before the wood itself kindled. The hand holding the match
was trembling; the weak flame fluttered to such an extent that he was
denied momentarily a glimpse of the owner of the hand.
A whisper was conveying an order to him. "Please shut the door, Mr.
Moore."
He reached for the door and closed it firmly in the face of the man who
had let him into this place.
When he turned, the trembling hand was applying the match flame to the
wick of an open lamp, a rather ornate _dong_. As the flame rose
higher, casting its steady, mild luminance, he caught a glitter of
metal, of polished rubber; one end of the room was almost filled with
machinery.
"Romola Borria!"
She seemed to have undergone a great change. The beautiful face that
had lured him once into the jaws of death was dominated now by a
wistful and tender sadness, as though this girl had gone through an
epoch of self-torture since they had last been together.
Yet she was still beautiful; it was as if her beauty had been refined
in an intense fire. Her mouth was sad, her great brown eyes glowed
with an inexpressible sadness, and her face, once oval and proud,
seemed narrower, whiter, and, by many degrees, of a finer mold.
She was examining him broodingly; there was a reluctant timidity in her
eyes; it was such a look as you may see years afterward in the woman
you once have cast aside for some other, perhaps not quite so worthy.
"Well, you have found me, Peter," she said in a faint and tired voice,
coming slowly toward him.
"Yes," he admitted, lamely: "I saw you passing the jetty. I
followed--naturally. I have just come from America."
"Oh." Her voice expressed no surprise. "You came for me, Peter?"
"I thought you were dead," he confessed.
"Well, I am a hard one to kill!" A tiny smile flickered across her
fine lips. "You are not married--to Eileen?"
"No--and never!" he said dully.
"But you must be in love! You are always in love--with some one."
"I am in love with no one."
"Not even----"
"I am in love with no one."
"Nor am I," said Romola Borria quietly. It seemed to come from her as
a vast and reluctant confession. "I loved only one man, and my love
for him is quite dead. If I should rake over the embers--oh, but I
have raked them over, Peter, many, many times--and I have found not one
single small ember glowing! When love dies, you know, it requires a
great fire to rekindle it. Oh, I have suffered!"
"He--is dead?"
She smiled again, rather ironically. "Can a man live with a bullet in
his heart?"
"I--I saw. I thought--but what does it matter what I thought?" He was
trying to inject some of his old spirit into his voice. It was rather
difficult, this business of laughing at the funeral of love. "Romola,
you are more beautiful!"
"I have suffered," she said, in the same restrained voice.
He turned away with a shrug. He, too, had suffered, but in a somewhat
different light. He was examining with a professional eye the heap of
apparatus which was arranged in splendid order along the back of the
small room.
"I am studying. You see, Peter," she explained, in the same rather
recriminatory tones, "I was rather fond of you at one time----"
"Romola, please----"
"And because it was your profession I became interested in it. I heard
the message you sent last night--to--to the place on Jen Kee Road. I
was quite worried for a while."
"That was why you happened along the bund about the time the boat came
up-river?"
"Perhaps." She smiled vaguely.
"You wanted to find out if I still cared enough for you to----"
"Follow me? Yes, Peter; I think that was why."
"Then you didn't know I was on my way to China?"
"No, Peter, I knew nothing."
"Aren't you connected with my good friend, the man with the sea-lion
mustaches, in Len Yang?"
Romola gave a short gasp. "I never was connected with him."
"But you told me you were--back there on the _Persian Gulf_!"
She shook her head slowly, with a gentle firmness.
"No. I did not tell you that. I have seen him; yes. But I was never
in his employ. It was Emiguel Borria, my late and--may I say?--my
unlamented husband, who made me do those things. Peter----"
Her attitude seemed to undergo some sort of subtle change, as if she
were bitterly amused. "You say you are not in love. Then what of the
little golden-haired girl--the two little golden-haired girls--you left
this afternoon on the bund?"
"They and the young man are passengers on the _King of Asia_. I
brought them ashore to give them an insight into China-as-it-really-is."
"They are in very capable hands, then, Peter. Aren't you running some
risk, though? Isn't there some chance that the men in the Jen Kee Road
place may take it into their heads----"
"I am on my word of honor, Romola. I have come back to China, not to
start trouble, but simply because--well, why are you in China?"
"Because I haven't the will to leave, perhaps. I stay here in the same
spirit that a man or a woman lingers before a dreadful oil painting,
like the shark picture of Sorolla; it is terrible, but it is
fascinating. I cannot leave. If I did, I would come back, as you come
back, time after time. Is that why you've come back?"
"Exactly."
"And you imagine you're running no risk with the two golden-haired
maids in tow?"
Peter shook his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps I shouldn't have exposed
them to danger. But they were determined, and it's partly to help the
young man. Anthony is a plain American business man. He's in love
with the youngest. And she, a hero worshipper. He wants to
demonstrate himself."
She interrupted in a whisper. "Peter, tell me, why is it? What have
you ever done? What do you say? Why--why is it?"
Peter the Brazen was looking at her blankly.
She made a gesture of resignation with her beautiful white hands.
"Well, never mind. Tell me more about Anthony."
"Anthony believes that if he can demonstrate his valor to Peggy, she
will come to his arms. He really is a fine, upstanding fellow. I had
intended bringing them to Ching Tong's place out Bubbling Wells way,
harmless enough and watched by the police of nine nations. Ching Tong,
being a friend who will put himself out for me, will play the part of a
very bad villain. Anthony's revolver is loaded with blanks. Mine
isn't, but that's just my cowardly nature. You can never tell what
might turn up, you know."
"Naturally. Go on."
