Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China (2024)

A MYSTERY STORY OF MODERN CHINA

BY

GEORGE F. WORTS

"A man whose heart is burning with passion
follows the undulations of a thought."
—Su-Tong-Po.

WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY
GAYLE HOSKINS

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1919

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1919, J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

TO
DR. AND MRS. W. B. A. MOORE
HONG KONG

CONTENTS

PART I

THE CITY OF STOLEN LIVES

PART II

THE BITTER FOUNTAIN

PART III

THE GREEN DEATH

PART I

THE CITY OF STOLEN LIVES

CHAPTER I

"How serene the joy,
when things that are made for each other meet
and are joined;
but ah,—
how rarely they meet and are joined, the things
that are made for each other!"
—SAO-NAN.

When Peter Moore entered the static-room, picked his way swiftly andunnoticingly across the littered floor, and jerked open the frostedglass door of the chief operator's office, the assembled operatorsfollowed him with glances of admiration and concern. No one everentered the Chief's office in that fashion. One waited until calledupon.

But Moore was privileged. Having "pounded brass" for five useful andadventurous years on the worst and best of the ships which minimize thelength and breadth of the Pacific Ocean, he was favored; he had becomea person of importance. He had performed magical feats with a wirelessmachine; he had had experiences.

His first assignment was a fishing schooner, a dirty, unseaworthylittle tub, which ran as far north sometimes as the Aleutians; and hehad immediately gained official recognition by sticking to hisinstruments for sixty-eight hours—recorded at fifteen-minute intervalsin his log—when the whaler Goblin encountered a submerged pinnaclerock in the Island Passage and flashed the old C.Q.D. distress signal.

It was brought out in the investigation that the distance at whichPeter Moore had picked up the signals of the sinking Goblin exceededthe normal working range of either apparatus. When pressed, the youngman confessed the ownership of a pair of abnormally keen ears.Afterward, it was demonstrated for the benefit of doubters that Moorecould "read" signals in the receivers when the ordinary operator coulddetect only a far away scratching sound.

Beginning his second year in the Marconi uniform, Peter Moore wasrecognized as material far too valuable to waste on the fishing boats;and he was stationed on the Sierra, which was then known in wirelesscircles as a supervising ship. Her powerful apparatus could projectout a long electric arm over any part of the eastern Pacific, and theduty of her operator was to reprimand sluggards who neglected answeringcalls from ship or shore stations, and inexperienced men who violatedthe strict rules governing radio intercourse.

It was whispered that Peter Moore grew tired of the nagging to whichhis position on the supervisor ship gave him privilege, for he shortlymade application for a berth in the China run. Now every operator onthe Pacific cherishes the hope that his fidelity will some day berewarded by a China run, and there are applications always on file forthose romantic berths. The Chief granted Peter Moore his whimunhesitatingly; and Moore selected the Vandalia, perhaps the mostdesirable of the transpacific fleet, because she stayed away from SanFrancisco the longest.

That the supersensitiveness of his ears was not waning was soon provedby his receipt of a non-relayed message, afterward verified, from theshore station in Seattle, when the Vandalia lay at anchor in theharbor at Hong-Kong. That was a new record. Marconi himself isbelieved to have written the young magician a complimentary letter.But Peter Moore showed that letter to no one. That was his nature. Hewas something of a mystery even to the members of his own profession.Many of the younger operators knew him only as a symbol, a geniusbehind a key, or as a hand. Professionally speaking, it was his handthat made his personality unique and enviable. There was a queervitality in the signals sent into the air from a wireless machine whenhis strong white fingers played upon the key; his touch was as familiarto them as the voice of a friend.

There was a general simmering down of coastwise gossip in thestatic-room when the frosted glass door of the Chief's office closedbehind him. Voices trailed off into curious whisperings. Then—

"But great guns, man, I need you!" boomed the cranky voice of the Chief.

Followed then the low hum of Peter Moore as he explained himself.

"Makes no difference!" the Chief roared. "Can't get along without you.Short handed. Gotta stay!"

In irritation the Chief always abbreviated his remarks quite as if theywere radiograms to be transmitted at dollar-a-word rates.

The truth then dawned and burst upon those ardent listeners in thestatic-room. Peter Moore was resigning! It was incredible.

A more daring head pressed its audacious ear against the snowy glass.This was a fat, excitable little man, long in the service, but destinedforever, it seemed, to hammer brass in the Panama intermediate run. Askillful operator, but his arm broke, as wireless men say, wheneverfaced by emergency. He distinctly heard Peter Moore state in a voiceof emotion: "Too much China. God, man, I'll be smuggling opium next!"

"Rubbish!" the Chief snorted.

The Panama Line man waved a pale hand behind him for absolute silence.

"Want a shore station for a while?"

"Intend to rest up and then look around," Moore answered.

"You'll be back. Mark my word. The sea and the wireless house is awinning combination. The old cities—new faces—freedom——"

"I'm tired."

"Pah! You've only begun. When does the Vandalia clear for China?"

"Thursday night."

"I'll hold your berth open till Thursday noon. Hoping you'd break in anew operator. Queer chap. Glass eye. 'Member—Thursday noon."

The frosted door went inward abruptly. The intense blue eyes in thepale face of the man who had resigned closed half way upon encounteringthe blushing eavesdropper. The Panama Line operator moved uncertainlytoward a vacant chair. Unaware of the curious stares addressed at himMoore went to the outer door. A wave of exquisite nervousness rippledthrough the silence of the static-room as the door clicked.

When the rumor reached the Vandalia, lying in state at her pier, thatPeter Moore had resigned, Captain Jones, after bluntly airing hisdisappointment, advanced the theory to his chief engineer that Sparkshad "taken the East too much to heart. The fangs are in too deep."

"He will be on hand sailing time," added the chief engineer, who hadbeen trying to retire from active duty in the China run for elevenyears.

But Moore did not come back to the Vandalia for that reason at all.

CHAPTER II

Communication between certain individuals in China and their relativesand friends in Chinatown must, for political and other reasons, beconducted in a secret way. In Shanghai, Moore had made theacquaintance, under somewhat mysterious auspices, of Ching Gow Ong, animportant figure in the silk traffic.

Moore, so it was said by those who were in a position to know, had onceperformed a favor for Ching Gow Ong, of which no one seemed to know theparticulars. What was of equal importance, perhaps, was that Ching GowOng would have willingly given Moore any gift within his power hadMoore been so inclined.

But it appears that Moore was not a seeker after wealth, thereby givingsome real basis to the common belief that he possessed that rarething—a virginal spirit of adventure. He cemented this queerfriendship by conveying messages, indited in Chinese script, which hedid not read, between Ching Gow Ong and his brother, Lo Ong, officiallydead, who conducted a vile-smelling haunt in the bowels of Chinatown.

Peter Moore made his way through the narrowing alleys, proceededthrough a maze of blank walls, down a damp stone stairway, and rappedupon a black iron door. It opened instantly, and a long clawlike handreached forth, accepted the yellow envelope from the operator's hand,and slowly, silently withdrew, the door closing as quickly and asquietly as it had opened.

No words were spoken. His errand done, Peter Moore retraced his stepsto the wider and brighter lanes which comprised the Chinatown known totourists.

He walked slowly, with his head inclined a little to one side, whichwas a habit he had acquired from the eternal listening into the hardrubber receivers. He had proceeded in this fashion a number of stepsup one of the narrow, sloping sidewalks when he felt, rather thanperceived, a pair of eyes fastened upon him from a second-story window.

They were the eyes of a young Chinese woman, but he sensed immediatelythat she was not of the river type. Her fine black hair was arrangedin a gorgeous coiffure. Gold ornaments drooped from her ears, and hercomplexion was liberally sanded with rice powder. Her painted lipswore an expression of malignity.

In the obliquity of the eyes lurked a solemn warning. Then he becameaware that she seemed to be struggling, as if she were impeding themovements of some one behind her.

It is safe to say that in his tramps through the winding alleys ofCanton, of Peking, of Shanghai, Peter Moore had encountered manyChinese women of her type. There was a sharp vividness to her featureswhich meant the inbreeding of high caste. She was unusual—startling!She looked into the street furtively, held up a heavily jeweledhand—an imperial order for him to stop—and withdrew. He lounged intothe doorway of an ivory shop and waited.

It was quiet in Chinatown, for the time was noon and the section waspursuing its midday habit of calm. The padding figures were becoming atrifle obscure, owing to a cold, pale fog that was drifting up from thebay. In a moment the woman reappeared, examined the street again withhostile eyes, held up a square of rice paper, and slowly folded it.

Peter Moore nodded slightly and smiled. It was a habit with him—thatsmile. The sensitiveness of his nervous system found a quick outlet,when he was nervous or excited, by a disingenuous smile. He proceededto the shop directly underneath her window, observing it to be Ah SihKing's gold shop. The window was rich in glittering splendors from theOrient. He picked up from the sidewalk a crumpled ball of red paperand stowed it away in his coat pocket.

To an alert observer the indifference with which Moore turned andpretended to study the gold ornaments in Ah Sih King's window mighthave seemed a trifle too obvious, and the smile on his lips, one mightgo on to say, was uncalled for.

As he waited, a soft thud sounded at his feet, coincident with a flashof black and white across his shoulder. He covered the object with onefoot, as the oily, leering face of Ah Sih King appeared in the doorway.The blanched face surmounted a costly mandarin robe, righteously worn,a gorgeous blue raiment with traceries of fine gold and exquisite gems.At this moment he seemed to exhale an air of faint suspicion.

"Gentleman!" accosted the thin, curled lips in a tone that waswell-nigh personal.

"Buy nothing," Peter Moore said curtly.

"You see my—my see you," observed Ah Sih King, reverting, as he deemedfitting, to pidgin.

The wireless operator turned his back impolitely; Ah Sih King didlikewise. When he turned again, sharply, the oily smile was gone, alook of concern having crept into his sly, old face, and the slightlybent shoulders of the much slier young man were several strides distant.

A faint hiss, as of warning, issued from the carmine lips of theChinese woman. Then the window closed noiselessly, and Chinatown,having paid not the slightest heed to the incident, pattered about itsmultifarious businesses, none the wiser.

There was an indefinable something in this incident which causedcreases to appear across Moore's brow. Why had two notes been thrown?The puzzle sifted down to this possibility: Some one behind the Chinesewoman had thrown a ball of red paper, a note, into the street.

Then she had beckoned him to wait, had written a second note, perhapsto warn him away. He glanced furtively at the second note, saw that itwas written in Chinese, and thereupon decided in return for many favorsto call upon Lo Ong for a translation.

Chinatown now was slowly vanishing from view, swallowed by the grayblanket of fog which rolled in from the Pacific through the mouth ofthe harbor. Retracing his steps through the mist, Moore descended thenarrow stone stairway and tapped on the oblong of iron with his heavyseal ring. A shutter clinked, uneasy eyes scrutinized him, and heheard the bolt slide back. He opened the door and entered, restoringthe bolt to its place.

The room was low, deep and dark under the flickering light of a singledong, which hung from the ceiling at the end of a roped-up cluster offine brass chains. The rich, stupefying odor of opium tainted theheavy air. The orange flame, motionless as if it were carved fromsolid metal, showed the room to be bare except for a few grass matsscattered about in the irregular round shadow under it.

To one of these mats Lo Ong, gaunt, curious, even hostile, retreated,squatting with his delicately thin hands folded over his abdomen. Alook of recognition disturbed only for the instant the placidity of theochre features.

"No come buy?" he intoned, as if Peter Moore had never passed underthat piercing gaze before.

"My never come buy," said the wireless man curtly. "Wanchee you comehelp; savvy?"

"Mebbe can do," asserted Lo Ong, in the voice and manner of oneincessantly pursued by favor-seekers. Lo Ong's draped arm, as if itwere detached from his body and governed by some extraneous mechanism,indicated a mat. Moore slipped down in the familiar cross-leggedattitude, lighted a cigarette and blew the smoke at the belly on thedong.

"You Wanchee c*mshaw?" demanded the Chinese, uneasily.

Peter Moore disdained to reply, extracted the two lumps of paper, slidone under his knee and unfolded the other, while Lo Ong lookedunfavorably beyond him at the door. Three rows of Chinese markingswere scrawled down it. Lo Ong's body commenced to sway back and forthin impatient rhythm.

"Lo Ong," stated Moore, "my wanchee you keep mouth shut—allatimeshut—you savvy?"

"Can do," murmured Lo Ong indifferently. He reached for the ricepaper, lifting it tenderly in long, clawing fingers, and held it to theflame. He seemed not to believe what he read, for he twisted the paperover, looked at it upside down, then sat down again, his lean fingersconvulsing.

"No can do," he muttered, replacing the paper on his visitor's knee."Mino savvy."

The white forefinger of the wireless operator pointed unwaveringly atthe flattened nose. "Read that," he ordered.

Lo Ong glanced the other way, as if the subject had ceased to interesthim, and tapped the floor with his knuckles.

"Wanchee money—c*mshaw?"

"Lo Ong," declared Moore, losing his patience, "you b'long dead. Nowsavvy?"

"Mebbe can do," said Lo Ong faintly.

Moore ran his fingers down the first row of fresh markings.

"O-o-ey," commented Lo Ong, shifting uneasily, "'My see you allatime,long ago on ship.' Savvy?"

"What's next?"

"'You no see my. My see you allatime.'"

The long, sloping shoulders seemed to jerk. "Keep away. Savvy?"

"It says that?"

"Take look see," invited Lo Ong, poking his claw nervously down thecolumn. "'Keep away. Keep away.' One—two times. Savvy?"

Peter Moore nodded thoughtfully.

The Chinese, officially dead, replaced the sheet gingerly on his knees,as if it were an instrument of wickedness. His bony fingers twitched amoment.

"High lady," he added nervously; "velly high lady. You stay away.Huh?"

"Wait a minute." Peter extracted the other paper ball, unfolding itnear the orange flame. The inner surface was red, the earthly red ofporphyry, and cracked and scarred by the crumpling. Nearly obliteratedby the lacework of wrinkles and scratches was a scrawl, evidentlyscarred into the glazed surface by a knife-point. The upper part wasunintelligible. On the lower surface he made out with difficulty thesingle word, Vandalia. He carried it to the door, slid back theshutter and let the dim, gray light filter upon it. The other wordswere too mutilated to be read.

"Hi!"

He returned to Lo Ong's jacketed side. The bony finger was circlingexcitedly about a smear of black in the lower corner of the rice paper.

"What's this?"

"Len Yang. Len Yang! Savvy?"

"O-ho! And who is Len Yang?"

Lo Ong shook his head in agitation. "Len Yang—city. Savvy?Shanghai—Len Yang—fort' day."

"Fourteen days from Shanghai to Len Yang?"

"No. No! No! Fort'."

"Forty?"

"O-o-ey." The flattened nose bobbed up and down. "Keep away—ai?"

"Maskee," Peter replied, meaning, broadly speaking, none of yourbusiness.

Lo Ong unbolted the door, to hint that the interview was concluded."You keep away—ai?" he repeated anxiously. Moore grinned in hispeculiarly disingenuous way, swung open the black door, and a long,gray arm of the fog groped its way past Lo Ong's countenance.

CHAPTER III

The junior operator toyed with the heavy transmitting key while PeterMoore, who knew the behavior of his apparatus as he would know thecaprices of an old friend, adjusted helix-plugs, started themotor-generator, and satisfied the steel-eyed radio inspector that hiswave decrement was exactly what it ought to be.

Then the inspector grunted suspiciously and wanted to know if theauxiliary batteries were properly charged. With a faint smile, Moorehooked up the auxiliary apparatus, tapped the key, and a crinkly bluespark snapped between the brass points above the fat rubber coil.

"I reckon she'll do," observed the inspector. "Aerial don't leak, doesit?"

"No," said Peter.

The government man took a final look at the glittering instruments, anddeparted. Wherewith the junior operator swung half around in theswivel-chair and exposed to Peter an expression of mild imploration.Two gray lids over cavernous sockets lifted and lowered upon shiningblack eyes, one of which seemed to lack focus. Peter recalled thenthat the Chief had said something about a second operator having onlyone human eye, the other being glass.

"This is your first trip?"

The sallow face was inclined, and the pallid lips moved dryly.

"I just came from the school. I'm pretty green. You see——"

"I see. We'd better let me take the first trick. I'll sit in tillmidnight. After that there's very little doing. You may have to relaya position report or so. Be sure and don't work on navy time. TheChief will watch you closely for long-distance. The farther you work,the better he'll like it. How's the air? Have you listened in?"

"Do you mean—static? I heard a little. Seemed pretty far away,though."

Peter adjusted the nickeled straps about his head and pressed therubber disks tight to his ears. He tilted his head slightly. Adistant but harsh rasping, as of countless needle-points grating onglass, occurred in the head phones. This was caused by charges ofelectricity in the air, known to wireless men as "static." Percolatingthrough the scratching was a clear, bell-like note. The San Pedrostation was having something to say to a destroyer off the coast.

With delicate fingers Peter raised the tuning-knob a few points. Dale,the junior operator, hands clutched behind him, stared with the fearfuladoration of an apprentice. He seemed to be making a mental notationof every move that Peter made, for future reference.

"Ah—do you mind if I ask a few questions? You see, I'm kind of green."

"Go ahead!" Peter said cordially.

"Where do I eat? With the crew? I hear that lots of these ships makeyou eat with the crew."

"No. In the main dining-saloon. Mr. Blanchard, the purser, will takecare of you. See him at six thirty."

A deep monstrous shudder, arising to a clamor, half roar, half shriek,issued from the boilers of the Vandalia.

"It's rather interesting to watch us pull out," said Peter when thenoise had ceased. "But be careful. There's no rail around this deck."

He was on his hands and knees at the motor-generator with a pad ofsandpaper between his fingers when the tremulous voice of the junioroperator sounded in the doorway. "Mr. Moore, there's some excitementon the dock."

Peter followed the narrow shoulders to the starboard side and lookeddown. The Vandalia was warping out from the pierhead with a sobbingtug at her stern. He noted that the head-lines were still fast. Astraggling line of passengers' friends, wives, husbands, andsweethearts was moving slowly toward the end of the pier, for a finalparting wave.

Something seemed to be wrong at the shore end of the gangplank, for,despite the fact that the ship was swinging out, the plank was stillup. In the midst of an excited crowd a taxicab purred and smoked.There was a general parting in the crowd as the door was flung open.Two figures emerged, were lost from sight, and reappeared at the footof the plank. An incoherent something was roared from the bridge.

One of the figures appeared to be struggling, clutching at the rail.For an instant she seemed to glance in Peter's direction. But her facecould hardly be seen, for it was shrouded by a heavy gray veil. A grayhood covered her hair, and a long cloak reached to her shoe-tops.

Patiently urging her was a Chinese woman in silk jacket, trousers, andjeweled slippers. A customs officer tried to break through the mob,but somehow was held back. The gray-hooded figure suddenly seemed tobecome limp, and the Chinese woman half lifted, half pushed her theremaining distance to the promenade deck.

Peter was then conscious of a staring, lifeless eye fixed upon his.

"What do you make of it, Mr. Moore?" the junior operator wanted to know.

"Of that?" said Peter. "Nothing—nothing at all. By the way, I forgotto tell you that the captain has issued strict orders forbiddingsubofficers to use the starboard decks. Always, when you're goingforward, or aft, walk on the port side."

CHAPTER IV

Peter turned over the log-book and the wireless-house to Dale, a fewminutes before midnight.

"Everything's cleared up. The static is worse, and KPH may want you torelay a message or two to Honolulu. If you have trouble, let me know."

"Yes, yes," replied Dale, looking over his shoulder nervously. "Iwill. Thanks."

Peter left him to the mercies of the static. As he descended the ironladder to the promenade-deck, he imagined he saw some one movingunderneath him. The figure, whoever or whatever it was, slid aroundthe white wall and vanished as his foot felt the deck. He hastened tofollow.

As he stepped into the light a low, sibilant whisper reached him. Atthe cross-corridor doorway he was in time to see the flicker of avanishing gray garment and a sandaled foot on a naked ankle flash overthe vestibule wave-check. He shook open the door and followed.

A vertical stripe of yellow light cleaved the dark of the corridor as adoor was quietly shut. He heard the faint, distant click of adoor-latch. Counting the entrances to that one, and sure that he hadmade no mistake, he rapped. The near-by clank of the engine-room wellwas the reply. He tried the handle. It was immovable. He struck amatch. It was stateroom forty-four.

Peter went to the purser's office. Light rippled through the wrinkledgreen, round window, as he had hoped. He tapped lightly, and a voicebade him to enter.

Blanchard, the purser, dwarfed, perpetually stoop-shouldered, looked upfrom a clump of cargo reports and blinked through convex, thick, steelspectacles at his interrupter. His eyes were red and dim with agray-blue, uncertain definition which always reminded Peter of oysters.Blanchard had been purser of the Vandalia for thirteen years, andPeter knew that the man possessed the garrulous habits of the oyster aswell.

"Well, well!" observed Blanchard in the crisp, brittle accents ofsenility; "so you're back again, eh? Well, well, well." There was noemphasis laid on the words. They were all struck from the same pieceof ancient metal.

"Here I am!" agreed Peter with mild enthusiasm. "The bad penny!"

"Ha, ha! The bad penny returns!" The exclamation died in a futilecough. "What are you prowlin' around ship this time o' night for, eh?After three bells, Sparks. Time for respectable people to be fastasleep. Or, are you leavin' the radio unwatched?"

"I'm looking for information." Peter drew himself by stiffened armsupon the purser's single bunk.

"Lookin' for information?" The thin voice suffered the quaveryattrition of surprise. "Funny place to be lookin' for that commodity.What's on your mind? Eh?"

"Chinamen!"

Blanchard tilted the rusted spectacles to his forehead, and themotionless gray orbs seemed to glint with a half-dead light."Chinamen? What Chinamen?" The spectacles slid back into place.

"One, a woman, came aboard as we were pulling out this afternoon. Whois she? Where is she? Where's she from? Where's she going? Who'swith her? That's what I want to clear up."

"Is that all?" squeaked Blanchard. His wrinkled, dried lips werestruggling as if with indecision. A veiled, a thinly veiled conflictof emotions apparently was taking place behind that ancient gray mask."What—what for?" was the final outcome in a hesitant half-whisper.

"My private information," smiled Peter. "Just curious, that's all.Didn't mean to pry open any dark secrets." He made as if to go.

"Sparks! Don't be in a hurry. I'm not so busy."

"Well?"

"What's botherin' you? Maybe I could straighten you out."

"Who are the occupants of stateroom forty-four?" Peter replied.

Again the expression shifted like water smitten by an evil wind.

"Forty-four!" The words were mild explosions.

A long cardboard sheet with blue and red lines was produced from anoiselessly opened drawer.

"The passenger list. We shall see." Blanchard's red, shiny forefingerclawed down the column of names, halting at the numeral forty-four.The space was blank. "You see?"

"Empty?"

"Empty." A restrained note of triumph was unquestionably evident inthe purser's cracked voice.

"I'll bother you with just one more question. What is Len Yang?"

A look of doubt, of incredulity bordering upon feeble indignation,settled upon the serrated countenance. But Blanchard only shook hishead as if he did not comprehend.

Peter slipped down from the bunk. "Guess I'll take a turn on deck, ifthe fog's lifted, and roll in. G'night, purser."

Blanchard started to say something, evidently thought better of it, andretrieved his pen. As he dipped the fine point into the red ink bymistake he flung another frown over his shoulder. The wireless manlingered on the threshold, swinging the door tentatively.

"G'night, Sparks."

CHAPTER V

The Vandalia was wallowing majestically through long, dead blackswells. Peter poked his way up forward to the solitary lookout in thepeak and glanced overside. Broad, phosphorescent swords broke smoothlywith a rending, rushing gurgle over the steep cut-water. His eyesdarted here and there over the void as his mind struggled to straightenout this latest kink.

What facts of significance he might have discovered from Blanchard wereovershadowed by the purser's suspicious attitude. Blanchard knew, andBlanchard, for some reason, did not choose to divulge. This madematters more interesting, if slightly more complicated.

He was now reasonably sure of several things, without really havingdefinite grounds for being sure. The malignant-eyed Chinese woman andwhoever she had successfully concealed behind her in the loft above AhSih King's were now aboard the Vandalia. He was quite positive thathe had recognized her in the woman who had come aboard in company withthe gray-cloaked figure at the last minute before sailing-time.

He recalled the scene on the pierhead, and it occurred to him that theeyes behind the gray veil, before their owner was whisked up to thedeck and from his sight, had fastened upon him for a long breath.

"Four bells, all well!" bawled the lookout as four clanging strokesrang out from abaft the wheel-house.

And Blanchard had proved that stateroom forty-four was unoccupied.Peter decided to borrow a master key in the morning, from the chiefengineer, perhaps, and investigate stateroom forty-four. And with thefeeling that he was on the verge of discovering something which did notexist, he prepared to turn in.

He was not undressed when the lock grated, the door lurched open, andthe pale visage of Dale teetered at his shoulder. An attempt atgrinning ended in a hissing sob of in-taken breath. The limp frameflung itself in the bunk beside Peter, and Dale's white, perspiringface was buried in palsied hands.

"Feel the motion?" Peter pulled down one of the hands, gentlyuncovering the expressionless eye.

"I wish I was dead!"

"Want me to finish your trick?"

Dale's face disappeared in the pillow. A moment he was stark. Hishead partly revolved, profiling a yellow, pointed nose against thewhite of the linen.

"Static's much worse, Mr. Moore. Frisco's sent me the same messagethree times now. It's for Honolulu. He says he won't repeat itagain." The pale lips trembled in misery. "And there seems to be afunny sort of static in the receivers. The dynamos in the engine-roommay cause it."

"That's strange," Peter reflected as he slipped on his blue coat."There's never been any induction on board as far back as I canremember. Does it hum—or what?"

"No, it grates, like static. Sounds like static, and yet it doesn't.Kind of a hoarse rumble, like a broken-down spark-coil."

Two even rows of white teeth drew in the trembling lip and clung to it."That awful staticky sound—— And the Rover's been calling us." Hegroaned miserably. "I couldn't answer either of them. I was lying onthe carpet!"

"Get some sleep," advised Peter. "When you feel better come up andrelieve me. If I were you I wouldn't smoke cigarettes when you thinkit's rough."

"I won't smoke another cigarette as long as I live!"

Peter slipped into his uniform, draped an oil-skin coat about hisslender shoulders, and made his way up to the wireless house. Thereceivers were lying on the floor.

The Vandalia was entering a zone of pale, thin mist, which createdcircular, misty auras about the deck-lights. The tarpaulineddonkey-engine beneath the after-cargo booms rattled as the Vandalia'sstern sank into a hollow, and the beat of the engines was muffled anddeeper. A speck of white froth glinted on the black surface andvanished astern.

The wireless-house seemed warm and cozy in the glare of its green andwhite lights. An odor of cheap cigarette-smoke puffed out as he openedthe door.

Peter slipped the hard-rubber disks over his ears and tapped the sliderof the tuner. Static was bad to-night, trickling, exploding andhissing in the receivers.

The electric lights became dim under the strain of the heavy motor, ashe slid up the starting handle. The white-hot spark exploded in atrain of brisk dots and dashes. He snapped up the aerial switch andlistened.

KPH—the San Francisco station—rang clear and loud through the spatterof the electric storm. Peter flashed back his O.K., tuned for theKahuka Head station at Honolulu, and retransmitted the message.

Sensitizing the detector, he slid up the tuning handle for high waves.Static, far removed, trickled in. Then a faint, musical wailing like aviolin's E-string pierced this. The violin was the government stationat Arlington, Virginia, transmitting a storm warning to ships in theSouth Atlantic. For five minutes the wailing persisted. Sliding thetuning handle downward, Peter listened for commercial wave-lengths.

A harsh grinding, unmusical as emery upon hollow bronze, raspedstutteringly in the head phones. Laboriously, falteringly, the gratingwas cleaved into clumsy dots and dashes of the Continental Code, underthe quaking fingers of some obviously frightened and inexperiencedoperator. Were these the sounds which had unnerved Dale? For a timethe raspings spelled nothing intelligible. The unknown senderevidently was repeating the same word again and again. It held fourletters. Once they formed, H-I-J-X. Another time, S-E-L-J. Andanother, L-P-H-E.

The painstaking intent, as the operator's acute ears recognized, wasidentical in each instance. Frequently the word was incoherentaltogether, the signals meaning nothing.

Suddenly Peter jerked up his head. Out of the jumble stood the word,as an unseen ship will often stand out nakedly in a fog rift. Over andover, badly spaced, the infernal rasp was spelling, H-E-L-P.

He waited for the signature of this frantic operator. But noneoccurred. Following a final letter "p" the signals ceased.

For a minute or two, while Peter nervously pondered, the air wassilent. Then another station called him. A loud droning purr filledthe receivers. Peter gave the "k" signal. The brisk voice of thetransport Rover droned:

"I can't raise KPH. Will you handle an M-S-G for me?"

"Sure!" roared the Vandalia's spark. "But wait a minute. Have youheard a broken down auxiliary asking for help? He's been jamming mefor fifteen minutes. Seems to be very close, K."

"Nix," replied the Rover breezily. "Can't be at all close or I wouldhear him, too. I can see your lights from my window. You're off ourport quarter. Here's the M-S-G."

Peter accepted the message, retransmitting it to the KPH operator, thencalled the wheelhouse on the telephone. Quine, first officer, answeredsleepily.

"Has the lookout reported any ship in the past hour excepting theRover?"

"Is that the Rover on our port quarter?" Quine's voice was grufflyamazed. Like most mariners of the old school, he considered thewireless machine a nuisance. Yet its intelligence occasionally caughthim off guard.

"Only thing in sight, Sparks."

Peter made an entry in the log-book, folded his hands and shut hiseyes. The Leyden jars rattled in their mahogany sockets as theVandalia climbed a wave, faltered, and sped into the hollow. Farremoved from her pivot of gravity, the wireless house behaved after themanner of an express elevator. But the wireless house chair was boltedto the floor.

Wrinkles of perplexity creased his forehead. Had this stutteringstatic anything in kind with those other formless events? If not, whatterrified creature was invoking his aid in this blundering fashion?

A simple test would prove if the signals were of local origin—from aminiature apparatus aboard the ship. He hoped anxiously for theopportunity. And in less than a half hour the opportunity was givenhim.

A tarred line scraped the white belly of the life-boat which swelled upfrom the deck outside the door, giving forth a dull, crunching soundwith each convulsion of the engines. The square area above it dancedwith reeling stars, moiled by a purple-black heaven.

Peter, who had been studying the tarred rope, swung about in the chairand dropped an agitated finger to the silvered wire which restedagainst the glittering detector crystal. A tiny, blue-red flamesnapped from his finger to the crystal chip! The frantic operator wasaboard the Vandalia!

The broken stridulations took on the coherence of intelligible dots anddashes. The former blundering was absent, as if the tremulous hand ofthe sender was steadied by the grip of a dominant necessity; thesignals clarified by the pressure of terror.

"Do not try to find me," it stammered and halted.

Some maddened pulse seemed to leap to life in Peter's throat. Hisfingers, working at the base of the tiny instrument, were cold and damp.

"You must wait," rasped the unknown sender, faltering. "You musthelp me! You are watched."

For a breath there was no sound in the receivers other than the beatingof his heart.

Click! Snap! Sputter! Then: "Wait for the lights of China!"

The receivers rattled to the red blotter, and Peter rushed out on deck.Slamming the door, he stared at the spurting streams of white in theracing water. Indescribably feminine was the fumbling touch of thatunknown sender!

A grating—hollow, metallic—occurred in the lee of the wireless cabin.A footfall sounded, coincident with the heavy collision into his sideof an unwieldy figure whose hands, greasy and hot, groped over his.Both grunted.

"'Sthat you, Sparks?" They were the German gutturals of Luffberg, oneof the oilers on the twelve-to-six watch. "Been fixin' the ventilator.Chief wondered if you were up. Wants to know why you ain't been downto say hello."

Peter decided to lay a portion of his difficulties before Minion.

CHAPTER VI

The first operator had developed for himself at an early stage of hisoccupancy of the Vandalia's wireless house the warm friendship of thechief engineer. A wireless man is far more dependent for his peace ofmind upon the engine-room crew than upon the forward crew. The latterhas only one interest in him: that he stick to his instruments; whilethe engine-room crew strictly is the source from which his blessingsflow, his blessings taking the invisible, vital form of electriccurrent.

Wireless machines are gourmands of electricity. They are wastrels.Not one-tenth of the energy sucked from the ship's power wires findsits way through the maze of coils and jars to the antennae between themastheads.

The Vandalia's engine-room equipment was installed long beforewireless telegraphy was a maritime need and a government requirement.Hence, her dynamos protested vigorously against the strain imposed uponthem by the radio machine. Any electric engine is unlike any steamengine. Steam engines will do so much work—no more. Dynamos ormotors will do so much work—and then more. They can be overloaded,unsparingly. But the strain tells. Stout, dependable parts becomehot, wear away, crumble, snap.

In the typical case of the Vandalia, the question of whether or notthe wireless men should be provided with all of the current theyrequired, was narrowed down to individuals.

If Minion had disliked Peter Moore he could have slowed down thedynamos at the critical times when the operator needed the highvoltage; but Peter had had encounters with chief engineers before. Hehad at first courted Minion's good graces with fair cigars, radiogossip and unflagging courtesy. And on discovering that the chief wasa sentimentalist at heart and a poet by nature, he had presented himwith an inexpensively bound volume of his favorite author. Daring, buta master-stroke! He had not since wanted for voltage, and plenty of it.

He pondered the advisability of taking Minion entirely into hisconfidence as he followed the sweated, undershirted shoulders to theengine-room galley, and thence across the oily grill of shining steelbars which comprised one of the numerous and hazardous superfloorswhich surrounded the cylinders.

Minion was nursing a stubbornly warm bearing in the port shaft alley.

The fat cylinder revolved with a pleasant ringing noise, the blurringknuckles of the frequent joints vanishing down the yellow, vaultedalley to a point of perspective, where the shaft projected through thehull. The floundering of the great propellers seemed alternately tocompress and expand the damp atmosphere.

The sad, white face of Minion arose from the dripping flanks of thejournal as he caught sight of Peter in the arched entrance. A palesmile flickered at his lips.

The chief did not in any wise reflect his monstrously heaving,oil-dripping surroundings. He was a small, deliberate man, with oceansof repressed energies. His skin had the waxy whiteness of a pond lily.An exquisitely trimmed black moustache adorned his mouth. The deepbrown eyes of a visionary rested beneath the gentle, scythe-like curvesof thin and pointed eyebrows.

"You look worried," vouchsafed Minion as their hands met. His quietvoice had a clarity which projected it nicely through the bedlam ofengine-room noises. "Why you up so early—or so late? Anything wrong?"

Peter took out a cigarette and nervously lighted it at the sputteringflame Minion held for him. "Mr. Minion, something's in the wind," hecomplained, and hesitated. He was at the verge of telling what he hadseen on the promenade deck, of the confusion on the pierhead, of theunaccountable behavior of the woman in the window above Ah Sih King's,of the suspicious attitude of Blanchard, of the recent plea for help.Again something checked him.

"Mr. Minion, what is Len Yang? And where is it?"

The scythe-like brows contracted. Minion's lucid, brown eyes rested onhis lips, seeming to await an elaboration of the query. His featuressuddenly had stiffened. His whole attitude appeared on the moment tohave undergone a change, from one of friendly interest to a keendefensiveness.

"Len Yang is a city in China. Why?"

The operator suspected that Minion was sparring for time.

"Where is Len Yang?"

"Do you mean, how does one reach Len Yang?"

"Either."

"Mr. Moore"—the suspicion fell from the chief's expression, leaving itcalm and grave—"you are not an amateur. You have discretion. The manwho controls Len Yang is the Vandalia's owner."

"Why, I understood the Pacific and Western Atlantic Transport Lineowned her!"

"This man—he is a Chinese. Oh, I've never seen him, Mr. Moore. Oneof the richest of China's unknown aristocrats, the central power of thecinnabar ring. You have never gone up the river with us to load atSoo-chow?"

Peter shook his head. "Cinnabar from his mine is brought down theYangtze on junks and transferred at Soo-chow?"

Minion seemed not to be listening. His eyes were stagnant with anappalling retrospect. "A terrible place—horrible! Five years ago Ivisited Len Yang. Hideous people with staring eyes, dripping theblood-red slime of the mines! And girls! Young girls! Beautiful—fora while." He sighed. "They work in that vicious hole!"

"Young girls?" Peter exclaimed.

"Imported. From everywhere. I tried to find why. There is noexplanation. They come—they work—they become hideous—they die! Itis his habit. No one understands. Poor things!"

Peter was staring at him narrowly. "Quite sure he imports them to workin the mines?"

Minion nodded vehemently. "I made sure of that. I went up the riveras his guest. Trouble with the seepage pumps. Hundreds of themdrowned like rats. Len Yang is near the trade route into India.Leprosy—filth—vermin! God! You should have seen the rats!Monsters! They eat them. Poor devils! And live in holes carved outof the ruby mud."

He tore the clump of waste from his left hand and ground it under hisheel.

"And in the center of this frightfulness—his palace! Snow-whitemarble, whiter than the Taj by moonlight. But its base is stained red,a creeping blood-red from the cinnabar. Damn him!"

"No escape?" Peter muttered.

"Escape!" Minion shouted. "Dang hsin! They call him the GrayDragon. He reaches over every part of Asia. That is no exaggeration.Take my advice, Mr. Moore, if you have stumbled upon one of hisschemes—ní chü bà—don't meddle!"

The white face writhed, and for a new reason Peter smothered theimpulse to tell the agitated Minion what he had seen. Theirconversation drifted to general shipboard matters. When he left heborrowed the chief engineer's master key on the excuse that he hadlocked himself out of the wireless cabin.

Besides a stiffening head wind the ship was now laboring into pilinghead seas. Far beyond the refulgence of the scattered lights starsshone palely. Flecks of streaming white were making their appearanceat the toppling wave crests.

A hail of stinging spray, flung inboard by a long gust, struck Peter'sface sharply as he struggled forward, rattling like small shot againstthe vizor of his cap and smarting his eyes. The needle-like drops wereicy cold. The elastic fabric of the Vandalia shivered, her broadnose sinking into a succession of black mountains. Peak gutters roaredas the cascading water was sucked back to the untiring surface.

Gaining the cross entrance, he braced his strength against the forcesof wind which imprisoned the door, and crept down the passage.

His heart pounded as his groping fingers outlined the cold ironnumerals on the panel. Nervously, he inserted the master key into thedoor lock, and paused to listen.

Rhythmic snoring moaned from an opened transom near by. What othernight sounds might have been abroad were engulfed by the imminentthrobbing in the engine-room well.

Stateroom forty-four's transom was closed. The lock yielded. The dooryawned soundlessly. A round, portentous eye glimmered on the oppositewall. An odor of recently wet paint and of new bed linen met him. Theexcited pulsing of his heart outsounded the engines.

He shut the door cautiously, not to awake the occupants of the berths,and fancied he could again hear the warning sibilance of the whisper,but in sleep, perhaps drawn through unconscious lips.

Eagerly, his hand slipped over the enameled wall and found the electricswitch. Turning, to cover all corners of the stateroom he snapped onthe light.

Stateroom forty-four, through whose doorway he could have sworn to haveseen a sandaled foot vanish less than three hours previous, was empty!

The blue-flowered side curtains of the white enameled bunks were drapedback in ornamental stiffness. Below the pillows the upper sheets wereneatly furled like incoming billows on a coral beach. He threw openthe closet door. Bare! Not one sign of occupancy could he find, andhe looked everywhere.

As he made to leave the room a small oblong of white paper was thrustunder the door. He hesitated in surprise, stooped to seize it andflung open the door. A gust of night, wind—the slamming of adoor—and the messenger was gone.

Tremblingly, he unfolded the paper. His eyes dilated. Hastilyscrawled in the lower right-hand corner of the otherwise blank leaf wasa replica of the blurred sign that had caused such consternation on thepart of Lo Ong.

The ideograph had twice been brought to his attention. It wasapparently a solemn warning. Should he heed it? He felt that he waswatched. But the porthole glowed emptily.

Lighting a cigarette, he dropped down to the bunk, cupped his chin inhis palms, and frowned at the green carpet.

He was being frustrated, by persons of adroit cunning. It wasmaddening. This had ceased to be an adventurous lark. It was tobecome a fight against weapons whose sole object seemed to be to guardthe retreat of some evil spirit.

It occurred to him suddenly that he should be grateful upon one scoreat least: He had not lost the trail, for the symbols were unchanged.

But from that point the trail vanished—vanished as abruptly as if itsdesign had been wiped off the earth! Sharp eyed and eared, alertnessnight after night availed him nothing. And not until the twinklinglights of Nagasaki were put astern, when the Vandalia turned her noseinto the swollen bed of the Yellow Sea, did the traces again showfaintly.

CHAPTER VII

That a recrudescence of those involved in the murky affair might beimminent was the thought induced in Peter's mind as the green coast ofJapan heaved over the horizon. With each thrust of the Vandalia'sscrews the cipher was nearing its solution. Each cylinder throbnarrowed the distance to the shore lights of China—the lights ofTsung-min Island. And then—what?

In a corner of the smoking-room he puffed at his cigarette and watchedthe poker players as he drummed absently upon the square of green corkinlaid in the corner table. The vermilion glow of the skylight dimmedand died. Lights came on. A clanging cymbal in the energetic hands ofa deck steward boomed at the doorway, withdrew and gave up its life ina far away, tinny clatter.

The petulant voice of a hardware salesman, who was secretly known torepresent American moneyed interests in Mongolia, drifted through thehaze of tobacco smoke at the poker table.

"——that's what I'd like to know. Damn nonsense—saving steam,probably—off Wu-Sung before midnight—if—wanted to throw in a littlecoal—means I miss the river boat to-morrow—not another—Saturday.Dammit!"

Peter drew long at the cigarette and glanced thoughtfully at theoak-paneled ceiling. Chips clicked. The petulant voice continued:

"——rottenest luck ever had." Evidently he was referring to hislosses. "Rotten line—rottener service—miss my man—Mukden——" Thevoice ceased as its owner half turned his head, magnetized by theintentness of the operator's gaze. Peter glanced away. The salesmandevoted himself to the dealer.

The Vandalia was bearing into a thin mist. The night was cool,quiet. Had he been on deck Peter would have seen the last lights ofOsezaki engulfed as if at the dropping of a curtain.

During the voyage he had haunted the smoking-room, hoping that by dintof patient listening he might catch an informative word droppedcarelessly by one of the players. No such luck. The players wereout-of-season tourists, bound for South China or India, or salesmen,patiently immersed in the long and strenuous task of killing time.

"——thirty—thirty-five—forty—forty-five——" The fat man wascounting his losings.

Faint, padded footsteps passed the port doorway. Peter became aware ofan elusive perfume—scented rice powder——

"——seventy-five—eighty—eighty-five—ninety——"

A pale, malignant face was framed momentarily in one of the starboardwindows.

Peter blinked, then bounded after. The salesman impeded his progressand grudgingly gave way.

The deck was empty, slippery with the wet of the mist. He was suddenlyaware that one of the ports, in the neighborhood of the stateroom hehad entered, was ajar. Nervously he halted, gasping as a long,trembling hand, at the extremity of a spectral wrist, plucked at hissleeve. Blanched as an arm of the adolescent moon, it fumbled weaklyat his clutching fingers—and was swiftly withdrawn!

The staring eyes of a white, gibbous face sank back from the hole.Below the nose the face seemed not to exist.

Its horror wrapped an icy cord about his heart. He plunged his arm tothe shoulder through the round opening, struck a yielding, warm body;descending claws steeled about his wrist and deliberately forced himback.

The brass-bound glass squeezed on his fingers. He wrenched them free,crushed, throbbing, and warmly wet. The anguish seemed to extend tohis elbow. Then, suddenly, the gruff, seasoned voice of Captain Jonesdescended from space behind him. "Sparks, come to my cabin."

Peter followed the brutish shoulders to the forward companionway,endeavoring to clarify his thoughts. Mild confusion prevailed whenCaptain Jones closed and locked the door of his spacious stateroombehind them and dropped heavily into one of the cumbersome teak chairs.

He was a hardened, brawny chunk of a man, choleric in aspect andtemperament, brutal in method, bluntly decisive in opinion. Iron washis metal. "Starboard Jones" was one of the few living men who hadsuccessfully run the Jap blockade into Vladivostok during that bloodytiff between the black bear and the island panther.

Reddened sockets displayed keen, blue eyes in a background of perpetualfire. His large, swollen nose had a vinous tint, acquiringpurplishness in cold weather. Tiny red veins, as numerous as thecracks in Satsuma-ware, spread across both cheeks in a carmine filigree.

His cabin was ornamented chiefly by hand-tinted photographs from theyoshiwaras of Nagasaki, of simpering, coy geishas. Souvenirs of theirtrade, glittering fans, nicked teacups, flimsy sandals, adorned theavailable shelf room. Cigars as brawny and black as if their maker hadstriven to emulate the captain's own bulk were scattered among paperson his narrow desk.

He reached clumsily for one of these brown cylinders now, neglecting toremove his glance of gloating austerity from the operator's tense face.

"Haven't seen much of you lately, Sparks," he observed, applying asteady match flame to the oval butt. He spoke in his usual tones, witha gruffness that balanced on a razor edge between rough jocularity andofficial harshness. "What's new? Have one of my ropes?"

Peter studied the glowing end narrowly. "Had a little trouble firstnight out. No, thanks. Not smoking to-night." His bruisedfinger-tips were curved up tenderly in his coat pocket.

"What's 'at?" The steel eyes were motionless beneath half-lowered lids.

"Some one used an electric machine. Jammed my signals."

The choleric face dipped knowingly. What Captain Jones did notcomprehend he invariably pretended to comprehend. "Noticed anythingelse?" His ruddy face was now weighty with significance.

Peter sat up abruptly. "What!"

A thick, red forefinger threatened, "Lis'n to me, Sparks, you're aovergrown, blundering bull in a china-shop. You're——"

"Well?" There was a trace of anger in Peter's suave inquiry. His facebecame stony white. A spot of color appeared at either cheek.

"I mean: Keep your damn nose out of what don't concern you. Savvy?"The heated words spilled thickly from the captain's red lips. "I mean:Butt out of what concerns Chinese women and—and—other words, mindyour own particular damn business! Duty on this ship's to mind theradio. What goes on outside your shanty's none of your damn concern!"Captain Jones' mouth remained open, and the butt of the black cigarslid into it.

Peter raised a restraining hand. His lips trembled. His eyes seemedto snap in a rapid fire between the eyes and mouth of the big manslouched down in the chair in front of him. "Wait a minute," he spatout. "Since you do know that somebody is being kidnapped on thisship——"

"What in hell do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say. A Chinese woman, no matter who she is—is hidingsome one, a woman, somewhere on this ship. That woman—that womanwho's being held—grabbed my hand not five minutes ago. It's yourduty——"

"Keep your hands where they belong. You're talking like a fool.Kidnapped? You're crazy. My duty? You're a fool! You're talkingbaby talk." Captain Jones sprang from his chair. "You're on this shipto tend the wireless," he bawled. "You're under oath to keep yourmouth shut. Any one back there?"

"No!"

"Don't you know it breaks a government rule when that room's empty—atsea?"

The mist-laden wind shrilled through the screen door abruptly thrustback. Captain Jones slammed the stout inner door. Peter turned up hiscoat collar, bound a clean handkerchief about his aching fingers,climbed agilely over the life-rafts, passed the roaring, black funnels,and entered the wireless house.

The low, intermingling whine of Jap stations was broken by an insistentP. and O. liner, yapping for attention. Shanghai stiffly droned areply, advising the P. and O. man to sweeten his spark.

Peter tapped his detector and grunted. Shanghai was loud—close! TheVandalia must be nearing the delta.

"——Nanking Road. Stop. Forty casks of soey——" yelped the P. and O.

Nearing the great river! Out of the mist a faint blur would come—thefirst lights of China!

"——Thirteen cases of tin——" The P. and O.'s spark remainedunsweetened.

Would the lights be Hi-Tai-Sha—Tsung-min?—port or starboard?

Far below decks a bell jangled faintly. The throbbing of the engineswas suddenly hushed. The bell sounded distantly, through a portentoussilence. Peter glanced at the clock. Half-past twelve.

The silence was shattered by a turbulent, stern lifting rumble as thescrews reversed. The Vandalia wallowed heavily, and lay with theyellow tide.

Extinguishing the lights, Peter slipped out on deck, leaned over theedge, and peered into the murk. His heart pumped nervously.

At first all was blank. Then a misty, gray-white glow seemed to swimfar to port. Murkily, it took form, vanished, reappeared and—wasswallowed up again.

But these were not the lights of Tsung-min. The ship was in the river.He knew those lights well. Even now the Vandalia, was slipping downwith the current abreast of Woo-Sung! The first lights of China! Butwhat was happening? He dashed to the starboard side.

Out of the mist there arose a tall, gaunt specter. A junk. Perhaps acollision was decreed by the evil spirit of the Whang-poo. But theusual shriekings of doomed river men were absent. The gray bulkfloated idly with the steamer. The silence of death permeated bothcraft.

At a loss to account for this queer coincidence, this mute communion,Peter elbowed over the edge, dangerously high above the water, and sliddown a stanchion to the promenade deck.

Simultaneously every light on that side of the ship was extinguished.As his feet struck the metal gutter, several unseen bodies rushed pasthim, aft.

He was grabbed from behind and hurled to the deck. Springing up, heheard the thick breathing of his unknown assailant. He lunged for thesound, met flying fists, smashed his man against the rail. The blowknocked the wind from his antagonist, or broke his back.

Peter did not pause to make inquiries. As the limp body thudded to thewood, the operator sprinted after the vanished figures.

A lone light on the after spur illumined a dim confusion in the cargowell. The stern of the junk was backed against the rail. Oars flashedfaintly as the crew of the junk strove to keep her fast against thesteamer's side. But where was the crew of the Vandalia? Had CaptainJones consented to and perhaps aided in this mid-river tryst?

Another source of illumination sprang into being. A dong was burningyellowly on the junk's poop deck, casting a plenitude of light upon thescene.

As Peter dropped down the precipitous ladder into the well, he made outtwo figures struggling against the rail. From the junk, imploringly, agiant Chinese with pigtail flapping held out his long arms. Silent,his face was writhing with the supplication to hurry.

Peter drove in between the two figures, one of which suddenly collapsedand lay inert. The other sprang at his neck, sinking long claws intohis throat. Slit eyes glinted close. Before his wind was shut off hecaught the oppressive fragrance of a heavy perfume. A woman!

He struck the clawing hands loose, and she stemmed a scream betweenconvulsing lips. The woman above Ah Sih King's!

He hurled her back, and she staggered against the iron flank of thewell. A chatter of Chinese broke from her lips. Shaking, sheextracted an envelope from her satin blouse and pressed it into hishands. Thoughtlessly he stuffed the envelope into his pocket, notreckoning what it might contain.

The junk swung out, closed in with a smart smack, and the giant on herdeck crouched to spring. He squealed, a high-pitched ululation ofanger. Another sound was abroad, the jangling of the engine-room bell.

Peter struck down the groping hands of the woman and sprang to therail, bracing his feet on the smooth iron deck-plate as the Chineseleaped. A knife glinted. Peter seized a horny wrist with both hands,bent, and wrenched it. The knife struck the water with a sibilantsplash. The fokie lost his balance. His legs became entangled.

He gibbered with horror as he slipped—slipped——

The Chinese woman sprang at Peter with the frenzy of a pantheress.

A weltering splash—Peter dimly saw the bobbing head before it wasdriven below the surface as the junk, yawing in, crowded the swimmerdown.

A life? Nothing to the turgid river, draining all effluvia from theyellow heart of this festering land.

With a hissing sob, the woman drove Peter backward, raining blow afterblow on his chest. The engines pounded briskly. A boom rattled.Despairingly, Peter's antagonist shifted her tactics, surprised him byflinging herself to the rail.

The junk was veering away as the Vandalia's blades took hold.

She poised on the top rail, drew herself together, and leaped!

The junk slid into the mist.

CHAPTER VIII

Peter was conscious of a hot stickiness at his throat where the clawshad taken hold. Then he concerned himself with the gray shape that layquite still on the iron deck at his feet. New enemies from otherquarters, he realized, might strike at any instant.

Gathering up the limp form, he climbed the ladder to the darkenedpromenade deck and up another flight through the tarpaulin cover to theboat-deck. Opening the wireless-house door, he deposited his burdengently upon the carpet, and switched on the light. Then he turned thekey in the lock, and examined his find. A long, gray bag of some heavymaterial swathed the small figure from head to foot. There was no signof life.

Yelping arose from the river. It was still dark. The sampan coolieswere out early. Peter listened, becoming thoughtful as a solutionseemed to present itself to his problem.

He went out on deck and beckoned to one of them to stand by.

A swaying coolie in the stern of the nearest craft caught sight of him.

"Hie! Hie!" The wagging paddle became mad. The sampan slipped underthe towering shadow and brought up with a smack against the movingblack hull.

Peter pried up the tarpaulin life-boat cover, dragged out a coil ofdirty rope, made one end fast at the foot of the davit, and tossed theother end overside. The coolie caught it and clung.

Re-entering the wireless cabin, Peter opened his pocket-knife and slitthe cord at the head.

A mass of curly, brown hair flowed out upon the carpet. There was asilken lisp of underskirts. A faint sigh.

Peter suddenly turned his head. Black, glassy eyes were riveted uponhis from the after window. They vanished.

He jumped up, bolted to the deck, and stood still, listening.

The scuffle of a foot sounded on the port side. Some one was runningforward. He plunged after. The footsteps stopped sharply coincidentwith a dull smash, a frantic grunt. The pursued reeled to the deck,groaning.

Peter pounced upon him, grabbed his collar, and dragged him across thedeck into the wireless house.

"Mr. Moore, the captain told me——" whimpered Dale.

Peter knocked him into the chair, opened the toolbox, and extracted alength of phosphor-bronze aerial wire. Binding the wiggling arms tothe chair, he made the ends fast behind.

Snapping out the lights, he gathered the gray bag into his arms anddeposited it on the deck in the narrow space between the life-boat andthe edge. He looked down. The coolie was staring up, clinging to therope, waiting.

The bag slipped down half-way. A warm moist hand clutched at hiswrist. A faint moan issued from the unseen lips. He jerked again.The bag came away free, and he tossed it overboard. The yellow currentsnatched it instantly from sight.

The hand clung desperately at his wrist. "Don't let them——" began asweet voice in his ear.

He wrapped his legs around the rope and worked his way over the edge."Arms around my neck!" he commanded hoarsely. "Hold tight!"

Soft arms enfolded him. They dangled at the edge.

The coarse rope slipped swiftly through his fingers, scorching thepalms, seeming to rake at the bones in his hand.

A wild shout came from the wireless house. An echo, forward, answered.

They slipped, twisting, scraping, down the rough strand. His handsseemed hot enough to burst. Maddened blood throbbed at his eyes, hisears, and dried his throat. Dimmed lights of the promenade deck soaredupward. A glimmering port-hole followed.

For an eternity they dangled, then shot downward.

Something popped in Peter's ears. His feet struck a yielding deck. Hestaggered backward, sprawled. The rope was whipped from his hand. Thewarm arms still clung about his neck.

As the world wheeled, a drunken universe, a sullen voice yelped at hisear. The arms loosened.

