IN THE TEMPLE OF BUDDHA
It was but a few moments after midnight, when I entered the house in
Kingsgate Street, and it must have been nearly or quite an hour before I
finally removed the bag from my head and realized the nature of my
surroundings. Immediately after the attack upon me, I was lifted bodily
by two or three silent figures, and carried a considerable distance,
part of the way down a steep flight of stairs, and through what from its
damp and musty smell might have been a tunnel or cellar. Presently I
heard the opening of a heavy door, and in a moment I was thrown roughly
upon a bench, and my pockets were systematically searched. My captors
evidently were not looking for money for the only things they took from
me were my keys. After this they left me, huddled up in a corner of the
bench, afraid to cry out or make a move in any direction.
The room in which I now found myself was as silent as the tomb, and yet,
from some subtle instinct, I felt that it was lighted brightly, and that
there were others in it besides myself. I could feel that it was warm,
and through the folds of the bag about my head came the acrid,
half-sweet smell of opium or Chinese incense, or both. I realized at
once that I was in the hands of some of Li Min's friends, and no doubt
the note which purported to come from McQuade had been merely a decoy.
How, I wondered, did they know my address? Possibly they had followed my
cab from the station. I recollected now with vividness the interview I
had witnessed, the afternoon before, between Li Min and some fellow
countryman of his at the gateway in the hedge back of The Oaks. No doubt
the crafty Oriental had in some way kept his confederates in London
fully posted as to both my movements and those of Sergeant McQuade. What
on earth they could want with me I was unable to imagine. I reached out
softly with my right hand--I had not been bound--and touched a wall,
hung with heavy embroidered satin. The bench upon which I sat was of
hard polished wood. I reached up quickly, loosed the cord which held the
bag tightly about my neck, and, with a swift motion, lifted it from my
head.
The sight I beheld astounded me. I was in a long, low room, the bench
upon which I sat being at the extreme end of it. The walls were hung
from end to end with bright-colored satin, wonderfully embroidered with
birds, flowers, dragons and strange Chinese characters. The floor was of
wood, dark, and polished with the walking of many soft-shod feet. Facing
me at the far end of the room was a great red-and-gold wooden screen,
carved and lacquered, and representing some mysterious Chinese figures,
whether gods or demons I could not tell. In the center of this screen
was an opening, a sort of altar, brightly lighted by a large number of
wax candles within which hung a representation of the god Buddha,
marvelously embroidered upon dull red satin, with gold and silver
threads. Behind the candles stood a small gold casket, or shrine, the
door of which was standing open, disclosing an empty interior. The altar
in front of the candles was covered with a profusion of dishes
containing flowers, rice and other foods. Before the altar knelt a tall,
gaunt figure, his back turned toward me, bowed in prayer. He wore a
long, dark-brown robe, girdled loosely about the waist with a leather
belt, and his gray hair was confined in a long queue which hung below
his waist. He took no notice whatever of my movements, and remained in
silent contemplation of the picture of the god before him. A number of
sticks of incense were burning in a brass jar upon the altar, and the
room was filled with a thin, waving blue haze, which circled softly
around the great painted silk lanterns which hung from the ceiling. I
felt as though I had been suddenly and mysteriously transported from a
dark and gloomy London street to some wonderful temple in the far-off
city of Pekin. I rubbed my eyes, and moved uneasily upon my hard bench,
but no movement upon the part of the silent worshiper indicated that he
so much as knew of my presence.
I endured the tension of the situation for several minutes in silence,
and had about made up my mind to speak to the kneeling figure before me,
when suddenly a door at my left was opened, and I observed two dark and
forbidding-looking Chinamen enter, carrying between them a limp and
apparently lifeless figure, which they placed upon the bench beside me.
The figure was that of a man, and he was not blindfolded as I had been,
and, as I bent over and glanced at his bloodless face, I recoiled, sick
and trembling. It was Sergeant McQuade.
The Chinamen paid no attention to me, and quietly withdrew. I placed my
hand upon the detective's heart, and was overjoyed to find that it still
beat. I dragged him to a sitting position, and shook him, hoping to
arouse him from his lethargy. In a few moments I saw his eyes slowly
open, and he clutched feebly at his throat. I followed his movements and
found a heavy cord about his neck, so tightly drawn as almost to prevent
him from breathing. This I quickly removed, and in a few moments he was
able to speak. His first words, after a glance of intense surprise at
our surroundings, were to ask me why I had sent for him. I told him that
I had not done so.
"But you sent me a note, asking me to come to this address at once, that
you had important news. I have two men outside, but these devils got me
before I could blow my whistle. Not much use to try it now," he
observed, looking about grimly.
"I sent you no note," I replied. "On the contrary, I got one from you.
That is why I am here."
"We are both nicely trapped, it seems," he growled. "I wonder what these
fellows are up to. They have searched me, but they took nothing, so far
as I can see. I can't figure the thing out at all. What have you
learned--anything?" He turned to me with a quick look of interrogation.
