You perceive my plan? I was practically sure of the street; all I had

to learn was which house sheltered "The Scorpion"!

I had already suspected that this night was to be for me an unlucky

night. _Nom d'un p'tit bon-homme!_ it was so. Until an hour before dawn

I crouched under that wall and saw no living thing except a very old

Chinaman who came out of one of the houses and walked slowly away.

The other houses appeared to be empty. No vehicle of any kind passed

that way all night.

Turning over in my mind the details of this most perplexing case, it

became evident to me that the advantages of working alone were now

outweighed by the disadvantages. The affair had reached a stage at

which ordinary police methods should be put into operation. I had

collected some of the threads; the next thing was for Scotland Yard

to weave these together whilst I sought for more.

I determined to remain dead. It would afford me greater freedom of

action. The disappearance of "Le Balafre" which must by this time have

been noted by his associates, might possibly lead to a suspicion that the

dead man was _not_ Gaston Max; but providing no member of "The Scorpion"

group obtained access to the body I failed to see how this suspicion

could be confirmed. I reviewed my position.

The sealed letter had achieved its purpose in part. Although I had

failed to locate the house from which these people operated, I could draw

a circle on the map within which I knew it to be; and I had learned that

Zara el-Khala and the Hindu were in London. What it all meant--to what

end "The Scorpion" was working I did not know. But having learned so

much, be sure I did not despair of learning more.

It was now imperative that I should find out exactly what had occurred

at Dr. Stuart's house. Accordingly I determined to call upon the

Inspector at Scotland Yard. I presented myself towards evening of the

day following my vigil in Limehouse, sending up the card of a Bureau

confrere, for I did not intend to let it be generally known that I was

alive.

Presently I was shown up to that bare and shining room which I

remembered having visited in the past. I stood just within the doorway,

smiling. Inspector Dunbar rose, as the constable went out, and stood

looking across at me.

I had counted on striking him dumb with astonishment. He was Scottishly

unmoved.

"Well," he said, coming forward with outstretched hand, "I'm glad to

see you. I knew you would have come to us sooner or later!"

I felt that my eyes sparkled. There was no resentment within my heart.

I rejoiced.

"Look," he continued, taking a slip of paper from his note-book. "This

is a copy of a note I left with Dr. Stuart some time ago. Read it."

I did so, and this is what I read:

"_A:_ the name of the man who cut out the lid of the cardboard box and

sealed it in the envelope--Gaston Max!

"_B:_ the name of the missing cabman--Gaston Max!

"_C:_ the name of the man who rang me up at Dr. Stuart's and told me

that Gaston Max was dead--Gaston Max!"

I returned the slip to Inspector Dunbar. I bowed.

"It is a pleasure and a privilege to work with you, Inspector," I

said ....

This statement is nearly concluded. The whole of the evening I spent

in the room of the Assistant Commissioner discussing the matters

herein set forth and comparing notes with Inspector Dunbar. One

important thing I learned: that I had abandoned my nightly watches

too early. For one morning just before dawn someone who was _not_

Zara had paid a visit to the house of Dr. Stuart! I determined to

call upon the doctor.

As it chanced I was delayed and did not actually arrive until so late

an hour that I had almost decided not to present myself ... when a big

yellow car flashed past the taxicab in which I was driving!

_Nom d'un nom!_ I could not mistake it! This was within a few hundred

yards of the house of Dr. Stuart, you understand, and I instantly

dismissed my cabman and proceeded to advance cautiously on foot. I

could no longer hear the engine of the car which had passed ahead of

me, but then I knew that it could run almost noiselessly. As I crept

along in that friendly shadow cast by a high hedge which had served

me so well before, I saw the yellow car. It was standing on the

opposite side of the road. I reached the tradesman's entrance.

From my left, in the direction of the back lawn of the house, came a

sudden singular crackling noise and I discerned a flash of blue flame

resembling faint "summer lightning." A series of muffled explosions

followed ... and in the darkness I tripped over something which lay

along the ground at my feet--a length of cable it seemed to be.

Stumbling, I uttered a slight exclamation ... and instantly received

a blow on the head that knocked me flat upon the ground! Everything

was swimming around me, but I realized that someone--Chunda Lal

probably--had been hiding in the very passage which I had entered!

I heard again that uncanny wailing, close beside me.

Vaguely I discerned an incredible figure--like that of a tall cowled

monk, towering over me. I struggled to retain consciousness--there was

a rush of feet ... the throb of a motor. It stimulated me--that sound!

I must get to the telephone and cause the yellow car to be intercepted.

I staggered to my feet and groped my way along the hedge to where I

had observed a tree by means of which one might climb over. I was

dizzy as a drunken man; but I half climbed and half fell on to the

lawn. The windows were open. I rushed into the study of Dr. Stuart.

Pah! it was full of fumes. I looked around me. _Mon Dieu!_ I staggered.

For I knew that in this fume-laden room a thing more horrible and more

strange than any within my experience had taken place that night.

Part III

AT THE HOUSE OF AH-FANG-FU

CHAPTER I

THE BRAIN-THIEVES

The Assistant Commissioner lighted a cigarette. "It would appear,

then," he said, "that whilst some minor difficulties have been smoothed

away, we remain face to face with the major problem: who is

'The Scorpion' and to what end are his activities directed?"

Gaston Max shrugged his shoulders and smiled at Dr. Stuart.

"Let us see," he suggested, "what we really know about this 'Scorpion'.

Let us make a brief survey of our position in the matter. Let us take

first what we have learned of him--if it is a 'him' with whom we have

to deal--from the strange experiences of Dr. Stuart. Without attaching

too much importance to that episode five years ago on the Wu-Men

Bridge; perhaps he is not. We will talk about this one again presently.

"We come to the arrival on the scene of Zara el-Khala, also called

Mlle. Dorian. She comes because of what _I_ have told to the scarred

man from Paris, she comes to obtain that dangerous information which

is to be sent to Scotland Yard, she comes, in a word, from 'The

Scorpion.' We have two links binding the poor one 'Le Balafre' to

'The Scorpion': (1) his intimacy with Miguel and those others with

whom 'Scorpion' communicated by telephone; (2) his possession of the

golden ornament which lies there upon the table and which I took

from his pocket. What can we gather from the statement made to Dr.

Stuart by Mlle. Dorian? Let us study this point for a moment.

"In the first place we can only accept her words with a certain

skepticism. Her story may be nothing but a fabrication. However, it is

interesting because she claims to be the unwilling servant of a

dreaded master. She lays stress upon the fact that she is an Oriental

and does not enjoy the same freedom as a European woman. This is

possible, up to a point. On the other hand she seems to enjoy not

only freedom but every luxury. Therefore it may equally well be a lie.

Some slight colour is lent to her story by the extraordinary mode of

life which she followed in Paris. In the midst of Bohemianism she

remained secluded as an odalisque in some harem garden of Stambul,

whether by her own will or by will of another we do not know. One

little point her existence seems to strengthen: that we are dealing

with Easterns; for Zara el-Khala is partly of Eastern blood and her

follower Chunda Lal is a Hindu. _Eh bien._

"Consider the cowled man whose shadow Dr. Stuart has seen on two

occasions: once behind the curtain of his window and once cast by the

moonlight across the lawn of his house. The man himself he has never

seen. Now this hooded man cannot have been 'Le Balafre', for

'Le Balafre' was already dead at the time of his first appearance.

He may be 'The Scorpion'!"

Max paused impressively, looking around at those in the Commissioner's

room.

"For a moment I return to the man of the Wu Men Bridge. The man of

the Wu-Men Bridge was veiled and this one is hooded! The man of the

Wu-Men Bridge was known as 'The Scorpion,' and this one also is

associated with a scorpion. We will return yet again to this point

in a moment.

"Is there something else which we may learn from the experiences of

Dr. Stuart? Yes! We learn that 'The Scorpion' suddenly decides that

Dr. Stuart is dangerous, either because of his special knowledge

(which would be interesting) or because the 'Scorpion' believes that

he has become acquainted with the contents of the sealed envelope--

which is not so interesting although equally dangerous for Dr. Stuart.

'The Scorpion' acts. He pays a second visit, again accompanied by

Chunda Lal, who seems to be a kind of watch-dog who not only guards

the person of Zara el-Kahla but who also howls when danger threatens

the cowled man!

"And what is the weapon which the cowled man (who may be 'The

Scorpion') uses to remove Dr. Stuart? It is a frightful weapon, my

friends; it is a novel and deadly weapon. It is a weapon of which

science knows nothing--a blue ray of the colour produced by a Mercury

Vapour Lamp, according to Dr. Stuart who has seen it, and producing

an odour like that of a blast furnace according to myself, who smelled

it! Or this odour might have been caused by the fusing of the telephone;

for the blue ray destroys such fragile things as telephones as easily

as it destroys wood and paper! There is even a large round hole burned

through the clay at the back of the study grate and through the brick

wall behind it! Very well. 'The Scorpion' is a scientist and he is also

the greatest menace to the world which the world has ever been called

upon to deal with. You agree with me?"

Inspector Dunbar heaved a great sigh, Stuart silently accepted a

cigarette from the Assistant Commissioner's box and the Assistant

Commissioner spoke, slowly.

"I entirely agree with you, M. Max. Respecting this ray, as well as

some one or two other _minutiae_, I have made a short note which we

will discuss when you have completed your admirably lucid survey of

the case."

"These are the things, then, which we learn from the terrible

experiences of Dr. Stuart. Placing these experiences side by side with

my own in Paris and in London--which we have already discussed in

detail--we find that we have to deal with an organisation--the object

of which is unknown--comprising among its members both Europeans

('Le Balafre' was a Frenchman, I believe), cross-breeds such as Miguel

and Zara el-Khala" (Stuart winced), "one Algerian and a Hindu. It is

then an organisation having ramifications throughout Europe, the East

and, _mon Dieu!_ where not? To continue. This little image"--he took

up from the Commissioner's table the golden scorpion, and the broken

fragment of tail--"is now definitely recognized by Dr. Stuart--who is

familiar with the work of Oriental goldsmiths--to be of _Chinese_

craftsmanship!"

"It may possibly be Tibetan," interrupted Stuart; "but it comes to the

same thing."

"Very well," continued Max. "It is Chinese. We hope, very shortly, to

identify a house situated somewhere within this red ink circle"--he

placed his finger on a map of London which lay open on the table--"and

which I know to be used as a meeting-place by members of this

mysterious group. That circle, my friends, surrounds what is now known

as 'Chinatown'! For the third time I return to the man of the Wu-Men

Bridge; for the man of the Wu-Men Bridge was, apparently, a

_Chinaman!_ Do I make myself clear?"