The Vandalia twinkled closely and was swept into the mist, a blur, aphantom. His hands blazed with infernal fire.

He sat up and looked behind him. The river was murderously dark.Water gurgled under the flimsy bow. The dull tread of feet and awatery flailing behind him advised Peter that the coolie was strugglingagainst the rushing current.

Slowly he became conscious of a weight upon his breast, a low sobbing.A delicate, feminine odor brought him to earth, unraveled his tangledwits.

He was sitting upon the wet floor of the sampan's low cabin. Hiscaptive had crept close to him for protection. Protection! Hesnorted, wondering if the coolie was licensed.

"Hai! Hai! Woo-Sung way." The voice was villainously stubborn.

"Shanghai-way. Kuai cho—hurry!" roared Peter. A sigh escaped fromthe girl. She snuggled closer. "Woo-Sung. Pu-shih! Savvy?"

"Hai! Mebbe can do." The sampan reared, braving the direct onslaughtof the Whang-poo's swift tide.

A myriad of questions in his brain strove for utterance. But the girlspoke first.

"Who are you?" she whispered. "I am Eileen Lorimer."

"I am—I was the wireless operator of the Vandalia."

The coolie paused a moment for breath, then the mad plunging of thepaddle sounded again.

"The wireless operator? You heard my call?"

"Been waiting for China's lights—ever since. But how—what?" hedemanded.

She was silent a moment. "I know the code. My brother owned a privatestation. We lived in Pasadena—ages ago. It does seem ages." Shestirred feebly. "You don't mind?"

"No, no," he protested.

"I am afraid—such a long time. Weeks? Years?" She shuddered. "I donot know. Oh—I want to go home!"

The coolie broke into a working sing-song as he struggled. The tideshould shift before long.

"Were you in the loft above Ah Sih King's?"

"Roped! I broke loose."

"The red note?"

"I scribbled with a nail, and threw it before she knocked me down.That woman was a demon!"

A pale, yellow glow seemed to body forth from the enshrouding mist.Dawn was breaking. Soon the great river would be alight.

"School-teacher," the girl was murmuring. "A wedding present forher—in Ah Sih King's." A small hand fumbled for his, and found it."In the back room they began gibbering at me. And this demon came.Meaningless words—Ah Sih King leered. Called me the luckiest woman inChina."

"But how did you know?"

An empty freighter with propellers flailing half out of water poundedthrough the yellow mist close to them.

"Hie! Hie!" shrilled the coolie's warning.

Light seeped through the doorway. The outlines of a dark skirt weresilhouetted against the scrubbed white floor.

"He said when I saw the lights of China I would go aboard a beautifulship. She was watching you. Three times our stateroom was changed.Always at night."

"You used a coil?" Peter was professionally interested on this point.

The girl murmured affirmatively. "She had some affliction. A SanFrancisco doctor said the electric machine would cure it. And Ipretended to use it, too. But it broke down that night."

The yellow light grew stronger. Equipment of the cabin emerged: acrock of rice and fish, a corked jug, a bundle of crude chop-sticksbound with frayed twine, a dark mess of boiled sea-weed on a greasyslab.

He looked down. The girl moved her head. Their eyes met.

Timid, gray ones with innocent candor searched him. Shining dark hairrippled down either side of a pale, lovely face. She was younger thanhe had expected, more beautiful than he had hoped. Her rosebud of amouth trembled in the overtures of a smile.

His feelings were divided between admiration for her and horror—shehad escaped so narrowly. In the realization of that moment Petershaped his course. His following thought was of finances.

He brought to light a handful of change. Less than one dollar,disregarding four twenty-cent Hu-Peh pieces; hardly enough to pay offthe sampan coolie.

His charge sighed helplessly, thereby clinching his resolution. "Ihaven't a penny," she said.

He explored the side-pocket of his coat, hoping against fact that hehad not changed his bill-fold to his grip. His fingers encountered anunfamiliar object.

The struggling pantheress flashed into his mind. And the wrinkledenvelope she had drawn from her satin jacket and pressed into his hand.Past dealings with Chinese gave him the inkling that he had beenunknowingly bribed.

A scarlet stamp, a monograph, was imposed in the upper right corner ofthe pale blue oblong.

"Money—Chinese bills. Full of them!" Miss Lorimer gasped. "I saw it.What are they for? And why did that dreadful woman——"

"Jet-t-e-e-ee!" sang the coolie, swinging the oar hard over. Thesampan grated against a landing. "Shanghai. Ma-tou! Hān liangbu dung yāng che lāi!"

Peter was counting the pack. "Fifty one-thousand-dollar Bank of Chinabills!"

Excited yelpings occurred on the ma-tou. The rickshaw coolies weredickering for their unseen fare.

Peter tossed the sampan boy all the coins he had, and left him togibber over them as he lifted the girl to the jetty. She clung to hisarm, trembling, as the coolies formed a grinning, shouting circle aboutthem. More raced in from the muddy bund.

"What are we going to do?" she groaned.

"We are going to cable your mother that you are starting for home bythe first steamer," Peter cried, swinging her into the cleanest andmost comfortable rickshaw of the lot. "The Mongolia sails thisafternoon."

"What will become of you?" she demanded.

Peter gave her his ingenuous smile. "I will vanish—for a while.Otherwise I may vanish—permanently."

Miss Lorimer reached out with her small white hand and touched hissleeve. They were jouncing over the Su-Chow bridge, on their way tothe American Consulate. "Won't I see you again? Ever?" She lookedbewildered and lost, as if this strange old land had proved too muchfor her powers of readjustment. Her rosebud mouth seemed to quiver."Are you in danger, Mr. Moore?"

Peter glimpsed a very yellow, supercilious face swinging in hisdirection from the padding throng.

"A little, perhaps," he conceded.

"Because of me?"

The yellow face reappeared and was swallowed again by the crowd, as aspeck of mud is engulfed by the Yangtze.

Miss Lorimer repeated her question. Peter shook his head in anextravagant denial, and helped her down from the rickshaw. They hadstopped before the consulate in the American quarter.

"I'm leaving you here," he said.

"But—but I like you!" her small voice faltered. "Aren't you going toexplain—anything? Is this—is this all?"

Peter smothered his rising feelings under an air of important haste."Your way lies there"—he pointed down river. "For the present minelies here"—and he jerked a thumb in the general direction ofShanghai's narrow muddy alleys.

"Shall I—won't you—gracious!" Miss Lorimer stared into her lefthand. Two one-thousand-dollar Bank of China bills were folded upon it.She was confused. When she looked back the young man who hadmiraculously delivered her from an unguessable fate had been spiritedwith Oriental magic from her sight.

CHAPTER IX

The bund of Shanghai was striped with the long, purple shadows ofcoming night, a night which seemed to be creeping out of the heart ofthe land, ushering with it a feeling of subtle tension, as though thetouch of darkness stirred to wakefulness a populace of shadows, whichskulked and crouched and whispered, comprising an underworld ofsinister folk which the first glow of dawn would send scampering backto a thousand evil-smelling hiding-places.

The rhythmic chant of coolies on the river ended. Mammoth go-downs,where the products of China flowed on their way to distant countries,became gloomily silent and empty. Handsome, tall sikhs, the police ofthe city, appeared in twos and threes where only one had been stationedbefore; for in China, as elsewhere, wickedness is borne on the night'swings.

With the descent of the velvety darkness the late wireless operator ofthe transpacific greyhound, the Vandalia, slipped out of an obscure,shadowy doorway on Nanking Road and directed his steps toward theglittering bund, where he was reasonably sure his enemies would havedifficulty in recognizing him.

Peter's uniform now reposed on a dark shelf in the rear of a silkshop.He had no desire to be stabbed in the back, which was a probability incase certain up-river men should find him. The Chinese gentleman whoconducted the silkshop was an old friend, and trustworthy.

Peter now wore the garb of a Japanese merchant. His feet weresandaled. His straight, lithe figure was robed in an expensive graysilk kimono. Jammed tight to his ears, in good Nipponese fashion, wasa black American derby. His eyebrows were penciled in a fairlypraiseworthy attempt to reproduce the Celestial slant, and he carried alight bamboo cane.

Yet the ex-operator of the Vandalia was not altogether sure that thedisguise was a success. If the scowling yellow face he had detectedamong the throngs on the bund that morning should have followed him tothe silk-shop, of what earthly use was this silly disguise?

He padded along in the lee of a money-changer's, keeping close to thewall. By degrees he became aware that he was followed; and heendeavored to credit the feeling to imagination, to raw nerves. Aghostly rickshaw flitted by. The soft chugging of the coolie's barefeet became faint, ceased. A muttering old woman waddled past.

He looked behind him in time to see a gaunt face, lighted by the dimglow of a shop window, bob out of sight into a doorway. Turning againa moment later, he saw the man dive into another doorway.

Peter ran to the dark aperture, seized a muscular, satin-covered arm,and dragged a whispering Chinese, a big, brawny fellow, into thecircular zone of the yellow street-light. Quickly recovering from hissurprise, the Chinese reached swiftly toward his belt. Peter, hopingthat only one man had been set on his trail, gave a murderous yell, andat the same time drove his fist into a yielding paunch.

With a groan the Chinese staggered back against the shop window, cavingin a pane with his elbow. Peter raised his fist to strike again.

Then a monumental figure, with a clean turban coiled about his head,strode austerely into the circle of yellow light.

"Ta dzoh shēn mō szi?"

"Thief," said Moore simply, indicating the broken shop window.

"Lāo shēn lāo shēn!" growled the sikh. He seized theluckless window-breaker by both shoulders, backed him against an irontrolley-post, and strapped him to it.

With a jovial, "Allah be with you!" Peter Moore continued his strolltoward the bund. Now that the trailer was out of his way for the nightat least, he could make his way in peace to the Palace bar and find outwhat might be in the wind for him.

As he crossed Nanking Road where it joined the bund, a frantic shout,mingled with a scream of fear or of warning, impelled him to leap outof the path of a rickshaw which was making for him at a breakneckspeed. A white face, with a slender gloved hand clutched close to thelips, swept past.

Peter gasped in surprise quite as staggering as if the girl in therickshaw had slapped him across the face. He shouted after her. Butshe went right on, without turning.

"Licksha?" A grinning coolie dropped the shafts of an empty rickshawat Peter Moore's heels.

He ceased being angry as a softer glow crept into his veins. Therickshaw turned to the right, following the other, which occupied thecenter of the almost deserted bund, and speeding like the wind.

"Ní chü bà!" shouted Peter Moore. The girl seemed to be headed forthe bund bridge. But why? A number of questions stormed futilely inhis brain. Why had the girl ignored him? Why had she not gone aboardthe Manchuria, as she had promised?

The coolie joggled along, his naked legs rising and fallingmechanically. The wireless operator drew the folds of the kimono moreclosely about his throat, for the night air blowing off the Whang-poowas chill and damp.

At the bridge the rickshaw ahead suddenly stopped, waiting. PeterMoore drew alongside, and leaped to the ground.

The near-by street-light afforded him the information that he had madea mistake. Undeniably similar to the girl he had sent away on theManchuria that morning was the young lady in the rickshaw. She hadthe same white, wistful face, the same alert, appealing eyes, the samerosebud mouth. Any one might have made such a mistake. It was veryembarrassing.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded.

"I thought I knew you. I am sorry. I'll go at once."

"No! Wait." Her volte relented. It was a fresh young voice, notindeed unlike that of Miss Lorimer's. She was smiling. "Why are youdressed as a Jap?"

"I am sorry," Peter faltered, retreating. "Mistake. You're not thegirl I—I expected. Sayonara!"

"Please don't run away," said the girl with a soft laugh. "I'm notafraid, or I would have run, instead of waiting, when you followed me.I've just come up from Amoy—alone. And I leave to-morrow forChing-Fu—alone. You're American!" she murmured. "But why theJap—disguise? I'm American, too. I used to live in New York, onRiverside Drive. Oh! It must have been ages ago!"

"Why?" asked Peter unguardedly.

"I haven't met one of my countrymen in centuries! And to-morrow I goup the river, 'way beyond Ching-Fu, beyond Szechwan!"

"Bad travelling on the river this time of the year," Peter murmuredpolitely. "She's out of her banks up above Ichang, I have been told."

"Yes," replied the girl sadly. "If I could only have just one eveningof fun—a dance or two, maybe—I—I—wouldn't mind half so much.I—I——"

Peter advised himself as follows: I told you so. Aloud he said:

"I believe there's a dance at the Astor Hotel. If we can get atable——"

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed the girl. "Do—do you mind very—much?"

"Tickled to death," Peter declared amiably.

CHAPTER X

At a small round table in the end of the room over which hung theorchestra balcony, Peter found himself in the presence of two disarminggray eyes, which drank in every detail of his good-looking young face,including the penciled eyebrows.

Miss Vost—Miss Amy Vost—gave him to understand that she was reallygrateful for his hospitality, rushed on to assure him that it was notcustomary for her to meet strange young men as she had met him, andthen frankly asked him what he was doing in China. Every time shethought of him her curiosity seemed to trip over the Japanese kimono.

Influenced by his third glass of Japanese champagne, he almost told herthe truth. He modified it by saying that he was a wireless operator;that he had missed his ship, and that his plans were to linger in Chinafor a while. He liked China. Liked China very much.

Miss Vost caressed the tip of her nose with a small, pink thumb. Shewas not the kind who hesitated.

"You can do me a favor," she said, and halted.

The Philippine orchestra burst into a lilting one-step. Miss Vostarched her eyebrows. Peter arose, and they glided off. It developedthat Miss Vost was well qualified. There was divineness in heryouthful grace; she put her heart into the dance. It seemed probableto Peter Moore that she put her heart into everything she did.

"You spoke about my doing a favor," he suggested, glancing sternly at adark-eyed Eurasian girl who seemed to be trying to divert his attention.

"There is a man in Shanghai I want you to try to find for me—to-night.Last time I saw him—this morning—he was drunk. He was the firstofficer on the steamer that brought me up from Amoy. Perhaps you knowhim. He's only been on the coast a short while. Before that he ran onthe Pacific Mail Line between San Francisco and Panama. His name isMacLaurin, a nice boy. Scotch. But he drinks."

"MacLaurin? I know a man named MacLaurin—Bobbie MacLaurin."

"No!" gasped Miss Vost. "I suppose I ought to make that old remarkabout what a small world it is! Do you know where Bobbie MacLaurin is?"

"No," he murmured. "Why is he drunk?"

"That is a matter," replied Miss Vost, somewhat distantly, "that Iprefer not to discuss. Will you try to find him for me? He threatenedto be—be captain of the river-boat, the Hankow, that I leave onto-morrow for Ching-Fu. I'd rather like to know if he intends to carryout his threat. Will you find out, if you can, if he is going to besober enough to make the trip—and let me know?" requested Miss Vost,as the music stopped. "I'd rather he wouldn't, Mr. Moore," she addedquickly. "But I do wish you were going to make the trip. I'd loveto have you!"

The ex-operator of the Vandalia experienced a warm suffusion in thevicinity of his throat. In the next breath he felt genuinely guilty.As he looked deep into the anxious, appealing gray eyes of Miss Vost,he cursed himself for being, or having the tendencies to be, a trifler;and in his estimation a trifler was not far removed from the reptileclass. Yet somehow, damn it, that trip to Ching-Fu on the Hankowappealed to him now as a most profitable excursion, for Ching-Fu wasonly a few hundred li from Len Yang.

Something of the doughtiness of a mongoose marching into a den ofmonster cobras characterized Peter Moore's intention to penetrate thestronghold of the cinnabar king. He knew that his chances for enteringLen Yang were absurdly small. Yet the whole of the Chinese Empire wasnot particularly safe for him now. The Gray Dragon had paid him thecompliment of recognizing in him an enemy. He no longer doubtedMinion's warning; the dragon of Len Yang controlled a powerfulorganization. No part of China was safe. If he desired to run awayfrom this very actual danger in which direction could he run?

"When menaced by danger," runs an old Chinese proverb, "go to thevery heart of it; there you will find safety."

It lacked a few minutes of midnight when Peter entered the Palace barby the bund side. Only a few lights were burning, and the exceedinglylong teak bar—"the longest bar east of Suez"—was adorned by a fewknots of men only. Tobacco smoke was thick in the place, nearlyobscuring the doorway into the hotel lobby.

He scanned the idlers, looking for the cloth of sailormen. His questwas ended. Bobbie MacLaurin was here, disposing of all of the importedScotch whiskey that came convenient to his long and muscular reach.

In a deep and sonorous voice he was pointing out to a group ofuniformed sailors, burdening his point with a club-like forefinger withwhich he pounded on the edge of the teak bar, that while he rarelydrank off duty, he never drank when on. This claim Peter had reason toknow was not untrue.

The wireless operator edged his way to MacLaurin's side, and touchedhis arm, making a whispered remark which the Scotchman evidently didnot comprehend. For MacLaurin wheeled on him, and bestowed upon him ared, glassy, and hotly indignant stare.

Bobbie MacLaurin was, in the language of the sea, a whale of a man.His head seemed unnecessarily large until you began to compare it withhis body; and his body was the despair of uniform manufacturers, whodesire above all things to make a fair percentage of profit. He waslike a living monument, two and a half hundred weight of fighting fleshand bones, which, when all of it went into action, could better becompared to a volcano than to a monument. Otherwise he was anexceedingly amiable young giant.

The redness and hotness of the stare he imposed upon the friend of morethan one adventurous expedition slowly receded, leaving only theglassiness in evidence. Bobbie fidgeted uneasily.

"Damn my hide!" he roared. "Your face is familiar! It is! It is!Where have I seen that face before? Ah! I know now! I had a fightwith you once."

"More than once," corrected Peter Moore, grinning. "The last time wasin Panama. Remember? I tripped you up, after you knocked the wind outof me, and you fell, clothes and all, into the Washington Hotel'sswimming tank."

"Peter Moore!" gasped Bobbie MacLaurin, and Peter Moore was smotheredin log-like arms and the fumes of considerable alcohol.

Extricating himself at length from this monstrous embrace, Peterpermitted himself to be held off at arm's length and be warmly andloquaciously admired.

"My old side-kick of the damn old San Felipe!" announced BobbieMacLaurin to the small group of somewhat embarrassed sailors. "Thebest radio man that God ever let live! He can hear a radio signalbefore it's been sent. Can't you, Peter? Boys, take a long look atthe only livin' man who can fight his weight in sea serpents; the onlylivin' man who ever knocked me cold, and got away with it! Boys, takea long, lastin' look, for the pack o' you're goin' out o' that doorinside of ten counts! God bless 'um! Just look at that there Japget-up! Sure as God made big fish to eat the little fellows, PeterMoore's up to some newfangled deviltry, or I'm a lobster!"

"Sh!" warned Peter Moore, conscious that in China the walls, doors,floors, ceilings, windows, even the bartenders, have ears.

"Out with the lot of you!" barked MacLaurin. "There's big businessafoot to-night. We must be alone. Eh, Peter?"

And Peter was convinced that business could not be talked overto-night. Of one thing only did he wish to be certain.

"You're taking the Hankow up-river to-morrow?"

"That I am, Peter!"

"Then we'll take the express for Nanking to-morrow morning."

"Aye—aye! Sir!"

"We'll turn in now. Otherwise you'll look like a wreck when Miss Vostsees you."

"Miss Vost!" exploded MacLaurin. "When did you see Miss Vost?"

"A little while ago, Bob. Shall we turn in now?"

"Miss Vost is why I'm drunk, Peter," said Bobbie MacLaurin sadly.

"So she admitted. To-morrow we'll talk her over, and other importantmatters."

"As you say, Peter. I'm the brawn, but you're the brains of thisteam—as always! The bunks are the order."

When Bobbie MacLaurin's not unmusical snore proceeded from the vastbulk disposed beneath the white bedclothes, Peter Moore again descendedto the lobby, let himself into the street, and hailed a rickshaw.

The mist from the Whang-poo had changed to a slanting rain. The bundwas a ditch of clay-like mud. Each street light was a halo unto itself.

He lighted a cigarette, suffered the coolie to draw up the clammyoilskin leg-robe to his waist, and dreamily contemplated the quagmirethat was Shanghai.

The rickshaw crossed the Soochow-Creek bridge and drew up, dripping,under the porte-cochère of the Astor House Hotel, where a majesticIndian door-tender emerged from the shadows, bearing a large, openedumbrella.

Contrary to her promise Miss Vost was not waiting for his message.However, she sent back word by the coolie, that she would dress andcome down, if he desired her to. Peter pondered a moment. A glimpseof Miss Vost at this time of night meant nothing to him. Or was hehungry for that glimpse? Nonsense!

He dashed off a hasty note, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it tothe room-boy to deliver.

He pictured her sleepy surprise as she opened it, and read:

Bobbie seems much put out. We take morning express to Nanking. Try tomake it. We'll have tea, the three of us, at Soochow.

At Soochow! There he was—at it again! A trifler.

"Damn my withered-up sense of honor, anyway!" observed Peter Moore tohimself, as he climbed into the rain-soaked rickshaw.

CHAPTER XI

With the pristine dawn, Robert MacLaurin arose from his bed like alarge, yellow mountain; for his pajamas—every square yard ofthem—were of fine Canton silk, the color of the bulbous moon when itreposes low on China's horizon.

Satisfying himself at length that the bedroom had another occupant, hedrained the contents of a fat, white water-jug, then tossed the jugupon the incumbent of the bedroom's other bed.

At such times as this critical one, the smiling destiny which held thefate of Peter Moore in the hollow of her precious hand was everwatchful, and the white water-jug caromed from his peaceful figure withno more than an unimportant thud. The jug bounded to the floor andended its career against the hard wall. Peter Moore sat up, rubbinghis eyes.

"Dead or alive, Peter?"

"You nearly broke my back."

"Serves you right, old slug-abed! You tucked me in last night with thewarning that we pick up the early express for Nanking."

"Quite so," admitted Peter Moore thickly. In the past two days he hadmanaged to set aside altogether four hours for sleep; and he felt thatway. He examined his room-mate, but was not surprised at what met hisglance.

Bobbie MacLaurin, disregarding the fact that he had not yet shaved,looked as fresh as a rose. His endurance was like that of a range ofmountains. His sea-blue eyes were cannily clear, his complexion wastransparent and glowing. The ill effects of last night had beenabsorbed with about as much apparent effort as a gigantic sponge mightdisplay in absorbing a dewdrop.

"Chinamen's eyes and Chinamen's knives have been running through mydreams," Peter muttered.

"Cheer up! The pirates are thick above Ichang. We'll both have ourbloody necks slit a dozen times before we make Ching-Fu." Bobbieturned from the miniature mirror. His sea-blue eyes glared through awhite lake of lather. "Hurry up and shave, you loafer! We'll missthat train."

"I'm not going to shave for six months!"

"Election bet?"

"When your utterly worthless life has been endangered as many timesas——"

"What you need is a drink, my lad!"

"When you have evidence that the greatest criminal-at-large wants tohave you stuck like a pig——"

MacLaurin swung his big frame about and stared. "You're not serious."

"I am referring to—a Gray Dragon. Ever hear of one?"

The razor in the large, red hand of Bobbie MacLaurin flashed. It cameaway from his cheek. A broad trickle of crimson spread down thelathered jaw, But he did not curse.

"We must hurry for that train," rumbled his big voice. "We must talkthis over. We must hurry, Peter," he said again.

Miss Amy Vost was not in evidence when the two rickshaws rattled up tothe platform of the red brick station.

"Perhaps she's waiting for us in the coach, holding seats for us,"Peter suggested.

"Just like her," said MacLaurin. "She's a little peach!"

Peter entered the compartment first and scanned the heads. The onlytresses in evidence were the long, black, shining ones of a bejeweledChinese lady. The other passengers were men.

"There will be no tête-à-tête in Soochow," observed Peter Moore to hisconscience.

"I'd go to hell for that girl!" declared Bobbie MacLaurin as he satdown at Peter's side. "Now, tell me what you were doing in that Japrigging. Two years, isn't it, since we were chased out of Panama Cityby the spigotties?"

"I came over on the Vandalia."

"And didn't go back, I gather."

"She sailed up-river for Soo-chow yesterday. No, I won't go back.Bobbie, I started something on that ship, and I'm on my way toChing-Fu—and 'way beyond Ching-Fu—to finish it."

"It will be beautifully finished, Peter! Or your name's not Moore."

"There was a girl, a beautiful girl——"

"There usually is," MacLaurin sighed.

Peter gazed bitterly at the scenery flitting evenly past the window:groves of feathery bamboo, flaming mustard fields, exquisite gardens,and graves—graves beyond count.

"Perhaps she is passing through the Inland Sea by now. Bobbie, Iwanted her to go home. She was—she was that kind of a girl. Shewanted to stay. Bobbie, that girl could have made a man of me!She—she even told me she—liked me!"

"They have a way of doing that," commented Bobbie sadly.

Several miles rolled by before either of the men spoke.

"Why is Miss Vost making the trip to Ching-Fu?"

"You'll have to find that out, Peter. I was too busy letting her knowhow bright my life has become since she entered it!"

The square, red jaw swung savagely toward Peter. Of a sudden thesea-blue eyes seemed a trifle inflamed. "She's probably going toChing-Fu on serious business. She's like that. She's not like you!"

"What do you mean?" said Peter.

"You're going to try to break into Len Yang; that's what I mean! Someday, on one of these reckless expeditions of yours, Peter, you're goingto run plumb into a long, sharp knife! If I could head you off, Iwould."

"You can't, Bobbie. My mind is made up."

"Get out of China. Why enter the lion's den? You're too confiding,too trusting, too young. In duty to my conscience, I oughtn't to letyou go. But I know you'd walk or fly or swim if I tried to head youoff."

"I certainly would," agreed Peter.

CHAPTER XII

No member of the earth's great brotherhood of dangerous waterways isblessed with quite the degree of peril which menaces those hardy oneswho dare the River of the Golden Sands.

Bobbie MacLauren's steamer, the Hankow, was the net result of longship-building experience. Dozens of apparently seaworthy boats havegone up the Yangtze-Kiang, not to return. After years of experiment asomewhat satisfactory river-boat has been evolved. It combines thesturdiness of a sea-going tug with the speed of a torpedo-boatdestroyer.

The Hankow was ridiculously small, and monstrously strong. Chieflyit consisted of engines and boilers. Despite their security, despitethe shipwrecks and deaths that have been poured into their presentdesign, Yangtze river-boats sink, a goodly crop of them, every season.

But the world of commerce is an arrogant master. There is wealth inthe land bordering the upper reaches of the river. This wealth must bebrought down to the sea, and scattered to the lands beyond the sea. Inreturn, machinery and tools must be carried back to mine and farm thewealth.

Little is heard, less is told, and still less is written of the men whodare the rapids and the rocks and the sands of the great river.Sometimes the spirit of adventure sends them up the Yangtze.Frequently, as is the case with men who depart unexplainedly upondangerous errands, a woman is the inspiration, or merely the cause.

Miss Amy Vost, of New York City, but more recently of Amoy, China,province Fu-Kien, was the generator in the case of Bobbie MacLaurin.

When Miss Vost tripped blithely aboard the Sunyado Maru, anchored offthe breaks of Amoy, and captured, at first blush, the hearts of theentire forward crew, Bobbie MacLaurin was the most eager prisoner ofthe lot.

Perhaps she took notice of him out of the corner of her glowing youngeyes long before he became seriously and mortally afflicted. Certainlythe first mate of the Sunyado Maru was no believer in the theory ofnon-resistance.

Had Miss Vost been a susceptible young woman, it is safe to assume thatBobbie MacLaurin would not have accepted command of the Hankow fromtide-water to that remote Chinese city, Ching-Fu.

He wooed her in the pilot-house—where passengers were never allowed;he courted her in the dining-room; and he paid marked attention to herat all hours of the day and night, in sundry nooks and corners of thegenerous promenade deck.

Miss Vost sparred with him. As well as being lovely and captivating,she was clever. She seemed to agree with the rule of the philosopherwho held that conversation was given to mankind simply for purposes ofevasion. By the end of the first week Bobbie MacLaurin was earningsour glances from his staid British captain, and glances not at allencouraging from Miss Vost.

He informed her that all of the beauty and all of the wonder of thestars, the sea, the moonlight, could not equal the splendor of herwide, gray eyes. She replied that the moon, the stars, and the sea hadgone to his head.

He insisted that her smile could only be compared to the sunrise on adewy rose-vine. He threw his big, generous heart at her feet a hundredtimes. Being fair and sympathetic, she did not kick it to one side.She merely side-stepped.

He closed that evening's interview with the threat that he would followher to the very ends of the earth. She gave him the opportunity,literally, by observing dryly that her destination was precisely at theworld's end—in the hills of Szechuen, to be exact.

He took the breath out of her mouth by saying that he would travel onthe same river-boat with her to Ching-Fu, if he had to scrub down decksfor his passage. She told him not to be a silly boy; that he was,underneath his uncouthness, really a dear, but that he didn't knowwomen.

When the Sunyado Maru dropped anchor off Woo-sung, Miss Vost letBobbie hold her hand an instant longer than was necessary, andstubbornly refused to accompany him in the same sampan—or the sametug—to the customs jetty. Summarily, she went up the Whang-poo allalone, while Bobbie, biting his finger-nails, purposely quarreled withthe staid British captain, and was invited to sign off, which he did.

Through devious subterranean channels Bobbie MacLaurin found that theberth of master on the Hankow was vacant, the latest incumbent havingrelinquished his spirit to cholera. Was he willing to assume thetremendous responsibility? He was tremendously willing! Did hepossess good papers? He most assuredly did!

When the Shanghai express rolled into the Nanking station, BobbieMacLaurin climbed into a rattling rickshaw and clattered off in thedirection of the river-front, registering the profound hope that MissVost had somehow managed to reach the Hankow ahead of him. PeterMoore, who knew China's ancient capital like a book, struck off in adiagonal direction on foot.

He made his way to a Chinese tailor's, who bought from him the Japanesecostume and sold him a suit of gray tweeds, which another customer hadfailed to call for. While not an adornment, the gray tweeds werecomfortably European, a relief from the flapping, clumsy kimono.

He wanted to have a little talk with Miss Vost before she saw Bobbie.He had so much affection for Bobbie that he wanted to ask Miss Vost toplease not be unnecessarily cruel with him. He did not know that MissVost was never unnecessarily cruel to any living creature; for he madethe mistake there of classifying all women into the good and the cruel,of which Miss Vost seemed to be among the latter. As a matter of fact,Miss Vost was simply a young woman very far from home, compelled tobelieve in and on occasion to resort to primitive methods ofself-defense.

Peter took a rickshaw to the river. He picked out the Hankow amongthe clutter of shipping, anchored not far from shore, and out of reachof the swift current which rushed dangerously down midchannel. Blacksmoke issued from her single chubby funnel. Blue-coated coolies spedto and fro on her single narrow deck. Bobbie MacLaurin leaned far outacross the rail as Peter's sampan slapped smartly alongside. Thecoolie thrashed the water into yellowy foam.

"Have you seen Miss Vost?" shouted MacLaurin above the hiss of escapingsteam. "We pull out in an hour, Miss Vost or no Miss Vost. That'sorders."

Peter, reaching the deck, scanned the pagoda-dotted shore-front."She'll be here," he said.

Pu-Chang, the Hankow's pilot, a slender, grayed Chinese, grown oldbefore his time, in the river service, sidled between them, smilingmistily, and asked his captain if the new tow-line had been delivered.While MacLaurin went to make inquiries, Peter watched a sampan, bow on,floating down-stream, with the intention, evidently, of makingconnections with the Hankow's ladder. On her abrupt foredeck was aslim figure of blue and white.

Startled a little by recollection, Peter leaned far out. For a momenthe had imagined the white face to be that of Eileen Lorimer. Thedemure attitude of Miss Vost's hands, caught by the finger-tips beforeher, gave further grounds to Peter Moore for the comparison. Her youthand innocence had as much to do with it as anything, for there wasundeniably an air of youth and extreme innocence about Miss Vost.

Something in the shape of a triumphant bellow was roared from theengine-room companionway. Whereupon the companionway disgorged themonumental figure of Bobbie MacLaurin, grinning like a schoolboy at hisfirst party. He seized Miss Vost by both hands, swinging her neatly tothe deck.

She panted and fell back against the rail, holding her hand to herheart, and welcoming Bobbie MacLaurin by a glance that was not entirelycordial.

"The sampan boy hasn't been paid," she remarked, opening her purse."It's twenty cents."

While MacLaurin pulled a silver dollar from his pocket and spun it tothe anxious coolie, Miss Vost turned with the warmest of smiles toPeter. Rarely had any girl seemed more delighted to see him, forwhich, under the circ*mstances, he found it somewhat difficult to begrateful.

He experienced again that dull feeling of guilt. He felt that sheought to show more cordiality to Bobbie MacLaurin. Here was Bobbie,trailing after her like a faithful dog, on the most hazardous trip thatany man could devise, and he had not been rewarded, so far, with eventhe stingiest of smiles.

Women were like that. They took the fruits of your work, or they tookyour life, or let you toss it to the crows, without a sign ofgratitude. At least, some women were like that. He had hoped MissVost was not that kind. He had hoped——

Miss Vost laid her small, warm hand in his, and she seemed perfectlywilling to let it linger. Her lips were parted in a smile that was allbut a caress. She seemed to have forgotten that the baffled young manwho stared so fixedly at the back of her pretty, white neck existed.

It was quite embarrassing for Peter. The feeling of the little hand,that lay so intimately within his, sent a warm glow stealing into hisguilty heart.

Then, aware of the pain in the face of Bobbie MacLaurin, a face thathad abruptly gone white, and realizing his duty to this true friend ofhis, he pushed Miss Vost's hands away from him.

That gesture served to bring them all back to earth.

"Aren't you glad—aren't you a little bit glad—to see me—me?" saidthe hurt voice of Bobbie MacLaurin.

Miss Vost pivoted gracefully, giving Peter Moore a view of hersplendid, straight back for a change. "Of course I am, Bobbie!" sheexclaimed. "I'm always glad to see you. Why—oh, look! Did you eversee such a Chinaman?"

They all joined in her look. A salmon-colored sampan was ridingswiftly to the Hankow's riveted steel side. With long legs spreadwide apart atop the low cabin stood a very tall, very grave Chinese.His long, blanched face was more than grave, more than austere.

Peter Moore stared and ransacked his memory. He had seen that face,that grimace, before. His mind went back to the shop front, on NankingRoad, last evening, when he was skulking toward the bund from thefriendly establishment of his friend, the silk merchant, Ching Gow Ong.

This man was neither Cantonese nor Pekingese. His long, rathersupercilious face, his aquiline nose, the flare of his nostrils, theback-tilted head, the high, narrow brow, and the shock of blue-blackhair identified the Chinese stranger, even if his abnormal, rangyheight were not taken into consideration, as a hill man, perhapsTibetan, perhaps Mongolian. Certainly he was no river-man.

It seemed improbable that the window-breaker could have been releasedby the heartless Shanghai police so quickly; yet out of his ownadventurous past Peter could recall more than one occasion when"squeeze" had saved him embarrassment.

There was no constraint in the pose of the man on the sampan's flatroof. With indifference his narrow gaze flitted from the face ofBobbie MacLaurin to that of Miss Vost, and wandered on to the stern,sharp-eyed visage of Peter Moore.

Here the casual gaze rested. If he recognized Peter Moore, he gave noindication of it. He studied Peter's countenance with the look of onewhose interest may be distracted on the slightest provocation.

An intelligent and wary student of human nature, Peter dropped his eyesto the man's long, claw-like fingers. These were twitching ever soslightly, plucking slowly—it may have been meditatively—at the hem ofhis black silk coat. At the intentness of Peter's stare, thistwitching abruptly ceased.

The sampan whacked alongside. The big man tossed a small, orange-silkbag to the deck. He climbed the ladder as if he had been used toclimbing all his life.

"I don't care for his looks," remarked Miss Vost, looking up intoPeter's face with a curious smile.

"Nor I," said Bobbie MacLaurin.

The richly dressed stranger vaulted nimbly over the teak-rail,recovered the orange bag, and approached MacLaurin. His head droopedforward momentarily, in recognition of the authority of the blueuniform.

He said in excellent English: "I desire to engage passage to Ching-Fu."

"This way," replied the Hankow's captain.

"You seemed to recognize him," said Miss Vost to Peter, when they hadthe deck to themselves.

"Perhaps I was mistaken," replied Peter evasively. He suddenly wasaware of Miss Vost's wide-eyed look of concern.

Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. She had come up very closeto him. Her head moved back, so that her chin was almost on a levelwith his.

"Mr. Moore," she said in a low, soft voice, "I won't ask you anyquestions. In China, there are many, many things that a woman must nottry to understand. But I—I want to tell you that—that I think youare—splendid. It seems so fine, so good of you. I—I can't begin tothank you. My—my feelings prevent it."

"But—why—what—what——" stammered Peter.

"Oh, Mr. Moore, I know—I know!" Miss Vost proceeded earnestly. "Likeall fine, brave men, you are—you are modest! It—it almost makes mewant to cry, to think—to think——"

"But, Miss Vost," interrupted Peter, gently and gravely, "you areshooting over my head!"

In the rakish bows of the Hankow arose the clank and clatter of wetanchor-chains. A bell tinkled in the engine-room. The stout fabric ofthe little steamer shuddered. The yellow water began to slip by them.On the shore two pagodas moved slowly into alignment. The Hankow wasmoving.

Miss Vost strengthened her gentle hold upon Peter's reluctant arm. Herbright eyes were a trifle blurred. "Last night, when we met on thebund," she went on in a small voice, "I knewimmediately—immediately—what you were. A chivalrous gentleman! Aman who would shelter and protect any helpless woman he met!"

"That was nice of you," murmured Peter.

Like Saul of Tarsus, he was beginning to see a bright light.

"And it was true!" Miss Vost plunged on. "Now—now, you are riskingyour life—for poor, unworthy little me! Please don't deny it, Mr.Moore! I only wanted to let you know that I—I understand, and that Iam—g-grateful!" Her eyelids fluttered over an unstifled moistness.

"Bobbie loves you," blurted Peter. "He'd do anything in the worldfor you. He told me so. He told me——"

Miss Vost opened her eyes on a look that was hurt and humiliated."What?"

"He'd go to hell for you!"

"He's an overgrown boy. He doesn't know what he says. That'snonsense," declared Miss Vost, looking away from Peter. "I know histype, Mr. Moore. He falls in love with every pretty face; and he fallsout again, quite as easily."

"You don't know Bobbie, the way I do," said Peter stubbornly.

"I don't have to. I know his kind—a girl in every port."

"No, no. Not Bobbie!"

For a moment it seemed that they had come to an impasse. Miss Vostwas blinking her eyes rapidly, appearing to be somewhat interested in ajunk which was poling down-stream.

She looked up with a wan smile. Tears were again in her eyes. "Mr.Moore," she said in a broken voice, "what you've told me about Mr.MacLaurin, Captain MacLaurin, moves me—deeply!"

"Do try to be nice to Bobbie," begged Peter. "He is the finest fellowI know. He is true blue. He would give his life for your littlefinger. Really he would, Miss Vost!"

The bright eyes gave him a languishing look.

"I'll try," she said simply.

That night the banks of the great river were gray and mysterious underthe effulgence of a top-heavy yellow moon. The search-light on thepeak pierced out the fact that a low, swirling mist was creeping upfrom the river's dulled surface.

The air was damp with the breath of the land. Occasionally the gentlepuffs of the wind bore along the water the flavor of queer,indistinguishable odors.

Elbow to elbow, glancing down at the hissing water, Miss Vost and Peterstood for a number of sweet, meditative moments in silence. At lengthMiss Vost slipped her arm through his.

"Sometimes," she murmured, inclining her head until it almost restedagainst his shoulder, "I feel lonely—terrible! Especially on such anight as this. The moon is so impersonal, isn't it? Here it is, agreat, gorgeous ball of cold fire, shining across China at you and me.In Amoy it seemed to frown at me. Now—it seems to smile. The samemoon!"

"The same moon!" whispered Peter as her warm hand slipped down andsnuggled in his.

"Don't you ever feel lonely—like this?" demanded Miss Vost suddenly.

Peter sighed. "Oh, often. Often! The world seems so big, and sofilled with things that are hard to learn. Especially at night!" Hewondered what she thought he meant.

"I—I feel that way," Miss Vost's absorbed voice replied. "I try—andtry—to reason these things out. But they are so baffling! Soelusive! So evasive! Here is China, with its millions of poorwretched ones, struggling in darkness and disease. There are so many!And they are so hard to help. And out beyond there, not so many milesbeyond that ridge, lies Tibet, with her millions, and her ignorance,and her disease. And to the left—away to the left, I think, is India.

"If a person would be happy, he must not come to China or India. Theirproblems are too overwhelming. You cannot think of solutions fastenough, and even while you think, you are overcome by the weariness,the hopelessness, of it all. I wish I had never come to China.

"I happened to be in Foo-Chow not long ago. There is in Foo-Chow athing that illustrates what I mean. It is called the baby tower.Girls, you know, aren't thought much of in China. At the bottom of thetower is a deep well. Women to whom are born baby girls go to the babytower——" Miss Vost shuddered. "The babies are thrown into the well.I have seen them. Poor—poor, little creatures—dying like that!"

Miss Vost sniffled for a moment. Brightly she said:

"I like to talk to you, Mr. Moore. You're so—so sympathetic!"

A great, dark shadow bulked up against the rail alongside Peter.

"Good evening, folks!" declared the pleasant bass voice of BobbieMacLaurin.

"We were just talking about you, Bobbie," said Peter affably. "As Iwas telling Miss Vost, you're the most sympathetic man I ever knew!Good night, Miss Vost. Night, Bobs!"

CHAPTER XIII

When Peter descended the stairway into the narrow vestibule whichserved as reception-hall, dining-saloon, and, incidentally, as thecorridor from which the Hankow's four small staterooms were entered,he had the chilly feeling that the darkness had eyes.

Yet he saw nothing. The cabin was dark. Three round ports glimmeredgreenly beyond the staircase on the cabin's forward side. The glimmerwas occasioned by the refracted rays of the Hankow's dazzlingsearchlight. But these were not the ones he felt.

Gradually his own eyes became accustomed to the pulp-like darkness. Hesteadied his body against the gentle swaying of the steamer, andendeavored to listen above, or through, the imminent thrashing andclattering of the huge engine.

He examined the four stateroom doors anxiously. As the darkness beganto dissolve slightly, Peter, still conscious that eyes were fastenedupon him, made the discovery that the stateroom adjoining his wasslightly ajar. The moon favored him—Miss Vost's impersonal moon. Itoutlined against the slit what appeared to be a large, irregular block.

Peter decided that the irregular block was nothing more nor less thanthe head of a man. To prove that his surmise was correct, Peterquickly shifted the revolver from his right hand to his left, broughtit even with his eyes and—struck a match.

In the startling flare of the phosphorus the evil glint of Celestialeyes was instantly revealed in the partly opened door.

With incredible softness the door was closed. Where there had beenhalf-lidded eyes, a positive snarl, and a shock of blue-black hair wasnow a white-enameled panel.

Peter continued to smile along the barrel, which glistened in the dyingflame of the match. He unlocked his door, closed it, and shot thebolt. Switching on the electric light, he cautiously drew back thesheet. Apparently satisfied, he sniffed the air. It was nothing morethan stuffy, as a stateroom that has been closed for a week or so isapt to be.

Unscrewing the fat wingbolts which clamped down the brass-boundport-glass, he let in a breath of misty river air. Simultaneouslyvoices came into the room.

Miss Vost and Bobbie MacLaurin were conversing in clear, tensesyllables. Peter could not help eavesdropping. They were standing onthe deck, directly over his stateroom, only a few scant feet from hisporthole, which was situated much nearer the deck than the surgingwater.

"But I do—I do love you!" Bobbie was complaining in his rumblingvoice. "Ever since you set foot on the old Sunyado Maru I've beenyour shadow—your slave! What more can any man say?" he added bitterly.

"Not a great deal," rejoined Miss Vost lightheartedly. She becameabruptly serious. "Bobbie, I do like you. I admire you—ever so much.But it happens that you are not the man for me. You don't understandme. You can never understand me. Don't you realize it? You're toosudden—too brutal—too——"

"Brutal! I've treated you like a flower. I want to shield you——"

"But I don't need shielding, Bobbie. I'm prudent, fearless,and—twenty-two. I don't need a watch-dog!"

"Good God, who said anything about being a watchdog?" exclaimed Bobbie."I—I just want——"

"You just want me," completed Miss Vost. "Well, you can't have me."

"You love somebody else, then. That young pup!"

Peter stared sourly at the bilious moon.

"Don't you dare call him a young pup, Robert MacLaurin," retorted MissVost resentfully. "He is a fine young man. I admire him and I respecthim very, very much."

"He can't fool around any girl of mine!"

Peter heard Bobbie sucking the breath in between his teeth, as if hemight have pricked himself with a pin. Bobbie had done worse than that.

"A girl of yours!" snapped Miss Vost.

Followed low, anxious and imploratory whispers. These were terminatedby a long, light, and delicious laugh.

"Bobbie, you're so funny!" Miss Vost gurgled.

"I wish I was dead!" declared Bobbie despondently.

"You should go to Liauchow," Miss Vost chirped.

"Why should I go to Liauchow?" grumbled the bass voice.

"To be happy, you must be born in Soochow, live in Canton and die inLiauchow. So runs the proverb."

"Why should I go to Liauchow?" persisted Bobbie.

"Because Soochow has the handsomest people, Canton the most luxury, andLiauchow the best coffins!"

CHAPTER XIV

Peter Moore's curiosity regarding the motives which were sending MissAmy Vost into Szechwan, most deplorable, most poverty-stricken ofprovinces, was satisfied before the Hankow had put astern the greatturbulent city after which it had been named.

At Hankow the Hankow picked up the raft which it would tow all theway up to Ching-Fu. Upon this raft was a long, squat cabin, in and outof which poured incessantly members of China's large and growing family.

There were thin, dirty little men, and skinny, soiled little women, andquantities of hungry, dirty little boys and girls. A great noise wentup from the raft as the Hankow nosed in alongside, and the newtowline was passed and made fast over the bitts.

As the big propeller thumped under them and churned the muddy waterinto unhealthy-looking foam, Peter Moore and Miss Vost leaned upon therail, where it curved around the fantail, and discoursed at length,speculating upon the probable destination of that raftful of dirtyhumanity, and offering problematic answers to the puzzling question asto why were all these people deserting relatively prosperous Hankow forthe over-populated, overdeveloped province of Szechwan.

Peter had an inkling that Miss Vost was distressed by the scene.

"Let's take a stroll forward," he suggested.

An urchin, directly below them, stood rubbing his eyes with two grimyfists. His whines were audible above the churning of the engines.

"No, no. I'm quite accustomed to this. Look—just look at thatmiserable little fellow!"

"He is blind," stated Peter quietly.

"Half of them are blind," Miss Vost replied. Her features weretransfixed by a look of sadness. "Wait for me. I'll return in asecond."

Peter watched the graceful swing of her shoulders as she strode downthe deck to the forward companionway, admiring the slim strength of hersilk-clad ankles. She was every inch an American girl. He was proudof her. She returned, carrying a small oblong of cardboard, upon whicha photograph was pasted.

Peter found himself looking into the sad, be-wrinkled eyes of agray-bearded man, a patriarchal gentleman, who stood on the hard clayat the foot of a low stone stairway. His nose, his eyes, hisintellectual forehead were distinctly those of Miss Vost. A child in afreshly starched frock, with eyes opened wide in surprise and interest,was firmly clutching one of his trouser-legs.

"My father," explained Miss Vost. "He was stationed at Wenchow then,in charge of the mission. I have not seen him since."

Peter remarked to himself that somehow Miss Vost did not seem to be thedaughter of a missionary, nor was the costly way she dressed in keywith her remark. Perhaps she divined his thoughts.

"He has money—lots of it. He has a keen, broad mind. But he chosethis. When he was first married be brought mother to China. He saw,and realized, China's vast problems. And he stayed. He wanted tohelp."

Peter gazed into her gray eyes, which seemed to take on a clear violettinge when she was deeply moved.

"He told me to come to see him because he was growing old. I stoppedoff in Amoy," said Miss Vost with a ghost of a smile. "A youngmissionary he wanted me to meet lives there. I met him. But I couldnot admire that young missionary. He was a—a poseur. He waspretending. One reason I like you, Mr. Moore, is because you're sosincere. He was so transparent. And his 'converts' saw through him,too. They were bread-and-butter converts. They listened to him; theydevoured his food—then they went to the fortune-tellers! Father couldnot have known Doctor Sanborn longer than a few minutes—or else he'snot the father that he used to be! I inherit his love for sincerity.I—I'm sure he will like you!"

"But—but——" stammered Peter—"I don't expect to go to Wenchow.Better say he'd like—Bobbie!"

"Oh, he'd like anybody that I liked," Miss Vost said lightly."It—it's really interesting, you know, from Ching-Fu to Wenchow. Wetake bullock carts—if we can find them. Otherwise we walk. Doesn'tit—appeal to you—just a little—to be all alone with me for nearly ahundred miles?"

"Very much indeed," replied Peter earnestly. "But our roads part—atChing-Fu. I go directly south."

"In search of more adventure and romance? Perhaps—perhaps a girl whois not so silly as I have been? Or—is it India—or Afghanistan?"

"Neither. An old friend!"

"Is that why you are growing a beard—to surprise—him?"

"Perhaps," said Peter, absently fingering the bristles. "Don't tell meit's unbecoming or I'll have to shave it off!"

"As if what I thought made a particle of difference!" retorted MissVost defiantly.

Peter gave her a thoughtful, a puzzled stare. "I overheard you lastnight. You broke your promise. You promised to be nice to him."

"I was. Do you mean what I said about Liauchow?"

"You don't realize what you mean to Bobbie. My dear, dear girl——"

"I am not your dear, dear girl!"

Peter groaned.

"Does your heart ache, too, Peter?"

"Of course it does! I—I'd like——"

"Then why don't you?"

"It wouldn't be fair, that's why!"

"To—Bobbie?"

"Bobbie, too."

"Then there is another girl," Miss Vost cried bitterly. She bit herlip. "You should have told me before."

"I thought it wouldn't be necessary."

Miss Vost dropped her eyes to Peter's hand which was resting on therail. Her own hand moved over and nestled against it.

"Do—do you l-love her as much as th-this?" Her eyes returned to hisface.

"I did think I did!"

"But you're not sure—now?"

"Oh, I thought I was sure! I am sure'"

"There's little more to say, then, is there?" Her lids were blinkingrapidly as she looked down at the mob of filthy little Arabs on theflat. Her fingers plucked, trembling, at the embroidered hem of awhite, wadded handkerchief.

"Bobbie does care for you so," observed Peter with unintentionalcruelty.

"Oh—oh—him!" sobbed Miss Vost, leaving him to stare after herdrooping figure as she retreated down the deck.

She seemed on a sudden to be avoiding the entrance to the forwardcompanionway. He wondered why.

The girl stopped, with her hands clenched into white fists at her sides.

From the doorway, smiling suavely and wiping one hand upon the other ina gesture of solicitous meekness, emerged the tall and commandingfigure of the Mongolian—or was he a Tibetan? He was attired now inthe finest, the shiniest of Canton silks. His satin pants, of agorgeous white, a courting white, were strapped about ankles whichterminated in curved sandals sparkling with gold and jewels in themid-day sun. His jacket, long and perfectly fitting, was of a robin'segg blue. His blue-black queue, freshly oiled, gleamed like the coilsof an active hill snake.

He was a picture of refined Chinese saturninity.

Miss Vost, beholding him, was properly impressed. She stepped back,not a little appalled, and swept him from queue to sandal with a lookthat was not the heartiest of receptions. The Mongolian was speakingin oiled, pleasing accents.

Peter strode toward them.

"He insulted me!" panted Miss Vost. "Like many fine, Chinesegentlemen, he thought, perhaps, that I might be—what do they call'em—a 'nice li'l 'Melican girl!' Impress him with the fact that I amnot, Mr. Moore—please do that!"

She hastened around the forward cabin, out of sight.

The Mongolian was regarding Peter with a cool, complacent smile. Hisexpression was smug, uninjured.

"Looka here, Chink-a-link," Peter advised him, "my no savvy you; you nosavvy my. My see you allatime. Allatime. You savvy, Chink-a-link?"

"I comprehend you, my friend," replied the Mongolian in polishedaccents. "In my case, 'pidgin' is not, let me hasten to say,necessary."

"Very good, Chink; the next time you so much as glance in Miss Vost'sdirection, you're going to walk away with a pair of the dam'dest blackeyes in China! Get that—you yellow weasel?"

"Unfortunately," replied the Mongolian, lifting his fine, blackeyebrows only a trifle, "your suggestion—your admonitions—are again,most inappropriate. Miss Vost—do I pronounce it correctly? Miss Vostand yourself are the victims of a misunderstanding."

"Take off your coat, and prove I'm wrong!" shouted Peter. "I'm abetter man than you are! Swallow it or—fight!"

Peter's gray tweed coat flopped in a heap upon the ironwood deck.

The Mongolian retired a few feet, with indications of anxiety.

"I—I did not intend to offend her," he retracted. His ropy throatmuscles seemed to convulse. His long face flamed hotly red. He burstout, as though unable to control himself: "My savvy allatime you nosavvy! Ní bùh yào tī nà gò hwà! Djan gò chü, ràng ó dzóu!"

"Lao-shu," laughed Peter. "Dang hsin!"

CHAPTER XV

They came to Ichang next noon. Peter was on deck watching the somewhathazardous procedure of transferring large grass-bound cases of toolsfrom a tidewater steamer to the stern of the flat when he saw theMongolian emerge from the companionway and walk to the rail, forward.Peter gave him a full stare, but the man did not glance in hisdirection. He was looking down at the muddy river, and beckoning.

Peter observed a sampan coolie give an answering wave, and the sampansidled alongside the flat.

The Mongolian returned a few minutes before the Hankow hauled in heranchor. He retired to his stateroom and stayed there until lateafternoon.

The river above Ichang was swifter, more dangerous, than in its lowercourse. Except for the junks and an occasional sampan, the Hankowhad the stream to herself. The yellow waters were tinged with red,dancing and sparkling to a fresh breeze under a fair blue sky. Greatblue hills confined the swollen current. This was not the Yangtze ofyesterday. It was a maddened millrace, gorged by the mountain rains.Even the gurgle under the sharp-cut waters seemed to convey a menace.

Dikes were broken down. The brown waters had flowed out to right andleft, forming quiet lakes where there had been fields of paddy andwheat. The junks from up-river were having a strenuous time of it.Swarms of gibbering coolies manned the long sweeps, striving above allto keep their clumsy craft in safe mid-current.

They were passing a long row of pyramids, green, brown and red. ButMiss Vost was staring along the deck.

"The Mongolian!" she muttered. "How he is grinning at you!"

The Mongolian had come upon them, apparently unintentionally. Hehesitated and paused when Peter looked up. Peter saw no grin upon hislips. They were set in a firm, straight line. His long arms werefolded behind his back, and his eyes were empty of mirth—or malice.They simply expressed nothing. He looked at Peter shortly, and favoredMiss Vost with a long stare.

Her eyes faltered. Peter stepped forward.

But the Mongolian bowed, passed them at a slow, meditative walk, andwas lost from their sight behind the cabin's port side.