"Nothing. They took my bunch of keys, and left me here about an hour
ago. I am as much in the dark as you are."
"Your keys," he muttered, softly; "your keys. What could they have
wanted with them?" He seemed lost in thought.
Our further conversation was interrupted by the sudden opening of the
door on our left. Some score or more of Chinamen crowded in, and were at
once joined by the figure of the priest, who rose to his feet and
advanced toward the center of the room. He was a terrible-looking old
man, his face drawn and leathery, his eyes like burning coals, his mouth
cruel and thin-lipped. All the others seemed to pay him deep respect.
One of their number advanced and handed him a large object which he
eagerly grasped. It was my Gladstone bag. McQuade and I glanced at each
other in sudden comprehension. "It's my bag," I whispered to him. Now I
knew at least why they had taken from me my keys.
The old priest placed the bag upon the floor and, kneeling beside it,
proceeded to open it with eager, trembling hands. The others crowded
about, every face tense and full of expectation. The kneeling figure
proceeded slowly to remove and examine every article of clothing,
throwing each one impatiently aside as he apparently failed to find that
for which he sought. Presently his eye fell upon the small, green cake
of soap which I had thrown loosely into the bag upon my departure from
The Oaks. He seized it with a cry of triumph, and, taking a knife from
his girdle, proceeded with extreme care to cut the cake of soap in two.
The crowding figures about him hung upon his movements with intense
anxiety. The room was as silent as death. I heard McQuade's muffled
breathing as he watched the old man's every move, but I could see from
the expression of his face that the scene meant no more to him than it
did to me. Suddenly, with a loud cry, the priest broke the cake of soap
in two, and there, within it, in a cavity about two inches long, lay the
lost emerald Buddha, its wonderful color flashing and glowing in the
light from the lantern above. I was absolutely dumb with amazement.
Undeniably there before me lay the cause of Mr. Ashton's death, yet how
it came to be in that cake of soap, and what light its presence there
threw upon the manner of his sudden and tragic end, was beyond my
comprehension. At least, however, I understood why Li Min had tried to
make away with my satchel, but the fact that the presence of the jewel
among my belongings might cause suspicion to point in my direction did
not for the moment occur to me. It evidently did, however, to McQuade,
as I before long had reason to know.
The kneeling priest rose to his feet with a glad cry, and, holding the
image reverently in the hollow of his two hands, advanced toward the
altar, the others crowding closely about him. Arrived at the shrine, he
placed the figure carefully upon its pedestal within the golden casket,
and, as the light of many candles fell full upon it, the whole crowd
knelt down and began a weird sing-song prayer, that must have been a
chant of joy, or some service of purification, now that their long-lost
deity had been returned to them. Presently the strange sounds died away,
and the various Chinamen placed offerings of fruit, flowers and food
upon the altar. At length the priest rose, and faced us. The service was
over. I had a feeling that our turn was now to come.
The tall, gaunt figure came close to us, and examined both our faces
minutely. I fancy he was the same priest that Ashton had all but done
for in Ping Yang, and, from his look of intense hatred and ferocity, I
feel sure that, had he recognized McQuade or myself as either his
assailant, or Major Temple, our moments in this life would have been
numbered. He must of course have heard of Ashton's death, but no doubt
he wanted to make sure that Ashton was actually the man who had so
nearly strangled him. After completing his scrutiny of our far from
happy faces, he drew back, and in answer apparently to the questions of
his followers shook his head vigorously. Then ensued a heated
altercation between himself and part of the Chinamen on the one hand
and the remainder of the crowd on the other, the subject of which, I
could plainly see, was the fate of the detective and myself. At last
they all turned back to the altar, and the priest took from it two
pieces of wood, slightly curved, some four or five inches long, and
shaped not unlike the half of a banana, if it were cut in two
lengthwise: that is, round on one side and flat upon the other. I saw
that they were the Chinese luck sticks, which the petitioner casts
before the altar, wishing as he does so, for that prayer which he
desires the god to grant him. If the sticks fall with the flat sides of
both upward, he is lucky--his prayer is granted; if with the flat sides
of both downward, his prayer is refused. If one stick falls each way,
there is no decision and the trial is made again. As the priest took up
these sticks from the altar, a gleam of comprehension passed over the
faces of the crowd about him. Several of their number sprang forward
and, seizing us by the arms, dragged us before the altar. It was
evidently their intention to leave the matter of our fate in the hands
of the Buddha, and, as I glanced at the peaceful and beneficent face of
the image before me, I wondered whether he, or blind luck, would control
our destinies.