"Remarkably so," declared the Assistant Commissioner, taking a fresh

cigarette. "Pray continue, M. Max."

"I will do so. One of my most important investigations, in which I had

the honour and the pleasure to be associated with Inspector Dunbar, led

to the discovery of a dangerous group controlled by a certain

'Mr. King'----"

"Ah!" cried Dunbar, his tawny eyes sparkling with excitement, "I was

waiting for that!"

"I knew you would be waiting for it, Inspector. Your powers of

deductive reasoning more and more are earning my respect. You recall

that singular case? The elaborate network extending from London to

Buenos Ayres, from Peking to Petrograd? Ah! a wonderful system. It was

an opium syndicate, you understand,"--turning again to the Assistant

Commissioner.

"I recall the case," replied the Commissioner, "although I did not

hold my present appointment at the time. I believe there were

unsatisfactory features?"

"There were," agreed Max. "We never solved the mystery of the identity

of 'Mr. King,' and although we succeeded in destroying the enterprise

I have since thought that we acted with undue precipitation."

"Yes," said Dunbar rapidly; "but there was that poor girl to be

rescued, you will remember? We couldn't waste time."

"I agree entirely, Inspector. Our hands were forced. Yet, I repeat, I

have since thought that we acted with undue precipitation. I will tell

you why. Do you recall the loss--not explained to this day--of the

plans of the Haley torpedo?"

"Perfectly," replied the Commissioner; and Dunbar also nodded

affirmatively.

"Very well. A similar national loss was sustained about the same time

by my own Government. I am not at liberty to divulge its exact nature,

as in the latter case the loss never became known to the public. But

the only member of the French Chamber who had seen this document to

which I refer was a certain 'M. Blank,' shall we say? I believe also

that I am correct in stating that the late Sir Brian Malpas was a

member of the British Cabinet at the time that the Haley plans were

lost?"

"That is correct," said the Assistant Commissioner, "but surely the

honour of the late Sir Brian was above suspicion?"

"Quite," agreed Max; "so also was that of 'M. Blank.' But my point is

this: Both 'M. Blank' and the late Sir Brian were clients of the

opium syndicate!"

Dunbar nodded again eagerly.

"Hard work I had to hush it up," he said. "It would have finished his

political career."

The Assistant Commissioner looked politely puzzled.

"It was generally supposed that Sir Brian Malpas was addicted to

drugs," he remarked; "and I am not surprised to learn that he

patronised this syndicate to which you refer. But----" he paused,

smiling satanically. "Ah!" he added--"I see! I see!"

"You perceive the drift of my argument?" cried Max. "You grasp what I

mean when I say that we were too hasty? This syndicate existed for a

more terrible purpose than the promulgating of a Chinese vice; it had

in its clutches men entrusted with national secrets, men of genius but

slaves of a horrible drug. Under the influence of that drug, my

friends, how many of those secrets may they not have divulged?"

His words were received in hushed silence.

"What became of those stolen plans?" he continued, speaking now in a

very low voice. "In the stress of recent years has the Haley torpedo

made its appearance so that we might learn to which Government the

plans had been taken? No! the same mystery surrounds the fate of the

information filched from the drugged brain of 'M. Blank.' In a word"--

he raised a finger dramatically--"someone is hoarding up those

instruments of destruction! Who is it that collects such things and

for what purpose does he collect them?"

Following another tense moment of silence:

"Let us have your own theory, M. Max," said the Assistant Commissioner.

Gaston Max shrugged his shoulders.

"It is not worthy of the name of a theory," he replied, "the surmise

which I have made. But recently I found myself considering the fact

that 'The Scorpion' might just conceivably be a Chinaman. Now, 'Mr.

King,' we believe was a Chinaman, and 'Mr. King,' as I am now

convinced, operated not for a personal but for a deeper, political

purpose. He stole the brains of genius and _accumulated_ that genius.

Is it not possible that these contrary operations may be part of a

common plan?"

CHAPTER II

THE RED CIRCLE

"You are not by any chance," suggested Stuart, smiling slightly,

"hinting at that defunct bogey, the 'Yellow Peril'?"

"Ah!" cried Max, "but certainly I am not! Do not misunderstand me.

This group with which we are dealing is shown to be not of a national

but of an international character. The same applied to the organisation

of 'Mr. King.' But a Chinaman directed the one, and I begin to suspect

that a Chinaman directs the other. No, I speak of no ridiculous

'Yellow Peril,' my friends. John Chinaman, as I have known him, is the

whitest man breathing; but can you not imagine"--he dropped his voice

again in that impressive way which was yet so truly Gallic--"can you

not imagine a kind of Oriental society which like a great, a

formidable serpent, lies hidden somewhere below that deceptive jungle

of the East? These are troubled times. It is a wise state to-day that

knows its own leaders. Can you not imagine a dreadful sudden menace,

not of men and guns but of _brains_ and _capital_?"

"You mean," said Dunbar slowly, "that 'The Scorpion' may be getting

people out of the way who might interfere with this rising or invasion

or whatever it is?"

"Just as 'Mr. King' accumulated material for it," interjected the

Assistant Commissioner. "It is a bold conception, M. Max, and it

raises the case out of the ordinary category and invests it with

enormous international importance."

All were silent for a time, Stuart, Dunbar and the Commissioner

watching the famous Frenchman as he sat there, arrayed in the latest

fashion of Saville Row, yet Gallic to his finger-tips and in every

gesture. It was almost impossible at times to credit the fact that a

Parisian was speaking, for the English of Gaston Max was flawless

except that he spoke with a faint American accent. Then, suddenly, a

gesture, an expletive, would betray the Frenchman.

But such betrayals never escaped him when, in one of his inimitable

disguises, he penetrated to the purlieu of Whitechapel, to the dens of

Limehouse. Then he was the perfect Hooligan, as, mingling with the

dangerous thieves of Paris, he was the perfect Apache. It was an

innate gift of mimicry which had made him the greatest investigator

of his day. He could have studied Chinese social life for six months

and thereupon have become a mandarin whom his own servants would never

have suspected to be a "foreign barbarian." It was pure genius, as

opposed to the brilliant efficiency of Dunbar.

But in the heart of the latter, as he studied Gaston Max and realized

the gulf that separated them, there was nothing but generous

admiration of a master; yet Dunbar was no novice, for by a process of

fine deductive reasoning he had come to the conclusion, as has

appeared, that Gaston Max had been masquerading as a cabman and that

the sealed letter left with Dr. Stuart had been left as a lure. By one

of those tricks of fate which sometimes perfect the plans of men but

more often destroy them, the body of "Le Balafre" had been so

disfigured during the time that it had been buffeted about in the

Thames that it was utterly unrecognizable and indescribable. But even

the disk had not deceived Dunbar. He had seen in it another ruse of

his brilliant confrere, and his orders to the keeper of the mortuary

to admit no one without a written permit had been dictated by the

conviction that Max wished the body to be mistaken for his own. In

Inspector Dunbar, Gaston Max immediately had recognized an able

colleague as Mrs. M'Gregor had recognized "a grand figure of a man."

The Assistant Commissioner broke the silence.

"There have been other cases," he said reflectively, "now that one

considers the matter, which seemed to point to the existence of such

a group or society as you indicate, M. Max, notably one with which,

if I remember rightly, Inspector"--turning his dark eyes towards

Dunbar--"Inspector Weymouth, late of this Branch, was associated?"

"Quite right, sir. It was his big case, and it got him a fine billet

as Superintendent in Cairo if you remember?"

"Yes," mused the Assistant Commissioner--"he transferred to Egypt--a

very good appointment, as you say. That, again, was before my term of

office, but there were a number of very ghastly crimes connected with

the case and it was more or less definitely established, I believe,

that some extensive secret society did actually exist throughout the

East, governed, I fancy, by a Chinaman."

"And from China," added Dunbar.

"Yes, yes, from China as you say, Inspector." He turned to Gaston Max.

"Can it really be, M. Max, that we have to deal with an upcrop of some

deeply-seated evil which resides in the Far East? Are all these cases,

not the work of individual criminal but manifestations of a more

sinister, a darker force?"

Gaston Max met his glance and Max's mouth grew very grim.

"I honestly believe so." he answered. "I have believed it for nearly

two years--ever since the Grand Duke died. And now, you said, I

remember, that you had made a note the nature of which you would

communicate."

"Yes," replied the Assistant Commissioner--"a small point, but one

which may be worthy of attention. This ray, Dr. Stuart, which played

such havoc in your study--do you know of anything approaching to it in

more recent scientific devices?"

"Well," said Stuart, "it my be no more than a development of one of

several systems, notably of that of the late Henrik Ericksen upon

which he was at work at the time of his death."

"Exactly." The Assistant Commissioner smiled in his most

Mephistophelean manner. "Of the late Henrik Ericksen, as you say."

He said no more for a moment and sat smoking and looking from face to

face. Then:

"That is the subject of my note, gentlemen," he added. "The other

_minutiae_ are of no immediate importance."

"_Non d'un p'tit bonhomme!_" whispered Gaston Max. "I see! You think

that Ericksen had completed his experiments before he died, but that

he never lived to give them to the world?"

The Assistant Commissioner waved one hand in the air so that he

discoloration of the first and second fingers was very noticeable.

"It is for you to ascertain these points, M. Max," he said--"I only

suggest. But I begin to share your belief that a series of daring and

unusual assassinations has been taking place under the eyes of the

police authorities of Europe. It can only be poison--an unknown poison,

perhaps. We shall be empowered to exhume the body of the late Sir

Frank Narcombe in a few days' time, I hope. His case puzzles me

hopelessly. What obstacle did a surgeon offer to this hypothetical

Eastern movement? On the other hand, what can have been filched from

him before his death? The death of an inventor, a statesman, a soldier,

can be variously explained by your 'Yellow' hypothesis, M. Max, but

what of the death of a surgeon?"

Gaston Max shrugged, and his mobile mouth softened in a quaint smile.

"We have learned a little," he said, "and guessed a lot. Let us hope

to guess more--and learn everything!"

"May I suggest," added Dunbar, "that we hear Sowerby's report, sir?"

"Certainly," agreed the Assistant Commissioner--"call Sergeant

Sowerby."

A moment later Sergeant Sowerby entered, his face very red and his

hair bristling more persistently than usual.

"Anything to report, Sowerby?" asked Dunbar.

"Yes, Inspector," replied Sowerby, in his Police Court manner;--he

faced the Assistant Commissioner, "with your permission, sir."

