THE VERMILION ROOM
Sunset, like the wings of a giant golden moth, quivered in the sky and
beat gently against the city, stirring from the earth a film of dust
that, illuminated by the lingering glow, hung in the air like yellow
pollen. Gold was the sovereign tone of every quarter. In the Shwe Dagon
numerous Buddhas smiled at the vain splendor of goldleaf and
gold-fretted spires; Victoria Lake, on whose banks social Rangoon had
gathered to cool after a stifling day, lay like a gold-chased platter;
along the riverfront, dull brown water, shot with glinting ripples,
swirled and eddied beneath quayside godowns, and in the adjacent bazaars
a concourse of native life moved against a background of gold-lettered
signs and gilt-painted shops.
This golden dust-haze enveloped the bungalow in Prome Road where Dana
Charteris was packing a suitcase; floated through the window of a house
near the waterfront where Hsien Sgam sat talking to another Oriental;
irradiated the interior of the tramcar that carried Tambusami toward the
commercial town; and glowed in a luminous cloud about a veranda of the
Strand Hotel where Trent, lounging in a wicker chair, engaged in an
occupation that might have cast some slight reflection upon the morale
of the British Army.
Immediately after reaching the hotel from the steamer he had inquired
about the train schedule, and was informed that to make the best
connection at Mandalay for Myitkyina he should leave Rangoon on the noon
train, reaching Mandalay at nightfall. From there, he was told,
Myitkyina was a matter of twenty-four hours. Trent decided to remain in
Rangoon until the next day; for he intended to explore the mysteries of
the House of the Golden Joss. Having settled the time for his departure,
he gave himself over to an inspection of the city. After tiffin he
visited the bazaars, purchased a small leather-bound volume by Shway Yoe
at a shop in Merchant Street, and now sat on the veranda of the Strand,
waiting for Tambusami, whom he had not seen since he came ashore.
It was growing too dark to read, and he slipped the book into a pocket
of his silk suit, transferring his attention to the variety of
head-dresses that passed in the roadway. Pith helmets, felt Bangkok
hats, Chinese skull-caps, loosely-knotted Burmese scarfs, and turbans of
all sizes.... Darkness fell and street-lamps glowed into being before he
abandoned his watch and went to dinner.
After the meal he returned to the veranda--and met a smiling,
bespectacled Tambusami in the doorway.
"_Burra salaam_, O Presence!" was the native's greeting. "Was the
Presence beginning to believe I had been swallowed up by this strange
city?"
Trent drew him into one corner and sat down.
"Well?"--as he lighted his pipe.
Tambusami, after a wary look about him, made a gesture.
"I did as you directed, Presence," he began. "I waited until that filthy
Mohammedan louse left the ship, and followed. Louse indeed, for he went
to a place of stinks that would poison other than vermin! Fish and
onions, Presence! He put such corruption into his belly! From there he
walked about several streets that are as filthy as that stink-hole of a
restaurant, then took a tramcar. He sat in front, I in the rear.
"At the pagoda, the great pagoda"--meaning, Trent knew, the Shwe
Dagon--"he got off and defiled it with his presence. He went up to the
top, where there is a great bell, Presence, and many images of the Lord
Gaudama. Even the dogs in the stalls snarled at him! After he had
tainted the upper platform with his presence, he returned to the bazaars
below. There at the foot of the steps he waited, while I hid in the
shadows above. Finally the one for whom he waited came--a Memsahib."
Trent's lips pressed into a thin line.
"A Memsahib," Tambusami went on. "She wore a veil and I could not see
her face. She was dressed in white."
"Did you notice the color of her hair?" Trent cut in.
"No, Presence; the veil was heavy. But I saw a bracelet--oh, a very
beautiful bracelet! It was gold and had a cobra upon it--a king-cobra,
with hood lifted!"
If this announcement was startling to Trent, he succeeded quite well in
hiding it. He smoked on in silence.