"I intend to have Ching Tong stage a very realistic fight down in his
cellar, in which Anthony can overpower eight or ten Chink giants,
escape out of the window with the fainting Peggy in his arms,
and--and----"
"Simple enough," admitted Romola, with a mild frown. She drew him to a
broad, low bench. "Somehow," she went on, "your idea rather appeals to
me, too. I liked Anthony's looks--what I saw of him. And I rather
liked the two little girls--twins, aren't they?"
Peter nodded. "The heavenly twins!"
"I think I'd quite agree with that plan, Peter, if you didn't happen to
be in such disrepute in this neighborhood. You must realize that the
Gray Dragon's men are watching you. Of course, you didn't recognize
your rickshaw coolie. He is one of the Gray Dragon's men--naturally.
Don't you think you are exposing those two nice girls unnecessarily to
danger?"
Peter lighted two cigarettes, and passed one of them to Romola. She
accepted it with an air of abstraction and puffed slowly, blowing out a
thin stream of pale smoke.
"But circumstances are changed now. You see, I am on the
fence--perfectly safe."
"They are still anxious for you to come with them?"
"That's it. They sent a representative last trip all the way to San
Francisco."
"Of course you refused? Peter----" Her soft, white hand was resting
on his; her red lips were very close to his face. "Why don't you join
them? You and I!"
"You and I?"
She nodded earnestly.
Peter drew back a few inches. "I said 'no' when you asked me that
before. No, I'll have nothing to do with that band--never! Going out
into the wilderness, up into the mountains on some of their risky
errands--with you--might have appealed to me. Not now!"
"Peter, I am afraid I still love you!"
"And yet, Romola, I'm not afraid of falling in love with you--again!
But let's not speak of joining that man in Len Yang. What you're
offering is--too tempting. I might give in! You are altogether too
fascinating!"
"Am I?"
"I've told you that before."
"Then you will go up-river with me?"
"No--never! Why, you almost make me suspect that you're still in that
beast's employ."
"I never was. I told you that."
"You've said many things that didn't stand the acid, Romola."
He stood up, looking down at her with whimsical tenderness. She was
very beautiful, and when she took on that forlorn air she had the
appearance of a helpless, small girl. He wondered if he would ever
regret his refusal.
"Ching Tong must have time to make arrangements, and I have a dinner
engagement at the Astor House with Anthony and the heavenly twins.
Can't you and I have tea to-morrow afternoon?"
Romola came to him and put her two hands on his shoulders. "No," she
said. "We must not be seen together. It may mean danger for you.
I've been thinking over your plan to convert Anthony into an
adventurer. Why not bring them all here. I have seven servants, all
Chinese, and they would give their lives for me. Let me see----" She
bit her upper lip thoughtfully.
"You can tell them that this place is--well, the heart of the Chinese
smuggling trade. It's ridiculous, but it will appeal to them. I will
dress up as a Chinese woman--oh, I've done it dozens of times in the
past--and I shall be very mysterious. That will seem much more
romantic to Peggy than a mere opium den. And it will be safer. I know
Ching Tong's shop. It might do, if you were an ordinary person, Peter,
but such an adventure should be provided with at least five times as
many exits! I have them here."
Peter looked at her doubtingly, although the idea appealed to him.
Outriding his admiration of the idea, however, was a recurrence of his
old impression of Romola Borria. He knew that he never had been a
match for her cunning, her esoteric knowledge of China.
"I have plenty of make-up pots. I'll paint up these _fokies_ to look
like bandits! I'll have knives in their belts. And I'll plan the
rehearsal before you come. Everything will be arranged." She seemed
to hesitate. "You--you won't bring that dreadful automatic revolver of
yours loaded--will you?"
Peter smiled faintly.
CHAPTER IV
A light spring rain was drizzling down when Peter ordered four
rickshaws of the proud Sikh who stood guard over the porte cochere of
the Astor House. Long bright knives of light slithered across the wet
pavement from the sharp arc lights on the Soochow bridge. The ghostly
superstructure of a large and silent junk was thrown in silhouette
against the yellow glow of a watchman's shanty across the dark canal,
as it moved slowly in the current toward the Yellow Sea.
It was a desolate night. The streets were deserted except for an
occasional rickshaw with some mysterious bundled passenger, the
footfalls of the coolies sounding with a faint squashing as of drenched
sandals, slimy with the heavy sludge of the back-village streets. The
world was lonely and awash.
Peter busied himself with Peggy's comfort when the first rickshaw,
dripping and wet, rattled up. He drew the waterproof robe up under her
chin and fastened the loops, then tucked it in under her feet. Her
cheeks were glowing with the pink of her excitement.
Anthony meanwhile gave similar attention to the other twin.
Peter glanced at his watch as they climbed in. He wondered how Anthony
might be taking his first and relatively unimportant lap of their
adventure, and he instructed his coolie, in "pidgin," to drop behind.
Clear gray eyes shone with a confident reassurance.
"You mustn't hit too hard, and be careful if you shoot your revolver to
discharge it in the air. At close range even the wads from the blank
cartridges are rather deadly."
Anthony's clear voice came across to him: "Of course."
They stopped at length before the rambling structure which was the
abode of Romola Borria. The lamp was extinguished, probably beaten out
long before by the pelting rain. Only a pale glow emanated from the
place, this from a tiny upstairs window, covered over with oiled paper,
and the only sounds were the ceaseless drip of the rain and the low
gibberings of the coolies as they examined the coins given them in the
greasy light of the rickshaw lanterns.
Peggy, slipping her arm through Peter's and hugging him close to her,
trembled with the excitement of anticipation.