He took out a note-book which appeared to be the twin of Dunbar's and

consulted it, assuming an expression of profound reflection.

"In the first place, sir," he began, never raising his eyes from the

page, "I have traced the cab sold on the hire-purchase system to a

certain Charles _Mallett..._"

"Ha, ha!" laughed Max breezily--"he calls me a hammer! It is not

Mallett, Sergeant Sowerby--you have got too many _l's_ in that name;

it is Malet and is called like one from the Malay States!"

"Oh," commented Sowerby, glancing up--"indeed. Very good, sir. The

owner claims the balance of purchase money!"

Every one laughed at that, even the satanic Assistant Commissioner.

"Pay your debts, M. Max," he said. "You will bring the Service de

Surete into bad repute! Carry on, Sergeant."

"This cab," continued Sowerby, when Dunbar interrupted him.

"Cut out the part about the cab, Sowerby," he said. "We've found that

out from M. Max. Have you anything to report about the yellow car?"

"Yes," replied Sowerby, unperturbed, and turning over to the next

page. "It was hired form Messrs. Wickers' garage, at Canning Town, by

the week. The lady who hired it was a Miss Dorian, a French lady. She

gave no reference, except that of the Savoy Hotel, where she was

stopping. She paid a big deposit and had her own chauffeur, a colored

man of some kind.

"Is it still in use by her?" snapped Dunbar eagerly.

"No, Inspector. She claimed her deposit this morning and said she was

leaving London."

"The cheque?" cried Dunbar.

"Was cashed half an hour later."

"At what bank?"

"London County & Birmingham, Canning Town. Her own account at a Strand

bank was closed yesterday. The details all concern milliners,

jewellers, hotels and so forth. There's nothing there. I've been to

the Savoy, of course."

"Yes!"

"A lady named Dorian has had rooms there for six weeks, has dined there

on several occasions, but was more often away than in the hotel."

"Visitors?"

"Never had any."

"She used to dine alone, then?"

"Always."

"In the public dining-room?"

"No. In her own room."

"_Morbleu!_" muttered Max. "It is she beyond doubt. I recognize her

sociable habits!"

"Has she left now?" asked Dunbar.

"She left a week ago."

Sowerby closed his note-book and returned it to his pocket.

"Is that all you have to report, Sergeant?" asked the Assistant

Commissioner.

"That's all, sir."

"Very good."

Sergeant Sowerby retired.

"Now, sir," said Dunbar, "I've got Inspector Kelly here. He looks

after the Chinese quarter. Shall I call him?"

"Yes, Inspector."

Presently there entered a burly Irishman, bluff and good-humoured, a

very typical example of the intelligent superior police officer,

looking keenly around him.

"Ah, Inspector," the Assistant Commissioner greeted him--"we want your

assistance in a little matter concerning the Chinese residential

quarter. You know this district?"

"Certainly, sir. I know it very well."

"On this map"--the Assistant Commissioner laid a discoloured

forefinger upon the map of London--"you will perceive that we have

drawn a circle."

Inspector Kelly bent over the table.

"Yes, sir."

"Within that circle, which is no larger in circumference that a

shilling as you observe, lies a house used by a certain group of

people. It has been suggested to me that these people may be Chinese

or associates of Chinese."

"Well, sir," said Inspector Kelly, smiling broadly, "considering the

patch inside the circle I think it more than likely! Seventy-five or

it may be eighty per cent of the rooms and cellars and attics in

those three streets are occupied by Chinese."

"For your guidance, Inspector, we believe these people to be a

dangerous gang of international criminals. Do you know of any

particular house, or houses, likely to be used as a meeting-place by

such a gang?"

Inspector Kelly scratched his close-cropped head.

"A woman was murdered just there, sir," he said, taking up a pen from

the table and touching a point near the corner of Three Colt Street,

"about a twelve-month ago. We traced the man--a Chinese sailor--to a

house lying just about here." Again he touched the map. "It's a sort

of little junk-shop with a ramshackle house attached, all cellars and

rabbit-hutches, as you might say, overhanging a disused cutting which

is filled at high tide. Opium is to be had there and card-playing

goes on, and I won't swear that you couldn't get liquor. But it's

well conducted as such dives go."

"Why is it not closed?" inquired the Assistant Commissioner, seizing

an opportunity to air his departmental ignorance.

"Well, sir," replied Inspector Kelly, his eyes twinkling--"if we shut

up all these places we should never know where to look for some of

our regular customers! As I mentioned, we found the wanted Chinaman,

three parts drunk, in one of the rooms."

"It's a sort of lodging-house, then?"

"Exactly. There's a moderately big room just behind the shop,

principally used by opium-smokers, and a whole nest of smaller rooms

above and below. Mind you, sir, I don't say this is the place you're

looking for, but it's the most likely inside your circle."

"Who is the proprietor?"

"A retired Chinese sailor called Ah-Fang-Fu, but better known as

'Pidgin.' His establishment is called locally 'The Pidgin House.'"

"Ah." The Commissioner lighted a cigarette. "And you know of no other

house which might be selected for such a purpose as I have mentioned?"

"I can't say I do, sir. I know pretty well all the business affairs of

that neighbourhood, and none of the houses inside your circle have

changed hands during the past twelve months. Between ourselves, sir,

nearly all the property in the district belongs to Ah-Fang-Fu, and

anything that goes on in Chinatown _he_ knows about!"

"Ah, I see. Then in any event he is the man we want to watch?"

"Well, sir, you ought to keep an eye on his visitors, I should say."

"I am obliged to you, Inspector," said the courteous Assistant

Commissioner, "for your very exact information. If necessary I shall

communicate with you again. Good-day."

"Good-day, sir," replied the Inspector. "Good-day, gentlemen."

He went out.

Gaston Max, who had diplomatically remained in the background

throughout this interview, now spoke.

_"Pardieu!_ but I have been thinking," he said. "Although 'The

Scorpion,' as I hope, believes that that troublesome Charles Malet is

dead, he may also wonder if Scotland Yard has secured from Dr.

Stuart's fire any fragments of the information sealed in the envelope!

What does it mean, this releasing of the yellow car, closing of the

bank account and departure from the Savoy?"

"It means flight!" cried Dunbar, jumping violently to his feet. "By

gad, sir!" he turned to the Assistant Commissioner--"the birds may

have flown already!"

The Assistant Commissioner leaned back in his chair.

"I have sufficient confidence in M. Max," he said, "to believe that,

having taken the responsibility of permitting this dangerous group to

learn that they were under surveillance, he has good reason to

suppose that they have not slipped through our fingers."

Gaston Max bowed.

"It is true," he replied, and from his pocket he took a slip of flimsy

paper. "This code message reached me as I was about to leave my hotel.

The quadroon, Miguel, left Paris last night and arrived in London this

morning----"

"He was followed?" cried Dunbar.

"But certainly. He was followed to Limehouse, and he was definitely

seen to enter the establishment described to us by Inspector Kelly!"

"Gad!" said Dunbar--"then _someone_ is still there?"

"Someone, as you say, is still there," replied Max. "But everything

points to the imminent departure of this someone. Will you see to it,

Inspector, that not a rat--_pardieu_ not a little mouse--is allowed to

slip out of our red circle to-day. For to-night we shall pay a

friendly visit to the house of Ah-Fang-Fu, and I should wish all the

company to be present."

CHAPTER III

MISKA'S STORY

Stuart returned to his house in a troubled frame of mind. He had

refrained so long from betraying the circumstances of his last meeting

with Mlle. Dorian to the police authorities that this meeting now

constituted a sort of guilty secret, a link binding him to the

beautiful accomplice of "The Scorpion"--to the dark-eyed servant of

the uncanny cowled thing which had sought his life by strange means.

He hugged this secret to his breast, and the pain of it afforded him a

kind of savage joy.

In his study he found a Post Office workman engaged in fitting a new

telephone. As Stuart entered the man turned.

"Good-afternoon, sir," he said, taking up the destroyed instrument

from the litter of flux, pincers and screw drivers lying upon the

table. "If it's not a rude question, how on earth did _this_ happen?"

Stuart laughed uneasily.

"It got mixed up with an experiment which I was conducting," he

replied evasively.

The man inspected the headless trunk of the instrument.

"It seems to be fused, as though the top of it had been in a blast

furnace," he continued. "Experiments of that sort are a bit dangerous

outside a proper laboratory, I should think."

"They are," agreed Stuart. "But I have no facilities here, you see,

and I was--er--compelled to attempt the experiment. I don't intend to

repeat it."

"That's lucky," murmured the man, dropping the instrument into a

carpet-bag. "If you do, it will cost you a tidy penny for telephones!"

Walking out towards the dispensary, Stuart met Mrs. M'Gregor.

"A Post Office messenger brought this letter for you, Mr. Keppel, just

the now," she said, handing Stuart a sealed envelope.

He took the envelope from her hand, and turned quickly away. He felt

that he had changed colour. For it was addressed in the handwriting

of ... Mlle. Dorian!

"Thank you, Mrs. M'Gregor," he said and turned into the dining-room.

Mrs. M'Gregor proceeded about her household duties, and as her

footsteps receded, Stuart feverishly tore open the envelope. That

elusive scent of jasmine crept to his nostrils. In the envelope was a

sheet of thick note-paper (having the top cut off evidently in order

to remove the printed address), upon which the following singular

message was written:

"Before I go away there is something I want to say to you. You do not

trust me. It is not wonderful that you do not. But I swear that I

only want to save you from a _great_ danger. If you will promise not

to tell the police anything of it, I will meet you at six o'clock by

the Book Stall at Victoria Station--on the Brighton side. If you agree

you will wear something white in your button-hole. If not you cannot

find me there. Nobody ever sees me again."

There was no signature, but no signature was necessary.

Stuart laid the letter on the table, and began to pace up and down

the room. His heart was beating ridiculously. His self-contempt was

profound. But he could not mistake his sentiments.

His duty was plain enough. But he had failed in it once, and even as

he strode up and down the room, already he knew that he must fail

again. He knew that, rightly or wrongly, he was incapable of placing

this note in the hands of the police ... and he knew that he should

be at Victoria Station at six o'clock.

He would never have believed himself capable of becoming accessory to

a series of crimes--for this was what his conduct amounted to; he had

thought that sentiment no longer held any meaning for him. Yet the

only excuse which he could find wherewith to solace himself was that

this girl had endeavoured to save him from assassination. Weighed

against the undoubted fact that she was a member of a dangerous

criminal group what was it worth? If the supposition of Gaston Max

was correct, "The Scorpion" had at least six successful murders to

his credit, in addition to the attempt upon his (Stuart's) life and

that of "Le Balafre", upon the life of Gaston Max.