"I could not hear what they said," continued the native. "They left
almost immediately. She had a gharry waiting in the road. I did not
follow long. Am I a dog that I should run behind until my tongue drips
and I drop dead of heat? When they disappeared, I got on a tramcar. Now
I am here!"
Trent looked at him closely. "You heard the Memsahib's voice?"
"Yes, Presence, but not--"
"It wasn't familiar?"
"Nay!"
Trent's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair.
"You should have followed," was his comment, after a moment. "Since you
didn't, the only thing for you to do is to return to the restaurant. He
may go back to-night."
Tambusami ceased smiling. "That stink-hole of fish and onions!" he
exclaimed indignantly; then: "Very well--I am a faithful servant of the
Presence!"
Whereupon he salaamed and departed, quickly losing himself among the
many turbans in the street.
Trent continued to drum on the arm of his chair. The woman of the
cobra-bracelet! And in Rangoon! That meant she was a passenger on the
_Manchester_. But no, not necessarily. Damn the illusiveness of her! Who
was she, anyway? Sarojini Nanjee? In that event it was likely Tambusami
would have recognized her. Perhaps he did, was his next and
disconcerting thought; perhaps the affair on shipboard was a hoax, a
foil for something deeper; perhaps Tambusami knew this and his story of
the meeting at the pagoda was false. It was queer, he admitted, that
Tambusami didn't hear anything that passed between the two.... But at
least, he told himself, he was free of his perpetual shadow for several
hours; he had not despatched Tambusami to the restaurant because he
believed Guru Singh would return (if he had ever been there), but
because he did not wish his own actions under surveillance that evening.
Still puzzling over Tambusami's report, he left the hotel. An
involuntary glance behind showed him no familiar face, and he hailed a
cab. (When the temperature is at ninety degrees one does not walk for
pleasure.) The _gharry-wallah_ knew no English--which was not
unusual--and to make himself understood Trent had to solicit the aid of
a Sikh policeman.
Hsien Sgam was the pivot of his thoughts as he rolled northward along
Strand Road. His interest in the invited interview was almost wholly
personal, for he felt that the Mongol's "revolution" was more a matter
of vain dreaming than reality. Such a movement, unless backed by some
power, could hardly be regarded as formidable. Yet the rebellion in
South China in nineteen-eleven, which brought about the presidency of
Yuan Shih-Kai, must have seemed puny in its first stages. Although
insurrection in Mongolia against China would scarcely affect the
interests of his Government, it was at least worthy of investigation.
There was, as always, the possibility of infection--for the smell of
powder, especially in Eastern lands, is dangerous. It might spread into
Szechuan and Yunnan (there were already ugly symptoms along the banks of
Mother Yangtze) or into Tibet, thus bringing it to the back door of
Burma. And that "back door," he knew, was no small consideration. Since
the occupation of Hkamti Long, the Kachin tribes of the Burmese
hinterland needed but slight pretext to inaugurate trouble. True, they
could be easily put down--"easily," he reflected grimly, meaning troops;
death for hundreds in fever-haunted swamps and in jungles where lurked
innumerable dangers. That was "black" country, up there between India,
Tibet and China; wild people in a wild setting--dwarf Nungs, Black Marus
and Lisus. Yes, they could be quelled, these primitive people, for a
price. All of which, he concluded, was pure romancing.
He was in a street that ran parallel with the river, a highway where
Burmans, Chinese, Hindus, Madrasees, Tamils, Cingaleese and
Chittagonians mingled in a colorful, reeking democracy unknown to
caste-bound Indian cities. On one side, beyond quays and warehouses, was
the river, its dim expanse flecked with lamps on sampans, junks and
lighters, here and there the white silhouette of an ocean-going vessel
blotting the gloom; on the other, groups of colors that, like parrots,
would seem gaudy and flamboyant in other than their natural setting
shifted upon a background of low, swarth buildings and shops decorated
with imitation lacquer and goldleaf.