The idea took hold of Peter that the stalker had become the killer.There was a telegraph station at Ichang through which ran the frailcopper wires connecting the seventy millions of Szechwan Province withcivilization. Had it been possible for the Mongolian to signal hismaster in Len Yang and receive an answer while the Hankow lay atIchang?

After dinner, curious and nervous, Peter went below. The light wasburning over the table of weapons in the main cabin.

The Mongolian's door was slightly ajar, and as Peter descended thestairs, the door closed.

He waited. His heart thumped, louder than the thump of the laboringengine. He walked to his stateroom, opened the door, kicked thethreshold, and—slammed the door! He hastened to the table, and hidbehind it. Between the table legs he had a splendid view of both doors.

Holding a kris, point down, in front of him, the Mongolian slipped out,tried the adjacent door-knob and entered Peter's room. When he cameout, he looked perplexed and angry. He slid the dagger into his silkblouse and looked up the stairway, listening.

His expression of rage passed away; now his look was inscrutable.Stealing across the vestibule, he approached Miss Vost's door, andrapped.

Peter ran his fingers along the edge of the table until theyencountered the hilt of a cutlass. He waited.

The Mongolian rapped a little louder. There was no answer. Again heknocked, imperatively. Peter heard Miss Vost's sleepy voice pitched ininquiry. Her door opened an inch or two.

The Mongolian forced his way inside!

Miss Vost uttered a short, sharp scream, which was instantly smothered.

As Peter burst into the room, the Mongolian turned with a snarl,reaching for his silk blouse. Peter clapped his free hand to themuscled shoulder, and dragged him into the corridor.

Miss Vost, in a long, white nightgown, was framed in the doorway,staring sleepily. Her hand was clutched to her lips. Her hair tumbledabout her bare shoulders in dark, silky clusters.

Bright steel flashed in the Mongolian's hand. "Ha-li!" he muttered.

Peter braced himself, and thrust straight upward, striking with fury.He drove the sword through the Mongolian's right eye.

Miss Vost, a slender pillar of white, stared down at the flounderingheap. She seemed to be going mad, with the green light of the electricglittering in her distended eyes.

Bobbie MacLaurin bounded down the steps.

"He tried to come into my room," said Miss-Vost. "He tried to comeinto my room!"

"I know. I know. But it's all right," soothed Peter, panting. "Youmust go back to bed. You must try to sleep." He talked as though shewere a child. "He was a bad man. He had to—to be treated—this way!"

"You—you look like an Arab. The dark. And that beard. Where isBobbie?"

"Right here. Right here beside you!"

"You're not hurt—either of you? You're both all right?"

"Yes. Yes. Please go to bed!" begged Peter.

"Please!" implored Bobbie.

To them there was something unreligious, something terrible, in thenotion of Miss Vost standing in the presence of the grim black heap inthe shadow. Nor were her youth and her innocence intended to be baredbefore the eyes of men in this fashion.

As if a chill river wind had struck her, she shivered—closed the door.

The men carried the limp body, which was unaccountably heavy, to thedeck. After a minute there—was a splash. The Hankow had not beenchecked. On the Yangtze formal burial ceremonies are seldom performed.

Peter went to bed at once. He tried to sleep. He counted therevolutions of the propeller. He added up a stupendous number of sheepgoing through a hole in a stone wall. Every so often the sheep fadedaway, to be replaced by the fearful countenance of the Mongolian, whowas now perhaps ten miles or more downstream.

After a while the engines were checked, turning at half speed for anumber of revolutions, then ceasing as a bell rang. The only sound wasthe soughing gurgle of the water as it lapped along the steel plates,and the distant drone of the rapids.

He heard the splash of an anchor, accompanied by the rumble and clankof chains, forward; and a repetition of the sounds aft. Directly underhim, it seemed a loud, prolonged scraping noise took place. The fireswere being drawn.

The sounds could only mean that the Hankow had reached the journey'send. The trip was over; the Hankow was abreast Ching-Fu. She wouldlie in the current for a few days, before facing about and making fortidewater.

To-day would see the last of Miss Vost, a termination of thatserio-humorous love affair of theirs, which, on the whole, had been oneof his most delightful experiences. He wondered whether or not shewould ask him to kiss her good-bye. He rather hoped she would.

On the other hand, he hoped she would do nothing of the kind. Distancewas lending enchantment to Eileen Lorimer. He was sure this was notinfatuation. She was not the first; he had had affairs; oh, numbers ofthem! But they were mere fragments of his adventurous life. They weremilestones, shadowy and vague and very far away now. Dear littlemilestones, each of them!

Sometime he would go to Eileen, and get down on his knees before her inhumility, and ask her if she could overlook his systematic and hardenedfaults! When would he do this? Frankly, he did not know.

He dozed off, and it seemed only an instant later when he was awakenedby a harsh cry.

The port-hole was still dark. Morning was a long way off.

The cry was repeated, was joined by others, excited and fearful.

Peter sat up in bed, and was instantly thrown back by a sudden lurch.Next came a dull booming and banging. The stateroom was filled withthe hot, sweet smell of smoking wood, the smell that is caused by thefriction of wood against wood, or wood against steel.

Another pounding and booming. Some one hammered at the door. Petertried to turn on the electric light. There was no current. He openedthe door.

Bobbie, shoeless and collarless, dressed only in pants and shirt,towered over the light of a candle which he held in a hand that shook.

"A collision! Junk rammed us! Get up quick! Don't know damage. CallMiss Vost! Get on deck! Take care of her! My hands filled with thisdam' boat."

Peter snatched his clothes, and before he was out of his pajamas theHankow began to keel over. It slid down, until the port-hole dippedinto the muddy current. Water slopped in and drenched his knees andfeet.

He yanked open the door, not stopping to lace his shoes, and calledMiss Vost. She had heard the excitement, and was dressing. The floorlurched again, and he was thrown violently against a sharp-edged post.

Miss Vost's door was flung open, and she stumbled down the slopingfloor, bracing her hands against his chest to catch herself.

"We're sinking," she said without fear.

To Peter it was evident that Miss Vost had never been through thecapsizing of a ship before. He fancied he caught a thrill of eager,almost exultant, excitement in her voice. In that vestibule, he knewthey were rats in a water-trap, or soon would be.

He still felt weak and limp from his fall against the post, and he wastrying hard to regain his strength before they began their perilousascent to the deck.

Miss Vost misunderstood his hesitancy.

"I am not afraid, not a bit!" she declared, holding with both hands thefolds of his unbuttoned shirt. "I am never afraid with you! When Iam in danger, you—you are always near. It—it seems that you were puthere to—to look after me. But there is no danger—is there?" Sheshook him almost playfully.

"Cut out your babbling," he snapped. "Get to that stairway!"

He heard the breath hiss in between her teeth. But she clung to hisarm obediently. They sprawled and slipped in the darkness to thestairs. Clinging to the railing, they reached the deck, which wasinclined so steeply that they clung to the cabin-rail for support.

In the dark on all sides of them coolies shouted in high-pitchedvoices. Heavy rain was falling, drumming on the deck. The odor ofwood rubbing against steel persisted. They could see nothing. Theworld was dark, and filled with contusion.

A sharp explosion took place in the bows. Chains screamed through theair and clanged on metal and wood. One of the forward anchor-chainshad parted.

The deck was tilted again. Bobbie MacLaurin was not in evidence.Peter shouted for him until he was hoarse. Then he left Miss Vost andgroped his way to the starboard davits. The starboard life-boat wasgone!

Suddenly the rain ceased. A dull red glow smouldered on the easternheaven.

Miss Vost was praying, praying for courage, for help. She clung tohim, and sobbed. By and by her nerves seemed to steady themselves.

There was nothing to do but wait for daylight—and pray that thegurgling waters might not rise any higher.

The glow in the east increased, and permitted them to see the vagueoutlines of a looming shape which seemed to grow out of the bows. Asdawn came, Peter made out the form of a huge junk, which had pinionedand crushed the foredeck rail under her brawny poop.

Then the remaining anchor-cable snapped like a rotten thread. Dimlythey saw the end of the chain whip upward and crash down. A coolie,paralyzed, stood in its way. The broken end struck him in the face.He screamed and rolled down the deck until he lodged against the rail.

Bobbie shouted their names, and scrambled and slipped down.

"We're trying to get up steam. Our only chance. Both forward anchorsgone. We'll swing around with the current and lose this damn junk. Ifthe after anchor holds till steam's up—we're safe!" He sped aft.

The steamer shuddered, and they felt her swinging as the scatteredshore lights moved from left to right. The junk was acting as a drag.The shore lights became stationary. A gang of coolies with grate barswere trying to pry up the junk's coamings.

Peter was aware then that Miss Vost's arms were clinging about hisneck, and that she was whimpering softly in his ear.

Up-river boomed another explosion. The deck seemed to fall from underhis feet. Water splashed up over his toes. In the gold-speckled dawnhe could see the waters foaming and swirling, and rising higher.

He knew it was suicide to swim the Yangtze rapids, knew the whirlpoolswhich sucked a man down and held him down until his body was torn toshreds. There was no alternative. And the water was now half-way tohis knees. He dragged the unresisting girl to the rail.

"Can you swim—at all?"

"A—a little," she chattered.

"Hold to my collar and swim with one hand. Only try to keep afloat."

They slipped into the racing current, were seized, and spun around andaround. Above the drone of the waters he heard the roar of awhirlpool, coming rapidly nearer. The firm clutch of Miss Vost's handon his collar was not loosened. Occasionally he heard her gasp andsputter as a wave washed over her face.

They were swept down. On they went, spinning, snatched from one eddyto another. The roar of the whirlpool receded, became a low growl andmutter.

Now they could see the churning surface covered with torn bits ofwreckage. A body, bloated and discolored, spun by, and was caught anddragged under, leaving only an indescribable stench.

After a while the northern shore, a low, brown bank, crept out towardthem, like a long, merciful arm. In another minute Peter's bare feetcame in contact with slimy, yielding mud. They were in shoal water!

He picked up Miss Vost in his arms, and carried her ashore; and sheclung to him, shivering and moaning. He did not realize untilafterward that she was kissing him over and over again on his wet lipsand cheeks.

Coolies found them, and carried them to a village, and deposited themin a little red clay compound behind a building of straw. A bonfirewas kindled. The sun came up, a disk that might have been cut out ofred tissue-paper.

Some time later a tall man came into the clearing with a little groupof coolies who were pointing out the way. A white patriarchal beardextended nearly to his waist.

He saw Miss Vost and shouted. She leaped up, was enfolded in his arms.

Peter stared at them a moment with a look that was somewhat dazed. Hepicked himself up, and skulked out of the compound, in the direction ofthe foaming river.

His mind was not in a normal state just then, or he would not havewanted to cross to Ching-Fu in a sampan. But he did want to cross. Inthe back of his brain foolish words were urging him: "You must get toChing-Fu. You must go on to Len Yang. Hurry! Hurry!"

He had no money. A box filled with perforated Szechwan coins now layat the bottom of the river in what was left of the Hankow.Nevertheless, he hailed a sampan as though his pockets were weighteddown with lumps of purest silver.

The boat leaked in dozens of places. The paddle, scarred and battered,clung to the stern by means of a rotting leather thong. As Peterlooked and hesitated, a long, imperative cry issued from behind him.Possibly Miss Vost wanted him to return.

The coolie stipulated his price, and Peter stepped aboard without amurmur, without looking around, either. The crossing was precarious.They skirted the edge of more than one whirl; they were caught andtossed about in waves as large as houses. Peter kept his eye on therotting thong, and marveled because it actually held.

Deposited on the edge of Ching-Fu's bund, he confessed his poverty, andoffered his shirt in payment. The shirt was of fine golden silk, wovenin the Chinan-Fu mills. For more than a year it had worn like iron,and it had more than an even chance of continuing to do so.

Peter stripped off the shirt before a mob of squealing children, andthe coolie scrutinized it. He accepted it, and blessed Peter, andPeter's virtuous mother, and called upon his green-eyed gods to makethe days of Peter long and filled with the rice of the land.

CHAPTER XVI

With the coming of noon Peter sat down under a stunted cembra pine treeand contemplated the distant rocky blue ridge with a wistful anddiscouraged air. He removed from his trouser-pocket two yellow loquatsand devoured them.

He was dreadfully hungry. His stomach fathered a dull, persistentache, which forced upon his attention the pains in his muscles andbones. It was their way of complaining against the abuse he had heapedupon them during the past twenty-four hours.

He was beginning to feel weak and dispirited. His was a constitutionthat arose to emergencies in quick, battling trim; but when theemergency was past, his vitality seemed to be drained.

He looked down the muddy brown road as he finished the second loquat(which he had stolen from a roadside farm in passing) and estimatedthat Ching-Fu was all of ten miles behind him. Walking through thepasty blue mud in his bare feet, with the rain streaming through hishair and down his beard and shoulders, had been tedious, trying.Several times he had stopped, with his feet sinking in the clay, andcursed the Yangtze with bitterness.

What had become of Bobbie MacLaurin? Had that noble soul been snatcheddown by the River of Golden Sands?

He cursed the river anew, for Bobbie was a man after God's own heart.Never had there lived such a generous, such a fine and brave comrade.More than once the mule-kick which lurked behind those big, kind, redfists had saved Peter from worse than black eyes.

He would never forget that night on the pier at Salina Cruz, when thegreaser had flashed out a knife, bent on carving a hole in Peter'sheart—and Bobbie had come up from behind and knocked the ravingMexican a dozen feet off the pier into the limpid Pacific!

Those days were ended now. The adventures, the excitement, thesorrows, and the fiery gladness were all well beyond recall.

Peter leaned back against the thorny trunk of the cembra pine, andsniffed the odors of drenched earth, listened to the drip and patter ofthe cold, gray rain, and gazed pessimistically at the blue crest ofrock which lifted its granite shoulders high into the mist miles away.

He stretched himself, groaned, and staggered on through the mire.

The valley was filled with the blue shades of dusk when he espied somedistance beyond him what was evidently a camp, a caravan at rest. Thesetting sun managed at last to burrow its way through a rift of purplebefore sinking down behind the granite range, to leave China to themercies of its long night.

These departing rays, striking through the purple crevice, and settingits edges smolderingly aflame with red and gold, became a narrow,dwindling spotlight, which brought out in black relief the figures ofmen and mules, of drooping tents and curling wisps of cookfire smoke.The sun was swallowed up, and the camp vanished.

Peter plunged on, with one leg dragging more reluctantly than theother. But he had sensed the odor of cooking food in the quiet air.

A sentry whose head was adorned by a dark-red turban presented thepoint of his rifle as Peter approached. He shouted, was joined byothers, both Chinese and Bengalis, and Peter, not adverse even to beingin the hands of enemies as long as food was imminent, was inducted intothe presence of a kingly personage, who sat upon a carved teak stool.

This creature, by all appearances a mandarin, of middle age, was garbedin a stiff, dark satin gown, heavy with gold and jewels which flashedbrightly in the light of a camp-fire. His severe, dark face was long,and stamped with intelligence of a high order. He wore a mustachewhich drooped down to form a hair wisp on either side of his small,firm mouth.

As Peter was whisked into his presence he placed his elbow with a slow,deliberate motion upon his knee, and rested his rounded chin in hispalm, bestowing upon the mud-spattered newcomer a look that searchedinto Peter's soul.

A single enormous diamond blazed upon the knuckle of his forefinger.

He put a question in a tongue that Peter did not understand. It was adeep, resonant voice, with the mellow, rounded tones of certaintemple-bells, such a sound as is diffused long after the harsh strokeof the wooden boom has subsided. Vibrant with authority, it was such avoice as men obey, however much they may hate its owner. He repeatedthe question in Mandarin, and again Peter indicated that that was nothis speech.

A different voice, yet quite as impelling as the other, caused Peter tolook up sharply. The mandarin smiled wisely, but not unkindly.

"The darkness deceived me," he said in English of a strange cast. "Imistook you for a beggar. You are far from the river, my friend. Thebones of your steamer lie fathoms deep by now. Why are you so far fromChing-Fu? You were stunned, perhaps?"

"I am only hungry," said Peter boldly. "My way lies into India. ThereI have friends."

The mandarin studied him dubiously, and clapped his hands, the greatdiamond cutting an oval of many colors. Coolies were given up by thenight, and ran to obey his guttural, musical commands. They returnedwith steaming bowls of rice and meat, and a narrow lacquer table.

"Come and sit beside me. Your feet must be sore—bleeding. You maycall me Chang. So I am known to my British friends on the frontier. Ihave been ill, a mountain fever, perhaps. In Ching-Fu. I had expectedmedicine on the river steamer."

He snapped his fingers, and whispered to a coolie whose face was gauntand stolid in the flickering red glow of the fire.

So while Peter consumed the rice and stew, his bruised feet were bathedin warm water, rubbed with a soothing ointment, and wrapped in a downybandage.

A blue liquor served in cups of shell silver completed the meal. Thearomatic syrup, which exhaled a perfume that was indescribablyoriental, sent an exhilarating fire through his veins. It seemed toclarify his thoughts and vision, to oil his aching joints, and removetheir pain.

From the corner of his eye he detected the silken folds of themandarin's lofty tent, in the murky interior of which a fat, yellowcandle sputtered and dripped. When his eyes came back to the table,the bowls and cups had been removed, and in their place was achess-board inlaid with ivory and pearl.

Inspired by the cordial, and the queerness of this setting, Peter feltthat he was the central figure of a dream. The pungent odor of remoteincense, the distant tinkling of a bell, the stamping and pawing of themules and the brooding figure in silk and gold at his side, took himback across the ages to the days and nights of Scheherezade.

And the mandarin appeared to be hungry for Peter's companionship. Overthe chess-board, between plays, they discoursed lengthily upon thegreatness of the vast empire, once she should awake; upon the menace ofthe wily Japanese; upon the lands across the mountains and beyond theseas, and their peoples, of which Chang had read much but had nevervisited.

Wood was heaped upon the fire, which flared up and leaped after thecrowding shadows.

It was the life that Peter dearly loved.

The mandarin's eyes glowed, and rested upon him for longer spaces. Hiswords and sentences came fewer and more reluctant.

In one of these pauses he seized Peter's hand. And Peter was forthwithgiven the meagre details of a story, neither the beginning nor the endof which he would ever know. It was the cross-section of a tale ofintrigue, of cold-blooded killings that chased the thrills up and downhis spine; a tale of loot, of gems that had vanished, of ingots andkernels of gold that had leaked from iron-bound chests.

The mandarin uttered his woe in a quivering voice, shifting from aBengal patois to Mandarin, and again to reckless English.

Peter was given to understand that in Chang's camp was a traitor, a manwho eluded him, whose identity was shielded, a snake that could not bestamped out unless the lives of every one of his attendants were taken!

In a composed voice Chang, the mandarin, was saying:

"You have walked far. You are weary. Another couch is in my tent.You shall sleep there."

The candle was guttering low in its bronze socket when Peter awoke. Acool breeze stirred the tent flaps. A queer feeling oozed in his veins.

He lay still, breathing regularly, searching the corners with eyes thatwere brighter than a rat's. The low sleep-mutterings of the mandarincontinued from the couch across from him.

Slowly the tent flaps were being drawn back. Peter strained his eyesuntil they ached. He was impelled to shout, to awaken his companion.Yet the visitor might be bent on legitimate business. He would wait.In the final analysis it was Peter's profound acquaintance with theways of the East which sealed his lips. In the heart of China one doesnot strike at shadows, or shriek at sight of them. Not always.

At his side between the covers lay a strong, naked dagger. Why themandarin had provided him with the weapon he did not know.

A gray shadow entered the tent and backed noiselessly against the frontpole. Indeed, not a sound was created by his entrance, not even therustling whisper of bare feet on dry grass. It seemed very ominous,mysterious, and ghostly.

The gray shadow floated into the candle-light, which waved and quivereda little as the still air was disturbed. Peter was conscious that hewas being acutely examined. Not a muscle of his face twitched. Hecontinued to breathe regularly, with the heaviness of a man steeped insleep. Tentatively he permitted his lids to raise.

The intruder's back was toward him. He was bending with slow stealthover the mandarin's face. What was the fellow doing?

Peter caught the glint of metal, or glass. At the same time apowerful, sickening odor spread through the tent.

Peter groped for the naked dagger, bounded up from the couch with anervous cry, and burled the steel up to its costly jeweled hilt in theforemost shoulder.

Without a sound the man in gray turned part way round, and a shudderran through him, causing the folds of his garment to flap slightly. Hesank down with a sigh like wind stealing through a cavern, and hisfingers clawed feebly in the leaping shadow.

Peter detected a tiny glass vial spilling out its dark, volatile fluidupon the dust. He picked it up, but it was snatched from his hand.The dull pig-eyes of Chang stared very close to his, with thestupefaction of sleep still extending the irises into round dark pools.The vial was in his hand, and he was sampling its odor, waving itslowly back and forth under his wide nostrils. He shouted, andturbaned men filed into the tent, and carried the gray figure away.

The hand of Chang rested upon Peter's shoulder, and in a voice thatthrobbed with the sonorousness of a Buddha temple-gong he said:

"You have rendered me a service for which I can never sufficientlyrepay you—for I value my life highly! In the morning your mind willhave forgotten what has taken place. Try to sleep now. You willobey—promptly!"

The candle sputtered and jumped, as if it were striving mightily tolengthen its golden life if only for another minute; and went out.

From Chow Yang to Lun-Ling-Ting all the land could not provide costlierraiment than Peter found at his bedside when the long, high-keyed criesof the mule men opened his eyes upon another morning.

When camp was broken up, long before the sun became hot, he was given asmall but able mule; and he rode down the valley toward India atChang's side. They moved at the head of a long, slow train, for herebandits were not feared, despite the loneliness of the land throughwhich they were traveling. Farms became more scattered, more widelyseparated by patches of broken, barren rock; and, finally, all tracesof the microscopic cultivation which gave Szechwan Province its leanfruitfulness were left behind them.

The mandarin rode for many miles in silence, occasionally changingreins, looking steadily and gloomily ahead of him, with his attentionriveted, it seemed, upon the sharp and ceaseless clatter of his mule'shoofs and the twisting rock road.

Peter's mind was fixed upon the problem which crept hourly nearer. Hishead was cast between his shoulders as if the weight of a sorrowfulworld rested upon that narrow, well-proportioned skull, with itscovering of shining light hair.

He loved his task as a man might love a selfish and thoughtless woman,who demanded and craftily accepted all that he could give, to the lastounce of his gold and the final drop of his blood. It was a thanklesstask, yet it had grace.

It was well past mid-morning before Chang spoke the first word.

"A grateful dream came into my sleep last night. For years I havefought in the darkness with a man who has the heart of Satan himself.He has robbed me. Time after time he has sent into my camp his spies.Some were more adroit than others. But none so adroit as the cooliefrom Len Yang."

Peter repressed his surprise, and merely winked his eyes thoughtfully anumber of times. Chang went on:

"In this dream last night a young man was given into my keeping whosespirit and manliness have not yet been soiled. His gratitude wasimmediate. In return for the acts which grew out of that gratitude, Iam prepared to give him anything that is mine, or in my power, whetherhe desires wealth, or position, or my friendship."

"The young man," said Peter gravely, "desires neither wealth norposition. If he has been of service to the man who befriended him,that is enough."

"Should he desire a favor of any kind——"

"Then help him to reach his enemy, who is your enemy, who is the GrayDragon of Len Yang!"

"In jest——"

"In all seriousness!" said Peter.

"It is death to enter Len Yang!"

"My mind is made up, mandarin!"

They had entered a narrow ravine, and on both sides of the slendertrail rose up sharp elbows of hard rock. Peter's head was inclined alittle to the right in an attitude he unconsciously assumed whenlistening for important words of man or wireless machine.

"It is the folly of adventurous youth," rang out the melodious andsincere voice of the mandarin. "It is a quest for a grail which willend in a pool of your own blood! Come into India with me!"

"But I decided—long ago—mandarin!"

"Your life is your life," said the mandarin sadly. "The City of StolenLives is beyond the mountain. Ch'ing!"

CHAPTER XVII

A road as white and straight as a silver bar led directly between theblack, jutting shoulders of the hills to the gates of Len Yang.

Peter, with his heart beating a wild symphony of anticipation and fear,drew rein.

The small mule panted from the long desperate climb, his plump sidesfilling and caving as he drank in the sharp evening air.

Close behind the city's faded green walls towered the mountain rangesof Tibet, cold, gloomy, and vague in the purple mystery of theiruncertain distances. They were like chained giants, brooding over thewrongs committed in the City of Stolen Lives, sullen in their mightyhelplessness.

In the rays of the swollen sun the close-packed hovels enclosed withinthe moss-covered walls seemed to rest upon a blurring background ofvermilion earth.

As Peter clicked his tongue and urged the tired little animal down theslope, he recalled the fragment of the description that had been givenhim of this place. Hideous people, with staring eyes, dripping theblood-red slime of the cinnabar-mines—leprosy, filth, vermin—

His palace! It stood out above the carmine ruck like a cube of purestivory in a bleeding wound. Its marble outrivaled the whiteness of theTaj Mahal. It was a thing of snow-white beauty, like a dove poisingfor flight above a gory battlefield. And it was crowned by a dome oflapis lazuli, bluer than the South Pacific under a melting sun! Butit* base, Peter knew, was stained red, a blood-red which had seeped upand up from the carmine clay.

The gate to the city was down, and by the grace of his blue-satin robePeter was permitted to enter.

And instantly he was obsessed with the flaming color of that man'sunappeased passion. Red—red! The hovels were spattered with the redclay. The man, the skinny, wretched creature who begged for a momentof his gracious mercy at the gate, dripped in ruby filth. The mulesank and wallowed in vermilion mire.

Scrawny, undernourished children, naked, or in rags that affordedlittle more protection than nakedness, thrust their starved,red-smeared faces up at him, and gibed and howled.

And above all this arose the white majesty of his palace—the throne ofthe Gray Dragon!

Peter urged the mule up the scarlet alley to a clearing in which hefound coolies by the thousands, trudging moodily from a central orificethat continued to disgorge more and more of them. The dreadful,reeking creatures blinked and gaped as if stupefied by the rosy lightof the dying day.

Some carried lanterns of modern pattern; others bore picks and shovelsand iron buckets, and they seemed to pass on interminably, to beengulfed in the lanes which ran in all directions from the clearing.

It was as though the earth were vomiting up the vilest of itscreatures. And in the same light it was consuming others of equalvileness. Down into the red maws of the shaft an endless chain of menand women and children were descending.

Quite suddenly the light gave way, and Peter was aware that the nightof the mountains was creeping out over the city, blotting out itsdisfigurements, replacing the hideous redness with a velvety black.

At the shaft's entrance a sharp spot of dazzling light sprang intobeing. It was an electric arc light! Somehow this apparition struckthrough the horror that saturated him, and he sighed as if his mind hadrelinquished a clinging nightmare.

Professionally now he gave this section of Len Yang another scrutiny.Thick cables sagged between stumpy poles like clusters of black snakes,all converging at the mine's entrance. His acute ears were registeringa dull hum, indicating the imminence of high-geared machinery or ofdynamos.

At the further side of the red shaft, now crusted with the night'sshades, and garishly illuminated by the diamond whiteness of the frostyarc, he made out a deep, wide ditch, where flowed slowly a ruddycurrent, supplied from a short fat pipe.

Peter believed that electric pumps sucked out the red seepage watersfrom the mine and lifted them to the bloody ditch.

On impulse he lifted his eyes to the darkening heavens, and he knew nowthat the threads of this, his greatest adventure, were being drawn to ameeting point; for he detected in the sun's last refracted rays thebronze glint of aerial wires! What lay at the base of the antenna hecould guess accurately. He hastened to the base of the nearest aerialmast—a pole reaching like a dark needle into the sky—and found therea low, dark building of varnished pine with a small door of eroded,green brass.

The rain-washed pine, the complete absence of windows, and theausterity of the massive brass door contributed to a personality ofdignified and pessimistic aloofness. The building occupied a place toitself, as if its reserve were not to be tampered with, as if its darkand sullen mystery were not meant for the prying eyes of passingstrangers.

Peter knocked brazenly upon the door, and it clanked shallowly, givingforth no inward echo. He waited expectantly.

It yawned open to the accompaniment of grumbled curses in a distinctlytenor whine.

A man with a white, shocked face stared at him from the threshold. Thecountenance was long, tapering, and it ended nowhere. Dull, mockingeyes with a burned-out look in them stared unblinkingly into Peter'sface.

Peter could have shouted in recognition of the weak face, but hecompressed his lips and bowed respectfully instead.

"What the hell do you want?" growled the man on the threshold.

"May Buddha bring the thousandth blessing to the soul of your virtuousmother," said Peter in solemn, benedictive tones. "It is my pleasureto desire entrance."

"Speak English, eh?" shrilled the man. "Dammit! Then come in!" Andto this invitation he added blasphemy in Peter's own tongue that madehis heart turn sour. It was the useless, raving blasphemy of aweakling. It was the man as Peter had known him of old. But a littleworse. He still wore what remained of his Marconi uniform, tattered,grease-stained coat and trousers, with the ragged white and blueemblems of the steamship line by which he had been employed before hehad disappeared. His bony hands trembled incessantly, and his face hadthe chalky pastiness native to the opium eater.

Peter, reflecting upon the honor which that uniform had always meantfor him, felt like knocking this chattering, wild-eyed creature downand trampling upon him. But he bowed respectfully. The door clangedbehind him, and his eye absorbed in an instant the details of theponderously high-powered electrical apparatus.

"Speak God's language, eh?" whined the man. "Sit down and don't stareso. Sit down. Sit down."

"A mandarin never seats himself, O high one, until thrice invited."

"Thrice, four, five times, I tell you to sit down!" he babbled. "Men,even rat-eaters like you, who speak my language, are too rare to let goby. Mandarin?"

He stepped back and eyed his guest with stupid humor.

"I say, men who speak my language are rare. Nights I listen to foolson this machine, and tell them what I please. What is the news fromoutside? What is the news from home?"

"From where?"

"From America!" He stumbled over the words, and took in his breathwith a long, trembling hiss between his yellow teeth.

"It is many years since I visited that strange land, O great one! Itis many, many years, indeed, since I studied for the craft which younow perform so honorably."

"You—what was that?"

"I, too, studied to your honorable craft, my son. But it was deniedme. Buddha decreed that I should preach his doctrines. It is my lifeto bring a little hope, a little gladness into the hearts——"

"You stand there and tell me that you know the code?" cried thewhite-faced man shrilly.

"Such was my good fortune," Peter replied gravely.

"Well, I believe you're a dam' liar, you Chink!" scoffed the other, whowas swinging in nervousness or irritation from side to side.

Peter shrugged his shoulders, and permitted his gaze to fondle themonstrous transmission coil.

"I'll show you!" railed the man. "I'll give you a free chance, I will!Now, listen to me. Tell me what I say." He pursed his lips andwhistled a series of staccato dots and dashes.

"What you have said," replied Peter in a deep voice, "is true, O highone!"

"What did I say?"

"You said: 'China, it is the hell-hole of the world!' Do I speak thetruth?"

Peter thought that this crazy man—whose name had formerly beenHarrison—was preparing to leap at him. But Harrison only sprang tohis side and seized his hands in a clammy, excited grip. Tears of anexultant origin glittered in the man's eyes, now luminous.

"You stay with me, do you hear?" he babbled. "You stay here. I'llmake it worth your while! I'll see you have money. I'll see——"

"But I have no need of money, O high one!" interrupted Peter in asomewhat resentful tone, striving to mask his eagerness.

"You stay!" cried Harrison.

"Lotus eater!" Peter said, knowing his ground perfectly.

"What if I am?" demanded Harrison defiantly. "So are you! So are weall! So is everybody who lives in this rotten country!"

"To the sick, all are sick," Peter quoted sorrowfully.

"Rot! As long as I must have opium, there's nothing more to be said.Now, I pry my eyes open with matches to stay awake. With you here——"

His thin voice trailed off. He had confessed what Peter already knew.It was the blurted confession, and the blurted plea, of a mind that washalf consumed by drugs. A diseased mind which spoke the naked truth,which caught at no deception, which was tormented by its own gnawingsand cravings to such an extent that it had lost the function ofsuspecting. Suspicion of a low, distorted sort might come later; butat its present ebb this mind was far too greedy to gain its own smallends to grope beyond.

The lids of Harrison's smoldering eyes drew down, and they were blue, asickly, pallid blue. With their descent his face became a death-mask.But Peter knew from many an observation that such signs were deceptive;knew that opium was a powerful and sustaining drug; knew that Harrison,while weak and stupid and raving, was very much alive!

"There is little work to be done," went on the thin voice. "Only atnight. Say you will stay with me!" he pleaded.

Peter permitted himself to frown, as if he had reached a negativedecision. Harrison, torn by desire, flung himself down on his raggedknees, and sobbed on Peter's hand. Peter pushed him away loathfully.

"What is my task?"

Harrison sank back on his heels, oblivious of the wet streak which randown from his eyes on either side of his thin, sharp nose, and delvednervously into his pocket. He withdrew a lump of black gum, about thesize of a black walnut, broke off a fragment with his finger-nails, andmasticated it slowly. He smirked sagely.

"He won't care. Why should he care?"

"Who, my son?"

"That man—that man who owns Len Yang, and me, and these rat-eaters.All he wants is results."

"Ah, yes. He owns other mines?"

"What does he care about the mines? Of course he directs the othermines by wireless. He owns a sixth of the world. He does. He isrich. Rich! You and I are poor fools. He gives me opium"—Harrisonglared and gulped—"and he does not ask questions."

"Wise men learn without asking questions, my son," said Peter gravely.

"Certainly they do! He knows everything, and he never asks a question.Not a one! He answers them, he does!"

"You have asked him questions?"

"I? Humph! What an innocent fool you are, in spite of that gold onyour collar! Have I seen him to ask questions?"

"That is what I meant."

"Not I. He is no fool. You may be the Gray Dragon for all of me. Noone in Len Yang sees him. No one dares! It is death to see that man!Didn't I try? But only once!"

"You did try?"

"That was enough. I got as far as the first step of the ivory palace.Some one clubbed me! I was sick. I thought I was going to die! Thereis a scar on my neck. It never seems to heal!"

The senile whine trailed off into a thin, abusive whimper. His bonyjaws moved slowly and meditatively. He went on:

"He is crazy, too. Women! Beautiful women for the mines!Men—men—men everywhere know the price he will pay. In pure silver!"

"He pays well, my son?"

"A thousand taels, if he is satisfied. That is where this hole got itsname. You know the name—the City of Stolen Lives? It should be theCity of Lost Hope. For none ever leave. The mines swallow them up.What becomes of them?"

"Ah! What does become of the stolen lives?"

The sunken eyes stared playfully at him. "What is a thousand taels tohim? He is rich, I tell you! They say his cellar is filled withgold—pure gold; that his rooms and halls run and drip with gold, justas his rat-eaters run and drip with the cinnabar poison. And thewireless—he has stations, and this is the best. Mine is the best. Isee to that, let me tell you!"

"To be sure!"

"These hunters, these men who know his price for beautiful women—hewill have none other—and who are paid a thousand taels——"

"Where did you say these stations are?"

"In all parts. There is a station in Afghanistan, between Kabul andJalalabad, and one in Bengal, in the Khasi Hills, and another innorthern Szechwan Province, and one in Siam, on the Bang PakongRiver——"

"A station on the Bang Pakong?"

"Yes, I tell you. All over. These hunters find a woman, a lovelygirl; and they must describe their prize in a few words. He is sly!The fewer the better. If the words appeal to him, he has me tell themto come. Lucky devils! A thousand taels to the lucky devils! Someday I myself may become a hunter."

"It is tempting," agreed Peter. "But why does he want beautiful younggirls for his mine, my son?"

Harrison ignored the question.

"To-night I will listen. You can watch me. Then you can see howsimple it is. It is time."

Peter was aware that the door had opened and closed behind his back,and now he heard the faint scraping of a sandaled foot, heavy with thered slime. A Chinese, in the severe black of an attendant, stoodlooking down at him distrustfully. His eyebrows were shaved, and amustache drooped down to his sharp, flat chin like sea-weed.

He asked Harrison a sharp question in a dialect that smacked of theguttural Tibetan.

"He wants to know where you came from," translated Harrison irritably.

"From Wenchow. A mandarin. He should know."

The man in severe black bowed respectfully, and Peter looked at himfrigidly.

Harrison slipped the Murdock receivers over his ears, and his voicewent on in a weak, garrulous and meaningless whimper.

"Static—static—static. It is horrible to-night. I cannot hear thesefellows. Ah! Afghanistan has nothing, nor Bengal. Hey, you fool, Icannot hear this fellow in Szechwan. He has a message. Yes, you, Icannot hear him. Not a word! He is faint, like a bad whisper. Theywill beat me again if I cannot hear!"

He tried again, forcing the rubber knobs against his ears until theyseemed to sink into his head.

"Have you good hearing?"

"I will try," said Peter.

"Then sit here. You must hear him, or we will both be beaten. Thisfellow goes straight to him."

Peter slipped into the vacated chair and strapped down the receivers.A long, faint whisper, as indistinguishable as the lisp of leaves on adistant hill, trickled into his ears. Ordinarily he would have givenup such a station in disgust, and waited for the air to clear. Now hewanted to establish his ability, to demonstrate the acuteness ofhearing for which he was famous.

Behind him the black-garbed attendant muttered, and Peter scowled athim to be silent.

With deftness that might have surprised that wretch, Harrison, had hiswits been more alert, he raised and closed switches for transmission,and rapped out in a quick, professional "O.K."

He co*cked his head to one side, as he always did when listening tofar-away signals, and a pad and pencil were slid under his hand.

The world and its noises and the tense, eager figures behind him,retreated and became nothing. In all eternity there was but onething—the message from the whispering Szechwan station.

His pencil trailed lightly, without a sound, across the smooth paper.

A message for L. Y. An American girl. Brown hair. Eyes with themoon's mystery. Lips like a new-born rose. Enchantingly young.

The blood boiled into Peter's brain, and the pencil slipped fromfingers that were like ice. There was only one girl in the world whoanswered to that description. Eileen Lorimer! She had been capturedagain, and brought back to China!

He grabbed for the paper. It was gone. Gone, too, was theblack-garbed attendant, hastening to his master.

Harrison was pawing his shoulder with a skinny, white hand, and makingnoises in his throat.

"You lucky fool! He'll give you c*mshaw. God, you have sharp ears!Only one man I ever knew had such sharp ears. He always givesc*mshaw. Na-mien-pu-liao-pa! You must divide with me. That isonly fair. But—what difference? Here you can enter, but you cannever leave. You have no use for silver. I have."

The face of Eileen Lorimer swam out of Peter's crazed mind. Miss Vost,that lovely innocent-eyed creature, fitted the same description!

Peter stared stupidly at the massive transmission key, and disdained areply. Miss Vost—and the red mines! He shuddered.

Harrison was whining again at his ear. "He says yes. Yes! Tell thatfellow yes, and be quick. The Gray Dragon will give him an extrathousand taels for haste. Oh, the lucky fool! Two thousand taels!Tell him, or shall I?"

How could Peter say no? The ghastly white face was staring at himsuspiciously now.

While he hesitated Harrison pushed him aside, and his fingers flew upand down on the black rubber knob. "Yes—yes—yes. Send her in ahurry. A thousand taels bonus. The lucky devil!"

Out of Peter's anguish came but one solution, and that vague andindecisive. He must wait and watch for Miss Vost, and take whatdrastic measures he could devise to recapture her when the time came.

The pallid lips trembled again at his ear. "Here! You must dividewith me. A bag of silver. Yin! A bag of it! Listen to the chinkof it!"

Peter seized the yellow pouch and thrust it under his silken blouse.He was beginning to realize that he had been exceptionally lucky incatching the signals of the Szechwan station. He was vastly moreimportant now than this wretch who plucked at his arm.

"Give me my half!" whined Harrison.

Peter doubled his fist.

"Give me my half!" Harrison clung to his arm and shook him irritably.

Peter hit him squarely in the mouth.

CHAPTER XVIII

As night melted into day and day was swallowed up by night, the problemwhich confronted Peter took on more serious and baffling proportions.His hope of entering the ivory palace was dismissed. It was imperativefor him to give up the idea of entering, of piercing the lines of armedguards and reaching the room where the master of the City of StolenLives held forth until some later time.

That had been his earlier ambition, but the necessity of discarding theoriginal plan became hourly more important with the drawing near of thegirl captive.

If he could deliver Miss Vost from this dreadful city, that would bemore than an ample reward for his long, adventurous quest.

He could not sleep. Perched on an ancient leather stool upon the roofof the wireless building, he kept a nightly and a daily watch with hiseyes fixed upon the drawbridge. A week went by. Food was carried upto him, and he scarcely touched it. The rims of his eyes becamescarlet from sleeplessness, and he muttered constantly, like a man onthe verge of insanity, as his eyes wandered back and forth over the redfilth, from the shadowy bridge to the shining white of the palace.

Drearily, like souls lost and wandering in a half world, the prisonersof Len Yang trudged to the scarlet maws of the mine and were engulfedfor long, pitiless hours, and were disgorged, staggering and blinking,in Tibet's angry evening sun.

The woeful sight would madden any man. And yet each day new souls wereborn to the grim red light of Len Yang's day, and clinging remorsefullyto the hell which was their lot, other bleeding souls departed, andtheir shrunken bodies fed to the scarlet trough, where they were washedinto oblivion in some sightless cavern below.

It was a bitterly cold night, with the wind blowing hard from the iceand snow on the Tibetan peaks, when Peter's long vigilance wasrewarded. A booming at the gate, followed by querulous shouts, arousedhim from his lethargy. He looked out over the crenelated wall, but thecold moonlight revealed a vacant street.

The booming and shouting persisted, and Peter was sure that Miss Vosthad come, for in cities of China only an extraordinary event causesdrawbridges to be lowered.

He slipped down the creaking ladder into the wireless-room. Harrisonwas in a torpor, muttering inanely and pleadingly as his long, whitefingers opened and closed, perhaps upon imagined gold.

Peter opened the heavy brass door, and let himself into the desertedstreet. The jeweled sandals with which Chang had provided him sankdeep into the red mire, and remained there.

He sped on, until he reached the black shadow of the great green wall.Suddenly the bridge gave way with many creakings and groanings andPeter saw the moonlight upon the silvery white road beyond.

A group of figures, mounted on mules, with many pack-mules inattendance, made a grotesque blot of shadow. Then a shrill scream.

Hoofs trampled hollowly upon the loose, rattling boards, and thecavalcade marched in.

A slim figure in a long, gray cloak rode on the foremost mule. Peter,aided by the black shadow, crept to her side.

"Miss Vost! Miss Vost!" he called softly. "It is Peter, Peter Moore!"

He heard her gasp in surprise, and her moan went into his heart like aragged knife.

Peter tried to keep abreast, but the red clay dragged him back. Behindhim some one shouted. They would emerge into the sharp moonlight inanother second.

"Help me! Oh, help me!" she sobbed. "He's following! He is too late!"

She was carried out into the moonlight. At the same time, countlessfigures seemed to rise from the ground—from nowhere—and in everydirection Peter was blocked. The stench of Len Yang's miserableinhabitants crept from these figures upon the chill night air.

Naked, unclean shoulders brushed him; moist, slimy hands pressed himback. But he was not harmed; he was simply pushed backward andbackward until his bare foot encountered the first board of the bridgewhich was still lowered.

Behind him an order was hissed. He placed his back to the surgingshadows. Coils of heavy rope were unfolding. The drawbridge was beingraised.

Down the white road, veering drunkenly from one side to the other, camea leaping black dot.

The drawbridge creaked, the ropes became taut, and the far end liftedan inch at a time.

Peter shouted, but no one heeded him. His breath pumped in and out ofhis lungs in short, anguished gulps. He leaped out upon the bridge,and shouted again. The creaking ceased; the span became stationary.

The drunken dot leaped into the form of a giant upon a galloping mulewhich swept upon them in a confusion of dust. Hoofs pounded on thebridge; the giant on the mule drew rein, and to Peter it was given tolook upon the face of the man he thought dead. The raging eyes ofBobbie MacLaurin swept from his face to his muddy feet.

"Moore! Where have they taken her?" ripped out the giant on the mule.

"Dismount and follow me. To the white palace! Are you armed?"

"And ready to shoot every dam' yellow snake in all of China!"

He jumped heavily to the boards, and Peter caught the gleam ofsteel-tipped bullets in the narrow strap which was slung from shoulderto waist.

The foreman of the rope-pullers dared to raise his head, and Bobbiekicked him with his heavy-shod foot in the stomach, and the cooliebounded up and backward, and lay draped limply over the side.

As they ran under the broad, dark arch into the street, he gave Peterin one hand the thick butt of an army automatic, and in the other ahalf-dozen loaded clips.

And they began blazing their way to the palace steps. Weird figuressprang up from the muck, and were shot back to earth.

They reached the hill top, and the green moon of Tibet scored the roofof the white palace.

A handful of guards, with rifles and swords, rushed down the broad, lowflight.

The two men flung themselves upon the clay, while high-powered bulletsplunked on either side of them or soughed overhead. The two automaticsblazed in shattering chorus. The guards parted, backed up, some ranaway, others fell, and Peter felt the sudden burn of screaming leadacross his shoulder. He slipped another clip of cartridges into thesteel butt; they leaped up and raced to the white steps. A riflespurted and roared in the black shadow. Bobbie groaned, staggered, andclimbed on. Now they were guided by a woman's sharp cries issuing froman areaway. And they stopped in amazement before a majesticwhite-marble portal.

With two coolies struggling to pinion her arms, the girl was kicking,scratching, biting with the fire of a wildcat, dragging them toward thebroad, white veranda.

Bobbie shot the foremost of them through the brain, and the other,gibbering terribly, vanished into the shadow.

Peter caught Miss Vost by one hand and raced down the steps. Bobbie,holding his head in a grotesque gesture, ran and staggered behind them.

Bobbie waved his free arm savagely. "Don't wait for me! Get her outof this place! Don't take your eyes from her till you reach Wenchow!"

He wheeled and shot three times at a figure which had stolen up behindhim. The figure spun about and seemed to melt into a hole in the earth.

Peter wrapped his arm about Bobbie's waist and dragged him down thehill. Miss Vost, as he realized after that demonstration in theareaway, could handle herself.

The bridge was up. Lights glowed from hovel ways like evil red eyes.Peter released the rope and the bridge sprang down to the road with aboom that shook the solid walls. Bobbie's mule nosed toward them, andPeter all but shot the friendly little animal!

Between Peter and Miss Vost, who was chattering and weeping as if herheart was breaking, their wounded companion was lifted into the saddle.They crossed the bridge, and the bridge was whipped up behind them.

Not until they attained the brow of the hill did they look back uponthe gloomy walls, now black and peaceful under the high clear moon.And it was not until then that Peter marveled upon their easy escape,upon the snatching up of the bridge as they left. Why had no shotsbeen fired at them as they climbed the silver road?

They trusted to no providence other than flight. All night long theyhastened toward the highway which led to Ching-Fu—and India. And theyhad no breath to spare for mere words. At any moment the long arm ofthe Gray Dragon might reach out and pluck them back.

Only once they paused, while Peter ripped out the satin lining of hisrobe and bound up the wound in Bobbie's dazed head.

Miss Vost sat down upon a moss-covered rock and wept. She made noeffort to help him, but stared and wiped her eyes with her hands.

A misty, rosy dawn found them above the valley in which ran theconnecting road between Ching-Fu and the Irriwaddi.

Miss Vost was the first to see the camp-fires of a caravan. Shelaughed, then cried, and she tottered toward Peter, who stood there, alean weird figure in his tattered blue robe and his tangled beard.

She extended her arms slightly as she approached, and her gray eyeswere luminous with a soft and gentle fire.

Bobbie staggered away from the mule's heaving sides, with one handfumbling weakly at the satin bandage, and in his eyes, too, was thelook that rarely comes into the eyes of men.

In a single glance Peter could see to the very depths of that man'sunselfish soul. It was like glancing into the light of a golden autumnmorning.

Miss Vost lifted both of Peter's hands, and one was still blue from theback-fire of the automatic. She lifted them to her lips and kissedthem solemnly. With a little fluttering sigh she looked up at Bobbie,standing beside her and towering above her like a strong hill.

They looked long at one another, and Peter felt for a moment curiouslynegligible. He had cause to feel that his presence was absolutelyunessential when, with a happy, soft little laugh, Miss Vost sprang upand was crushed in the cradle of Bobbie's great arms.

Peter looked down into the green valley with tears standing in hisgrave, blue eyes. The caravan was slowly winding out upon the trail.In five weeks it would leave Kalikan, the last soil of China, on thefrontier of India.

Peter felt exceedingly happy as he hastened down the hillside to catchthe caravan.

PART II

THE BITTER FOUNTAIN

CHAPTER I

She bends over her work once more:
"I will weave a fragment of verse among the flowers of his robe,
and perhaps its words will tell him to return."
—LI-TAI-PE.

The newly arrived wireless operator of the Java, China, and Japanliner, Persian Gulf, deposited his elbows upon the promenadedeck-rail, and cast a side-long glance at the Chinese coolie who hadtaken up a similar position about a bumboat's length aft. And thecoolie returned his deliberate stare with a look of dreamy interest,then quickly shifted his glance to the city which smoldered andvibrated across Batavia's glinting, steel-blue harbor.

Without turning his head the wireless man continued to watch sharplythe casual movements of this Chinese, quite as he had been observinghim since they had left Tandjong Priok in the company's launch and comeout to the Persian Gulf together.

He had suspected the fellow from the very first, and he was prepared,on the defensive; yet he was willing and eager to take the offensiveshould this son of the yellow empire so much as show the haft of hiskris, or whisper a word of counsel in his ear. The latter he fearedquite as much as the former, for it would mean many things.

As the fellow sidled a little closer, Peter was aware that the man wasmaking queer signals with his slanting eyes for the purpose ofattracting his attention, without arousing the curiosity or interest ofany persons who might be observing the two.

Whereupon Peter turned on his left heel, walked to the other's side andgave him a stare of deliberate hostility.

The coolie moved backward a few inches by flexing his body; his feetremained as they were. And as Peter ran his eye from the black crownhat to the faded blue jacket, the black-sateen pants, which wereclipped about the ankles, giving them a mild pantaloon effect, and tothe black slippers with their thick buck-soles, the coolie smiled.

It was a smile of arrogance, of self-satisfaction. Indeed, it was thesmile of a hunter who has winged his prey, and smiles an instant towatch it squirm before administering the death-shot.

"You wanchee my?" inquired Peter succinctly.

"You allatime go Hong Kong way?" replied the coolie, his smile becominga little more civil, while he measured Peter's length, breadth, andseemed to estimate his brawn.

It was a foolish question, for the Persian Gulf, as everybody inBatavia knew quite well, made a no-stop run from the Javanese port toHong Kong. Peter indicated this fact impatiently.

"No go Hong Kong way?" persisted the coolie, not relaxing that devilishgrin. "Maskee Hong Kong. Nidzen yang gïang?"

The wheezy old whistle of the Persian Gulf told the world inunmistakable accents that sailing time was nigh. The Persian Gulfwas not a new boat or a fast boat, and she sailed in the intermediateservice south of Java. Yet she was stout, and typhoons meant verylittle to her as yet.

"Why not?" demanded Peter in the tones of an interlocutor.

The coolie simply lifted the flap of his blue tunic, and Peter wasgiven the singular glimpse of a bone-hafted knife, the blade of whichhe could guess lay flat against the man's paunch.

Still the Chinese smiled, without avarice. Plainly he was stating thecase as it was known to him, reciting a lesson, as it were, which hadbeen taught him by one skilled in the ways of killing and of espionage.

The facts of this case were that Peter Moore should immediatelypostpone or give up entirely his trip to Hong Kong for reasons bestknown to the powers arrayed against him. And strangely enough, HongKong was one of the two cities in China where Peter had pressingbusiness.

It made him furious, this knowledge that the man of Len Yang had pickedup the trail again.

So Peter glanced up and down the deck to see if there would be anywitness to his act, and there was only one, a passenger. The Chinesewas still smiling, but by degrees that smile was becoming more evil andsour. He was perplexed at the wireless operator's furtive examinationof the promenade deck. Yet he was not kept in the dark regardingPeter's intentions much longer than it would have taken him to utterthe Chinese equivalent of Jack Robinson.

With an energetic swoop, Peter seized him by the nearest arm and leg,and in the next breath the coolie was shooting through an awful void,tumbling head over heels like a bag of loose rice, straight for theoily bosom of Batavia's harbor!

So much for Peter's slight knowledge of jiu-jitsu.

He was angrily at a loss to account for the appearance of this trailer,for he had been watchful every moment since escaping from the greenwalls of that blood-tinted city, and he was positive that he had shakenoff pursuit. Yet somewhere along that trail, which ran from Len Yangto Bhamo, from Rangoon to Penang, and around the horn of Malacca, hisescape had been betrayed.

The spies of Len Yang's master must have possessed divining rods whichplumbed the very secrets of Peter's soul.

In Batavia Peter attended to a task long deferred. He despatched acablegram to Eileen Lorimer in Pasadena, California, advising her thathe was still on top, very much alive, and would some day, he hoped, payher a visit.

He wondered what that gray-eyed little creature would say, what shewould do, upon receipt of the message from far-away Java. It had beenmany long months since their parting on the rain-soaked bund atShanghai. That scene was quite clear in his mind when he turned fromthe Batavia cable office to negotiate his plan with the wireless man ofthe Persian Gulf.

Peter found the man willing, if not positively eager, to negotiate—acirc*mstance that Peter forecasted in his mind as soon as his eyes haddwelt a fleeting moment upon the pudgy white face with its greedy,small, black eyes. The man was quite willing to lose himself in thehills behind Batavia until the Persian Gulf was hull down on thedeep-blue horizon, upon a consideration of gold.

Peter could have paid his passage to Hong-Kong, and achieved his endsquite as handily as in his present role of wireless operator. But hisfingers had begun to itch again for the heavy brass transmission-key,and his ears were yearning for the drone of radio voices across theethereal void.

It was on sailing morning that he was given definite evidence in theperson of the Chinese coolie that his zigzagged trail had been pickedup again by those alert spies of Len Yang's monarch.

He steamed out to the high black side of the steamer in the company'spassenger-launch, gazing back at the drowsy city, quite sure that thepursuit was off, when he felt the glinting black eyes of the coolieboring into him from the tiny cabin doorway.

His suspicions kindled slowly, and he admitted them reluctantly. Itwas the privilege of any Chinese coolie to stare at him, quite as itwas the privilege of a cat to stare at a king. But the seed ofmistrust was sown, and it was sown in fertile soil.

Peter ignored the stare, however, until the launch puffed up alongsidethe sea-ladder, then he gave the coolie a glance pregnant withhostility and understanding.

Taking the swaying steps three at a time, Peter hastened to hisstateroom, emerging about five minutes later in a white uniform, theuniform of the J. C. & J. service, with a little gold at the collar,bands of gold about the cuffs, and gold emblems of shooting sparks,indicative of his caste, upon either arm.

He looked for the coolie and found him on the starboard side of thepromenade deck. The subsequent events have already been partlynarrated.

CHAPTER II

The coolie plunged into the water with a weltering splash which sent asmall spiral of spray almost to the deck. For a moment the man in thewater pedaled and flailed, vastly frightened, and gasping, above theclang of the engine-room telegraph, for a rope. The black side of thePersian Gulf started to slide away from him.

"You better make for shore!" shouted Peter between megaphonic hands.