It was an accomplice of this nameless horror called "The Scorpion"

with whom at six o'clock he had a tryst, whom he was protecting from

justice, by the suppression of whose messages to himself he was adding

difficulties to the already difficult task of the authorities!

Up and down he paced, restlessly, every now and again glancing at a

clock upon the mantelpiece. His behavior he told himself was

contemptible.

Yet, at a quarter to six, he went out--and seeing a little cluster

of daisies growing amongst the grass bordering the path, he plucked

one and set it in his button-hole!

A few minutes before the hour he entered the station and glanced

sharply around at the many groups scattered about in the neighbourhood

of the bookstall. There was no sign of Mlle. Dorian. He walked

around the booking office without seeing her and glanced into the

waiting-room. Then, looking up at the station clock, he saw that the

hour had come, and as he stood there staring upward he felt a timid

touch upon his shoulder.

He turned--and she was standing by his side!

She was Parisian from head to foot, simply but perfectly gowned. A

veil hung from her hat and half concealed her face, but could not

hide her wonderful eyes nor disguise the delightful curves of her red

lips. Stuart automatically raised his hat, and even as he did so

wondered what she should have said and done had she suddenly found

Gaston Max standing at his elbow! He laughed shortly.

"You are angry with me," said Mlle. Dorian, and Stuart thought that

her quaint accent was adorable. "Or are you angry with yourself for

seeing me?"

"I am angry with myself," he replied, "for being so weak."

"Is it so weak," she said, rather tremulously, "not to judge a woman

by what she seems to be and not to condemn her before you hear what

she has to say? If that is weak, I am glad; I think it is how a man

should be."

Her voice and her eyes completed the spell, and Stuart resigned

himself without another struggle to this insane infatuation.

"We cannot very well talk here," he said. "Suppose we go into the

hotel and have late tea, Mlle. Dorian."

"Yes. Very well. But please do not call me that. It is not my name."

Stuart was on the point of saying, "Zara el-Khala then," but checked

himself in the nick of time. He might hold communication with the

enemy, but at least he would give away no information.

"I am called Miska," she added. "Will you please call me Miska?"

"Of course, if you wish," said Stuart, looking down at her as she

walked by his side and wondering what he would do when he had to stand

up in Court, look at Miska in the felon's dock and speak words which

would help to condemn her--perhaps to death, at least to penal

servitude! He shuddered.

"Have I said something that displeases you?" she asked, resting a

white-gloved hand on his arm. "I am sorry."

"No, no," he assured her. "But I was thinking--I cannot help

thinking ..."

"How wicked I am?" she whispered.

"How lovely you are!" he said hotly, "and how maddening it is to

remember that you are an accomplice of criminals!"

"Oh," she said, and removed her hand, but not before he had felt how

it trembled. They were about to enter the tea-room when she added:

"Please don't say that until I have told you why I do what I do."

Obeying a sudden impulse, he took her hand and drew it close under

his arm.

"No," he said; "I won't. I was a brute, Miska. Miska means 'musk',

surely?"

"Yes." She glanced up at him timidly. "Do you think it a pretty name?"

"Very," he said, laughing.

Underlying the Western veneer was the fascinating naivete of the

Eastern woman, and Miska had all the suave grace, too, which belongs

to the women of the Orient, so that many admiring glances followed

her charming figure as she crossed the room to a vacant table.

"Now," said Stuart, when he had given an order to the waiter, "what

do you want to tell me? Whatever it may be, I am all anxiety to hear

it. I promise that I will only act upon anything you may tell me in

the event of my life, or that of another, being palpably endangered

by my silence."

"Very well. I want to tell you," replied Miska, "why I stay with

Fo-Hi."

"Who is Fo-Hi?"

"I do not know!"

"What!" said Stuart. "I am afraid I don't understand you."

"If I speak in French will you be able to follow what I say?"

"Certainly. Are you more at ease with French?"

"Yes," replied Miska, beginning to speak in the latter language. "My

mother was French, you see, and although I can speak in English

fairly well I cannot yet _think_ in English. Do you understand?

"Perfectly. So perhaps you will now explain to whom you refer when

you speak of Fo-Hi."

Miska glanced apprehensively around her, bending further forward over

the table.

"Let me tell you from the beginning," she said in a low voice, "and

then you will understand. It must not take me long. You see me as I

am to-day because of a dreadful misfortune that befell me when I was

fifteen years old."

"My father was _Wali_ of Aleppo, and my mother, his third wife, was a

Frenchwoman, a member of a theatrical company which had come to Cairo,

where he had first seen her. She must have loved him, for she gave up

the world, embraced Islam and entered his _harem_ in the great house

on the outskirts of Aleppo. Perhaps it was because he, too, was half

French, that they were mutually attracted. My father's mother was a

Frenchwoman also, you understand.

"Until I was fifteen years of age, I never left the _harem,_ but my

mother taught me French and also a little English; and she prevailed

upon my father not to give me in marriage so early as is usual in the

East. She taught me to understand the ways of European women, and we

used to have Paris journals and many books come to us regularly. Then

an awful pestilence visited Aleppo. People were dying in the mosques

and in the streets, and my father decided to send my mother and myself

and some others of the _harem_ to his brother's house in Damaskus.

"Perhaps you will think that such things do not happen in these days,

and particularly to members of the household of a chief magistrate,

but I can only tell you what is true. On the second night of our

journey a band of Arabs swept down upon the caravan, overpowered the

guards, killing them all, and carried of everything of value which we

had. Me, also, they carried off--me and one other, a little Syrian

girl, my cousin. Oh!" she shuddered violently--"even now I can

sometimes hear the shrieks of my mother ... and I can hear, also, the

way they suddenly ceased, those cries ..."

Stuart looked up with a start to find a Swiss waiter placing tea upon

the table. He felt like rubbing his eyes. He had been dragged rudely

back from the Syrian desert to the prosaic realities of a London hotel.

"Perhaps," continued Miska, "you will think that we were ill-treated,

but it was not so. No one molested us. We were given every comfort

which desert life can provide, servant to wait upon us and plenty of

good food. After several weeks' journeying we came to a large city,

having many minarets and domes glimmering in the moonlight; for we

entered at night. Indeed, we always travelled at night. At the time I

had no idea of the name of this city but I learned afterwards that it

was Mecca.

"As we proceeded through the streets, the Assyrian girl and I peeped

out through the little windows of the _shibriyeh_--which is a kind of

tent on the back of a camel--in which we travelled, hoping to see some

familiar face or someone to whom we could appeal. But there seemed to

be scarcely anyone visible in the streets, although lights shone out

from many windows, and the few men we saw seemed to be anxious to

avoid us. In fact, several ran down side turnings as the camels

approached.

"We stopped before the gate of a large house which was presently

opened, and the camels entered the courtyard. We descended, and I saw

that a number of small apartments surrounded the courtyard in the

manner of a _caravanserai._ Then, suddenly, I saw something else, and

I knew why we had been treated with such consideration on the journey;

I knew into what hand I had fallen--I knew that I was in the house of

a _slave-dealer!_"

"Good heavens!" muttered Stuart--"this is almost incredible."

"I knew you would doubt what I had to tell you," declared Miska

plaintively; "but I solemnly swear what I tell you is the truth. Yes,

I was in the house of a slave-dealer, and on the very next day,

because I was proficient in languages, in music and in dancing, and

also because--according to their Eastern ideas--I was pretty, the

dealer, Mohammed Abd-el-Bali ... offered me for sale."

She stopped, lowering her eyes and flushing hotly, then continued

with hesitancy.

"In a small room which I can never forget I was offered the only

indignity which I had been called upon to suffer since my abduction.

I was _exhibited_ to prospective purchasers."

"As she spoke the words, Miska's eyes flashed passionately and her

hand, which lay on the table, trembled. Stuart silently reached

across and rested his own upon it.

"There were all kinds of girls," Miska continued, "black and brown and

white, in the adjoining rooms, and some of them were singing and some

dancing, whilst others wept. Four different visitors inspected me

critically, two of them being agents for royal _harems_ and the other

two--how shall I say it?--wealthy connoisseurs. But the price asked by

Mohammed Abd-el-Bali was beyond the purses of all except one of the

agents. He had indeed settled the bargain, when the singing and

dancing and shouting--every sound it seemed--ceased about me ... and

into the little room in which I crouched amongst perfumed cushions at

the feet of the two men, walked Fo-Hi."

CHAPTER IV

MISKA'S STORY _(concluded)_

"Of course, I did not know that this was his name at the time; I only

knew that a tall Chinaman had entered the room--and that his face was

entirely covered by a green veil."

Stuart started, but did not interrupt Miska's story.

"This veil gave him in some way a frightfully malign and repellent

appearance. As he stood in the doorway looking down I seemed to _feel_

his gaze passing over me like a flame, although of course I could not

see his eyes. For a moment he stood there looking at me; and much as

his presence had affected me, its affect upon the slave-dealer and my

purchaser was extraordinary. They seemed to be stricken dumb. Suddenly

the Chinaman spoke, in perfect Arabic. 'Her price?' he said.

"Mohammed Abd-el-Bali, standing trembling before him, replied:

"'Miska is already sold, lord, but----"

"'Her price?' repeated the Chinaman, in the same hard metallic voice

and without the slightest change of intonation.

"The _harem_ agent who had bought me now said, his voice shaking so

that the words were barely audible:

"'I give her up, Mohammed--I give her up. Who am I to dispute with the

Mandarin Fo-Hi;' and performing an abject obeisance he backed out of

the room.

"At the same moment, Mohammed, whose knees were trembling so that they

seemed no longer capable of supporting him, addressed the Chinaman.

"'Accept the maiden as an unworthy gift,' he began--

"'Her price?' repeated Fo-Hi.

"Mohammed, whose teeth had begun to chatter, asked him twice as much

as he had agreed to accept from the other, Fo-Hi clapped his hands,

and a fierce-eyed Hindu entered the room.

"Fo-Hi addressed him in a language which I did not understand,

although I have since learned that it was Hindustani, and the Indian

from a purse which he carried counted out the amount demanded by the

dealer and placed the money upon a little inlaid table which stood in

the room. Fo-Hi gave him some brief order, turned and walked out of

the room. I did not see him again for four years--that is until my

nineteenth birthday.