Here was Burma, sleepy gilded Burma, with its quaint kyoungs and
pagodas, its air of vain decay. A siren of the East whose charms are
fast being supplanted by the craft of her less attractive, but more
industrious, sisters. They laughed and smoked, these light-hearted
Burmans, while Chinos and Hindus moved with stealthy intent among
them--grim, silent fellows, as quick in commerce as the Burmans are lazy
and indolent. This was not the quiet of India or China, a boding hush,
but an atmosphere of somnolence and perfect content.
Thus Trent was musing when he came at length to the House of the Golden
Joss. It was a yellow brick building in a flagged enclosure, its
upcurling eaves and series of roofs, to Trent, strikingly like the
fantastic headgear of a lemon-faced mandarin who looked out with
satisfaction upon the marine highway by which the merchandise of his
sons floated into port. Curious eyes followed the Englishman as he paid
the _gharry-wallah_ and moved up the low stair to the entrance. There,
after a pause, he passed between twin stone dragons; passed from the
twentieth century, so it seemed, into a perished dynasty.
He found himself in a vast court where the smoke from joss-sticks hung
in clearly defined layers upon the atmosphere. The walls were lacquered
with red and gold; and black-enameled pillars, inscribed with
ideographs, were joined to the beams by filagree dragons. Orange-colored
scrolls, red and gold paper-prayers and blue pottery reflected bizarre
splashes upon glazed floors. The draperies were crimson; great red
lanterns, hanging from the ceiling like captive moons, added to the
scarlet effect. Worshippers of all races and colors knelt before the
altar and numerous small shrines, and the murmur of many voices in twice
as many tongues hummed in the great red temple.
Trent's interest was instantly claimed by the blue pottery--tall vases,
thin of neck and bellying out as they curved toward rounded bases and
black pedestals. Red walls reflected upon their shiny surfaces. These
vases were relics of China's Imperialists, Trent knew, brought from
Honan or Chili--and his collector's soul flamed. Nor did he fail to
observe the porcelain dragons or the intricate filigree work that
adorned the beams. From these treasures he tore himself and gave his
attention to the people. Mongoloid features, Aryan and Malay. No
familiar face among them.
He pursued a corridor that led from the main court and completely
circled the building--a dim passageway with many curtained recesses off
from it. At one corner was a restaurant. He could imagine from the
smells the sort of food served within, and he hurried on, returning to
the temple where incense banished the less enticing odors.
At a light touch on his arm he turned. A gray-clad priest stood at his
side--an emaciated Buddhist.
"Your name is Tavernake, _thakin_?" he asked in English; then, as Trent
nodded, added: "Come with me."
Trent was led back along the dim corridor, past the restaurant with its
pungent smells, to a curtained room in the rear. It was evidently a
bedroom, for there was the customary _charpoy_, or bed. Its walls were
vermilion; vermilion portieres hung in the doorway, and a heavy
vermilion curtain defied any air to enter through the one window. It was
close, stifling. The lantern swinging from the ceiling seemed a fiery
ball that radiated heat.
"His Excellency Hsien Sgam will be here presently," announced the monk;
and Trent did not fail to notice the title. "He begs you to accept the
humble comforts of our hospitality until he arrives."
Trent's eyes followed the priest. As the vermilion portieres fell
together behind him, rippling gently, like red heat-waves, the last
draught of air seemed banished; the room became oppressive, as though
the lid of hades had been shut, and the odors from the nearby restaurant
did not improve the atmosphere.
Trent dropped on the edge of the _charpoy_, fanning himself with his hat
and inspecting the room with mild curiosity. He leaned over and drew
aside the window-curtain. A warm current of air breathed upon his face.
Beyond the rectangle was darkness--the back of the flagged enclosure, he
surmised. A faint drone of voices was borne through the
quiet--worshippers in the temple-court. Footsteps padded softly in the
corridor; drew nearer; passed.... Five minutes....