"We must not be separated," he warned them in a whisper. "Whatever
happens--Peggy and Helen--stand close to us. In case of trouble, each
of you stand behind whichever of us is nearest. Don't scream. Don't
show any money. Peggy, put your pocketbook in your shirt-waist.
Now--ready?"
"Yes!" came the threefold whispering chorus.
He raised his knuckles, and brought them down sharply--three times
rapidly, twice slowly. Silence followed, the bristling silence of an
aroused house.
Slowly the door gave way, and a villainous-looking old Chinese in black
beckoned with a long snake-like finger for them to enter.
Only two candles now were burning on the lacquered rail in the smoky
corridor. Curtains at the rear parted; there was a sweep of heavy
silken garments, and a white-faced and beautiful woman made her way
toward them.
Deft employment of the make-up pot and painstaking searchings through a
great number of trunks had blended a picture that was all but
melodramatic.
Romola Borria's wonderful dark hair was arranged in a great heap which
sloped backward from her head. Her face was chalk white, from a bath
in rice powder; her fine lips were curled in the most sinister of
smiles; and her eyes glowed with a splendid abandon. She looked
wicked; she radiated cruelty.
And the twins gasped in sweet horror. It is probable that twin
trickles of icy excitement chased up and down their twin spines.
Anthony gaped, and his gray eyes expressed an unbounded infatuation.
With a gracious stealth she moved beyond them, not once lowering her
magnificent eyes, and shot a huge brass bolt in the door.
They formed an expectant, a worshipful semicircle. In a low voice
Peter made the introductions, dwelling at fastidious length upon the
tremendous villainy of this slender sorceress, who swept him all the
time with a proud and disdainful fire. She nodded stiffly at intervals.
"The Princess Meng Da Tlang has a word to say to you." He bowed
profoundly.
"It is only this," said Romola Borria in tones as rich as the Kyoto
temple gong, "what you have thus far seen, and what you are about to
gaze upon, must always--forever--remain a secret within your hearts.
Follow me." Romola, or the Princess Meng Da Tlang, floated down the
dim corridor with a further silken rustle of skirts, and drew back the
curtain at the far end.
The quartette filed into a large and lofty room, flickering under the
pallid flames of candles. The wax dripping from some of these hung
like icicles or stalactites from the shallow bronze cups, and they
illuminated a scene that was bizarre.
The walls were burdened with heavy rugs which responded with a waxen
sheen to the mystic light of the candles, and they were of the sombre
hues of the China that passed its zenith many centuries ago. They
served to give this place a solemn air of vast dignity and richness.
Along the inner wall, placed so that it squarely commanded the doorway,
grinned a huge green image of Buddha, surrounded by a clutter of brass
candlesticks and mounted on a splendid throne of brass filigree
underneath which red flames were burning.
The odor of costly incense was heavy and sweet, the smoke from a
brazier arising in a thin, motionless blue spar which, when it had
climbed up through the air for a distance of about four feet, broke
into a sort of turquoise fan and this drifted on up to the ceiling in
heavy wisps. The incense pot was very old, of black lacquer and brass,
greened with blotches of erosion.
And above the green image of Buddha, before which the Princess Meng Da
Tlang was now kneeling and moaning in a faint voice, reposed a very
realistic skull and cross-bones. Across the forehead of this hideous
reminder of the hereafter was a deep green notch, attesting in all
probability to the cause of the luckless owner's death.
"Please be seated--there," Romola requested.
Her graceful, ivory-white arm indicated with a queenly gesture a
heavily carved ebony bench, and her guests filed expectantly to this
seat.
Peggy, with a long sigh, dragged Peter into the corner. "I'm almost
scared. Oh, oh, isn't this simply romantic!" she whispered.
Helen and Anthony gravely occupied the space on the other side of them.
The Princess Meng Da Tlang was moving gracefully toward the doorway
through which they had entered.
"I--I'm really a little afraid!" whispered Peggy, with her lips so
close to Peter's ear that he could feel her warm breath against his
neck. "Put your arms around me--please!" Peter slipped his arm behind
her and around her. He squeezed her. "Oh," sighed Peggy, "this is
grand!"
Helen gave her a sidelong look of surprise. "Peggy, I think you're
hardly discreet."
"Let me die while I'm happy!" grinned Peggy. She turned a wistful face
to Peter. "Did you ever put your arm around another woman before?" she
whispered.
"Heaven forbid!" groaned Peter. "Don't I act like an amateur?"
"No; you don't!"
Romola was holding back the curtains while a troop of four men, muddy
and wet, as if from long travel, moved silently into the large room.
"Mongolian smugglers," Peter whispered.
The four large men crossed the room with dignified tread, depositing
four small bundles wrapped in blue silk at the altar of Buddha. Then
they removed straw-matting rainproofs which dangled from their broad
shoulders to their muddy sandals. They were garbed in black silk and
fastened at the belt of each was a kris, curved and flashing where the
golden candle light skimmed along the whetted steel.
After depositing their slight burdens they bowed low before the altar,
muttered deep in their throats, arose and salaamed gravely, until the
four pigtails flapped on the heavy blue rug at Romola's bare feet. She
wore no sandals, which was probably the custom among pirate princesses.
When the men were gone, Romola drew back a rug which hung close to the
altar, revealing a small cupboard flush with the wall. Even Anthony
looked at the black door and the brass hasp with his gray eyes round in
wonder and interest.
After disposing of the four silken parcels, Romola addressed them in a
mysterious voice: "Those packages contain gems; diamonds, rubies,
pearls from the Punjab, from Bengali, from Burma."
"Can we see them?" pleaded Helen in rapt tones.
"Aw, please!" inserted Peggy in an angelic whisper.