"I know that you are wondering about many things and I will try to

make some of them clear to you. You are wondering, no doubt, how such

a trade as I have described is carried on in the East to-day almost

under the eyes of European Governments. Now I shall surprise you. When

I was taken from the house of the slave-dealer, in charge of Chunda

Lal--for this was the name of the Hindu--do you know where I was

carried to? I will tell you: to _Cairo!"_

"Cairo!" cried Stuart--then, perceiving that he had attracted

attention by speaking so loudly, he lowered his voice. "Do you mean to

tell me that you were taken as a _slave_ to Cairo?"

Miska smiled--and her smile was the taunting smile of the East, which

is at once a caress and an invitation.

"You think, no doubt, that there are no slaves in Cairo!" she said.

"So do most people, and so did I--once. I learned better. There are

palaces in Cairo, I assure you, in which there are many slaves. I

myself lived in such a palace for four years, and I was not the only

slave there. What do British residents and French residents know of

the inner domestic life of their Oriental neighbours? Are they ever

admitted to the _harem?_ And the slaves--are they ever admitted

outside the walls of the palace? Sometimes, yes, but never alone!

"By slow stages, following the ancient caravan routes, and accompanied

by an extensive retinue of servants in charge of Chunda Lal, we came

to Cairo; and one night, approaching the city from the north-east and

entering by the Bab en-Nasr, I was taken to the old palace which was

to be my prison for four years. How I passed those four years has no

bearing upon the matters which I have to tell you, but I lived the

useless, luxurious life of some Arabian princess, my lightest wish

anticipated and gratified; nothing was denied me, except freedom.

"Then, one day--it was actually my nineteenth birthday--Chunda Lal

presented himself and told me that I was to have an interview with

Fo-Hi. Hearing these words, I nearly swooned, for a hundred times

during the years of my strange luxurious captivity I had awakened

trembling in the night, thinking that the figure of the awful veiled

Chinaman had entered the room.

"You must understand that having spent my childhood in a _harem,_

the mode of life which I was compelled to follow in Cairo was not so

insufferable as it must have been for a European woman. Neither was my

captivity made unduly irksome. I often drove through the European

quarters, always accompanied by Chunda Lal, and closely veiled, and

I regularly went shopping in the bazaars--but never alone. The death

of my mother--and later that of my father, of which Chunda Lal had

told me--were griefs that time had dulled. But the horror of Fo-Hi was

one which lived with me, day and night.

"To a wing of the palace kept closely locked, and which I had never

seen opened, I was conducted by Chunda Lal. There, in a room of a

kind with which was part library and part _mandarah,_ part museum

and part laboratory, I found the veiled man seated at a great

littered table. As I stood trembling before him he raised a long

yellow hand and waved to Chunda Lal to depart. When he obeyed and I

heard the door close I could scarcely repress a shriek of terror.

"For what seemed an interminable time he sat watching me. I dared not

look at him, but again I felt his gaze passing over me like a flame.

Then he began to speak, in French, which he spoke without a trace of

accent.

"He told me briefly that my life of idleness had ended and that a new

life of activity in many parts of the world was about to commence.

His manner was quite unemotional, neither harsh nor kindly, his

metallic voice conveyed no more than the bare meaning of the words

which he uttered. When, finally, he ceased speaking, he struck a gong

which hung from a corner of the huge table, and Chunda Lal entered.

"Fo-Hi addressed a brief order to him in Hindustani--and a few

moments later a second Chinaman walked slowly into the room."

Miska paused, as if to collect her ideas, but continued almost

immediately.

"He wore a plain yellow robe and had a little black cap on his head.

His face, his wonderful evil face I can never forget, and his eyes--I

fear you will think I exaggerate--but his eyes were green as emeralds!

He fixed them upon me.

"'This,' said Fo-Hi, 'is Miska.'

"The other Chinaman continued to regard me with those dreadful eyes;

then:

"'You have chosen well.' he said, turned and slowly went out again.

"I thank God that I have never seen him since, for his dreadful face

haunted my dreams for long afterwards. But I have learned of him, and

I know that next to Fo-Hi he is the most dangerous being in the known

world. He has invented horrible things--poisons and instruments, which

I cannot describe because I have never seen them; but I have seen ...

some of their effects."

She paused, overcome with the horror of her memories.

"What is the name of this other man?" asked Stuart eagerly. Miska

glanced at him rapidly.

"Oh, do not ask me questions, please!" she pleaded. "I will tell you

all I can, all I dare; what I do not tell you I cannot tell you--and

this is one of the things I dare not tell. He is a Chinese scientist

and, I have heard, the greatest genius in the whole world, but I can

say no more--yet."

"Is he still alive--this man?"

"I do not know that. If he is alive, he is in China--at some secret

palace in the province of Ho-Nan, which is the headquarters of what

is called the 'Sublime Order.' I have never been there, but there are

Europeans there, as well as Orientals."

"What! in the company of these fiends!"

"It is useless to ask me--oh! indeed, I would tell you if I could, but

I cannot! Let me go on from the time when I saw Fo-Hi in Cairo. He

told me that I was a member of an organization dating back to remote

antiquity which was destined to rule all the races of mankind--the

Celestial age he called their coming triumph. Something which they had

lacked in order to achieve success had been supplied by the dreadful

man who had entered the room and expressed his approval of me.

"For many years they had been at work in Europe, secretly, as well as

in the East. I understood that they had acquired a quantity of

valuable information of some kind by means of a system of opium-houses

situated in the principal capitals of the world and directed by Fo-Hi

and a number of Chinese assistants. Fo-Hi had remained in China most

of the time, but had paid occasional visits to Europe. The other

man--the monster with the black skull cap--had been responsible for

the conduct of the European enterprises."

"Throughout this interview," interrupted Stuart, forgetful of the fact

that Miska had warned him of the futility of asking questions, "and

during others which you must have had with Fo-Hi, did you never obtain

a glimpse of his face?"

"Never! No one has ever seen his face! I know that his eyes are a

brilliant and unnatural yellow colour, but otherwise I should not

know him if I saw him unveiled, to-morrow. Except," she added, "by a

sense of loathing which his presence inspires in me. But I must hurry.

If you interrupt me, I shall not have time.

"From that day in Cairo--oh! how can I tell you! I began the life of

an adventuress! I do not deny it. I came here to confess it to you. I

went to New York, to London, to Paris, to Petrograd; I went all over

the world. I had beautiful dresses, jewels, admiration--all that women

live for! And in the midst of it all mine was the life of the

cloister; no nun could be more secluded!

"I see the question in your eyes--why did I do it? Why did I lure men

into the clutches of Fo-Hi? For this is what I did; and when I have

failed, I have been punished."

Stuart shrank from her.

"You confess," he said hoarsely, "that you knowing lured men to

_death?"_

"Ah, no!" she whispered, looking about her fearfully--"never! never!

I swear it--never!"

"Then"--he stared at her blankly--"I do not understand you!"

"I dare not make it clearer--now: I dare not--dare not! But _believe_

me! Oh, please, please," she pleaded, her soft voice dropping to a

whisper--"believe me! If you know what I risked to tell you so much,

you would be more merciful. A horror which cannot be described"--again

she shuddered--"will fall upon me if _he_ ever suspects! You think me

young and full of life, with all the world before me. You do not know.

I am, literally, _already dead!_ Oh! I have followed a strange career.

I have danced in a Paris theatre and I have sold flowers in Rome; I

have had my box at the Opera and I have filled opium pipes in a den at

San Francisco! But never, never have I lured a man to his death. And

through it all, from first to last, no man has so much as kissed my

finger-tips!

"At a word, at a sign, I have been compelled to go from Monte Carlo to

Buenos Ayres; at another sign from there to Tokio! Chunda Lal has

guarded me as only the women of the East are guarded. Yet, in his

fierce way, he has always tried to befriend me, he has always been

faithful. But ah! I shrink from him many times, in horror, because I

know _what_ he is! But I may not tell you. Look! Chunda Lal has never

been out of sound of this whistle"--she drew a little silver whistle

from her dress--"for a moment since that day when he came into the

house of the slave-dealer in Mecca, except----"

And now, suddenly, a wave of glorious colour flooded her beautiful

face and swiftly she lowered her eyes, replacing the little whistle.

Stuart's rebellious heart leapt madly, for whatever he might think

of her almost incredible story, that sweet blush was no subterfuge,

no product of acting.

"You almost drive me mad," he said in low voice, resembling the tones

of repressed savagery. "You tell me so much, but withhold so much

that I am more bewildered than ever. I can understand your

helplessness in an Eastern household, but why should you obey the

behests of this veiled monster in London, in New York, in Paris?"

She did not raise her eyes.

"I dare not tell you. But I dare not disobey him."

"Who is he!"

"No one knows, because no one has ever seen his face! Ah! you are

laughing! But I swear before heaven I speak the truth! Indoors he

wears a Chinese dress and a green veil. In passing from place to place,

which he always does at night, he is attired in a kind of cowl which

only exposes his eyes----"

"But how _can_ such a fantastic being travel?"

"By road, on land, and in a steam yacht, at sea. Why should _you_

doubt my honesty?" She suddenly raises her glance to Stuart's face and

he saw that she had grown pale. "I have risked what I cannot tell you,

and more than once--for you! I tried to call you on the telephone on

the night that he set out from the house near Hampton Court to kill

you, but I could get no reply, and----"

"Stop!" said Stuart, almost too exited to note at the time that she

had betrayed a secret. "It was _you_ who rang up that night?

"Yes. Why did you not answer?"

"Never mind. Your call saved my life. I shall not forget." He looked

into her eyes. "But can you not tell me what it all means? What or

whom is 'The Scorpion'?"

She flinched.

"The Scorpion is--a passport. See." From a little pocket in the coat

of her costume she drew out a golden scorpion! "I have one." She

replaced it hurriedly. "I dare not, dare not tell you more. But this

much I had to tell you, because ... I shall never see you again!"

"What!"

"A French detective, a very clever man, learned a lot about 'The

Scorpion' and he followed one of the members to England. This man

killed him. Oh, I know I belong to a horrible organization!" she

cried bitterly. "But I tell you I am helpless and _I_ have never

aided in such a thing. You should know that! But all he found out he

left with you--and I do not know if I succeeded in destroying it. I do

not ask you. I do not care. But I leave England to-night. Good-bye."

She suddenly stood up. Stuart rose also. He was about to speak when

Miska's expression changed. A look of terror crept over her face, and

hastily lowering her veil she walked rapidly away from the table and

out of the room!

Many curious glances followed the elegant figure to the door. Then

those glances were directed upon Stuart.

Flushing with embarrassment, he quickly settled the bill and hurried

out of the hotel. Gaining the street, he looked eagerly right and left.