McQuade they took first. He was led directly in front of the altar, and
the two sticks, placed with the flat sides, together, were put into his
hands. He was then directed, by signs and a few muttered English words,
to cast them upon the slab before the altar. He did so, not in the least
understanding, I felt sure, what it was all about, and in a moment the
hardwood sticks clattered before the altar. I leaned forward anxiously
and looked at them. The flat sides of both were upward. McQuade was
safe. The Chinamen thrust him aside angrily, and bent upon me their
angry glances. I was pushed forward by many hands, and the luck sticks
forced into my unwilling fingers. I had never thought much about death,
and now it approached me in all its grisly terrors. McQuade had been
spared my agony, for I felt sure he did not know the meaning of the
ceremony through which he had just passed. He had thrown dice with
death, and won, and yet he did not know it. But, to me, the trial came
in all its horrible reality. I knew that upon the fall of those bits of
wood depended my life, that within a few seconds of time I would either
be free, or condemned to die by one of those unspeakably horrible means
that only the Chinese understand and delight in. Their deity had been
profaned and they wanted a victim, and, if his down-turned thumb claimed
me as a sacrifice, I knew that no power on earth could save me. I shook
with nervous dread--not so much through fear of death itself as of the
manner of dying. My hands trembled; I could scarcely keep the sticks
from falling to the floor. Presently I pulled myself together and
determined to put a brave face upon the matter. The Chinamen about me
were evidently enjoying my sufferings keenly as I could see from the
diabolic grins upon their dark faces. I threw the sticks from me with a
quick nervous movement, and then almost feared to look upon them. At
last I did so, and what I saw was almost as bad as what I feared to see.
Instead of the two flat sides of the sticks being uppermost, they lay
one each way, and I was forced to throw again. The Chinese were
evidently delighted. Any method of torture which is prolonged seems to
please them beyond measure. I have heard that one of the most terrible
they have invented is that of keeping a prisoner awake. For days and
days sleep is prevented--the victim ultimately goes raving mad.
I determined to end the matter at once. My nerves were too much shaken
to prolong the agony. I cast the sticks again upon the altar slab and
bent over them with a prayer to God. One stick fell at once with its
flat side uppermost. The other rolled over and over until it rested
almost at the Buddha's feet. At last it trembled, half turned over, then
stopped. It, like the other, gave the favorable sign. I was saved. In
the sudden relief from the nervous tension I almost fell, but the
Chinamen, cheated of their revenge, gave me no time for any such
exhibitions of emotion. McQuade and I were seized, and in a few moments
our arms were tightly bound behind us, and heavy bags similar to the one
I had worn were placed over our heads. We were then roughly hurried
through a series of rooms, once crossing what seemed to be a brick-paved
court, which was undoubtedly in the open air, from the sudden change of
temperature I experienced; then for an interminable distance through
what seemed to be dark, narrow lanes and muddy streets, until at last
our hoods were removed, our feet bound, and we were thrown into a
narrow area way, some cotton waste being jammed into each of our mouths
to prevent our making any outcry. Here we were discovered at daybreak,
some four or five hours later, nearly frozen to death, by a watchman,
who released us from our bonds and, upon hearing from Sergeant McQuade
who he was, hastened to find us a cab.
Our first step after it came was to drive to the nearest public house
and get each a steaming drink of hot brandy, after which we ate a hasty
breakfast. The detective, who seemed thoughtful and little inclined to
talk, then drove at once to Number 30, Kingsgate Street, and, finding
his two men still on duty, ordered them to enter the house. The bell was
first rung several times without any response, and then McQuade and his
men burst in the door. There were no lights within, and, when the
long-closed shutters were at last forced open, it was seen at once that
the house was completely unfurnished. We descended into the cellar, but
found no signs of occupancy anywhere. The place had evidently been long
closed. McQuade looked about in perplexity. Evidently there was a tunnel
somewhere, leading from this house to some other in the neighborhood, or
else the Chinamen had boldly carried us out through the backyard and
into some house adjoining. The Sergeant explained the case to his men,
ordered them to return to Scotland Yard, obtain a relief and investigate
every house in the block, and even those on the opposite side of the
street, since a tunnel might as well have led in that direction as any
other. Personally I felt no great interest in the capture of the
Chinamen. They had the emerald Buddha, it is true, but they had a better
right to it than ever Ashton had, I fancy, and, now that he was dead, it
seemed useless to bring trouble upon his relatives, in case he had any,
by placing in their hands so dangerous an article. I was infinitely
more concerned in determining who was responsible for Robert Ashton's
death, and I could not see that the events of the evening had thrown
much light upon it. I left McQuade and returned to my studio, agreeing
to meet him there at three the same afternoon, and return to The Oaks
with him. Just why he intended returning there, or why he wished me to
accompany him, I did not then see, but I was only too glad of an
opportunity again to see Miss Temple. The detective seemed especially
serious and taciturn, and, in reply to my questions as to the two
Chinamen from Exeter, he informed me that they knew nothing of the
matter and had been discharged. I went back to my studio in rather an
unpleasant frame of mind, took a hot bath, and slept until luncheon.