Several boatmen were poling in the coolie's direction, but all of themrefrained from slipping within reach of the thrashing hands. AJavanese boatman can find more amusing and enjoyable scenes than anangry Chinese coolie flailing about in the water; but he must travelmany miles to find them.

"Swim to the ma-fou," Peter encouraged him. He knew there weresharks in that emerald pond.

His attention then was diverted by a flutter of white at his elbow. Heturned his head. The lonely passenger, a girl, was smilingmischievously into his face. But in her very dark eyes there was ablunt question.

"Why did you do that?" she asked in a voice that rang with a lowmusical quality. Her voice and her beauty were of the tropics, as werethe features which, molded together, gave form to that beauty; becauseher hair and eyes were of a color, dark like walnut, and her olive skinwas like silk under silk, with the rosy color of her youth and fireshowing underneath.

She was rather startling, especially her deep, dark and restless eyes.It was by sense rather than by anything his eyes could base conclusionsupon that Peter realized her spirited personality, knew instinctivelythat radiant and destructive fires burned behind the sombre,questioning eyes. The full, red lips might have told him this much.

And now these lips were forming a smile in which was a little humor anda great deal of tenderness.

Why there should be any element of tenderness in the stranger's smilewas a point that Peter was not prepared to analyze. He had beensubjected to the tender smiles of women, alas! on more than oneoccasion; and it was part of Peter's nature to take these giftsunquestioningly. He was not one to look a gift smile in the mouth!Yet, if Peter had looked back upon his experience, he would haveadmitted that such a smile was slightly premature, that it smacked ofsweet mystery.

And it is whispered that richly clad young women do not ordinarilysmile with tenderness upon young ruffians who throw apparently peacefulcitizens from the decks of steamers into waters guarded by sharks.

To carry this argument a step farther, it has always seemed an unfairdispensation of nature that women should fall in love so desperately,so suddenly, so unapologetically and in such numbers with Peter theBrazen.

The phenomenon cannot be explained in a breath, or in a paragraph, ifat all. While he was good to look upon, neither was Peter a god.While he was at all times chivalrous, yet he was not painstakinglythoughtful in the small matters which are supposed to advance the causeof love at a high pace. Nor was he guided by a set of fixed rules suchas men are wont to employ at roulette and upon women.

Peter did not understand women, yet he had a perfectly good workingbasis, for he took all of them seriously, with gravity, and he gavetheir opinions a willing ear and considerable deference.

The rest is a mystery. Peter was neither particularly glib nor witty.Instinctively he knew the values of the full moon, the stars, and hehad the look of a young man who has drunk at the fountain of life onmore than one occasion, finding the waters thereof bitter, with a traceof sweetness and a decided tinge of novelty.

Life was simply a great big adventure to Peter the Brazen; and he hadbeen shot, stabbed, and beaten into insensibility on many occasions,and he was not unwilling for more. He dearly loved a dark mystery, andhe had a certain reluctant fondness for a woman's bright, deceptiveeyes.

As from a great distance he heard the jeers of the Javanese boatmen andthe flounderings of the coolie as he looked now into the dark, deepeyes of this pretty, smiling stranger.

"Why did you do that?" she repeated softly.

"Because I wanted to," returned Peter with his winning smile.

"But there are sharks in there." This in a voice of gentle reproof.

"I hope they eat him alive," said Peter, unabashed.

"You threw him overboard just because you wanted to. And if you wantto, I'll go next, I suppose."

"You might," laughed Peter. "When I have these spells I simply grabthe nearest person and over he goes. It is a terrible habit, isn't it?"

"Perhaps he insulted you."

"Or threatened me."

"Ah!" Her sigh expressed that she understood everything. "May I ask:Who are you?"

"I? Peter Moore."

"I mean, your uniform. You are one of the ship's officers, are younot?"

"The wireless operator. Shall we consider ourselves properlyintroduced?"

"My name is Romola Borria. I presume you are an American—or British."

"American," informed Peter. "And you? Spanish señorita?"

"I have no nationality," she replied easily. "I am what we call inChina, a 'B. I. C.'"

"Born in China!"

"Born in Canton, China. Father: Portuguese; mother: Australian.Answer: What am I?" She laughed deliciously, and Peter was moved.

They lingered long enough to see the coolie drag himself up on theshore unassisted, and then separated, the girl to make ready for lunchand to request the steward to assign them to adjoining seats at thesame table, and Peter to take a look at the register, the crew, andwhat passengers might be on deck.

The passengers, lounging in steamer-chairs awaiting the call to tiffin,and the deck crew, strapping down the forward cargo booms and batteningthe forward hatch, Peter gave a careful inspection, retaining theirimages in an eye that was rapidly being trained along photographiclines.

It was a comparatively simple matter, Peter found, to remember peoples'faces; the important point being to select some striking feature of thecountenance, and then persistently drive this feature home in hismemory. He knew that the human memory is a perverse organ, muchpreferring to forget and lose than to retain.

So he looked over the crew and found them to be quite Dutch and quiteself-satisfied, with no more than a slight but polite interest in himand his presence. Wireless operators, as a rule, are self-effacingindividuals who inhabit dark cabins and have very little to say.

He called at the purser's office and helped himself to the register,finding the name of Romola Borria in full, impulsive handwriting,giving her address as Hong Kong, Victoria; and a long list of Dutchnames, representing quite likely nothing more harmful than sugar andcoffee men, with perhaps a sprinkling of copra and pearl buyers.

Peter then investigated the wireless cabin, which was situated aft onthe turn of the promenade deck, and commanding a not entirely inspiringview of the cargo well and the steerage.

Assuring himself that the wireless machine was in good working order,Peter hooked back the door, turned on the electric fan to air the placeout, and with his elbows on the rail gave the steerage passengers alooking over.

He did not look far before his gaze stopped its traveling.

Directly below him, sitting cross-legged on a hatch-cover, was aChinese or Eurasian girl whose face was colorless, whose lips were red,and whose eyes, half-lidded, because of the dazzling sunlight, were ofan unusual blue-green shade.

Had Peter wished to make inquiries regarding this maiden, he would havefound that she was from the Chinese settlement in Macassar, and on herway to Canton, to pay a visit to a grandmother she had never seen. Butit was Peter's nature to spin little dreams of his own whenever hecontemplated exotic young women, to place them in settings of his ownmanufacture.

Her blue-black hair was parted in a white line that might have beencentered by the tip of her tiny nose and an unseen point on the nape ofher pretty neck.

Peter could not know, as he studied her, how this innocent maid fromMacassar was destined to play an important and significant part in hislife, entering and leaving it like a gentle and caressing afternoonmonsoon. His guess, as he looked away, was that she was a woman of nocaste, from her garb; probably a river girl; more than likely, worse.Yet there was an undeniable air of innocence and youth in her narrowshoulders as she slowly rocked. Peter could see the tips of bright-redsandals peeping from under each knee, and he guessed her to be abouteighteen.

She caught sight of Peter, who had folded his arms and was restingtheir elbows idly upon the teak rail, and their eyes met and lingered.A light, indescribably sad and appealing, shone in the blue-green eyes,which seemed to open larger and larger, until they became round poolsof darting, mysterious reflection. It was a moment in which Peter wassuspended in space.

"I am afraid that wireless operators are not always discreet," purred alow, sweet voice at his side.

Peter smiled his grave smile, and vouchsafed nothing. The girl in thesteerage had returned to her sewing and was apparently quite obliviousof his presence. And still that look of demure, wistful appeal stoodout in his memory.

Romola Borria was murmuring something, the context of which was notquite clear to him.

"Eh? I beg pardon?"

"It is quite dreadful, this traveling all alone," she remarked.

"Yes," he admitted. "Sometimes I bore myself into a state of agony."

"And it breeds such strange, such unexplainable desires and caprices,"the girl went on in her cultivated, honeyed tones. "Strangerssometimes are so—so cold. For instance, yourself."

"I?" exclaimed Peter, supporting himself on the stanchion. "Why, I'mthe friendliest man in the world!"

Romola Borria pursed her lips and studied him analytically.

"I wonder——" she began, and stopped, fretting her lip. "I shouldlike to ask you a very blunt and a very bold question." Her expressionwas darkly puzzled.

"Go right ahead," urged Peter amiably, "don't mind me."

"Why I speak in this way," she explained, "is that since I ran awayfrom Hong Kong——"

"Oh, you ran away from Hong Kong!"

"Of course!" She said it in a way that indicated a certain lack ofunderstanding on his part. "Since I ran away from Hong Kong I havebeen looking, looking for such—for such a man as you appear to be,to—to confide in."

"Don't you suppose a woman would do almost as well?" spoke Peter, who,through experience, had grown to dislike the father-confessor role.

"If you don't care to listen——" she began, as though he had hurther.

"I am all ears," stated Peter, with his most convincing smile.

"And I have changed my mind," said Romola Borria with a disdainful tossof her pretty head. "Besides, I think the Herr Captain would have aword with you."

The fat and happy captain of the Persian Gulf occupied the breadth ifnot the height of the doorway, wearing his boyish grin, and Peterhastened to his side with a murmured apology to the girl as he left her.

He merely desired to have transmitted an unimportant clearance messageto the Batavia office, to state that all was well and that thethrust-bearing, repaired, was now performing "smoot'ly."

Dropping the hard rubber head-phones over his ears, Peter listened tothe air, and in a moment the silver crash of the white spark came fromthe doorway.

Romola Borria stared long and venomously at the little Chinese maiden,who was sewing away industriously as she rocked to and fro on thehatch. Immersed in her own thoughts the girl, removing her quick eyesfrom the flying needle, glanced up at the deep-blue sky, and, smiling,shivered in a sort of ecstasy.

CHAPTER III

At dinner Peter met the notables. It seemed the fat and handsomecaptain had taken a fancy to him. And it was as Peter had deducedearlier. These passengers were stodgy Dutchmen, each with a littleworld of his own, and forming the sole orbit of that little world. Forthe most part they were plantation owners escaping the seasonal heatfor the cool breezes of a vacation in Japan, boastful of theirpossessions, smug in their Dutch self-complacency, and somewhatgluttonous in their manner of eating.

The fat captain beamed. The fat plantation owners gorged themselvesand jabbered. The three-piece orchestra played light opera that theworld had forgotten. The company became light-hearted as more frostybottles of that exotic drink, arracka, were disgorged by the PersianGulf's excellent ice-box. And all the while, speaking in light,soothing tones, Romola Borria gazed alluringly into the watchful eyesof Peter Moore.

At length the chairs were pushed back, and Peter, with this fairy-likecreature in a dinner-gown of most fetching pink gossamer clinging tohis arm, took to the deck for an after-dinner Abdullah.

They chatted in low, confiding tones of the people in the dining-room.They whispered in awe of the Southern Cross, which sparkled like froston the low horizon. She confessed that at night the moon was her god,and Peter, feeling exalted under the influence of her exquisite charm,the touch of the light fingers upon his arm which tingled and burnedunder the subtle pressure, became bold and recited that verse of"Mandalay" wherein "I kissed her where she stood."

It was quite thrilling, quite delicious, and altogether quite too fineto last.

After a while, when they were passing the door of the wireless cabin,Romola squeezed his arm lightly and expressed a desire to have him senda message, a message she had quite forgotten. When Peter replied thatsuch a message would be costly, involving an expensive retransmissionby cable from Manila to Hong Kong, she only laughed.

Peter snapped on the green-shaded light and handed her pad and pencil.Dropping lightly to the couch which ran the length of the oppositewall, she nibbled at the pencil's rubber, and her smooth brow wasdarkened by a frown of perplexity.

Peter, lowering the aerial switch, sent out an inquiring call for theManila station. The air was still as death. A dreary hush filled theblack receivers, and then, through this gloomy silence trickled afar-away silver voice, the brisk, clear signals of Manila.

He swiveled half around, and the girl nervously extended the pad ofradio blanks.

The message was directed to Emiguel Borria, the Peak, Hong Kong, and itcontained the information that she would reach the Hong Kong anchorageon the following Tuesday morning. The last sentence; "Do not meet me."

Peter inclined his eyebrows slightly, but not impertinently, countedthe words and flashed them to the operator at Manila.

This one shot back the following greeting:

"Who are you? Only one man on the whole Pacific has a fist like that."

Peter changed the manner of his sending, resorting to a long andpainful "drawl."

"I am a little Chinese waif," Peter spelled out slowly, and smiled,adding: "Good hunting to you, Smith!" He signed off.

The silvery spark of Smith was quick in reply.

"If you are Peter Moore, the Marconi people are scouring the earthtrying to find you. Are you Peter Moore?"

"In China," replied Peter breezily, changing back to the inimitablycrisp sending for which he was famous, "we bite off people's noses whoare inquisitive. Good night, old-timer!"

The voice of Manila screamed back in faint reprisal, but Peter droppedthe nickeled band to the ledge, and pivoted quickly, to face the girl.

It was startling, the look she was giving him. Perhaps he hadcompleted the transmission before she was aware. At all events, whenPeter turned with a smile, her eyes bored straight into his with adistorted look, a look that seemed cruel, as if it might have sprungfrom a well of hate; and hard and glinting and black as polished jade.

All of this vanished when she caught Peter's eyes, and it was as thepassage of a vision, unreal. In its place was an expression ofdemureness, of gentle, almost fondling meekness. Had she been staring,not at him, but beyond him, over the miles to a detestable scene, aview of horror? It seemed more than likely.

Then he observed that the door of the wireless room was closed. Hemade as if to open it, but she interrupted him midway with a commandinggesture of her white, small hand.

"Lock it, and sit down here beside me."

Somewhat dazed and greatly flabbergasted, Peter obeyed.

He locked the door, then sat down beside her. She moved closer, tookhis hand, wrapped both of hers tightly around it, and leaned toward himuntil the breath from her parted lips was upon his throat, moist andwarm, and her eyes were great shining balls of limpid mystery anddancing excitement, so close to his that he momentarily expected theireyelashes to mingle.

She caught her breath, and then, for such dramatic circ*mstances, madea most ridiculous remark. She realized that herself, for she whippedout:

"It is a foolish question. But, Mr. Moore, do you believe in love atfirst sight?"

Peter's tense look dissolved into a smile of giddy relief. He wasexpecting something quite frightful, and the clear wit of him found aready answer.

"Foolish?" he chuckled. "Why, I'm the most devout worshiper at theshrine! The shrine brags about me! It says to unbelievers: Now, ifyou don't believe in love at first sight, just cast your orbs uponPeter Moore, our most shining example. Allah, by Allah! The oldphilanderer is assuredly of the faith!"

"I am quite serious, Mr. Moore."

"As I was afraid, Miss Borria. Seriously, if you must know it, thenhere goes: As soon as I saw you I was mad about you! Call itinfatuation, call it a rush of blood to my foolish young head, call itanything you like——"

"Why don't you stop all this?" she broke him off.

"All what?" he inquired innocently.

"This—this life you are leading. This indolence. This constanttoying with danger. This empty life. This sham of adventure-love thatyou affect. It will get you nothing. I know! I, too, thought it wasa great lark at first, and I played with fire; and you know just whathappens to the children who play with fire.

"At first you skirt the surface, and then you go a little deeper, andfinally you can do nothing but struggle. It is a terrible feeling, tofind that your wonderful toy is killing you. Certain people in China,Mr. Moore, are conducting practises that you of the western world frownupon. And blundering upon these practices, as perhaps you have, youbelieve you are very bold and daring, and you are thrilled as you rubelbows with death, in tracing the dragons to their dens."

"Dragons!" The syllables cracked from Peter's lips, and his wits,which were wandering in channels of their own while this lectureprogressed, suddenly were bundled together, and he was alert and keenlyattentive.

"Or call them what you will," went on the girl in a low-pitchedmonotone. "I call them dragons, because the dragon is a filthy,wretched symbol."

"You have some knowledge of my encounters with—dragons?" put in Peteras casually as he was able.

"I profess to know nothing of your encounters with anybody," repliedthe girl quietly and patiently. "I base my conclusions only on what Ihave seen. This morning I saw you throw a Chinese coolie into theharbor at Batavia. It happens that I have seen that coolie before, andit also happens that I know a little—do not ask me what I know, for Iwill never tell you—a little about the company that coolie keeps."

"I guess you are getting a little beyond my depth," stated Peteruncomfortably. "Would you mind sort of summing up what you've justsaid?"

"I mean, I want to try to persuade you that the life you have beenliving is wrong. At the same time, I want you to help me, as only youcan help me, in putting a life of wretchedness behind me. It is askinga great deal, a very great deal, but in return I will give you morethan you will ever realize, more than you can realize, for you cannotrealize the danger that surrounds your every movement, and willcontinue to surround you until they—they—are assured that you havedecided to forget them."

Peter shook his head, forgetting to wonder what an officer might thinkupon finding the door locked. Would the jovial little captain be quiteso jovial viewing these incriminating circ*mstances? Not likely. ButPeter had dismissed the fat captain from his mind, together with allother alien thoughts, as he concentrated upon the amazing words of thisexceedingly amazing and beautiful girl. She was looking down at thechevron of gold sparks on his sleeve.

"I can tell you but one more thing of consequence," she continued. "Itis this: Together we can stand; divided we will fall, just as surely asthe sun follows its track in the heavens. I have a plan that willoffend you—perhaps offend you terribly—but there is no other way.When they know that we have decided to forget them, we can breatheeasily. Our secrets, grown stale, are not harmful to them."

"I am always open to any reasonable inducement," Peter said dryly.

The eyes meeting his were quite wild.

"How would you like to go to some lovely little place to have money, tolive comfortably, even luxuriously, with a woman of whom you could bejustly proud, and who would bend every power with the sole view ofmaking you happy?"—she was blushing hotly—"and all this woman woulddemand in return would be your loyalty, your respect—and later yourlove, if that were possible."

"But this—this is—astounding!" Peter exclaimed.

"I expected you to say that. But let me assure you, I have thoughtthis over. I have given it every possible consideration, and now Iknow there is no other way. I want to leave China. I want to go awayforever and ever. I must leave."

Her shoulders jerked nervously.

"My life has been miserable—so miserable. And I am not brave enoughto go through with it alone. I am afraid, terribly afraid. And afraidof myself, and of my weakness. I must be encouraged, must have someone to make me strong and brave, and afterward to take the good in meand bring it out, and kill the bad."

She relinquished Peter's hand and thumped her chest with small fists.

"There is good in me; but it has never been given a chance! I want aman who will bring that good out, a man who will make me fine and trueand honorable. For such a man I would give everything—my life!" Shelowered her voice. "I would give my best—my love. When I saw youlift the coolie, after he showed you his knife, I thought you were sucha man; and when I looked into your face I believed I had found such aman. The rest—remains—for you to say."

"Where do you want me to t-take you?" demanded Peter.

"Ah! That is of so little importance! To Nara—Nagoya—toAustralia—America."

She shrugged, as if to say, "and little I care."

"Now I am offering you only two rewards for that sacrifice—your safetyagainst them—and money. You can name your price. I feel that youwill come to love me; but that can come, if it cares, any time. Whenyou want me—I will be waiting. I want you to consider this now. Now!Will you? Tell me that you will!"

"I—I don't know what to say!" stammered Peter in a husky voice."Are—you are not joking, are you, Miss Borria? You can't be! Butthis is so serious! Shocking! Why, you never saw me before! Whyshould you pick me for such a thing when you never saw me? You don'tknow me. You don't know what a brute I might be. Why, I might bemarried for all you know——"

"I am reasonably sure," said the girl with some of her former serenity.

"But this—this is unbelievable!" cried Peter. "You never saw mebefore to-day. Why, you're a nice girl. You're not the kind of girlwho runs away with a man at first sight. You're not in love with me atall. Not at all. Miss Borria——"

A flame of hot suspicion shot athwart Peter's mind. He seized herhands, glared into her eyes, dragged her to her feet.

"See here!" he clamored. "Tell me what you really want. What's yourgame, eh? You're a wise little bird, you are. I may look stupid, Imay not see all the way through this talk you've been giving me.You're holding back. What is it? Come on! Out with it!"

She was not disturbed in the least at his harshness, nor did sheseemingly disapprove of the rough way he handled her.

"I am married," she said simply.

CHAPTER IV

To Peter this revelation was like the addition of a single grain to abucket brimming with sand.

"Well, what of it?" he barked.

"To a man who is fat and untidy, a man old enough to be my father, whotreats me as if I were a thief, or a dog. I loathe him. And hedetests me. You see"—she smiled ironically—"we are not very happy.I ran away from him a month ago, from Hong Kong. I ran as far asSingaraja, and now I have to go back because I have not the courage tostay away. A stronger will would make me give him up. Would make mego away, and stay. And I grabbed at you."

"As a drowning man would grab at a straw."

"Not at all! Perhaps, let us say, I had pictured such a man as you.And then you came. He will beat me when I return."

"No!"

"Yes!" She pressed down the gauzy stuff which came up almost to herthroat in the form of a high "V." And across the rounded white curveof her chest were four angry red stripes, the marks of a whip.

He shuddered. "This is terrible."

"Will you help me—now?"

"What can I do? What can I do?" He was striving to adjust himself tothis exceedingly difficult situation. "But I don't understand how youcan place all this confidence in me."

"Because when I saw you I knew you were a man who stopped at nothing."

"But why—why does he beat you? It—it's incomprehensible!"

He stared at the beautiful face, the long, white appealing face, andthe deep, dark eyes with their fringe of long lashes. If ever a girlwas meant to be loved and protected it was this one.

"I know I am asking a great deal, far more than I have any right, andnot taking you into consideration at all. But you will help me. Youmust. Have I talked to you in vain? Do—do you think I would make youunhappy?"

"That's not the question, not the question at all. But you don't knowme. We are perfect strangers!"

That is what Peter had been trying to get out of his system all of thistime. Had he been thinking connectedly at this trying moment, not forthe life of him would he have uttered those words. He had convincedhimself that he was above and beyond all shallow conventions. And inan unguarded moment this thought, which had been in and out of hismind, popped out like a ghost from a closet. We are perfect strangers!

"So is every man a stranger to his wife. What difference does timemake? Very little, I think. A day—a week—a month—ayear—twenty!—you and I would still be strangers, for that matter.Who can see into any man's heart?"

She stopped talking, and kneaded her hands as if in anguish.

"And think! Do think of me!"

"I am thinking of you," said Peter constrainedly.

"We can go to Nara, if you like, to the little inn near the deer-park,and be so happy—you and I. Think of Nara—in cherry-blossom time!"

"I can't see the picture at all," said Peter dryly. "But since you'veelected me to be your—your Sir Galahad, I'll tell you what I will do."

Nervously the girl was fumbling at her throat, where, suspended by afine gold chain, hung a cameo, a delicately carved rose, as red as herlips, and as life-like. She nodded, quite as though her life hung bythat gold thread and depended at the high end upon his decision.

"Your husband's nationality?" he asked abruptly.

"He is a Portuguese gentleman, my father's cousin."

"It would be possible for me, perhaps, to aid a lady in distress bypunishing the cause of it."

"You mean——"

"I will gladly undertake to thrash the gentleman, if it would do anygood."

"No, no! That would not do."

"Then there's no choice for me. Either I must accept or decline yourinvitation."

"I pray you will! I have told you frankly and quickly, because time isvaluable. We have none to lose. A steamer leaves for Formosa and Mojithe morning after we arrive—at daybreak. We would scarcely have timeto complete our plans, and embark."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Complete our plans?" he intoned.

"Yes. We must raise money. You see, there is money, thousands ofdollars, always in that house. It would be necessary to—to takewhatever of it we needed. That is why I will need you, too."

"I think," declared Peter with decision, "that we had better call thisa misdeal, and play another game for a while. In the first place, Iwill not run away with you, because it is against my principles to runaway with a strange young woman. In the second place, stealing forpleasure is one of the seven deadly sins that I conscientiously avoid.

"Now that I have aired my views, now that I have proved to you I'm notas fine and brave as you hoped me to be, let's shake hands and part thebest of friends—or the worst of enemies."

The girl rose from the chair into which she had dropped when Peterbegan his say. Alternately she was biting her upper and lower lips innervousness or irritation. She put her back to the door and braced herhands against the white enameled panels. Her breast was heaving. Shewas desperately pale, and little dots of perspiration shone on herwhite forehead. And she was limp, as though his last remark haddrained the final drop of vitality from her.

"I—I won't give you up," she said in a small, husky voice. "Besides,you are wrong, wrong in saying and believing that stealing his moneywould not be for a good cause. He is a brute, a monster, and worsethan a thief. I cannot tell you how he gets his money. I would notdare to whisper it. You will be doing a fine and splendid thing intaking his money. You will be freeing me! Does that sound likeheroics? I don't care if it does! But with that money you can buy mysoul out of bondage. You can make me happy. Won't you? Won't youdo—that—for me?"

Peter stood there like a block of ice—melting rapidly! But he saidnothing. His thoughts were beyond the expression of clumsy words.

Her dumb hand found the key, turned it. The door opened, and a sweetbreath of the cool sea air crept into the small room.

For a moment her white, distraught face hung down on her breast likethat of a child who has been scolded without understanding why. Thenshe darted out of the room.

CHAPTER V

When Peter snapped off the switch he found that he was trembling,trembling from his knees to his neck. With a feeling akin to guilt hewiped the sweat from his face and walked unsteadily to the rail whichoverhung the cargo-well.

He lighted an Abdullah, and watched the little smoke pool, which thewind snatched and tossed up into the booms and darkness.

It must have been a nightmare, this scene just past. What anincredible, a preposterous request for a woman to make! And the morethought he fed to the enigma the more incredible and unreal it became.

It was too big and complex a thought to hold all together in his tiredbrain now. In the morning he would tackle it with some zest, with aninner eye washed clean by a long sleep. Just now he felt the need ofrelaxation, and as he smoked, his thoughts flitted afar, to come backnow and then, irresistibly drawn by the vivid picture painted in hismind by Romola Borria.

His eyes, commanders of his thoughts, traveled out over the stern,which rose and sank with a ponderous, wallowing sound in the heavingground swells, and he made out the weaving and coiling, the lustrousbut dim windings of the phosphorescent wake.

As he became more accustomed to the shadowy, pointed darkness of thesteerage cabins, he became aware of a small figure crouching on thehatch-cover near the starboard rail. He studied this intently, and atlength he made out the long, black queue of the Chinese girl who hadstared at him in such bewitching fashion a little earlier in the day.

And his mind was carried back at the thought of this small maiden tothe grim and red Tibetan city, whose memories now were scarcely morethan a confused and hideous dream. He pictured again the splendors ofthe blue-domed white palace which reposed like a beast of prey atop thered filth disgorged by the cinnabar mine.

Peter's heart thumped in youthful resentment as the thought of thatevil spirit came to him now. When would he meet the Gray Dragon faceto face? When would he again penetrate the stronghold of that unhappyred city? Who could say? Probably never.

The small Chinese girl on the hatch-cover had found him staring at her,and with a little shiver of surprise Peter made the discovery that shewas smiling archly at him; and she inclined her head. She wasbeckoning? It seemed so, indeed.

Because Peter was a youth of deep and subtle understandings, he did nomore than nod slightly, and forthwith descended the companion-ladder tothe well, and crossed the well to her side.

Her eyes were given a queer little twinkle by the near-by electricwhich burned dimly over the door of the engine-room galley, and shemotioned him to be seated. He squatted, Chinese fashion, and she tooka deep, sighing breath, holding out her hands with a quick gesture.

Across her wrists and drooping to her knees and beyond them into theshadow was a strip of heavy, deep-blue silk. All down its length werestitched small, round dots of dark red. Peter knew this for a sarong,an ornamental waist-sash, affected by most Javanese gentlemen and manyAustralians and New Zealanders.

While he hesitated, she laid this in his lap with a shy impulsiveness.

"It is yours, sar," she informed Peter in English of a very strangemold. She spoke in a rather high-pitched, bell-like voice, pure andsoft, and tinkling with queer little cadences. "It is yours, sar. Imade it for you."

Indubitably the girl was Eurasian. Asiatic features predominated, withthe exception of her eyes, which were more round than oblique, fromwhich circ*mstance Peter could surmise that her Aryan blood, providedshe was a half-caste, came from her mother's side; the predominance ofthe Mongolian in her features being due to an Asiatic father, a Chinese.

The colorless face, relieved by the bright color of her lips, theslightly oblique eyes, told him that; yet her accents were those of aJavanese, a Malay from the south.

"You made this—for me?" replied Peter, surprised.

"Oh, yes, sar," said the tinkling little voice.

"Well, that is fine. It is beautiful," he said, feeling his way withprudence. "And how much do I owe you, small one?"

She shook her head indignantly.

"It is a geeft," she informed him. "I am no longer poor, my lord. Ican now give geefts. I like you. I give this to you."

Peter was moved momentarily beyond speech.

"You are very fine, busar satu," went on the tiny, musical voice."So is this sarong. You will wear it, great one, around thy middle?"

"Around my middle, to be sure, small one," laughed Peter; "until mymiddle is clay, or until the sarong is no more than a thread."

"Well said, busar satu!" The girl giggled, bobbing her small head inhappy approval. "It is twice blessed: with my love and with my foolishblood, for I pricked my finger on the wicked needle. But I coveredthat spot with a red mata-ari (sun). You can never, never tell."

"Assuredly not!" cried Peter gaily.

"Let the sarong be wound about thy middle," commanded the Chinesemaiden. "Arise, sar, and wind it about thy middle."

And Peter did rise, winding the sarong about his lean waist twice,allowing one end to dangle down on his left side in a debonair andstriking fashion. If set off his slim figure in a rather bizarre way.

"It's bully!" he exclaimed, pirouetting with one hand on his head afterthe style of the matador.

"It is bully!" she echoed, in such quaint reflection of his exclamationthat Peter laughed outright. "Now, sit down again, sar," she invited.And when Peter had again disposed himself at the side of thislight-hearted young person, she went on:

"I am coming a long, long way to visit my aged grandmother (may thegreen-eyed gods grant her the twelve desires!) who lives Canton-way.My dear father sells opium. He has grown rich in that trade, eventhough the stupid eyes of the Dutch babis are on him all the while.When I have seen my ancient grandmother, and given her geefts, I willgo home, to the south, Macassar-way."

"Now, where, oh where, do I fit in this scheme?" was what Peterthought. "What have I that this maiden desires?"

"Ah, busar satu!" the maiden was saying, deftly and unaffectedlypatting the sarong. "It is bully! And now——"

"And now——" intoned Peter calmly, for even as a life pays for a life,and an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, so does a gift pay fora gift.

"And now," went on the maid from Macassar, whose father had grown richin the opium-trade under the very eyes of the Dutch, "tell me but onething, my lord—is Hong Kong safe for such as I?"

"When one is young and virtuous," spake Peter in the drone of anancient fortune-teller, "one keeps her eyes pinned on the front. Onehears nothing; and one becomes as discreet of tongue as the little bluesphinx at Chow-Fen-Chu."

"Those are the words of Confucius, the wise one," retorted the littlebell-like voice with a tinkling laugh. "I need no guide, then? I haveheard that China is unsafe. That is why I asked."

"Small one," replied Peter, with a smile of gravity and with muchcandor in his blue eyes, "in China, such a one as you are as safe as aJavanese starling in a nest of hungry yellow snakes. You will travelby daylight, or not at all. You will go from Kowloon to your venerablegrandmother by train. You will carry a knife, and you will use itwithout hesitation. Have you such a knife?"

The small head bowed vehemently.

"In Hong-Kong you will go aboard a sampan and be rowed Kowloon-way,from whence the train runs by the great river to Canton."

"That will be safe, that sampan?"

"I will make it safe, small one. For I will go with you as far asKowloon, if that is what you wish."

"And does the brave one admire my sarong?" the small voice wavered.

"It shames my ugly body," said Peter. "Now run along to bed—kalak!"And he clapped his hands as the small figure bobbed out of sight, withher long, black pigtail flopping this way and that.

CHAPTER VI

It came to Peter as he climbed up the iron-fretted steps to the lonelypromenade-deck that life had begun to take on its old golden glow, theluster of the uncertain, the charm of women who found in him somethingnot undesirable.

At this he smiled a little bit. He had never known, as far back as thespan of his adventures extended, a woman who deemed his companionshipas quite so valuable a thing as the mysterious and alluring RomolaBorria, the husband-beaten, incredible, and altogether dangerous youngwoman who passionately besought him to accompany her on a pilgrimage offorgetfulness into the flowery heart of dear old Japan.

Ascending the ladder to the unoccupied deck, he was conscious of thesweet drone of the monsoon, which blew off the shores of Annam over therestless bosom of the China Sea, setting up a tuneful chant in thePersian Gulf's sober rigging, and kissing his cheeks with the ardorof a despairing maiden.

Peter the Brazen decided to take a turn or two round deck before goingto his bunk, to drink in a potion of this intoxicating, winelike night.The wheel of fortune might whirl many times before he was again sailingthis most seductive of oceans.

And he was a little intoxicated, too, with the wine of his youth. Hislips, immersed in the fountain, found very little bitterness there.Life was earnest and grave, as the wiseacres said; but life was, on thewhole, sublime and poignantly sweet. A little bitterness, a littledreary sadness, a pang at the heart now and again, served only tointerrupt the smooth regularity, the monotony, to add zest to thenectar.

When he had finished the cigarette, he flung the butt over the railinto the gushing water, which swam south in its phosphorescent welter,descended between decks to the stateroom that had been assigned to him,and fitted the key to the lock.

He felt decidedly young and foolishly exalted as he closed the doorafter him and heard the lock click, for to few men is it given to havetwo lovely young women in distress seek aid, all in the span of a fewhours. Perhaps these rosy events had served merely to feed oil to thefires of his conceit; but Peter's was not a conceit that rankledanybody. And there were always volunteers, hardened by the buffets ofthis life, to cast water upon that same fire.

So, humming a gay little tune, Peter snapped on the light, bathing themilk-white room in a liquid mellowness, opened the port-hole, wound hiswatch, hung it on the curtain-bar which ran lengthwise with his berth,pushed the flowered curtains at either end as far back as they wouldgo, in order to have all the fresh air possible, and——

Peter gasped. He declared it was absolutely impossible. Such thingsdid not happen, even in this world of strange happenings and ofstranger stirrings below the surface of actual happenings. Hisself-complacencies came shattering down about his ears like mountainsof senseless glitter, and he stooped to recover the object which waslying upon, almost ready to tumble from, the rounded, neat edge of thewhite berth.

A rose of cameo! The hot breath from his lips, which drooped inastonishment and chagrin, seemed to stir the delicate petals of theexquisitely carved red rose which reposed in its mountain of soft goldin the palm of his trembling hand. The fine gold chain, like a rope ofgold sand, trickled between his fingers and dangled, swinging from sideto side.

The impossible thought pounded at the door of his brain and demandedrecognition. Romola Borria had been a visitor to his room. But why?He had no secrets to conceal from the prying ears of any one, not now,at all events, for he had destroyed all evidences depending upon theexcursion he had made from Shanghai to Len Yang, and from Len Yang toMandalay, to Rangoon, to Penang, Singapore, and Batavia.

Naturally, his first impulsive thought was that Romola Borria wassomehow entangled with those who ruled the destinies of the hideousmountain city, which crouched amidst the frosty emerald peaks on thefringe of Tibet. He had felt the weight of that ominous hand on otheroccasions, and its movements were ever the same. Night stealth,warnings chalked on doors, the deliberate and cunning penetration ofhis secrets; all of these were typical machinations of the Gray Dragon,and of those who reported back to the Gray Dragon.

No one would break into his stateroom who was not the tool of LenYang's unknown king. Thus the finger of accusation was brought to beartentatively upon Romola Borria.

Yes, it was incredible that this girl, with those scarlet stripesacross her breast, could in any way be complicated with the wantondesigns of the beast in Len Yang. Yet here was evidence, damning her,if not as a wilful tool of the cinnabar king, then at least as aroom-breaker. Why had she come into his room? And how?

He searched the room, then dragged his suit-case from under the bunk tothe middle of the blue carpet, and spilled its contents angrily uponthe floor. It took him less than ten seconds to discover what wasmissing; not his money, nor the few jewels he had collected in hisperegrinations, for they were untouched in the small leather bag.

Peter looked again, carefully shaking each garment, hoping, andrefusing to hope, that the revolver would make its appearance. It wasan American revolver, an automatic, a gift from Bobbie MacLaurin. Andnow this excellent weapon was missing.

He felt that eyes were upon him, that ears were listening slyly to hisbreathing, that lips were rustling in bated whispered comments upon thefury with which he took this important loss.

Snapping off the light, he plunged down the murky corridor, with theguilty rose cameo clutched in his sweating hand, and came at length tothe purser's office. This dignitary was absent, at midnight lunchprobably; so Peter rifled the upper drawer in the desk, and brought outthe passenger-register, finding the name and room number he soughtafter an instant of search.

Carefully he replaced the ledger in its original position, closed thedrawer, and darted back up the corridor.

In front of a room not far from his own he paused and rapped. Hisknock, sharp and insistent, was one of practice, a summons which wouldnot be mistaken by the occupants of adjoining staterooms, nor was itlikely to disturb them.

After a moment, light showed at the opened transom. Some one rustledabout within, and in another instant the door opened far enough toadmit a head from which dark masses of hair floated, framing a facethat was white and inquisitive.

At sight of her midnight visitor Romola Borria opened her door wide andsmiled a little sleepily. She had paused long enough in arising toslip into a negligee, a kimono of blackest satin, revealing at thebaglike sleeves and the fold which fell back from her throat a liningof blood-red silk.

One hand was caught up to her throat in a gesture of surprise, and theother was concealed behind her, catching, as Peter surmised, nothing ifnot his own automatic revolver, which had been loaded, ready forinstant use, immediately the safety-catch was released.

She stared at him softly, with eyes still mirroring the depths of thesleep from which he had so rudely aroused her, her delicate red lipsforming a curious smile. And she continued to smile more gently, moretenderly, as she became quite conscious of his presence.

"You have come to tell me that you will go to Japan with me," shestated.

Peter shook his head slowly, and with equal deliberateness lifted upthe small object in his hand until the light from the ceiling-lamp felldirectly upon it.

"My cameo!" she exclaimed with a start of surprise. "Where did youfind it?" She reached impulsively for the ornament, but Peter closedhis fingers upon it firmly.

"You have something to give me in return, I think," he said sternly.

She was staring at the closed hand with something of despair andfright, as if reluctant to believe this truth, while her fingers gropedat her throat to verify a loss apparently not before detected.

She stepped back into the room and said:

"Close the door. Come inside."

He thought: If she had wanted to shoot me, she had plenty of chancebefore. A shot in this room, a murder would fasten evidence upon her,and besides, it would instantly arouse the occupants of the adjoiningstaterooms, if not one of the deck crew on watch.

So he entered and closed the door, presenting a full view of his broad,white-uniformed back, and the gaudy-blue sarong about his waist. Hetook more time than was necessary in closing the door and sliding thebolt, to give her every opportunity to arrange this scene she desired.

But the girl was only drawing the curtains over the port-hole, to keepout prying eyes, when he turned about.

She sat down on the edge of her berth, with her small white feet almosttouching the floor, and the huge blue automatic resting upon her knees.It was unlikely that she did not appreciate fully the seductive charmof the red and black gown which adapted itself in whatever pose to theyouthful curves of her body; and she permitted Peter to sit down on thenarrow couch opposite and to examine her and perhaps to speculate for anumber of seconds before she seemed to find her speech.

Meekly her dark eyes encountered his.

"I was afraid," she explained in a voice, low but free in herremarkable self-possession. "I knew you would not care, and I hopedthat you would have a revolver in your room. So I went there. How didI get in? I borrowed a pass-key from the purser on the plea that I hadleft mine in my room. I hoped you would not miss it until we reachedHong Kong, and I intended to return it then and explain to you.

"My life," she added deprecatingly, "is in some slight danger, and,like the small fool that I am—even though I am fully aware that no onein the whole world cares whether I am living or dead—well, Mr. Moore,for some reason I still persist in clinging to the small hope."

She smiled wanly and earnestly, so Peter thought. A dozen impulsesmilitated against his believing a word of this glib explanation; hiscommon sense told him that he should seek further, that the explanationwas only half made; and yet it cannot be denied that she had goneunerringly to his greatest weakness, perhaps his worst fault, hisbelief in the sincerity of a woman in trouble.

"Why didn't you ask me?" he demanded in his most apologetic voice, asthough he had wronged her beyond repair. "Why didn't you tell me youwere in danger? I'd have loaned you the revolver willingly—willingly!"

"I did try to find you," she replied; "but the wireless room was dark.You were nowhere on deck."

Peter was aware that for some reason Romola Borria did not prefer toshare the secret of her real or fancied danger with him. He felt alittle dissatisfied, cheated, as though the straightforward answer forwhich he had come had been turned into the counterfeit of evasion.

The situation as it now had shaped itself demanded some sort ofdecision. Without the whole truth he was reluctant to leave, and itwas imprudent to remain any longer.

Romola, in this constrained pause in their conversation, feelingperhaps the reason for his silence, lowered her dark lashes and drew upher feet until they were concealed by the red folds of the kimono, andshe drew the satin more closely about her soft, white throat.

"You have decided nothing, then?" she parried.

"What decision I might have formed," he said, a trifle coolly, "hasbeen put off by—this. You see, I must admit it, this—this rathercomplicates things for me. I'm in the dark altogether now, you see. Iwanted to help you, however I could. And then—then I find this cameo."

She nodded absently, fingering the groove in the automatic's handle.

"I'm afraid I took too much for granted," she said in a low voice."Don't you suppose my curiosity was aroused when you threw the coolieoverboard? I said nothing; rather, I asked you no questions; and Ithought that a man who was self-poised enough to meet his enemies inthat way would be—what shall I say?—charitable enough to overlooksuch a——" She paused. "When I confessed that you and I are facing acommon enemy, that the same hands are eager to do away with both of us,I thought that bond was sufficient, was strong enough, to justify whatmight shock an ordinary man. I mean——"

"I think I understand," Peter took her up in contrite tones. "I'll asknothing more. In the morning we will talk the other matter over. Imust have a little time. For the present, I want you to keep therevolver, and—here is the cameo. Forgive me for being sounreasonable, so—so selfish."

He leaned over. She seemed uncertain a moment, then caught the goldchain lightly from his hand.

"And—your revolver," she said. "Those are the terms of the agreement,I believe."

"No, no," he protested. "I have no use for it; none whatever. Youkeep it."

But quite as resolutely Romola Borria shook her head and extended theautomatic, butt foremost, to him. "I insist," she said.

"But you say you're in danger," he argued.

"No. Not now. I have something else that will do quite as well. Ifit is written that I am to die, why give Death cause to be angry? I ama fatalist, you see. And I want you to take back your revolver, withmy apologies, and quite without any more explanation than I have givenyou, please."

"But——" began Peter.

"Look," she said.

In the small space of the stateroom he could not avoid bending so lowas to sense the warmth of her skin, in order to study the object towardwhich she was directing his gaze. A sense of hot confusion permeatedhim as her fingers lightly caressed his hand; her physical nearnessobsessed him.

She had drawn back the fluffy pillow, and on the white sheet heglimpsed a long, bright, and exceedingly dangerous-looking dagger, witha jewel-incrusted hilt.

The singular thing about this knife was the shape of the blade, whichwas thin and with three sides, like a machinist's file. It would be agood dagger to throw away after a killing because of the triangularhole it would leave as a wound, a bit of evidence decidedlyincriminating.

Peter straightened up, round-eyed, accepted the automatic, and slippedit into his pocket, smoothing his coat and the sarong over the lump,and approached the door.

For a moment his heart beat in a wild desire, a desire to take her inhis arms as she stood so close and so quiet beside him, smilingwistfully and a little sadly; and unaccountably she seemed to droop andbecome small and limp and pitifully helpless in the face of him and ofall mankind.

"Good night, Mr. Moore, and thank you so—much," she murmured. "And Ido hope you will forgive me for being a—a thief."

He thought that she was on the point of kissing him, and his eyes swamand became of a slightly deeper and more silky blue than a momentbefore. But she faltered back, while the faintest suggestion of a sighcame from her lips.

In the next instant, as the door closed quietly behind him, Peter wasmighty glad that neither he nor she had yielded to impulse. He wasnot, in the light of the literal version, the owner of a whollyuntarnished record, for he had given in to weakness, as most men dogive into weakness.

But he was above temptation now, not because temptation was put behindhim, but because he had had the strength to resist; and it was hisfull, deep desire to hold himself until that girl, far across thePacific, who inspired the finest and best in him, should bear the namehe bore.

It was a splendid thing, that feeling. It gave him courage andconfidence, and took him quite light-heartedly, with head erect andshoulders back, out of the dreariest of his moments.

So, quick in a new and buoyant mood, Peter joggled the key in the lockof his stateroom door, slipped in, and was before long dreaming of acottage built for two, of springtime in California, albeit snoringalmost loud enough to drown out the throb of the Persian Gulf's oldbut still useful engines.

CHAPTER VII

Because of the fatigue which possessed his every muscle, fatiguespringing from the arduous, the trying hours now past, Peter the Brazenwas sleeping the slumber of the worthy, when, at a somewhat later hourin the night, some time before dawn crept out of the China Sea, afigure, lean and gray, flitted past his stateroom on the narrow orlopdeck, peered in the darkened port-hole, and passed on.

Awakened by an instinct developed to a remarkable degree by histraining of the past few months, Peter established himself upon oneelbow and looked and listened, wondering what sounds might be abroadother than the peaceful churn of the engine.

Quite as intuitively he slipped his hand under the pillow andencountered the reassuring chill of the blued steel. Half withdrawingthis excellent weapon, he shifted his eyes, alternately from the doorto the port-hole, conscious of an imminent danger, a little stupefiedby his recent plunge into the depths of sleep, but growing more widelyawake, more alert and watchful, with the passage of each instant.

The port-hole loomed gray and empty, one edge of it licked by theyellow light of some not far distant deck-lamp. With his eye fastenedupon this scimitar of golden light, Peter was soon to witness anunusual eclipse, a phenomenon which sent a shiver, an icy shiver, ofgenuine consternation up and down his backbone.

As he watched, a square of the yellow reflected light was blotted out,as though a bar of some nature had cast its shadow athwart thatmetallic gleam. This shadow then proceeded to slide first up and thendown the brass setting of the port-hole, and the shadow dwindled.

As Peter sat up on the edge of his cot, gripping the square butt of theautomatic in his hand and tentatively fingering the trigger, the originof the shadow moved slowly, ever so slowly, into the range of hisperplexed and anxious vision.

What appeared at first glance to be a cat-o'-nine-tails on a ratherthick stem, Peter made out to be, as he built some hasty comparisons,the Maxim silencer attached either at the end of a revolver or of arifle; for the black cylinder on the muzzle was circ*mscribed atregular intervals with small, sharp depressions, the clinch-marks ofthe silencing chambers.

As this specter crept up and over the edge of the port, Peter, with adeliberate and cold smile, raised the automatic revolver, slipped outof the berth with the stealth and litheness of a cat, crept into thecorner where the stateroom door was hinged, and leveled the weaponuntil his eye ran along the dark obstruction of the barrel.

Slowly and more slowly the silencer moved inward until the blunt end ofit was registered precisely upon a point where Peter's head would lieif he were sleeping in a normal attitude.

This amused him and perplexed him. All Peter wanted to see was thehead or even the eye of this early morning assassin, whereupon he wouldtake immediate steps to receive him with a warm cordiality that mightforestall future visitations of a kindred sort.

In the space between heart-beats Peter stopped to inquire of himselfwho his visitor might be. And even as he stopped to inquire, a bright,angry, red flame spurted straight out from the mouth of the silencer,and Peter would have willingly gambled his bottom dollar that thebullet found its way into his pillow, a wager, as he later verified,upon which he would have collected all of the money he was eager tostake.

The lance of yellow-red flame had occasioned no disturbance other thana slight smack, comparable with the sharp clapping of a man's hands.

In the second leaping flame Peter was far more interested. Havingdelivered himself of one shot, the assassin could be depended upon tomake casual inquiries, and to drop at least one more bullet into thedarkness between the upper and lower berths, to make a clean job of it.

And it was on the appearance of the inquiring head that Peter relied torepay the intruder in his own metal, that metal taking the form of awingless messenger of nickel-sheathed lead.

But the visitor was cautious, waiting, no doubt, for sounds of thedeath struggle, provided the shot had not gone directly home, its homebeing, as Peter shuddered to think, his own exceedingly useful brain.

He waited a little longer before his guest apparently decided that thetime was come for his investigation; and thereupon a small, square headwith the black-tasseled hat of a Chinese coolie set upon it at a rakishangle was framed by the port-hole.

Smirking nervously, Peter released the safety catch and broughtpressure to bear slowly and firmly upon the trigger.

Click! That was all. But it told a terrible story. The weapon wasout of commission, either unloaded or tampered with. And Peter'spanic-stricken thoughts leaped, even as the square head leaped awayfrom the window, to the Borria woman, to the cause of his desperatehelplessness.

Romola Borria, then, had tampered with this revolver. Romola Borriahad plotted, that was sure, with the coolie outside the port-hole forhis assassination. That explained the visit to his room. Thatexplained her perturbation over his discovery of her visit, of her slyand cool evasions and dissimulations.

It was with these thoughts hammering in his brain that Peter droppedout of range of the deadly porthole and squirmed, inching his way intothe doubtful shelter provided by the closet. At any instant heexpected another red tongue to burn the now still darkness above hishead, to experience the hot plunge of a bullet in some part of hisslightly clad anatomy. And then—death? An end of the gloriousadventures whose trail he had followed now for well upon ten years?

And still the death bullet was withheld. Groping about in the darknesswith one hand as he loosened the magazine clip on the butt, and findingthat the clip of cartridges had been removed, he finally discovered thewhereabouts of the suit-case, and dragged it slowly toward him, withhis eyes pinned upon the vacant port.

Fumbling among the numerous objects contained in the suit-case, hisfingers encountered at length a cartridge clip. He slipped this intothe magazine, and indulged in a silent grunt of relief as the clipmoved up into place. He drew back the rejecting mechanism, and heardthe soft, reassuring snick of the cartridge as it slid from themagazine into the chamber.

Then sounds without demanded his attention, the sounds of a tussle, ofoaths spoken in a high, feminine tongue, in a language not his own.

Peter would have shouted, but he had long ago learned theinadvisability of shouting when such grim business as to-night's wasbeing negotiated.

Slipping on his bath-robe, he opened the door and tentatively peeredout into the half-light of the orlop deck from the cross corridorvestibule-way, for indications of a shambles.

They were gone. The deck was deserted. But he caught his breathsharply as he made out a long, dark shape which lay, with the inertnessof death, under his port-hole, blending with the shadows. He rolledthe man over upon his back, and dragged him by the heels under thedeck-light, and, dragging him, a dark trail spread out upon the boards,and even as Peter examined the cold face, the spot broadened and atrickle broke from it and crept down toward the gutter.

Stabbed? More than likely. Pausing only long enough to reassurehimself that this one was the assassin whose square head had beenframed by the port, Peter looked for a wound, and shortly he found thewound, and Peter was not greatly astounded at the proportions thereof.

It was a small wound, running entirely through the neck from a pointbelow the left ear to one slightly below and to the right of the lockedjaw. Upon close scrutiny the death wound proved to be small andthorough and of a triangular pattern.

Just why he had expected to find that triangular wound Peter was unableto explain even to himself, but he was quite as sure that RomolaBorria's hand was in this latest development as he had been sure amoment before that her steady, small hand had deliberately removed theclip of cartridges from the butt of the automatic, to render himhelpless in the face of his enemies.

Silently contemplating the stiffening victim of Romola Borria'striangular dagger, Peter heard the rustle of silk garments, and lookedup in time to observe the slender person of Romola Borria herself,attired exactly as he had left her a few hours previous, detach itselffrom the corridor vestibule-way which led to his stateroom. Sheapproached him.

A thousand questions and accusations swam to his lips, but she wasspeaking in low, impassioned tones.

"I knocked at your door. God! I thought he had killed you! I wasafraid. For a moment I thought you were dead."

"You stabbed him," said Peter in an expressionless voice.

She nodded, and drew a long, sobbing breath.

"Yes. He tried to shoot you. I saw him pass my window. I waswaiting. I watched. I knew he would try. Oh, I'm so glad——"

"You knew? You knew that?"

"Yes, yes. He was the—the mate of the coolie you threw overboard inBatavia. You know, they always travel in pairs. You didn't know that?"

"No; I did not know. But I could have defended myself easily enough ifit had not been for——"

"Your clip of cartridges? Can you forgive me? Can you ever forgive mefor taking them out? I took them out. Oh, Mr. Moore, believe me, I amconcealing nothing! I did remove the clip, and in my carelessness Iforgot to give them back to you when you left my room."

"I see. Have you them?"

"Yes."

"Please give them to me. You have not by any chance, in another ofthose careless moods of yours, happened to tamper with the bullets,have you?"

"Mr. Moore——" she gasped, clutching her white hands to her breast inindignation.

"You are clever," said Peter sarcastically. "You're altogether toodamn clever. What your game is, I'm not going to take the trouble toask. You—you——"

"Oh, Mr. Moore!" She caught his arm.

He cast it away.

"Didn't tamper with the bullets, eh?" he went on in a deep, sullenvoice. "Well, Miss Borria, here is what I think of your word. Here ishow much I trust you."

And with a single motion Peter whipped all seven cartridges from theclip and tossed them into the sea. He snarled again:

"You are clever, damn clever. Poor, poor little thing! Still wantto go to Japan with me, my dear?"

"I do," stated the girl, whose eyes were dry and burning.

"Sure! That's the stuff," railed Peter bitingly; "whatever you do,stick to your story."

He grabbed her wrist, and her glance should have softened granite.

"For example," he sniffed; "that neat little co*ck-and-bull story youmade up about your cruel, brutal husband. Expect me to believe that,too, eh?"

"Not if you don't care to," said the girl faintly.

Peter knocked away her hand, the hand which seemed always to fumble ather throat in moments of strain. He pulled down the black kimono anddragged her under the light, forcing her back against the white cabin.He looked.

The white, soft curve of her chest was devoid of all marks. It was aswhite as that portion of a woman's body is said to be, by the singingpoets, as white as alabaster, and devoid of angry stripes.

Peter seized both limp wrists in one of his hands.

"By God, you are clever!" he scoffed. "Now, Miss Enigma, you spurtout your story, and the true story, or, by Heaven, I'll call theskipper! I'll have you put in irons—for murder!"

She hung her head, then flung it back and eyed him with the sullen fireof a cornered animal.

"You forget I saved your life," she said.

As if they were red hot, Peter dropped her hands, and they fell at hersides like limp rags.

"I—I——" he stammered, and backed away a step. "Good God!" heexploded. "Then explain this; explain why you took the clip from myautomatic. Explain why you put up that story of a brutal husband, andshowed me scars on your breast to prove it—then washed them off. Andwhy—why you killed this man who would have murdered me."

"I will explain what I am able to," she said in a small, tired voice."I took the clips from the revolver because—because I didn't want youto shoot me. I know their methods far better than you seem to; and Iknew I could handle this coolie myself far better than you could; and Iwanted to run no risk of being shot myself in attending to him.

"As for the 'brutal-husband story,' every word of that is the truth.If you must know, I used rouge for the scars. Since you are sooutspoken, I will pay you back in the same cloth. There are scars onmy body, on my back and my legs."

Her face was as red as a poppy.

"And I killed this man because—well," she snapped, "perhaps because Ihate you."