Why the devil was Hsien Sgam keeping him waiting, and in this infernally
hot room, he wondered?
Growing impatient, he rose and paced the floor, not ceasing to fan
himself. Sweat streamed into his eyes, rolled down his body and
moistened his undergarments. His scalp burned and needled with heat.
After a moment he resumed his seat, staring at the motionless vermilion
portieres. Still the hum of voices from the temple; it went on with
maddening persistence.
"Good God!" he thought, as he mopped his face. "Such heat!"
He glanced at his wrist-watch. He had been waiting ten minutes. Confound
Hsien Sgam and his revolution!
Suddenly his eyes were invaded by an alert gleam. That was the only
change in his expression. He let his gaze rove about the room and
continued the restless fanning. But there was something in his attitude,
in the poise of his head, that likened him to a stag suddenly aware of
an alien presence.
He had seen the vermilion portieres move--very slightly.
Casually, he lowered his eyes to the bottom of the curtain. Two inches
of gloom separated the hem from the floor, but that was sufficient to
show him the toes of a pair of shoes. As he looked, they drew back--but
not too far for him to still see them.
He continued to fan himself. Perspiration ran into his eyes and stung
them, and he wiped away the moisture with a damp handkerchief. The heat
seemed to press down, like a burning cushion, and quench his breath.
The pair of shoes moved closer. Another ripple of the curtains. Then,
above the murmur from the temple, he heard a sound in the corridor--a
_thwack_. Came a quick gasp, a low, sobbing intake of breath.
Trent got to his feet, swiftly. As he stood erect, the portieres parted
suddenly and a body slued into the room. It swung about drunkenly; went
to its knees; stretched upon the floor. A revolver clattered beside it.
Trent barely had time to see that the body was that of a gray-robed
man--a priest, who had fallen face downward and lay still, with an ugly
blotch between his shoulders--before another figure slipped through the
division of the curtains and thrust forward the muzzle of a revolver.
Trent halted. A flicker of recollection crossed his brain. The man who
stood outlined against the vermilion hangings was a native clad in dirty
garments; his turban was soiled, his feet bare. As Trent saw the scar
running across one cheek and the drooping eyelid, he recognized the
snake-charmer who crossed the Bay in the steerage of the _Manchester_.
The fellow grinned impudently, and the expression was reminiscent of
another smile.
"Turn about!" he ordered softly, in English--excellent English for a
street juggler, as Trent did not fail to notice. "Don't say a word;
don't make a sound!"
Trent's eyes dropped to the body; lifted questioningly.
Again the snake-charmer grinned--that impudent, strangely reminiscent
expression.
"Never mind that now!" he said, and his voice, too, slow and quiet,
seemed vaguely familiar. "If you want to get out of this place whole, do
as I say!"
Trent turned, facing the window. (And the native did not see the smile
that traced itself upon his face.) Instantly the Englishman felt a
pressure between his shoulders.
"Now, drop out of the window!" came the whispered command from behind.
Trent moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. As he swung over
the sill he caught a glimpse of the juggler's grinning face. The sash
was not more than four feet from the ground, and he discovered that he
was behind the joss-house, in the shadow of a lofty wall. Above were
stars; at one side, further along the wall, a gateway where the glow
from a lighted street fell within.
"Walk to the gate," was the native's quiet order, as he lowered himself
from the window. "Hail a carriage and get in. I'll be directly behind
you. Don't look around or say a word; if you do...."
Trent obeyed. He moved slowly, almost carelessly, through the gate and
into the street, where a thin stream of Burmans and Chinese flowed
toward the joss-house.
It was half a square before he saw a cab; then, in a matter-of-fact way,
he motioned to the _wallah_. As the gharry drew up, the slow, familiar
voice at his side spoke to the driver--in Burmese, Trent imagined.
