HIS HOUR OF SUCCESS.
“You will obey!” repeated Nick Carter.
“Obey!” she responded dreamily.
“That is well. Tell me what you did when you got the packet you brought
to me this morning. You remember that it _was_ this morning?”
“It was this morning,” she replied, repeating the last few words of his
query, as was always her way.
“Where did you get them? The library?”
“The library.”
“Who showed you where they were?”
“Where they were?” she repeated.
“Yes. Tell me.”
“He did,” she answered. “The man I fear.”
“What’s his name?”
But to this there was no reply. She seemed to have no remembrance of
names. Perhaps she never had known the name of this man she feared.
“Is it the man who speaks through Buddha?”
She seemed to wrestle hard with this question, as if trying to
comprehend its meaning. At last she slowly nodded.
“You are sure?”
“Sure!” she repeated.
“That is enough,” said Nick Carter. “The packet will again be placed in
your hands. Take it, as you were commanded, and put it where you got
it--in the table leg.”
A gleam of understanding came into her eyes, that had in it more of
memory than she had shown before. Nick Carter knew then that this girl,
under the fiendish influence of Ched Ramar, had indeed robbed her father
without knowing that she had done so. A half-repressed ejaculation
dangerously near an oath broke from the detective’s lips, as he came
down the ladder.
Hurriedly he took the packet from his pocket, where he had slipped it
before ascending the ladder, and looked through it under the red lamp in
front of the idol.
The girl had already descended, and was walking, like a somnambulist,
toward her chair.
Nick Carter ran through the half dozen large sheets of manuscript, and
saw that none of them bore reference to the Yellow Tong. All were of a
character that would be valuable to the scientific world, but not one
was concerned with the secret, far-reaching organization whose methods
and intentions Washington was so eager to know something about.
“The cunning wretches,” he murmured. “They have taken what they want,
and are returning these, so that they shall not furnish a clew to the
others. Well, I think I shall beat their game. I’m going to find out
where those other papers are before I leave this house.”
He walked over to the girl and gave her the packet. Then he said to her,
in the quiet, even accents which seemed to penetrate easiest to her
beclouded brain:
“Take the packet back and put it into the hands of your father. You
understand that. Father.”
“Father!” she repeated dully.
“Look out, chief!” whispered Patsy. “I hear the elevator.”
Nick and Chick got back to the idol and secreted themselves. But Patsy
went to the elevator door and unlocked it--just in time to admit Ched
Ramar and Keshub.
“Why did you lock the door?” thundered Ched Ramar, at Patsy.
Patsy shrugged his shoulders in a way that he had seen Swagara do it,
and there was an expression of bland protest in his yellowed face, as if
he considered he were being shouted at unjustly.
He did not speak, but contented himself with pointing to Clarice, who
sat still where Nick Carter had just left her.
“She wouldn’t have gone away, if that is what you mean,” growled Ched
Ramar. “Keshub, take her down to the limousine and see that she gets
home in safety.”
Keshub salaamed. Then he went over to Clarice, touched her arm, and
pointed to the curtains shadowing the elevator door. She went over to
it, quite docile, and Keshub accompanied her down, out of sight. Ched
Ramar let the curtains fall together.
“Watch the doors and windows, Swagara,” he ordered briefly. “There is no
danger. But--watch them.”
Patsy responded with a funny little bow peculiar to Swagara, and stood
back while Ched Ramar went up the stepladder on which Clarice had stood,
and regarded the great brass face of the Buddha for a few moments in
silence.
“Great Buddha,” he muttered, at last. “How many secrets dost thou hide!
But how willing art thou to give them up when he who has the right puts
the request! Siddartha, holy one! It is thy servant who makes the
demand. Give him what he seeks!”
He placed his hand on the left arm of the idol, and his long fingers
fumbled under the head.
As is usually the case with statues of Buddha, the arm lay across his
lap in a negligent way, while the other was stretched forward on his
knee. Ched Ramar was pressing a certain little knob under the brass
hand. This released a spring, as was evidenced by the slight click that
Nick Carter and his assistants could hear.
“That is well, holy one!” murmured Ched Ramar.
He took the hand of the god and raised it slowly, as if it were of great
weight--as indeed it was. When he held it clear of the lap, there was
revealed a square hole beneath, like a box, some eight inches square.
Into this square opening Ched Ramar dipped his fingers, bringing them
out immediately with several papers rolled up, and fastened by a silken
cord made of many strands of different colors twisted together.