But Miska had disappeared!

CHAPTER V

THE HEART OF CHUNDA LAL

Dusk had drawn a grey mantle over the East-End streets when Miska,

discharging the cab in which she had come from Victoria, hurried

furtively along a narrow alley tending Thamesward. Unconsciously she

crossed a certain line--a line invisible except upon a map of London

which lay upon the table of the Assistant Commissioner in New Scotland

Yard--the line forming the "red circle" of M. Gaston Max. And,

crossing this line, she became the focus upon which four pairs of

watchful eyes were directed.

Arriving at the door of a mean house some little distance removed

from that of Ah-Fang-Fu, Miska entered, for the door was open, and

disappeared from the view of the four detectives who were watching the

street. Her heart was beating rapidly. For she had thought, as she

had stood up to leave the restaurant, that the fierce eyes of Chunda

Lal had looked in through the glass panel of one of the doors.

This gloomy house seemed to swallow her up, and the men who watched

wondered more and more what had become of the elegant figure,

grotesque in such a setting, which had vanished into the narrow

doorway--and which did not reappear. Even Inspector Kelly, who knew

so much about Chinatown, did not know that the cellars of the three

houses left and right of Ah-Fang-Fu's were connected by a series of

doors planned and masked with Chinese cunning.

Half an hour after Miska had disappeared into the little house near

the corner, the hidden door in the damp cellar below "The Pidgin

House" opened and a bent old woman, a ragged, grey-haired and dirty

figure, walked slowly up the rickety wooden stair and entered a bare

room behind and below the shop and to the immediate left of the den

of the opium-smoker. This room, which was windowless, was lighted by

a tin paraffin lamp hung upon a nail in the dirty plaster wall. The

floor presented a litter of straw, paper and broken packing-cases.

Two steps led up to a second door, a square heavy door of great

strength. The old woman, by means of a key which she carried, was

about to open this door when it was opened from the other side.

Lowering his head as he came through, Chunda Lal descended. He wore

European clothes and a white turban. Save for his ardent eyes and

the handsome fanatical face of the man, he might have passed for a

lascar. He turned and half closed the door. The woman shrank from

him, but extending a lean brown hand he gripped her arm. His eyes

glittered feverishly.

"So!" he said, "we are all leaving England? Five of the Chinese sail

with the P. and O. boat to-night. Ali Khan goes to-morrow, and Rama

Dass, with Miguel, and the _Andaman_. I meet them at Singapore. But you?"

The woman raised her finger to her lips, glancing fearfully towards

the open door. But the Hindu, drawing her nearer, repeated with subdued

fierceness:

"I ask it again--but _you_?"

"I do not know," muttered the woman, keeping her head lowered and

moving in the direction of the steps.

But Chunda Lal intercepted her.

"Stop!" he said--"not yet are you going. There is something I have to

speak to you."

"Ssh!" she whispered, half turning and pointing up toward the door.

"Those!" said the Hindu contemptuously--"the poor slaves of the black

smoke! Ah! they are floating in their dream paradise; they have no

ears to hear, no eyes to see!" He grasped her wrist again. "They

contest for shadow smiles and dream kisses, but Chunda Lal have eyes

to see and ears to hear. He dream, too but of lips more sweet than

honey, of a voice like the Song of the Daood! _Inshalla!"_

Suddenly he clutched the grey hair of the bent old woman and with one

angry jerk snatched it from her head--for it was a cunning wig.

Disordered, hair gleaming like bronze waves in the dim lamplight was

revealed and the great dark eyes of Miska looked out from the

artificially haggard face--eyes wide open and fearful.

"Bend not that beautiful body so," whispered Chunda Lal, "that is

straight and supple as the willow branch. O, Miska"--his voice

trembled emotionally and he that had been but a moment since so fierce

stood abashed before her--"for you I become as the meanest and the

lowest; for you I die!"

Miska started back from him as a muffled outcry sounded in the room

beyond the half-open door. Chunda Las started also, but almost

immediately smiled--and his smile was tender as a woman's.

"It is the voice of the black smoke that speaks, Miska. We are alone.

Those are dead men speaking from their tombs."

"Ah-Fang-Fu is in the shop," whispered Miska.

"And there he remain."

"But what of ... _him!"_

Miska pointed toward the eastern wall of the room in which they stood.

Chunda Lal clenched his hands convulsively and turned his eyes in the

same direction.

"It is of _him_," he replied in a voice of suppressed vehemence, "it

is of _him_ I would speak." He bent close to Miska's ear. "In the

creek, below the house, is lying the motor-boat. I go to-day to bring

it down for him. He goes to-night to the other house up the river.

To-morrow I am gone. Only you remaining."

"Yes, yes. He also leaves England to-morrow."

"And you?"

"I go with him," she whispered.

Chunda Lal glanced apprehensively toward the door. Then:

"Do not go with him!" he said, and sought to draw Miska into his arms.

"O, light of my eyes, do not go with him!"

Miska repulsed him, but not harshly.

"No, no, it is no good, Chunda Lal. I cannot hear you."

"You think"--the Hindu's voice was hoarse with emotion--"that _he_ will

trace you--and kill you?"

_"Trace me!"_ exclaimed Miska with sudden scorn. "Is it necessary for

him to trace me? Am I not already dead except for _him!_ Would I be

his servant, his lure, his slave for one little hour, for one short

minute, if my life was my own!"

Beads of perspiration gleamed upon the brown forehead of the Hindu,

and his eyes turned from the door to the eastern wall and back again

to Miska. He was torn by conflicting desires, but suddenly came

resolution.

"Listen, then." His voice was barely audible. "If I tell you that your

life _is_ your own--if I reveal to you a secret which I learned in the

house of Abdul Rozan in Cairo----"

Miska watched him with eyes in which a new, a wild expression was

dawning.

"If I tell you that life and not death awaits you, will you come away

to-night, and we sail for India to-morrow! Ah! I have money! Perhaps I

am rich as well as--someone; perhaps I can buy you the robes of a

princess"--he drew her swiftly to him--"and cover those white arms

with jewels."

Miska shrank from him.

"All this means nothing," she said. "How can the secret of Abdul

Rozan help me to live! And you--you will be dead before I die!--yes!

One little hour after _he_ finds out that I go!"

"Listen again," hissed Chunda Lal intensely. "Promise me, and I will

open for you a gate of life. For you, Miska, I will do it, and we

shall be free. _He_ will never find out. He shall not be living to

find out!"

"No, no, Chunda Lal," she moaned. "You have been my only friend, and

I have tried to forget ..."

"I will forswear Kali forever," he said fervently, "and shed no blood

for all my life! I will live for you alone and be your slave."

"It is no good. I cannot, Chunda Lal, I cannot."

"Miska!" he pleaded tenderly.

"No, no," she repeated, her voice quivering--"I cannot ... Oh! do not

ask it; I cannot!"

She picked up the hideous wig, moving towards the door. Chunda Lal

watched her, clenching his hands; and his eyes, which had been so

tender, grew fierce.

"Ah!" he cried--"and it may be I know a reason!"

She stopped, glancing back at him.

"It may be," he continued, and his repressed violence was terrible,

"it may be that I, whose heart is never sleeping, have seen and heard!

One night"--he crept towards her--"one night when I cry the warning

that the Doctor Sahib returns to his house, you do not come! He goes

in at the house and you remain. But at last you come, and I see in

your eyes----"

"Oh!" breathed Miska, watching him fearfully.

"Do I not see it in your eyes now! Never before have I thought so

until you go to that house, never before have you escaped from my care

as here in London. Twice again I have doubted, and because there was

other work to do I have been helpless to find out. _To-night_"--he

stood before her, glaring madly into her face--"I think so again--that

you have gone to him...."

"Oh, Chunda Lal!" cried Miska piteously and extended her hands towards

him. "No, no--do not say it!"

"So!" he whispered--"I understand! You risk so much for him--for me

you risk nothing! If he--the Doctor Sahib--say to you: 'Come with me,

Miska----'"

"No, no! Can I never have one friend in all the world! I hear you

call, Chunda Lal, but I am burning the envelope and--Doctor Stuart--

finds me. I am trapped. You know it is so.

"I know you say so. And because he--Fo-Hi--is not sure and because of

the piece of the scorpion which you find there, we go to that house--

_he_ and I--and we fail in what we go for." Chunda Lal's hand dropped

limply to his sides. "Ah! I cannot understand, Miska. If we are not

sure then, are we sure _now?_ It may be"--he bent towards her--"we are

trapped!"

"Oh, what do you mean?"

"We do not know how much they read of what he had written. Why do we

wait?"

_"He_ has some plan, Chunda Lal," replied Miska wearily. "Does he

ever fail?"

Her words rekindled the Hindu's ardour; his eyes lighted up anew.

"I tell you his plan," he whispered tensely. "Oh! you shall hear

me! He watch you grow from a little lovely child, as he watch his

death-spiders and his grey scorpions grow! He tend you and care for

you and make you perfect, and he plan for you as he plan for this

other creatures. Then, he see what I see, that you are not only his

servant but also a woman and that you have a woman's heart. He

learn--who think he knows all--that he, too, is not yet a spirit

but only a man, and have a man's heart, a man's blood, a man's

longings! It is because of the Doctor Sahib that he learn it----"

He grasped Miska again, but she struggled to elude him. "Oh, let me

go!" she pleaded. "It is madness you speak!"

"It is madness, yes--for _you!_ Always I have watched, always I have

waited; and I also have seen you bloom like a rose in the desert.

To-night I am here--watching ... and _he_ knows it! Tomorrow I am

gone! Do you stay, for--_him?_

"Oh," she whispered fearfully, "it cannot be."

"You say true when you say I have been your only friend, Miska.

To-morrow _he_ plan that you have no friend."

He released her, and slowly, from the sleeve of his coat, slipped into

view the curved blade of a native knife.

_"Ali Khan Bhai Salam!"_ he muttered--by which formula he

proclaimed himself a _Thug!_

Rolling his eyes in the direction of the eastern wall, he concealed

the knife.

"Chunda Lal!" Miska spoke wildly. "I am frightened! Please let me go,

and tomorrow----"

"To-morrow!" Chunda Lal raised his eyes, which were alight with the

awful light of fanaticism. "For me there may be no tomorrow! _Jey

Bhowani! Yah Allah!"_

"Oh, _he_ may hear you!" whispered Miska pitifully. "Please go now.

I shall know that you are near me, if----"

"And then?"

"I will ask your aid."

Her voice was very low.