Romola raised both of her hands as if in horror. "They would tempt
even a saint," she muttered.
"Be careful," warned Peter, laying his lips to Peggy's pink ear, "the
princess has a terrible temper. She has been known to strangle a man
for less than that!"
"I don't believe it!" retorted Peggy. "I think the princess is just
too sweet for anything."
Romola gave Peter a look of indolent inquiry. She arose abruptly.
"You must have some of my spiced wine. It is really delicious.
_P'eng-yu_ Moore, we won't bother the servants; won't you help me?"
Peggy folded her hands demurely in her lap. "I hope it isn't
intoxicating," she murmured.
Romola had moved graciously across the room, where in a bronze
jardiniere protruded the dusty, slender necks of tall bottles. She
knelt before this. "Nearer," she whispered, as he followed suit.
"Peter, tell me----"
"Yes, Romola?"
"What does this little girl mean to you?"
Peggy's clear voice sounded: "Peter, my throat is dusty!"
"In a minute, Peggy," he called back. Lowering his voice again: "She's
merely a child. But why----"
"Peter, I've gone to more trouble to-night than you realize,
perhaps----"
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to stop making love to that innocent child."
The innocent child's sweet voice was clamoring again. "Peter, the
Sahara Desert is a flowing river compared with my throat!"
"All right, Peggy; in a minute."
"You said once that you--loved me."
"I still stand by my guns. But I don't love any one now. You're a
temptress, Romola. Why, you are a princess! I never saw you more
beautiful than to-night!"
"Peter, can't you realize what a dreary life I've led since that night
you ran away from me in Hong Kong? Won't you--for me--because I want
it--because I want _you_--reconsider, won't you stop, and think,
and----"
"We're getting back to forbidden grounds, Romola."
"Oh, God! I know, I know! But what is there left in my life? Why,
what is there left in yours? Perhaps you are the best operator on the
whole Pacific Ocean; you've had that reputation now--how long--five
years? But it is aimless! Where are you drifting? What will become
of you as the years pass? You must be nearly thirty now, Peter. I? I
am younger, but I have suffered more. The only happiness I have known
has been with you."
Peggy's voice became petulant. "Peter, is that cork _awfully_
obstinate?"
"In a minute," he said absently.
"Do you remember those wonderful days and evenings we spent together on
the Java Sea, on the old _Persian Gulf_? Do you remember those
evenings, Peter, under the moon and the Southern Cross?"
"I remember a great deal of treachery!"
"But there is to be no more treachery," she said passionately. "Think,
Peter, think! You are penniless--I have only a little money; it will
not last long. What follows? Do you know what happens to white women
when they are stranded, penniless, friendless, in this country?" She
shivered. "And it would be such a simple thing to do---to go with
me--to him. We would be together forever then--you and I! Tibet! The
Punjab! The merchant's trail into Bengal! You and I with our
caravan--in the blue foot-hills!"
"I'm sorry," confessed Peter sadly.
Romola hung her head with a bitter sigh.
Peggy pitched her voice: "Smash the neck, Peter; I don't mind a little
broken glass!"
Romola was pushing two silver cups along the floor to him.
He spilled an amount of the sparkling golden liquid on the carpet,
where it formed a dark, round stain. With slightly unsteady hands he
conveyed the cups across the room, and Peggy, without another word,
following a rather vexed: "Thank you, m'lord," emptied the cup in a
single swallow. She licked her lips daintily, and her eyes were
sparkling.
As Peter moved into the seat beside her, he saw the curtain over the
doorway slowly drawn back by an unseen hand. He looked smilingly
toward Romola, and her eyes were fixed on the moving curtain, her face
rigid in surprise and concern. The thing seemed to puzzle her.
White metal flashed coldly. A lean hand and arm appeared, and a short,
fat knife, the haft sparkling with drops that resembled blood, was
projected into the room, point down, quivering, in the wood, not five
feet from Romola's lacquered bench!
CHAPTER V
"Is this a part----" began Peter.
"No, it is not."
Romola's face seemed thin with her growing anxiety. Obviously the
tossed knife was not a part of the evening's performance.
"A part of what?" Peggy was inquiring.
"Oh, another joke of the Mongolian smugglers," he explained.
There was a sudden and astounding explosion in the midst of them. The
flame of a revolver bathed the whole room in reddish-yellow for an
instant. Smoke was rising, the pungent, pale-blue, nitrous smoke of
so-called smokeless powder. Anthony Andover had arisen, had delivered
his shot at the waving curtain.
Peter gave a grunt of disapproval. "Why did you do that----"
"Look!"
The candle directly above the curtains had flickered out; in fact, on
closer examination Peter discovered that the candle had been split in
crude halves, one of the white fragments lying on the rug not far from
the incense burner. This proved one point conclusively. Anthony
Andover had put real bullets, not blank cartridges, into the six
chambers of his revolver. He had reseated himself calmly beside Helen,
who was staring at him with eyes like pools.
Peggy found her voice first. "Gracious! Why did you do that? It was
only in fun--that dagger, I mean. Why, you might have killed somebody!"
Anthony shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not so sure about that."
"This is really a most dangerous spot," added the Princess Meng Da
Tlang in a mysterious voice. But she was looking at Peter with
deliberate meaning.
He accepted what he supposed was intended to be a cue, crossed to the
far side of the room, and approached the curtains prudently. He drew
the nearest one back inch by inch until the wall of the corridor was
given back to them blankly. So far it was quite empty.
Dropping his hand leisurely into his coat-pocket, he sauntered into the
hall. As he dropped the curtains behind him, glancing swiftly up and
down the apparently deserted hallway, he heard the familiar sound again
of a gently closed door.