The Englishman stepped into the conveyance, showing no surprise when the
juggler got in and sank upon the seat beside him. Nor did he look in the
least amazed, as he should have done, when the native's drooping eyelid
lifted and winked at him in an outrageously familiar manner. He only
smiled--a smile that grew as he commented:
"You're a downy bird, Kerth."
Which was not indiscreet, for one may safely assume, in Rangoon, that
his _gharry-wallah_ cannot understand him when he speaks English.
2
"I've instructed the _wallah_ to drive to your hotel by a longer route,"
Euan Kerth drawled, and Trent wondered how he was ever baffled by such a
simple make-up; it was the drooping eyelid, he decided, and the absence
of the waxed mustache.
"I want time to talk," Kerth explained. "Also, I'll take this
opportunity to return a piece of your property."
One slender hand emerged from under his clothing and extended an object
that gleamed softly in the semi-dark, an object that caused the blood to
leap into Trent's temples and throb there for a moment of sheer
excitement.
For it was the silver-chased piece of coral that had twice been stolen
from him.
"Too, I want to tell you," Kerth went on, "that your pretty cobra friend
lied to you."
"Sarojini?"
Kerth nodded. "Most gloriously," he emphasized. "Look inside the
locket--or whatever it is--and you'll see."
Again Trent felt the blood in his temples. But his hand was calm as he
pressed a fingernail under the rim and opened the pendant. He bent low;
peered intently. He made no exclamation as he saw the name that was
engraved within--but his breathing quickened. He snapped the oval shut
and sat with it gripped in his hand. The blood was still beating in his
temples.
"As I told you," resumed Kerth, "_Gilbert Leroux_, the name that's
written there, was Chavigny's last alias. Therefore, when Sarojini said
he had nothing to do with the Order, she lied. And if she lied once,
she's likely to do it again. Fact is, I don't trust her. I have a reason
to believe she isn't playing the game just right."
"Yes?" Trent encouraged, while the name in the pendant sang itself in
his ears with the roll of the carriage wheels.
"I'll have to be rather personal," was the slow statement;
"embarrassingly so, I fear. Nevertheless, it's better that you know I
know. Before I left Benares I sent a telegram to a friend, the
Commissioner at Jehelumpore--you see, I knew you were stationed there at
one time--asking if he knew whether--whether you and Sarojini
Nanjee--well--"
He paused. Trent, smiling to himself, said: "Go on."
"When I reached Calcutta I received a letter from him by special post,"
Kerth continued. "He told me the whole story.... That's all. And for
that reason--and because she lied about Chavigny--I believe you should
be wary of her. Balked affection is an unruly mount to straddle, and
when a woman plans to make a fool of a man because he doesn't pay her
any attention, and the man by his wits turns the affair so that _she_ is
the fool--well, I'll say only that she's likely to cause trouble,
especially if she has a Rajput strain in her blood."
Quiet followed. They rolled on toward the hotel. Trent was the first to
speak.
"Just how did you do this?"--with a gesture that conveyed more than the
speech.
In the semi-dark, unobserved, Kerth smiled.
"Oh, it was easy enough," he drawled. "I determined to have a look at
the instructions you received at Sarojini Nanjee's house, there in
Benares. I didn't quite fancy the way she gave in to your request to
take me along. When we returned to the hotel, I left you for a few
minutes, if you recall. During that time I filled an envelope with blank
paper, then went to your room and while we were talking, under the
pretense of getting a match from your tunic, I exchanged envelopes."
"And you returned it that night?" Trent put in, with a smile.
"Yes, I was your nocturnal visitor. I left on an express for Calcutta
that night. When I got there I haunted the environs of the old
mandarin's establishment. The night you called I hid in the court--back
of the house and just behind the room where you two were talking.... Oh,
it was easy enough," he repeated.
"What about this?" Trent inquired, indicating the pendant.