Had she cut him with a whip, Peter could not have felt more hurt, morehumiliated, more ashamed, for gratitude was far from being a strangerto him.

He half extended his arms in mute apology, and, surprised, he found herlips caressing his, her warm arms about his neck. He kissedher—once—and put her away from him; and that guiding star of his inCalifornia could be thankful that Romola Borria's embrace was rathermore forgiving than insinuating.

"We must get rid of this coolie," she said, brushing the clusters ofdark hair from her face. "I will help you, if you like. But over hegoes!"

"But the blood."

"Call a deck-boy. Tell him as little as you need. You are one of theship's officers. He will not question you."

He hesitated.

"Can you forgive me for this—way I have acted, my—my ingratitude?"

"Forgiveness seems to be a woman's principal role in life," she saidwith a tired smile. "Yes. I am sorry, too, that we misunderstood.Good-night, my dear."

And Peter was all alone, although his aloneness was modified to acertain extent by the corpse at his feet. The dead weight he liftedwith some difficulty to the railing, pushed hard, and heard the muffledsplash. Quickly he got into his uniform, slipped his naked feet intolooped sandals, and sought the forecastle.

The occupants of this odorous place were sawing wood in anunsynchronous chorus. No one seemed to be about, so he seized a pailhalf filled with sujee, a block of holystone, and a stiff broom.

With these implements he occupied himself for fully a half-hour, untilthe spots on the deck had faded to a satisfactory whiteness. Therevolver with Maxim silencer attached he discovered, after a longsearch, some distance away in the deck-gutter.

He meditated at length upon the advisability of consigning this grimtrophy to the China Sea. Yet it is a sad commentary upon his nativeshrewdness that Peter had not yet recovered from his boyish enthusiasmfor collecting souvenirs.

At last he decided to retain it, and he dropped it through theport-hole upon the couch, thereupon forgetting all about it until theweapon was called to his attention on the ensuing morning.

With all evidences of the crime removed, he replaced the pail, thestone, and the broom in the forecastle locker, and sneaked back to hisstateroom. He locked the door, barricaded the port-hole with thepink-flowered curtains—those symbols which had reminded him earlier ofspringtime in California—and examined his pillow.

It had been an exceedingly neat shot. The bullet had bored cleanthrough, had struck the metal L-beam of the bunk, and rebounded into apile of bedclothes. Dented and scorched, Peter examined this littlepellet of lead, balancing it in the palm of his hand.

"Every bullet has its billet," he quoted, and he was glad indeed thatthe billet in this case had not been his vulnerable cerebrum.

Snapping off the light, he drew the sheet up to his neck and lay therepondering, listening to the whine of the ventilator-fan.

The haggard, distressed face of Romola Borria swam upon the screen ofhis imagination. This woman commanded his admiration and respect.Despite all dissemblings, all evasions, all actual and evident signs ofthe double-cross, he confided to his other self that he was glad he hadkissed her. What can be so deliciously harmless as a kiss? he askedhimself.

And wiser men than Peter have answered: What can be so harmful?

CHAPTER VIII

Night brings counsel, say the French. Only in sleep does one mine thegold of truth, said Confucius.

When Peter was aroused by the golden dawn streaming through theswinging port-glass upon his eyes the cobwebs were gone from his brain,his eyes were clear and of a bright sea-blue, and he was bubbling withenthusiasm for the new-born day.

His ablutions were simple: a brisk scrubbing of his gleaming, whiteteeth, a dousing of his hands and face in bracing, cold water, with asubsequent soaping and rinsing of same; followed by a hoeing process atthe mercy of a not-too-keen Japanese imitation of an Americansafety-razor.

Assured that the deck below his port-hole was spotless, he ventured tothe dining-room, half filled and buzzing with excitement.

He was given to understand by a dozen gesticulating passengers thatsome time in the course of the night a deck-passenger, a Chinesecoolie, from Buitenzorg to Hong Kong, or Macao, had fallen overboard,leaving no trace.

It was whispered that the helpless one had been done away with by foulmeans. And Peter became conscious during the meal that his fat andjovial little captain was looking at him and through him with a glancethat could not be denied or for long avoided.

Wondering what his Herr Captain might know of the particulars of lastnight's doings, Peter sucked a mangosteen slowly, arranging histhoughts, card-indexing his alibis, and making cool preparations for anofficial cross-questioning. Clever lying out of his difficulty was theorder, or the alternative for Peter was the irons.

When the fat fingers of Mynheer the Captain at length dabbled in thelacquered finger-bowl, after rounding out his fourth pomelo, Peter gotup slowly and walked thoughtfully to the foot of the staircase. Herethe captain caught up with him, touched his elbow lightly, and togetherthey proceeded to the promenade-deck, which was shining redly in placeswhere the wetness of the washing down had not yet been evaporated bythe warm, fresh wind.

Mynheer the Captain fell into place at Peter's side, gripped his fatJavanese cigar between his teeth, and caught his fat wrists togetherstolidly behind his back, and his low, wide brow slowly beetled.

"Mynheer," he began in a somewhat constrained voice, low and richlyguttural, "it iss known to you vat took place on der ship some damduring der nacht? Ja?"

"I overheard the passengers talking about a coolie falling overboardlast night, sir," replied Peter guardedly. As long as no directaccusation came, he felt safer. He was reasonably sure, basing hisopinion of skippers on many past encounters, that this one would gotypically to his subject. In his growing co*ck-sureness, Peter expectedno rapier-play. It would be a case, he felt sure, of all the cards onthe table at once; a slam-bang, as it were.

"You know nodding of dot business, young man?"

"Nothing at all, Myn Captain."

"Dot iss strange. Dot iss strange," muttered the captain as theyrounded the forward cabin and made their way in slow, measured stridesdown the port side. "I haf seen you come aboard yesterday, mynheer;und I haf seen you t'row over der side a coolie, a coolie who wass wit'der coolie who dis'ppeared last nacht. Why did you t'row him over derside, eh?"

"He threatened me with his knife," replied Peter without an instant'shesitation. "Mynheer, he was a bad Chink, a killer."

"Ja. Tot ver vlomme! All of 'em are bad Chinks."

"Why should he stab me?" intoned Peter. "I never saw him before. I ama peaceful citizen. The only interest I have on this ship, MynheerCaptain, is the wireless apparatus."

"Ja? Dot iss gude to hear, young man. I haf liked you—how does onesay it?—immensely. Der oder man wass no gude. He is gude rittance.You intend to stay wit' us. Ja?"

"I hope so," said Peter heartily and with vast relief.

"You like dis ship, eh?"

"Very much, indeed."

"And I vant you to stay, young man. I vant you to stay joost as longas you feel like staying. But I vant to ask you one t'ing, joost onet'ing."

"I'll do anything you say, sir."

The fat, jovial skipper of the Persian Gulf eyed Peter with beady,cunning eyes, and Peter was suddenly conscious of a sinking sensation.

"Joost one t'ing. Better, first I should say, ven you t'row overboardder coolies you dislike, it vould be best not to keep—vat are deycalled—der soufenirs. Sooch t'ings as peestols."

"But, mynheer——"

The fat hand waved him to silence.

"Bot' of dem vas bad Chinks. I know. I know bot' of dose coolies along, long time. T'ieves and blood men. Tot ver vlomme! It issgude rittance, as you say. Young man, I haf nodding but one more t'ingto tell you. I say, I like you—immensely. I vant you very much tostay. But der next time coolies are to be t'rown over der side, I willbe pleased to haf you ask my permission."

Peter stared hard at the fat little man, with a quick glaze ofgratitude over his eyes. The skipper left him, doubling back in thedirection of the wheel-house. And something in the unsteadiness of thebroad, plump shoulders gave to Peter in his perplexity the notinaccurate notion that the fat little man had enjoyed his joke and wasgiggling to such an extent that it almost interfered with his dignifiedstrut.

Before buckling down to the day's business he made sure of one thing.Gone from his stateroom was the revolver with its Maxim silencer.

Because the wireless room at sea is a sort of lounging-room for thosepassengers who are bored from reading, or poker, or promenading, orsimply are incompetent to amuse themselves without external assistance,Peter ignored the dozen pair of curious and interested eyes which werefocussed on his white uniform as he passed, with those telltalechevrons of golden sparks at the sleeves, strode into the wirelesscabin, hastily closed the door, locked it, and thereupon gave hisattention to the void.

He was not surprised to hear the shrill yap of the Manila stationdinning in the receivers, and having no desire to allow his fair nameto be besmirched by what might be professional inattention to duty, hegave Manila a crackling response, and told him to shoot and shoot fast,as he had a stack of business on hand, which was the truth.

Steamship and commercial messages were awaiting his nimble fingers, ahalf-dozen of them, in a neat little pile where the purser had leftthem to attract his attention as soon as he came on duty.

Manila's first message, with a Hong Kong dateline, and via thePhilippine cable, was a service message, directed to Peter Moore,"probably aboard the steamer Persian Gulf, at sea." The context ofthis greeting was that Peter should report directly upon arrival inHong Kong to J. B. Whalen, representative of the Marconi Company ofAmerica, residence, Peak Hotel.

Following this transmission the Manila operator was anxious to knowwhether or not this was Peter Moore at the key; that he had been giveninstructions by the night man, who claimed to be a bosom companion ofPeter Moore's, to make inquiries regarding Peter Moore's whereaboutsduring the past few months.

He further expressed a profane desire to know, provided the man at thekey was Peter Moore, how in Hades he was, where in Tophet he had beenkeeping himself, and why in Gehenna he had so mysteriously vanishedfrom the face of this glorious earth.

"But why all the hubbub about Peter Moore?" flashed back Peter to theinquisitive Manila operator, who was only about two hundred milesdistant by now and rather faint with the coming up of the sun.

"Are—you—Peter—Moore?" came the faint scream.

"No, no, no!" shrieked the voluptuous white spark of the Persian Gulf.

"Is—he—on—board?"

"No, no, no!" rapped Peter making no effort to disguise that inimitablesending of his.

"You—are—a—double-barreled liar!" said the Manila spark withvehement emphasis. "No operator on the Pacific has that fist. Youmight as well try to disguise the color of your eyes!"

Manila tapped his key, making a long series of thoughtful little doubledots, the operator's way of letting his listener know he is still onthe job, and thinking. Then:

"Why did you leave the Vandalia at Shanghai?"

"I never left the Vandalia anywhere," retorted Peter. "I've justcome up from Singapore and Singaraja way. I am taking the PersianGulf to Hong Kong, and back to Batavia."

"No—you're—not," stated Manila's high-toned spark. "You're going tobe pinched as soon as you land in Hong Kong for deserting your ship atShanghai. That's a secret, for old friendship's sake."

It was now Peter's turn to tap off a singularly long row of littledouble dots.

"It may be a secret, but only a thousand stations are listening in," hesaid at length. "But, thanks, old-timer, just the same. If they pinchPeter Moore in Hong Kong, they will have to extradite him from Kowloon.In other words, they will have to go some. Besides, what Peter does inShanghai cannot be laid against him in Hong Kong. The law's the law."

A savage tenor whine here broke in upon Manila's laughing answer, theHi! Hi! Hi! of the amused radio man; and Peter listened in someannoyance to the peremptory summons of a United States gunboat,probably nosing around somewhere south of Mindanao.

"Stand by, Manila," shrilled this one. "Message for the PersianGulf." He broke off with a nimble signature.

"Good morning, little stranger," roared Peter's stridulent machine."You're pretty far from home. Won't you get your feet wet? Theocean's pretty dewy this morning. Well, what do you want? Shoot it,and shoot fast. Peter Moore's at the key, and the faster you shootthem the better Peter likes them."

The gunboat stuttered angrily.

"A message for Peter Moore, operator in charge, steamer Persian Gulf,at sea. Report immediately upon arrival in Hong Kong to Americanconsul for orders. (Signed) B. P. Eckles, commanding officer, U. S. S.Buffalo."

To which Peter composed the following pertinent reply:

"To Commander Eckles, U. S. S. Buffalo, somewhere south of Mindanao.What for? (Signed) Peter Moore."

The promptness of the reply to this indicated that the recrudescence ofPeter Moore, dead or alive, was of sufficient interest to command thepresence of the gunboat's commander in the wireless house. In effect,Peter now realized that his confession had got him into considerablehot water.

Back came the Buffalo's nervous answer: "To Peter Moore, operator incharge, steamer Persian Gulf, at sea. Orders. Obey them. (Signed)B. P. Eckles."

Peter cut out the formalities. "Please ask the commander what's thetrouble."

And out of the void cracked the retort: "He says, ask the Americanconsul at Hong Kong."

There seemed nothing much to do aside from attending to the accumulatedbusiness on hand. In Hong Kong he could only decide which of the twohe would honor first, the Marconi supervisor or the American consul;for in strange lands one falls into the custom of complying with therequests of his countrymen.

But Peter was beginning to feel a little of the old-time thrill. Itwas fine to have the fellows recognize that lightning fist of his; fineto have their homage. For the stumbling signals of both Manila and theBuffalo were homage of the most straightforward sort.

For Peter Moore as wireless operator was swift of the swiftest; hedespatched with a lightning lilt, and the keenness of his ears, forwhich he was famous on more than one ocean, made it possible for him toreceive signals with rarely the necessity for a repeat.

Manila, obeying orders, was standing by, and Peter, tightening a screwto bring the silver contacts of the massive transmission-key in betteralignment, despatched his string at the highest speed of which he wascapable. As long as his listeners knew he was Peter Moore, he might aswell give them, he decided, a sample of the celebrated Peter Mooresending.

For five minutes the little wireless cabin roared with theundiminishing rat-tat-tat of his spark explosions, and Manila, a navyman of the old school, rattled back a series of proud O.K.'s.

Proud? Because Peter Moore, of the old Vandalia, of the Sierra,and a dozen other ships, was at the key. And an operator who said"O.K." at the termination of one of Peter's inspired lightningtransmissions had every right to be proud, as any wireless operator whohas ever copied thirty-three words a minute will bear me witness.

CHAPTER IX

When Peter emerged from the wireless room, having completed hisbusiness for the morning, he found Romola Borria with elbows on therail gazing thoughtfully at a small Chinese girl who sat cross-leggedon the hatch cover immersed in her sewing.

And Peter marveled at the freshness of Romola Borria's appearance, atthe clarity of her sparkling brown eyes, the sweet pinkness of hercomplexion, and the ease and radiance of her tender smile.

"You look troubled," she said, as her smile was replaced by a look oftender concern. "What is it?" She lowered her voice to a confidentialundertone. "Last night's affair, desu-ka?"

Peter shook his head with a grave smile.

"I am discovered, Miss Borria. That is to say, I have just givenmyself away to the Manila navy station, not to speak of the commanderof a gunboat, not far from us, off the coast of Mindanao. Itseems"—he made a wry face—"Peter Moore is not popular with theauthorities for deserting a certain ship in Shanghai."

"The Vandalia!" said the girl, and suddenly bit her lip, as thoughshe would have liked to retract the statement.

Peter sank down on his elbows beside her, until his face was very closeto hers, and his expression was shrewd and cunning.

"Miss Borria," he remarked stiffly, "I told you last night you'reclever; and now you've given me just one more reason to stick to myguns; one more reason to believe that you know more than you'resupposed to know. Now, let's be perfectly frank—for once. Let's noterase any more rouge stripes, so to speak. Won't you please tell mejust what you do know about my activities in this neighborhood?"

His outflung gesture indicated the whole of Asia.

The girl pursed her lips and a hard twinkle, like that of a frostyarc-light upon diamonds, came into her eyes. "Yes, Mr. Moore," shesaid vigorously, "I will. But you must promise—promise faithfully—toask no questions. Will you do that?"

Peter nodded with a willingness that was far from assumed.

Romola Borria placed the tips of her slender, white fingers togetherand looked down at them pensively. "Well," she said, looking up andraising her voice slightly, "you escaped from the liner Vandalia inthe middle of the Whang-poo River, at night, in a deep fog, in asampan, with a young woman named Eileen Lorimer in your arms. Thisoccurred after you had delivered her from the hands of certain men,whom I prefer to call, perhaps mysteriously, by the plain word them.

"You sent this young lady home on the Manchuria, or the Mongolia, Iforget just which. That night on the bund near the French legation,you met, quite by accident, another young lady who found yourcompanionship quite desirable. Her name was Miss Amy Vost, a brightlittle thing."

"You don't happen to know," put in Peter ironically, "what Miss Lorimerhad for breakfast this morning, by any chance?"

"At last accounts she was studying for a doctor's degree in theuniversity at San Friole, Mr. Moore."

"Indeed!" It was on the tip of Peter's tongue to tell this astoundingRomola Borria that she was nothing short of a mind-reader. Instead, henodded his head for her to continue.

"As I was saying, you met Miss Vost, quite by accident, and danced withher at a fancy dress ball at the Astor House. You wore the costume ofa Japanese merchant, I believe, thinking, a little fatuously, if youwill permit me, that those garments were a disguise. A little later inthe bar at the Palace Hotel, after you left Miss Vost, you met a seacaptain, ex-first mate of the Toyo Kisen Kaisha steamer, the SunyadoMaru. He was an old friend.

"With Captain MacLaurin and Miss Vost you made a trip on theYangtze-Kiang in a little river steamer, the Hankow, which founderedin the rapids just below Ching-Fu. This occurred after you had stabbedand killed one of their most trusted spies.

"When the Hankow sank, you followed what now appears to be yourprofessional habit of a trustworthy gallant, by taking a lady indistress into your arms, and swam the whirlpools to the little villageacross the river from Ching-Fu. Then Miss Vost was met by her father,an incurable missionary from Wenchow, and by devious routes, well knownto them, you joined a caravan, owned by a garrulous old thief whocalls himself a mandarin, the Mandarin Chang, who told you many lies,to amuse himself—

"Of course they were lies, Mr. Moore. Chang is one of his mosttrusted henchmen. He even permitted you to kill one of his coolies.The coolie would have died anyway; he was beginning to learn too much.But it tickled Chang, and him, to let you have this chance, to seehow far you would go. And Chang had orders to help you reach Len Yang.It gave you confidence in yourself, did it not?"

"I don't believe a word," declared Peter in a daze. He refused tobelieve that Chang, kindly old Chang, was in league with that man, too.

"Then you entered Len Yang, the City of Stolen Lives, and he watchedyou, and when you heard a difficult wireless message on the instrumentsat the mine, he gave you a present of money—five hundred taels,wasn't it?—hoping, perhaps, that you would 'give up your foolishness,'as he expressed it, and settle down to take the place of theopium-befuddled wireless man you fooled so cleverly. He valued you,Mr. Moore, you see, and he was not in the least afraid of you!

"A dozen times, yes, a hundred times, he could have killed you. But hepreferred to sit back and stroke those long, yellow, mandarin mustachesof his, and watch you, as a cat watches a foolish mouse. I can see himlaughing now. Yes! I have seen him, and I have heard him laugh. Itis a hideous, cackling laugh. Quite unearthly! How he did laugh atyou when you rescued Miss Vost, dear little clinging Miss Vost, fromthe jaws of his white palace!

"But he let you go; and he and his thousand sharpshooters who lined thegreat, green walls, when you and Captain MacLaurin and Miss Vostgalloped bravely out, with one poor little mule! A thousand rifles, Isay, were leveled upon you in that bright moonlight, Mr. Moore. Buthe said—no!"

Peter looked up at the stolid rigging of the Persian Gulf, at thesunlight dancing brightly on the blue waves, which foamed at theircrests like fresh, boiling milk; at the passengers sleeping or readingin their deck chairs; and he refused to believe that this was not adream. But the level voice of Romola Borria purred on:

"Then you joined a caravan for India, and, for a little while, theythought your trail was lost. But you reappeared in Mandalay, attiredas a street fakir; and you limped all the way to Rangoon. Why did youlimp, Mr. Moore?"

"A mule stamped on my foot, coming through the Merchants' Pass intoBengal."

"It healed rapidly, no doubt, for you were very active from that timeon. You took passage to Penang, to Singapore, doubling back to Penang,and again to Singapore, and caught a blue-funnel steamer for Batavia."

"But, Miss Borria," writhed Peter, "why, with all this knowledge,hasn't he done away with me? You know. He knows. You've had yourchance. You could have killed me in your stateroom last night.Please——" And Peter cast the golden robe of the adventurertemporarily from him, becoming for the moment nothing more than aterribly earnest, terribly concerned young man.

"I gave you an inkling last night," replied Romola Borria composedly."Until you left Batavia he believed that you had given up yournonsense. The coolie you threw overboard in Batavia was there, not tostab you, but to warn you away from China. Those warnings, of whichyou have had many, are now things of the past. You have thrown downthe glove to him once too often. He is through toying.

"It was great fun for him, and he enjoyed it. He treats his enemiesthat way—for a while. You have now entered upon the second stage ofenmity with him. Last night was a sample of what you may expect fromnow on. Only the sheerest luck saved you from the coolie's bullet—andmy almost-too-tardy intervention."

Peter gave her a hard, thoughtful and a thoroughly respectful stare.

"I take it," he said, "that you are a special emissary, a sort ofminister plenipotentiary, from the Gray Dragon. As a matter of fact,you are here simply to persuade me to correct my erring ways; topersuade me to give you my promise for him that I will put China andLen Yang forever out of my plans."

"Express it any way you please, Mr. Moore. I have told you about allthat I am able. I know this game, if you will permit me, a little,just a little better than you do, Mr. Moore. I know when fun stops anddownright danger begins. The moment you put your foot in China, youare putting your foot in a trap from which you can never, never so longas you are permitted to live, extricate yourself. And, believe me,seriously, that will not be for long. A day? Perhaps. An hour? Verylikely not any longer than that.

"Call me a special emissary if you choose. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I amonly a friend, who desires above everything else to help you avoid amost certain and a most unpleasant death. I have given you youropportunity. From my heart I gave you, and I still do give you, thechance to leave—with me. Yes; I mean that. Your promise, backed byyour word of honor, is a passport to safety for both of us. Yourrefusal, I might as well confess, means to me—death! Won't you stopand consider? Won't you say—yes?"

Peter's head had snapped back during this epilogue; his white-cladshoulders were squared, and his blue eyes were lighted by a fire thatmight have made a Crusader envious.

"You may report to him," said he, "that I have listened to hisproposal; that I have considered it calmly; and that, as long as thegauntlet is down—it is—down! I want but one thing: a man's chanceat that beast. You can tell him just that from me, Miss Borria. I amsorry."

She seemed on the point of uttering a final word, a word that mighthave been of the greatest importance to Peter the Brazen; but the wordnever got beyond her lips.

Into her eyes crept a look of despair, of mute horror. She half raisedher hand; withdrew it. Her shoulders sagged. She staggered to a deckchair, and sank into it, with her head back, her eyes closed, her long,dark lashes lying upon cheeks that had become marble.

Standing there with his eyes glued to the blue of the sea, Peter theBrazen felt the confidence oozing from him as water oozes out of aleaky pail. He felt himself in the presence of a relentless powerwhich was slowly settling down upon him, crushing him, and overpoweringhim.

It occurred to him as his thoughts raced willy-nilly, to flash a callof help to the gunboat which prowled south of Luzon, a call which wouldhave met with a response swift and energetic.

Yet that impulse smacked of the blunderer. It would put an end foreverto his high plan, now boiling more strongly than ever before, in theback of his racked brain: to meet and some day put down the beast inLen Yang.

A bright, waving hand distracted his attention from the sea. The maidfrom Macassar was endeavoring to attract him. He looked down with apale, haggard smile.

"You have not forgotten—Kowloon, busar satu?" said her tinklinglittle voice.

"Not I, small one!" Peter called back in accents that entirely lackedtheir accustomed gaiety.

CHAPTER X

During the remainder of the voyage Romola Borria did not once, so faras Peter was aware, leave her stateroom. Her meals were sent there,and there she remained, sending out word in response to his inquiriesthat she was ill, could see no one—not that Peter, after that latestastounding interview, cared particularly to renew the friendship. Hewas simply thoughtful.

Yet he felt a little angry at his demonstration of frank selfishness,and not a little uneasy at the uncanny precision of her recital of hisrecent history, an uneasiness which grew, until he found himselfwaiting with growing concern for the rock-bound shore-line of Hong Kongto thrust its black-and-green shoulders above the horizon.

The Persian Gulf anchored outside at night, and in the morningsteamed slowly in amidst the maze of masts, of sampans and junks, whichlatter lay with their sterns pointing grotesquely upward, resemblingnothing so closely as great brown hawks which had flown down from aBrobdingnagian heaven, to select with greater convenience andfastidiousness what prey might fall within reach of their talons.

Peter was aware that many of these junks were pirate ships, audaciousenough to pole into Victoria Harbor under the very guns of the forts,under the noses of battleships of every nation.

When the launch from quarantine swung alongside, Peter went below andchanged from the uniform to a light, fresh suit of Shantung silk, asoft collar, a soft Bangkok hat, and comfortable, low walking shoes,not neglecting to knot about his waist the blue sarong.

The steerage passengers were lined up when he came above a littlelater, sticking out their tongues for the eagle-eyed doctors, andgiggling at a proceeding serious enough, had they known it, to sendevery mother's son and daughter of them back to the land whence theycame, if they displayed so much as a slight blemish, for Hong Kong wasthen in the throes of her latest cholera scare.

Satisfied at length that the eyes and tongues of the steerage and deckpassengers gave satisfactorily robust testimony, the doctors came up tothe first-class passengers, who stood in line on the promenade deck;and Peter saw the change that had come over Romola Borria.

Her face bore the pallor of the grave. Her large, lustrous eyes weresunken, and lines seemed to have been engraved in a face that hadpreviously been as smooth and fair as a rose in bloom.

He felt panic-stricken as she recognized him with an almostimperceptible nod, and he stared at her a trifle longer than wasnecessary, with his lips slightly ajar, his nails biting into hispalms, and he sensed rather than saw, that her beauty had beentransformed into one of gray melancholy.

At that juncture, a tinkling voice shrilled up at him from the aftercargo-well, and Peter turned to see his small charge, the maid fromMacassar, smiling as she waited for him beside a small pile of silkenbundles of the rainbow's own colors. He had not forgotten the Eurasiangirl, but he desired to have a parting word with Romola Borria.

He called over the rail, and instructed her of the black pigtail towait for him in a sampan, and he yelled down to one of the dozens ofstruggling and babbling coolies, whose sampans swarmed like a horde ofco*ckroaches at the ladder's lower extremity.

Romola Borria, alone, was awaiting him, adjusting her gloves, at thedoorway of the wireless cabin when he made his way back to that quarterof the ship. She greeted him with a slow, grave smile; and by thatsmile Peter was given to know how she had suffered.

Her face again became a mask, a mask of death, indeed, as her lidsfluttered down and then raised; and her eyes were tired.

He extended his hand, trying to inject some of his accustomedcheerfulness into the gesture and into the smile which somehow wouldnot form naturally on his lips.

"This—is adieu—or au revoir?" he said solemnly.

"I hope—au revoir," she replied dully. "So, after all, you refuseto take my counsel, my advice, seriously?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm rather afraid I can't," he said. "You see, I'myoung. And you can say to yourself, or out loud without fear ofhurting my feelings, that I am—foolish. I guess it is one of thehardships of being young—this having to be foolish. Wasn't it to-daythat I was to become immortal, with a knife through my floating ribs,or a bullet in my heart?

"As I grow older I will become more serious, with balance. Perish thethought! But in the end—shucks! Confucius, wasn't it—that dear oldphilosopher who could never find a king to try out his theories on—whosaid:

"The great mountain must crumble.
The strong beam must break.
The wise man must wither away like a plant."

She nodded.

"I am afraid you will never become serious, Mr. Moore. And perhapsthat is one of the reasons why I've grown so—so fond of you in thisshort while. If I could take life—and death—as stoically, ashappily, as you—oh, God!"

She shut her eyes. Tears were in their rims when she opened them again.

"Mr. Moore, I'll make a foolish confession, too, now. It is—I loveyou. And in return——"

"I think you're the bravest girl in the world," said Peter, taking herhands with a movement of quick penitence. "You—you're a brick."

"I guess I am," she sighed, looking moodily away. "A brick of clay!Perhaps it is best to walk into the arms of your enemies the way youdo, with your head back and eyes shining and a smile of contempt onyour lips. If I only could!"

"Why speak of death on a day like this?" said Peter lightly. "Life isso beautiful. See those red-and-yellow blossoms on the hill, near thegovernor's place, and the poor little brats on that sampan, thinkingthey're the happiest kids in the world. What hurts them, hurts them;what pleases them, pleases them. They're happy because they don'tbother to anticipate. And think of life, beautiful old life, brimmingover with excitement and the mystery of the very next moment!"

"If I could only see that next moment!"

"Ugh! What a dreary monotony life would become!"

"But we could be sure. We could prepare for—for—well——" She threwup her head defiantly. "For death, I'll say."

"But please don't let's talk of death. Let's talk of the fine time youand I are going to have when we see each other again."

"Will there be another time, Peter?"

"Why, of course! You name that time; any time, any place. We'll eatand drink and chatter like a couple of parrots. And you will forgetall this—this that is behind us."

Her teeth clicked.

"To-night," she said quickly. "I'll meet you. Let me see. On theDesvoeux Road side of the Hong Kong Hotel balcony, the restaurant,upstairs, you know."

"Right!" agreed Peter with enthusiasm. "Will we let husband go along?"

Her face suddenly darkened. She shook her head.

"I will be alone. So will you, at seven o'clock. You'll be there,without fail?"

A coolie guarded her luggage near by impatiently. They could hear thesobbing of the J. C. J. passenger launch as it rounded the starboardcounter.

"I forget," said Peter, with his flashing smile. "I'll be dead in anhour. The steel trap of China, you know."

"Please don't jest."

"I'll tell you what I will do. I'll put a tag on my lapel, saying,deliver this corpse to the Desvoeux Road balcony of the Hong Kong Hotelrestaurant at seven sharp to-night! Without fail! C. O. D.!"

These last words were addressed to the empty wireless cabin doorway.The white skirt of Romola Borria flashed like a taunting signal as shehastened out of his sight with the boy who carried her grips.

CHAPTER XI

Wearing a slight frown, Peter made his way through piles ofindiscriminate luggage to the port ladder, where his sampan and themaid from Macassar were waiting.

As he descended this contrivance he scanned the other sampans warily,and in one of these he saw a head which protruded from a low cabin.The sampan was a little larger than the others, and it darted in andout on the edge of the waiting ones.

The head vanished the instant Peter detected it, but it made a sharpimage in his memory, a face he would have difficulty in forgetting. Itwas a long, chalk-white face, topped by a black fedora hat—a facegarnished at the thin gray lips by a mustache, black and spikelike,resembling nothing more closely than the coal-black mustache affectedby the old-time melodrama villains.

An hour of life? Did this man have concealed under his black coat theknife which had been directed by the beast in Len Yang to seek out hisheart, to snuff out his existence, the existence of a trifling enemy?

As Peter reached the shelving at the foot of the ladder the thoughtgrew and blossomed, and the picture was not a pleasant one. The man inthe sampan, as Peter could judge by his face, would probably prove tobe a tall and muscular individual.

And then Peter caught sight of another face, but the owner of itremained above-board. This man was stout and gray, with a face moresubtly malignant. It was a red face, cut deep at the eyes, and in theregion of the large purple nose, with lines of weather or dissipation.Blue eyes burned out of the red face, faded blue eyes, that were,despite their lack of lustre, sharp and cunning.

The hand of its owner beckoned imperiously for Peter, and he shoutedhis name; and Peter was assured that in the other hand was concealedthe knife or the pistol of his doom.

With these not altogether pleasant ideas commanding his brain he jumpedinto the sampan in which the maid from Macassar was smilingly waiting.

Peter saw that his coolie was big and broad, with muscles which stoodout like ropes on his thick, sun-burned arms and legs. He gave thecoolie his instructions, as the sampan occupied by the red-faced manwas all the while endeavoring to wiggle closer. Again the man calledPeter by name, peremptorily, but Peter paid no heed.

"To Kowloon. Chop-chop!" shouted Peter. "c*mshaw. Savvy?" Hedisplayed in his palm three silver dollars and the coolie bent his backto the sweep, the sampan heeling out from the black ironside like athing alive.

Behind them, as this manoeuvre was executed, Peter saw the two dulyaccredited agents of the Gray Dragon fall in line. But Peter hadselected with wisdom. The coolie verified with the passage of everymoment the power his ropy muscles implied. Inch by inch, and yard byyard, they drew, away from the pursuing sampans.

Then something resembling the scream of an enraged parrot sang overtheir heads, and he instinctively ducked, turning to see from which ofthe sampans this greeting had come.

A faint puff of light-blue smoke sailed down the wind between the two.Which one? It was difficult to say.

They were beginning to leave the pursuit decidedly in the lurch now.Peter's coolie, with his long legs braced far apart on therunning-boards, bent his back, swaying like a mighty metronome fromport to starboard, from starboard to port, whipping the water into anangry, milky foam.

The pursuers crept up and fell back by fits and starts; slowly thedistance widened.

The girl crouched down in the cabin, and Peter, with his automatic inhis hand, waited for another tell-tale puff of blue smoke.

Finally this puff occurred, low on the deck of the larger craft. Thebullet plunked into the water not two feet from the sweep, and thecoolie, inspired by the knowledge that he, too, was inextricablywrapped up in this race of life and death, sweated, and shouted in thesavage "Hi! Ho! Hay! Ho!" of the coolie who dearly loves his work.

Satisfied as to the origin of both bullets, Peter took careful aim atthe yellow sampan and emptied his magazine, slipping another clip ofcartridges into the oblong hole as he watched for the result.

The yellow sampan veered far from her course, and a sweep floated onthe surface some few yards aft. Then the sampan lay as if dead. Butthe other plunged on after.

This exciting race and the blast of Peter's automatic now attracted theearnest attention of a gray little river gunboat, just down fromup-stream, and inured to such incidents as this.

A one-pound shell snarled overhead, struck the water a hundred yardsfurther on, near the Kowloon shore, and sent up a foaming white pillar.

The pier at Kowloon loomed close and more close. It was unlikely thatthe gunboat would follow up the shot with another, and in this guess,Peter, as the French say, "had reason."

The fires under the gunboat's boilers were drawn, and there was no timefor the launching of a cutter.

A great contentment settled down upon Peter's heart when he saw thatthe oncoming sampan could not reach the pier until he and his chargewere out of sight, or out of reach, at least.

He examined his watch. The gods were with him. It lacked threeminutes of train-time.

It was only a hope that he and the girl would be safe on board theCanton train before the red-faced man could catch up.

The sampan rubbed the green timbers of the Kowloon landing stage.Peter tossed up the girl's luggage in one large armful, lifted her bythe armpits to the floor of the pier, and relieved himself hastily offour dollars (Mexican), by which the grunting coolie was gratefully,and for some few hours, richer.

They dashed to the first-class compartment, and Peter dragged the girlin beside him.

"To Canton, too?" she inquired in surprise.

Peter nodded. He slammed the door. A whistle screamed, and thestation of Kowloon, together with the glittering waters of the bluebay, and the white city of Hong Kong, across the bay, all began moving,first slowly, then with acceleration, as the morning express for Cantonslid out on the best-laid pair of rails in southern China.

Had his red-faced pursuer caught up in time? Peter prayed not. He wastingling with the thrill of the chase; and he turned his attention tothe small maiden who sat cuddled close to his side, with hands foldeddemurely before her, imprisoning between them the overlap of hisflaunting blue sarong.

"We are safe, brave one?" she was desirous of knowing.

He patted her hand reassuringly, and she caught at it, lowering hergreen-blue eyes to the dusty floor, and sighing.

Peter might have paused in his rapid meditations long enough to beaware that, here he was, dropped—plump—into the center of anotherring of romance; nothing having separated him from his last love buttwo misdirected revolver shots, the warning boom of a gunboat's bowcannon, and a mad chase across Victoria Bay.

Holding hands breaks no known law; yet Peter was not entirely awarethat he was committing this act, as his eyes, set and hard, stared outof the window at the passing pagodas with their funny turned-up roofs.

His mind was working on other matters. Perhaps for the first timesince the Persian Gulf had dropped anchor to the white sand ofVictoria Harbor's bottom, he began to realize the grim seriousness ofRomola Borria's warning. He was hemmed in. He was helpless.

An hour to live! An hour alive! But he was willing to make the verybest of that hour.

Absently, then by degrees not so absently, he alternately squeezed andloosened the small, cool hands of the maid from Macassar. And shereturned the pressure with a timid confidence that made him stop andconsider for a moment something that had entirely slipped his mindduring the past few days.

Was he playing quite squarely with Eileen Lorimer? Had he beenobserving perhaps the word but not the letter of his self-assumed oath?On the other hand, mightn't it be possible that Eileen Lorimer hadceased to care for him? With time and the miles stretching betweenthem, wasn't it quite possible that she had shaken herself, recognizedher interest in him as one only of passing infatuation, and, perhapsalready, had given her love to some other?

A silly little rhyme of years ago occurred to him:

Love me close! Love me tight! _But_
Love me when I'm out of sight!

And perhaps because Peter had fallen into one of his reasoning moods,he asked himself whether it was fair to carry the flirtation anyfurther with the girl snuggled beside him. He knew that the hearts ofOriental girls open somewhat more widely to the touch of affection thantheir Western sisters. And it was not in the nature of women of theEast to indulge extensively in the Western form of idle flirtation.The lowering of the eyelids, the flickering of a smile, had meaning anddepth in this land.

Was this girl flirting with him, or was hers a deeper interest? Thatwas the question! He took the latter view.

And because he knew, from his own experience, that the hearts of loverssometimes break at parting, he finally relinquished the cool, smallhands and thrust his own deep into his pockets.

There was no good reason, apart from his own selfishness, why he shouldgive a pang of any form to the trustful young heart which fluttered soclose at his side.

"Where does your aged grandmother live, small one?" he asked herbriskly, in the most unsentimental tones imaginable.

"I have the address here, birahi," she replied, diving into her satinblouse and producing a slip of rice paper upon which was scrawled anumber of dead-black symbols of the Chinese written language.

"A rickshaw man can find the place, of course," he said. "Now, lookinto my eyes, small one, and listen to what I say."

"I listen closely, birahi," said the small one.

"I want you to stop calling me birahi. I am not your love, can neverbe your love, nor can you ever be mine."

"But why, bi—my brave one?"

"Because—because, I am a wicked one, an orang gila, a destroyer ofgood, a man of no heart, or worse, a black one."

"Oh, Allah, what lies!" giggled the maid.

"Yes, and a liar, too," declared Peter venomously, permitting his fairfeatures to darken with the blackest of looks. Was she flirting withhim? "A man who never told the truth in his life. A bad, bad man," hefinished lamely.

"But why are you telling such things to me, my brave one?" came theprovocative answer.

She was flirting with him.

Nevertheless, he merely grunted and relapsed again into the form ofmeditative lethargy which of late had grown habitual if not popularwith him.

A little after noon the train thundered into the narrow, dirty streetsof China's most flourishing city, geographically, the New Orleans ofthe Celestial Empire; namely, Canton, on the Pearl River.

As Peter and his somewhat amused young charge emerged into the streethe cast a furtive glance back toward the station, and was dumfounded toglimpse, not two yards away, the man with the red, deeply marked face.His blue eyes were ablaze, and he advanced upon Peter threateningly.

It was a situation demanding decisive, direct action. Peter, hastilyinstructing the girl to hold two rickshaws, leaped at his pursuer withdoubled fists, even as the man delved significantly into his hip-pocket.

Peter let him have it squarely on the blunt nub of his red jaw, aimingas he sprang.

His antagonist went down in a cursing heap, sprawling back with thelook in his washed-out eyes of a steer which has been hit squarely inthe center of the brow.

He fell back on his hands and lay still, dazed, muttering, andstruggling to regain the use of his members.

Before he could recover Peter was up and away, springing lightly intothe rickshaw. They turned and darted up one narrow, dirty alley into anarrower and dirtier one, the two coolies shouting in blasphemouschorus to clear the way as they advanced.

After a quarter of an hour of twisting and splashing and turning, thecoolies stopped in front of a shop of clay-blue stone.

Paying off the coolies, Peter entered, holding the door for the girl,and sliding the bolt as he closed it after her.

He found himself in the presence of a very old, very yellow, and verywrinkled Chinese woman, who smiled upon the two of them perplexedly,nodding and smirking, as her frizzled white pigtail flopped andfluttered about in the clutter on the shelves behind her.

It was a shop for an antique collector to discover, gorged with objectsof bronze, of carved sandalwood, of teak, grotesque and very old, ofshining red and blue and yellow beads, of old gold and old silver.

On the low, narrow counter she had placed a shallow red tray filledwith pearls; imitations, no doubt, but exquisite, perfect, of allshapes; bulbular, pear, button, and of most enticing colors.

But the small girl was babbling, and a look of the most profoundsurprise came slowly into the old woman's face. A little pearl-liketear sparkled in either of her old eyes, and she gathered thischerished grand-daughter from far away Macassar into her thin arms.

At that sight Peter felt himself out of place, an intruder, aninterloper. The scene was not meant for his eyes. He was an alien ina strange land.

As he hesitated, conjuring up words of parting with his little friend,he gasped. Peering through the thick window-pane in the door was thered-faced man, and his look sent a curdle of fear into Peter's braveheart. Would he shoot through the pane?

The girl, too, saw. She chattered a long moment to her wrinkledgrandmother, and this latter leaped to the door and shot a secondstrong bolt. She pointed excitedly to a rear door, low and green, setdeep in the blue stone.

Peter leaped toward it. Half opening this, he saw a tiny gardensurrounded by low, gray walls. He paused. The maid from Macassar wasbehind him. She followed him out and closed the door.

"Birahi," she said in her tinkling voice, and with gravity far inadvance of her summers, "we must part now—forever?"

He nodded, as he searched the wall for a likely place to jump. "It isthe penalty of friendship, birahi. You do not mind if I call youbirahi in our last moment together?"

"No. No."

"I am curious, so curious, my brave one, about the red-faced man, andthe one with the black coat. But we women are meant for silence.Birahi, I have played no part—I have been like a dead lily—aburden. Perhaps, if you are in great danger——"

"I am in great danger, small one. The red toad wants my life, and youmust detain him."

"I will talk to him! But the others, the black-coated one—what ofthem? They would like the feel of your blood on their hands, too!"

Peter nodded anxiously. He was thinking of Romola Borria.

"I will do anything," declared the maid from Macassar patiently.

"Has your grandmother a sampan, a trustworthy coolie?"

"Aie, birahi! She is rich!"

"Then have that coolie be at the Hong Kong landing stage with hissampan at midnight. Have him wait until morning. If I do not come bydawn he will return immediately to Canton. By dawn, if I am not there,it will mean——"

"Death?" The small voice was tremulous.

Peter nodded.

"If the fokie returns with that message, you will write a shortnote——"

"To one you love?"

"To one I love. In America. The name is Eileen Lorimer; the address,Pasadena, California. You will say simply, 'Peter Moore is dead.'"

"Ah! I must not say that. It will break her heart! But you must gonow, my brave one. I will talk to the red toad!"

The green door closed softly; and Peter was left to work out theproblem of his escape, which he did in an exceedingly short space oftime. Even as he took the fence in a single bound he fancied he couldhear the panting of the red-faced man at his heels.

He found himself in a crooked alleyway, which forked out of sight at anear-by bend. Speeding to this point, he came out upon a somewhatbroader thoroughfare. He looked hastily for a rickshaw but none was insight.

So he ran blindly on, resorting at intervals to his old trick ofdoubling back, to confuse his pursuers. He did this so well thatbefore long he had lost his sense of direction, and the sun having gonefrom the sight of man behind a mass of dark and portentous clouds.

At length he came to the City of the Dead, and sped on past theivy-covered wall, circling, doubling back, and giving what pursuitthere might have been a most tortuous trail to follow.

He was hooted at and jeered at by coolies and shrieking children, buthe ran on, putting the miles behind him, and finally dropped into aslow trot, breathing like a spent race-horse.

At the pottery field he found a rickshaw, estimated that he still hadtime to spare to make the Hong Kong train, and was driven to thestation. Dead or alive, he had promised to deliver himself to RomolaBorria at the Hong Kong Hotel at seven.

Visions of the malignant face of his red-featured enemy were constantlyin his mind.

But he breathed more easily as the train chugged out of the grim, graystation. He sank back in the seat, letting his thoughts wander wherethey would, and beginning to feel, as the miles were unspun, that hewas at least one jump ahead of the red death which had threatened himsince his departure from the friendly shelter of the Persian Gulf.

CHAPTER XII

The shadows were lengthening, the sky was of a deeper and vaster blue,when the train came to a creaking stop in the Kowloon Station.

Peter emerged, scanning the passengers warily, but catching not aglimpse of his red-faced enemy. What did that one have in store forhim now? This chase was becoming a game of hide-and-seek. But in HongKong he would feel safer. Hong Kong was a haunt of civilized men andof able Sikh policemen, who detested the yellow men of China.

He took the ferry-boat across the bay to the city, which rose tier upontier of white from the purple water; and he made his way afoot to theAmerican consulate.

With auspicious celerity the sad-eyed clerk bowed him into the presenceof an elderly gentleman with white side whiskers and an inveteratehabit of stroking a long and angular nose.

This personage permitted his shrewd, grave eyes to take in Peter fromhis blond hair to his tan walking shoes, and with a respectful mienPeter prepared his wits for a sharp and digging cross-examination.

"I have been advised," began the American consul, giving to Peter'sblue eyes a look of curiosity in which was mingled not a littleunconcealed admiration, as he might have looked upon the person ofPancho Villa, had that other miscreant stepped into his gloomyoffice—"I have been advised," he repeated importantly, "by thecommander of the auxiliary cruiser Buffalo that you contemplated avisit to Hong Kong."

He sank back and stared, and it took Peter several moments to becomeaware that the content of the remark was not nearly so important as itspronunciation. The remark was somewhat obvious. The American consuldesired Peter to make the opening.

Peter inclined his head as he slowly digested the statement.

"I was told by Commander Eckles to report to you," he repliedrespectfully, "for orders."

The American consul laid his hands firmly upon the edge of the mahoganydesk.

"My orders, Mr. Moore, are that you leave China immediately. Itrust——"

"Why?" said Peter in a dry voice.

"That is a matter which, unfortunately, I cannot discuss with you. Theorder comes, I am permitted to inform you, from the highest ofdiplomatic quarters. To be exact, from Peking, and from the Americanambassador, to be more specific."

It was crystal clear to Peter that the American consul was notcognizant of what might be behind those orders from the Americanambassador; yet his face, for all of its diplomatic masking, told Peterplainly that the American consul was not entirely averse to learning.

"Have I been interfering with the lawful pursuits of the ChineseEmpire?" he inquired ironically.

The American consul stroked his long nose pensively.

"Well—perhaps," he said. "On the whole, that is something you canbest explain yourself, Mr. Moore. If you should care to give me yourside of the question, ah——"

"I haven't a thing to say," rejoined Peter. "If the United StatesGovernment chooses to believe that my presence is inimical to itsinterests in China——"

"Pressure might have been brought to bear from another quarter."

"Quite so," admitted Peter.

"Now, if you should desire to make me acquainted with your pursuitsduring the past—ah—few months, let us say, it is within the bounds ofpossibility that I might somehow rescind this drastic—ah—order.Suffice it to say, that I shall be glad to put my every power at youraid. As you are an American, it is my duty and my pleasure, sir, ifyou will permit me, to do all within my power, my somewhat restrictedpower, if I may qualify that statement, to reinstate you in the goodgraces of those—ah—good gentlemen in Peking."

It was all too evident that, back and beyond the friendly intentions ofthis official, was a hungry desire for information regarding this youngman whose dark activities had been recognized by the high powers to anextent sufficient to set in motion the complicated and bulky wheels ofdiplomacy.

Peter shook his head respectfully, and the consul permitted hisreluctantly admiring and inquisitive gaze to travel up and down theromantic and now international figure.

"I am able to say nothing," he expressed himself quietly. "If theAmerican ambassador has decreed that I ought to go home—home I go!I'll confess right now that I did not intend to go home when I steppedinto this office, but I do respect, and I will respect, the authorityof that order."

"If the President, for example, should request you tocontinue—ah—what you have been doing, for the good, let us say, ofhumanity, you would continue without hesitation, Mr. Moore?"

Peter gave the long, pale face a sharp scrutiny. Did thisinnocent-faced man know more than he intimated, or was he merelyapplying the soft, velvet screws of diplomacy, endeavoring to squeezeout a little information?

"I certainly would."

The consul rose, with a bland smile, and extended his hand.

"It has been gratifying to know one who has become such a singular,and, permit me to add, such a trying figure, in diplomatic circles,during the past week. Good-day, sir!"

Peter walked down Desvoeux road in a state of mental detachment. Aweek! Only a week had passed since he had sailed from Batavia, a weeksince he had thrown overboard the emissary of the Gray Dragon. Heconcluded that in more than one way could his presence be dismissedfrom the land of darkness and distrust.

How had the Gray Dragon brought pressure upon the American ambassador,a man of the highest repute, of sterling and patriotic qualities? Theanswer seemed to be, that the coils of the Gray Dragon extendedeverywhere, like an inky fluid which had leaked into every crevice andcrack of all Asia.

He was still under orders to pay a visit to J. B. Whalen, the Marconisupervisor. That cross-examination he was glad to postpone.

He called at the office of the Pacific Mail, and found that the Kingof Asia was due to leave for the United States the following morningat dawn. He made a deposit on a reservation.

CHAPTER XIII

The hour lacked a few minutes of seven when Peter ascended in the liftto the second floor of the Hong-Kong Hotel and made his way between theclosely packed tables to the Desvoeux Road balcony.

Romola Borria was not yet in evidence.

He selected a table which commanded a view of the entrance, toyed withthe menu card, absent-mindedly ordered a Scotch highball, and slowlyscrutinized the occupants of the tables in his neighborhood. He feltvaguely annoyed, slightly uneasy, without being able to sift out thecause.

For a moment he regretted his audacity in encountering the curious eyesof Hong Kong society, a society in which there would inevitably bepresent a number of his enemies. It cannot be denied that a number ofeyes studied him leisurely and at some pains, over teacups,wine-glasses, and fans.

But these were for the larger part women, and Peter was more or lessimmune to the curious, bright-eyed glances of this sex.

His attire was somewhat rakish for the occasion; and it appeared thatsarongs were not being sported by the more refined class of malediners, who affected as a mass the sombre black of dinner jackets. Atall Hong Kong hotels the custom is evening dress for dinner, and Peterfelt shabby and shoddy in his silk suit, his low shoes, his soft collar.

An orchestra of noble proportions struggled effectively in the moist,warm atmosphere somewhere in its concealment behind a distant palmarbor with "Un Peu d'Amour," and also out of Peter's sight, animpassioned and metallic tenor was sobbing:

"Jaw-s-s-st a lee-e-e-edle lof-f-ff—
A le-e-e-edle ke-e-e-e-e-e-s—"

And Peter in his perturbation wished that both blatant orchestra andimpassioned tenor were concealed behind a sound-proof stone wall.

He was tossing off the dregs of the highball when there occurred alow-voiced murmur at his side, and he arose to confront the pale, wornface of Romola. She gave him her hand limply, and settled down acrossfrom him, her eyes darting from table to table, and occasionallynodding rather stiffly and impersonally as she recognized some one.

"You see"—he smiled at her, as she settled back and fostered upon hima look of brooding tenderness—"you see, my dear, I am here, untagged.Nearly twelve hours have passed since you sounded that note of ominouswarning. I have yet to feel the thrill, just before I die, of thatdagger sliding between my ribs."

She accepted this with a nod almost indifferent.

"Simply because I have persuaded them to extend your parole to oneo'clock. If you linger in China, you have—and need I say that thesame applies to me—six more hours in which to jest, to laugh, tolove—to live!"

"For which I am, as always in the face of favors, duly grateful," saidPeter in high humor. "None the less I have this day, since we partedthis morning, indulged in one pistol duel between sampans, with one ofyour admirable confrères——"

"Yes, I heard of that. But it stopped there. You winged his sampancoolie."

"And at the Canton station, if I may be pardoned for contradicting, Iencountered the red-faced one. To tell you what you may already know,I punched him in the jaw, dog-gone him!"

She seemed to be distressed.

"You must be mistaken."

Peter shook his head forcibly. "A choleric gentleman born with thehabit of reaching for his hip-pocket," he amplified.

She studied him with wide, speculative eyes. "He must be from thenorth. Some of them I do not know. But all of them have beeninformed."

"To permit me to live and love until one to-morrow morning?"

She nodded.

The aspiring and perspiring orchestra and the impassioned tenor hadagain reached the chorus of "Un Peu d'Amour."

"I could ge-e-e-eve you al-l-l my life for the-e-e-e-s—"

"Badly sung, but appropriate," commented Romola Borria.

Peter's countenance became a question mark.

"It may mean that I am giving you all my life for—this," she explained.

"For these few minutes, when we were to chatter, and make love, and behappy?" Peter demanded indignantly. "My dear——" He reached out forher hand, and she let him fondle it, not reluctantly. "I'd give all mylife, too, for these few minutes with you. Do you know—you'reperfectly adorable to-night! There's something—something irresistibleabout you—to me!"

"To you?"

"Yes," he said in a deep voice, and sincerely. "I'd come all the way'round the world, and lay my life at your feet—thus." And he placedhis knuckles on the white cloth, as if they were knees.

"Ah! But you don't mean that!"

"When I'm in love, I mean everything!"

"I know. You are fickle. Miss Lorimer—Miss—Vost—Romola—they come,they love, they are gone, quite as fatefully and systematically as lifefollows death, and death follows life."

"I do wish you wouldn't talk about death in that flippant manner," hegibed, wondering how under the sun he might get her out of this gloomymood.

"But death is in my mind always—Peter. When you have gone through——"

"Romola, I refuse to be lectured."

"Very well; I refuse to talk of anything but love and death."

"Excellent, my own love! Tell me now how it feels when you are inthe heavenly condition."

"Most hopeless, Peter; because death, you see, is so close upon theheels of my love."

"Meaning—me?"

"No—my heart. The death of love and the death—of life follow mylove. Now I want to pick up the threads of a moment ago. Peter, don'thold my hand. That woman is—staring. You said—you said, you wouldcome away around the world to see me, to help me, possibly, if I werein trouble. You weren't serious."

"Cross my heart!"

"On the Persian Gulf that day—that day I told you something of yourrecent adventures and your apparently miraculous escapes, I intended toask you——"

"Seeress, I am all ears——"

"I intended asking you a favor, a most important one, analternative——"

"The trip to Nara?"

"Yes; an alternative to that. Tell me truly how much at heart you hatethe man at Len Yang. Wait. Don't answer me yet. At heart, do youreally hate him, as you pretend, or are you simply bowing down to yourvanity, to the pride you seem to take in these quixotic deeds? For onething, there is very little money in what you are doing. If you shouldapproach these adventures a little differently, perhaps, you might putyourself in a position to be rewarded for the troubles you take, thedangers you risk. I mean that."

"I admit I'm not a money hater," frowned Peter, striving without muchsuccess to feel her trend.

"It would be so easy for you to make all the money you need in only afew years by—how shall I say it?—by 'being nice.' Wait! I have notfinished. You said I was a special emissary from him. You hit themark more squarely than you thought. Oh, I admit it! I was sent toBatavia to meet you, to intercept you, and, to be quite frank, to askyou your terms."

"From him?"