"And if it is written that I succeed?"

Miska averted her head.

"Oh, Chunda Lal ... I cannot."

She hid her face in her hands.

Chunda Lal stood watching her for a moment in silence, then he turned

toward the cellar door, and then again to Miska. Suddenly he dropped

upon one knee before her, took her hand and kissed it, gently.

"I am your slave," he said, his voice shaken with emotion. "For myself

I ask nothing--only your pity."

He rose, opened the door by which Miska had entered the room and went

down into the cellars. She watched him silently, half fearfully, yet

her eyes were filled with compassionate tears. Then, readjusting the

hideous grey wig, she went up the steps and passed through the doorway

into the den of the opium smokers.

CHAPTER VI

THE MAN WITH THE SCAR

Stuart read through a paper, consisting of six closely written pages,

then he pinned the sheets together, folded them and placed them in one

of those long envelopes associated in his memory with the opening

phase of "The Scorpion" mystery. Smiling grimly, he descended to his

dispensary and returned with the Chinese coin attached to the cork.

With this he sealed the envelope.

He had volunteered that night for onerous service, and his offer had

been accepted. Gaston Max's knowledge of Eastern languages was slight,

whilst Stuart's was sound and extensive, and the Frenchman had

cordially welcomed the doctor's proposal that he should accompany him

to the house of Ah-Fang-Fu. Reviewing the facts gleaned from Miska

during the earlier part of the evening, Stuart perceived that, apart

from the additional light which they shed upon her own relations with

the group, they could be of slight assistance to the immediate success

of the inquiry--unless the raid failed. Therefore he had determined

upon the course which now he was adopting.

As he completed the sealing of the envelope and laid it down upon the

table, he heard a cab drawn up in front of the house, and presently

Mrs. M'Gregor knocked and entered the study.

"Inspector Dunbar to see you, Mr. Keppel," she said--"and he has with

him an awful-looking body, all cuts and bandages. A patient, no doubt."

Stuart stood up, wondering what this could mean.

"Will you please show them up, Mrs. M'Gregor," he replied.

A few moments later Dunbar entered, accompanied by a bearded man

whose head was bandaged so as to partly cover one eye and who had an

evil-looking scar running from his cheekbone, apparently--or at any

rate from the edge of the bandage--to the corner of his mouth, so that

the lip was drawn up in a fierce and permanent snarl.

At this person Stuart stared blankly, until Dunbar began to laugh.

"It's a wonderful make-up, isn't it?" he said. "I used to say that

disguises were out of date, but M. Max has taught me I was wrong."

"Max!" cried Stuart.

"At your service," replied the apparition, "but for this evening only

I am 'Le Belafre.' Yes, _pardieu!_ I am a real dead man!"

The airy indifference which he proclaimed himself to represent one

whose awful body had but that day been removed from a mortuary, and

one whom in his own words he had "had the misfortune to strangle,"

was rather ghastly and at the same time admirable. For "Le Balafre"

had deliberately tried to murder him, and false sentiment should form

no part of the complement of a criminal investigator.

"It is a daring idea," said Stuart, "and relies for its success upon

the chance that 'The Scorpion' remains ignorant of the fate of his

agent and continues to believe that the body found off Hanover Hole

was yours."

"The admirable precautions of my clever colleague," replied Max,

laying his hand upon Dunbar's shoulder, "in closing the mortuary and

publishing particulars of the identification disk, made it perfectly

safe. 'Le Balafre' has been in hiding. He emerges!"

Stuart had secret reasons for knowing that Max's logic was not at

fault, and this brought him to the matter of the sealed paper. He

took up the envelope.

"I have here," he said slowly, "a statement. Examine the seal."

He held it out, and Max and Dunbar looked at it. The latter laughed

shortly.

"Oh, it is a real statement," continued Stuart, "the nature of which

I am not at liberty to divulge. But as to-night we take risks, I

propose to leave it in your charge, Inspector."

He handed the envelope to Dunbar, whose face was blank with

astonishment.

"In the event of failure to-night," added Stuart, "or catastrophe, I

authorise you to read this statement--and act upon it. If, however, I

escape safely, I ask you to return it to me, unread."

_"Eh bien,"_ said Max, and fixed that eye the whole of which was

visible upon Stuart. "Perhaps I understand, and certainly"--he removed

his hand from Dunbar's shoulder and rested it upon that of Stuart--

"but certainly, my friend, I sympathise!"

Stuart started guiltily, but Max immediately turned aside and began

to speak about their plans.

"In a bag which Inspector Dunbar has thoughtfully left in the cab,"

he said----

Dunbar hastily retired and Max laughed.

"In that bag," he continued, "is a suit of clothes such as habitues of

'The Pidgin House' rejoice to wear. I, who have studied disguise

almost as deeply as the great Willy Clarkson, will transform you into

a perfect ruffian. It is important, you understand, that someone

should be inside the house of Ah-Fang-Fu, as otherwise by means of

some secret exit the man we seek may escape. I believe that he

contemplates departing at any moment, and I believe that the visit of

Miguel means that what I may term the masters of the minor lodges are

coming to London for parting instructions--or, of course Miguel may

have come about the disappearance of 'Le Balafre.'"

"Suppose you meet Miguel!"

"My dear friend, I must trust to the Kismet who pursues evil-doers!

The only reason which has led me to adopt this daring disguise is a

simple one. Although I believe 'The Pidgin House' to be open to

ordinary opium-smokers, it may not be open on 'lodge nights.' Do you

follow me? Very well. I have the golden scorpion--which I suppose to

be a sort of passport."

Stuart wondered more and more at the reasoning powers of this

remarkable man, which could lead him to such an accurate conclusion.

"The existence of such a passport," continued Max, "would seem to

point to the fact that all the members of this organisation are not

known personally to one another. At the same time those invited or

expected at present _may_ be known to Ah-Fang-Fu or to whoever acts

as concierge. You see? Expected or otherwise, I assume that 'Le

Balafre' would be admitted--and at night I shall pass very well for

'Le Balafre'--somewhat damaged as a result of my encounter with the

late Charles Malet, but still recognisable!"

"And I?"

"You will be 'franked' in. The word of 'Le Balafre' should be

sufficient for that! Of course I may be conducted immediately into

the presence of the Chief--'The Scorpion'--and he may prove to be

none other than Miguel, for instance--or my Algerian acquaintance--

or may even be a 'she'--the fascinating Zara el-Khala! We do not

know. But I _think_--oh, decidedly I think--that the cowled one is a

male creature, and his habits and habitat suggests to me that he is a

Chinaman."

"And in that event how shall you act?"

"At once! I shall hold him, if I can, or shoot him if I cannot hold

him! Both of us will blow police-whistles with which we shall be

provided and Inspectors Dunbar and Kelly will raid the premises. But I

am hoping for an interval. I do not like these inartistic scrimmages!

The fact that these people foregather at an opium-house suggests to me

that a certain procedure may be followed which I observed during the

course of the celebrated 'Mr. Q' case in New York. 'Mr. Q.' also had

an audience-chamber adjoining and opium den, and his visitors went

there ostensibly to smoke opium. The opium-den was a sort of anteroom."

"Weymouth's big Chinese case had similar features," said Inspector

Dunbar, who re-entered at that moment carrying a leathern grip. "If

you are kept waiting and you keep your ears open, doctor, that's when

your knowledge of the lingo will come in useful. We might rope in the

whole gang and find we hadn't a scrap of evidence against them, for

except the attempt on yourself, Dr. Stuart, there's nothing so far

that I can see to connect 'The Scorpion' with Sir Frank Newcombe!"

"It is such a bungle that I fear!" cried Max. "Ah! how this looped-up

lip annoys me!" He adjusted the bandage carefully.

"We've got the place comfortably surrounded," continued Dunbar, "and

whoever may be inside is booked! A lady, answering to the description

of Mlle. Dorian, went in this evening, so Sowerby reports."

Stuart felt that he was changing colour, and he stooped hastily to

inspect the contents of the bag which Dunbar had opened.

_"Eh bien!"_ said Gaston Max. "We shall not go empty-handed, then. And

now to transfigure you, my friend!"

CHAPTER VII

IN THE OPIUM DEN

Interrupting a spell of warm, fine weather the night had set in wet

and stormy. The squalid streets through which Stuart and Gaston Max

made their way looked more than normally deserted and uninviting. The

wind moaned and the rain accompanied with a dreary tattoo. Sometimes

a siren wailed out upon the river.

"We are nearly there," said Max. _"Pardieu!_ they are well concealed,

those fellows. I have not seen so much as an eyebrow."

"It would be encouraging to get a glimpse of some one!" replied Stuart.

"Ah, but bad--inartistic. It is the next door, I think ... yes. I hope

they have no special way of knocking."

Upon the door of a dark and apparently deserted shop he rapped.

Both had anticipated an interval of waiting, and both were astonished

when the door opened almost at once, revealing a blackly cavernous

interior.

"Go off! Too late! Shuttee shop!" chattered a voice out of the

darkness.

Max thrust his way resolutely in, followed by Stuart. "Shut the door,

Ah-Fang-Fu!" he said curtly, speaking with a laboured French accent.

_"Scorpion!"_

The door was closed by the invisible Chinaman, there was a sound of

soft movements and a hurricane-lantern suddenly made its appearance.

Its light revealed the interior of a nondescript untidy little shop

and revealed the presence of an old and very wrinkled Chinaman who

held the lantern. He wore a blue smock and a bowler hat and his face

possessed the absolute impassivity of an image. As he leaned over the

counter, scrutinising his visitors, Max thrust forward the golden

scorpion held in the palm of his hand.

_"Hoi, hoi"_ chattered the Chinaman. "Fo-Hi fellers, eh? You hab got

plenty much late. Other fellers Fo-Hi pidgin plenty much sooner. You

one time catchee allee same bhobbery, b'long number one joss-pidgin

man!"

Being covertly nudged by Max:

"Cut the palaver, Pidgin," growled Stuart.

"Allee lightee," chattered Ah-Fang-Fu, for evidently this was he. "You

play one piecee pipee till Fo-Hi got." Raising the lantern, he led

the way through a door at the back of the shop. Descending four

wooden steps, Stuart and Max found themselves in the opium-den.

"Full up. No loom," said the Chinaman.

It was a low-ceilinged apartment, the beams of the roof sloping

slightly upward from west to east. The centre part of the wall at the

back was covered with matting hung from the rough cornice supporting

the beams. To the right of the matting was the door communicating with

the shop, and to the left were bunks. Other bunks lined the southerly

wall, except where, set in the thickness of the bare brick and

plaster, a second strong door was partly hidden by a pile of empty

packing-cases and an untidy litter of straw and matting.