The sound seemed to originate from the direction of the street. He
looked about for the old watchman, and he nearly stumbled over him in
the half-darkness as he approached.
Peter struck a match, and a gasp of horror came from his lips. The man
was dead--stabbed!
Was this killing a part of an elaborate plan? He would not have
permitted himself to walk with such apparent innocence into a snare if
he had not relied upon the word of that band. His experience had been
that their code was a peculiar one whose foundation was the word of
honor. For the first time that evening he began to regret a little his
arrogance in defying the request of their messenger to report his
intentions immediately upon landing to the men in the place on Jen Kee
Road.
He dragged the body into the darkest corner, where he covered it with a
mat.
Laboring above his keen anxiety regarding the intention of the band was
an eagerness to keep away from the two girls the sense of death, of
danger, which seemed to pervade this house.
A way would have to be found to break through the line outside; perhaps
they would be compelled to wait for daylight. Again sliding the bolt
which had been pushed back by the last trespasser, Peter slowly paced
the length of the hall in the meditation of active and acute worry. He
was still undecided when he pulled back the rug which cloaked the
entrance into the large room.
The room was in total darkness!
CHAPTER VI
An eye, red like the play of fire about a distant volcano crater,
glowed a number of paces in front of him. But not a candle, of the
dozens that had been burning when he last went out of this room, was
now lighted.
The scarlet glow he took to be the illumination under the altar of
Buddha. He heard a long sigh, a vague murmur of voices.
"Light the candles," he ordered angrily.
"What is the matter?" This was Anthony's voice; it sounded very drowsy.
A tiny flame appeared as if suspended by an unseen cord and moved to
the candle rail. One wick glowed; another; then another.
"Moore--Moore----" This was again the sleepy voice of Anthony.
A garish, gray figure arose and stumbled into the candle-light. It was
Anthony. His eyes were half shut. He seemed desperately sleepy, and
gibbering as if in a dream.
Peter turned savagely upon the girl. She seemed to cower away from
him, half lifting her hands as though in fear that he would strike her.
"Romola! Damn you----"
"Peter, I--I----" Her faint voice trickled off into a sigh of anguish.
"Drugs?" he demanded.
She shook her head anxiously.
"No, no. I--I----"
"What have you done to these people? What have you----"
She lifted up her head imperiously. "You are forgetting----" she began.
He had the fingers of her left hand between his, crushing them. She
dropped her head. Her fine lips were quivering. "What am I
forgetting?"
Anthony had grasped his elbow. "It's not right, Moore; not right to
talk to the princess like this. She's really noble. She's fine!"
"You're drunk, Anthony!"
"No, no, no," he babbled. "Sleepy; that's all. Oh, that wine!
Perfectly fine! Makes you feel like climbing a moonbeam!"
"So it appears. Where are the girls?"
"Over here. Say--say, Moore, when does the fight start? I--I'm just
itching to get at somebody!"
"You'll have your chance in a moment. And it isn't in fun.
Understand?"
"Of course I understand! Isn't my gun loaded with bullets? Are we in
a trap?"
"We are! And according to my calculations there's exactly one way out.
I think you and the girls will have no difficulty in breaking through.
Make a dash for it. Run for all you're worth!"
"Hold on there," remonstrated Anthony, as his eyes lost a trifle of
their sleepy look. "What's to become of you? Going to make a break
for it, too?"
Peter shook his head. "It's me they're after. I can look out for
myself, Anthony; this business isn't quite a novelty in my line. You
must get out--and get quick!"
"And leave you behind? Not Anthony! I stick!"
Anthony was flashing a length of highly polished gunmetal in his fist.
Romola with a trembling hand was applying a taper to the other candles.
Peter, observing that the twins were, to all appearances, sound asleep,
approached her.
She paused in her work, holding the taper above her head, so that its
gaunt rays flickered on his face. "Because you loved me so?"
Her shoulders drooped, and her head rolled backward slightly, as though
she were very tired. She nipped her lower lip between pearl-white
teeth.
"Because I love you so?" she repeated dully.
"In some respects," he said bitterly, "you are like a certain snake in
India. You can't lock those damned snakes up! They can always find a
tiny hole, a slit in the cage, and--out they slip!"
"Ah, Peter----" Romola dropped the taper to the bronze altar, where it
flickered a moment and went out. She fondled his reluctant hand
between cold fingers. Her face became utterly miserable, and there
were sparkling tears in her eyes. "My heart is your heart. I have
given my love to you. I would give my life for you!"
He drew away from her slowly, turning his head to avoid the anguish in
her eyes.
He went on briskly: "If my death is arranged for to-night----"
He stopped to watch her. She was fumbling at her waist. A little
silver of light appeared. The thing was a slim stiletto. Her teeth
were clicking as she extended the handle toward him. Their eyes met.
In hers was shining a brute command. In his slowly came shock,
amazement. She placed her fingers slowly over her heart; her hand
slipped down and fell again at her side.
"There!" she murmured.
"Is--is my end so close?" he whispered.
She nodded slowly. "You are in great danger. This may be your final
opportunity. See? I am offering no resistance. Why--why do you
hesitate?"
With the tiny blade lying like a flame of pure silver across the palm
of his hand, Peter experienced a moment troubled and exceedingly
awkward. That threat, perhaps, was hardly more than the spilling out
of bitterness which she had created in him.
In silence he handed the thing back to her almost furtively; and she
accepted it without removing her shining gaze from his. Somehow she
seemed to have come out victorious in a conflict that had had nothing
to do with knives, with broken promises. And with the restoration of
the dagger the spell seemed to be swept aside.
Turning abruptly, with a slight straightening of his shoulders, he
walked away from her.