"Yes. He has observed you. He can use you, and oh!—how badly hewants you and your boldness and that unconquerable fire of yours! Heneeds you! He wants you, more than any man he has known! And he willpay you! Name your price! A half million gold a year? Bah! It is adrop to him!"

"Don't," begged Peter in a whisper. "Please—don't—go on."

His face had become almost as white as the tablecloth, and his lipswere trembling, ashen.

"God! I put my confidence in you, time after time, and each time youshow me treachery, deeper, more hideous, than before. Please don'tcontinue. I'm trying, as hard as I know how, to appreciate yourposition in this wretched mess—and trying to find some excuse for it.For you! And it's hard. Damned, brutally hard. Let's part! Let'sforget! Let's be just memories to each other—Romola!"

Her face, too, had lost its color, like life fading from a rose whenthe stem is snapped. Her hand sought her throat and groped there, asit always did in her moments of nervousness, and she drummed on thecloth with a silver knife. She stared curiously at him, with the otherlight dying hard.

"Then I can only hope—a slender hope—to bring you back to the favor Iasked you originally, and I place that before you now, my request forthat favor—my final hope. You cannot refuse that. You cannot! Youprofess to be chivalrous. Now, let me—test you!"

CHAPTER XIV

"Romola, I said no to Nara long ago."

She threw up her head.

"A woman should need to be informed but once that her love is notwanted. This is not what I meant."

"Ah! Another scheme! Your little brain is nothing short of an ideamachine. Remarkable! Go on."

"No," she said, rather sullenly, at this flow of bitterness, "avariation of my plan. If you will not accompany me to Nara, then Imust go alone. I must have money. Do you understand? I am penniless.The King of Asia leaves for Japan to-morrow, at dawn. I will neverreturn to China. Will you—help me?"

"What do you mean by that? Will I break into the house and help yourob?"

"There is no other way. The money is in a desk, locked. I am notstrong enough to break the lock. You can. Then, too, there are somepapers of mine——"

"Romola, will this give you the contentment you desire?" he saidsternly.

"I—I think so. I hope so."

"Then I will help you."

"Oh, Peter, how can I——"

He lifted his hand. "You see, my dear, you can't frighten me—easily.You can't bribe me, Romola. But you can appeal to my weakness——"

"A woman in distress—your weakness!" But there was no mockery ineither her voice or her eyes. It was more like a whisper of regret.

"Romola, will you answer a question?"

"I'll try!"

"Why are beautiful women—girls—from all parts of the world stolen—towork in that mine?"

Romola looked at him queerly. "I do not know, Peter."

They attacked the dinner, and by deft stages Peter led the conversationto a lighter vein. It was nearly ten when they left, the dining-roomwas all but deserted and they departed in high spirits, her arm withinhis, her smile happy and apparently genuine.

"We must wait until midnight," she informed him. "He will be asleep;the servants will have retired."

Peter suggested a rickshaw ride through the Chinese city to while awaythe hours in between, but the girl demurred, and amended the suggestionto a street-car ride to Causeway Bay. He consented, and they caught acar in front of the hotel, and climbed to seats on the roof.

He felt gay, excited by the thrill of their impending danger. She wasmoody. In the bright moonlight on the crystal beach at Causeway Bay hetried to make her dance with him. But she pushed his arms away, andPeter, suddenly feeling the weight of some dark influence, he knew notwhat, fell silent, and they rode back to the base of the peak roadhaving very little to say.

At a few minutes past midnight they alighted from sedan chairs in thehairpin trail beside the incline railway station at the peak, and asthey faced each other, the moon, white and gaunt, slipped from sightbehind a billowing black cloud, and the heavens were black and thenight was dark around them.

She took his arm, leading him past the murky walls of the old fort, andon up and up the sloping, rocky road, dimly revealed at intervals bypoints of mysterious light.

They came at length to a high, black hedge, and, groping cautiouslyalong this for a number of yards, found a ragged cleft. He held thebranches aside while she climbed through with a faint rustle of silkenunderskirts. He followed after.

By the dim, ghostly glow of the clouds behind which the moon wasfloating he made out ominous shapes, scrawny trees and low, stuntedbushes.

Hand in hand, with his heart beating very loudly and his breath burningdry in his throat, they approached the desolate, gloomy house—her home!

A low veranda, perhaps a sun-parlor, extended along the wing, andtoward this slight elevation the girl stealthily led him, without somuch as the cracking of a dry twig underfoot, peering from left toright for indications that their visit was betrayed.

But the house was still, and large and gloomy, and as silent as thehalls of death.

They climbed upon the low veranda. The girl ran her fingers along theFrench window which gave upon the hedged enclosure, and drew back upongreased hinges the window, slowly, inch by inch, until it yawned, wideopen.

He followed her into a room, dark as black velvet, weighted with theindescribable, musty odors of an Oriental abode, and possessed of analmost sensuous gloom, a mystic dreariness, a largeness which knew nodimensions.

As Peter cautiously advanced he was impressed, almost startled, by thesense of vastness, and he was aware of great, looming proportions.

Close at hand a clock ticked, slowly, drearily, as if the release ofeach metallic click of the ancient cogs were to be the last, beatinglike the rattling heart of a man in the arms of death. This noise,like a great clatter, seemed to fill all space.

And he was alone.

Suddenly a yellow light glowed in the dark recesses of the highceiling, and Peter sprang back with his hand on the instant inside hiscoat, where depended in its leather shoulder-sling the automatic.

Across the great room the girl raised a steady hand, indicating a deskof gigantic size, of ironwood or lignum-vitae.

He found himself occupying the center of an enormous mandarin rug, withletterings and grotesque designs in rich blood-reds, and blues andyellows and browns. He gave the room a moment's survey before fallingto the task.

The walls of this cavern were of satin, priceless rugs, which hungwithout a quiver in the breathless gloom. Massive furniture, chairs,tables, settees, of teak, of ebony and dark mahogany, with deepcarvings, glaring gargoyles and hideous masks, were arranged with anapparent lack of plan.

And against the far wall, with a face like the gibbous moon, stood amassive clock of carved rosewood, clacking ponderously, almostpainfully, as if each tick were to be its last.

Peter crouched before the desk, examining the heavy lock on the drawer,and accepted from the girl's hand a tool, a thick, short, blunt chisel.He inserted the blunt edge of this instrument in the narrow crack,and——

A muffled sob, a moan, a stifled cry!

He sprang to his feet, with his hand diving into his coat, and thefingers he wrapped about the butt of the automatic were as cold as ice.

Romola Borria was cringing, shrinking as if to efface herself from aterrible scene, against the French window, and staring at him with alook of wild imploration, of horror, of—death!

From three unwavering spots along the wall to his left glittered theblue muzzles of revolvers!

Peter dropped to his knees, leaped backward, pointed by instinct, andfired at the lone yellow light in the ceiling.

Darkness. An unseen body moved. Metal rattled distantly upon wood.And metal clanked upon metal. Darkness, black as the grave, and asominous.

A white, round spot remained fixed upon his retina, slowly fading. Theface of the clock. The hands, like black daggers, had pointed to tenminutes of one. Ten minutes of life! Ten minutes to live! Or—less?

Silence, broken only by the reluctant click-clack, click-clack of therosewood clock.

If he could reach the window! Then a low, convulsed sobbing occurredclose to his ear. The girl groped for his arm. She was shaking,shaking so that his arm trembled under it.

"Your final card!" he whispered. "The final trick! God! Now, damnyou, get me out of this!"

"I can't. I—I—— Oh, God! Kill me! I gave you every chance. Theyforced me—forced me to bring you here. They would have strangled me,just as they strangled the other!" She seemed to steady herself whilehe listened in growing horror.

"Safe!" he groaned. "Safety for you. Death—for me! You—you led meinto their hands, and I—I trusted you. I trusted you!"

She laid a cold, moist hand over his lips, this devil-woman.

"Hush! If they, if he, so much as guessed that I cared for you, that Iloved you, it would mean my death. I was forced—forced to bring youhere. Don't you understand? And if he even guessed. But you had yourchance. You had your chance!"

Almost hysterically she was endeavoring to extenuate her crime, hertreason.

"Stand up and face them. Meet your death! Escape is—impossible!Impossible! They are watching you like a rat. In a moment they knowyou can stand this strain no longer! Face them, I say! Show themthat——"

Peter pushed her away from him in loathing, and she lay still, onlywhimpering.

Yet the devils of darkness—where were they? And slowly, yet moreslowly, the rosewood clock ticked off its seconds. It should be nearlyone. At one——

A fighting chance?

CHAPTER XV

On his hands and knees he crouched, and began crawling, an inch at atime, toward the French window, dragging the automatic over the thicksatin carpet. He reached the window. It was still ajar. Far, farbelow twinkled the lights of Hong Kong, of ships anchored in the bay,and the glitter of Kowloon across the bay. Out there was life!

A board creaked near him, toward the heart of that darkened vault. Hespun about, aimed blindly, fired!

The floor shook as an unseen shape collapsed and writhed within reachof his hand. In his grasp, was the oily, thick queue of a coolie.

And suddenly, as he groped, the wall spat out angry tongues ofcorrosive red flame.

A white-hot iron seemed to shoot through the flesh of his left arm.The pain reached his shoulder. His left arm was useless—the bonecracked!

Groaning, he pushed himself back. His knees struck the sill, slidover, and he felt the coarse, peeled paint of the veranda. He reachedthe ledge—dropped to the ground, and in dropping, the revolver spilledfrom his hand as it caught on a projecting ledge of the floor, boundedoff into the darkness.

He groveled to retrieve it, muttering as his hands probed through thetufted grass.

Light glimmered in the room above. There occurred sounds of astruggle, of feet scraping, a muffled oath, a short scream.

Peter leaped back, looking up, prepared to dash for the road.

A yellow light within the room silhouetted the slender figure of RomolaBorria against the French window. Her arms went out in frantic appealto the darkness, to him.

"Wait!" she cried in an awful voice. "I love you! Wait!"

At that confession, a hand seemingly suspended in space was elevatedslowly behind her. The hand paused high above her head. A faceappeared in the luminous space above her head, an evil face, carvedwith a hideous brutality, wearing an ominous snarl; and above thewrithing lips of this one was a black growth, a mustache, pointed, liketwin black daggers.

Emiguel Borria, ardent tool of the Gray Dragon? Emiguel Borria,husband of the girl Romola?

Emiguel Borria, in whose lifting hand Peter now caught the glint of arevolver, attempted to crowd the girl to one side. But she held herground, and then this woman who had on a half-dozen successiveoccasions tricked and deceived Peter, who had deliberately and on herown confession lured him into this trap, upset, womanlike, theelaborate plan of her master.

In a frenzy she spun upon Emiguel Borria, seized the white barrel ofthe revolver in her two hands and forced it against his side. Tiny redflames spurted out on either side of the cylinder and smeared in asmoky circle where the muzzle was momentarily buried in the tangledblack coat. And Emiguel Borria seemed to sink into the great room andentirely out of Peter's sight.

Romola leaned far into the darkness.

"Run! Run! For your life!"

And as Peter started to run, out of the compound for the dubious safetyof the cloistered road, other men of the Gray Dragon, posted for such acontingency, let loose a shower of bullets from adjoining windows.

But the gods were for the time being on the side of Peter. These shotsall went wild.

Shuddering, with teeth chattering and eyes popping, Peter dove throughthe matted hedge, dashed into the street, and down the street, lightedat intervals with its pin-points of mysterious light.

He came to the incline station, and his footsteps seemed weighted,dragging. And the clock in the station, as he dashed past, showed oneo'clock.

He plunged down the first sharp twist of the hair-pin trail, fell,picked himself up dusty and dizzy, with his left arm swinginggrotesquely as he ran.

And behind him, riding like the dawn wind, he seemed to feel thepresence of a companion, of a silent rickshaw which rattled with agrisly occupant; and a voice, the voice of Romola Borria, shrill andterrible in his ear, cried: "Wait! Oh, wait!"

But the spectre was more real than Peter could imagine.

It was quite awful, quite absurd, the way Peter stumbled and plungedand fell and stumbled on down the hill; past the reservoirs whichglittered greenly under their guardian lights.

How he managed to reach Queen's Road in that dreadful state I cannotdescribe. He dashed down the center of the deserted road, with rudelyawakened Sikhs calling excitedly upon Allah, to stop, to stop!

But on he sped, straight down the center of the mud roadway, past theHong Kong Hotel, now darkened for the night, and past the bund.

Would the sampan be waiting? Otherwise he was now bolting headlongupon the waiting knives of the Gray Dragon's men. No sampan in thewhole of Victoria Harbor was safe to-night, but one. Would the one bewaiting? Upon that single hope he was staking his safety, his dash forlife.

He sped out upon the jetty.

Where could he seek refuge? The Persian Gulf? The King of Asia?The transpacific liner lay far out in a pool of great black, glitteringunder sharp, white arc-lights forward and aft as cargo was lifted fromobscure lighters and stowed into her capacious hold.

Yet he must go quickly, for in all China there was no safety for himthis night.

A shadow leaped out upon the jetty close upon his heels. But Peter didnot see this ghost.

The sampan coolie, asleep upon the small foredeck of his home, shiveredand muttered in his strange dreams. By his garb and by the richness ofthe large sampan's upholsterings Peter guessed this to be the craftsent to him by the small Chinese girl.

Peter leaped aboard, awakening the fokie with a cry.

Dark knobs arose from the low cabin hatchway, and by the yellow lampsof the jetty Peter made these out to be the heads of the maid fromMacassar and her old grandmother.

A dong was burning in the cabin, and Peter followed the girl into thesmall cabin of scrubbed and polished teak, while the old woman gibberedin sharp command to the fokie.

Crouching like a beast at last cornered, Peter, by the shooting rays ofthe dong, glared dazedly into an angry red face, a face that waslimned and pounded by the elements, from which stared two blue,bloodshot eyes.

The girl said nothing as she nestled at his side, and Peter permittedhis head to sink between his hands.

Yet, strange to say, the red-faced man did not fire, made no motion ofstabbing him.

Peter looked up, snarling defiance.

"You've got me cornered," he whispered harshly. "It's after oneo'clock. The parole is up. Why prolong the agony? Damn you, I'munarmed!" He shut his eyes again.

Again there was no premonitory click, no seep of steel upon scabbard.

The red-faced man seized his shoulder, shook him.

"Say, you young prize-fighter," he sputtered, "you drunk? Crazy? Orjust temporarily off your nut? Who in thunder said anything aboutprolonging the agony? What agony are you talking about? Why the devil've you been dodging me all over South China to-day? You dog-goneyoung wildcat, you! I've got an assignment for you. The King ofAsia's wireless man is laid up in the Peak Hospital with typhoid. Iwant you to take her back to Frisco! Blast your young hide, anyhow!"

The wizen face of the girl's grandmother appeared in the hatchway. Sheseemed annoyed, angry. She said something in the Cantonese dialect,which Peter did not understand.

"A sampan is following," translated the girl in her tiny voice, "but weare nearly there. In a moment you will be safe."

"Where?" demanded Peter, staring over the red-faced man's shoulder fora glimpse of the other sampan.

"The King of Asia," she told him. "In a moment, birahi, in amoment."

Her tones were those of a little mother.

But Peter was staring anxiously into the red face, trying to decipheran explanation.

"I told the red-faced one to be here, too, at midnight," the girl waswhispering in his ear. "He came. He is a friend. Your fears werewrong, birahi."

The sampan lurched, scraping and tapping along a surface rough andmetallic.

The yellow face of the old woman again appeared in the hatchway. A barof keen, white light thrust its way into the cabin. It came fromsomewhere above. No longer could Peter hear the groan and swish of thesweep, and the cabin no longer keeled from side to side. He guessedthat the sampan was alongside.

The old woman motioned for him to come out.

"I am not coming aboard; I am going back to my hotel," said thered-faced man. "You will not leave this ship? You will promise methat?"

"I will promise," said Peter gravely. "You, I presume, are Mr. J. B.Whalen, the Marconi supervisor?"

The red-faced man nodded. As if by some prearranged plan, Whalen,after slight hesitation, climbed out of the cabin, leaving Peter alonewith this very small, very gentle benefactor of his. He wanted tothank her, and he tried. But she put her fingers over his lips.

"You are going to the one you love, birahi," she said in her tinklinglittle voice. "Before we part, I want you—I want you to——" and shehesitated. "Come now, my brave one," she added with an attempt atbriskness. "You must go. Hurry!"

Peter found the side ladder of the King of Asia dangling from theupper glow of the liner's high deck. He put his foot on the lower rungand paused. A vast number of apologies, of thanks and good-byesdemanded utterance, but he felt confused. The slight relaxation of thepast few minutes had left him exhausted, and his brain was encased infog.

He remembered that the little maid from Macassar had wanted him to dosomething, possibly some favor. The glow high above him seemed toswim. His injured arm was beginning to throb with a low and persistentpain. And the climb to the deck seemed a tremendous undertaking.

"You were saying," he began huskily, as she reached out to steady theladder. "You wanted me——"

"Just this, my brave one." And she reached up on tiptoes and kissedhim ever so lightly upon his lips. "When you think of me, birahi,close your eyes and dream. For I—I might have loved you!"

Half-way up the black precipice, Peter stopped and looked down. For amoment his befuddled senses refused to register what now occupied thespace at the ladder's end.

The sampan was no longer there; another had taken its place, a sampanlong and as black as the night which encompassed it.

Wide, dark eyes stared up across the space into his, and these were setin a chalky-white face, grim, fearful—startling!

It was Romola Borria. Her white arms were upheld in a gesture ofentreaty. Her lips were moving.

Peter descended a step, and stopped, swaying slightly.

"What—what——" he began.

"He is dead!" came the whisper from the small deck. "I killed him! Ikilled him! Do you hear me? I am free! Free! Why do you stare at meso? I am ready to go. But you must ask me! I will not follow you. Iwill not!"

And Peter, clutching with a sick and sinking feeling at the hard rope,found that his lips and tongue were working, but that no sound otherthan a dull muttering issued from his mouth. Momentarily he wasdumb—paralyzed.

"I am not a tool of the Gray Dragon," went on the vehement whisper. "Iam not!"

And to Peter came full realization that Romola Borria was lying, orendeavoring to trick him, for the last time.

"Go back—there," he managed to stammer at last. "Go back! I won'thave you! I'm through with this damned place."

Painfully he climbed up a few rungs.

Then the voice of Romola, no longer a whisper, but loud, broken,despairing, came to him for the last time:

"You are leaving me—leaving me—for her—for Eileen!"

Peter made no reply. He continued his laborious climb; first one foot,then a groping few inches upward along the hard rope with his righthand, and then the other foot. Nor did he once again look down.

He finally gained the deck. It was blazing with incandescent andarc-lights. Under-officers and deckhands were pacing about, givingattention to the loading. Donkey engines hissed, coughed, and rattled,as the yellow booms creaked out, up and in with their snares of balesand crates which vanished like swooping birds of prey into the noisyhatchways.

Peter took in the bustling scene with a long sigh of relief. He stillheard that lonely, anguished voice; the black sampan still rested onhis eyes, heaving on the flood tide upon which the great ship strained,as if eager to be gone. And out there—out there—beyond the blackheart of mystery and the night, was the clean dawn—the rain-washedspaces of the shimmering sea.

But he could not look down again. He would not. For a while—orforever—he had had his fill of China. Before him now lay the freedomof the open sea, the sunshine of life—and his homeland!

Peter the Brazen had drunk all too indulgently at the bitter fountain.

CHAPTER XVI

In the months which had passed since their romantic parting on the bundat Shanghai, Peter the Brazen had founded all of his roseate notions ofEileen Lorimer upon the one-sided data furnished by those spirited fewhours.

He had thought of her as a lonely little creature, sole inhabitant of aworld apart, to which he would some time go and claim her.

He had not taken into his calculations at any time such prosaic objectsas parents, brothers, sisters, and, more vital than all, other youngmen who might have found the same qualities in Eileen to adore as hadattracted and bound him.

When, from a long-distance telephone-booth in the Hotel St. Francis, hefinally was connected with the Lorimer residence in Pasadena, it was tohear the gruff, masculine accents of a person who claimed to be herfather, and who was brusque and impulsive in his inquiries regardingPeter's identity.

Peter did not know, or realize, that Mr. Lorimer would have willinglycut off his right hand for the young man who had restored his daughterto him nearly a year before. He was simply struck more or less dumb,with a schoolboy sort of feeling, when he was aware that, five hundredmiles overland, a gruff father wanted righteously to know his business.

By adroit parrying, without giving out his identity, Peter at lengthsecured the information he wanted. Romola Borria had been truthful;Eileen was attending the university at San Friole.

With her San Friole address jotted down in the back of his rednote-book, Peter endeavored to be connected with Miss Lorimer bytelephone. After a trying pause the long-distance operator advised himthat the residence in question did not possess a telephone.

Quartering what remained of his capital by the costly Pasadena call,Peter resorted to the telegraph stand, and waited in the lobby for ananswer.

The first of the several bits of unpalatable news he was to be givenduring the day was delivered to him as he waited, when, unnoticed atfirst, a Chinese gentleman, a Mr. San Toy Fong, a passenger fromShanghai on the King of Asia, came out of the dining-room andoccupied a chair at his side, cordially and candidly revealing anidentity which Peter had suspected during the entire voyage.

"Mr. Moore," the emissary began in a low, confident voice, "I amreturning to China to-night on the Chenyo Maru. Before I sail, ifthere is some message——"

Peter shook a slow decision. "I'm through with China, through with LenYang, through with wireless. I intend settling down on my little ranchnear Santa Cruz. That may save your trailers annoyance."

The polished Chinese gentleman smiled. "Evidently you are not awarethat your little ranch is no longer in your possession. You see, Mr.Moore, when we are interested in a person, we take pains to exhaust thetiniest details. Your ranch was sold about three months ago; in amoment of absent-mindedness, perhaps, you neglected to pay the taxes.However, if you but say the word——"

"Thank you," Peter headed him off in a tired and indifferent voice."You've saved me a trip for nothing. After all, the property isprobably better off in other hands. Now I have nothing in the world toworry about but myself. Bon voyage, Mr. Fong! And my respectsto——"

But San Toy Fong had departed.

After an exasperating wait, a bell-boy brought to Peter a telegraphicreply to his San Friole message, which read:

"Take the twelve-thirty train. Will meet you at station."

And it was signed by Eileen Lorimer.

Peter was again conscious of his diminishing funds when he peeled off abill at the railroad ticket-window and paid the round-trip fare. Butany thoughts upon his possible financial embarrassment were set asideas the train rolled out into the open country, and his mind picturedhis reception at the hands of the young woman who meant quite as muchto him as life.

He pictured a dozen greetings, each different and each the same, withEileen in every case weeping with joy at beholding him, and wrappingher slim, warm arms about his neck.

He became more nervous and excited as the villages passed by, andpresently the trim concrete structure lettered in gold and black as SanFriole came into sight around a curve.

Alighting, he gave his grips to a boy with instructions to have themchecked; and he looked eagerly among the crowd of students for thelovely face of Eileen.

At length he discovered her, and simultaneously she must havediscovered him; for she elbowed her way through the mob, flushed andbreathless, and seized his hands, looking at him with eyes that seemedto glow.

And to Peter the Brazen she was quite the same Eileen as the girl of ayear ago; no older, and quite as lovely, with the same pretty flush inher cheeks, the same rosebud mouth, the same sweet and lovableexpression.

The little speech he had prepared on the train would not leave hislips; and he could only look, with the color heating his cheeks, asEileen smiled tenderly and a little meekly, as she had smiled when theyparted at the consulate in Shanghai over a year before.

He began to realize, even as he considered and reconsidered his motive,that she was mutely begging him not to kiss her at this time. Perhapsthe pressure of her fingers, a subtle pressure away from her instead oftoward her, gave him this understanding.

He became aware gradually of another presence, as he was jostled fromthis side to that by other new arrivals, conscious of the sidelong lookthat Eileen was giving another man.

With a slight feeling of resentment, Peter examined this interloper,finding himself gazing into the unfriendly, tanned face of a man ofabout his own age, with keen, sharp, brown eyes, a dimple in his chin,and a thick, blue book under his arm. Through a maze Peter heard hisname spoken, then the words "Professor Hodgson;" and he found himselfshaking hands briskly with the invader.

Then Peter excused himself, returning with the baggage-checks, and hediscovered both Eileen and Professor Hodgson examining him with thefrank curiosity that one might bestow upon some wandering minstrel, aforeigner, an alien. He felt, as the odd member of any triangle issure to feel, that he was a lone bird; that Eileen and her gloweringprofessor were drawn together by some bond unknown to him, but whosenature he warmly resented.

And thus began the crumbling of the rosy crystalline little world thatPeter had created for the sole occupation of Eileen Lorimer.

As the three walked slowly down the station platform, he felt thetension, the exaggerated repugnance, which any outdone suitor is boundto feel toward his successful rival. He felt sick and useless, andsomehow he wished he was back aboard the train again. He had blown hisdream-bubble, rapturously contemplating the shining, dancing,multicolored surface as it expanded and became of size. And thisbubble had been rudely pricked.

He felt Eileen's light hand upon his arm, and he heard her voicesuddenly become weighted with feminine importance. She was saying:

"Mr. Moore and I have a great deal to talk over. You will excuse me,won't you, until to-night?"

Professor Hodgson, frowning, nodded courteously. "Perhaps Mr. Moorewould like to go, if he cares to stag it. I'm afraid every girl intown has been invited by now."

"Stag what?" queried Peter in a dry voice.

"There's to be a St. Valentine's ball to-night," enthused the girl."St. Valentine's Day is the fourteenth, you know. I'm sure you'd enjoyit! You'll go, won't you?"

"But—but——" stammered Peter. "I had hoped that you and I couldspend the evening by ourselves."

"Oh, but I couldn't do that!" cried Eileen, with reproach in her big,gray eyes. "Professor Hodgson invited me ages ago! Can't we talk thisafternoon and to-morrow. I'll cut classes all day. Please go! I'llgive you every other dance! The professor won't mind. He's an olddear!"

The old dear frowned a shade more darkly, and Peter derived someencouragement from the sign.

"I'll go on that condition," said Peter gaily. "Every other dance withMiss Lorimer!"

"That's fine!" Professor Hodgson rejoined. "Have you a costume?"

"Your wireless uniform!" cried Eileen. "You look wonderful in that!"

Professor Hodgson was preparing to remove his dour look from theirvicinity. "I'll be around at eight," he said. "See you later, Mr.Moore."

"So-long!" Peter retorted affably, and Eileen squeezed his arm ever solightly.

"I want to talk to you all afternoon!" she declared with her adorablesmile, when the professor was out of earshot. "Shall we take acar-ride?"

They climbed into the front seat of an open car, and Peter was gladwhen the girl linked her arm through his and snuggled close to his side.

"I want you to tell me everything from the very beginning," she saidwith a bright smile. "I want to know why you left me so suddenly inShanghai. I had a hundred questions to ask. You were mean!"

"You can begin wherever you please," said Peter amiably.

"Then, why," demanded Eileen, giving him a hungry little look, "didn'tyou let me stay in Shanghai?"

"Because I was in love with you," Peter replied abruptly. "You were indanger. So was I. I wanted to get you out of China as quickly aspossible, because, you see, my dear, the man who had his agents kidnapyou, and who was having you transported to China on the Vandalia,would have recaptured you without difficulty. Do you mind if I tellyou, Eileen, that it broke my heart when I realized that we wouldn'tsee one another for goodness knows how long a time?"

Eileen glanced pensively at the green lawns and the flower-gardenswhich flowed past the car, and her eyes returned to his face with aquestion in them. Her hand snuggled into his.

"Tell me the truth, Peter. You thought I was just an innocent,helpless little thing, now didn't you? You said to yourself, 'I'll getmyself into all sorts of trouble with her on my hands.' Didn't you saythat to yourself, Peter?"

"I did. You're right. You were not made for that place. If you'lllet me, I'll tell you what you were made for."

"You needn't," said Eileen with a sigh. "Because I know. You aregoing to tell me that I am just the right size for a bungalow for two,of which you are the second, and that I need some big man like yourselfto have around, to shield and protect me, to smooth and round off thesharp corners of this harsh old life."

"How did you guess?" gasped Peter.

"Maybe your eyes said that when you told me to go home that day, andmaybe other men have told me the same thing! Anyway, that is what youhave come here to tell me—or haven't you?—that you are all ready nowto leave behind the terribly wicked and adventurous life you've beenleading, and settle down, and live respectably forever after! Isn'tthat the truth?"

"You're something of a mind-reader."

"No, I'm not. But I have sense. Peter, I still think, just as Ithought that terrible night when you slid down the rope from theVandalia with me dangling from your neck, that dreadful night on theWhang-poo in the fog, that you're the finest and bravest man on earth.That's why I let you make love to me on the bund; because—well,because I wanted you to come back!"

"In return," Peter responded with enthusiasm, "I have kept you next tomy heart all of that time, thinking of you every time I feltdiscouraged, looking upon you always as a refuge, exactly as you say,when China got the best of me."

"Has China got the best of you, Peter?"

"It has! I was chased out of the Yellow Empire with a broken arm, byagents of the same man who tried to kidnap you. I removed the splintsonly this morning. Since I saw you, I have paid a visit to thedreadful red city where you were being taken, escaped, and made my waythrough India and the Straits Settlements and back to Hong Kong."

"And they shot you!"

He nodded, and she shivered again, while the fingers against his palmstirred.

"I've put China behind me forever, I hope, and now, a little older, alittle wiser, and very weary, I've come to lay the same worthless oldheart at your dear little feet!"

"And the worthless old feet will have to kick the dear, big heartaside," said Eileen sadly. "Oh, Peter," she exclaimed, suddenlycontrite as she saw the look of pain that came into his face, "you knowI wouldn't hurt you for anything in the world! But I am in earnest,deadly in earnest, Peter! I refuse positively to have you consider meany longer as a poor, helpless, clinging little thing, made only to bepetted and protected! I'm not like that, Peter! If you'd onlywritten, I would have told you. You're not afraid of anything in theworld; nor am I! I love adventure quite as much as you do, Peter, andthe moment you told me, back there in Shanghai, that I must hurry homebecause it wasn't safe, I made up my mind that I would equip myself togo into some of those wonderful adventures with you! ProfessorHodgson, the Chinese language professor, is an expert shot with arevolver, and I've wheedled him into giving me lessons. That's forself-protection. Then the Japanese woman who is general chambermaid inmy rooming-house is teaching me jiu-jitsu.

"In addition to that, I'm studying for a doctor's degree. When thecourse is finished I am going to join you in China. We'll invade thatdreadful mining city alone, just you and I, and we'll make it the mostwonderful place in China! You see, Peter, I intend to be a medicalmissionary; and you won't have to worry your dear old brain about methe least bit. If you won't take me, I'll go by myself!"

"Sweetheart," Peter declared with difficulty, "you are talking throughyour hat!"

She shrugged and smiled. "Won't you take me?"

"You know I'd fetch you the man in the moon if you wanted him badlyenough!"

"And you'll get that silly old notion of a bungalow for two out of yourhead?"

"I'll try. It will be a hard job. And, Eileen——"

"Yes, Peter?"

"You don't care about this Professor Hodgson, do you?"

"Oh, no, Peter! Once or twice he's tried to make love, and you couldsee, couldn't you, how furious he was when we left him?"

"I thought my goose was cooked," sighed Peter.

"Silly old goose!" said Eileen, squeezing his thumb.

With shaken but immeasurably higher notions of this girl, whoseappealing gray eyes suffocated him with longing, Peter helped hischarge to alight when the end of the car line was reached, and at hersuggestion they tramped through the blossoming California fields, backto the village, talking seriously most of the way upon that ardentsubject which lay warmly upon both of their young hearts.

CHAPTER XVII

There was a noticeable ripple when Eileen Lorimer walked into theballroom that evening in the winsome attire of a Quaker maid, withProfessor Hodgson, as Pierrot, on one side, and the tall, commandingfigure of Peter the Brazen, in a spick-and-span white-and-gold uniformof the Pacific Mail Line, on the other.

For Peter the Brazen, in any garb, was that type of man at whom anynormal woman would have looked twice—or, if only once, just twice aslong.

Knotted about his lean waist was a flaunting blue sarong. The saronggave to his straight, white figure the deft touch of romance. Itverified the adventurous blue of his deep-set eyes, and the stubbornoutward thrust of his tanned, smooth-shaven jaw.

When the young women of Eileen's acquaintance, to whom had beenwhispered some of the details of this man's thrilling past, crowdedabout for introductions, Peter had little difficulty in filling theremaining half of his program.

And when the music started for the second event Peter recovered hisflushed and glowing Quaker maiden from the reluctant arms of ProfessorHodgson, upon whom had fallen, like a dark shroud, a gloom heavy andprofound, and the man who had that morning said good-by forever toChina and the wireless game and to ships and the sea, found himselffloating in and out upon a sea of gold, with a sprite from elf-landdazzling him with her rosebud smile.

He would have liked to shock their beholders then and there by kissingher squarely upon that smile! And all the while, from the side line,Professor Hodgson, the professor of Chinese, watched their everymovement with a face as long and as gray as an alley in the fog.

A little later in the evening, when Peter looked for his partner, aMiss Somebody or Other, whose penciled name had been smudged on hisprogram so that it had become an unintelligible blue, he looked in vain.

He looked then among the dancers for the face of his Quaker maiden,and, unable to see her in the syncopating throng, elected to hunt forher, despite the known fact that she was in the company of his defeatedrival, the professor.

Peter searched the refreshment room futilely, and decided that the pairhad probably retired to the palm garden, where Eileen was possiblyengaged to the best of her ability in soothing the ruffled feelings ofher revolver and Chinese instructor.

As Peter parted the golden velvet hangings which shrouded the entranceto the dimly lighted conservatory, he espied a half-dozen couplesdisposed on as many small benches under the drooping fronds in variedattitudes of tête-à-tête.

The curtains fell in alignment behind him; he caught the angry glare oftwo brown eyes from a bench, and realized that Eileen's versatileprofessor was not yet pacified. At Professor Hodgson's side, with herback toward Peter, was a young woman attired in Quaker costume. Herhead was not intimately close to that of the young professor; but itwas close.

As Peter started to cross the waxed floor to her side, he saw Hodgson'shead dip low; saw the girl apparently yield herself into his arms; andas Peter stopped, stock-still, he saw the long arms of the professorwrap themselves about the slim shoulders, drawing the hidden facetoward him until the lips met his.

In that dreadful instant the heart of Peter the Brazen deliberatelyskipped a beat. Black swam into his eyes, and he trembled, then becamestiff, as his gaze was glued to that ghastly pantomime. He hesitated,then leaped across the intervening distance.

Both Eileen and her professor leaped up.

Her face was white, and her fingers clutched in convulsion at herthroat; but Peter's face was equally as white and strained as hers.

He stared in pain and utter disbelief, while a smile slowly crept overthe features of Eileen's professor. She seemed about to faint, andsank back, with eyes tightly closed, against Hodgson's breast.

Peter tried to speak, but a moment passed before he could find words.

"Eileen—Eileen," he muttered, "you said—you told me—oh, God!"

He wheeled and dashed out of the hall, as he proposed to dash out ofher life, with terrible, sinking thoughts in his brain, and his heartpounding dismally against his ribs. He recovered his coat and hat inthe cloak-room.

Hardly had he vanished than Eileen, recovering slowly from her daze,sprang after. But Hodgson detained her, gripping her arm.

She seemed to realize for the first time what had been done, and to theprofound astonishment of the several round-eyed couples, she wiped herhand fiercely across her mouth, the recent repository of theprofessor's sudden and unexpected kiss.

"You—beast!" she stammered. "You—you saw him come in! How daredyou! How dared you! I thought you were a—gentleman—you—you beast!"

Her professor merely grinned, as though the tragedy were a comedy ofthe most amusing order.

"One stolen kiss——" he chuckled.

And Eileen slapped him smartly across the mouth. She started to boltfor the door, but he dragged her back, clinging to her struggling hand."You—one of that band!" she cried.

"Oh, let me apologize," he laughed, rubbing the red mark about hismouth with his free hand. "If your hero resents my robbing him of onestingy, little kiss—— Band? What band?" But there was no questionin his eyes.

"Stop him!" cried Eileen shrilly. "Oh, please, somebody call him back!"

A sophom*ore, always willing to aid a lady in distress, sprang to thechase, and Eileen, breaking loose, stumbled after him out upon thedance floor. A waltz was under way, and the floor was jammed.

They tried to break through, but were thrust aside by laughing dancers,who seemed to take this to be a new and diverting game.

They tried again, and now Professor Hodgson, smiling blandly, came uponthe scene and interposed further interference. Dodging past him andnarrowly avoiding collision with a whirling couple close to the wall,Eileen scurried down the side in the direction of the cloakroom, withbig, hot tears burning down her flushed cheeks.

When she reached the cloak-room she searched it in anxious haste forthe Marconi cap, the light-blue overcoat. Both were missing.

With the sophom*ore atow, and conscious of the romantic nature of hiserrand, she ran into the moonlit street, looking up and down theblack-shadowed sidewalk for signs of the straight, tall figure.

Down the street, perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, she made out themotionless streamer of lights of a train, the San Francisco train.

With her gray Quaker dress flapping, and the clutter of whitepetticoats hindering the rhythm of her knees and ankles, Eileen speddown the middle of the road with the excited sophom*ore bringing up amad rear.

The fate of her life lay in the train's waiting. She knew what PeterMoore would do. And if she could not stop him, she would be nothingless than his murderer. Had the evidences of her apparent infidelitybeen less damning she knew that Peter Moore would have waited, wouldhave listened to her explanation, and believed her.

If she could only reach the train, she could tell him, could compel himto wait, and thereupon have it out with that cad Hodgson. It would befolly to pursue by later train, because Peter, as was customary withthat young philanderer, had neglected to leave his forwarding address.

But Eileen never reached the train. The engine screamed scornfullywhen she was less than a block distant. The red and green tail-lightswere dwindling away along the throbbing rails when she arrived at thestation.

The night had swallowed up her love and her high hopes. Before long,miles, and thousands of miles, would soon stretch between her and herlover.

With a broken sob she wilted upon the station steps, while thesophom*ore stood awkwardly above her, bursting with questions,misty-eyed with youthful sympathy and fidgeting in acute discomfort.

And thus was Peter the Brazen swept out of her life and into his nextadventure.

CHAPTER XVIII

At about five o'clock the next afternoon Peter, in his hotel bedroom,called for a pitcher of ice-water, the major portion of which hedisposed of before considering the next move.

Afternoon sunlight, entering by the single large window, mapped out aradiant oblong of red on the heavy carpet. The long, insolent shriekof a taxicab arose from the square. The bedroom was redolent of thesour odor of last night's cigarette smoke. He had forgotten, forperhaps the first time in his memory, to throw open the window uponretiring. As he arose stiffly from the bed an empty brown bottlebounded to the floor with a thump, and the latter riotous portion oflast evening came slowly back to him. He had decided to do something.What had he made up his mind to do? He sat down on the edge of the bedwith his head in his hands and frowned. He remembered now.

He was going back to China!

With a throbbing head and a recurrence of the sticky feeling in hismouth, he stripped off his pajamas, went into the bath-room, andshivered and grunted under an icy shower for five minutes, by whichtime some of the despondency which last night's affair had brought overhim was shaken, his headache was loosened a bit, his wits were moreclearly in hand, and the warm blood was shooting through him.

After a brisk rub-down he dressed quickly—he had barely had timeenough to recover his suit-cases from the San Friole baggage-room whenhe had fled—and put in a call for the Marconi office.

Shortly he had the chief operator on the wire, and he explained brieflythat out-of-town business had interfered with his calling the daybefore, but that he would drop around for a conference bright and earlythe next morning. He added that he intended to take the King of Asiaback to China.

When he entered the chief operator's cubicle, the chief operator lookedinto the face of a man who had aged, a white, sad face, the face of aman who had found the sample of life he had tasted to be a bittermouthful.

"Back again, as I live!" he chirruped, pumping Peter's handexuberantly. "Where now, Peter?"

"China," said Peter; "my old love, the King of Asia, sails to-morrow.Can I have her?"

"Sure thing! By the way, here's a special delivery letter for you inthe mail that hasn't been assorted—a nice square envelope. Looks tome like a wedding invitation!"

Peter examined the square, white envelope.

A wedding invitation with a San Friole canceling stamp.

Absently he dropped it into his pocket.

Making his way to the St. Francis he found that San Toy Fong haddeparted for parts unknown. So he sat down at a desk in thewriting-room, and penned a brief note, addressing it in care of Ah SihKing. He knew that the letter would reach San Toy Fong as rapidly as agrape-vine telegraph could deliver it to him. He knew that it would beopened, coded and transmitted to the second coil of the vast, hiddengovernment, wherever he might be—from Singapore to Singapore.

The import of that note was simply that he, Peter Moore, was returningto China, and promised to interfere in no way with the band'sactivities. If he should change his mind, he added, he would filenotice of such decision with the duly accredited agents of Len Yang'smonarch at the Jen Kee Road place, in Shanghai.

The purple shoulders of the Golden Gate were sinking into thesilver-tipped waves when Peter, having despatched his clearancemessage, left the tireless cabin for a look at the glorious red sunsetand a breath of the fresh Pacific air.

A room steward, who had just ascended the iron ladder, approached,touching his cap with a deferential forefinger. "A letter addressed toyou, sir. Found it in the corridor outside your stateroom. Must havefallen from your pocket."

The wedding invitation with a San Friole date-mark!

With nerveless fingers Peter drew out, not an envelope, but a stiffcard. And he stared at the card in the red twilight, and groaned inpain and astonishment.

Have I said that this was St. Valentine's Day? In the color of thedying sun, and painted carefully by hand, was a tiny heart, bleeding.

And that was the only message.

PART III

THE GREEN DEATH

CHAPTER I

"Oh! Chiang Nan's a hundred li, yet in a moment's space
I've flown away to Chiang Nan and touched a dreaming face."
—TS'EN-TS'AN.

A young man can get himself into trouble in China. He may refuse toeat the food that is pushed into his mouth at a Chinese banquet by theperfectly well-intentioned man sitting beside him. In that case hewill hardly do more than arouse the contempt of his beneficiary and hishost. He simply shows that he lacks good Chinese table manners, for ata Chinese banquet it is proper to stuff food into your companion'smouth, no matter how full his stomach may be.

Another way to offend the Chinese is to refuse a gift.

But these are minor things. The surest method to arouse the suspicion,dislike and animosity of China is deliberately to keep your affairsshrouded in mystery. Discuss your important business secrets in loudshouts; no one will pay the slightest attention. But whispermysteriously in your friend's ear, and spies will attend you! Leave anote-book filled with precious data plainly in view upon yourdressing-table, and your room-boy won't for the life of him peek intoit. Lock that same note-book away in a dressing-table drawer, and yourroom-boy will move heaven and earth to find out what it's all about!

The time of the day was mid-forenoon; the time of the year was spring.The low, mournful voice of a temple gong floated across the race ofbrown water. River fokies, on sampans and junks, were singing theirold work song, the Yo-ho—hi-ho! of the ancient river, as their naked,broad backs bent to the sweeps. A pleasant breath of perspiring newearth was drifting down the great stretch of yellow water on a light,warm wind.

Peter had taken his favorite stand on the upper-boat deck, where thewireless shack was situated, with one hand wrapped loosely about adavit guy, the other thoughtfully rattling a cluster of keys in hispocket.

Spring is for youth, and Peter was young; yet he did not reflect in anyway the mood of the new season. He felt gloomy and depressed. Lifeseemed an empty, a dreary thing to Peter, because he could see himselfgetting nowhere.

In spite of the sweet candor of the young spring day, one of the firstsounds that came to his ears as he stood there, in the shadow of thelife-boat, was the brazen clamor of a death cymbal. One of China'sfour hundred millions had died in the night; now his spirit was beingescorted to the seventh heaven of his blessed forefathers, by the deathcymbal, clashing with a sober din to drive the devils away from hislate abode.

The shadow of the life-boat was rather unaccountably attenuated; Peterturned around and looked into the bland, unsmiling face of Jen, aChinese deck-boy. Pig-tails were coming back in style again. Aboutsix inches of wispy, purple-black braid extended downward from Jen'swhite cap. His face was quite yellow, and his eyes were green. Anunderstandable light came and flickered across their satiny surface asPeter looked inquiringly into them.

"Wanchee my?" he asked.

The deck-boy took a cautious and all inclusive look of the broad, graydeck, bending head to look past the giant funnels, the first of whichstood about twenty feet forward of them.

"Stay allatime on King Asia?" inquired the Chinese, moiling his handstogether and bowing slightly.

Peter gave him a blue-eyed, indolent stare.

"Maybe. Maybe not," he said. "What's on your mind, Jen?"

"You tell me what going do," replied the yellow one meaningly. "Cando?"

"Mebbe can do," replied Peter, folding his hands. "You run up to theplace on Jen Kee Road as soon as you catchee sampan. Tell man-man if Idecide to do anything I will drop in and tell him. You don't know,Jen, but he knows that my word is good. If I decide to go up-riverI'll tell man-man. If I decide to do nothing, I'll say nothing toman-man."

"Allee light, allee light," said Jen, backing away a few steps. "Youtell man-man, eh?"

As Peter watched the retreating skinny shoulders bob up and down asthey went away from him toward the after ladder, he felt just a littlemore undecided than he had five minutes earlier. He went into thewireless-room, to straighten up the apparatus before locking the doorfor the visit in Shanghai.

As he was locking the tool-box—the Chinese river thieves would stealanything they could lay hands on—he heard his name called in a silveryvoice accompanied by a man's pleasant laugh, and he went out on deck tofind that Mr. Andover, with the twins in tow, was all dressed up for atrip ashore.

The twins and Anthony Andover were passengers, bound on a sight-seeingtrip through the East, and as Peter Moore was a very impressionableyoung man, it is only natural that the twins be discussed first, invirtue of their loveliness.

Peter had first contemplated Peggy and Helen Whipple in the King ofAsia's dining-room. It would have been a rather impossible thing notto see Peggy and Helen Whipple, if you were young, and with faireyesight.

At the first dinner after leaving the Golden Gate Peter had gone intothe dining-room rather early, as he skipped tiffin (by reason of anempty pocket) and was ravenously hungry.

He had looked up over his first spoonful of mulligatawny à la Capron tomeet the clear, undistilled, brown-eyed gaze of Peggy Whipple, who hadseated herself at the captain's table. In that liquid, brown-eyed gazehad lurked a sparkle of mischief, a slightly arrogant look ofinquisitive scrutiny, and perhaps a playful invitation.

As Peggy Whipple gave him that mischievous, liquid-brown glance when hewas in the act of lifting a level soupspoonful to his lips, he did not,as a man might do under the circ*mstances, spill the soup upon thetablecloth, or back into the dish; nor did he pause in the work oflifting the liquid to his mouth.

He did not have to look at the spoon to guide its passage to his mouth.Without spilling a drop, he captained the spoon to its destination,maintaining his clear, deep-blue eyes upon the beautiful brown ones ofthe young passenger. And, without lowering his eyes once, he liftedthe loaded spoon up twice in succession.

This skillful management brought a smile to the pretty face of thegirl. Perhaps she had expected him to spill the soup under her glance;it was to be expected; more than probably the thing had happened inpast episodes of Peggy, for she was distractingly fair to look upon,and her turned-up nose should have disarmed any man.

Her hair was golden and sleek and drawn back straight from her low,white forehead and knotted together in the back, calling attention to aneck that was slim and beautifully proportioned. Pink and white andgold described her. She seemed to bristle with a sort of fidgetyenergy, as if she had so much youth and loveliness stored up in herthat she had a tremendous time keeping it all within bounds.

After Peter had slowly, but not at all insolently or impudently, takenall of this in, in the time required to stow away three heapingspoonfuls of mulligatawny à la Capron, by dead reckoning, she lookedaway from him with a little pout.

Peter followed her glance. He had not noticed the other girl before.It was evident that they were of the same blood, but the other girlseemed older. She, too, had sprung from a brown-eyed ancestry, andshe, too, was blond and pink and lovely, with the prettiest fingers andfinger-nails Peter had seen for some time.

Her glance, arising to meet his, was brown and very calm; unlike hersister, she appeared to be grave, more of the deliberate, thoughtfultype.

It was in the shop of a Japanese silk merchant on Motomatchi Chome thathe had met them for the first time. Several times on the trip acrosshe had passed them on the deck, always escorted by proud young men.

They were the most popular girls on shipboard. Beauty rarely travelsin pairs; these were unusual twins.

Once, as Peter was swinging down the ladder from topside, he came uponPeggy alone, looking rather blue. It may have been that she was simplyin repose; and the contrast gave him that impression. Her eyesdreamingly encountered his, and the mischievous light flickered in themand instantly went out.

She ran her eyes down the white uniform with the gold emblems of hisprofession at the lapels, dropped her eyelids demurely, and seemed towait. He hesitated, and she stood still; but he passed on, leaving herstaring after him with a little pout. Obviously the twins had traveledmuch!

CHAPTER II

It was on the night that the King of Asia cleared Nagasaki for theshort run across the Yellow Sea into the flow of the Yangtze-Kiang thatPeter was sought out by that pleasant young man, Anthony Andover.

Ordinarily passengers were not allowed in the sacred quarters of thewireless house. However, those who possessed daring spirits came upanyway. Peggy Whipple came up there soon after that meeting on deck,with permission from nobody, and Peter gave her about fifteen minutesof his extremely important time on the average of nine times a day,permitting her to adorn the extra chair in the wireless shack, whereshe unconsciously revealed in her sudden and unexpected shiftings ofposture, several inches of adorable silken ankle. I think Peggy wassadly in need of an elderly chaperone, and I am somehow under theimpression that Peggy very badly wanted Peter to make love to her. Howhe resisted her speaks volumes for his quaint, mid-Victorian viewsregarding woman.

And at the end of the fifteen minutes, after regaling her with tales ofthe lands she was about to visit, he dismissed her, kindly but withgreat firmness, and she was as obedient as a lamb.

Anthony Andover, who knew more about plows perhaps than the Egyptians,gave him something else to think about. He looked up from hisinstruments that evening to see a young man of medium height, slim ofbuild, and rather pale and sharp of mien.

"My name is Anthony Andover," he said in a brisk and business-likevoice. "I wonder if I could have a talk with you."

Peter told him to sit down, and he removed the heavy nickeledhead-pieces from his ears. He expected an important radio from theShanghai Station; but that could wait. He wondered what AnthonyAndover might have on his mind.

"Mr. Moore, I'm in something of a devil of a fix, and I think you'rethe man who can get me out of it."

"Shoot," said Peter, lighting a yellow cigarette and passing the box."Chinks?" Trouble to Peter always meant Chinks; they were his symbolof danger.

"No, no! You see, all of my life I've been—well, a city man. Thebiggest adventure I ever had was a fist fight with my foreman. Now——"

"Did you lick him?" asked Peter with concern.

Anthony nodded reminiscently. "Blacked his eyes and busted his nose!"

"Good for you! Go ahead with your story."

"I've met a girl on the steamer, and according to her way of looking atthings, I lack about five thousand different parts of being a hero.You know the girl. That's why I'm bothering you like this."

"Not bothering me a bit. Who's the girl?"

"Peggy." Anthony caressed the word as if it were honey. "PeggyWhipple. Of course, the first thing I want to make sure of is, am Istepping on anybody's toes? If I am, I'll just go ahead, and play myown game my own way. If it's to be a case of a fight——"

"Hold on a moment," interrupted Peter. "I don't quite follow you.Whose toes do you think you're stepping on?"

"Well, Peggy comes up here to the wireless shack so much, that I—I——"

"Oh, not a bit of it, old man. Peggy's a nice girl. I like her.That's all."

"I—I'm mighty glad," said Anthony earnestly. "You know, she's prettymad about you, but as long as you're not interested the way I am,well——" He bit his lip nervously, and went on: "I think you'd agreewith me that it would be rather foolish of her, and very disappointingand disillusioning later on for her to marry the kind of a man shethinks she wants to marry. She has a notion that the man she marriesmust be a cross between Adonis, and—and Diamond Dick! She wants a manwho carries six-shooters in all his pockets, and who fears neither God,man, nor the devil!"

"A regular hell buster!"

"That's it! Down in her heart I think she cares for me a little bit.But I'm nothing but a plain, ordinary business man. I never didanything devilish in my life. There's nothing romantic about me. Lookat this necktie! Did you ever see a hero wearing a plain blackfour-in-hand? Never! Did you ever see a hero wearing nice tan oxfordswithout a spot of mud on them? If I can somehow manage to make herthink for a few minutes that I've got heroic stuff in me, she maylisten to a little sense. She tells me—rather she threw it in myface—that you are going to take Helen and her on a sight-seeing tripinto some of the darkest holes in Shanghai. You know the ropes, andthere's no danger, of course."

"None at all," said Peter.

"Well, I want to know if you'll let me go along. I'll stand everyexpense; I've got money to burn! Let me in on it, and——"

"But there isn't going to be a chance for anybody to be a hero. I'mgoing to take those girls to the safest place in Shanghai. A NewEngland church would be a cavern of iniquity alongside of it!"

Anthony laid his fingers along his knees.

"Well, couldn't you stir up something? That's my idea. I'll leave itto you to crack up some danger, not real danger, of course—we can'tlet those girls get near any real danger. But we can start a fakefight—or something—and give me a chance to play the hero, to rescuePeggy in my arms; that sort of stuff, you know." He looked at Peterfoolishly.

Peter stroked his nose. "It might be done," he said. "I'll see what Ican do."

Anthony arose, extended his hand, and said: "Of course, I'll need arevolver."

"Load it with blanks," advised Peter. "You know, some people thinkit's bad luck to kill a Chink."

Anthony was eyeing him curiously. "Do you?" he asked.

Peter nodded his head slowly. "Sometimes," he said.

CHAPTER III

Anthony and the twins called for Peter as soon as they could tearthemselves away from the many fascinating incidents attendant uponcoming to an anchorage in the Whang-poo-Kiang.

It was late in the afternoon when the first company tug came down-riverfrom Shanghai for passengers. And it was nearly dusk, the golden-brownevening of China, when they were decanted upon the public landing stageat the International Concession.

Anthony was for going directly to the Hotel Astor for dinner, but atPeter's suggestion he and the twins boarded a street-car for the rideto Bubbling Wells.

Peter stood for a number of moments in indecision as the Bubbling Wellstram went up the bund with the slow flood of victorias, rickshaws, andwheelbarrows. It was now about seven o'clock, with the sun hiddenunder a horizon of dull bronze. Street lights were coming on,twinkling in a long silver serpent along the broad thoroughfare, risingin a grotesque hump over the Soochow bridge, and becoming lost in theAmerican quarter.

He would meet Anthony and the twins in the dining-room. Whoever gotthere first would wait. He expected to be there long before his threefriends came back from Bubbling Wells.

A rickshaw coolie was wheedling him at his elbow but he paid noattention. His eyes were searching the street. It took him severalseconds to reconcile himself to the fleeting apparition. What was thisgirl doing in Shanghai?

The rickshaw had passed, proceeding at unabated speed in the directionof Native City.

The rickshaw boy was still making guttural sounds, softly plucking athis sleeve. The shafts of the rickshaw were close to his feet. ButPeter was still undecided.

"Allee right," said Peter, briskly. "French concession."

That was the direction in which the other rickshaw was headed.

He climbed aboard, and they veered out into the north-bound traffic.The girl in the rickshaw was about one block in the lead, and had nointention evidently of accelerating her coolie's pace or of turningback. She had left all decision to him, and his decision was to askher a few questions.