“My task is nearly done!” exclaimed Ched Ramar, smiling. “It has been a
hard one, but the result is worth it. My great master, Sang Tu, will be
pleased. Much pleased!”
“Will he?” thought Nick Carter. “Well, it isn’t all over yet.”
Still smiling--but in a grave way, as if he felt that he should not
permit himself thus to show joy--Ched Ramar lowered the brazen arm
slowly to its former position, and a click announced that it was
fastened in its place. When this had been done, no one not in the secret
would have suspected that there was anything of the kind there.
“Did you see that, chief?” whispered Chick.
“Yes. Keep quiet. We want the papers. But we want him, too.”
“That’s what,” put in Patsy. “And that Keshub and the other
coffee-colored guy, too. There may be others in the house as well as
them. There are some maids, we know.”
“They are probably in another part of the house,” answered Nick. “We
need not trouble about the maids. What we want is this fellow, papers
and all. Keep ready!”
Ched Ramar stepped over the red lamp and looked carefully at the papers
he had got from the lap of the image. His sinister smile again spread
over his dark countenance, and he muttered to himself in his own tongue.
“This is all!” he suddenly exclaimed in English. “I will take these
records to Sang Tu in the morning. Meanwhile, they shall not leave me. I
do not trust any one. I will not go to bed. Such sleep as I need I can
get here, in this chair.”
He walked over to the chair in which the girl had sat. It was very
large, and when she had been in it had seemed actually to swallow her
up. Even Ched Ramar, tall as he was, had plenty of room to curl up in
it.
He tried it in this way. Then he arose and strode over to the big idol,
as if to look behind it. Nick Carter, Chick, and Patsy were standing
ready to fling themselves upon him.
But he changed his mind, when nearly up to them, and contented himself
with calling sternly:
“Swagara!”
For a moment Patsy Garvan had forgotten his assumed name. He made no
move to go out. Instead, he held his automatic pistol ready to be used
either as a club or a firearm. Nick Carter brought him to himself with a
sharp tug at his elbow.
“Go out, confound you!” he whispered. “You are Swagara!”
“Gee! So I am!”
“Swagara!” called Ched Ramar, again, in a fiercer tone. “Come here!”
Patsy slipped out from behind the statue and made his Swagara bow with
due humility.
Ched Ramar raised his fist, as if he would bring it down on Patsy’s
shoulder. It was as well that he did not carry out his intention, for
Patsy surely would have forgotten his assumed character and retaliated
with another and harder blow.
“You deserve to be kicked, you dog!” snarled Ched Ramar. “You are to
come quickly when I call. But let that pass. You will keep awake in this
room till I tell you that you may sleep. Understand?”
Patsy bowed. He never had spoken more than a word or two to the Indian.
He had a presentiment that if ever he did so, he would be known as a
bogus Swagara at once.
“Very well,” went on Ched Ramar. “I would sleep for an hour--in this
chair. Keshub and Meirum are asleep in the hall without. They will not
come in unless I summon them. But you! You are not to sleep at all. Now,
walk over there to the large Buddha and let me see that you are quite
awake now. Go over and march back. Do as I bid you.”
Somehow, Patsy Garvan did not exactly understand what was meant by this
command, and he hesitated when he got to the idol. Turning toward Ched
Ramar, he was about to give him a pleading look, which would mean that
he wanted clearer instructions.
This angered Ched Ramar, and he bounded from the chair, drawing a large
jeweled scimitar that he generally wore, concealed by the folds of his
robe.
Flourishing this weapon, he flew at Patsy, as if he would strike him
down with it. The belligerent action was a great deal like his former
one, only that this time he held a deadly weapon, instead of merely
menacing with his fist.
“Gee!” shouted Patsy, forgetting entirely the part he was playing. “If
you don’t drop that cheese knife, I’ll plug you as if you were a rat!”
He drew his pistol as he spoke and leveled it at the head of the
surprised Indian.
Instantly it occurred to the cunning mind of Ched Ramar that there was
treachery somewhere, and he leaped forward to seize Patsy. Rascal as he
might be, there was no cowardice about Ched Ramar.
He did not catch Patsy, however. Instead, the supposed Japanese suddenly
stooped, and just as the Indian got to him, he arose and sent his fist
into the brown neck.
Ched Ramar uttered a choking gasp, and dashed behind the Buddha. As he
got there, he found himself facing not only Patsy Garvan, but Nick
Carter and Chick, as well. All three were in hostile attitudes that
could not be mistaken for a moment.