Anthony was like a guardian angel, a statue gravely symbolic of
protection, standing over the golden heads, with the revolver dangling
from his hand and shooting out metallic gleams. Their eyes were
tightly closed; the twins were sleeping as if drugged.
They heard a low, hushed scream.
"Peter--_ni kan_!"
Peter turned quickly, searching both entrances. At first he was
conscious of no intrusion. Then a yellow face, long, narrow, with a
stub of purple-black hair protruding behind, and which for a moment he
took to be a part of the curtain, slowly withdrew, arising
upward--vanishing!
The phantom was not unlike the wisps of yellow smoke from a green-wood
fire, despatched by a lazy dawn wind. The face of Jen, the deck
steward!
CHAPTER VII
Apparently Anthony had not observed this specter.
Peter seized his arm, the left one. "We must start. Wake them up."
Anthony shook a nervous negative. "I've tried. That wine!"
"_Arracka_. Comes from Java. Tastes like May wine, and is stronger
than cognac." He was tilting Peggy's chin, shaking her head. No
response. He tried the same experiment with Helen, and begot identical
results.
Romola Borria had vanished.
Peter stepped out first, supporting his limp freight with his left arm,
and in his right brandishing a revolver. He hoped it wouldn't be
necessary and he was sure that underneath the splendid varnish of
Anthony's fine bravado larked the belief that this entire evening was
nothing more than an exciting romantic game.
In the pinch, would Anthony react after the fashion of
heroes-to-the-manner-born, or would the sight and smell of blood, if it
Was written that blood be shed, unnerve him, make him out to be what he
was at heart, the secretary of a prosperous and peaceful plow company?
On his part, Anthony was still babbling incoherently but earnestly,
impressing upon Peter the undeniable virtues of the golden wine. He
was not prepared, although the nickeled revolver still flashed in his
unoccupied hand, for the tumultuous event which was being shaped for
the two of them around the corner.
They did not attain the outer door. Out of the drab recesses leaped
dusky shadows. There seemed to be a large number of jostling men;
perhaps only three or four were at hand by actual count; the
insufficient lighting and their shocking and determined appearance lent
them plurality.
A sparkling flame roared from the hand of the foremost of these before
Peter could bring his hand out of his pocket.
Anthony's nickeled revolver went off twice, from his hip, and the giant
faltered, going back shapelessly among the shadows from which he had
emerged.
Peter's original scheme to hack a way through the line underwent hasty
revision. Escape would have to be made by different channels, and his
only choice was the device nearest at hand. It was a long chance, an
aimless one, perhaps, fraught with new, dangers and complications. But
he did not hesitate.
Beating off a hand that pawed for his shoulder, he flung open the door
which faced the dwelling's entrance, and pushed the reluctant Anthony
inside.
Peter locked the door, throwing a bench across it for temporary
barricade, then lit candles, wondering if any one would have had enough
foresight to disconnect the aerial wires. He dropped his burden to the
divan against the side wall, and examined Anthony, who had gone very
pale. He was shaking, and his gray eyes seemed to have climbed half
way out of his head. He propped Peggy tenderly beside her sister, and
laid an unsteady hand upon Peter's shoulder. He seemed to be fighting
down a very definite fear.
Peter was backing toward the apparatus. "Watch the door. If any one
tries to break in, shoot straight at the sound! You're not hurt, are
you? Did that fellow get you?"
Anthony shivered all over. "Christ!" he muttered. His lips were
white. "That man! I shot him! He's dead! Dead!"
"And we are still alive," said Peter quietly.
He sat down at the instrument table, fixed silvery disks to his ears,
twanged the detector wire and made a few quick alterations in
connections. Fortunately his inspection of the equipment earlier in
the day had given him a grasp of its arrangement. In an instant he had
the tuner adjusted, was listening, with those keen ears of his focussed
for the ethereal voices which might be abroad at this untimely hour.
Distant splashes of heat lightning occurred faintly, like the quivering
of sensitive metal.
Casting a glance over his shoulder, to make sure that Anthony was
following instructions, he rearranged levers and lowered the heavy
switch which drew upon the storage batteries underneath the table.
He tapped the large brass key experimentally. A hissing blue spark
lighted up the walls and his features in a ghostly glow. Tightening
the vibrator at the terminus of the rubber-covered coil, he spelled out
an inquiry in the International Code. Any station within hearing would
answer that call.
He wondered if the Shanghai station was closed up for the night, or if
by any chance his assistant on the _King of Asia_ would be on the job.
Peter waited for several anxious moments, with no sound in the
telephones other than the faint spattering of the lightning down the
coast. Then his inquiry was given a response, startlingly harsh and
close.
The station might have been across the street, the signals were beating
in his ears so loudly. The operator was having some difficulty
adjusting his spark; it was rough, ragged, like the drumming of
hailstones on a metal roof.
A series of test letters followed, exasperatingly slow.
"V--V--V--V---- What station is that? This is the _Madrusa_."
Peter hesitated, although interference was unlikely. He felt
tremendously relieved. The _Madrusa's_ rough spark meant more to him
than help close by. He knew the _Madrusa_ well; a gray, swift gunboat,
lying close to the water, whose purpose was to sweep the lower
Whang-poo and Yangtze clear of pirates. She could spit streams of
bullets for hours without let-up. And the knowledge of her closeness
to this death-trap keyed him up, not entirely because she was manned by
British sailors who would rather fight than eat. His hand reached out
for the key.
"Who is on watch? This is Peter Moore. That you, Johnny Driggs?"