His coolie trotted heavily, looking neither to the right nor left, withhis pigtail snapping from side to side, as his head bent low.

"Follow lan-sî veil—savvy?"

"My savvy," returned the coolie, heading toward the narrow alley offilth and sputtering oil dongs, breathing the odor of refuse, ofcooking food.

Peter's heart was beginning to respond to the excitement. Did she havesome message to convey to him that she could not trust to the opennessof the bund at the jetty?

Suddenly the rickshaw ahead swerved sharply to the right into an alleythat was perfectly dark. Its single illumination was a pale-blue lightwhich burned before a low building set apart from the others at the farend.

Here the first rickshaw stopped. A ghostly figure seemed to float tothe ground. There was a clink of coins. A door opened, letting out awide shaft of orange light which spattered across the paving,flattening itself against the grim wall of the building across the way.

Peter caught the bronze glint of wires on the roof under a pale moon.

He knocked sharply on the door, and stood to one side. It was a habithe had learned from long experience—that trick of stepping to one sidewhen he knocked at a suspicious door. The door moved outward a fewinches. A long, yellow face, with a thick, projecting under lip,peered out. Peter pushed the man aside and entered.

He found himself in a low corridor of smoked wood, with fat candlesdisposed along the walls at intervals of several yards, on a narrow,lacquered rail. One of three doors was open.

A match was struck, the head glowing in a semi-circle of sputteringiridescence before the wood itself kindled. The hand holding the matchwas trembling; the weak flame fluttered to such an extent that he wasdenied momentarily a glimpse of the owner of the hand.

A whisper was conveying an order to him. "Please shut the door, Mr.Moore."

He reached for the door and closed it firmly in the face of the man whohad let him into this place.

When he turned, the trembling hand was applying the match flame to thewick of an open lamp, a rather ornate dong. As the flame rosehigher, casting its steady, mild luminance, he caught a glitter ofmetal, of polished rubber; one end of the room was almost filled withmachinery.

"Romola Borria!"

She seemed to have undergone a great change. The beautiful face thathad lured him once into the jaws of death was dominated now by awistful and tender sadness, as though this girl had gone through anepoch of self-torture since they had last been together.

Yet she was still beautiful; it was as if her beauty had been refinedin an intense fire. Her mouth was sad, her great brown eyes glowedwith an inexpressible sadness, and her face, once oval and proud,seemed narrower, whiter, and, by many degrees, of a finer mold.

She was examining him broodingly; there was a reluctant timidity in hereyes; it was such a look as you may see years afterward in the womanyou once have cast aside for some other, perhaps not quite so worthy.

"Well, you have found me, Peter," she said in a faint and tired voice,coming slowly toward him.

"Yes," he admitted, lamely: "I saw you passing the jetty. Ifollowed—naturally. I have just come from America."

"Oh." Her voice expressed no surprise. "You came for me, Peter?"

"I thought you were dead," he confessed.

"Well, I am a hard one to kill!" A tiny smile flickered across herfine lips. "You are not married—to Eileen?"

"No—and never!" he said dully.

"But you must be in love! You are always in love—with some one."

"I am in love with no one."

"Not even——"

"I am in love with no one."

"Nor am I," said Romola Borria quietly. It seemed to come from her asa vast and reluctant confession. "I loved only one man, and my lovefor him is quite dead. If I should rake over the embers—oh, but Ihave raked them over, Peter, many, many times—and I have found not onesingle small ember glowing! When love dies, you know, it requires agreat fire to rekindle it. Oh, I have suffered!"

"He—is dead?"

She smiled again, rather ironically. "Can a man live with a bullet inhis heart?"

"I—I saw. I thought—but what does it matter what I thought?" He wastrying to inject some of his old spirit into his voice. It was ratherdifficult, this business of laughing at the funeral of love. "Romola,you are more beautiful!"

"I have suffered," she said, in the same restrained voice.

He turned away with a shrug. He, too, had suffered, but in a somewhatdifferent light. He was examining with a professional eye the heap ofapparatus which was arranged in splendid order along the back of thesmall room.

"I am studying. You see, Peter," she explained, in the same ratherrecriminatory tones, "I was rather fond of you at one time——"

"Romola, please——"

"And because it was your profession I became interested in it. I heardthe message you sent last night—to—to the place on Jen Kee Road. Iwas quite worried for a while."

"That was why you happened along the bund about the time the boat cameup-river?"

"Perhaps." She smiled vaguely.

"You wanted to find out if I still cared enough for you to——"

"Follow me? Yes, Peter; I think that was why."

"Then you didn't know I was on my way to China?"

"No, Peter, I knew nothing."

"Aren't you connected with my good friend, the man with the sea-lionmustaches, in Len Yang?"

Romola gave a short gasp. "I never was connected with him."

"But you told me you were—back there on the Persian Gulf!"

She shook her head slowly, with a gentle firmness.

"No. I did not tell you that. I have seen him; yes. But I was neverin his employ. It was Emiguel Borria, my late and—may I say?—myunlamented husband, who made me do those things. Peter——"

Her attitude seemed to undergo some sort of subtle change, as if shewere bitterly amused. "You say you are not in love. Then what of thelittle golden-haired girl—the two little golden-haired girls—you leftthis afternoon on the bund?"

"They and the young man are passengers on the King of Asia. Ibrought them ashore to give them an insight into China-as-it-really-is."

"They are in very capable hands, then, Peter. Aren't you running somerisk, though? Isn't there some chance that the men in the Jen Kee Roadplace may take it into their heads——"

"I am on my word of honor, Romola. I have come back to China, not tostart trouble, but simply because—well, why are you in China?"

"Because I haven't the will to leave, perhaps. I stay here in the samespirit that a man or a woman lingers before a dreadful oil painting,like the shark picture of Sorolla; it is terrible, but it isfascinating. I cannot leave. If I did, I would come back, as you comeback, time after time. Is that why you've come back?"

"Exactly."

"And you imagine you're running no risk with the two golden-hairedmaids in tow?"

Peter shook his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps I shouldn't have exposedthem to danger. But they were determined, and it's partly to help theyoung man. Anthony is a plain American business man. He's in lovewith the youngest. And she, a hero worshipper. He wants todemonstrate himself."

She interrupted in a whisper. "Peter, tell me, why is it? What haveyou ever done? What do you say? Why—why is it?"

Peter the Brazen was looking at her blankly.

She made a gesture of resignation with her beautiful white hands.

"Well, never mind. Tell me more about Anthony."

"Anthony believes that if he can demonstrate his valor to Peggy, shewill come to his arms. He really is a fine, upstanding fellow. I hadintended bringing them to Ching Tong's place out Bubbling Wells way,harmless enough and watched by the police of nine nations. Ching Tong,being a friend who will put himself out for me, will play the part of avery bad villain. Anthony's revolver is loaded with blanks. Mineisn't, but that's just my cowardly nature. You can never tell whatmight turn up, you know."

"Naturally. Go on."

"I intend to have Ching Tong stage a very realistic fight down in hiscellar, in which Anthony can overpower eight or ten Chink giants,escape out of the window with the fainting Peggy in his arms,and—and——"

"Simple enough," admitted Romola, with a mild frown. She drew him to abroad, low bench. "Somehow," she went on, "your idea rather appeals tome, too. I liked Anthony's looks—what I saw of him. And I ratherliked the two little girls—twins, aren't they?"

Peter nodded. "The heavenly twins!"

"I think I'd quite agree with that plan, Peter, if you didn't happen tobe in such disrepute in this neighborhood. You must realize that theGray Dragon's men are watching you. Of course, you didn't recognizeyour rickshaw coolie. He is one of the Gray Dragon's men—naturally.Don't you think you are exposing those two nice girls unnecessarily todanger?"

Peter lighted two cigarettes, and passed one of them to Romola. Sheaccepted it with an air of abstraction and puffed slowly, blowing out athin stream of pale smoke.

"But circ*mstances are changed now. You see, I am on thefence—perfectly safe."

"They are still anxious for you to come with them?"

"That's it. They sent a representative last trip all the way to SanFrancisco."

"Of course you refused? Peter——" Her soft, white hand was restingon his; her red lips were very close to his face. "Why don't you jointhem? You and I!"

"You and I?"

She nodded earnestly.

Peter drew back a few inches. "I said 'no' when you asked me thatbefore. No, I'll have nothing to do with that band—never! Going outinto the wilderness, up into the mountains on some of their riskyerrands—with you—might have appealed to me. Not now!"

"Peter, I am afraid I still love you!"

"And yet, Romola, I'm not afraid of falling in love with you—again!But let's not speak of joining that man in Len Yang. What you'reoffering is—too tempting. I might give in! You are altogether toofascinating!"

"Am I?"

"I've told you that before."

"Then you will go up-river with me?"

"No—never! Why, you almost make me suspect that you're still in thatbeast's employ."

"I never was. I told you that."

"You've said many things that didn't stand the acid, Romola."

He stood up, looking down at her with whimsical tenderness. She wasvery beautiful, and when she took on that forlorn air she had theappearance of a helpless, small girl. He wondered if he would everregret his refusal.

"Ching Tong must have time to make arrangements, and I have a dinnerengagement at the Astor House with Anthony and the heavenly twins.Can't you and I have tea to-morrow afternoon?"

Romola came to him and put her two hands on his shoulders. "No," shesaid. "We must not be seen together. It may mean danger for you.I've been thinking over your plan to convert Anthony into anadventurer. Why not bring them all here. I have seven servants, allChinese, and they would give their lives for me. Let me see——" Shebit her upper lip thoughtfully.

"You can tell them that this place is—well, the heart of the Chinesesmuggling trade. It's ridiculous, but it will appeal to them. I willdress up as a Chinese woman—oh, I've done it dozens of times in thepast—and I shall be very mysterious. That will seem much moreromantic to Peggy than a mere opium den. And it will be safer. I knowChing Tong's shop. It might do, if you were an ordinary person, Peter,but such an adventure should be provided with at least five times asmany exits! I have them here."

Peter looked at her doubtingly, although the idea appealed to him.Outriding his admiration of the idea, however, was a recurrence of hisold impression of Romola Borria. He knew that he never had been amatch for her cunning, her esoteric knowledge of China.

"I have plenty of make-up pots. I'll paint up these fokies to looklike bandits! I'll have knives in their belts. And I'll plan therehearsal before you come. Everything will be arranged." She seemedto hesitate. "You—you won't bring that dreadful automatic revolver ofyours loaded—will you?"

Peter smiled faintly.

CHAPTER IV

A light spring rain was drizzling down when Peter ordered fourrickshaws of the proud Sikh who stood guard over the porte cochère ofthe Astor House. Long bright knives of light slithered across the wetpavement from the sharp arc lights on the Soochow bridge. The ghostlysuperstructure of a large and silent junk was thrown in silhouetteagainst the yellow glow of a watchman's shanty across the dark canal,as it moved slowly in the current toward the Yellow Sea.

It was a desolate night. The streets were deserted except for anoccasional rickshaw with some mysterious bundled passenger, thefootfalls of the coolies sounding with a faint squashing as of drenchedsandals, slimy with the heavy sludge of the back-village streets. Theworld was lonely and awash.

Peter busied himself with Peggy's comfort when the first rickshaw,dripping and wet, rattled up. He drew the waterproof robe up under herchin and fastened the loops, then tucked it in under her feet. Hercheeks were glowing with the pink of her excitement.

Anthony meanwhile gave similar attention to the other twin.

Peter glanced at his watch as they climbed in. He wondered how Anthonymight be taking his first and relatively unimportant lap of theiradventure, and he instructed his coolie, in "pidgin," to drop behind.

Clear gray eyes shone with a confident reassurance.

"You mustn't hit too hard, and be careful if you shoot your revolver todischarge it in the air. At close range even the wads from the blankcartridges are rather deadly."

Anthony's clear voice came across to him: "Of course."

They stopped at length before the rambling structure which was theabode of Romola Borria. The lamp was extinguished, probably beaten outlong before by the pelting rain. Only a pale glow emanated from theplace, this from a tiny upstairs window, covered over with oiled paper,and the only sounds were the ceaseless drip of the rain and the lowgibberings of the coolies as they examined the coins given them in thegreasy light of the rickshaw lanterns.

Peggy, slipping her arm through Peter's and hugging him close to her,trembled with the excitement of anticipation.

"We must not be separated," he warned them in a whisper. "Whateverhappens—Peggy and Helen—stand close to us. In case of trouble, eachof you stand behind whichever of us is nearest. Don't scream. Don'tshow any money. Peggy, put your pocketbook in your shirt-waist.Now—ready?"

"Yes!" came the threefold whispering chorus.

He raised his knuckles, and brought them down sharply—three timesrapidly, twice slowly. Silence followed, the bristling silence of anaroused house.

Slowly the door gave way, and a villainous-looking old Chinese in blackbeckoned with a long snake-like finger for them to enter.

Only two candles now were burning on the lacquered rail in the smokycorridor. Curtains at the rear parted; there was a sweep of heavysilken garments, and a white-faced and beautiful woman made her waytoward them.

Deft employment of the make-up pot and painstaking searchings through agreat number of trunks had blended a picture that was all butmelodramatic.

Romola Borria's wonderful dark hair was arranged in a great heap whichsloped backward from her head. Her face was chalk white, from a bathin rice powder; her fine lips were curled in the most sinister ofsmiles; and her eyes glowed with a splendid abandon. She lookedwicked; she radiated cruelty.

And the twins gasped in sweet horror. It is probable that twintrickles of icy excitement chased up and down their twin spines.Anthony gaped, and his gray eyes expressed an unbounded infatuation.

With a gracious stealth she moved beyond them, not once lowering hermagnificent eyes, and shot a huge brass bolt in the door.

They formed an expectant, a worshipful semicircle. In a low voicePeter made the introductions, dwelling at fastidious length upon thetremendous villainy of this slender sorceress, who swept him all thetime with a proud and disdainful fire. She nodded stiffly at intervals.

"The Princess Meng Da Tlang has a word to say to you." He bowedprofoundly.

"It is only this," said Romola Borria in tones as rich as the Kyototemple gong, "what you have thus far seen, and what you are about togaze upon, must always—forever—remain a secret within your hearts.Follow me." Romola, or the Princess Meng Da Tlang, floated down thedim corridor with a further silken rustle of skirts, and drew back thecurtain at the far end.

The quartette filed into a large and lofty room, flickering under thepallid flames of candles. The wax dripping from some of these hunglike icicles or stalactites from the shallow bronze cups, and theyilluminated a scene that was bizarre.

The walls were burdened with heavy rugs which responded with a waxensheen to the mystic light of the candles, and they were of the sombrehues of the China that passed its zenith many centuries ago. Theyserved to give this place a solemn air of vast dignity and richness.

Along the inner wall, placed so that it squarely commanded the doorway,grinned a huge green image of Buddha, surrounded by a clutter of brasscandlesticks and mounted on a splendid throne of brass filigreeunderneath which red flames were burning.

The odor of costly incense was heavy and sweet, the smoke from abrazier arising in a thin, motionless blue spar which, when it hadclimbed up through the air for a distance of about four feet, brokeinto a sort of turquoise fan and this drifted on up to the ceiling inheavy wisps. The incense pot was very old, of black lacquer and brass,greened with blotches of erosion.

And above the green image of Buddha, before which the Princess Meng DaTlang was now kneeling and moaning in a faint voice, reposed a veryrealistic skull and cross-bones. Across the forehead of this hideousreminder of the hereafter was a deep green notch, attesting in allprobability to the cause of the luckless owner's death.

"Please be seated—there," Romola requested.

Her graceful, ivory-white arm indicated with a queenly gesture aheavily carved ebony bench, and her guests filed expectantly to thisseat.

Peggy, with a long sigh, dragged Peter into the corner. "I'm almostscared. Oh, oh, isn't this simply romantic!" she whispered.

Helen and Anthony gravely occupied the space on the other side of them.The Princess Meng Da Tlang was moving gracefully toward the doorwaythrough which they had entered.

"I—I'm really a little afraid!" whispered Peggy, with her lips soclose to Peter's ear that he could feel her warm breath against hisneck. "Put your arms around me—please!" Peter slipped his arm behindher and around her. He squeezed her. "Oh," sighed Peggy, "this isgrand!"

Helen gave her a sidelong look of surprise. "Peggy, I think you'rehardly discreet."

"Let me die while I'm happy!" grinned Peggy. She turned a wistful faceto Peter. "Did you ever put your arm around another woman before?" shewhispered.

"Heaven forbid!" groaned Peter. "Don't I act like an amateur?"

"No; you don't!"

Romola was holding back the curtains while a troop of four men, muddyand wet, as if from long travel, moved silently into the large room.

"Mongolian smugglers," Peter whispered.

The four large men crossed the room with dignified tread, depositingfour small bundles wrapped in blue silk at the altar of Buddha. Thenthey removed straw-matting rainproofs which dangled from their broadshoulders to their muddy sandals. They were garbed in black silk andfastened at the belt of each was a kris, curved and flashing where thegolden candle light skimmed along the whetted steel.

After depositing their slight burdens they bowed low before the altar,muttered deep in their throats, arose and salaamed gravely, until thefour pigtails flapped on the heavy blue rug at Romola's bare feet. Shewore no sandals, which was probably the custom among pirate princesses.When the men were gone, Romola drew back a rug which hung close to thealtar, revealing a small cupboard flush with the wall. Even Anthonylooked at the black door and the brass hasp with his gray eyes round inwonder and interest.

After disposing of the four silken parcels, Romola addressed them in amysterious voice: "Those packages contain gems; diamonds, rubies,pearls from the Punjab, from Bengali, from Burma."

"Can we see them?" pleaded Helen in rapt tones.

"Aw, please!" inserted Peggy in an angelic whisper.

Romola raised both of her hands as if in horror. "They would tempteven a saint," she muttered.

"Be careful," warned Peter, laying his lips to Peggy's pink ear, "theprincess has a terrible temper. She has been known to strangle a manfor less than that!"

"I don't believe it!" retorted Peggy. "I think the princess is justtoo sweet for anything."

Romola gave Peter a look of indolent inquiry. She arose abruptly.

"You must have some of my spiced wine. It is really delicious.P'êng-yu Moore, we won't bother the servants; won't you help me?"

Peggy folded her hands demurely in her lap. "I hope it isn'tintoxicating," she murmured.

Romola had moved graciously across the room, where in a bronzejardinière protruded the dusty, slender necks of tall bottles. Sheknelt before this. "Nearer," she whispered, as he followed suit."Peter, tell me——"

"Yes, Romola?"

"What does this little girl mean to you?"

Peggy's clear voice sounded: "Peter, my throat is dusty!"

"In a minute, Peggy," he called back. Lowering his voice again: "She'smerely a child. But why——"

"Peter, I've gone to more trouble to-night than you realize,perhaps——"

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to stop making love to that innocent child."

The innocent child's sweet voice was clamoring again. "Peter, theSahara Desert is a flowing river compared with my throat!"

"All right, Peggy; in a minute."

"You said once that you—loved me."

"I still stand by my guns. But I don't love any one now. You're atemptress, Romola. Why, you are a princess! I never saw you morebeautiful than to-night!"

"Peter, can't you realize what a dreary life I've led since that nightyou ran away from me in Hong Kong? Won't you—for me—because I wantit—because I want you—reconsider, won't you stop, and think,and——"

"We're getting back to forbidden grounds, Romola."

"Oh, God! I know, I know! But what is there left in my life? Why,what is there left in yours? Perhaps you are the best operator on thewhole Pacific Ocean; you've had that reputation now—how long—fiveyears? But it is aimless! Where are you drifting? What will becomeof you as the years pass? You must be nearly thirty now, Peter. I? Iam younger, but I have suffered more. The only happiness I have knownhas been with you."

Peggy's voice became petulant. "Peter, is that cork awfullyobstinate?"

"In a minute," he said absently.

"Do you remember those wonderful days and evenings we spent together onthe Java Sea, on the old Persian Gulf? Do you remember thoseevenings, Peter, under the moon and the Southern Cross?"

"I remember a great deal of treachery!"

"But there is to be no more treachery," she said passionately. "Think,Peter, think! You are penniless—I have only a little money; it willnot last long. What follows? Do you know what happens to white womenwhen they are stranded, penniless, friendless, in this country?" Sheshivered. "And it would be such a simple thing to do—-to go withme—to him. We would be together forever then—you and I! Tibet! ThePunjab! The merchant's trail into Bengal! You and I with ourcaravan—in the blue foot-hills!"

"I'm sorry," confessed Peter sadly.

Romola hung her head with a bitter sigh.

Peggy pitched her voice: "Smash the neck, Peter; I don't mind a littlebroken glass!"

Romola was pushing two silver cups along the floor to him.

He spilled an amount of the sparkling golden liquid on the carpet,where it formed a dark, round stain. With slightly unsteady hands heconveyed the cups across the room, and Peggy, without another word,following a rather vexed: "Thank you, m'lord," emptied the cup in asingle swallow. She licked her lips daintily, and her eyes weresparkling.

As Peter moved into the seat beside her, he saw the curtain over thedoorway slowly drawn back by an unseen hand. He looked smilinglytoward Romola, and her eyes were fixed on the moving curtain, her facerigid in surprise and concern. The thing seemed to puzzle her.

White metal flashed coldly. A lean hand and arm appeared, and a short,fat knife, the haft sparkling with drops that resembled blood, wasprojected into the room, point down, quivering, in the wood, not fivefeet from Romola's lacquered bench!

CHAPTER V

"Is this a part——" began Peter.

"No, it is not."

Romola's face seemed thin with her growing anxiety. Obviously thetossed knife was not a part of the evening's performance.

"A part of what?" Peggy was inquiring.

"Oh, another joke of the Mongolian smugglers," he explained.

There was a sudden and astounding explosion in the midst of them. Theflame of a revolver bathed the whole room in reddish-yellow for aninstant. Smoke was rising, the pungent, pale-blue, nitrous smoke ofso-called smokeless powder. Anthony Andover had arisen, had deliveredhis shot at the waving curtain.

Peter gave a grunt of disapproval. "Why did you do that——"

"Look!"

The candle directly above the curtains had flickered out; in fact, oncloser examination Peter discovered that the candle had been split incrude halves, one of the white fragments lying on the rug not far fromthe incense burner. This proved one point conclusively. AnthonyAndover had put real bullets, not blank cartridges, into the sixchambers of his revolver. He had reseated himself calmly beside Helen,who was staring at him with eyes like pools.

Peggy found her voice first. "Gracious! Why did you do that? It wasonly in fun—that dagger, I mean. Why, you might have killed somebody!"

Anthony shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not so sure about that."

"This is really a most dangerous spot," added the Princess Meng DaTlang in a mysterious voice. But she was looking at Peter withdeliberate meaning.

He accepted what he supposed was intended to be a cue, crossed to thefar side of the room, and approached the curtains prudently. He drewthe nearest one back inch by inch until the wall of the corridor wasgiven back to them blankly. So far it was quite empty.

Dropping his hand leisurely into his coat-pocket, he sauntered into thehall. As he dropped the curtains behind him, glancing swiftly up anddown the apparently deserted hallway, he heard the familiar sound againof a gently closed door.

The sound seemed to originate from the direction of the street. Helooked about for the old watchman, and he nearly stumbled over him inthe half-darkness as he approached.

Peter struck a match, and a gasp of horror came from his lips. The manwas dead—stabbed!

Was this killing a part of an elaborate plan? He would not havepermitted himself to walk with such apparent innocence into a snare ifhe had not relied upon the word of that band. His experience had beenthat their code was a peculiar one whose foundation was the word ofhonor. For the first time that evening he began to regret a little hisarrogance in defying the request of their messenger to report hisintentions immediately upon landing to the men in the place on Jen KeeRoad.

He dragged the body into the darkest corner, where he covered it with amat.

Laboring above his keen anxiety regarding the intention of the band wasan eagerness to keep away from the two girls the sense of death, ofdanger, which seemed to pervade this house.

A way would have to be found to break through the line outside; perhapsthey would be compelled to wait for daylight. Again sliding the boltwhich had been pushed back by the last trespasser, Peter slowly pacedthe length of the hall in the meditation of active and acute worry. Hewas still undecided when he pulled back the rug which cloaked theentrance into the large room.

The room was in total darkness!

CHAPTER VI

An eye, red like the play of fire about a distant volcano crater,glowed a number of paces in front of him. But not a candle, of thedozens that had been burning when he last went out of this room, wasnow lighted.

The scarlet glow he took to be the illumination under the altar ofBuddha. He heard a long sigh, a vague murmur of voices.

"Light the candles," he ordered angrily.

"What is the matter?" This was Anthony's voice; it sounded very drowsy.

A tiny flame appeared as if suspended by an unseen cord and moved tothe candle rail. One wick glowed; another; then another.

"Moore—Moore——" This was again the sleepy voice of Anthony.

A garish, gray figure arose and stumbled into the candle-light. It wasAnthony. His eyes were half shut. He seemed desperately sleepy, andgibbering as if in a dream.

Peter turned savagely upon the girl. She seemed to cower away fromhim, half lifting her hands as though in fear that he would strike her.

"Romola! Damn you——"

"Peter, I—I——" Her faint voice trickled off into a sigh of anguish.

"Drugs?" he demanded.

She shook her head anxiously.

"No, no. I—I——"

"What have you done to these people? What have you——"

She lifted up her head imperiously. "You are forgetting——" she began.

He had the fingers of her left hand between his, crushing them. Shedropped her head. Her fine lips were quivering. "What am Iforgetting?"

Anthony had grasped his elbow. "It's not right, Moore; not right totalk to the princess like this. She's really noble. She's fine!"

"You're drunk, Anthony!"

"No, no, no," he babbled. "Sleepy; that's all. Oh, that wine!Perfectly fine! Makes you feel like climbing a moonbeam!"

"So it appears. Where are the girls?"

"Over here. Say—say, Moore, when does the fight start? I—I'm justitching to get at somebody!"

"You'll have your chance in a moment. And it isn't in fun.Understand?"

"Of course I understand! Isn't my gun loaded with bullets? Are we ina trap?"

"We are! And according to my calculations there's exactly one way out.I think you and the girls will have no difficulty in breaking through.Make a dash for it. Run for all you're worth!"

"Hold on there," remonstrated Anthony, as his eyes lost a trifle oftheir sleepy look. "What's to become of you? Going to make a breakfor it, too?"

Peter shook his head. "It's me they're after. I can look out formyself, Anthony; this business isn't quite a novelty in my line. Youmust get out—and get quick!"

"And leave you behind? Not Anthony! I stick!"

Anthony was flashing a length of highly polished gunmetal in his fist.

Romola with a trembling hand was applying a taper to the other candles.Peter, observing that the twins were, to all appearances, sound asleep,approached her.

She paused in her work, holding the taper above her head, so that itsgaunt rays flickered on his face. "Because you loved me so?"

Her shoulders drooped, and her head rolled backward slightly, as thoughshe were very tired. She nipped her lower lip between pearl-whiteteeth.

"Because I love you so?" she repeated dully.

"In some respects," he said bitterly, "you are like a certain snake inIndia. You can't lock those damned snakes up! They can always find atiny hole, a slit in the cage, and—out they slip!"

"Ah, Peter——" Romola dropped the taper to the bronze altar, where itflickered a moment and went out. She fondled his reluctant handbetween cold fingers. Her face became utterly miserable, and therewere sparkling tears in her eyes. "My heart is your heart. I havegiven my love to you. I would give my life for you!"

He drew away from her slowly, turning his head to avoid the anguish inher eyes.

He went on briskly: "If my death is arranged for to-night——"

He stopped to watch her. She was fumbling at her waist. A littlesilver of light appeared. The thing was a slim stiletto. Her teethwere clicking as she extended the handle toward him. Their eyes met.In hers was shining a brute command. In his slowly came shock,amazement. She placed her fingers slowly over her heart; her handslipped down and fell again at her side.

"There!" she murmured.

"Is—is my end so close?" he whispered.

She nodded slowly. "You are in great danger. This may be your finalopportunity. See? I am offering no resistance. Why—why do youhesitate?"

With the tiny blade lying like a flame of pure silver across the palmof his hand, Peter experienced a moment troubled and exceedinglyawkward. That threat, perhaps, was hardly more than the spilling outof bitterness which she had created in him.

In silence he handed the thing back to her almost furtively; and sheaccepted it without removing her shining gaze from his. Somehow sheseemed to have come out victorious in a conflict that had had nothingto do with knives, with broken promises. And with the restoration ofthe dagger the spell seemed to be swept aside.

Turning abruptly, with a slight straightening of his shoulders, hewalked away from her.

Anthony was like a guardian angel, a statue gravely symbolic ofprotection, standing over the golden heads, with the revolver danglingfrom his hand and shooting out metallic gleams. Their eyes weretightly closed; the twins were sleeping as if drugged.

They heard a low, hushed scream.

"Peter—ni kan!"

Peter turned quickly, searching both entrances. At first he wasconscious of no intrusion. Then a yellow face, long, narrow, with astub of purple-black hair protruding behind, and which for a moment hetook to be a part of the curtain, slowly withdrew, arisingupward—vanishing!

The phantom was not unlike the wisps of yellow smoke from a green-woodfire, despatched by a lazy dawn wind. The face of Jen, the decksteward!

CHAPTER VII

Apparently Anthony had not observed this specter.

Peter seized his arm, the left one. "We must start. Wake them up."

Anthony shook a nervous negative. "I've tried. That wine!"

"Arracka. Comes from Java. Tastes like May wine, and is strongerthan cognac." He was tilting Peggy's chin, shaking her head. Noresponse. He tried the same experiment with Helen, and begot identicalresults.

Romola Borria had vanished.

Peter stepped out first, supporting his limp freight with his left arm,and in his right brandishing a revolver. He hoped it wouldn't benecessary and he was sure that underneath the splendid varnish ofAnthony's fine bravado larked the belief that this entire evening wasnothing more than an exciting romantic game.

In the pinch, would Anthony react after the fashion ofheroes-to-the-manner-born, or would the sight and smell of blood, if itWas written that blood be shed, unnerve him, make him out to be what hewas at heart, the secretary of a prosperous and peaceful plow company?

On his part, Anthony was still babbling incoherently but earnestly,impressing upon Peter the undeniable virtues of the golden wine. Hewas not prepared, although the nickeled revolver still flashed in hisunoccupied hand, for the tumultuous event which was being shaped forthe two of them around the corner.

They did not attain the outer door. Out of the drab recesses leapeddusky shadows. There seemed to be a large number of jostling men;perhaps only three or four were at hand by actual count; theinsufficient lighting and their shocking and determined appearance lentthem plurality.

A sparkling flame roared from the hand of the foremost of these beforePeter could bring his hand out of his pocket.

Anthony's nickeled revolver went off twice, from his hip, and the giantfaltered, going back shapelessly among the shadows from which he hademerged.

Peter's original scheme to hack a way through the line underwent hastyrevision. Escape would have to be made by different channels, and hisonly choice was the device nearest at hand. It was a long chance, anaimless one, perhaps, fraught with new, dangers and complications. Buthe did not hesitate.

Beating off a hand that pawed for his shoulder, he flung open the doorwhich faced the dwelling's entrance, and pushed the reluctant Anthonyinside.

Peter locked the door, throwing a bench across it for temporarybarricade, then lit candles, wondering if any one would have had enoughforesight to disconnect the aerial wires. He dropped his burden to thedivan against the side wall, and examined Anthony, who had gone verypale. He was shaking, and his gray eyes seemed to have climbed halfway out of his head. He propped Peggy tenderly beside her sister, andlaid an unsteady hand upon Peter's shoulder. He seemed to be fightingdown a very definite fear.

Peter was backing toward the apparatus. "Watch the door. If any onetries to break in, shoot straight at the sound! You're not hurt, areyou? Did that fellow get you?"

Anthony shivered all over. "Christ!" he muttered. His lips werewhite. "That man! I shot him! He's dead! Dead!"

"And we are still alive," said Peter quietly.

He sat down at the instrument table, fixed silvery disks to his ears,twanged the detector wire and made a few quick alterations inconnections. Fortunately his inspection of the equipment earlier inthe day had given him a grasp of its arrangement. In an instant he hadthe tuner adjusted, was listening, with those keen ears of his focussedfor the ethereal voices which might be abroad at this untimely hour.Distant splashes of heat lightning occurred faintly, like the quiveringof sensitive metal.

Casting a glance over his shoulder, to make sure that Anthony wasfollowing instructions, he rearranged levers and lowered the heavyswitch which drew upon the storage batteries underneath the table.

He tapped the large brass key experimentally. A hissing blue sparklighted up the walls and his features in a ghostly glow. Tighteningthe vibrator at the terminus of the rubber-covered coil, he spelled outan inquiry in the International Code. Any station within hearing wouldanswer that call.

He wondered if the Shanghai station was closed up for the night, or ifby any chance his assistant on the King of Asia would be on the job.

Peter waited for several anxious moments, with no sound in thetelephones other than the faint spattering of the lightning down thecoast. Then his inquiry was given a response, startlingly harsh andclose.

The station might have been across the street, the signals were beatingin his ears so loudly. The operator was having some difficultyadjusting his spark; it was rough, ragged, like the drumming ofhailstones on a metal roof.

A series of test letters followed, exasperatingly slow."V—V—V—V—— What station is that? This is the Madrusa."

Peter hesitated, although interference was unlikely. He felttremendously relieved. The Madrusa's rough spark meant more to himthan help close by. He knew the Madrusa well; a gray, swift gunboat,lying close to the water, whose purpose was to sweep the lowerWhang-poo and Yangtze clear of pirates. She could spit streams ofbullets for hours without let-up. And the knowledge of her closenessto this death-trap keyed him up, not entirely because she was manned byBritish sailors who would rather fight than eat. His hand reached outfor the key.

"Who is on watch? This is Peter Moore. That you, Johnny Driggs?"

If the man at the Madrusa's key did happen to be Jonathan Driggs, hecould afford to breathe more easily. Driggs was another man who hadfound in China the irresistible attraction, and who for some years hadsat behind the radio machines of many ships that plied these yellowwaters.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" roared the Madrusa's spark. "Where are you? Whatare you doing up at this time of night playing with a baby coil?"

For the next three minutes the spitting blue spark flared and jumped asPeter spelled out his plight. He sketched their predicament byabbreviated code, and he impressed upon his friend the necessity forutter secrecy, hoping that the night had no other ears.

"Damn it!" replied the quick fingers of the gunboat's operator. "Damnit! But I can't get shore leave! Impossible—you can guess why! Ourgunnery officer, Lieutenant Milton Raynard, is jumping to go! He'llfetch you five or six sailors. He knows the lay of the land, and I'vesketched him a map of the locality from your description. Cinch!They'll be off at once, soon as they can get the engine started in thelaunch. Don't give up the ship, old boy! Don't——"

Peter dropped the receiver, walked over to the divan and endeavored toawaken the girls, slapping their hands, shaking them. They did notappear to be drugged. Evidently they had underestimated the power ofthe smooth, yellow arracka. Faint color glowed in their cheeks, andunder the treatment Peggy slowly opened one very sleepy brown eye.

It drooped again. She muttered something that was not intelligible.It had something to do with a princess, and even that word wasindistinct.

Anthony lifted a cautioning hand. "Some one's outside," he whispered.Slowly, as they watched it, the knob described a single revolution.Anthony lifted his revolver. "Who is there?"

"Let me in!" It was Romola Borria.

"Open the door," said Peter quietly, stepping aside.

Anthony removed the bench, twisted the key.

"You must not go with them," Romola whispered.

"Shut the door—put the bench back," directed Peter. He followedRomola across the room.

Evidently she had read the spark. "Let these people go—yes! But youremain. You will—or won't you?"

Peter looked skeptical. "Why should I? I've decided that life ispretty sweet, after all! Why haven't Jen and his gang broken in here?Why is he waiting? Have you told him help is coming?"

She shrugged impatiently. "I have not seen Jen. I have talked with noone."

"Then you will stay in this room until we leave?"

"But why did you send for them? It was foolish! How will you explain?"

"They are friends. Such men ask no questions."

"But there was no need!" She made a despairing gesture with her hands."Your friends could have gone safely. Jen has no interest in—them!"

Peter nodded indifferently. "But my ship sails."

"Very good. But you must not leave this house until sunrise."

"When the sailors come from the Madrusa I shall walk out of here——"

"And into the arms of death, Peter!"

Peter lighted a cigarette and puffed thoughtfully in silence. Romola'sgaze was upon his lips, as though the next words he would utter meantto her the difference between life and death.

And what he might have said was forestalled by a heavy battering at theouter door. These deep vibrations seemed on the sudden to stir Peggyout of her sleep. She sat upright, digging fists into tired eyes.

"Gracious! Where's everybody?"

The hammering ceased, and a high-pitched crash followed an instant ofhush.

"The men from the Madrusa!" cried Anthony. He dragged the benchaway; flung the door open with a grand gesture.

And into the room strode a blandly smiling Chinese, magnificent in goldand blue and red. He was flanked by three large and watchful coolies,armed with clubs.

"Mr. Moore; I am the man from the Jen Kee Road place!" He radiated asplendid calm.

Peggy cowered against her sister, with a look of sleepy mystification,while Anthony, glancing to Peter for command, was fingering hisrevolver in anxious indecision. Already one of the coolies was sidlingtoward him.

"You were a deck coolie this morning," Peter replied.

The Chinese took a step toward him. Peter felt Romola cringe at hisside. He wondered at this.

"Shall we wait until sunrise, or——"

A sudden babble of men's voices on the other side of the partitionchecked the Chinese, while a look of misunderstanding came over hisbland countenance.

"Moore! Moore! Where are you?" These were the rich tones of a manaccustomed to command.

And instantly the small room seemed to be overflowing with the whiteand blue of uniforms.

Peggy stood straight up with a wondering gasp. Confronting her was atall and handsome youth with the gold-and-black epaulets of hismajesty's service at the shoulder-straps of his splendid white uniform.A cutlass in a nickeled case hung from a polished leather belt, anddepending from it also was an empty leather holster. Grippedthreateningly in his right hand was a blue revolver.

The shrill voice of the man from the Jen Kee Road place rose sharplyabove the momentary tumult.

In this quick confusion a pale, obnoxious odor, like opium fresh fromthe poppy, yet with the savor of almonds, flooded Peter's throat. Hewas vaguely aware of a fumbling in his coat-pocket. Explosions soundedas from afar and a vast redness settled down and encompassed the world.

The interval of dark was surprisingly short-lived. Swimming in and outof his distorted vision was a face. He was conscious for a while of noother impression. The face reeled, came closer—danced away from him!Bright eyes sparkled, leaped, and hung motionless.

He inhaled a new perfume, deliciously like flowers in a summer meadow.It injected fresh life into him. His hands found power, and heclutched at a soft wrist. The owner of this face was talking eagerly.

"We are alone—alone!"

With great effort he found he could incline his head a little. He wasstruggling. Hot vapors clogged his brain. Where were the girls,Anthony, the young lieutenant from the Madrusa?

"Where are they?"

"Safe."

He could recognize the features now distinctly; yet they stirred up inhim no longer a feeling of repugnance, but a vague longing.

"Romola!"

"Yes, Peter. You are feeling stronger?"

"What am I doing here? What is this place?"

"We are in the cellar."

It was very dim, with an odor of moldy dampness. The rock foundation,the walls, and floor were perspiring whitely.

Peter's brain became clogged again. The voice came to him softly butquite distinctly, with each word clear and emphatic:

"He is waiting outside. They will not dare come into my house again!"

"I am dizzy. Who will not dare? Who is outside?" he demanded feebly.

"The man from the Jen Kee Road place. He is waiting outside thatwindow. No, No! He cannot see. It is covered with silk."

Peter fell back against the arm. "What does he want?"

"Your answer. I told him to wait. I promised him; I will hold thecandle to the window."

"But I am dizzy," he groaned. "I do not understand."

"Once—means 'yes.' Twice—means 'no.'"

He delivered every ounce of his mental energy against the drug in hisbrain; it was like struggling against the tide. "Once—means 'yes?'Twice—means 'no?'" The meaning suddenly became clear to him. "Theup-river trip?"

She nodded slowly, anxiously. "And twice—means death, also, Peter!"

He tried to drag himself erect, tried to twist his head, and he sankback with a bitter groan. "You drugged me!"

"There was no other way. I could not let you go into the night—intodeath!"

A bitter smile came to his white lips. "I am quite powerless?"

"I—I am afraid you are, Peter."

"If I decide yes—or if I decide no—how can I defend myself?"

"You are quite helpless," she confessed in a whisper. "No. You cannotdefend yourself." Her expression showed an inward struggle. "You arein my hands. You are in my arms! Yes! What have you to say?"

The smile of bitterness came and flickered again over his pale lips.He tried to throw back his head, but the redness was settling down uponhim again. "What shall I say?" he muttered. "I say—two lights! Isay—no! No!"

The fingers at his neck were icy. Gently he was lowered to thepavement.

Romola had taken the candle down from the rafter, and she went swiftlyto the tiny window. She raised her hand, once, then pinched out theflame between her fingers.

CHAPTER VIII

Foggy consciousness. A roaring like that of the ocean on a rockboundcoast. He seemed to be floating in a medium of ice. Once his draggingarm scraped a wet, slippery timber. The journey seemed to be takinghim down—down—into the earth, and slowly he began to rise.

Gradually he became aware of innumerable pinpoints of light in a shieldof purple darkness. These might have been stars, or the lights of agreat city. Next he heard the low gurgle of water, as of a streamsplashing through wilderness.

He felt very faint, but the vapor clouds in his brain were beginning toclear away. Next he was badly shaken up, yet he was conscious of nopain. Remorseful eyes stared into his from the face of a candle-whitespectre, and in the background a tall, half-naked giant swayed fromside to side in a pink glow.

Where, then, were Jen and his Chinese?

He vaguely sensed the dawn; it came to him as an old experience, a sortof groping memory out of a gloriously romantic past. And the swayinggiant he decided in a moment of rare clarity to be a sampan coolie.

The pink glow increased, became pale yellow, while a deep bluenessfigured in it. A swollen sun came and paved a bloody path across alake of roiled brown, and the water hissed with a white foam.

His jaws were aching; a queer emptiness in his chest caused him longand perplexing speculation. There were shouting voices aloft, and agleaming black wall slowly took form above him. He made out thepointed heads of rivets.

"Are you awake?" The voice, low and sibilant, emerged from thecandle-white face.

He had been dreaming, too, during this fantastic journey. Once he hadplainly distinguished a field of waving corn. He seemed to be back inCalifornia.

"Eileen," he murmured, surprised at the feebleness of his voice.

"No, no," came the reply. "It is Romola. I—I am leaving you!"

"Ah! Where is Jen?"

Bellowing inquiry came down to them: "Who is that? What do you want?"

The girl called back: "The wireless operator. He is sick. Drop theladder. Send down some one to carry him."

The sampan was swinging about, and the coolie was paddling like mad.

"River boat—for Ching-Fu?" Peter gasped.

"No. The King of Asia. Peter—can you understand? I am leavingyou! This is good-by! I—I—we will never see each other again. I—Icouldn't turn you over to that man!"

"But the candle——" Peter was miserably confused. "You raisedit—once! I said no!"

Romola seemed to become rather hysterical. "I tricked them, Peter!Oh, won't you understand? I do love you, Peter! I couldn't give youto them!"

"No," he muttered; "I don't understand. I—I'm dizzy."

The voice was bellowing again.

"Is that Peter Moore? What's happened to him?"

"He's sick—sick! Send down a watchman. Hurry! This tide is carryingus away!"

Something bounded into the sampan. A brown coil was flattened againstthe gleaming black wall.

But Peter could not understand. He was back again in the cellar underRomola's house, mumbling insanely about a candle-light. Perhaps hedreamed that hot lips were pressed lingeringly against his own. Overand over he heard a fading voice; it was saying: "Good-by!—Ch'ing!"

The glaring sun was in his face. He shut his eyes. The lips seemed tobe torn from his in a cry of anguish. Strong arms encircled his waist,and he was no longer aware of the motion of the sampan.

It was late in the day when Peter opened his eyes again, closed them,and stared at the mattress and springs of a bunk over his head. He waslying on his back in his stateroom. Smoky afternoon sunlight,reflected from a shimmering surface, sparkled and bubbled against thewhite enameled wall.

His head was aching a little, and there were numerous jumping pains invarious parts of his body. He had been dreaming. All of these thingsthat had come and gone with the fading of the night were figments of aslumbering brain. The last portion of the dream which he couldvisualize distinctly was his act of arising from a wireless machine ina house that had gone mad, to confront a tall Chinese who wore aridiculously stubby pigtail, like that of Jen, the deck-steward.

He sat up, governed by a sudden worry. Where were the Whipple girlsand Anthony? What had become of that dashing British lieutenant,Milton Raynard?

Peter arose hastily from bed, and examined a pale and gaunt countenancein the small mirror above the wash-stand. Dark lines had come underhis eyes, and the deep-blue pupils seemed to kindle with a peculiarbrilliancy. He had seen that look in other eyes, and another fragmentof the dream came back to him. He licked his dry lips, tasting aflavor not unlike that of opium fresh from the poppy, and of almonds.

He filled the wash-basin with cold water, took a long breath, andimmersed his face for a half minute. Gasping, he came out of it withpink starting into his cheeks, and his mental faculties somewhat betterorganized.

When he emerged from his stateroom, attired in a fresh white uniform,with his gold-and-white cap set at a jaunty angle on his head, helooked like a different man. His skin was glowing, and a youthfulheart was sending recuperative tingles all over his body.

Peter took a turn about the promenade deck in search of Anthony, andwas hailed by his room-boy, who had some mail for him.

He dropped these missives absently into his pocket, made furtherinquiries, and learned that Anthony and the Misses Whipple had come tothe steamer shortly before sunrise in the launch belonging to the rivergunboat Madrusa.

Then he knocked at Anthony's door. A tired snore, emanating from thetransom, broke into a sleepy complaint.

The door opened; Anthony stared at him as if in the presence of aghost. "Great Scott! I thought you were dead!" He rubbed his eyes toaccelerate wakefulness.

Peter chuckled. "What happened? Both girls safe?"

"How did you get here alive?"

"I came down by sampan. The princess detained me."

Anthony shivered. "We thought you were with us. Somebody put out allthe lights!" He shivered again. "Raynard wanted to go back—so did I.We didn't dare! The girls, you know." He dropped his head, as ifashamed.

"How is Peggy?"

Anthony frowned, hesitated. "Peter, she—she thinks you're a quitter!She thinks you ran away at the big moment!"

Peter grinned. "That can be cleared up. Did you enjoy—the game? Didyou succeed? That's all I'm worrying about."

Anthony looked at him suspiciously. "That was not a put-up job.Why—I shot a man!" He became anxious. "Will there be a row?"

"Not a bit—if you keep your mouth shut."

"Oh, I'll do that! But that dead Chink! Ugh!"

"Forget him," advised Peter cheerfully. "I still don't know what Peggyhad to say."

"What do you mean?" Anthony gave him a blank stare.

"Does she think——"

A light of understanding came into Anthony's clear gray eyes. "Oh, Imade a little mistake," he confessed weakly. "It—it isn't Peggy; it'sHelen! We're engaged! You see, Helen is such a—a quiet and reservedsort of girl. Just my kind! Peggy—well, you know, I decided she wasa little too—too wild!"

A long, low gray launch was chugging alongside when Peter made his wayback to the promenade-deck. At the upper extremity of thecompanion-ladder which reached down to the river's surface was standinga slim and youthful figure in blue, with wisps of golden hair flyingabout in the soft spring breeze.

She leaned anxiously and expectantly over the rail as a tall andcommanding young man in the white uniform of his majesty's navalservice climbed up eagerly toward her. The young officer leapedgracefully over the rail, seized both hands of the girl, and his eyeswere shining.

Peter's deep-blue eyes unaccountably took on an expression of moistsadness; yet he was grinning.

He climbed up to the boat-deck, unlocked the wireless room, and for thefirst time recalled the mail in his hip-pocket. Leisurely he scannedthe post-cards first, highly colored ones, which had been forwardedfrom the San Francisco Marconi office, emanating from friends scatteredin many parts of the world. One was from Alaska; another fromCalcutta, India, from that splendid fellow, Captain Bobbie MacLaurin.

He opened the letter, and his eyes fell upon familiar handwriting. Hesuddenly felt shocked; the sentences began swimming. The letter wasfrom Eileen, dated Nanking. Words stood out whimsically, like thoughtsassailing a tired brain, clamoring for recognition.

... You are the stubbornest man! ... Do you imagine I ever cared forthat puppy? Why, Peter—why didn't you wait? I'd have scratched hiseyes out! Of course, he kissed me! But the point is, my dear, Ididn't realize until it was all over.... I suppose I should havejumped into the ocean when you left me so angrily. But I didn't. Icame to China on the Empress of Japan. I am now at the Bridge Hotel,in Nanking, on my way to Ching-Fu, where you may find me. Just to showyou that I can have adventures, too!

"Great guns!" said Peter. He wondered if he could catch the Nankingexpress; there was a Chinese steamer leaving Nanking for up-riverto-morrow noon.

There was a humble voice at his elbow. A deck-boy was grinningdreamily at him; a queer flicker darted across his green eyes, vanished.

"Jen!" exclaimed Peter, glimpsing an abbreviated pigtail.

"Aie!" said the deck-boy.

"The man from the Jen Kee Road place!"

The deck-steward seemed puzzled. "My no savvy," he said. His lookbecame dreamy again, reminiscent.

"But you can speak English as well as 'pidgin,'" declared Peter,frowning. "You did last night!"

"My savvy 'pidgin,'" said Jen brightly. "China allatime funny place!China no can savvy allatime funny people! Funny!"

"What's that?" snapped Peter. He was baffled and angry. Had Jenplayed the leading part in the mysterious and grim comedy of lastnight, or was he only a work coolie, a deck-steward, harmless,innocuous, babbling happily in his limited knowledge of a strangelanguage?

The deck-boy was pointing up-river with a long, yellow finger.

Peter stared. And he saw nothing, nothing but a great red sun with itslower half enveloped in a glowing pool of green and red smoke intowhich arose the black spars of ships from all over the world.

CHAPTER IX

The sky was clearing. Rain had ceased dripping from the bulging blackclouds, and a slender rod of golden sunlight pierced through and markeda path upon the red bricks of the inn courtyard. Hazy in thegreen-and-purple distance could be glimpsed the yellow withers of thewestern range. Cooking smells, the sour odor of fish-and-rice chow,were wafted from the braziers of village housewives.

Peter loafed against a spruce post, and moodily contemplated thestamping animals in the enclosure. His hat was in his hand, and themountain breeze assailed his blond hair, which, rumpled and curly, gavehim something of the appearance of a satyr at ease. He was worried.He had, an hour before, come to Ching-Fu from the boat; and Eileen hadleft Ching-Fu for a trip to Kialang-Hien, a village of the third ordersome fifty li distant, the morning before. Whether to follow or waitwas the question.

Somewhere afield a valiant bronze gong called infidels to the feet ofan insufferable clay god.

Peter's flow of thought was interrupted. Unnoticed a girl—at firstglance the virtuous daughter of a mandarin—was approaching. Herabruptness and her appearance caught him so completely off guard thathe held his breath and stared at her rather wildly. And she in turn,as if fascinated, stared back as wildly at him.

His first guess was inaccurate. She was no mandarin's daughter, thisone. She was young and exquisitely slim, with wisdom and sadnesswritten upon her colorless face, and he was informed by a single glanceat her exploring bright eyes and the straightness of her fine blackbrows, that she was half-breed, Eurasian.

Those shining eyes, not unlike twin jade beads, were sparkling. Herlips were thin and as red as betel. Her garb was satin, bright withgold filigree and flashing gems; and her dainty feet were disfiguredrather than adorned by bright-red sandals. Her feet, however, were notthe "feet of the lily," for the lithe grace of her stride was ampleproof that they had not been bound.

The dying sun outlined through the folds of her bizarre garment anklesstraight, slender, and probably naked.

Rosy color moved swiftly into her satiny complexion while, with apretty, inquisitive frown, she scrutinized him; and then, with a flickof her black eyelashes, she ran toward the arched doorway, leavingPeter to ponder, and scratch his blond head, and demand amazingexplanations of himself.

It was a dominating trait in Peter never to lose time securinginformation that was interesting to him; but the old proprietor, withhis wise and varnished smile, could vouchsafe very little ofconsequence.

The young woman, he admitted, was named Naradia. She was accompaniedby her husband, a young Chinese of high birth, who manifested no moresigns of activity to an outward world than a baffling secretness.

The two of them had arrived from down-river on a sailing junk the weekbefore. The husband's name was Meng, he believed, and since he hadcome, the old man declared, many strange and warlike faces hadmysteriously appeared in Ching-Fu.

Such visitors were not uncommon in the villages which bordered themerchants' trail, from the Yangtze to the Irriwaddi, but Peter'sinterest was kindled. As he made off in the direction of the mostreliable village mule-seller, he decided that the secretive youngbridegroom, Meng, might be worth cultivating.

From a soft-tongued and hardened swindler Peter procured a mule, andarranged to have the animal in the caravansary at daybreak. It was hisintention to start for Kialang in search of Eileen with the firsttender glow of dawn.

After dining he waited in the compound for a glimpse of the mysteriousMeng, or his ravishing bride, Naradia. Unsuccessful, he returned tohis room. His Chinese valet was brewing jasmin-tea when Peter openedand shut the bedroom door. His pajamas were neatly laid out upon hiscouch, and the rugs were neatly furled back. He detected the acrid andpleasing odor of incense as he crossed the room.

The boy glanced up meekly from the charcoal brazier. "Wanchee tea now?"

"Yes." Peter slipped out of his tunic.

The boy dropped on his knees to unlace Peter's boots.

Peter lighted a cigarette, stretched himself out upon the rugs, and theboy brought him a steaming cup.

"Wake me—daylight—sure," cautioned Peter, lifting the cup.

"Tsao," murmured the boy.

When the boy was gone Peter removed the automatic from his raincoatpocket. The metal glittered pleasantly in the yellow light from thesuspended lamp. The cup of tea had served to waken him. He releasedthe cartridge clip from the automatic's handle and stared thoughtfullyat the glowing lead balls.

He became conscious of a sound, alien and untimely. The door wasrattling softly. He studied it with interest; the wooden handle wasturning slowly, first to the right, then to the left.

The phenomenon puzzled him. His eyes were sparkling a little as hequietly restored the clip of cartridges.

Creeping to the hinged side of the door, he waited, breathing silently.

With a squeak the door swung in quickly. A lean, yellow hand, grippinga nickel-plated pistol, was thrust inside.

Peter shot three times directly through the wood panel.

The white pistol thudded to the planks, while the yellow hand seemed tobe jerked backward by an electric force. Soft footsteps retreated.Peter jerked open the door and stepped out.

The corridor was empty. Some few feet toward the stairway an oiledwick, jutting from a tiny bronze cup which was bracketed to ascantling, burned and sputtered.

Under the door across the way a thin streak of yellow light indicatedthat the mysterious young Chinese and his bride had not yet retired.

As Peter was examining the floor for blood stains the door budgedinward sufficiently to panel the terrified face of the Eurasian girl hehad seen earlier in the evening. At sight of him she shut the doorhastily.