"I intended to take a look through your cabin, on general principles,
the first night out--and I happened along just as your servant and that
other fellow staged their shindy outside your state-room. When you went
on deck, I seized the opportunity. I found the pendant under the pillow
and took it because I wanted to study the design--and--well, for other
reasons, too. I didn't discover the Chavigny alias until later."
"I had the captain search the steerage passengers for it," Trent said.
Kerth laughed. "I know you did--and I caused an inoffensive, fangless
cobra to go to his Nirvana by hiding the thing in his gullet. I would
have spoken to you on shipboard, but I was afraid of hidden eyes."
That explained the theft of the pendant on the _Manchester_ (thus Trent
to himself), but who took it the first time, in Benares? Kerth was
evidently ignorant of that. Guru Singh was the key to the riddle, and he
silently cursed himself for having released him.
"What did you learn about the design?" he pressed on.
"A little," Kerth returned carelessly. "I spent this afternoon at the
Bernard Library looking up all sorts of deities. The one on the piece of
coral is Janesseron, the Three-eyed God of Thunder--a _Tibetan_ god."
Then, after a pause: "There may be some significance in the fact that
the symbol of the Order is a Tibetan deity, and then, there may not.
I've formed a theory, and unless I'm greatly mistaken, you and I have a
neat little sprint before we reach the so-called City of the Falcon. And
if this city is where I believe it is, why, we.... But I'm anticipating.
Anyway, I haven't the time to pawn off my theories upon you. I simply
wished to let you know I wasn't in Bombay, and to return the piece of
coral."
Another pause before he ventured:
"I suppose you're not at liberty to tell me how you came into possession
of that?"--with a motion of his slim hand toward the pendant.
Trent considered, then replied, "Why, yes." And he told of finding
Manlove in the ruined temple at Gaya. When he had finished, Kerth
whistled softly.
"So!" he commented. "Chavigny at Gaya--but wait! When did I track him to
the native _serai_ in Delhi?" He was silent for a moment. "It was
Friday," he resumed, "no, Saturday--I remember now. And what day was
Captain Manlove murdered?... Monday--the twentieth? You see, then, that
Chavigny would have had time to reach Gaya; but how in flaming Tophet
did he get out of Delhi? You remember I told you I found blood-stains in
his room at the _serai_.... Hmm. This is a complication. D'ye suppose
Chavigny made a mistake--thought Manlove you? Yet why the deuce should
he want to put you out of the way?"
A lengthy space of silence followed. Kerth took up the conversation.
"I haven't the slightest idea why you went to that joss-house to-night;
however, I'm glad I followed and"--he smiled--"saved one of the eyes of
the empire."
"And I'm rather glad you followed, too"--this from Trent drily. "I
sha'n't forget. I went there to meet a...." Followed a short description
of Hsien Sgam, the Mongol, and an explanation of Trent's purpose at the
House of the Golden Joss. Again, as he finished, Kerth whistled.
"Complication upon complication! D 'ye suppose he's one of the Order? I
remember seeing him on the boat. What's his object in attempting to
murder you? It's obvious that that was his purpose."
"I can't somehow adjust him with the Order," returned Trent. "He seems
above that. He's capable of villainy all right--rather exquisite
villainy, I imagine--but I can't associate him with thievery and stolen
jewels.... Did you see the face of the fellow who tried to kill me?"
Kerth nodded. "It was the priest who took you to that room. Oh, he was
shrewd--or rather, the one who directed him! He had a maxim silencer on
the revolver; and if I had been two seconds later, you would have had a
steel morsel lodged somewhere between your chest and stomach. I didn't
dare waste time to explain there; I was afraid there might be others,
and two white men in a heathen prayer-house would have as much chance as
a pair of bats in hades!" Kerth glanced ahead. "We'll be at your hotel
in a few minutes," he announced, "and your shadow might be there, so I
think I'll make my exit now. I'm leaving Rangoon to-morrow noon, as I
daresay you are, too. I'll manage somehow to see you at Myitkyina."