If the man at the _Madrusa's_ key did happen to be Jonathan Driggs, he
could afford to breathe more easily. Driggs was another man who had
found in China the irresistible attraction, and who for some years had
sat behind the radio machines of many ships that plied these yellow
waters.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" roared the _Madrusa's_ spark. "Where are you? What
are you doing up at this time of night playing with a baby coil?"
For the next three minutes the spitting blue spark flared and jumped as
Peter spelled out his plight. He sketched their predicament by
abbreviated code, and he impressed upon his friend the necessity for
utter secrecy, hoping that the night had no other ears.
"Damn it!" replied the quick fingers of the gunboat's operator. "Damn
it! But I can't get shore leave! Impossible--you can guess why! Our
gunnery officer, Lieutenant Milton Raynard, is jumping to go! He'll
fetch you five or six sailors. He knows the lay of the land, and I've
sketched him a map of the locality from your description. Cinch!
They'll be off at once, soon as they can get the engine started in the
launch. Don't give up the ship, old boy! Don't----"
Peter dropped the receiver, walked over to the divan and endeavored to
awaken the girls, slapping their hands, shaking them. They did not
appear to be drugged. Evidently they had underestimated the power of
the smooth, yellow _arracka_. Faint color glowed in their cheeks, and
under the treatment Peggy slowly opened one very sleepy brown eye.
It drooped again. She muttered something that was not intelligible.
It had something to do with a princess, and even that word was
indistinct.
Anthony lifted a cautioning hand. "Some one's outside," he whispered.
Slowly, as they watched it, the knob described a single revolution.
Anthony lifted his revolver. "Who is there?"
"Let me in!" It was Romola Borria.
"Open the door," said Peter quietly, stepping aside.
Anthony removed the bench, twisted the key.
"You must not go with them," Romola whispered.
"Shut the door--put the bench back," directed Peter. He followed
Romola across the room.
Evidently she had read the spark. "Let these people go--yes! But you
remain. You will--or won't you?"
Peter looked skeptical. "Why should I? I've decided that life is
pretty sweet, after all! Why haven't Jen and his gang broken in here?
Why is he waiting? Have you told him help is coming?"
She shrugged impatiently. "I have not seen Jen. I have talked with no
one."
"Then you will stay in this room until we leave?"
"But why did you send for them? It was foolish! How will you explain?"
"They are friends. Such men ask no questions."
"But there was no need!" She made a despairing gesture with her hands.
"Your friends could have gone safely. Jen has no interest in--_them_!"
Peter nodded indifferently. "But my ship sails."
"Very good. But you must not leave this house until sunrise."
"When the sailors come from the _Madrusa_ I shall walk out of here----"
"And into the arms of death, Peter!"
Peter lighted a cigarette and puffed thoughtfully in silence. Romola's
gaze was upon his lips, as though the next words he would utter meant
to her the difference between life and death.
And what he might have said was forestalled by a heavy battering at the
outer door. These deep vibrations seemed on the sudden to stir Peggy
out of her sleep. She sat upright, digging fists into tired eyes.
"Gracious! Where's everybody?"
The hammering ceased, and a high-pitched crash followed an instant of
hush.
"The men from the _Madrusa_!" cried Anthony. He dragged the bench
away; flung the door open with a grand gesture.
And into the room strode a blandly smiling Chinese, magnificent in gold
and blue and red. He was flanked by three large and watchful coolies,
armed with clubs.
"Mr. Moore; I am the man from the Jen Kee Road place!" He radiated a
splendid calm.
Peggy cowered against her sister, with a look of sleepy mystification,
while Anthony, glancing to Peter for command, was fingering his
revolver in anxious indecision. Already one of the coolies was sidling
toward him.
"You were a deck coolie this morning," Peter replied.
The Chinese took a step toward him. Peter felt Romola cringe at his
side. He wondered at this.
"Shall we wait until sunrise, or----"
A sudden babble of men's voices on the other side of the partition
checked the Chinese, while a look of misunderstanding came over his
bland countenance.
"Moore! Moore! Where are you?" These were the rich tones of a man
accustomed to command.
And instantly the small room seemed to be overflowing with the white
and blue of uniforms.
Peggy stood straight up with a wondering gasp. Confronting her was a
tall and handsome youth with the gold-and-black epaulets of his
majesty's service at the shoulder-straps of his splendid white uniform.
A cutlass in a nickeled case hung from a polished leather belt, and
depending from it also was an empty leather holster. Gripped
threateningly in his right hand was a blue revolver.
The shrill voice of the man from the Jen Kee Road place rose sharply
above the momentary tumult.
In this quick confusion a pale, obnoxious odor, like opium fresh from
the poppy, yet with the savor of almonds, flooded Peter's throat. He
was vaguely aware of a fumbling in his coat-pocket. Explosions sounded
as from afar and a vast redness settled down and encompassed the world.
The interval of dark was surprisingly short-lived. Swimming in and out
of his distorted vision was a face. He was conscious for a while of no
other impression. The face reeled, came closer--danced away from him!
Bright eyes sparkled, leaped, and hung motionless.
He inhaled a new perfume, deliciously like flowers in a summer meadow.
It injected fresh life into him. His hands found power, and he
clutched at a soft wrist. The owner of this face was talking eagerly.
"We are alone--alone!"
With great effort he found he could incline his head a little. He was
struggling. Hot vapors clogged his brain. Where were the girls,
Anthony, the young lieutenant from the _Madrusa_?
"Where are they?"
"Safe."
He could recognize the features now distinctly; yet they stirred up in
him no longer a feeling of repugnance, but a vague longing.
"Romola!"
"Yes, Peter. You are feeling stronger?"
"What am I doing here? What is this place?"
"We are in the cellar."