Perplexed, he went to the stairway and peered into the stark blanknesswhich swam up to the third step below him. He was at a loss to accountfor the air of serenity which still dwelt in the inn. Surely the threerevolver shots had been overheard; yet the place was as silent as thegrave, and quite as ominous. Where were the servants, the caravanboys, the muleteers, the traders and merchants? He dismissed as absurdthe theory that the walls of his room were stout enough to muffle theshort-barreled blasts.

An isolated sound, a swish of discreet garments, a prudent gratingsound, as of a window lifted or a chair moved, then came to him, andunquestionably it came from his own room.

Peter left the staircase to its gloomy shadows.

The room was unoccupied. Basing his next action upon sound and triedexperience, Peter put out the lamp and hazarded a glimpse out of thewindow.

A sharp, round moon was perched high in a star-studded heaven, fairlyilluminating a muddy street and the low-thatched roofs of nearbydwellings. A horse whinnied and stamped in the enclosure, and from adistance rose the moody growl of the rapids.

Irritated and nervous, Peter felt for the couch and sank down in theblackness, with the revolver dangling idly across one knee.

At that instant he was thrilled to the roots of his hair by a scream,strangely muffled.

Peter indulged in a shiver as he stole to the door on tiptoe, opened itquietly, and looked out. There was terror in that scream; it was theoutcry of a human in the clutch of real horror.

The door across the way was slightly ajar, letting out an orangeeffulgence which lighted the boards, the opposite wall, and the grimyceiling. Indistinctly he discerned a motionless clump, and, catchingthe white flicker of steel he sprang across, wrapping his fingers abouta struggling wrist.

Immediately the orange light was broadened, then darkened by a tallfigure, but Peter's back was turned.

An eager sigh, as if heartfelt relief, was given out by the secondshadow.

The knife, under Peter's pressure, dropped to his feet, and, quite surethat the time was now past to ask polite questions, Peter brought downthe butt of the revolver with a smart slap where the long black pigtailjoined a fat little head. With a throaty gurgle his victim joined theshadows of the floor.

A soft, white hand was laid upon Peter's right arm, and he foundhimself glaring into the blanched face of the girl Naradia. Her smallfingers hardened upon the flesh of his hand, and he was aware that shewas staring imploringly across his shoulder.

Peter spun about and for the first time was aware of the presence ofthe indolent figure in the doorway. The glow of a cigarette was at theman's lips, but the darkness prevented scrutiny.

The rapid procession of mysterious events had unnerved Peter. Thesilent and indolent presence of the stranger in the doorway put thespark to his long-withheld indignation. He lifted the revolver's nosem*nacingly.

The cigarette glowed a bright red, as if in amazement.

"You," he snapped, "whoever you are—pick this man up. Carry him intomy room. And you," he added sharply to the girl, "follow him!"

The cigarette fell to the planks, and the tall man put his heel uponit. The careless movement gave Peter his first glimpse of the man'sprofile. The man smiled faintly. He took the unconscious assailant ofNaradia by the heels and dragged him into Peter's room.

CHAPTER X

A match hissed; the flame of the lamp rose up slowly.

With a flutter of skirts the girl followed, her head inclined, asthough she was humiliated or greatly embarrassed. She went to thecouch and faced him, while an attempt at calmness and a determined fearstruggled to control her expression. Her attire was negligee, of pinkJapanese silk, open at the throat, and revealing a neck and shouldersas white and smooth as bleached ivory.

Peter closed the door and shot the bolt.

The man who smiled so confidently had rolled the knife carrier with hisface to the wall. Then he crossed to the couch and took a stand besidethe girl, seemingly at ease under Peter's sharp and thorough inspection.

As Peter examined the slender, colorless face he imagined for aninstant that the man, also, was Eurasian. But that impression hequickly realized was incorrect. The man simply was of a high order ofChinese intelligence, with smooth, dusky skin, thin, stubborn lips, astraight forehead, and eyes which were dark, watchful and sad.

Yet these eyes seemed to twinkle now, shifting without a trace of fearfrom the unwavering gun-barrel in Peter's hand to the unwavering glintin Peter's blue eyes.

And there was something undeniably imperial in the young Oriental'sbearing. Perhaps this was caused by his attitude, or the Orientalrichness of his garb. He might have been an Asiatic prince, or a sheikfresh from the desert, or a maharaja, from a jungle throne. Aglittering cluster of gems—diamonds and rubies—hung from a fine goldchain which encircled his bronzed neck. His tunic was of satin, thecolor of the tropical sea; his breeches were spotlessly white, and hisslippers were Arabian, with up-curled toes.

"Well?" asked the young Asiatic, when Peter's gaze finally descended tothe scarlet slippers.

"I am waiting," said Peter, impatiently.

Black eyebrows went up inquiringly. "I am a merchant—from Shanghai."

"What you are or who you are is of no importance," returned Peter in avoice of cordial doubt. "Perhaps you've aroused my idle curiosity; atall events, I want you to tell me why you were late in coming to yourwife's assistance."

"His life is more precious," she interceded, hastily.

The Oriental waved his hand, as if the answer were absurd. "Youanticipated me by three seconds," he replied. "I was drowsing. Ithought I had dreamed the scream. May I say—I am very grateful?"

Peter's expression was dubious, but he nodded at length as thoughpartly satisfied. "Perhaps you can tell me what became of the man whoopened my door?"

The man's face was frankly bewildered. "I am at a loss to account forany man entering your room—unless by mistake," he said with genuineconcern. "I think you are crediting me with an interest in an affairthat I know nothing of. Unless—unless——" He hesitated and paused,searching Peter's eyes with a glance suddenly startled. "Can it bepossible——?" he muttered. "I judge by your accent that you are anAmerican. I have spent the past four years myself in America—atHarvard. Somehow——" He paused again, and smiled faintly.

Suddenly the smile departed, was displaced by the most murderous ofgrimaces. He was looking beyond Peter. His right hand flashed intohis blue tunic. And before Peter could turn or dodge, he sprang pasthim, colliding with an object which grunted and instantly cried out inagony.

Peter turned in time to see a thin knife plunge into the throat of aswarthy Chinese, whose face was round as the Mongolian moon, and asyellow.

The Chinese wiped his knife coolly on the fallen man's black jacket."Why, my good friend, should he attack you, unless——" He pausedagain, and searched Peter's face with those keen brown eyes, no longersad.

"Unless what?" he asked, bluntly. "This man is from Len Yang."

He heard the girl utter a sharp gasp, and a queer light was dawning inthe other's face.

"Unless you are"—he hesitated—"unless you are the one man in theworld I wish you might be." He laughed. "Are you—Peter Moore, knownin some parts of China as—Peter the Brazen?"

Peter nodded slowly.

With a delighted cry the young Oriental sprang to him and seized hishand. "Do you hear, Naradia?" he exclaimed. "This is Peter Moore!"

And Peter permitted his suspicions to drift, as he thought of the deadman on the floor, and of the reason why he died. He was compelled toadmit that the stranger had saved his life.

"We must talk this over," the young Chinese was muttering. "Why, Icould not have arranged it more suitably!" He seemed to collecthimself then. "Before we talk, let us get rid of this man."

He picked up the dead coolie by the waist, lifted him easily to thewindow, and dropped him, as if he were a sack of rice, into the mud.He whistled twice. Immediately three shadows were given up by thecaravansary. These gathered up the dead man and vanished.

"They will dispose of him," said the stranger, helping himself to acigarette. He paused with the flaring match in his fingers and lookedat Peter quizzically. "My name is Kahn Meng. And I am not fromShanghai."

Peter nodded agreeably, although the explanation explained nothing.

"I have returned to China to attack and capture the city of Len Yang.I came from there originally. Exactly five years ago I galloped overthe great drawbridge to study the classics in Peking. Fortunately Imet a man. He was an American missionary. He said to me: 'Kahn Meng,the classics are dead. Betake yourself to America, where you will findthe fountain of modern knowledge.' Of course, the missionary was aHarvard man."

Peter frowned slightly.

"What you don't understand probably, Mr. Moore, is why I can leave LenYang and return at will. I can't. I escaped from Len Yang at night.I am returning with a thousand men at my back. Those men have occupiedthis village. My conscience forbids my confessing to you how many ofthe spies of Len Yang have been fed to the hungry river since myarrival.

"You understand, the monster of Len Yang, as I affectionately call him,must not know of my return. Otherwise he would make me prisoner. Thisfat-faced one slipped through the guard lines. There may be others."He grunted. "They do not dare kill me. For I——" He threw up hishandsome head proudly.

"For you——" encouraged Peter.

"Must hide my identity," finished Kahn Meng with a little laugh. "ButNaradia—they object to her. They have attempted to kill her, so manytimes. Naradia, how many?"

"A score of times," she said darkly. "To-night they nearly succeeded.I am not wanted. I am a half-caste—a Chinese father, a poor Frenchmother. They desired him to marry of the——"

"Hush!" cautioned her husband, for Naradia was almost hysterical andwas willing to prattle on. Kahn Meng smiled tenderly. "Naradia," hecontinued, lowering his voice gently, "now that Peter Moore and I areat last together, will you excuse us? You must be exhausted, mydear—after this unpleasant affair. Will you retire? Remember, littleChaya, in another week this terror will be at an end. Mr. Moore and Iwill begin planning instantly."

Naradia laid her hands upon his and smiled sweetly. "Good-night!" shesaid, obediently. "Good-night,"—she lifted her brows archly—"Peterthe Brazen! I do hope that you are not a dream!"

They watched the pink silk of her gown flit into the corridor,whereupon Kahn Meng took Peter's arm companionably and guided him tothe window.

A keen, soft wind, tempered with the fragrance of ripening peppertrees, came in to them in delicate puffs. A mysterious light twinkleddistantly upon the river. The moon was sinking into a void, and thenight was becoming black.

Kahn Meng was extracting from his satin blouse a gold-and-blackcigarette case. Peter accepted one of the white cylinders and struck amatch. In the flare he found that Kahn Meng was studying him shrewdly,dispassionately.

"In the first place," began Kahn Meng, "let us settle the importantmatter of price. I will promise you whatever you desire. I want you."He spat into the darkness. "Why are you in Ching-Fu? I believed youto be in America, but I could not find you. What brings you here?Surely you were not planning to enter Len Yang again alone?"

Peter shook his head. "I came on another errand, which has nothing todo with Len Yang. But"—he threw away the half consumedcigarette—"you have made a mistake, Kahn Meng. The first matter tosettle is the more important one of identity."

"Take me just as I am," pleaded Kahn Meng earnestly. "We have onedesire, I know, in common—to clean up that horrible city! You havevisited Len Yang. You know the wretched condition of theminers—slaves, poor devils. Perhaps you have seen them at nightfallcoming from the shaft, dripping with the blood-red of the cinnabar,starving—blind!"

"I have seen all that," agreed Peter, grimly.

"Ah! But are you acquainted with that man's methods? Do you know thathis corrupt influence has extended into every nation of Asia? Hisorganization is more perfect than any eastern government. His systemof espionage puts those of Japan and Germany to shame! You must know!You have encountered his underlings. Oh, I have heard of the RomolaBorria affair. Your escape was masterly! I believe you astounded him."

Kahn Meng paused and puffed long at his cigarette.

"Think, Kahn Meng, what might be accomplished," said Peter fervently,"if the power he wields, that tremendous human machine—hundreds andthousands of men—were devoted to the proper ends! Think what could bedone for China!"

Kahn Meng turned quickly. His eyes seemed to shine above the ruby glowof his cigarette.

"I wanted you to say that!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "The thinghas been in my mind for years—ever since I was a child! We can do it!We can!"

"Yet one thousand men cannot enter Len Yang. It is a fortress."

"There is another way into Len Yang—by the mines. It cuts off threedays of the journey. I remember it as a child. Tremendous blackravines lead to the entrance from the merchants' trail, and the openingis so small that you could pass it a thousand times without suspecting.Will you accompany us, Peter Moore—Naradia and I and our followers?We leave at dawn." He waited anxiously.

Peter shook his head regretfully. The song of adventure was musical tohis ears, but he could not leave with Kahn Meng in the morning. Therewas Miss Lorimer—in Kialang.

"I cannot leave Ching-Fu until to-morrow night."

"That will be as well, perhaps," assented Kahn Meng after a moment'sthought. "We will rest for the night in the Lenchuen Pass. It is tothe right of the black road. My sentries will be watching for you."

CHAPTER XI

Peter shot the bolt and listened to the sad grumble of the river as heendeavored to adjust this strange incident to the stranger events ofthe very full evening.

Not until the mysterious Kahn Meng had said his good-night did Peterrealize how exhausted he was.

He looked at his watch, a thin gold affair, which had ticked faithfullyduring all of his adventures, and was exceedingly astonished that thenight had already flown to the hour of four-thirty.

Dawn would come very soon, and with the first peep of the sun he was tostart for Kialang and Eileen.

The lamp smoked sleepily overhead; far away the great river sang itsbass song.

He must be up at dawn. What a question-mark was Kahn Meng! A Harvardgraduate—and a native of the red city! And what an adorable creaturewas the girl Naradia! Her eyes were like jade, her lips like poppypetals....

A crash of sound, a blaze of golden light, aroused him. He sat up,dodging a sunbeam which had flicked his eyelids. Shrill voices camefrom a distance. The odor of manure exhaled by the caravan shedsfloated into the room, and Peter jumped up front the couch with anangry grunt. His heart was heavy with the guilt of the man who hasoverslept.

The watch ticked, and the neat, black hands had covered an amazingamount of ground; it was nearly tiffin-time.

The shrill, distant voices continued. Curiously, Peter looked out.

It was a beautiful sunlit morning, as clear as spring water. Milesaway the sun shone on the yellow haunches of the range, altering themto a range of heavy gold; and gleamed tenderly on the paddy fields,black and ripely green.

Peter lowered his eyes to the square formed by the intersection of anumber of alleys some distance beyond the caravansary. A sizable mobwas collected in this enclosure; he estimated that there were at leasta thousand pagan-Chinese assembled, in ring formation—a giant ring,dozens deep, and centered upon a small focussing spot of white.

The spot of white occupied the precise center of the square, and Peterstudied it for some moments out of idle curiosity. Crowning the whiteobject was a smaller spot of chestnut-brown. He dashed out of his roomand down the stairs without even pausing for his hat.

Peter gained the edge of the crowd, and he bored into it, scatteringprotesting old ladies and chattering old men as ruthlessly as if theyhad been unfruitful stalks of rice.

It was a desperate fight to the center of that mob, for others were ascurious as Peter. Then, over the swaying shoulders he caught a secondglimpse of the chestnut-brown. It was a woman's hair, and it wasfamiliar in arrangement.

He broke into an arena not more than nine feet in diameter in whichwere three objects: a wooden cask, upturned, a leather hand-bag, and asmall and exceedingly pretty young woman. Her cheeks were flushed, hereyes were gray and sweet, and her mouth was like an opening rosebud.

"Eileen——" he cried.

"Why, Peter Moore!" she gasped.

He rushed to take her, but she held up her palms, retreating.

He laughed. "What under the seven suns are you doing in Ching-Fu—andKialang—and China? What's the meaning?"

He observed that a snow-white apron extended from her dimpled chin toher small ankles.

"This is my office hour," she said severely.

"But what does this mean—this?" he exploded, gesturing wildly towardthe circle of attentive onlookers.

"My clinic!" She smiled.

"You're not practising medicine out here—in this street!" heejacul*ted.

"Indeed I am," she replied. "Some of these people have been waitingtheir turns since daylight. I returned from Kialang an hour ago. AndI'll work until I collapse. I must. I wish I could multiply myself bya thousand. There's not another doctor within miles. You can watch,if you'd like," she added, then called shrilly.

An old woman appeared, and went scurrying, returning immediately with aclean, wooden bucket filled with hot water.

Eileen removed from the hand-bag what appeared to be a wallet.Stripping a rubber band from this she revealed a row of shiningsurgical knives. Then she produced from the black bag several bottlesand a roll of absorbent cotton.

"Eyes," she told him as her hand was swallowed again by the black bag.

A child, a river boy, was pushed forward by a squinting mother.Quaking fearfully, he sat down on the cask at the girl's feet.

She turned to Peter. "This child has been without sight for a month.Without this operation he would remain blind forever. To-morrow hewill see again."

"You're wonderful!" Peter exclaimed.

At the gentle touch the child's loud whining ceased. She lifted one ofthe swollen lids. The boy did not flinch.

"Filth caused this," she explained. "The Chinese are the dirtiest raceon earth, anyway," she added, dipping a clump of cotton into anantiseptic wash and rinsing the patient's eyes. "Where there is toomuch dirt, there is blindness. One-fourth of the population in thissection of China are blind. They go to 'fortune tellers,' and theyremain blind. In nine cases out of ten the simplest of operationsfollowed by care will cure this type of blindness."

"Good enough; but will they be careful afterward?" Peter was curious toknow.

"Once their sight is given back to them, they follow directions to a T.I'm leaving behind me a trail of the cleanest Chinamen you ever laideyes on!"

She became silent, and so did Peter, who watched, hardly daring tobreathe, the swift, sure dartings of the tiny knife in her whitefingers. It was done in a jiffy; and there seemed to be on pain.

"Shouldn't you have an operating-room?" inquired Peter, as she bound upthe child's eyes in gauze.

She gave him a bright, professional smile. "Peter, I've learned tooperate with a thousand hooting infidels crowding closer than this. InNanking I was nearly mobbed."

Peter looked concerned. "Did they harm you?"

"Oh, no! They wanted their children, their wives, and their virtuousmothers to see the light of day again."

"Eileen, you're an angel!"

"Be careful, Peter, or I'll kiss you in front of all these people."She blushed and smiled. "I think I was very bold to come up here allalone. Don't you?"

Peter grumbled something which escaped her.

She sat down wearily on the cask and looked up at him forlornly. "Ithought it would be a lark; but it isn't. It's the hardest kind ofwork. There seem to be so many blind people—and I get tired—furious!"

"Can't we break away from this mob and have a little chin-chin byourselves?"

"You're not anxious, Peter?"

"This is not Shanghai," he rejoined sententiously. "Ching-Fu is not ahealthy spot for me—or for you. I've been watched. Perhaps, thisvery minute——" He stopped and looked at the dour faces pressed aboutthem.

She shrugged. "Are you going on to Len Yang this time, Peter?"

He nodded slightly. "Perhaps."

"With me?"

"Without you," he stated firmly, dimly conscious of a stir on thefringe of their audience.

"It isn't fair," she murmured; "I've come all this way——" Shetouched her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. What she might haveadded was forestalled by rising confusion on the edge of the crowd.There were harsh voices, shrill voices; then these sounds were dwarfedby the thunder of furious hoofs.

White with the dust of the lower trail a troop of Mongolian horsem*n,riding high in their jeweled saddles, swept into the square, shouting.Lashing their horses, they drove into the gathering with the fury ofCossacks.

Peter was thrown to one side by a tall man whom he had taken for apeasant. He tugged at his pocket, but the coolie was fighting his waytoward the horsem*n.

Indifferent to her struggles and screams, this giant carried Eileen innaked, brawny arms.

Peter leaped after, shouting and cursing at those who stood in his way.Some one tripped him. He regained his footing, shot his fist into thejaw of an argumentative youth, and struggled on.

The onlookers were scattering with loud and frightened squeals, runninginto one another, gathering in bewildered groups, darting for doorways,like sheep attacked by a wolf pack.

Then a black horse swept so close to Peter that the stirrup strippedthe buttons from his tunic. A heavy whip stung him across theshoulders.

When he recovered from this blow the struggling girl was yards away,still struggling, but no longer screaming. She had been transferred tothe arms of a giant Mongol, who evidently was the leader of this pack.

Peter whipped out the automatic and let go a burst at the horseman whonow blocked his way; and the Mongolian, in the act of lifting a knifefrom its holster-scabbard, dipped across the animal's flank, with hiseyes rolling toward heaven, his foot caught in one stirrup.

The horse, frightened, leaped up and spun about, twisting the fallenrider about his heels. And Peter had clear way for another few feet.

Another horseman swept down upon him. Peter brought the gun up andbrought it down with fury. Twice he shot, and then this interferencewas removed.

The troops were gathering into crude formation, evidently for anothercharge. Eileen had disappeared.

Peter, knowing that she was somewhere in that quadrangle of rearinghorses, struck forward, stumbling over fallen bodies, slipping in mud.His lungs burned, and he choked in a consuming rage. And suddenly heheard her scream his name.

The leader of the desert pack held her across his saddle, with hismighty arms pinioning her. He saw Peter, shouted, jabbed down with hisspurs, and his mount fairly leaped. The others wheeled gracefully, andthey vanished in thunder toward the plain.

Peter discovered the horse of one of the fallen warriors and leaped tocapture him.

And in the next moment he was groping in blindness.

CHAPTER XII

Lingering in his vision was a leering face.

Mud had been thrown into his eyes, and the filth was plastered fromeyebrows to nose. In a flash he recognized the face. Months ago hehad thrown that Chinese from the deck of a steamer into theshark-infested waters of Tandjong Priok, the harbor of Batavia, Java.

Such amusing spectacles as the struggling unbeliever with rich mudplastered in his eyes have a tendency to evoke keen appreciation fromthe yellow races, who are supposed to be devoid of a sense of humor.

Shrill and explosive laughter was arising on all sides of him.

Light came slowly to his tortured eyes through a thick, yellow film.All of his muscles were tensed; any instant he expected to experiencethe long anticipated thrill of cold steel between ribs—or at histhroat.

Some kindly Samaritan had taken him by the hand. Mucous breathassailed him. He distinctly heard a thud, a grunt, a screamed order.

No words were spoken, yet the mysterious hand tugged urgently at hiswrist. Peter knelt down and raised handfuls of water to his eyes froma tub. He looked about for his benefactor and met only the leeringcountenance of a highly amused group of urchins, men and women,diverted as they had probably never been diverted before.

And in the meanwhile he realized with a torn heart that the thunderinghoofs were receding farther with each flitting instant.

Peter knocked down one man as he struck out through the amused circle.The square was now all but deserted. Two bodies lay in the mud,unattended. Examination proved these to be the earthly remains of thetwo Mongolian horsem*n—the two he had shot down. The two horses wereunattended. Peter mounted the nearest.

The air was growing cold. A keen, ice-edged wind was moving northwardfrom the range, and the sky was graying with storm clouds.

His horse was moving like the wind, perspiring not at all, athoroughbred, a mount for a prince! At his present rate he shouldcatch up with the Mongolian rear by nightfall; otherwise the pursuitwas certainly lost. And then Peter fell to wondering what tactics hewould pursue when he reached the band. How could he, alone, armed onlywith an automatic revolver, hope to overpower professional riflemen whonumbered at the least forty? It was a nice problem; yet he couldreason out no simpler solution. He was bent on a task that might havewon applause from a Don Quixote.

The sun was settling upon the golden roof of the range, sending outmonstrous blue shadows across the valley.

Mountain darkness soon enveloped the world. A dazzling star appearedwith the brilliant suddenness of a coast-light. The wind was winy withthe flavor of high snows.

And suddenly the horse stumbled. Peter jerked on the reins. The horsewhinnied, dancing awkwardly on three legs.

Peter dismounted. A foreleg was crippled. He groaned. Fate, long hisally, was laughing at him. The chase was ended.

Suddenly hoofs thudded on the firm dirt; a shadow darted by, nearlycolliding with him. There was a trampling. A lantern frame clicked,and a lance of yellow light rippled upon his face, broadened.

He glared into the anxious brown eyes of Kahn Meng.

CHAPTER XIII

"You are in time!" He gripped Peter by the shoulder.

"Have you stopped them?" gasped Peter.

Kahn Meng indulged in a bitter laugh. "Only the wind could overtakethem." He shrugged. "They came—they broke through our lines—andagain they broke through! If they had stopped for battle," he addedgrimly, "there would have been a different tale to tell."

"And they have taken her to Len Yang?" Peter suddenly recalled thatKahn Meng probably knew nothing of Eileen.

"The doctor? Yes," assented Kahn Meng sadly. "One of my men was inChing-Fu when the troop drove through. He was looking out for you. Hearrived only a few moments ago. By Buddha, how you have traveled!"

"I intend to go on."

Kahn Meng sighed. "It means only death."

"I am willing."

"But you cannot catch them with any horse. You would be killed. Wecan arrive in Len Yang sooner," Kahn Meng pleaded. "Everything isready."

"I'll follow," Peter stated grimly, "on the condition that you answertwo questions. What is your relation to the man at Len Yang——"

"On my word of honor," Kahn Meng interrupted him with emotion, "I am afriend. Won't that suffice until the morning? If I were an enemy, ifI were on his side——"

"I realize that," Peter stopped him. "Very well. I'll wait. My otherquestion is this: Why does that beast search the world for beautifulwomen—and consign them to the mines?"

Kahn Meng was silent. Reluctantly Peter was allowing himself to be ledthrough the darkness over broken ground. A pale dot of light emergedfrom the night.

"I do not know," said Kahn Meng finally. "It is hideous. I have seenthem. That will be stopped!" he added tensely.

Under the lantern they paused, and Peter found his strange companion tobe examining his features intently.

"I can add nothing to what has been said," Kahn Meng went on. "I havemuch to attend to now. We are starting immediately. At present willyou trust me as I trust you?" He extended his right hand, and Peterclasped it silently.

The ripe old moon of Tibet was creeping from its bed, tipping thepointed tents with a soft glow.

On such another night as this Peter had first dared to enter the Cityof Stolen Lives, and the faint, mysterious sounds of a caravan at reststirred up old memories.

The probable treatment of Eileen at the hands of Len Yang's king wastoo terrible for him to contemplate. And he was as helpless at thisinstant as though he were on the other side of the Pacific Ocean.

A hot flood of anger welled up in his breast. His palms began tosweat. Each minute was drawing her closer to the moldy walls.

He could picture her struggling in the arms of the giant Mongolian. Hecould see the great drawbridge swinging down to the white road in themoonlight or the blistering heat of noonday. And on the hill, like agreedy, white vulture, he could see that solemn palace with minaretsstretching like claws to the sky, crouching upon the red slime vomitedforth by the mines.

A cool voice startled him. Kahn Meng came out of the darkness.

"Two hundred men will accompany us. The others will remain here incase an attack is made on our rear. There may be trouble. Of course,I could go, unharmed, into Len Yang by the mountain road; but as soonas I entered I would be helpless—a prisoner forever. He knows I amreturning. He is expecting me. But he does not know that half hisgarrison are loyal to me. The yellow-whiskered one will not be glad tosee me," he added with a malicious grin.

The night seemed to be filled with silent, wakeful coolies, armed withrifles. The grim and watchful silence of the procession, the blackmystery of the night with the sinking, cold moon aloft, and theuncertainty of the whole affair, set Peter's nerves to tingling; andhis heart was beginning to react to the high excitement of it.

He was elated, yet anxious. To-night's business was no quest of thegolden fleece. The size of his undertaking, now that he stood, withonly a few miles between, at the threshold of achievement, wasoverwhelming. He had pledged himself.

How he would proceed if the present venture succeeded was anothermatter. Fate or opportunity would have to shape his next steps.Perhaps in Kahn Meng, the mysterious, might rest the solution. Peterwas an adventurer by choice, and an engineer by profession. Undergiven conditions he knew what to expect of men and machines. Before hehad taken to the seas as a wireless operator he had had some experienceas a railroad builder. He had laid rails in California, and Mexico. Asuccessful career in that profession had been foregone when the warmhand of Romance laid hold of him.

He wondered how he could adjust himself to the routine of his oldprofession again, if that was the opportunity awaiting him in Len Yang.Governmental problems, he knew, would have to be given to morespecialized men, such perhaps as Kahn Meng.

He looked behind him, at the long line of men stretched down the narrowravine like the tail of a colossal serpent. Occasionally a stone,dislodged, clattered down into the crevices. Above them the rockstretched and lost itself in the cold purple of the night. The mooncarved out vast shadows, black and threatening.

They emerged at length into a broader valley, jagged with spiresflashing with gleams of the moon on frequent mirror-like surfaces. Tenthousand men could have been concealed in this desolate cavern. Yet itrang with emptiness as, far arear, a steel prod struck powdery firefrom the flinty path.

Hours seemed to pass as they advanced, descending constantly. At timesthe granite walls nearly met above them, and then a shaft of moonlightwould cast freakish shapes across their vision.

Once they paused for rest near a torrential stream. Some lingered todrink. The blackness in the sky was yielding itself to the spectralglow of the new day when Kahn Meng gave the order to halt.

He took Peter aside and explained his procedure. His plan was to sendfifty men through the tunnel to the main shaft to subdue the guards;the remainder of the armed coolies, numbering about one hundred andfifty, would follow, forming a protective chain to the black door, anunderground entrance.

"There should be no trouble, no confusion—a bloodless revolution," headded with a nervous, elated laugh. "I will occupy the place—you willfollow. Wait ten minutes."

Peter nodded.

"A tunnel, fairly straight, leads from here directly to the black door.Have your revolver in readiness. My men may not make a clean job. Themine guards carry clubs. Each of my coolies has a rifle." Kahn Meng'seyes in the light of a torch were glittering excitedly. He graspedPeter's nearest hand in his enthusiasm.

"We are so near! Only a step!" He laughed wildly, lifted his voiceecstatically to a sing-song and chanted from Ouan-Oui: "Then——

"'Let us rejoice together.
and fill our porcelain goblets
with cool wine!'"

CHAPTER XIV

Now Peter was an emotional young man. And wrathful notions werekindled in him before he encountered the only guard Kahn Meng's men hadoverlooked—may the bones of that one rest gently!

He saw little children clawing in red muck; he saw young girls withsunken breasts, their former beauty a wretched caricature, carryingdying babes upon their backs. He saw tired old men, and women,crippled, blind, with red fingers and wrists, as if they had beendipped in blood. He saw plenty to enrage him.

Kahn Meng's guards bowed gravely as he passed them at tunnel passages.He had walked perhaps three-quarters of an hour generally in a singledirection, bearing a torch, when he collided with a smooth, flatobstruction.

Somewhere in the earth distantly behind him occurred a metallic rumble,followed by a gust of soft wind, fragrant with the outdoors.

He was staring at blackness, the varnished blackness of a great woodendoor. He was at the threshold! somewhere on the other side of thatenormous wooden barrier was the man of Len Yang! Chalked boldly uponthe surface was the legend:

P. M.—straight on—K. M.

Pulling with his fingers and bracing his feet in the rough floor, themass moved monumentally toward him. It swung wide, on great, concealedhinges.

Peter's adventurous heart was beating an excited battle call. Hisburning eyes strained beyond the ruddy luminance of the torch, andexamined—white marble! He was at his journey's end—somewhere in thepalace of the Gray Dragon!

Peter dragged the great door softly shut behind him, and found himselfin a chamber of vast proportions, built of what had at one time beenpurest white marble, discolored entirely now by the red taint of thebloody ore. The floor was perspiring redly.

Going on tiptoe to the center of the space, he searched the blankwalls, listening breathlessly.

He heard nothing but the faint patter of the dripping slime, and hewent swiftly to the end of the musty antechamber and discovered at thedistant end the fourth wall, hitherto unseen. Reaching from the leftcorner of the scarlet tomb was a narrow staircase built also of marble.

Dropping his hand nervously into his right-hand tunic pocket, he wentup and pushed open another door. He found himself now in a snow-whitecorridor, faintly lighted by grilles overhead. The hall reachedgloomily into gray distance, and it was quite vacant. An unseenfountain was playing near by. At his left was another door, closed.

The closed door attracted him. Certainly there was no other course nowthan a detailed exploration.

Bracing himself for a surprise in this palace of hideous surprises, heflung open the door, and entered black darkness.

Carelessly he closed the door behind him, listening and sniffing. Atfirst he heard nothing, but he smelled altar-incense faintly.

A deep-voiced gong suddenly reverberated while Peter tensed himself.The sonorous melody lifted and crashed, subsiding into countlessunmusical overtones. Lighter metal rang upon wood.

Then lights—electric lights—by the dozens,hundreds—thousands—blazed with a violent suddenness, a suddennessthat Peter could compare only with that of a tropical sun leaping outof the ocean; and Peter blinked upon green. It was a hideous green, agreen of diabolical intensity. He shivered. It seemed to creep, towrithe, this green.

At first he could not absorb this insane color idea; and he stoodthere, with his heart sinking.

He discovered that he was occupying an oblong green rug of satin. Hewas dazzled by the green glare of a cluster of quartz lights in frontof him, and he stared, first at a monstrous green Buddha, squatting ona thighless rump between flashing green pillars, and finally at themost hideous individual he had ever gazed upon, a human, who occupied athrone carved solidly from green jade.

The glimpse was like stepping from a dark dream into the center of anaquamarine nightmare. And in the instant following his partialdigestion of the viridescent scheme he was possessed with the notionthat the occupant of such a chamber of horror must certainly be insane.

That was the first idea to possess Peter. He was not surprised to findthat he was unafraid. Anticipation is much more fearful thanrealization. He had experienced many panicky moments in lookingforward to this meeting; and yet in the presence of him he was cool.

The Gray Dragon of Len Yang?

From the tail of his eye he detected a man with folded arms backedagainst the door. At either side of the green throne stood Mongolianguards, armed with rifles. They struck the only dissonant note of thepicture, for they were garbed in desert brown.

Evidently all ways of escape were closed. For two years he hadcontrived to elude the tracers, the killers, sent out by this creature,and now he had deliberately walked upon his swords. Death? Where wasKahn Meng?

Possessed with a feeling akin to cat-like curiosity, Peter walkedslowly to the beryl throne steps, where he paused, with his fistsgripped tightly in his pockets, his chin up, and his shoulders back.

Close scrutiny did not soften the bestial cruelty of the face of LenYang's ruler. It was a startling face, as gray as fresh clay, sharplywrinkled. The nose was exceedingly long and sharp, with a crookedjoint. Dirty-yellow mandarin mustaches drooped like wet sea-weed fromthe sides of a curling, sneering mouth.

And it was dominated by a pair of very small, very bright green eyes,set deep and exceedingly close together.

But the tenor of the face was gray, the gray of living death, and fromthis emblem, Peter suddenly decided, the man had been given hisdescriptive name.

Long, gray talons reached out from the folds of a mandarin jacket andtoyed nervously with a strand of gray hair which jutted from thepigtail winding over the slanting shoulder.

The green eyes blinked as they completed the survey of Peter Moore.The curling lips were moving.

"Peter Moore!" he rasped. "The most daring foreigner who has yetvisited my city! Peter the Brazen, with a reputation of breaking thehearts of beautiful women! You are late. I have been waiting uponthis visit for two years!"

He leaned forward, and Peter retreated a step.

"What have you done with her?" Peter snapped.

The Gray Dragon sank back with a sigh. "Ah! Would you like to gazeupon that which can never be yours?"

"May I see her—once—before I die?"

"That is a wise statement. You are altogether wise—astonishingly so!Wisdom is a rare gem in one so young." He chuckled in an irritatingtreble. "Look about you again, youth. This is known as the room ofthe green death. Few men leave the room of the green death alive. Myhounds bay when they enter.

"The young woman is here—safe. If you will answer my questions, I maypermit you to gaze upon her just once before you die! Perhaps I may beso lenient as to allow you to die together. Does not that appeal toyou?" he demanded, as if anxious. "You—who are so thirsty for thegold of romance?"

Peter glared at him silently, and his fingers were twitching.

His host tapped the resonant gong. Some one stepped behind Peter, forhe distinctly heard the seep of silken garments.

The man on the green throne muttered, adding to Peter: "I am grantingyour wish. You may gaze upon her before you die. I, too, will gaze,for I prize her highly, as you know."

He sank back meditatively, and in that moment the gray face becameoddly sane.

"Peter Moore, seldom do I permit men who have troubled me so sorely toescape alive. Perhaps, in face of what has happened, you are foolishlytaking unto yourself credit. And still, for a reason unknown to me, Ihesitate.

"Listen to me closely, youth! For these two years I have watched youwith my thousands of hired eyes—you cannot realize how closely!Because I was deeply interested. You are a riddle to me. You have theemotions of a woman, and the cunning of a hu-li.

"Times without count word has gone forth from this green room that yourdeath must take place. Childish curiosity to stare just once upon thefoolish adventurer has caused that word to be revoked! Do not assumecredit for bravery that was not yours, Peter Moore! You are notheroic; you have been a plaything. The gods are through with you.

"Harken to me, Peter the foolish. Within these green walls daily areinscribed the names of men and women who must die. Your name has beenspoken, yet never once has it been written. When it is written——"He paused with a portentous hush.

"To-day, when I realized you were at last coming to me, when spy afterspy ran to my feet to say that at last—at last—Peter Moore, theunconquerable, was coming to pay his long-overdue call—I hastened withthat daily quota of names of those who are doomed, so that I couldattend you with undivided attention.

"Can it interest you? Nine men are doomed. Within two weeks from thishour a mandarin will die by the knife, an ambassador at the court ofPeking will expire by poison, an indiscreet Javanese merchant——" Hewaved his skinny arms impatiently.

"Those whose names are written must inevitably die. If the name ofPeter Moore had but once appeared on the green silk—I could haveforgotten you—and rested. But I was restrained by a most curiousimpulse." He looked at Peter eagerly.

"You have perplexed, almost fascinated me. Tell me first, what wasyour power over Romola Borria?"

Peter only grunted, angrily astonished.

"Wait!" cautioned the curling lips. "I am not ridiculing you. I amkeenly desirous of knowing." He frowned, pondering. "I will tell youabout that woman. Romola Borria was sent to me, and I employed her.For certain difficult tasks she was all that I desired—more beautifulthan sunset on the Tibetan snow—a glorious woman, yet as cold, asunfriendly as that same snow. Her spirit was one of ice, yet fire.

"And her heart was stone—or snow also. I sent her directly tocommunicate a certain thing to you—to kill you in the event that youdeclined. Shall I tell you how many men she has put out of the way atmy bidding before and after she met you? No matter.

"Romola Borria was proof against love. No man was created for her tolove. Yet that snowy heart melted, that precious coldness vanished,when she met—Peter Moore!"

The Gray Dragon paused, and the cessation of his metallic voice, thequick relinquishing of the evil glint in his small, green eyes, leftPeter with a deeper feeling of revulsion than previously. It had beenhis imaginative belief that the Gray Dragon was utterly without humantraits; yet he possessed that lowest of them all, a bestial curiosity.

"I can all but read your thoughts," he went on, lidding his green eyesa number of times. "You are saying what my victims invariably say whenI grant them these rare audiences before they die. Over and over youare repeating—'Beast! Beast! Beast!' Is that not true?"

"That is absolutely true!"

Malice seemed to hover about the glittering green eyes, and was gone atonce. "Peter Moore, to gaze at you is like gazing into a crystal. Inyou I witness that supreme quality which was denied me in my youth. Ican have anything in the world but that supreme, that sublime quality.I can buy anything in the world but that." The voice stopped.

Peter shifted his glance momentarily to the armed attendants whoguarded this evil life. An inner whisper counseled him: "Not yet! Notyet! There is time!"

"Yet there is a chance that I may reconsider; that I may permit you tocontinue to live—perhaps in the mines. But certainly, Peter thefoolish, you must not yield to that present impulse. Of course, youare armed. But do not move! Two feet behind you stands an excellentshot with a pistol aimed at your backbone. Men with cracked spines donot live long!" He chuckled.

"What was I about to say? Ah, yes! If I could purchase from you thatquality—if I could, I say, anything in my kingdom would beyours—everything! It is the one thing I have been denied. Holywheel! It is strange, this way I am talking! I have rarely had suchan interested audience. Most of my captives at this stage arecringing, are kissing my feet."

The snarling grin left his lips again, and his mood became strangelysoft, like dead flesh, so Peter thought, as he waited—with that pistolat his backbone!

"I intend telling you an amazing story, which you may or may notcredit. I am telling it—this confession—partly because I dislike thelook in your blue eyes. Like everyone else, you loathe me. But I willerase that look. I intend to show you I am even more human than you!

"By Buddha, I will tell that story to you—you, Peter Moore, the mostfortunate man in all China this hour. Think, before I begin, of thatmandarin, that bungling Javanese merchant, who, also, are about to die.Then forget all else—and listen.

"This took place many years ago, when I was a young man, like yourself.I, too, loved a woman. Can you understand me? I, too, once loved awoman, a maiden of the Punjab. I can conceive her in the veil of mymemory still. Eyes like dusty stars, skin the color of the Tibetandawn, the dawn that you may never again look upon.

"Her heart was gold, so I thought. Yet it was dross. On a night inspringtime, in the bazaar at Mangalore, we two first met. I have notforgotten. That night I fell in love with the white orchid from thePunjab. She was more beautiful to me than life or death, a feast ofbeauty.

"Len Yang was mine then, and I was a rich prince, but not so rich asnow. Drunkenly I was casting my gold about the bazaar when we met.She saw me—and she smiled! It was the first time any woman had smiledupon me, and I was alarmed and troubled. I was no more handsome thannow. I was the man that no one loved. Chuh-seng—the beast—was myname even then, among those who tolerated my friendship because of myfluent gold.

"And when the Punjab maiden smiled upon me, I thought to myself:'Chuh-seng, love has come at last to sweeten your bitter heart.'What should a young lover have done? I—I bought the bazaar andpresented it to her—on bended knees!

"She confessed that she could love me, despite my ugliness, this whiteorchid of the plains. Peter Moore, do not look at me. You canbelieve—if you do not look. She kissed me—on my lips! Again shesaid she loved me. Had I been a thousand times uglier, she would haveloved me a thousand times more passionately! Heaven had joined us.And I forgave my enemies, renewed my vows at the wheel, and blessedevery virgin star!

"Love had come to me at last! Me—the most hideous in all of Asia.And I believed her. What would you have done, Peter Moore—you whoknow so well the heart of woman? Never mind. I believed everything.

"We lingered in Mangalore. But I did not know then of the Singhalesemerchant—the trader who owned three miserable camels. He possessednot handsomeness, but the romantic glamour which you possess, Peter theBrazen! Reveling in my love, I was as blind as these imbeciles in mymines. Our child was born.

"She could have taken more, had she not been so lovestruck. She couldhave had my all—my gems, my pearls, and rubies, and diamonds, morecolossal than the treasure of any raja—my mines which dripped with theprecious mercury!

"Yet she stole only my gold which was convenient, and went out into thestarlit night with the Singhalese trader, to share the romance of theblinding desert—the Singhalese trader, a man of no caste at all!Love? That was my love!"

The hideous, gray face retreated behind talons as though to blot outthe thought of that ancient betrayal. When the talons again droppeddown, the dead softness of the face was replaced by the former sneer.

This change was quite shocking.

The beast was laughing harshly. "If I could not have love, I could atleast have hate! I have hated more passionately than any man has everloved!"

Peter said nothing to this, although the gray lips closed and the greeneyes looked at him expectantly, almost demanding comment. Surely thiscreature was insane, with his room of the green death, his wild talesof love of a Punjab maiden, of wholesale hate.

The Gray Dragon seemed irritated. "What have you to say now?"

"I was only wondering," said Peter, as if suddenly tired, "when thatpistol is to explode at my back."

"There is yet time," muttered his host. "No man has yet left this roomin contempt of me! Can you believe I have lied?" he snarled. "Why,you fool!" he croaked. "I will teach you! What do you suppose hasbecome of that other one whom you met at the weng into the hills? Doyou imagine my men were not in his camp? Every inch of the way you twowere watched.

"And what has become of your prudence? You who defied me, who escapedme—undone by a woman! She is why you are here. Because you are sucha fool you shall die. I might have relented. I thought you were proofa*gainst love. Is any one? Is any one proof against it but me? Ah——"

He looked eagerly beyond Peter, and Peter heard a frightened sob, thena little cry, as the door closed heavily.

CHAPTER XV

She flew across the room to him, and pressed her hands to his cheeks.Her eyes were sparkling with tears, and her face was very pale. Onlyher lips, which were everlastingly bright, gave color to thatdistressed young face.

"Peter!" she moaned. "Oh, I was so afraid!" She lowered her voice."What is to become of us?"

He looked down at her and forced a smile to his lips.

"We who are about to die——" he began grimly.

She gave him a twisted smile as his arms tightened about her. He lovedher for that courage.

With his arm at her waist he turned. He had observed that the GrayDragon had spoken truly as regarded the armed coolie at his back.

Their captor bent forward and fixed upon them the most curious ofglances. His merciless, green eyes ran from Eileen's tumbled chestnuthair to her small, tan boots—then he regarded Peter with the sameintensity, and thereupon he seemed to be weighing the doomed lovers asa unit, or as an idea.

A devilish smile cracked his lips.

"So this is love?" he cackled. "This is the young woman to whom youhave thrown your life away—after most splendid resistance—you, Peterthe Brazen! Do you still love her?" He pointed a crooked forefingerat Eileen. "Tell me, would you desert him, in this first flush of yourmaiden love, for a handsomer man—and steal his gold, after he laid theearth at your feet? Would you do that?"

Methodically the talons stroked the sea-weed mustache.

"You are too anxious for death. You are romantic. Youth does havesuch ideas. Even I, Chuh-seng, have such notions. Death? Why doesyour little mind single out such simple punishment—you—lovers?Romantically you long for death, because in the next world you wouldcome together again—in the lover's eternity of heaven.

"But I have a far more imaginative scheme. Separation! How does thatappeal to you?" He leaned forward and watched them. "I have anexcellent plan. One of you shall work until the end of his life inthis mine, as beautiful captives in the past quarter century haveslaved and died; the other shall labor until the end of life in myquarries, not more than one hundred miles from Len Yang.

"Then you will not speak of death. You will struggle and you will growold long before your time, as the others have done, hoping that vainhope of again meeting. And I shall grant your wish! Years from now,when youth and the divine passion of youth have flown—when only thebitter dregs of that rapturous love remain—then you shall bereunited." He cackled humorously in his treble.

"O Buddha! How long have I waited for such an opportunity? How long?How long? Is it twenty years—or forty—or a thousand—since thatnight in the bazaar at Mangalore?" His green eyes rolled to the greenceiling. And his mood underwent another vast change, this creature ofmonster moods.

"Are you grateful to me, you two? You should be! It was I who broughtyou together—I, the cruelest man in all Asia! It must have been adivine night, that night on the great river, Peter Moore, when she cameinto your arms. Love blazed in your hearts that night; and thisgray-eyed witch said, with downcast eyes: 'I like you, Peter Moore!'What difference what she said? Any words would have dripped as muchwith love!"

He sprang to his feet, groaning, his evil countenance undergoingconvulsions, as of terrific inner spasms.

"You shall not have that!" he shouted. "You shall not have love! WhatI have done, I shall undo! You shall live apart. Love has beenrefused me; love is refused all who come within my reach! That is mydecision. Nor shall you have death. One of you to the quarry—theother to the mines. I shall be generous. You may make your choice.And that is my decision!"

The lovers stared at him. The vicious plan had gripped Peter'simagination. Gone was all thought of the pistol, which lay even now inthe palm of his hand. One shot would have silenced the beast forever;but he had forgotten such things as bullets and pistols.

He could realize only that, even before their first kiss had beenexchanged, they would be torn apart.

The color had receded from Peter's skin and eyes; he looked very muchnearer forty than thirty. And Eileen was reflecting that despairingattitude. She could think only of him toiling wretchedly in the minesor quarries, striving against a fate as unfriendly, as unyielding, as awall of cold granite.

The Gray Dragon sank back, with his chest heaving. His features wereworking. The spasm had exhausted him; and the green brilliance gavehis gray skin a ghastly pallor. He lifted a small silver hammer andbrought it down upon the belly of a large bronze gong.

There was a stir behind them.

With the same cold hate in his expression as he addressed himself againto the lovers, who clung together like small children, pitiful objectsindeed in this hall of pitiless green.

"The others are coming; their fate will be yours—you lovers!"

He turned to address words in dialect to the Mongolian on his right,and in the space Eileen's breath came warmly upon Peter's ear.

"Are you armed?" she whispered.

His nod was hardly perceptible. He dropped his hand into his pocket,and at that instant his arms were pinioned. The revolver was snatchedfrom his fingers.

The malicious green eyes were staring beyond them.

Peter heard a low sob, instantly stifled. Naradia, with bloodshoteyes, was searching his face in distress. Her black hair had beenarranged in a heavy braid, which ran down her back in a glistening rope.

Kahn Meng's sad eyes lingered on Peter's for a moment, sparkling withguilt, and his face was crestfallen. Plainer than any words could havesaid, his expression cried out: "I have failed! I am sorry."

Then he advanced to the throne, taking his stand at the Gray Dragon'sside, a maneuver which was thoroughly mystifying to Peter.

The Gray Dragon seemed to ignore his presence. To Peter he said: "Yourecognize your companion of last night? The man with a legion of athousand loyal men at his back?"

Peter nodded, muttering.

The Gray Dragon waved Kahn Meng to one side. "He is my son. He is myson by my faithful wife! Do you understand that, Peter Moore?"

"Your son? And he will carry on your work?"

"Precisely that! You have expressed it neatly, Peter Moore. The GrayDragon will carry on the work of the Gray Dragon!"

The mystery of Kahn Meng was cleared aside. Fury directed at histreachery swelled in Peter's breast and burst. It was as though atorch had been applied. The flame of an ancient ancestral fire, whenmen fought for their lives and their loves with clubs, and nails, andteeth, burst into his brain and into his breast. The muscles under histunic-sleeve, which clung to his arm from the moisture of perspiration,rippled and flexed and hardened.

His face—the clean, handsome face of well-lived youth—was quitedreadful to look upon—flushed to a fiery red and distorted. His lipswere skinned back over his white teeth.

The thunder of his roar fairly shook the green quartz pillars, betweenwhich the smug, green Buddha smiled complacently, impervious to therages of foolish mankind.

Peter sprang upon the heels of that roar like a mass of wonderfullycontrolled steel at the crouching figure, a figure whose countenancewas suddenly wet and white.

He tore the carbine from the fingers of the nearest guard before thatone could collect his wits.

The Mongolian sprawled over backward, and in the second instant theheavy butt of the carbine came down with a shuddering crash upon theskull-cap of the man who would no longer rule Len Yang!

With such tremendous vigor was that blow delivered that the walnutstock, as tough as iron, shivered into splinters, which swam in thebursting brains of the victim.

Screaming, Peter swung the stock again, and again, as if he would beathis wretched victim to a pulp. Nothing but the barrel and breechmechanism remained.

His murderous intention seemed to be to remove, to obliterate for alltime, the hideous face, to wipe out by means of his brute strength thegray countenance.

Suddenly he sprang away from him with the elastic stride of a panther.Kahn Meng, the traitor, was next.

And as he leaped Kahn Meng slipped from his own pocket a revolver anddodged Peter's blow.

Peter staggered backward, reaching the center of the room, dragging thebloody and bent carbine barrel in a red trail. There he stopped,swaying, toppling.

Darkness was assailing him. He was sinking into a pit. And the heartwas fluttering, laboring treacherously under the poison created in hisblood by fury.

The green lights spun.

He threw the carbine barrel at the complacent Buddha, where it clankedto the marble flags. And he withered like the lotus, sprawling uponhis back with his eyes tightly shut, the color fast disappearing fromhis complexion.

And his head was reclining upon the small, tan boots of Eileen.

CHAPTER XVI

Somewhere in the distance a sweet-voiced temple bell resoundeddreamily. Vague odors of sandalwood and wistaria swam in the soft,cool air. A ray of warm sunlight fell upon Peter's inert hand, and heopened his eyes.

Memory came slowly back to him. He remembered that he had killed. Thelast thing he distinctly recalled from that moment of ungovernable furywhich had taken hold of him was that Kahn Meng, the traitor, had drawna pistol. As a natural consequence he should be dead. Perhaps he was.

Slowly his brain became clear, although queer vapors arose in it.

Soft footsteps crossed the stone flagging with a clicking of daintyheels. Small fingers, exquisite to the touch, brushed the tousled hairfrom his forehead. These were cool and pleasant.

"Old Sweetheart!" said a happy voice.

The cool fingers crept underneath his chin and lingered there. Otherscrept under his neck. A warm, satiny cheek floated down to rest uponhis forehead.

Dozens of questions swarmed out of the wreckage of his wakingconsciousness.

"You are safe? Where are we? What happened to that scoundrel, KahnMeng? Why did they bring you here? Did they harm you? Who hit——"

A silvery laugh interrupted him. "Yes, yes—yes!" said the voice thatwas sweeter to him than all of the music in Christendom with heathendomthrown in for good measure.

"I am safe. I was kidnapped and treated with all respect due a famousdoctor—because a dead monster was suffering from neuritis. We arealone, in a tiny glass house on the roof of the ivory palace, and dawnhas this very moment come. Such a glorious dawn, Peter!

"Are you rested? I never saw any one so completely burned out. Suchfury! Gracious, what a man! But why, Peter, did you attack poor KahnMeng? He's the best friend you have in the world!"

"The Gray Dragon!" muttered Peter, clenching his fists.

"Peter, Kahn Meng would lay down his life for you. Of course, he isthe Gray Dragon; but that is only a name now. He is the Gray Dragon,and he has you, and you only, to thank for it.

"The title is hereditary, and he is the last of his line. He knew whatthat monstrous father of his was doing, and he has been helpless—untilyou freed him. And the dreadful secret, Peter, is that that beast wasnot Kahn Meng's father. A Singhalese trader, murdered years ago, washis father, and his mother, a beautiful woman of the Punjab, was for atime the wife of the beast!

"The entire organization has now come under Kahn Meng's control. He isthe Gray Dragon of Len Yang, and it is a title that from now on will bea power for good, for construction!

"You can't imagine what wonderful plans he has. He's a genius—thatyoung man is, Peter! And you—you—are to be his chief executive, theviceroy of Len Yang! The chief of mines, of transportation, of labor!He told me that millions of dollars of capital are at your disposal.

"Last night we planned a great railroad line, running from the mines toChosen and Peking and Tientsin! Think of it, Peter! What opportunity!

"While I," Eileen went on blithely, "am to start a hospital. No moreblindness, no more sickness, in Len Yang. And shorter working hours.And an age limit. And schools. And good food, and lots of it!

"From now on our work is to assume a world-wide importance. Word cameover the wireless late last night that Germany has finally started thelong-expected European war. Kahn Meng believes every nation will bedrawn into it. So there is another menace for you to help stampout—the Dragon of Europe. Kahn Meng says these mines, and the copperand iron mines, nearer the coast, can help—wonderfully!"

Peter felt vastly happy, too enthralled to believe that the state couldendure. He stood up from the cot and looked down into the bright faceof the one woman in the world. It was radiant, very pink, now, and herround eyes were tender and meek. Perhaps she was a little frightenedby the fierceness which had developed in his expression.

She opened her arms with a little laugh. He crushed her close. Theirlips met and clung.

He pushed her away, and his blue eyes were impassioned.

Eileen smiled. "Look!"

The white snow on the high peaks across the valley glowed with theheavy gold of sunrise. Far below them, midway to the green wall, hesaw a great mass of people. There were hundreds packed about the mouthof the shaft. He wondered why they were waiting; then the shrill voiceof a crier penetrated the cool morning air. The thousands waited insilence.

Peter wondered at their dumbness in the face of the news that the manwho had ridden them into blindness, into starvation and death, was nolonger to tyrannize over them.

The crier continued to shout his singsong.

How would the spirit of that mob react to the announcement?

The singsong halted, and for a breathless moment the miners, too, weresilent.

Then a great volume of sound disturbed the morning hush. It swelled involume, rose in key—a great thunder, the thunder of laughing voices,the hysterical joy of a people made free! It filled the valley andoverflowed into the hills, a prolonged wave of happy tumult.