He thrust one foot out of the gharry, upon the step, and stood there a
moment, the reflection from passing lamps upon his stained features. He
was smiling his satanic smile--a rather impudent, careless expression.
"I think I shall pay another visit to the House of the Golden Joss," he
said. "What you have told me of this Hsien Sgam interests me in him.
Good luck, major!"
With a wave of his hand he swung down and disappeared in the street.
3
When Trent reached the hotel he found Tambusami waiting, with no news of
Guru Singh, and the Englishman dismissed the native and went to his
room.
As he undressed, the coral pendant lay upon the table before his eyes
and he stared at it fascinatedly--stared until the coral blended in with
the silver and met his gaze like a monstrous blood-shot orb.... It was
hard to believe that Chavigny was at Gaya, that it was the Frenchman who
murdered Manlove. Chavigny--Gilbert Leroux. What reason had he to kill
Manlove, unless, as he theorized before, the guilty one had been
discovered at the bungalow by his victim and in the ensuing struggle the
latter was stabbed? Or, as Kerth suggested, he might have mistaken
Manlove for Trent, although he could think of no reason why Chavigny
should desire his death. And there was Chatterjee--Chatterjee, who died
with his secrets.... Chavigny at Gaya! It was incredible. Of course the
piece of coral might have been left as false evidence, a blind. But who,
other than a member of the Order of the Falcon, would possess the
ornament, and would a member of that mysterious band have left the
symbol to be found by the police?
Provided Chavigny was the murderer, would it not be natural for him to
take steps to recover the pendant, once he discovered its loss? Perhaps
it was he who stole it in Benares. But that did not seem likely, in the
light of Guru Singh's actions. For why should Chavigny wish to return
the oval to him? If....
Then Trent had an inspiration. Was the attempt to kill him at the House
of the Golden Joss the work of Chavigny? But what of the Buddhist
priest? Chavigny might have bought him; paid him to kill Trent. To go
further, it was possible that Chavigny was on the _Manchester_.
Chavigny, an illusive personality, ever at his heels, like his own
shadow! There was something intriguing in the thought. And it was
plausible--plausible, too, that Chavigny, the notorious Chavigny, was
the Falcon, the head of that nebulous order.
Theories, Trent concluded--only theories. He locked the pendant in his
trunk and switched off the light.
As he lay in darkness, while lizards chirruped on the floor and the
ceiling, a sense of cavernous aloneness enveloped him. It thronged with
poignant thoughts. Manlove.... It seemed an age since he stood in the
bungalow at Gaya that last morning. So much had happened since
then--much to distract. Yet always, niched away in the subconscious, was
the hurt, wearing deeper with a bruising force. Trent's nature was
sterile for the average seeds of intimate kinships, but now and
then--not more than half a dozen times in his life--one fell upon
fertile soil. There was something fresh and strong in his association
with Manlove. (An essence thrice sweet in the memory.) Their
personalities seemed to have entered into a mystic communion of
comradeship--a bond not of words nor demonstrations, but feeling. That
was why he felt so keenly the bruise of it.
Gone, too, was the woman who had materialized from his world-scroll into
intimate palpability, bringing the rich gift of her presence--and
leaving the bitter-sweet pangs of her departure. He would find her
again, for she had fixed herself in the inner-penetralia of his being.
But the period of waiting!... Waiting--love's Gethsemane since the first
simian creatures battled in the wildernesses of a still-hot planet.
As he lay there, reflecting upon these things, he experienced an ache, a
sensation of isolation, that was reminiscent of his boyhood--of a night
when a shadowy being of antiseptics and sick-room odors roused him from
sleep with the announcement that the man who had fathered him into
existence was no longer in the house.
It dulled only when a sleepy intoxication came over him, and as he
surrendered to it he visualized, in a dim, hazy way, a falcon, and it
lay in a welter of blood.