It was very dim, with an odor of moldy dampness. The rock foundation,
the walls, and floor were perspiring whitely.
Peter's brain became clogged again. The voice came to him softly but
quite distinctly, with each word clear and emphatic:
"He is waiting outside. They will not dare come into my house again!"
"I am dizzy. Who will not dare? Who is outside?" he demanded feebly.
"The man from the Jen Kee Road place. He is waiting outside that
window. No, No! He cannot see. It is covered with silk."
Peter fell back against the arm. "What does he want?"
"Your answer. I told him to wait. I promised him; I will hold the
candle to the window."
"But I am dizzy," he groaned. "I do not understand."
"Once--means 'yes.' Twice--means 'no.'"
He delivered every ounce of his mental energy against the drug in his
brain; it was like struggling against the tide. "Once--means 'yes?'
Twice--means 'no?'" The meaning suddenly became clear to him. "The
up-river trip?"
She nodded slowly, anxiously. "And twice--means death, also, Peter!"
He tried to drag himself erect, tried to twist his head, and he sank
back with a bitter groan. "You drugged me!"
"There was no other way. I could not let you go into the night--into
death!"
A bitter smile came to his white lips. "I am quite powerless?"
"I--I am afraid you are, Peter."
"If I decide yes--or if I decide no--how can I defend myself?"
"You are quite helpless," she confessed in a whisper. "No. You cannot
defend yourself." Her expression showed an inward struggle. "You are
in my hands. You are in my arms! Yes! What have you to say?"
The smile of bitterness came and flickered again over his pale lips.
He tried to throw back his head, but the redness was settling down upon
him again. "What shall I say?" he muttered. "I say--two lights! I
say--no! _No_!"
The fingers at his neck were icy. Gently he was lowered to the
pavement.
Romola had taken the candle down from the rafter, and she went swiftly
to the tiny window. She raised her hand, once, then pinched out the
flame between her fingers.
CHAPTER VIII
Foggy consciousness. A roaring like that of the ocean on a rockbound
coast. He seemed to be floating in a medium of ice. Once his dragging
arm scraped a wet, slippery timber. The journey seemed to be taking
him down--down--into the earth, and slowly he began to rise.
Gradually he became aware of innumerable pinpoints of light in a shield
of purple darkness. These might have been stars, or the lights of a
great city. Next he heard the low gurgle of water, as of a stream
splashing through wilderness.
He felt very faint, but the vapor clouds in his brain were beginning to
clear away. Next he was badly shaken up, yet he was conscious of no
pain. Remorseful eyes stared into his from the face of a candle-white
spectre, and in the background a tall, half-naked giant swayed from
side to side in a pink glow.
Where, then, were Jen and his Chinese?
He vaguely sensed the dawn; it came to him as an old experience, a sort
of groping memory out of a gloriously romantic past. And the swaying
giant he decided in a moment of rare clarity to be a sampan coolie.
The pink glow increased, became pale yellow, while a deep blueness
figured in it. A swollen sun came and paved a bloody path across a
lake of roiled brown, and the water hissed with a white foam.
His jaws were aching; a queer emptiness in his chest caused him long
and perplexing speculation. There were shouting voices aloft, and a
gleaming black wall slowly took form above him. He made out the
pointed heads of rivets.
"Are you awake?" The voice, low and sibilant, emerged from the
candle-white face.
He had been dreaming, too, during this fantastic journey. Once he had
plainly distinguished a field of waving corn. He seemed to be back in
California.
"Eileen," he murmured, surprised at the feebleness of his voice.
"No, no," came the reply. "It is Romola. I--I am leaving you!"
"Ah! Where is Jen?"
Bellowing inquiry came down to them: "Who is that? What do you want?"
The girl called back: "The wireless operator. He is sick. Drop the
ladder. Send down some one to carry him."
The sampan was swinging about, and the coolie was paddling like mad.
"River boat--for Ching-Fu?" Peter gasped.
"No. The _King of Asia_. Peter--can you understand? I am leaving
you! This is good-by! I--I--we will never see each other again. I--I
couldn't turn you over to that man!"
"But the candle----" Peter was miserably confused. "You raised
it--once! I said no!"
Romola seemed to become rather hysterical. "I tricked them, Peter!
Oh, won't you understand? I do love you, Peter! I couldn't give you
to them!"
"No," he muttered; "I don't understand. I--I'm dizzy."
The voice was bellowing again.
"Is that Peter Moore? What's happened to him?"
"He's sick--sick! Send down a watchman. Hurry! This tide is carrying
us away!"
Something bounded into the sampan. A brown coil was flattened against
the gleaming black wall.
But Peter could not understand. He was back again in the cellar under
Romola's house, mumbling insanely about a candle-light. Perhaps he
dreamed that hot lips were pressed lingeringly against his own. Over
and over he heard a fading voice; it was saying: "Good-by!--_Ch'ing_!"
The glaring sun was in his face. He shut his eyes. The lips seemed to
be torn from his in a cry of anguish. Strong arms encircled his waist,
and he was no longer aware of the motion of the sampan.
It was late in the day when Peter opened his eyes again, closed them,
and stared at the mattress and springs of a bunk over his head. He was
lying on his back in his stateroom. Smoky afternoon sunlight,
reflected from a shimmering surface, sparkled and bubbled against the
white enameled wall.
His head was aching a little, and there were numerous jumping pains in
various parts of his body. He had been dreaming. All of these things
that had come and gone with the fading of the night were figments of a
slumbering brain. The last portion of the dream which he could
visualize distinctly was his act of arising from a wireless machine in
a house that had gone mad, to confront a tall Chinese who wore a
ridiculously stubby pigtail, like that of Jen, the deck-steward.