Along the northern wall were more bunks, and an open wooden stair,

with a handrail, ascended to a small landing or platform before a

third door high up in the wall. A few mats were strewn about the

floor. The place was dimly lighted by a red-shaded lamp swung from

the centre of the ceiling and near the foot of the stairs another lamp

(of the common tin variety) stood upon a box near which was a broken

cane chair. Opium-pipes, tins, and a pack of cards were on this box.

All the bunks appeared to be occupied. Most of the occupants were

lying motionless, but one or two were noisily sucking at the

opium-pipes. These had not yet attained to the opium-smokers Nirvana.

So much did Gaston Max, a trained observer, gather in one swift glance.

Then Ah-Fang-Fu, leaving the lantern in the shop, descended the four

steps and crossing the room began to arrange two mats with round

head-cushions near to the empty packing-cases. Stuart and Max remained

by the door.

"You see," whispered Max, "he has taken you on trust! And he did not

appear to recognise me. It is as I thought. The place is 'open to the

public' as usual, and Ah-Fang-Fu does a roaring trade, one would

judge. For the benefit of patrons not affiliated to the order we have

to pretend to smoke."

"Yes," replied Stuart with repressed excitement--"until someone called

Fo-Hi is at home, or visible; the word 'got' may mean either of those

things."

"Fo-Hi," whispered Max, "is 'The Scorpion!'

"I believe you are right," said Stuart--who had good reason to know it.

"My God! what a foul den! The reek is suffocating. Look at that yellow

lifeless face yonder, and see that other fellow whose hand hangs

limply down upon the floor. Those bunks might be occupied by corpses

for all the evidence of life that some of them show."

_"Morbleu!_ do not raise your voice; for some of them are occupied by

'Scorpions.' You noted the words of Ah-Fang? _Ssh!"_

The old Chinaman returned with his curious shuffling walk, raising his

hand to beckon to them.

"Number one piece bunk, lo!" he chattered.

"Good enough," growled Stuart.

The two crossed and reclined upon the uncleanly mats.

"Make special loom," explained Ah-Fang-Fu. "Velly special chop!"

He passed from bunk to bunk, and presently came to a comatose Chinaman

from whose limp hand, which hung down upon the floor, the pipe had

dropped. This pipe Ah-Fang-Fu took from the smoker's fingers and

returning to the box upon which the tin lamp was standing began calmly

to load it.

"Good heavens!" muttered Stuart--"he is short of pipes! Pah! how the

place reeks!"

Ah-Fang-Fu busied himself with a tin of opium, the pipe which he had

taken from the sleeper, and another pipe--apparently the last of his

stock--which lay near the lamp. Igniting the two, he crossed and

handed them to Stuart and Max.

"Velly soon-lo!" he said and made a curious sign, touching his brow,

his lips and his breast in a manner resembling that of a Moslem.

Max repeated the gesture and then lay back upon his elbow, raising

the mouthpiece of the little pipe to his lips--but carefully avoiding

contact.

Ah-Fang-Fu shuffled back to the broken cane chair, from which he had

evidently arisen to admit his late visitors.

Inarticulate sounds proceeded from the bunks, breaking the sinister

silence which now descended upon the den. Ah-Fang-Fu began to play

Patience, constantly muttering to himself. The occasional wash of

tidal water became audible, and once there came a scampering and

squealing of rats from beneath the floor.

"Do you notice the sound of lapping water" whispered Stuart. "The

place is evidently built upon a foundation of piles and the cellars

must actually be submerged at high-tide."

_"Pardieu!_ it is a death trap. What is this!"

A loud knocking sounded upon the street door. Ah-Fang-Fu rose and

shuffled up the steps into the shop. He could be heard unbarring the

outer door. Then:

"Too late! shuttee shop, shuttee shop!" sounded.

"I don't want nothin' out of your blasted shop, Pidgin!" roared a loud

and thick voice. "I'm old Bill Bean, I am, and I want a pipe, I do!"

"Hullo, Bill!" replied the invisible 'Pidgin.' "Allee samee dlunk

again!"

A red-bearded ship's fireman, wearing sea-boots, a rough blue suit

similar to that which Stuart wore, a muffler and a peaked cap, lurched

into view at the head of the steps.

"Blimey!" he roared, over his shoulder. "Drunk! _Me_ drunk! An' all

the pubs in these parts sell barley-water coloured brown! Blimey! Chuck

it, Pidgin!"

Ah-Fang-Fu reappeared behind him. "Catchee dlunk ev'ly time for comee

here," he chattered.

"'Taint 'umanly possible," declared the new arrival, staggering down

the steps, "fer a 'ealthy sailorman to git drunk on coloured water

just 'cause the publican calls it beer! I ain't drunk; I'm only

miserable. Gimmee a pipe, Pidgin."

Ah-Fang-Fu barred the door and ascended.

"Comee here," he muttered, "my placee, all full up and no other placee

b'long open."

Bill Bean slapped him boisterously on the back.

"Cut the palaver, Pidgin, and gimme a pipe. Piecee pipe, Pidgin!"

He lurched across the floor, nearly falling over Stuart's legs, took

up a mat and a cushion, lurched into the further corner and cast

himself down.

"Ain't I one o' yer oldest customers, Pidgin?" he inquired. "One o'

yer oldest, I am."

"Blight side twelve-time," muttered the Chinaman. "Getchee me in

tlouble, Bill. Number one police chop."

"Not the first time it wouldn't be!" retorted the fireman. "Not the

first time as you've been in trouble, Pidgin. An' unless they 'ung

yer--which it ain't 'umanly possible to 'ang a Chink--it wouldn't be

the last--an' not by a damn long way ..._an'_ not by a damn long way!"

Ah-Fang-Fu, shrugging resignedly, shuffled from bunk to bunk in quest

of a disused pipe, found one, and returning to the extemporised table,

began to load it, muttering to himself.

"Don't like to 'ear about your wicked past, do you?" continued Bill.

"Wicked old yellow-faced 'eathen! Remember the 'dive' in 'Frisco,

Pidgin? _Wot_ a rough 'ouse! Remember when I come in--full up I was:

me back teeth well under water--an' you tried to Shanghai me?"

"You cutee palaber. All damn lie," muttered the Chinaman.

"Ho! a lie is it?" roared the other. "Wot about me wakin' up all

of a tremble aboard o' the old _Nancy Lee_--aboard of a blasted

wind-jammer! Me--a fireman! Wot about it? Wasn't that Shanghaiin'?

Blighter! _An'_ not a 'oat' in me pocket--not a 'bean'! Broke to

the wide an' aboard of a old wind-jammer wot was a coffin-ship--a

coffin-ship she was; an' 'er old man was the devil's father-in-law.

Ho! lies! I _don't_ think!"

"You cutee palaber!" chattered Ah-Fang-Fu, busy with the pipe. "You

likee too much chin-chin. You make nice piece bhobbery."

"Not a 'bean'," continued Bill reminiscently--"not a 'oat.'" He sat up

violently. "Even me pipe an' baccy was gone!" he shouted. "You'd even

pinched me pipe an' baccy! You'd pinch the whiskers off a blind man,

_you_ would, Pidgin! 'And over the dope. Thank Gawd somebody's still

the right stuff!"

Suddenly, from a bunk on the left of Gaston Max came a faint cry.

"Ah! He has bitten me!"

"'Ullo!" said Bill--"wotcher bin given' _'im,_ Pidgin? _Chandu_ or

hydrerphobia?"

Ah-Fang-Fu crossed and handed him the pipe.

"One piecee pipee. No more hab."

Bill grasped the pipe eagerly and raised it to his lips. Ah-Fang-Fu

returned unmoved to his Patience and silence reclaimed the den, only

broken by the inarticulate murmuring and the lapping of the tide.

"A genuine customer!" whispered Max.

"Ah!" came again, more faintly--"he ... has ... bitten ... me."

"Blimey!" said Bill in a drowsy voice--"'eave the chair at 'im,

Pidgin."

Stuart was about to speak when Gaston Max furtively grasped his arm.

"Ssh!" he whispered. "Do not move, but look ... at the top of the

stair!"

Stuart turned his eyes. On the platform at the head of the stairs a

Hindu was standing!

"Chunda Lal!" whispered Max. "Prepare for--anything!"

"Chunda Lal descended slowly. Ah-Fang-Fu continued to play Patience.

The Hindu stood behind him and began to speak in a voice of subdued

fervour and with soft Hindu modulations.

"Why do you allow them, strangers, coming here to-night!"

Ah-Fang-Fu continued complacently to arrange the cards.

"S'pose hab gotchee pidgin allee samee Chunda Lal hab got? Fo-Hi no

catchee buy bled and cheese for Ah-Fang-Fu. He"--nodding casually in

the direction of Bill Bean--"plitty soon all blissful."

"Be very careful, Ah-Fang-Fu," said Chunda Lal tensely. He lowered

his voice. "Do you forget so soon what happen last week?"

"No sabby."

"Some one comes here--we do not know how close he comes; perhaps he

comes in--and he is of the _police."_

Ah-Fang-Fu shuffled uneasily in his chair.

"No police chop for Pidgin!" he muttered. "Same feller tumble in

liver?"

"He is killed--yes; but suppose they find the writing he has made!

Suppose he has written that it is _here_ people meet together?"

"Makee chit tell my name? Muchee hard luck! Number one police chop."

"You say Fo-Hi not buying you bread and cheese. Perhaps it is Fo-Hi

that save you from hanging!"

Ah-Fang-Fu hugged himself.

_"Yak pozee!"_ (Very good) he muttered.

Chunda Lal raised his finger.

"Be very careful, Ah-Fang-Fu!"

"Allee time velly careful."

"But admit no more of them to come in, these strangers."

_"Tchee, tchee!_ Velly ploper. Sometime big feller come in if Pidgin

palaber or not. Pidgin never lude to big feller."

"Your life may depend on it," said Chunda Lal impressively. "How many

are here?"

Ah-Fang-Fu turned at last from his cards, pointing in three

directions, and, finally, at Gaston Max.

"Four?" said the Hindu--"how can it be?"

He peered from bunk to bunk, muttering something--a name apparently--

after scrutinizing each. When his gaze rested upon Max he started,

stared hard, and meeting the gaze of the one visible eye, made the

strange sign.

Max repeated it; and Chunda Lal turned again to the Chinaman. "Because

of that drunken pig," he said, pointing at Bill Bean--"we must wait.

See to it that he is the last."